Rabat - Every day I try to avoid talking about director Nabil Ayouch and his movie, but emotion arises inside me whenever I think of it. I remember the special weekend that I spent a couple months ago in Marrakech, where I visited the traditional markets and trade places of the old Medina, as well as its residential districts dedicated to specific industries and to its historical features.
I tried to not only take in the customary points of interest as seen in tourist guidebooks, but also those that even the Marrakechi people sometimes overlook, such as holy tombs, schools, and institutions from which thousands of both famous and unknown people emerged, and ancient hospitals where people have received treatment from trained staff since antiquity.
Some of the landmarks that I decided to visit were the squares where high school students would meet to protest the educational system in Morocco, the injustice of governance, and where they called upon officials to release their colleagues and professors who had been arrested, as well as an accounting for those who had been forcibly disappeared. I wanted to hear the squares and the walls and the roads shouting the rebellious slogans of young girls who were beaten by Makhzen. Ayouch ignores these details in his film, Much Loved, and I do not blame him; he is free to choose to represent what he wishes.
On my Marrakech journey, I took out my smartphone to take pictures; people were surprised and curious about my shots, wondering whether I see things that they do not. Surely, they did not ask me, but I understand their astonishment—they couldn’t see the value of what had been around them every day. I said that I was taking pictures of my female friends while they were running and shouting: “where are they, where are they?,” “night must dissipate,” and “**** must be shattered.”
I was a coward before them; I would not dare repeating what they were saying. I was frightened they would be followed by Al-Makhzen in the tight and twisting roads of Marrakech. I feared they would beat them before their male fellows, while the girls shouted at them. I would never forget the words of one of Makhzen to a girl he arrested: “you’ll be the scapegoat today, you ****, you like your nail polish, hah! I will take off your nails, ****, you don’t know what real men can do.” Most of what he said, however, is unprintable.
I saw a male student that I did not recognize trying to rescue the girl from the claws of that armed human monster. No sooner had I tried to help him, then I was beaten too; I thought that my arm was broken and that I would have a permanent impairment. I was absent-minded when a man in his fifties gave me his hand and said, “You’d better go now! It is not a safe place to talk in.”
I returned to myself after this terrifying daydream of times both present and past, as someone who has awoken from a persistent dream to resume my journey. A woman squatting on a small chair attracted my attention. Before her stood a bucket tied to a metal brazier and a carton. I gazed at the elderly woman, her face was familiar and I thought it could not be her, could it?
I approached her and it was indeed whom I thought. She used to sell boiled potatos wrapped in paper and covered in salt, cumin, and drops of olive oil for her customers—as long as they were rich enough, that is. I remembered her as if it was yesterday for the lesson she once gave me, a moral stronger than what my late wise father would ever give me.
I had been on my way back home after an evening discussing dialectic materialism, how Hegel’s theory of history was developed by Marx, Lorca’s poetry, as well as some other highly esoteric issues. Our attention was grabbed by a woman who was waiting for her last customer in that late hour to sell what was left, which turned out to be half of a potato.
I felt compelled to help her, so I asked for what was left; she wrapped it, poured some salt and cumin, and asked if I want some olive oil on or not. I gave her 1Dh and asked her to keep the change. Subsequently, she got mad and shouted at me: “I sell and buy, I work for my family, I’m not here to beg you, I don’t take more than I should and I don’t give up my rights, why are [you] despising us, if you have more money go and buy a book or an apple for your mother and sister, buy some peanuts for monkeys in Jemaa el-Fnaa Square.” I was so ashamed of what I had just done, I broke into a sweat and I did not know how to apologize. I left with my eyes on the floor; I would never forget that scene in the real, gritty life of Marrakech.
I do not blame Nabil Ayouch or any other artists for not illustrating this side of “real” life in their “realistic” movies; maybe the reasons lies in the fact that they did not spend the evening discussing the same issues I happened to be in order to put me in a particular frame of mind, or perhaps they never bought boiled potato in their entire lives and been given such a stern lesson in real life as that old woman gave me.
I resumed my journey, the bicycles and motorcycles circulating in the streets of the city, driven by women and young girls wearing different styles of clothes which varied from long djellabas with and without hoods and veils, to modern cloths.
