Why Do We Create?
Reflections on trust, storytelling, and the ethics of photographing strangers in the Moroccan High Atlas.
I’ve been a photographer—both hobbyist and professional—for over 15 years. I still remember the first time I picked up a camera, a Nikon Coolpix, that was a gift from my parents on Easter morning. Not exactly a traditional holiday for electronics, but they figured resurrection was as good a time as any to start seeing the world differently.
Growing up, I watched my father document our family with quiet devotion. He never missed a moment. We’d be out running through sprinklers in the yard, and there he’d be, sitting on the porch, camera in hand. The laughter, the glint in our eyes as the light dipped low, the shy smiles we’d offer when we noticed his face peeking out from behind the lens.
This is me at about four years-old.
They became boxes of memories—snapshots I hope to both pass on and add to, when it’s my turn to raise a family and keep the camera close.
I think I understand now why he created. Or at least, I see where his joy came from. His family was his muse. We were the work he’d poured his life into, and his art was an extension of that love. Missing a moment would’ve felt like letting the perfect shot slip away. Only for him, every shot was perfect.
My father spent a summer shooting only in black-and-white. Some of our favourite images from that summer were taken on a dock up in Traverse City, Michigan.
When I picked up a camera, I didn’t yet have a muse. I was young. I was learning. The "how" mattered more than the "what." So, I started with flowers. You can’t really take a bad photo of a flower—go ahead, try. Even when the shot is off, something about it is still beautiful.
I remember attending a photography camp when I was ten. We were each given disposable cameras for a weeklong challenge, the best photo winning a small prize at the end. But I brought my Coolpix instead. Even then, I thought I knew better. I spent the week filling SD cards with images I couldn’t submit. On the final day, I scrambled to shoot something with the disposable camera just to have an entry.
What did I submit? A pink flowering bush. No real composition, flat lighting, probably not even in focus. I came in second.
That was one of my earliest lessons in photography: it’s not just about technical skill—it’s about resonance. If your image tugs at the heartstrings, makes someone stop and say, “you took that?”, then you’ve done something right.
Since then, my camera has taken me all over the world. It’s been a reason to travel, to connect with people from all walks of life, and to discover parts of myself I never expected to find.
As a photographer, there are always images you chase—Mount Assiniboine at sunrise, the perfect Milky Way panorama, a quiet portrait of your wife. We all have our “shots.” The images I’m about to share with you are some of mine.
I’ve never felt comfortable photographing people without asking. In the High Atlas of Morocco, that instinct proved more important than I expected.
Late afternoon light sweeps across the Onilla Valley, illuminating a traditional Amazigh village and its distant minaret. Nestled in Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains, the settlement reflects the enduring rhythm of rural life, where prayer, place, and landscape remain deeply intertwined.
Morocco is an Islamic country, and in Islam, the capturing of one’s likeness is often discouraged. This stems partly from the prohibition of idolatry, and partly from the belief that the creation of living forms is a sacred act—one reserved for God.
Even in the busy streets of Marrakech, you’ll receive a stern look just for having your camera out. In rural areas, you might be shouted at. For someone who travels to capture the world through images, it was a humbling challenge.
But over time, I’ve learned there’s something deeply rewarding about connecting with someone before raising a camera. Sitting down for a conversation with someone whose life experience is vastly different from your own is one of the most beautiful parts of being human. A single photo can never capture everything: their hopes, their pain, their dreams, the weight they carry. But sometimes, a few good questions can open that door.
Before you know it, you’re sharing tea with complete strangers, and the camera becomes secondary.
For me, connection has become one of my most essential creative tools. I focus first on earning that moment—on listening, learning, being present. Then, and only then, do I reach for the lens. I suppose that’s its own kind of art: cultivating trust, and letting the image flow from there.
In photography, no tool is more powerful than the trust of the person in front of you.
I don’t know if I fully earned the trust of the family in these photographs. After all, I was a complete stranger—mud-soaked and wide-eyed—who appeared on a rainy evening without warning.
