An unexpected personal experience allowed me to briefly encounter the "spirits," prompting me to seek them out among the Gnawa.[1] Instead of trying to understand the invisible—an experience that is lived rather than explained—I adopted an inductive, intuitive, and iterative approach that immersed me in the Gnawa's tactics for navigating the cultural, economic, and political challenges they face daily. This fieldwork approach is paired with a critical stance in writing, shaped by the paradoxes that structure the anthropological discipline: immersion and decentering, humility and detachment, engagement and neutrality (Gani and Khan 2024; Russel Y Rodríguez 1998). Rather than elaborating on these paradoxes here, I aim to highlight the dissonance between Gnawa epistemology and that of the discipline.
During my immersion, I observed that the dominant logic within Gnawa practices is cyclical rather than linear. This cyclicality makes it challenging to organize the Gnawa's experiences into titles, subtitles, or analytical categories. The complexity of my interlocutors' identities and the political dynamics that shape them often eludes attempts at classification. Their daily lives are suffused with elements that are unintelligible, unspoken, invisible, intimate, and indescribable. For the Gnawa I encountered, lHal (possession)[2] can only be grasped through lived experience: “Possession cannot be explained, it cannot be spoken of. It is lived.” This primacy of direct experience over discourse is echoed in other statements, such as: “If the spirits don’t want you to know, you won’t know.” Or, “you have to travel, to see with your own eyes. When you see, you won’t need an explanation; everything will be there, right in front of you.”
This epistemology values ljawla (itinerancy) and long durations. It fosters an intimate connection between knowledge and the invisible, conditioning access to the latter on my intention (niya) and faith: “Show faith and entrust yourself to God.” Knowledge, therefore, is contingent, non-universal, and relies as much on the researcher’s inner disposition as on relational dynamics. In this regard, I was told: “I have received many researchers from all backgrounds; many understand very little about the Gnawa.” This epistemology embraces mystery as an essential aspect of reality. Some things will remain inaccessible, beyond human comprehension: “Glory to God, these things are mysterious [Soubhana lah, dakchi f chkel.]”
Thus, when I reduce the words of a Mqedma or a Maalem[3] to data for scientific analysis or interpretation, I unintentionally place scientific discourse above the knowledge of my interlocutors. Like an object displayed in a museum, the words entrusted to me are stripped of their essence and transformed into “legitimizing discourse,” “ritualized speech,” “performative act,” or another relevant analytical category. This practice affirms the authority of the researcher and legitimizes them in the eyes of their peers. Although justified by “scientific rigor,” it amounts to a form of extractivism: under the guise of scientificity, it perpetuates an epistemic hierarchy at the expense of local voices (Abu-Lughod 1991).
I write from these paradoxes, which shape my positionality as well as the identities of my interlocutors and myself. I invite a willingness to embrace these identity paradoxes and the tensions between co-optation and opposition that define our academic experiences as "halfies" (Abu-Lughod 1991) and "border-crossers" (Luste Boulbina 2024). These positions offer opportunities to explore the interstices and hybridities as spaces of creativity and reinvention. I propose following this itinerancy—not in pursuit of truth or falsehood, reality or imagination, but to come closer to the daily concerns of those involved, the reasons behind contradictions, and the economic and political stakes that shape their discourses, practices, and ways of being in the world.
Attempts to Write Orality كناوا بحر
The Mystery of Origins:
"The world of the Gnawa is an infinite ocean," I was often told. Every time I mentioned my research topic, discouraging comments flew in: "You will never fully understand it," "Even the Gnawa disagree on who they are," "They'll drive you crazy," "Most of them don't know the history, they’ll tell you imaginary stories," "You shouldn't believe everything they say." Despite these remarks, since everything is given, I took note of them, even though I had the feeling of facing a terrain that did not "magically" open up (Geertz 1973).
