At first glance, Bab Mahrouq looks like history carved in stone, until you learn what really happened there.

Fez– Fez isn’t just a city, it’s a living archive. Walk through its medina and you’re instantly transported through centuries of dynasties, scholars, revolutions, and relics. 

But tucked within its historic walls is a gate that holds more than just architectural value. It holds fear. History. And a reputation that still gives locals chills. 

This is “Bab Mahrouq”: The Gate of the Burned.

The name isn’t poetic. It’s literal.

Originally known as “Bab Asharia” (The Gate of Justice), this imposing structure was built in 1204 by the Almohad ruler Abu Abdullah Muhammad al-Nasir. 

But the story goes back even further, to the devastating siege of Fez in 1145 by Abd al-Mu’min, founder of the Almohad dynasty. 

His forces cleverly diverted water to flood and weaken the city’s defenses, a move that caused destruction but also marked a turning point. 

When al-Nasir rose to power decades later, he reinforced the city’s walls and gates, determined to protect Fez from ever falling so easily again. 

Among these restored gates was Bab Ashari’a, a name that implied rule of law and moral order.

At least, until things took a much darker turn.

What transformed “The Gate of Justice” into “The Gate of the Burned” wasn’t erosion or renaming on a map, it was violence. 

During the 13th century, a rebel named Ubayd Allah al-Fatimi al-Abidi declared himself ruler in the north of Morocco. 

His uprising didn’t last long. Captured by the ruling powers, he was sentenced to death. 

But this wasn’t just any execution. He was dragged to Fez, crucified publicly for 15 days, and then just to drive the message home his head was displayed above the gate. 

The people started calling it “Bab Mahrouq”, and the name stuck.

But perhaps the most horrifying chapter came later, in the 14th century, involving the famed poet and philosopher Lisan Adin Ibn al-Khatib. 

A respected minister in the Nasrid court of Granada, he fell out of political favor and was accused of heresy. 

After his death, his enemies dug up his body, brought it to Fez, and burned it near the gate. Why? A literal erasure, and a message to any thinker who dared defy the religious or political order.

From then on, Bab Mahrouq became a stage for executions, power struggles, and punishments designed for public impact. 

Scholars, judges, ministers, those who had once walked in power were sometimes dragged to this very gate, with their remains hung beneath its arch to send a message.

Today, tourists snap photos beneath its ochre stone archway, unaware of what once took place there. 

The gate blends into the rest of the medina like any other historical stop, but locals know better. 

For them, Bab Mahrouq isn’t just a gate, it’s a reminder. A silent monument to the darker side of Fez’s majestic history.

In a city that celebrates knowledge, art, and resistance, Bab Mahrouq stands as the stark counterpoint: Proof that history isn’t just written by the victors, it’s burned, buried, and sometimes left hanging for all to see.