If you are a Marrakchi or if you happen to live in Marrakech, you would know that women and girls can be found working in elementary and high schools, and universities; female students are easily found, as are female nurses, general employees, bank counselors, seamstresses, carpet-makers, highly-qualified cookers, athletes who have won national and international contests, all in addition to being mothers, wives, heads of family, and widows. All of these women work equally as men for their families. Perhaps Ayouch does not show these women’s lives in his film due to his ignorance of their existence or because they don’t share their private lives with anyone.
I saw men, women, and children gathered, some screaming and running. Curious, I headed toward them and heard them saying that the commotion was concerning a young man who was walking and collapsed as if injured. I asked if there was someone to help him.
There was a woman checking him, ordering people to leave some space so that he could breathe. She took out a stethoscope to listen to his heartbeat, and then she opened his eye and shined a medical pocket light while she phoned the emergency services. I realized later that she was describing the case to an ambulance doctor who was on his way. The ambulance and the police stopped, talked with the crowd, and carried the man away in a hurry. That woman was a doctor who had been stopped by the pedestrians who saw the medical symbol on her car. As the ambulance left, the doctor gave details to the officer who was taking notes of her statements in a tablet.
I saw all of these acts of Marrakchi women in less than one day, things that Ayouch did not see during the several months he spent there for his movie; however, he is not to blame. I learned from some anthropological classes four decades ago that people express only what they know and that language reflects only their own realities; thus, they differ from one another. For what should he be blamed for?
While I was walking, some wooden and copper boards of a building’s doors grabbed my attention. They proved what I knew correct about women who worked as doctors, in the legal field, architecture, accounting, and other of the same jobs as men. The copper boards were the business signs for competent female lawyers, notaries, experts in businesses, and domestic and international commercial transactions.
Furthermore, there were signs for highly qualified doctors and surgeons, researchers in experimental and human sciences, poets, novelists, journalists, social actors in the field of human rights and environment, managers of banks and giant trade institutions, chiefs of sensitive political and economic departments, highly ranked officials in managing the territorial unity; they were also police, gendarmerie, military officers and talented artists.
I do not blame Ayouch for not having these working women be a part of his movie; he is not interested in them and in their roles in reducing poverty, combating social vulnerability, eradicating ignorance, injustice, disease, crime, and prostitution. Surely, he has the right to picture what would interest his fans, that being the girls who face the challenges and difficulties of reconciliation between their professional, familial, civil, and national responsibilities, and who fight against those who envisage them as sexual objects who can be stolen and trafficked at whim.
As I was walking down the Souk, I saw women walking. No one who is not Marrakchi and who does not live there regularly could recognize what I saw. These women were carrying bundles of clothes: towels and rags that they had sewed in their houses after finishing their social responsibilities, and then they would go and sell them in the market to their faithful merchants, who valued and respected them.
The women would also sell their products to others with whom they had partnerships based on trust and respect, or they would work for them. I stopped to salute an old friend who works in a bazaar; while we were taking mint tea, a woman came to his place and he gave her different types and colors of tissues. I did not capture the whole scene and I asked him about that.
He said that she is one of his partners; he gave them the tissue, they would sew them, and then he would sell them. I was really surprised that he did not know where she lived, or her family, only her name. He said that her work is in providing the materials, but that does not mean that he would not pay her what she deserves. Long- lasting business partnerships between a woman and a man have been in existence for centuries.
Perhaps more surprising, my friend went on to state he had borrowed money from her several times without any condition, constrain, insurance, or grant, and she had done the same; and still—he does not know where she lives. “This is how the commercial deals are in Marrakech.” I knew the operations of the bazaar well and thought my friend’s co-ed business relationship with a woman was an anomaly, but it turned out that all the merchants do the same thing.
There is no room for cheating or manipulation in their commercial relations with their partners and customers. If it did happen, they would simply say that the woman had some urgent matter.
Director Nabil Ayouch ignores the fact that our women are the engine of economic growth, and that they contribute to the development of the tourism sector through the traditional products they market, including: traditional pants, caftans, towels, tissues, and homemade sweets which make the market look magnificent when exposed in the shops. Ayouch ignores who produces these masterpieces. But alas, I don’t blame him for being careless toward the lives of these honorable and hardworking women who do not sell their stories: he simply does not see them.