My wife and I found ourselves in an SUV just south of Bou Tharar on the edge of the Atlas Mountains. There were no roads and the rain and mud had covered every inch of the vehicle. If it wasn’t for our trusted guide and friend Ammar, I’m not sure what we would have done.
We had just finished an afternoon hike through the “Valley of the Nomads,” a remote region nestled in the foothills of the central High Atlas Mountains, near the edge of the Mgoun Massif. For generations, this rugged landscape has been home to semi-nomadic Amazigh (Berber) families who migrate seasonally with their herds, often between lower valleys and high-altitude pastures.
A donkey grazes quietly outside Bou Tharar as late-afternoon light sweeps across the High Atlas foothills. Hours before the rain set in, this calm valley scene hinted at the layered pace of rural Moroccan life—anchored in rhythm, resourcefulness, and the land itself.
Their way of life is deeply tied to the rhythms of the land—marked by self-sufficiency, oral tradition, and an unshakeable connection to place. In a rapidly changing world, these communities represent one of the last living threads to Morocco’s pastoral heritage.
Just as we were settling into the SUV, caked in mud and thinking the day was done, Ammar glanced back at us with a grin. “You want to go visit some nomads?”
How could we say no? How could I say no? As someone who’s spent his life chasing meaningful moments, few things felt more aligned with my pursuit of the human experience than visiting a nomadic tribe in the High Atlas.
We agreed on the spot—without a second thought. But of course, there were second thoughts.
Not about safety, or the wisdom of off-roading through a rainstorm. The questions that followed were deeper than that—questions about whether this was a genuine cultural exchange, or if we were wandering into poverty tourism.
As the familiar world faded behind us and the unknown came into view, these questions surfaced hard and fast:
What are we doing here?
Do these people even want to see us?
What do they have to gain from this?
What do we have to gain by doing this?
The SUV came to a stop in the heart of a wide valley, nestled between two towering mountains. Rain tapped steadily against the windshield as Ammar turned to us and said quietly, “We’re here.”
We stepped out into silence. No roads. No lights. No sound except the soft patter of rain against our jackets.
At the mouth of the cave, an elder reclines in quiet observation—wrapped in heavy layers, watching as strangers step inside. The light spills in behind him, casting his silhouette in soft relief against the rain-soaked valley beyond.
I left my camera in the car. I didn’t know who we were about to meet, but I knew exactly who I didn’t want to be—the outsider who walks into someone’s home with a lens already raised. If I was going to take any photos, they’d have to come from a place of respect, not intrusion.
I closed the SUV door behind me and turned to take it all in. In the distance, a small flock of sheep grazed quietly beneath the grey sky. Then, from beyond the curve of the hill, two children emerged—a young girl and boy—walking slowly toward us.
The young girl couldn’t have been more than five years old. She moved slowly toward us, bundled in layers that seemed far too heavy for her small frame—deep indigos, purples, and earth tones soaked just slightly by the rain. Her hat caught my eye immediately: a thick, woolen knit wrapped in cream, rust, and black, adorned with tiny beads that gave it an almost regal charm.
Her eyes were impossibly large—curious but cautious—and she kept one hand near her mouth, almost as if shielding herself from the strangeness of our arrival. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t run either. She simply stood there, studying us, as the sheep continued grazing quietly behind her.
The boy looked to be around fifteen or sixteen—tall, calm, and clearly familiar with Ammar, who greeted him warmly in Amazigh. They exchanged a few quiet words while Katie and I stood nearby, unsure of what to do with our hands, our eyes. I offered a soft “Azul,” one of the few Amazigh words I knew, and received a polite nod in return.
Tucked into the back of the cave, a grandmother and her granddaughter sit in quiet stillness—wrapped in deep indigo and wool. The child leans into her elder’s side as light from the entrance brushes across their faces, illuminating a moment of generational closeness and calm.
