Fez

A few weeks ago some of my family (the young kids, my 17 year old sister, mom and me) of modest means took a trip to major nearby city of Fez. We going to spend the weekend at my aunt’s apartment and this, I was told, would be a great opportunity to visit one of Morocco’s oldest cities (over 1000 years old). Immediately upon reaching my aunt’s apartment I understood a great deal about my nuclear family. Without a single full time worker in the house, it had always been a mystery how mother managed to raise four kids after my host father’s death some years back.

This apartment was not like our house in the mountain town, and my 17 sister was fully aware and mercilessly unforgiving of the glaring differences. While in Fez, my sister reminded me, one was no longer in Morocco. I was no longer referred to as Brahim and speaking darija was suddenly below us. French, with all its elegance, was the language of Fez. That night we walked around the city long after dark (rarely ever the case without a distinct purpose in our hometown) and it became evident that in this setting, my mom was no longer the boss. Instead my 15 year old cousin guided us through the many streets dictating the pace and destinations. In such an urban site, my mom was about as lost as I.

The cab ride back was solemn and silent as we all looked out the window at the metropolis we were leaving behind. As we were pulling into town my sister sighed and let out the conciliatory remark, “this place isn’t so bad, at least it’s home.”