Chefchaouen
It is somewhat ironic that during my adolescence, I yearned
to be accepted as a team member amongst the older players. Here I was at the age of 30 seeking welcome
from a group of “shebab” most likely 5-12 years younger. Luckily, the necessary common
denominator that evening was proficiency in the language of soccer and a will
to play.
My family and I were fortunate to put about 4,000 miles on
our car this summer as we discovered the touristic diversity of Morocco and
Andalusia. Amongst the highlights
of our travels was a trip to the picturesque Rif Mountain town of Chefchaouen,
famous for its blue-rinsed walls.
An enthusiastic cab driver warned us not to be overly captivated by
Chaouen’s aesthetic charisma as the town suffers from poverty and poor
infrastructure among other difficulties.
Aside from the town’s pictorial charm, I enjoyed one of my most
important cultural exchanges to date: a pre-iftar soccer match with a group of
local youth.
Our hotel was conveniently located on the outer boarder of
the Medina near the “Ras El Ma” waterfall providing a panoramic view of the
town. The previous evening we
observed from this vantage point a group of young men enjoying a game of soccer
prior to the routine breaking of the Ramadan fast. Thus, after a day of touring the Medina and swimming at the
”Ras El Ma”, I decided to try my luck making some new friends on the soccer
pitch.
The first to arrive, I grabbed a seat on the cement
overlooking the hillside. Within
10 minutes, Fouad arrived…with him a ball. After knocking it around between the two of us for another
10 minutes or so, the rest of the “shebab” began to pour in from the
hills. Somewhat naive as to how my
Modern Standard Arabic and limited Darija would hold up in this context, I
relearned an old lesson: the language of soccer can often trump linguistic,
cultural, political, and economic barriers. Like a jazz bassist sitting in for a gig, there wasn’t much
need for words. After about 90
minutes of communicating with our feet, the muezzin’s signal served as our
triple-whistle. One of the young
players asked, “Where are you from brother? Turkey?” I
laughed and replied, “Amreeka.” We
exchanged customary “Saha” compliments and returned to our similar yet
different worlds.
The next morning a group of boys, not all that different
from those with whom I shared the previous evening, approached me with beckons
of “Señor”
and “Monsieur”. They eyed our
vehicle’s golden plates as they gestured a will to wash our car with the irrigated
water of the “Ras El Ma.” There
are no titles in the language of soccer.
Gabriel enjoys the pile of gravel as we play in the background. I'm wearing black.
Chefchaouen Medina
A typical street in Chaouen's Medina
I'm glad we stopped for this second photo.
Abraham naps as DeDe and Gabriel pose for the photo.
DeDe and the boys enjoy the "Ras El Ma".
Gabriel and I strolling through the “Place Uta El Hammam.”
Check back for more insightful pieces from Jamil! Thank you, sweetie!
