I didn’t choose circus. Circus chose me.

In 2013, I am in Errachidia, my parents’ home town. With my brother and my cousin, we come across acrobats in a garden. We are fascinated straight away. We want to try. It is a mess: running, falling, attempting rolls and flips. Nothing works.

A week later, back at my parents’ place in Sidi Taïbi, Kénitra, the first thing I do when I get in is drop my bag, go out, find a low wall, and practise flips. It was anything but clean. I failed hundreds of times. Little by little, I got there. Except that I always ended up hitting my head on the ground.

Soon after, I run into guys from the neighbourhood training on the beach, and I start joining them. Acrobatics and parkour take up more and more room. Then, all at once, I stop. I was sure of one thing: this is not what I want to do with my life.

Six months later, in 2015, Amine hears that a circus school exists in Salé, near us: Shems’y.

Amine was more than a friend. A brother. A father. A mother. A sister. Everything.

He asks me to take the audition with him. I say no. Straight away. I was sure of my decision. He insists.

— Just come and try, it’s circus, we’re going to become circus artists.— I don’t want anything to do with circus. It’s not for me.— Go on, try.— I’m 15, they’ll never take me.— That’s exactly it. You have a chance, you’re young. I’m tall, maybe they won’t take me. But you — I’m absolutely certain they will.

He didn’t let go. He stayed there, asking me again and again, until, tired of refusing, I ended up saying yes.

Amine became my base. In hand-to-hand, the base is the one who holds and throws; the flyer is the one who is held and flies. Him below, me above. For three years, we learned everything together. You cannot do this discipline alone. Everything I know about my body, I learned against his.

Then, on 24 April 2019, Amine died.

In 2021, I left to train in France, at the Centre national des arts du cirque, the CNAC, as a hand-balancer. Holding your whole body on your hands — alone, this time.

On 1 May 2024, I have a dream. I see Amine again. He says to me: “What you’re doing with your escapes is amazing. I know you’re strong, that you’ll make it on your own. But will we still be able to make something together?”

I don’t understand.

Three days later, I lost Tao. An acrobat, in my class, a very close friend. We already pictured ourselves working together one day — he talked to me about the Cirque de Demain all the time.

I left everything. The CNAC. Circus.

And those two sentences started turning in a loop, without stopping. “You’ll make it on your own.” “Will we still be able to make something together?” That is when I knew what I was going to do. That is how Dhikrā was born.

Today I practise two disciplines, and each one carries someone. When I balance on my hands, I don’t feel alone. I feel held, the way he used to hold me. When I do acrobatics, it is no longer quite my body that moves. It is his, through me.

What I know how to do isn’t really mine. It is a gift.

Circus is my way of keeping them alive.