A Month in Morocco / Un Mois au Maroc, Part 1

The crescent moon over Rabat, marking the end of Ramadan.

On 4 April 2024, my girlfriend Cile and I traveled to Rabat, the capital city of Morocco. Our goal was to combine intensive language study with volunteer work teaching English to preschool daycare kids. Cile studied Arabic, while I took on the easier challenge of French. A month later, we were back in Chicago en route to Iowa City. We passed through U.S. Customs without declaring the wealth of sights, sounds, flavors, and aromas we were transporting, already missing our life en Maroc.

We arranged our trip through the Moroccan Center for Arabic Studies (MCAS), the brainchild of Ali Bensebaa, a young Moroccan who had studied at SUNY-Albany on a Fulbright scholarship and returned to Rabat. He soon founded an organization that packages language study with internships and volunteer gigs. He often works with student groups in study-abroad programs, lodging them dormitory-style. Because this was the offseason, and just six of us were working with MCAS, Ali decided to put us up at his own Riad El Pacha.

A riad is a traditional Moroccan house: multiple stories, including a rooftop terrace, that look down on an interior courtyard or garden. In recent years, many of these stately homes have been converted into hotels or guesthouses. Riad El Pacha was typical; its three stories of private rooms opened onto galleries overlooking the courtyard. When we were there, a steady stream of tourists passed through – mostly French, Italians, Spanish – our MCAS group being the one constant. 

We formed a little family. Each day, Ibrahim, the riad’s young Guinean concierge, would ensure our breakfasts and dinners were served at a table in a quiet nook on the ground floor, where we could chat and share stories of our lives and news of our days. The social and emotional center of our family was Elena, a lively young European (lives in Florence, grew up in Zurich, went to boarding school in Ireland) who was volunteering at the same daycare we were, who called everyone “queen,” often said “ooh-la-la,” and offered appraisals of most people and things as either “slay” or “antislay.” Ervin was from Singapore, a gregarious sweetheart of a guy studying Arabic and writing articles for a newspaper back home. Bree, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and Omir, from Bradford, England, were doing medical internships at a nearby hospital. 

Walking the lanes of the medina was an adventure.

That first weekend, Cile and I wandered the dizzying maze of alleyways that comprise the sole means of passage through the medina where we lived. Typical of many North African cities, Rabat’s medina is the oldest and most central part of the city, a walled quarter known for its narrow streets and alleys. We began to learn that derbs, such as Derb Souissa, where our riad was located, were impasses, whereas zanqats connected to other streets, although that fact was not always apparent. You could look down a zanqat and see only a wall at the far end, but the alley might take a sharp swerve to the right or a right-angle jog to the left and continue on. These are considerably narrower than the standard alley in U.S. cities. We sometimes threaded shoulder-width passageways as our forearms brushed against walls rising straight up three or four stories. We sometimes walked beneath wooden braces supporting walls weakened by last September’s earthquake. We sometimes ducked our heads to avoid timber beams as we walked beneath an archway; sometimes that archway was twenty meters long. Yes, wandering the medina could be a delightful adventure … or a claustrophobe’s nightmare.

No cars can enter the medina, but pedestrians share the right-of-way with motorcycles, motor scooters, tuk-tuks, bicycles, electric scooters. We needed to be on our toes because those vehicles often negotiate the narrow lanes at alarmingly high speeds, weaving through and swerving around the foot traffic. Goods are transported to and from shops by small three-wheeled trucks or long two-wheeled and two-handled carts. In the medinas of Fes and Marrakech, we also saw carts drawn by donkeys.

While most alleys in U.S. cities are neglected space, the home of lonely dumpsters waiting by the backdoors of businesses and homes, the medina’s alleys are teeming with activity. Here you’ll find the doorways to homes, riads, dars, and hammams,[1] the traditional cleansing fountains that complement every mosque entrance. Shops of all kinds, many of them single rooms that can accommodate only the proprietor: the sundries shop where we’d get our bottles of Schweppes Citron, the patisserie that sold our favorite Moroccan cookies,[2] the fresh mint shop we’d walk past to catch a whiff of its bouquet, olive shops, date and fig shops, argan oil shops, tailor shops, furniture repair shops, butcher shops, barbershops, cafes, shops with large griddles where beghrir and msemen[3] are made and sold, shops offering the flat round loaves of batbout and khobz, shawarma shops serving grilled chicken or lamb or sausage and onions shoveled into the opened half of a khobz, pita-bread style.

One of the cleansing fountains in the medina. Note the beautiful mosaic tilework (zellige).

The crowded and animated souks of Rabat’s medina are located on Avenue des Consuls and Rue Souika: non-stop shops, at least twice as deep as their width, selling clothing and textiles, shoes (especially Moroccan babouches) and other leather goods, woolen rugs and blankets, housewares and antiques, spices, vegetables, and fruits. 