I walked by some women who were making colorful caps of different forms and designs; others were making Kasbah baskets and rush dishes designed to satisfy your needs and which are bought out of whimsy and want rather than need. I walked by another woman who sells decorated traditional instruments, taarija, of all colors you can imagine and designs that will dazzle when you see the humble origins of these women. I asked one of them about the price of one taarija, and she replied with several questions about why I wanted to buy it, the age of who is going to own it, etc.
These questions deepened my knowledge about the uses, forms, and everything about taarija and increased my appreciation and respect for these women. I found out that my naming of taarija was wrong, as it differed depending on the form, type, and shape; further, the soil, leather, and dying differ from one another. In fact, my ignorance is prevalent; we all ignore the simplest things. Therefore, how could I blame Ayouch for his carelessness about these things if I, as a Marrakchi, ignore them too?
I saw women who sell all types of bread, baghrir (Moroccan pancakes) and rghifa (Moroccan stuffed bread) for some dirhams. They know that there is hardly a profit margin, but they were happy, and would even pray for your family, both living and deceased. Surely, they woke up very early to proceed with the preparation of their products, and then brought them to the souk; they would also prepare breakfast and lunch for their families. They are hard working women who always keep the smile on their faces and their dignities. Ayouch did not get the chance to meet these ladies and if he did so, they would not play a role in his movies. He has other interests—it is his right.
I decided to end my journey in Jemaa el-Fnaa. I did not want to see the little monkeys taken from their mothers and deprived of their lives in the jungle and from their siblings; they would be trained violently for the spectator, who would think that it is part of the show, which is part of their daily suffering. I hated to see endangered or defunct species of snakes exposed in a square that they do not belong in. Their owners ignore the fact that it is likely to cause permanent damage to the animals, damage in which they play a pivotal role. I hated to see the smart jackal and the keen fox chained in cages, waiting for their ends. I hated to see turtles being sold to people who ignore how to treat them, until they die.
I stopped as I saw people, both Moroccans and foreigners, gathering around some young men who were fluently talking in foreign languages; I was really surprised and I tried as much to analyze and understand this phenomenon. These young boys and girls support one another, while an older, good-looking man was sitting there, carefully following their moves. I found out that this man was their master in this career that enables them to speak more languages, and that they enjoy their work. I was confused at first and I was about to ask the old man but the moment passed.
I have never asked an entertainer about his work. My question would be discriminating, which I try to avoid; those young boys and girls convinced me with their work and with their satisfaction at that work. I left the circle with the hesitation of asking, but I did not. Why would I blame Ayouch for not noticing these young people? Maybe it would happen if Taib Seddiki was sane; maybe they will do it themselves, or maybe me! Why would I do otherwise?
In the afternoon, I had to attend presentations and discussions in a conference hall in one of the faculties in Marrakech on folklore music in Morocco. The hall was full of stakeholders who made valuable comments during the lectures; I noticed that the city abounded in highly ranked, educated people—more than I have ever thought of—who have brilliant ideas and thoughts, and expressed them properly and in a fluent Standard Arabic.
After this literary meeting, we were called by the organizers of a concert under the auspices of an educational organization that evening, a concert featuring musicians from prestigious institutes and university who beautifully performed Andalusian music. I was informed afterward that Mr. Bajdoub, a great Moroccan artist, had listened to their performance and organized some training workshops for them and he supported them. Young students were properly and respectfully arguing with their professors; others who were studying at the most prestigious institutes, formed groups for folklore music and found a great artist to support their work.
Ayouch did not have the chance to meet these inspiring students, nor did he have the chance to meet their mothers, aunts, professors, and doctors. Again, I cannot blame him for this: maybe he was not raised in such an environment or simply does not have interest in these real-life stories.
Anyone has the right to make a movie on prostitution in Marrakech; I cannot judge him or her. What I can do is wonder why no one has ever thought of making a movie about these characters I witnessed, nor on the social and cultural situations of Marrakech. Behind these inspiring women I saw on my journey, I saw owners of both happy and sad stories reflecting patience and violence; weakness and doubt; success and failure, others reflecting platonic love and hope; despair and depression; and unheralded hard work. These are all true life stories of women in which prostitution has no part.
They all deserve to be reflected in a movie so that all may see what true Marrakchis see all around them.
This article was first published on MWN Arabic and translated into English By Hajar Jannad
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