Two Conversations

Dinner with an Iraqi.

We mentioned in an earlier post the gorgeous Dar Seffarine, owned by Iraqi architect, Allah, and his Norwegian wife, Kate. Before moving to Fez and undertaking the Dar Seffarine restoration (we’d show you photos, but our camera battery died), Allah had lived and worked in Norway for 25 years. He’s a handsome, cosmopolitan man, who gives us a proud but self-effacing tour of his splendid home and is quick with hugs and kisses for the neighbor’s brood of children, whom he allows to play in the courtyard of the dar. Allah makes us feel welcome immediately, announcing that we are at home (i.e., our home), not a hotel. He has an easy, stylish grace.

During our first night at Dar Sefffarine, Allah graciously invites us to dinner along with two American friends we’d just met the day before. He tells us of his large family; he is one of 10 children. Then, he explains that his younger brother was shot dead on a street in Baghdad earlier in the week. It’s impossible to know what to say in the situation other than to offer what we fear sounds like very hollow condolences. He notes that terrorists killed 573 Iraqis that week alone, and that while his brother is the closest, he’s had other family members killed. He is sad and circumspect, but not angry. Since he knows he’ll be unable to travel to Iraq for the funeral, he half wishes that his family had not even told him about the murder. He strongly supports the effort to topple Saddam Hussein, whom he despises, and notes with sadness the mounting death toll in the American military, and the loss their largely poor, uneducated families must feel.

Granted, we are two Americans paying to stay in his maison d’hotes, but his lack of resentment towards us and balanced reaction to the situation is clearly genuine. This is a man who has experienced the world beyond his country’s borders and understands, as the international microcosm of Fez illustrates, how linked and dependent we are upon one another.


A cab ride home.

Our driver, a Marrakshi as the locals of Marrakech call themselves, asks us if we’re English, and then he guesses Australian before we reveal that we’re from the States. We’re always a bit trepidatious about mentioning that we’re Americans, especially given our relations with the Arab world, but tonight’s admission is greeted with what can only be called glee. Our driver wants to know where we’re from and our thoughts on East Coast versus West Coast living. He’s seen a lot of LA in movies and on TV. It turns out he has some family in Florida, and though he’s never been to the States, he lived abroad in Switzerland for a few years, playing professional soccer, among other things. Clearly the guy is anxious to talk and the cab’s speed decreases to a molasses crawl as his story heats up. A few minutes into the ride, he gets a call on his cell from his girlfriend; though they’re speaking in Arabic, it’s clear he’s told her he’s got a couple of Americans in the car and that he’ll call her back later because he wants to talk to us. The fellow, who is 42, has been unlucky both in love and in work. His former wife took off with his life savings of about $30K and he’s had a few failed entrepreneurial ventures since. Now, this multi-lingual, educated, former soccer pro is driving a cab to his dismay. He hates the heat and the traffic and the fact, ironically, that his life is going nowhere as he circles Marrakech. Recently though, he’s found love, in a 37-year-old pastry chef. She’s been asked by American clients to move to Florida and work for them there. She wants to marry our cabbie and bring him along. And the guy, who we’ve only known for 10 minutes, is intent on knowing our thoughts about this life-changing decision. Should he go? Would he have prospects in the US? Would he be able to find work and save enough money to return to Morocco one day and live a better life than he is presently? Once we reach our stop, Riad Larous, he swiftly turns off the car’s engine and swings his hefty body around to look at us as we contemplate the offer he has on the table. The combination of humility, despair and hope is overwhelming and we both emerge from the cab at bit shell-shocked. “I really want to know the verite (or ‘truth’),” he kept repeating. A plea not so much for our opinion – “Yes, go, take the risk! Do it for love. Do it for your future!” – but for the answer to a question far beyond the scope of our experience for us to offer a response.



Since we don’t have photos from either of the above-mentioned exchanges, we leave you with this man in the Marrakech Medina making masharabia. The turned wood was originally used to make screens through which devout Muslim women could look out at the world without being observed themselves. Now, it is used to make assortment of decorative things, and watching the man work with both hands, a foot and a blade is mesmerizing. It’s hard to imagine western power tools adding anything to the equation.