Over the days, I gathered multiple versions of "the history of the Gnawa," often labeled as the "true" history. The longest version was shared with me by Maalem Najib Soudani, whose last name already reveals his origins. I went to meet him in his workshop. He recounts:
The Gnawa are slaves from Sudan, Mali, and Guinea. When they lived there, the rich captured the poor to serve them and work in their fields. At the end of the day, these slaves would gather and sing about their suffering. Then, at some point in history, they no longer stayed with the local chiefs. They were shipped to the United States, Morocco, etc. They say that the rich threw beans into the fields at night, and the slaves, starving, would come out to eat them. That’s how they were captured. They were put in flour sacks that were sewn shut. They were shipped off in boats. The slaves arrived in Morocco through the port of Essaouira. Others also arrived with the caravan trade, and their currency was cowrie shells. They came from different tribes and spoke different languages. To recognize one another and distinguish themselves from others, they set up a color system. One tribe wore white, another wore red, and you could tell from afar who was arriving. This is where the colors of the spirits come from. They gathered to talk about exile, slavery, and the violence they endured. Even though they spoke different languages, their suffering was the same. Little by little, they created the Gnawi language, which then blended with Amazigh and Arabic. After the abolition of slavery, whites and blacks married and mixed. That’s how they incorporated the saints and spirits, already present in Morocco, into their stories of suffering. By the way, the word "Gnawa" comes from the Amazigh: Gn-awa, meaning "go to sleep," which would be said to the slaves who sing through the night. Today, it has become primarily a music that brings forth the baraka of the saints and invokes the spirits. In the meantime, there has been mixing. Each of the spirits and saints invoked in the Gnawa repertoire has a particular origin. Lalla Mira comes from Turkey, Sidi Moussa from Doukkala, Sidi Jilali is a saint buried in Baghdad, Sidna Bilal is the muezzin of the Prophet buried in Ethiopia (Soudani, September 2022).
By invoking a memory of origins, Maalem Soudani traces some trajectories of slaves who, upon arriving in Morocco, unite through their condition and differentiate themselves through a system of colors. They are perceived by locals as a homogeneous group (black slaves), within which multiple ethnicities are distinguished. For other Maalems, the word Gnawa comes from Amazigh, meaning "the mute," and was used by locals to describe slaves who spoke among themselves. After an etymological and linguistic analysis, historian Chouki El Hamel (2008) proposes that "Gnawa" is the term used by "North Africans" to refer to blacks from West Africa. It would thus be the creation by the "Maghrebis" of a "fictional ethnic category" that brings together blacks of various origins (El Hamel 2008).
Other versions and additional details were shared with me by young Gnawa. Sami is convinced that it’s impossible to pinpoint when it began and how it evolved: "There are song lyrics that were created over there and brought here. There are tunes still played there (where?) with similar instruments. Originally, these were songs from the cotton fields or railway work sites, reflecting the daily lives of blacks like the blues. Then, once here, they began talking about their ancestors and started giving value to the locals, including them in their songs. That’s how the saints and the geniuses got mixed in." Indeed, like Sami, historians point out the scarcity of written sources and the difficulty of defining the period when slaves arrived in Morocco as one single moment, as well as the places they came from, or precisely the period when the Gnawa community emerged in Morocco (El Hamel 2013).
A different perspective was offered to me by Samir, a cultural mediator, and Hussein, a Guembri[4] maker. Samir warned me:
You’d better be careful not to use the expressions the French left us. Even the Gnawa blindly repeat them. They don’t know. That’s what oral tradition is... Actually, this isn’t the music of descendants of slaves. It’s local Moroccan music with influences from black Africa. Once slavery was abolished, the slaves took refuge in the zaouias, pre-existing religious confraternities in Morocco. So, their music became blended with the saints and geniuses of the Hmadcha, Jilala, Tijani, Issawa, etc. That’s why they’re also white and not just black.
Samir warns me of the risk of falling into a Western reading that would separate, or even oppose, the locals (dominant Arabs and Amazighs) from the descendants of slaves (blacks, the dominated), without considering the diversity of the Gnawa (who are also white, he points out) and that of the locals themselves. In this, Samir aligns with the argument of Hisham Aidi (2023) in his critical article on the book Black Morocco (El Hamel, 2013). Indeed, he criticizes historian El Hamel for solidifying the categories of Arabs, Berbers, and Blacks in a context where intermixing makes it impossible to trace the "ethnic" origins of each group. Taking into account the current context of increased commercialization and international presence of the Gnawa, the author reminds us that only a few Maalems are black today, and that there is no particular "ethnic solidarity" in this so-called "diaspora" or "racialized minority" (Aidi 2023).
