Earning my Ancestry

by Ben Dahan (France)

A leap into the unknown Morocco

It was a long ride back across the water. I locked eyes with the illuminated city as we went our separate ways. The lights weren’t twinkling, and they weren’t fading as much as slipping away. As the black expanse surrounding Tangier darkened and deepened, I realized how much of the country was unknown to me. My phone was dead, my wallet empty, my faith in humanity shattered. I was heading back to Spain defeated. Though it wasn’t any more familiar, it had been kinder. I spent this first summer of college renting a room from Latvian expats in Gibraltar, where I worked during the day at a small conservation park and nights at an Indian restaurant. I was certainly no stranger to leaping into the unknown, but I approached my first-ever trip to Morocco like I was going, if not quite home, to the homeland. An “Arab in disguise” is how my dad, a mocha-skinned Casablancan, dubbed me, a pasty white and lanky. The disguise worked well, inducing a double-take in all but the most gullible. Among countrymen, first came the same generous smile, then the same open-handed assurance. “We are all Moroccans.” Having arrived to my father’s land, ostensibly to attend an environmental film festival, I flashed my bona fides to these more scrutinizing eyes. In explaining my origins, I cited not Casablanca, but its Arabic, somehow more authentic, name: Ad-dar Al Baidaa. My wanderings were once interrupted by a man in a doorway, “You! You’re Moroccan?” Finally, someone could discern from a look what I’ve been trying to convince people for years, and I entered his shop. He made tea and entertained my every question. An hour and 200 Dirham later, I left with the kettle. On my last day, I decided on one final exploratory hurrah, during which one well-dressed, even-better-kempt passerby glared at me. I unconvincingly mad-dogged back, but our bad blood was dispelled by his unexpectedly friendly introduction. “Are you lost?” His name was Omar, he had a lanyard. As a show of good-faith, he pointed out the building where he had helped Matt Damon shoot The Bourne Identity. “Come, come,” he said, “I’ll bring you to my cousins cafe.” I was grizzled enough to know not to follow blindly, but lacked the experience still to resist humoring him. He offered me a seat, I indulged. He offered me a glass of steaming tea, I indulged. He handed me a hashish pipe billowing smoke…why not? So, I told Omar, I would indulge. And I took a hit. Then, a few more. Without warning, his face grew heavy. He picked at the pipe bowl, apparently to no avail. It was a tobacco pipe, see, the hash was stuck and the instrument ruined. It was his cousin’s, and a rather nice piece to boot. I told Omar not to worry, that I would gladly accept the pipe as a gift, a keep-sake of our time together and of our country. “Great!” lighting that generous smile. “That’ll be 350 Dirham.” Deflated and smoked into a corner, I gave Omar choice pick over my last remaining loose bills. Grumbling about having to come up with the difference, but promising to return to see me off, Omar left. In his absence, dark thoughts turned over. I was disgusted with him and disappointed in myself, and vice versa. I stormed out, leaving the prized pipe I had paid for. Out on that ferry deck, the high had worn off, so too did the hubris of claiming connection to the country. Reliving every moment on my discovery-trip where I had been bested by it, one thought lodged itself. Was Omar just trying to do right by me? Did I screw him? Being wronged was one thing, but wronging...? Or had he...? Had I...? I didn’t know. I still don't, at least not for certain. In that moment, the only certitude was that I didn’t know Morocco as well as I imagined. How could it form a part of my identity? I’d rather be an apostate than an imposter. Omar, for better or worse, made me earn my knowledge of it, and I would be back to collect.