Return to Tetouan

It begins as a low solitary note that gradually increases in volume as it is joined by others adding depth to the chorus that breaks the silence of the early morning; not unlike the sound of the concertmaster's bow as it invites the orchestra members to tune their instruments, one note becomes many; nor unlike the crowing of the first village rooster whose song is soon joined by a cacaphoney of others believing their flock should wake up at the break of dawn;  it is the 5:15 am call to prayer from the minerets of this ancient city of whitewashed walls nestled at the foot of the Rif Mountains in Northern Morocco.

This morning I am restless and have trouble returning to sleep, my mind drifting from scene to scene of the week that has passed since my return to Tetouan.  How can I ever forget the warm reception from the El Haddad's, the family that hosted me for six weeks, twelve years ago when I arrived on my first time to the African continent as part of a small group of teachers selected for a Fulbright Exchange?  At that time, the family had young children in school, Aissame, Huda and Safae.  They took my hand as we crossed streets, walked in the old city, and in the evening, I helped them with their homework.  Today Safae is completing her university studies, Huda teaches English to middle school students and Aissame is married and lives in France, where finished his university degree.  Farida still manages the household, this time in their new apartment that overlooks the city, always creating meals worthy of the finest restaurants, especially the traditional Friday afternoon couscous.  I go off to school with Abelouahed as he makes his rounds teaching English to students of various ages and levels at a public school, private school and English Language Institute.  I enjoy teaching his classes whenever possible.

A few days ago I walked into the real estate office of Badr Jbari, a handsome 30 year old businessman, whom I had last seen twelve years ago when he was a high school senior in Abdelouahed's English class.  A smile and firm handshake quickly became a warm embrace as he recognized me, my brain racing to make my stored mental image of him catch up with reality.  It was Badr who had volunteered to show me through the medina in order to practice his English, and who had invited me to spend a week with his family in Marrakech at his grandmother's home.  Memories of that experience and medieval city are firmly engrained in my mind- snake charmers, bathing and a massage in the hammam, riding in horse drawn taxis through the old city and the unforgetable farewell rabbit dinner!  Today, he and his friends will drive me to the nearby city of Chouan, a picturesque berber city famous for its distinctive architecture and talented artisans.

Could this be the next Badr?  Yesterday, 15 year old Redr, son of a local doctor, and his friends Anas and Nafal, accompanied me to the old city so they could practice their English.  We visited shops, took photos from rooftops, passed the entrance to the royal palace and watched part of a Barcelona football match in a cafe.  These friendly, motivated and focused students are part of the new Morocco I am seeing at every turn.   They no longer express  desire to escape their country as is the case in many of the truly impoverished nations.  They are proud of their country and want to be a part of its future.  Highways are crowded, construction sites busy, new apartment complexes line wide avenues, people relax in landscaped parks and resort cities resembling those of France and Spain line nearby beaches.  Twelve years have passed, and what a difference; new young king, a new era, a new outlook for Morocco.