Hussein, whom I meet later in his workshop, shares Samir’s viewpoint: "They weren’t all slaves. Many came with the caravans and with Al-Bukhari’s army. And then, the Gnawa became white, they are no longer black [Gnawa wlaw bidin mabqawch kehlin.]" Cynthia Becker (2011) asserts that the complexity of defining this community lies in its ability to adapt, borrow, and negotiate with others at the levels of aesthetics and practices. This story of cultural mixing shows that these hunters, Sufis, and soldiers have assembled "a patchwork of aesthetic styles and symbols that is intrinsically fluid and changing" (Becker 2011).
At the crossroads of "Afro-Arab" influences?
It is clear that it is difficult (and perhaps inappropriate for the ethnographer) to trace these processes of blending between representations and practices stemming from sub-Saharan African cultures and the pre-existing local brotherhoods’ tradition before slavery. I note borrowings and overlapping figures that allow for analogies with other African possession cults or Afro-descendant traditions, as well as with Sufi practices in other contexts. I also observe analogies made by my interlocutors with the bori of the Hausa, Brazilian candomblé, Cuban santería, and Tunisian stambeli. These comparisons justify collaborations and fusions between musical groups from these different regions of the world.[5] These multiple versions reveal that the line between what was brought by the slaves and what was already present in Moroccan society, between what is considered Muslim and what is not, is porous, shifting, and permeable.
It is worth noting that other forms of "ritual music" rooted in traditions of brotherhoods, such as Aissawa (Nabti 2006; 2010) and Hmadcha (Maréchal & Dassetto 2014), have always been instrumentalized by national politics, depending on historical periods (Aidi 2014). These traditions have also undergone transformations due to their entry into the market logic and within the framework of "World Sufism" (El Asri & Vuillemenot 2010), generating various forms of adaptation positioned between a perceived "authenticity" and the demands of globalization (Appadurai 2005). While they share this instrumentalization linked to religion (the political promotion of a "moderate Islam"), the Gnawa distinguish themselves by an identity component that plays a central role in their adaptation. In other words, beyond adapting to normative religious discourses, they also adapt to political discourses on national identity, which strives to be diverse and inclusive, as well as to academic discourses on their history and the racial question. This identity component, supposedly linked to the history of slavery and to the diasporic experience said to resemble that of African-Americans, reinforces their potential for commodification and international appeal (Kapchan 2007). This is why "Aissawa Fusion" or "Hmadcha Fusion" forms are not as widely known, and there is no festival as prominent as the Gnawa festival dedicated to the music of these brotherhoods. In fact, these have only recently been included in the official programming of the Essaouira Gnawa Festival.
The stories behind the Gnawa instruments best illustrate the relationship to slavery, which is closely tied to the sacred. Said, a guembri maker, places this instrument at the heart of Gnawa cosmology: "This music densely concentrates the history of a people and their suffering. The guembri is the drop of blood that has been spilled. It is from this that it draws its spiritual dimension." It is with equal poetry that Said describes Gnawa music to me. For him, these musical forms exist everywhere (he mentions Brazil, China, the United States, but especially on the African continent) because "this story of suffering speaks to everyone." However, he insists, like most of my interlocutors, on the symbolic importance of the Guembri. Hana explains that the Guembri refers to the shape of the boat, and the qraqeb mimic the sound of iron chains. "The music comes from the sounds generated by the movement of paddling chained hands and that of the waves crashing against the boat." Maalem Najib Soudani says in this regard:
The guembri is the boat. This instrument is sacred. In the past, it was forbidden to take it outside the house. It was kept, along with other instruments (qraqeb and tbel), as well as Gnawa clothing, cowrie shells, and colorful fabrics, in a sacred room called bit al jwad, the chamber of the genies. You could only enter this room after performing ablutions and prayers. Today, it has lost this sacred value as it increasingly appears in profane spaces.
Considered the junction of three souls—those of the camel, the goat, and the tree from which its components come— as well as the place of residence or passage for the genies it summons, the guembri is animated, alive. Fascinating with its deep musical notes and its potential intentionality, the guembri is not just an object. The ways of using and interacting with it are codified, and the meanings attached to it are manifold. Becker (2020, p.187) highlights how inseparable the identity of the Gnawa group is from the guembri. She traces the evolution of perceptions of this instrument from explicit stigmatization to its establishment as a symbol of tolerance and diversity (Becker 2020, 188-192).