His clothes were worn thin—patched at the seams and clinging to him like they’d been through countless seasons. A dusty grey shirt layered over charcoal pants, both just slightly too light for the damp cold of the valley. His hair was the same dusty tone, tousled and wet from the drizzle. He seemed cautious at first—as anyone would be, seeing strangers arrive out of the mist—but not unkind. Quiet, reserved. After a brief exchange with Ammar, he turned and gestured for us to follow.
We began walking down a rocky slope, passing scattered boulders and wind-battered tufts of grass. Off to the side, a low stone shelter leaned into the ridge, its stacked walls barely holding together. An old bicycle rested out front, half-swallowed by rust. A little farther downhill, a four-door car sat idle, wrapped in ropes and streaked with mud. The hitch was bent, the paint gone matte with age—still holding on after all these years.
The wind was oddly still, adding a strange quiet to the landscape. A dog barked from somewhere in the distance, eventually rushing toward us before stopping short, watching but not approaching. The only other sounds were our feet against the muddy gravel and the soft patter of rain.
As we reached the entrance to the cave, a familiar rural scent hung in the air—a mix of earth, smoke, and livestock. From inside, the faint crackle of fire reached us, along with the sharper aroma of tea on the boil.
I stayed close behind Ammar, doing my best to smile gently and keep my presence quiet. I wanted to be warm, to appear open—but the truth is, I felt out of place. I didn’t know if we were supposed to be here. And so, I gave Ammar the space to do what he does best: to translate not just words, but intentions.
We were invited into the cave, with Ammar leading the way. He shared a few words in Amazigh and let out one of his trademark laughs—something about it immediately softened the space. The cave was dim but not dark, lit by the overcast light filtering in through the entrance. It wasn’t glowing or golden—just a quiet, diffused light that settled gently on everything.
The mother of the children pictured later, joins us for afternoon tea. Some moments you don’t even have to try and pose - the composition comes together all on its own.
Just inside the entrance, off to the right, sat an older man wrapped in layers of heavy clothing. He didn’t have a single tooth left, and his jaw sat slightly sunken beneath the folds of fabric bundled around him. He didn’t say much—just nodded as we walked in. Calm. Steady. Watching.
Across from him, closer to the mouth of the cave, sat an elderly woman draped in this stunning indigo shawl. It popped against the otherwise muted colours around her. Her eyes were deep and dark, and her face was marked with the kind of lines you earn from a lifetime in the mountains. She didn’t say anything either, but you could feel the weight of her presence.
The floor was covered in stitched-together carpets—some made from old clothes, others patched over time. Along the stone walls, a few small alcoves held ceramics, a couple of metal pots, and what looked like a small radio tucked into a carved-out shelf.
A loom rested on the right-hand side, with scraps of old shirts and fabric folded beside it—shirts that were being taken apart and rewoven into something else. Nothing was wasted here. Everything had a second life.
I’ve debated cutting this image a handful of times, but I find myself continuously bringing it back to the collection. A quiet moment between a family.
Next to the fire sat a worn brass tray with a handful of small tea glasses neatly arranged on top. The smell of woodsmoke, damp wool, and earth hung in the air, with a trace of tea steeping nearby.
The cave was one of three. This main space seemed to be the gathering and cooking area. A second, larger cave off to the side was where the family slept—tucked away and quiet. The third was for the animals. It sat a little lower down the slope and had a small wooden fence around it. The ground was thick with mud, and a few goats and chickens moved in and out of the enclosure like they owned the place. The fence wasn’t much of a boundary—but I got the sense it didn’t need to be.
We sat with our backs to the loom on the right-hand side of the cave, close together. Not in a fearful way—more like two people quietly acknowledging that this was one of those moments we’d carry with us for the rest of our lives.
I didn’t even think about touching my camera until Ammar gave me a clear sign that it would be okay. So we sat. Listened. Observed. The young girl darted in and out of the cave, occasionally curling up next to her grandmother or sitting beside her older sister, who had taken a spot next to Ammar deeper in the cave.
