If, someday, the young people of Zagora in Morocco – the girls, the boys, the little ones – come to know Casa Miriam, it will all be thanks to a journey. And if Casa Miriam truly comes to life, it will be, first and foremost, a sanctuary for talent. It will be a place to discover gifts and nurture them – because talents, just like us, need room to grow once they are born. Latifa Benharara took this incredible journey from 6 October–4 December 2024. She rode her bike through 43 stages, bridging two lands where her roots run deep: Abruzzo, where she lives, and Morocco, where her family is from. The project is called “From Maiella to Sahara”, and we shared it with you back when it was barely more than a fleeting idea. “Morocco is still a poor land,” she told us. “You still find villages built of stone, wood, and straw. In those parts, if families have a daughter and a son, they invest more heavily in the boy, leaving girls with fewer and fewer chances. People mostly use bicycles to get to school or work, and the little ones pass them around and share them, because they often can’t afford to have one each.” In that house – which proudly bears a woman’s name – children will be free to discover what they are actually good at. They will explore what makes them feel alive, what brings them joy, and what might allow them to picture a completely different future. They will dive into drawing, illustration, poetry, writing, acting, and crafts. They will experience sports – all kinds of sports – and perhaps, most importantly, cycling and bicycles. Then, everyone will get to choose their own path. As Latifa beautifully put it, “Because these are the things that allow human beings to change, even if we sometimes forget that.”
Latifa recalls that on the day she left Sulmona, the sun was shining, and her father, just for her, was wearing his Sunday best. He looked handsome – so handsome she had never seen him quite like that – as she rode her bike away from her mother’s house. Shortly after, in the square, she whistled before heading off: yes, just like at the races, but this time the cyclist and the race director were the exact same person. That sense of community is what sparks the applause, bringing different communities together, including the Italian, Egyptian, and Moroccan ones.
But that sun wouldn’t last long, because it was going to be a rainy autumn.
“I remember the climb toward the Muraglione Pass and my father shouting from the camper to get inside, because it was raining too hard and I was going to get sick. No, I kept going just like cyclists do, with a single idea in my head and so much effort. I still picture reaching the summit, just like the night I saw Piazza dei Miracoli in Pisa: there was hardly anyone around, it was freezing, but I was happy and the lights were illuminating the tower.”
Latifa Benharara climbs the Cipressa, making it to the border, “loaded like a mule,” often sticking to the back roads, right as the camper is sent back home because it just isn’t useful anymore. She will become her own support crew, taking care of her bike, giving up a proper place to sleep, to store her groceries and meals, or to find shelter. She will ask for hospitality, and more often than not, she’ll discover that complete strangers are the absolute best part of a journey. Abroad, people will ask her where Sulmona is, they’ll search for it on a map, and they will simply marvel at this woman on a journey.
Borders have always moved her, and even more so on a bicycle, with all those cars passing from one nation to another while she pedals alone, with small flags attached to her bike marking each crossing. She would pass through four nations, starting with France, with the blue sea of the Côte d’Azur, flamingos, fiery sunsets, a warm soup, and a laden table to sit at after changing out of yet another set of rain-soaked clothes.
“The worst face of the rain I experienced was in Spain, when, upon waking, the televisions were talking about Dana, the cyclone that had devastated Valencia. At first, I didn’t understand, I thought it would pass quickly. But no. The sky turned black, the water invaded the sea, churned it up, and erased the roads. We moved around using public transport, and at night, the hotel porters would come to wake us in our rooms to tell us we’d lose power because the water had flooded the basement. The smell of water and mud seeped into everything. It was terrifying.”
Leaving that place, along paths said to be the same ones travelled by Don Quixote, Latifa Benharara felt like a knight, in the ancient sense of the word, someone who believes in values and doesn’t give up. It was almost as if her bike were a horse and she, a rider.
The night is the other side of the journey, where only the moon and stars light the way, villages disappear, and everything feels stronger, more intense. It is the night that guides Latifa toward the “puerto” to catch the ferry: on the other side, Africa. All the checks are done while on the bike, and then she’s off: “It felt like I had arrived, like the journey was already over, because the hardest part was behind me. I would see my uncles again, hear their kind words about me. I would feel at home again, after more than forty days.”
From Morocco, there are memories of Rabat with the mausoleum of the Kings, Casablanca, Marrakech, Zagora, and the desert. Above all, Latifa cannot forget the smiles of so many children, “a way of laughing that is only like that of a child seeing Santa Claus,” yet it was sparked by nothing more than a person on a bike. “You surprised us, you’re unexpected,” some little girls told her, because they couldn’t recall anything like it. Or maybe they could, but only once, many years ago. “Look over there, that shed. If I brought lots of bikes here from Italy and put them inside, would you come ride with me, just for the joy of cycling?” They shouted “yes” in unison, and she didn’t know how to hide her teary eyes.
Pedaling, carrying the bike on her shoulder, or pushing it, she reached the Sahara, where there are only tents, camps, and sand. And a breeze that “is everything and nothing.” She admired the desert night and found it as beautiful and clear as the skies of Everest. By the end of the fifty-eight days, the bicycle was no longer just a means of transport but something with a life of its own, something that, through its pedals, allows you to keep going even when your muscles are too tired.
She knows she will return to Morocco soon, because she dreams of it, because a part of her, deep down, stayed there. She envisions organised trips where tourists can explore and discover realities that are usually left untold. In her nostrils, she still carries the scent of vegetation from certain Tuscan fields after an afternoon rain and the fragrance of lavender she found in France. She struggled to readjust to life at home, as her instincts kept pulling her toward the desire to set off again, just as she had done every one of those days, after a brief morning visit to the city or village where she had spent the night.
“I’ve learned that we need to travel light, not just on a bicycle, but in our daily lives. To laugh at our mistakes, even if we’re at the summit of a Pyrenean climb and, after all that effort, find the road closed: anger is useless, disappointment is a burden we cannot afford. Above all, I’ve learned that we must take care of our bodies, just as we take care of the bicycles we travel on: it’s our only chance, the only home we inhabit, no matter where we are in the world.”