Why this project needs two front doors – and a paper trail

When I arrived in Aït Bouguemez last month, my dear friend and host Abdellah kept introducing me to people like this:

“This is Daniela. She’s a journalist from Harvard.”

Which was very sweet. And wrong. And technically illegal.

I tried to explain to Abdellah that I’m not a journalist – I just study journalism. And, according to Moroccan law, unless you’re employed by a recognized press outlet and registered with local authorities, you’re not considered a real journalist. In fact, “impersonating” one is… technically a crime.

He shrugged, completely unbothered:

“Don’t be so modest. You do good work. And if you’re not a journalist, then what you’re doing doesn’t have the weight it deserves.”

Which was also very sweet. But the qaid – our friendly neighborhood state-appointed mayor/ chief of police/ chief of intelligence – didn’t exactly share that sentiment.

The qaid never approached me directly. That would’ve been far too boring. Instead, he conducted what I can only describe as a polite, small-town spy thriller.

He started by asking questions around me. My friend who teaches English and started a language school? Questioned. My interpreter, who gave me a ride home one day? Pulled over and asked what exactly he was doing driving around with a foreign woman and why said foreign woman was wearing an abaya. Asking the real questions… And even after I left the valley, the qaid wasn’t done.

He showed up at Abdellah’s family’s house.

“What is her business here?”
“Why is she talking to so many people?”
“Are you sure… she’s not a spy?”

And bless Abdellah. He didn’t miss a beat:

“She’s not a spy. She’s my friend.”

(The qaid didn’t seem fully convinced.)

Now, I want to be clear: I wasn’t doing anything remotely outside the bounds of the law. No hidden microphones. No exposés. No protests or pamphlets. No assignments from outside institutions.  I was visiting friends, cooking meals, interviewing rug weavers and trekking guides – openly, respectfully, with everyone’s consent.

But I also wasn’t doing much to be legible. I have no website. No professional Instagram. No project deck in Arabic or French. I have a personal, private Instagram with with a whopping nine total posts and nothing that explains why I keep showing up in this peaceful, remote valley with a DSLR asking questions about roads, electricity, and language.

And let’s be honest: Aït Bouguemez isn’t exactly a hotspot of intrigue. Its nickname is literally The Happy Valley. As Abdellah put it:

“I think they’re just bored. You were probably the most exciting ‘case’ they’ve had all year. And they can look all they want – there’s nothing to find.”

Still, it was a wake-up call. Because while it is funny, it’s not something to play with. In Morocco, the line between researcher, journalist, and meddling foreigner isn’t always clear – and it can get sharp fast.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about visibility. Not as self-promotion. But as protection.
As trust-building. As clarity.

That’s where Borders Unbound comes in.

One Project, Two Front Doors

This is a long-haul, slow-build archive rooted in the High Atlas – a way to document the shift between generations as the valley changes, fast. It’s not my story alone. It’s a collaborative, multilingual, multi-script, open-access record of memory, culture, land, and language made with people I’ve worked alongside for over a year:

• Mohamad, a cultural anthropologist collecting oral poetry

• Ali, who runs a youth development nonprofit in Azilal

• Sihem, who leads a women’s weaving cooperative

• A whole network of guides, cooks, farmers, teachers, artists, translators — and nomads, of course
  
  

Together, we’re documenting a living archive – photos, videos, essays, audio recordings – for the community itself. Elders remember getting their facial tattoos at age seven. People over thirty remember life in the valley before electricity, before the road. And now some twenty-somethings have Tinder – though that’s a secret, and the signal’s shit anyway, so the app mostly just spins.  

Something vital is happening in the space between.

So the project has two modes of access:

1. For locals: Full access, always free. Pay-what-you-can or 100% discount codes. Offline PDFs. Darija, Tachelhit, and French when possible. Because the project is for the people it documents – and digital transactions haven’t caught on in the valley anyway.  If they want, they can buy my coffee.
   
   

2. For international readers: A paid newsletter. Essays on ecotourism, language shift, ethical travel, tattoo revival, visa apartheid, adapting across cultures – plus behind-the-scenes updates and slow thinking on what it means to move across borders, legally, emotionally, spiritually.
   
   

Subscriptions help fund the work – translators, equipment, and open access for people who can’t pay.  And this is why I’m heading this project: because I can bridge. I can bring in resources that wouldn’t otherwise reach the valley – a kind of grassroots reparations. Western funds keep the local library open. The stories flow both ways.

Not a Spy. Just Very Online Now.

On Sunday, I’ll be calling my friend Ali to discuss the volunteer visa he’s sponsoring through his nonprofit. He’s already written me a letter – I’ll be teaching English classes as part of the role – but we’re planning to update it to include Borders Unbound directly. A clean, simple paper trail for the qaid to trace.

And if the qaid ever stumbles across this: salaam.
I’m not a spy. I’m building a library.

With friends.

Who keep mistakenly introducing me as a journalist.
(We’re working on it.)