I fell in love with Rabat, not the biggest city in Morocco, nor the most exciting or fascinating, nor the most historical or beautiful, but I cherished its ordinariness. Every day we learned something about the routines of its citizens. Every day we found some sidewalk cafe where we could enjoy our afternoon coffee – un café noir pour moi et un café crème pour Cecile – although we had a favorite, Café Halinka, near pretty Jardin Nouzhat Hassan.[4] We’d sit at a table looking out on busy Avenue Al Mansour Addahbi, and converse while observing the passing parade. I wrote in one of “mes petits essais” for class: Rabat me permet de voir des Marocains tels qu’ils sont. J’aime voir deux hommes (ou femmes) se rencontrer dans la médina, se serrer légèrement la main, et faire la bise.[5]

At a sidewalk cafe in Morocco, our go-to coffee order.

We arrived in Rabat in time for the last five days of Ramadan, offering an opportunity to learn more about that month-long period of fasting and prayer. Between dawn and sunset, no one eats or drinks or smokes. In fact, Muslims could be fined for doing so, but I sensed that most willingly participate in the Ramadan fast. The five calls to prayer became part of the rhythm of our day. We were never far from a minaret. The fast ends after the fourth call to prayer. Restaurants suddenly open up and the vibe becomes almost festive, the relief and release of breaking fast. It was inspiring to learn the word Islam refers to the sense of peace (salaam) that comes from surrendering to something larger than oneself. During that first week in Morocco, I wrote this:

In the Medina

Behind the thick sand-colored walls of the old city. Swept by ocean breezes, the narrow serpentine lanes and cul-de-sacs trace a labyrinth. White-washed stucco walls punctuated by literal hole-in-the-wall shops. Heavy iron-studded doors, their horseshoe arches adorned with carved stone or mosaic tilework. Hermetic tessellations. Intricate geometry of vines and leaves.

The late afternoon sun pours down an alley and bathes an old leathery man hunched on the ground, back against a wall, warming his bones. It seems he’s been here forever, at least since the Moriscos[6] arrived, expelled from Spain, over four centuries ago. Cats scrawled indolently underfoot. Splashes of calico and tabby. Mother cats furnished with cardboard homes for their kittens. Everybody’s cats and nobody’s cats.

The call to prayer. One muezzin’s voice rises in song, joined by others across the medina, a mighty chorus. Businessmen hurry by, straw prayer mats tucked under arms. Even nonbelievers pause a moment.

Ramadan, the month of fasting, a victory of spirit over flesh. Abstaining from food and drink becomes an act of sympathy with those in need. Fasting slows one down, offers time for reflection, meditation. Artisans and poets do their best work during Ramadan.

The call to prayer at dusk signals iftar. Beside their stalls, three street vendors prepare a makeshift table with dates, olives, harira (tomato and chickpea soup), khobz, and balanced on a tray, a large silver teapot of mint tea. We call out, “Bon appétit! Ramadan mubarak!”

The delicate saucer of a crescent moon (le croissant de lune) appears in the west over the ocean. At four in the morning, the first call to prayer signals the start of Eid al-Fitr, and the end of Ramadan. The muezzin’s voice, the breath of God, emerges from the stillness, a melody prolonged by other voices vining, entwining to a joyful crescendo. Someone blows the ram’s horn. Allah akbar.

Today, the streets are decorated with children on holiday. The alleys of the medina spill into packed souks. Families visit families, carrying boxes of stuffed dates and cookies dusted with pistachios and filled with almond paste, wearing new djellabas, caftans, and hijabs in flowery pastel colors. Assalamu alaikum. Peace be upon you.

Footnotes:

[1] Dars are homes converted into small hotels. Hammams are Moroccan-style public bathhouses, often located next to communal bakeries so the bread ovens can also heat the hammam’s waters.

[2] Honey-drenched and sesame-seed-coated chebakia, almond-flour ghriba dusted with powdered sugar, date-filled maumool, crescent-shaped kaab al ghazal filled with almond paste.

[3] Both beghrir (a spongy semolina pancake) and msemen (a square flatbread) are typical fare at Moroccan breakfast tables.

[4] We were fond of it, in part, because the young waiter there always offered us the sweetest smile.

[5] Rabat allows me to see the Moroccans as they are. I love watching as two men (or women) run into each other in the medina, share a gentle handshake, and offer that lovely French greeting, the soft touching of cheek to cheek, first one side, then the other.

[6] The descendants of Muslims who converted to Christianity and stayed in Spain after being defeated by the Spanish armies in 1492, some 300,000 Moriscos were expelled from Spain in 1609. Many settled in Rabat and neighboring Salé, established themselves as corsairs (pirates), and wreaked havoc on European ships sailing along that coast.