At one point, the grandmother offered us tea. She poured water from a well-used two-litre plastic bottle, the contents inside… not exactly crystal clear. I knew the risks. But refusing tea wasn’t an option—it would’ve felt like refusing the moment itself. We accepted. And I’m glad we did—because, to my surprise, it was easily one of the best teas we’d had in Morocco—herbaceous and sweet, with a wild, earthy bite. I had a second. Then a third. If I was going to catch something, so be it. We were in it now.
As Ammar spoke with the family and played with the girls, Katie and I sat listening closely, occasionally asking him questions to help us learn more about their lives. We learned about the seasonal migrations, the challenges of access to education and medicine, and how each person played a role within the household. After a while, Ammar leaned over and told me I could go get my camera.
I thanked the family—“Tanmirt,” I said—and made my way back to the car, where I found the young man standing outside, inspecting our vehicle. He was fixated on the hitch and the tires, running his eyes along the mud-caked frame. I grabbed a couple bananas from the backseat and handed one to him. He accepted it graciously. I also pocketed a few clementines for the girl back in the cave.
Back inside, I returned to the exact spot I’d been sitting—but realized I’d brought the wrong lens. The 24-70mm was great for portraits, but what I really needed was the 14-24mm to capture the full breadth of the scene—the contrast between light and shadow, the layered textures of the cave.
When I stepped outside again, a few more family members had gathered around the vehicle. It seemed word of the fruit had spread. I handed out more tangerines and bananas, crouching to meet the young girl’s eyes as I gave her a clementine nearly too big for her hands.
Then I returned to the cave and got to work.
I didn’t ask anyone to pose. I just let the moment be what it was. People moved in and out. Tea was poured. Conversations flowed in a language I couldn’t understand but could feel. The mouth of the cave acted as a giant softbox—cool, grey light pouring in and illuminating the space with this even, natural glow.
But I kept coming back to the elderly woman in the indigo shawl. She didn’t move much. She didn’t need to. The texture of the shawl against the beige cave wall, the way the light caught the edge of her cheekbone—it was magnetic. She became the anchor of the scene.
I wouldn’t say I felt invited to photograph them—but I felt a quiet permission. Ammar gave me space and support, subtly managing interactions, helping me move through the space without disrupting it. He never had to ask what I needed. He just knew. He’s done this before.
Still, the unease lingered. That question—what are we doing here?—never completely left me.
At one point, I paused, camera in my lap, and asked Ammar directly: “What does this do for them? What are we giving back by being here?”
Ammar didn’t hesitate. He looked me in the eye and said something I’ll never forget:
One of my favourites from the series. The indigos of her shawl provided the perfect contrast to the cold grey wall of the cave.
There are people in Morocco who don’t believe this way of life still exists. This family—these people—they’re proud of who they are. They want to share it. For them, this isn’t survival. It’s a choice. You’ve been invited into this home because they believe in what they’re carrying.
They didn’t have to welcome you. They chose to. Because they’re proud of their story. You’re not here to take—you’re here to witness. And that makes a difference.
I sat there for a moment, letting Ammar’s words settle. I thanked him—not just because I agreed, but because I could sense he needed to say them. I don’t think those thoughts were only meant for me. They were for others too. For the people who had passed through before. For the part of him that had grown tired of explaining that this life—this choice—was still real.
“There are people in Morocco who don’t believe this way of life still exists.”
Ammar was Amazigh. He had grown up as a nomad on the eastern side of the country. This wasn’t a world he’d learned about in magazines or from a university lecture. He had lived it. And though he had since chosen a different path, I could see how deeply he still carried it. I think that’s why he brings people here. Not to impress them. But to remind them, and himself, that it still matters.
I was done ruminating. The light was fading, and I still had work to do. I asked for another glass of tea, hoping it might gently prompt the grandmother to pour again—a small gesture, another chance to capture the grace in her hands.
As I moved through the last few frames, Ammar handed his phone to the young girls. They had little access to electricity, certainly no phone of their own. But here they were, scrolling with wide eyes through the glowing images on his screen, the light from the display flickering softly in the dimming cave.
Behind them, in near-complete darkness, their mother—barely more than a girl herself—began to prepare dinner. She moved through the space by feel, surrounded by the quiet routine of a life she’d been born into. A life she was now shaping for the next generation.
