So, while I find the dream interpretation of the rural-urban divide to be possible, I also find it to be distracting. The lack of cell phones or radios isn’t necessarily proof that the rural scenes are not contemporary to the urban ones. And though there may be a moral connection between wandering thieves and drug addicts (and I certainly agree that both are redeemable), I worry that the dream interpretation puts too much focus on the connection between the two. Viewing the rural scenes as a dream does not help us understand the journey in its own right. It makes the film a vague social commentary about the moral mind of a drug-addict rather than an abstruse piece of art. The rural journey is rendered less impactful because it is explained away, denying the reader the opportunity to wrestle with the decisions Ahmed makes and with whether he is ultimately redeemed. More than anything else, the dream interpretation obscures Shakib.

Like I said, if I simplify the film, I should say it is about Ahmed. But if I am honest about the film in all its complexity, I must admit that Ahmed is the protagonist, but Shakib gives the film its heart and its weight.

But who exactly is Mohamed Shakib ben Omar? The narrative doesn’t introduce us to him at the same time as Ahmed and Said—the other major players. Instead, Shakib makes his entrance in the film’s first urban scene, which comes right after the sheikh decides to lead the caravan into the Atlas Mountains. The camera cuts from the imposing terrain to a run-down car yard where many day laborers wait to be called up for work as a “driver.” It’s never specified what exactly this work entails, but all the old cars are yellow. A man standing around with a clipboard—presumably the owner—calls Shakib’s name. The men crowding around him all groan and complain that Shakib is too young, too inexperienced. “All of this is true,” the owner says, “but he is blessed. He is a good co-driver.”

Shakib himself is out of earshot. He is more concerned with fables than with work. The owner searches around the yard and finds Shakib riffing on the story of Iblis, who is the leader of the devils according to the Quran. As the story originally goes, Iblis was banished from heaven after refusing to bow before the first human, Adam. Shakib takes creative liberty by adding to the story, presumably to make a point (one I have spent plenty of time attempting to discern).

The owner finds Shakib at the end of his story and leads him into a car. He tells Shakib that his mission is to guide the caravan safely through the mountains, as best as he can. Further, he must take special care of Ahmed. “Why me?” Shakib says. The only answer he gets is, “it had to happen someday.” The conversation feels tense and ominous. It’s as if Shakib expects, when he’s asked to guide them through the mountains, that he likely won’t make it out alive.

Shakib may be “blessed” precisely because he is destined for such a difficult task. He eventually succeeds in inspiring Said, who realizes that he has found purpose in life for the first time through this mission, and so commits himself fully to carrying the sheikh’s body to Sijilmasa. Through all his cryptic but seemingly wise statements, Shakib has motivated Said to redeem himself. His attempts to encourage Ahmed, however, mostly fail. And when Ahmed gives up, Shakib assumes responsibility for the group—to tragic results. He is brave, pious, and well-intentioned, but he laments his inexperience as a leader.

 Shakib drives Ahmed to the conclusion, where they attack the marauder camp. Who is to say what miracles can happen in the hands of God, but it would take nothing less than a miracle for them to escape alive. Are they brave? Or just feckless? Is theirs a worthy sacrifice? Does it redeem Ahmed from his prior neglect, misgivings, and bad intentions? I would like to say that they are foolish—that Ahmed would have been better off to repent and start his life anew—but I am not sure enough to judge them within a Christian framework, let alone an Islamic one.

Shakib is a “driver,” but let’s think of him as a “guide” instead. Shakib doesn’t know a path through the mountains any more than Ahmed or Said. It seems Shakib was picked for his job because of his moral sensibilities. He was chosen to guide Ahmed towards a moral redemption, and he speaks to Ahmed with such uncanny, opaque, and baffling wisdom that I have wondered, “is he supposed to be an angel?” “Why does he lead Ahmed this way?” Shakib’s paradoxical language is precisely what resonates with me—it gives me so many more questions than answers.