Forget the ornate mosaics, the carved arches, the serene courtyard where water whispers from a fountain. Erase the postcard image of a Moroccan spa. Instead, step into a world of raw concrete and sculpted light, where geometry reigns and modernity asserts itself against the land. This is the Sidi Harazem Complex—a Brutalist sanctuary, defiant and timeless.

Set against the rugged terrain east of Fez, Morocco’s historic capital, this thermal bath complex is an architectural anomaly, a vision of the future conceived in the 1960s by French-Moroccan architect Jean-François Zevaco. This place of healing also served as a manifesto—the first major public work of Morocco’s post-independence era, designed not for colonial grandeur but for its own people. Commissioned by the Caisse de Dépôts et de Gestion, it transformed an ancient site of curative waters into a radical statement, where Brutalism and tradition converge in a sculptural symphony of space, shadow, and ritual.

Sidi Harazem’s sacred waters had drawn pilgrims and bathers for centuries, its name honouring the revered Sufi theologian whose tomb rests within the oasis. The energy of this havre de paix ebbed and flowed, shifting between ritual and daily life. Zevaco embraced this rhythm, embedding it into the complex’s design—its vast circular pools became spaces of gathering, where men, women, and children immersed themselves in the site's timeless rituals.

Zevaco’s mastery of concrete and space unfolded in faceted columns, deep overhangs, and the striking pool shaded by a hovering concrete disk—an audacious expression of Brutalism. Yet, for all its stark modernity, the complex remained rooted in place as bands of deep blue mosaic tile and intricate copperwork whispered of Moroccan craftsmanship.

Meandering through the complex feels like stepping into a Brutalist anthology, where V-shaped columns anchor sweeping canopies, and grey cantilevered slabs hover overhead, heavy yet weightless, like a crow’s feather. The structure unfolds like a mountain hewn from concrete, its staircases carved into hidden passageways, guiding visitors through a labyrinth of form and shadow. Conical columns, thick and grounded, stand like the legs of an elephant, bearing the weight of this architectural monolith.

Stretching across the landscape, the complex is framed by the soft silhouettes of desert brush and towering palms. Its geometry is almost mathematical—circles, arches, and linear spans interlocking to shape a modernist retreat. The walls, raw and textured, bear the imprint of their making, where formwork patterns etch a rhythmic, striated motif across the concrete, a silent testament to the craft that shaped them.

Once celebrated as a bold departure from Morocco’s colonial past, the Sidi Harazem Complex gradually came to be seen as too modern, too stark, too alien. By the early 2000s, this dialogue was disrupted. A well-intentioned but heavy-handed renovation sought to "Moroccanize" the site, cladding the raw concrete in green tiles and carved wooden panels. It was a move that stripped the complex of its architectural purity.

In 2001, Moroccan architect Aziza Chaouni visited the site and saw what had been lost. As an Aga Khan Fellow at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, she had studied post-independence tourism architecture and recognized the need for restoration.

Chaouni and her team secured a Getty Foundation grant in 2017 to chart Sidi Harazem’s future. But their vision extended beyond preservation—they sought to revive the site as a thriving oasis, balancing Zevaco’s radical modernism with new infrastructure, local employment, and urban connectivity. By 2019, the grant had provided a blueprint, but the real challenge remained: ensuring that this Brutalist landmark, once a symbol of Morocco’s future, would not fade into the past.

Photography Credit: Andreea Muscurel and Younes Bounhar