“I cut up my dresses so that my husband would buy me new ones,” laughs Zineb. This good man, today no longer here, must have bought quite a few because Zineb’s needs are insatiable. Since her husband’s death she lives with her only son. A few clothes, a little crockery, a television and a mountain of mutli‐coloured blankets and carpets are all that furnishes her room. Zineb weaves almost the same way as she breathes, without thinking, mechanically. She hardly needs ten days per carpet, a true textile worker. But her old boucharouites are preciously stored in her room, not because of their market value, but because of their sentimental significance. One is made of the shirts and trousers of her son, when he was just a little boy running up the mountains. The other is made of her young girl’s clothes with floral patterns. The one she’s sitting on today is made of the shirts of her husband. In just a glance, her neighbours recognize the origin of the pieces of cloth, releasing a torrent of laughs and teasings. Zineb takes it all graciously, even making fun of herself if needed. She has a story-teller’s gift. She doesn’t know how to write, but she weaves her life’s story in these calligraphic carpets. Each boucharouite bears the marks of its time. The carpet that followed the year of the harsh winter is made of thick pieces of fabric. In years of drought she cut pieces of acrylic underwear and shirts. When the harvest was good, she used pieces from silk and cashmere caftans or gandouras. As soon as she rolls one open, a family snapshot unfolds. Now that her husband is gone, Zineb sends her son to the market. He brings back bales of multicoloured fabric trying to stem her frenetic consumption. These carpets, meant for others, hardly deserve better than the rags from Casablanca. Anyway, Zineb’s room has no more space. The family archives have been closed