Art & Culture

The Pangea Twins: Morocco and Brazil’s Love Letter Beneath the Atlantic

BYZineb Moufti

August 11, 2025

Before I went to Rio, people kept warning me about how dangerous it was and that I needed to be careful, especially as a tourist. But as a Moroccan, I didn’t feel out of place at all. In fact, a lot of it felt familiar. The energy, the noise, the warmth of people in the streets, it all reminded me of home. At one point, I visited a favela, and it felt a lot like a chaabi neighbourhood in Casablanca: busy, loud, a little chaotic, but full of life. It didn’t feel threatening. If anything, it felt like I knew the place.

That’s when I started to notice how easily the lines between Morocco and Brazil can blur. In a world where football is a shared religion and couscous might be served alongside a traditional Brazilian feijoada, boundaries don’t hold as firmly as you’d imagine. You can find the same exact guy selling knock-off Messi jerseys in Casablanca as you do in Copacabana, flashing the same grin, calling passersby out in a mix of languages that somehow makes perfect sense. And then there’s the uncanny way you can walk through a market in Tangier or a plaza in Porte Alegre and swear you’ve seen the same faces somewhere before.

And maybe it’s not a coincidence. If you rewind far enough— past current borders and time zones— and look at a world map as it was 200 million years ago, you’ll find that Morocco and Brazil weren’t far apart. In fact, they were close neighbors, with the Atlantic Ocean that now separates them once forming a shared shore. Today, that ocean is a scar as well as a reminder that what seems distant now was once part of the same stretch of land before it drifted apart.

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Often referred to as Pangea, there is broad consensus among historians and geologists that Earth’s continents were once all joined together in a single landmass before tectonic forces slowly pulled them away from each other. Looking at that projection of Earth, Morocco and Brazil sat side by side, and you can still see the matching shapes in their coastlines to this day.

Both Morocco and Brazil are children of movement and encounter. Both countries carry a layered memory of Africa, Europe, and the Arab world, woven around Indigenous traditions and diasporic histories. And their influences can still be felt today, echoed for example through sound, in drums that carry prayers and in melodies that remember past migration patterns.

I personally noticed some of these parallels at Essarouira’s Gnaoua Festival not long ago. The music— polyrhythmic, immersive, deeply physical— immediately reminded me of Brazil’s Samba. Both traditions rely on layered rhythms and collective movement. In Gnaoua, it’s all about the qraqeb and guembri; in Brazilian samba, it’s the surdo, caixa, repinique that build a similar foundation; a heartbeat that drives the body to move through a shared pulse. The musical structures— based on call and response, syncopation, and repetition— serve the same purpose: to bring people into a shared state of rhythm. Songs sometimes even overlap. Elegibo, originally a tribute to Eleggua— the Yoruba deity of crossroads and movement— found its way into both Brazilian and Moroccan repertoires through the African diaspora. In Brazil, it became part of Afro-Brazilian religious chants before evolving into a Carnival and club anthem. In Morocco, Gnawa, the heir to sub-Saharan spiritual traditions, absorbed it into its sound. Though the instruments and arrangements may differ, the cultural DNA is clearly connected.

Over the past decade, that invisible tunnel has only grown longer and stronger. There’s a genuine curiosity and exchange between the two cultures— not filtered through tourism or diplomacy, but through music and internet culture. You’ll hear Brazilian funk at rooftop parties in Marrakech, sometimes even Menina de Vermelho— the viral anthem— performed by Dekka El Marrakchia bands with their own rhythmic twist. You’ll see Moroccan flags on street murals in Sao Paulo, not as exotic symbols, but as part of a broader visual language of global urban culture. Most recently, Moroccan rappers have been seen turning to baile funk instrumentation to say their truths— one of which is Casablanca-based MC Stormy on a track dubbed POPO— blending both cultures in ways that now feel more connected than ever.

And then, of course, there’s football, the most passionate and unifying proof of our spiritual kinship. The 2022 FIFA World Cup in Qatar was a seismic moment. Morocco’s historic run to the semi-finals was more than a sporting achievement as it stirred something greater across the Global South, starting from recognition and pride to a sense of possibility for people too used to being underestimated. Though Brazil has long been regarded as one of the world’s football powerhouses, evenzin they saw reflections of themselves in Morocco’s remarkable World Cup run. A team that danced with their mothers, prayed with their fans, and played with unshakable fire. Since then, Moroccan jerseys are worn in Brazil, and Brazilian jerseys— already popular— have taken on a new sense of solidarity in Morocco. When Vinícius Júnior visited Morocco, he was welcomed as a star, celebrated not just as a global football icon but as someone who resonates deeply with Moroccan fans, so much so that commercials with him are everywhere. Proof that in Morocco, Vinícius isn’t just famous, he’s practically one of us.

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Une publication partagée par ALTA – MOROCCO 🇲🇦 (@alta_morocco)

In both places, football has had a way of making itself at home on sand, turning every beach into a pitch with a view. In fact, the beach itself is a whole ecosystem, a way of life in both countries. In Agadir, we name our beaches by the kilometer: kilomètre 14, 17, 25. Each one has its own rhythm, its own crowd, its own rituals. In Rio, the coastline is mapped by postos, lifeguard stations that mark off distinct social zones.

Though people often speak of a hidden tunnel as pure fiction, it still reflects how both cultures remember each other, even when the continents themselves have forgotten. Perhaps the reason this imagined tunnel feels so real is because, in some ways, we’re rebuilding it. Not with drills or politics, but with playlists and football chants, with cousinly jokes and mutual admiration. Low-cost flights and direct routes— from Rabat to São Paulo, from Marrakech to Rio are more than just logistical conveniences. They’re emotional lifelines, evidence that something ancient is becoming newly visible.

The Pangea Twins: Morocco and Brazil’s Love Letter Beneath the Atlantic

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The Pangea Twins: Morocco and Brazil’s Love Letter Beneath the Atlantic

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