As we prepared to leave, Ammar let us know the family had offered for us to stay for dinner. But we had to get moving. If we didn’t leave soon, we might not make it out of the valley in the dark.
I felt a pull I didn’t expect.
Ammar opened up an old family album and let the young girls scroll through the photos. In the background their mother can faintly be seen preparing dinner.
I knew—standing there, camera still warm in my hands—just how much these images meant to me. I had waited my whole life to capture moments like this. This was the kind of story I’d dreamed of telling since I first picked up a camera. And yet we were packing up and moving on. Just like that.
So we gave them everything we had. Every banana, every clementine, the last of our rice—even the Advil from our med kit. It wasn’t meant as charity, or as some grand gesture. It was an exchange—a quiet way of saying, ‘You’ve given us more than you know.”
They stood on the hillside as we pulled away—arms full, smiling, waving. We thanked them in Amazigh the best we could. We’d arrived as strangers and left the same way, in many ways. But there was something else now. Not friendship exactly. Maybe just a little more understanding.
The rain was still coming down as we navigated the mountain road in darkness. There was no moonlight—just a washed-out sky and a single set of headlights cutting through the mud. I rode half-out of the car, tapping the frame to help Ammar steer around sharp turns, calling out when he cleared a ledge. He laughed. We were a team now, moving through the dark with a kind of makeshift trust.
A few days later, in Ouarzazate—with the High Atlas now behind us—Katie and I split a bottle of wine over dinner. I was quiet that night. Somewhere between the second and third glass, I started to fall apart.
I told her I wasn’t sure I could share the photos. Not because they weren’t good—they were everything I’d ever hoped to create. But because I didn’t know if I could do them justice.
What caption could hold this?
What frame could ever capture the full texture of these lives?
How do you share a story that isn’t yours without turning it into something else?
I’ve been asking myself that since the moment we left the valley.
And maybe that brings me back to the first question I ever asked:
Why do we create?
I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count.
At first, it felt simple. I wanted to be great at something. I wasn’t the fastest, or the strongest, or the loudest—but I had a camera. And with that camera, I could go further than I ever thought possible. I could sleep beneath desert skies, hike into the mountains, follow strangers into caves—and come back with something that made people stop and say, “You took that?”
And I think I chased that feeling for a long time. That maybe, through photography, I could become something greater than I felt I was. Maybe I could show people something so beautiful, so human, so true, that it would make them see the world—and maybe even me—a little differently.
But over the years, that chase has evolved. The wonder is still there, but it’s more complicated now.
I create because I want to remember. I want to preserve. I want to carry something forward when memory alone won’t do. That instinct started when my father—who first taught me to love photography—was diagnosed with organic brain syndrome. I began photographing everything. Obsessively, almost. Museums, family dinners, random walks. I was trying to trap time. To hold onto the people I loved and the places I’d been before they faded, even just a little.
And maybe underneath that, there’s always been a quiet hope that I’ll be remembered, too. Not for the photos, exactly—but for the care I tried to take in telling stories that weren’t mine.
Because creating something is never just about the image. It’s about the moment you were trusted with. And the burden of what you choose to do with it afterward.
In that cave, I knew I was capturing something I had waited my entire life to see. But I also knew that telling this story the wrong way could unravel it. I could flatten it, cheapen it, turn it into something it wasn’t meant to be. And in the age of social media—where beauty and poverty get algorithmically swallowed in the same breath—care feels harder and harder to hold onto.
I don't want to contribute to that noise. I don’t want to be someone who just took a photo and walked away.
So why do I create?
Maybe it’s not to explain.
Maybe it’s not even to be understood.
Maybe it’s to honour the moments I’ve been allowed to witness—the ones that asked nothing of me, but gave something all the same.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that some stories don’t need to be spoken. Some don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be held with care.
I’m still figuring out how to do that.
But I’ll carry this one for a long time.
These are the images I made. I hope you’ll spend a moment with them.
