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As our cab approaches something that seems like a market, I silently pray that we are at a wrong address. The driver stops the car, turns to the back seat and starts yelling the price higher than the one we priory arranged. Exhausted from the long flight, my sister and I decide not to argue and we hand him 220 Moroccan dirhams. We’re here. My nostrils fill up with stench of raw meat, leather, vegetables and sweat. We stumble to drag our suitcases through the rocky road, constantly stopping for the donkeys and motorcycles to pass us by. An eerie sound was spreading around the souks- a sound of chickens being slaughtered and their feathers plucked, right then and there. A puddle of blood is spreading down the tiny path and a group of stray cats and flies are fighting for the treats the butcher is throwing. As we entered our Riad, it feels like a hidden oasis in the chaotic Medina: quiet, peaceful, with a smell of saffron and lavender in the air. A female figure slowly approached us with traditional tea as a warm welcome, shifting from one foot to another, since her left leg was evidently shorter than the right one. Aicha was a short woman with shiny eyes. She greeted us with a big smile, shyly covering her rotten and missing teeth with her hand. Aicha didn’t talk much. She’d constantly be apologizing, almost as she’s sorry she even existed in the same space as you. I couldn’t tell a lot about her. I knew Aicha was diligent, she cleaned our rooms and made us Moroccan pancakes every morning with freshly squeezed orange juice on the side. I knew Aicha was very religious, seeing her carry her little praying mat under her armpit everyday at Azaan, prayer time. When asked about children, Aicha negatively shook her head left and right, but the way she put her arms around her belly with such sadness in her eyes made me think there was a lot more behind that answer. Aicha sang, and she sang very well. I told Ibrahim, our host, to tell her she should be a singer one day. As an answer to his translation she just let out a sad sigh. Ibrahim turned to me: 'A woman of her origin? In Morocco?’ That answer really stuck with me till this day. ’Of her origin’. Our last day, I heared Aicha whisper something to Ibrahim, almost as if she was scared to even ask. Ibrahim turned to us and uttered in broken English: ’Your bags... if you need help, Aicha’s husband can help carry’. ’A cab, why not?’, I told my sister. In a few minutes, an older man appeared at our door, dragging a huge wooden plank on wheels, and started loading the little ’trailor’ with our big suitcases. Misunderstanding the confusion on our faces, Ibrahim announced: ’No worry, just 10 dirham’. One dollar. One dollar for a man who can be my father to carry tens of kilograms on his tiny skinny back. He looked exhausted. Drops of sweat rolled down his wrinkly forehead to his feet, wrapped in worn out leather sandals. When he saw Aicha, he just gave her a smile and a little nod. No physical contact, and yet they seem to understand each other perfectly. Observing that, I started thinking about the unfair privilege of where we are born. How a fact as small as where our mother’s water broke can determine who we are for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t help but wonder: what many people could and would be today, if the lottery of their birth place was more fortunate to them? A singer? A lawyer? A writer? Acknowledgement of such unfairness in this world shook me to the core, but my incapacity to do anything about it did even more so. I handed him 50 dirhams. ’Too much, lady, too much’, he insisted, while counting the coins he had in his ripped pocket, so he can give me the change. How can a man be so fair and kind, in a world that is all the contrary to him?