Fluid Identities:
Beyond this debate on origins, the categories in question are not mobilized by my interlocutors to define themselves. The Gnawa I met define themselves sometimes as Moroccans practicing Gnawa music, and sometimes as Moroccans possessed. When they mention slavery, it either serves as a legitimizing strategy ("My grandfather was a slave, so I am one of the real Gnawa," "We are the original Gnawa") or as a reference to the past ("Originally, these are stories of the suffering of slaves," "Traditionally, it’s the music of descendants of slaves"). Therefore, it seems important to take into account the context in which these discourses about origins are produced. Being flexible, the Gnawa define themselves differently depending on the context and mobilize different normative registers. This leads me to further clarify my positionality: to my interlocutors, I am a young Moroccan Muslim woman. To those in Cynthia Becker’s study (2020), she is an American woman interested in the African diaspora. These two positions, both in our ways of interpreting the world around us and in the words addressed to us, and in how our interlocutors perceive us and adapt to what they think are our expectations, significantly influence the production and restitution of our data. "Blackness" has not, in this case, been a recurring theme in the discourses of my interlocutors (although some are the same as those interviewed by Becker). However, power dynamics and discriminatory logics are indeed present.
Furthermore, this uncertainty leads to speculations that seem to characterize what Jack Goody (2010) calls “literate-oral cultures,” that is, cultures where the presence of writing, often coupled with a hegemonic religion, influences orality. In these contexts, constant creativity fills in the gaps and challenges the idea of "traditional" societies that are stable and unchanging over time. Goody (2010) illustrates how different versions of a story are created that still claim to be “one,” wanting to be perceived as “the same.” The researchers themselves, often in disagreement, contribute to nurturing this "literate-orality," where orality retains a central role despite its accommodation with writing.
Ultimately, this writing of orality by historians and anthropologists does not prevent the Gnawa from renewing and redefining themselves. By drawing on the specific characteristic of oral societies, which transmit information through techniques such as repetition, memorization, performance, and improvisation (Goody 2010), the Gnawa continue to reproduce their practices and values, despite (or through) new mediums (the Internet, the media, etc.), and the various historical contingencies that oppose them. In reality, the Gnawa have always had to reinvent their traditions according to social, economic, and political practices (Aidi 2023a). In this sense, “the transformations of the Gnawa are therefore a social and historical production that projects, in the same movement, an image of the society in which they evolve” (Alaoui Btarny 2017).
Faced with this multiplicity of sometimes contradictory narratives, I focused on understanding the reasons behind these inconsistencies and imprecisions, beyond simplistic explanations such as my interlocutors lying to me, not trusting me, or not knowing the “real history.” In the absence of reliable written sources and considering the economic and political stakes surrounding this narration, the importance of determining the "true" history of the Gnawa community has gradually faded in favor of the individual trajectories that make it up. By following my interlocutors, I observed that their ways of presenting themselves changed: artist, musician, maalem, singer, healer, gnawi, performer, dancer, and koyo are all possible self-definitions. That is why, in what follows, I focus on what the word "gnawa" means today and on the dynamics that this categorization generates in a context marked by neoliberal competition.
Afro-Arab music… as long as it sells:
This fluidity of identity, although longstanding, is now linked to market logics, cultural expectations, and political pressures. Folklorization fuels commercialization, which heightens tensions around authenticity, leading to the production of legitimizing discourses. These dynamics are framed by national and global political stakes tied to heritage preservation and market logics.
In his monograph, Bertrand Hell (2002) already reports the beginning of a “folklorization of ritual” with the emergence of what he calls “pseudo-lilat”[6] and Gnawa nights adapted to tourist demand. What was once purely ritual has also become a cultural product. From a historical perspective proposed by Becker (2011), this folklorization is not new. The change in Gnawa practices does not follow a linear evolution from ritual to stage or from “traditional” practices to “modern” tourist practices. Where some authors have seen a decline, a regression of the ritual in favor of the artistic aspect (Hell 2002; Chlyeh 1999), it seems that rather than a break, there has been a separation of spaces and musical styles. Therefore, this is not a rupture but rather mutual influences between these frameworks of interaction (Majdouli 2013). This process of folklorization[7] has helped intensify the commercialization of their music and objects. This manifests both at the national level, through festivals and tourist initiatives, and internationally, through heritage preservation, the professionalization of certain artists, and collaborations with foreign musicians (Aidi 2014). “Traditional evening,” “Gnawa Lila concert,” “African Music,” “World Music,” and “Gnawa fusion” are all terms used to market a Gnawa show in restaurants, bars, hotels, and cultural centers. This commercialization intensifies in the summer, the festival season. After the festival performances, the nights continue, with confirmed Maalems, amateurs, apprentices, musicians, fans, and the possessed from all walks of life in houses, streets, beaches, and terraces until dawn.
Without falling into a theory of cultural imperialism (Warnier 1999), we can think here of the interactions between these various actors in the different contexts described above as generating “cultural differentiations and hybridizations” (Danteur 2012). Indeed, the agency of the Gnawa is illustrated in the multiple ways they adapt to these desires to “freeze tradition,” which ultimately continues to reproduce it. This invention of “authenticity through performance” (Danteur 2012) appears in some Gnawa who defend folklorization. This is how Gnawa culture is both preserved, adapted, and transformed to meet market expectations. These dynamics, supported by cultural policies, contribute to the “promotion of Gnawa culture” for economic and political ends. In the following sections, I explore expressions of authenticity, the search for legitimacy, and dynamics of rivalry and conflict.
The 'True Gnawa': In Search of Legitimacy لي جا كيقولك أنا معلم
In the various settings where the Gnawa perform, play, and heal, there seems to be a need to assert themselves and be recognized as authentic. This expression of authenticity most often came in the form of: "hna gnawa dyal bsseh [we are the true Gnawa]." This phrase is often accompanied by some form of disqualification of the other: "that one doesn't even know how to tune his guembri"; "he calls himself a Maalem but learned yesterday"; "I don't like the Gnawa from Casa"; "these young ones learn on YouTube and come to disturb us"; "they play two notes and call themselves Maalem." These positional statements also include: "I'm Gnawi because I grew up in it, even though I play in restaurants"; "I'm Gnawi because I don't play in restaurants"; "I'm Gnawi even if I’ve never been to the Moussem"; "I'm Gnawi but I no longer attend the Lilat."
Other discursive strategies came from the Maalem I visited. Most of them spent more time telling me about their origins, the successes of their careers, their seniority, than answering my questions. During my first meeting with Maalem Najib Soudani, he talked to me at length about his family. According to him, his grandfather came from Sudan and his grandmother from Mali. His father was a great Maalem and all the Gnawa learned in their home. "I grew up in it. As a baby, I already used to play the tbel. Now, I'm well known, hamdoulah. They call me from all over Morocco to do Lilat or evenings. I’ve played everywhere. (...) Furthermore, all the journalists come to me. If you tell people in the medina that you are looking for the Gnawa, the true ones, they will inevitably direct you to me." He proudly shares his experiences with journalists, who, after meeting other Maalems in Essaouira, tell him: "It’s at your place that there’s hal." Additionally, he used to play every Sunday in the zaouia of Sidna Bilal. This is why, according to him, he holds "the truth": "Most don’t know what it is, even if they play (gnawa instruments). They will tell you nonsense. I know the history of the Gnawa."
On the other side is Maalem Omar Hayat. He challenges those who say, "We are the true ones, I am a descendant of...". For him, a "true" artist (Gnawi or not) works for this recognition. He must keep learning and developing his style to be acknowledged rather than rely on his descent or seniority. For his part, he builds his legitimacy on his dual identity: Gnawi (initiated by Maalem Abderrahmane Paco) and artist (who has proven himself through his unique style and adaptations of old trouha). He insists:
Unlike the young ones, I give value to my art. I don’t accept to play anywhere. I’ve played all over the world. I just returned from the Moga Festival in Portugal. For me, an artist must offer a performance. The Maalem must heal. These are two different roles. The artist should not just sit on stage, and the Maalem should not play standing during the Lila.(...) As an artist, I have always tried to create, to learn more. I worked in a circus in Europe, traveled extensively across Africa, etc...
Depending on the context, they emphasize lineage, learning through transmission, talent, creativity, experience abroad, seniority, fame, recognition by authorities... These criteria are used to recognize or disqualify others or to legitimize oneself. In this cacophony of leadership and authenticity, these are fluid identities constantly rebuilt "by merging overabundant collectives to create an authentic identity" (Lindholm 2015). This movement must be understood in the framework of "paranoia and self-doubt" (Lindholm 2015), which are inevitable in the face of the "homogenizing" logics of the global market and the need to constantly recreate "locality" (Appadurai 2005).
However, it is important that this dialogical approach does not sideline the political stakes behind this process of "conservation" through commercialization. In reality, festivalization involves imposing from above what should be celebrated and how. By carefully selecting the forms of "Moroccan culture" to highlight, festivals legitimize some aspects at the expense of others. Some practices are to be "preserved" at all costs, while others are to be modernized or relegated out of the spotlight. Festivals, particularly through this process of selection and spotlighting, seize the collective imagination, thus becoming an instrument to renew the symbolic power of the Makhzen (Ziou Ziou 2016). In the case of the Gnawa festival, it is the construction of the Gnawa as an iconic symbol of Moroccan culture, even as a symbol of national identity (Becker 2020)."
Political Stakes شكون المعلم ديالك ؟
During the Gnawa Festival in Essaouira in 2022, I attended a conference at the French Institute, where a moment clearly revealed the division between "real Gnawa" and "YouTube Gnawa." The conference was titled "Words of Gnawa: UNESCO Intangible Heritage, Stakes and Perspectives." The speakers included Maalem Abdeslam Alikane, president of the Yerma-Gnawa Association for the "promotion and dissemination of Gnawi Heritage," Abdeslam Amarir, archaeologist at the Ministry of Youth, Culture, and Communication, Maalem Mohamed Boumezzough, and Maalema Hind Ennaira. Journalist Jihane Bougrine also presented the festival's producer, Neila Tazi, who sat among the audience, thanked by the speakers after each speech, and Zhour Amhaouch, director of the Essaouira branch of the Ministry of Youth, Culture, and Communication. While I cannot report every word of the speakers, I will summarize the main points in three parts.
First, Abdeslam Amarir explained the process of registering Gnawa music as UNESCO Intangible Heritage and what it involves in terms of safeguarding measures. Essentially, this includes improving the status of the Maalems, who will receive artist cards, and projects to pass on tagnawit "as an art of performance but above all as a history and a set of values," including through schools and museums. Then, Maalem Abdeslam Alikane emphasized that: "without the festival, this art would be lost. It has been a long struggle (with whom?) to give value to the Gnawi, who before the festival were despised and stigmatized." This appears to be a battle for recognition beyond the negative portrayal of the Gnawi figure. Finally, Neila Tazi and, later, Zhor Amhaouch spoke about the necessity of research to define "what it means to be a Maalem," distinguish the Gnawi from the musician, and delineate "pure Gnawa." The main challenge seems to be reconciling what they call "tradition and modernity," "creativity and purity," and "preservation and transmission."
The audience then took the floor. What followed was a striking moment revealing the gap between the Gnawa community and other stakeholders, despite years of collaboration. A French participant asked: "Do you still organize Lilat? If not, how can one become a Maalem without the ritual?" Young Maalem Mohamed Boumezzough, almost stirred by a sense of revolt, responded by denouncing the rise of "YouTube Maalems" who are not involved in rituals. For him, these new Gnawa lack the legitimacy to call themselves Maalems. He insists: "Gnawa music is primarily a therapeutic trance music. Gnawa is first and foremost the ritual. They may be musicians but not Maalems." He is slowed down by Maalem Alikane, who places a hand on his knee and takes the microphone from his hand. The young man does not back down, saying, "If I said something wrong, apologies Maalem." Maalem Alikane nods and says, "No, no, you’re right."
I draw two reflections from this: 1- Official speeches exist in a dialectic between democratization and preservation. 2- The growing competition, where official heritage recognition, notably UNESCO Intangible Heritage inscription, introduces new hierarchies by allocating resources and status to some while marginalizing others.
"Making Gnawa shine internationally," "being recognized like the folkloric music of other cultures," "giving a better image and reputation to the Gnawi," "valuing the long-marginalized, stigmatized Gnawi figure" are all phrases used by the festival organizers I attended, but also by the written and audiovisual press reporting these events. For these agents, this recognition does not transform the Gnawa culture but helps preserve it. They often highlight "the role of the Gnawa Festival in preserving the pieces" and more generally "the role of civil society in cultural development." Thus, civil society works towards cultural development by "making local culture a product to sell," attracting both Moroccans and foreigners, creating jobs, and generating revenue "for everyone.”[8]
In concrete terms, apart from the festival and its economic impact and visibility, the cultural policies planned within the heritage process have yet to yield results for most young Gnawa. In reality, in this competitive environment, despite the professionalization of some, others find themselves forced to combine with different occupations and/or develop their own networks. Therefore, these policies can be seen as a way to instrumentalize bodies for the construction of "images made to be seen" (Cousin 2002), here of an "alternative sacred," of liberalization, and of freedom (Kapchan 2008).
To conclude, I return to the conflicts and dynamics of exclusion that accompany this struggle for recognition.
One day, Hamza confided in me: “I’ve always been asked questions like, ‘Why are you white? Who is your father? Who is your Maalem?’” It seems that, for some, one can only be legitimately Gnawi if they are Black, descended from a Gnawi family, or an apprentice of a Maalem from a Gnawi lineage. Hamza emphasized that for many, tagnawit must be inherited by blood or passed down from a Maalem. He cited a common Gnawi proverb: “Cheikh bla cheikhou jebHou khawi,” which means, “A cheikh without his cheikh is an empty hive.” This implies that one can never be recognized without being the disciple of a renowned Maalem; without this, they lack baraka (spiritual blessing). He concluded: “In the end, there’s racism even among Gnawa. More than that, it’s war.”
Hussein also experienced what he refers to as “discrimination.” He shared an encounter with a Maalem:
One day, I was playing calmly with my friends at a hotel. There was a Maalem who worked as a cook there, but I didn’t know him. After I finished playing, instead of congratulating me, he approached me aggressively: ‘Where are you from?’ I replied, ‘I’m from here.’ He pressed: ‘Whose son are you?’ I proudly said, ‘I’m the son of the Raiss’ (his father was a fisherman). He looked at me disapprovingly and asked: ‘Who is your Maalem?’ I jokingly replied, ‘Maalem Baqbou, but I’ve never met him. I learned through his cassettes.’ He got angry … To avoid such confrontations, I expose myself less. I only play with my friends, and I ask them to carry the guembri on the street to avoid being harassed.” Hussein opposes this rigidity and challenges these “strict rules”: “I prefer to play in shorts with my surfer friends.” He also acknowledged the democratizing impact of certain policies: “The festival took away their monopoly. Even girls participate now.
For other Gnawa, however, the festival has exacerbated inequalities. “Maybe now anyone can learn, but not everyone can call themselves Gnawi, and especially not everyone gets invited to play at the festivals,” Hamza noted. He summarized it as follows: “There are Gnawa who will never be (re)cognized because of this institutional divide, which manifests on an individual scale through jealousy (lhssed).” As Becker (2020, 158) put it: “Commodification and self-marketing are not contested, but what is at stake is who controls and benefits from them.”
Conclusion:
My research revealed that the Gnawa identity lies in their ability to navigate skillfully between worlds, borrowing norms from here and there, and constantly adapting to contexts through artistic, ritual, and rhetorical creativity. The Gnawa I encountered construct their own narratives, tailored to their strategies for legitimacy in a competitive environment. Mobility thus occupies a central place in their way of life, highlighting the limits of categorical and linear thinking often dominant in academic research. Beyond dichotomies (global/local, modernity/tradition, Arab/Amazigh, Arab/African, orthodox Islam/popular Islam, festival/moussem), which ultimately mirror North/South divides, this analysis explores the permeability of imaginaries and the fluidity of (self-)definitions. I argue that “decolonizing decoloniality” requires learning to “stay with the trouble” (Haraway 2016; Butler 2019).
Since my initial immersion in 2022, I have returned to Essaouira several times. During each visit, I notice that the concerns of my interlocutors remain largely unchanged: the priority is reinventing themselves to meet financial needs. This inevitably leads to disagreements and rivalries within the community. I am informed about recent developments: who now performs in the zaouia, who has formed a new taïfa (troupe), who has collaborated with whom in a specific festival or lila, who has organized a tour abroad, and so forth. Conversations almost exclusively revolve around opportunities and income, while issues of race, gender, or religion fade into the background, integrated into a broader capitalist logic.
Today, tagnawit has become a resource exploited by both public and private actors, either for direct capitalist purposes or under the guise of diplomatic and symbolic interests. Investigating religion, therapeutic efficacy, trance, or race remains an intellectually intriguing endeavor, but one risks overlooking the real concerns of those involved today and reproducing the extractive model of research. Fortunately, the Gnawa fully understand what it means to adapt for funding!
Translated from the French by Ikbale Bouziane.
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