Sausage thread in the weekly market of Khouribga
Peace be upon you
In 1981, events escalated after Prime Minister Maati Bouabid's government announced, on May 20th, an increase in the prices of basic food items, under pressure from the World Bank. In response, the Moroccan Confederation of Labor called for a nationwide general strike on June 20th. The protests that followed led to many casualties—600 people were killed and 5,000 were injured. The cemetery shown above holds the martyrs of these protests in Casablanca, Morocco's economic capital.
Khouribga, the capital of phosphate, had no agriculture, no factories, and no industry—just one way to make a living: work in phosphate. But to get such a job, you had to be from outside Khouribga, or find a middleman. Life at that time was brutally hard, and events kept spiraling across Morocco in an era when hope had become illusion and despair a daily feeling.
I was a third-year student at Ibn Khaldoun Middle School. I had just begun to understand what problems meant and was already thinking of how I could help my poor family. If we had dinner, we couldn’t afford lunch, and if we had lunch, we skipped dinner. We were a big, poor family. I was in the middle—four older siblings, five younger. The oldest sister got married, followed by the second in the same year. Only one older sister remained, and she was the one who accompanied me every Sunday to the weekly market in Khouribga.
I had grown used to going alone sometimes, working with vendors of used clothes or selling water. In the afternoon, I’d buy leftover vegetables from sellers—mostly from Sidi Hajjaj and nearby villages. They’d come by train, the only available transport, and often sold their goods at the lowest prices. Sometimes they left the vegetables behind when they couldn’t carry them back, and my sister and I would collect whatever we could carry back home.
Every Sunday, my sister and I would wake up early. I’d carry a water jug on my shoulder, and she’d carry an empty woven plastic basket, hoping we’d fill it with vegetables if we managed to sell the water. Like everyone, I sold a glass of water for 10 centimes. By afternoon, I’d count my coins—earning 15 to 20 dirhams a day. Ten dirhams would fill our basket with vegetables and oranges. If I had a little extra, I’d buy half a kilo of cow head meat. That would be a joyful day for the whole family—especially for my poor mother.
One painful memory from the market stuck with me. One day, my sister asked me to buy her some sausages. I was overjoyed that she asked.
I said:
"Of course! Anything else you want me to get you?"
She replied:
"Nothing—just sausages."
We went to the sausage stand. A man, about thirty years old, stood by his cart.
He asked, "Want some sausages?"
I said, "Yes."
He replied, "I’ve run out, but if you give me the money, I’ll go get more from over there," pointing to a nearby spot.
I gave him the money. He disappeared into the crowd... and never came back.
My sister and I waited over an hour. Eventually, I realized there would be no sausages that day.
Moments like these break the heart. When you love someone, you want to make them happy—and when that happiness turns to disappointment, it tears you apart.
Beyond the sausage itself, it’s about something far more valuable than all the money in the world: the feeling of seeing someone you love—your mother, your sister, or a close friend—smile.
The events kept coming...
Two years later, on January 19, 1984, a new wave of protests erupted in several Moroccan cities. It was called "The 1984 Uprising," also known as the Bread Uprising, the Hunger Uprising, or the Students’ Uprising. It reached its peak in cities like Al Hoceima, Nador, Tetouan, Larache, and Marrakech.
People in Khouribga communicated with their relatives in Casablanca through the phosphate train. They exchanged letters by slipping them behind the ID tags inside train cars, as mobile phones or digital tech did not exist at the time.
Those were days when nature, the government, and the World Bank seemed united—against the Moroccan people. But the thing that always struck me most: the royal celebrations for the Throne Day never stopped, even during drought and famine. Millions were spent while the people starved.
Let this current generation—the “Rasta” crowd, with their ripped jeans and saggy pants—know that those times made real men. There was dignity and pride, not cowardice like today.
My oldest brother joined the education system in Beni Mellal. We were overjoyed—our brother was becoming a teacher, and we thought he’d lift the whole family out of poverty.
In the next episode...
Our beloved teacher brother...
...will teach us lessons that baby cuckoos learn while still inside the egg.
To be continued...
Khouribga, the capital of phosphate, had no agriculture, no factories, and no industry—just one way to make a living: work in phosphate. But to get such a job, you had to be from outside Khouribga, or find a middleman. Life at that time was brutally hard, and events kept spiraling across Morocco in an era when hope had become illusion and despair a daily feeling.
I was a third-year student at Ibn Khaldoun Middle School. I had just begun to understand what problems meant and was already thinking of how I could help my poor family. If we had dinner, we couldn’t afford lunch, and if we had lunch, we skipped dinner. We were a big, poor family. I was in the middle—four older siblings, five younger. The oldest sister got married, followed by the second in the same year. Only one older sister remained, and she was the one who accompanied me every Sunday to the weekly market in Khouribga.
I had grown used to going alone sometimes, working with vendors of used clothes or selling water. In the afternoon, I’d buy leftover vegetables from sellers—mostly from Sidi Hajjaj and nearby villages. They’d come by train, the only available transport, and often sold their goods at the lowest prices. Sometimes they left the vegetables behind when they couldn’t carry them back, and my sister and I would collect whatever we could carry back home.
Every Sunday, my sister and I would wake up early. I’d carry a water jug on my shoulder, and she’d carry an empty woven plastic basket, hoping we’d fill it with vegetables if we managed to sell the water. Like everyone, I sold a glass of water for 10 centimes. By afternoon, I’d count my coins—earning 15 to 20 dirhams a day. Ten dirhams would fill our basket with vegetables and oranges. If I had a little extra, I’d buy half a kilo of cow head meat. That would be a joyful day for the whole family—especially for my poor mother.
One painful memory from the market stuck with me. One day, my sister asked me to buy her some sausages. I was overjoyed that she asked.
I said:
"Of course! Anything else you want me to get you?"
She replied:
"Nothing—just sausages."
We went to the sausage stand. A man, about thirty years old, stood by his cart.
He asked, "Want some sausages?"
I said, "Yes."
He replied, "I’ve run out, but if you give me the money, I’ll go get more from over there," pointing to a nearby spot.
I gave him the money. He disappeared into the crowd... and never came back.
My sister and I waited over an hour. Eventually, I realized there would be no sausages that day.
Moments like these break the heart. When you love someone, you want to make them happy—and when that happiness turns to disappointment, it tears you apart.
Beyond the sausage itself, it’s about something far more valuable than all the money in the world: the feeling of seeing someone you love—your mother, your sister, or a close friend—smile.
The events kept coming...
Two years later, on January 19, 1984, a new wave of protests erupted in several Moroccan cities. It was called "The 1984 Uprising," also known as the Bread Uprising, the Hunger Uprising, or the Students’ Uprising. It reached its peak in cities like Al Hoceima, Nador, Tetouan, Larache, and Marrakech.
People in Khouribga communicated with their relatives in Casablanca through the phosphate train. They exchanged letters by slipping them behind the ID tags inside train cars, as mobile phones or digital tech did not exist at the time.
Those were days when nature, the government, and the World Bank seemed united—against the Moroccan people. But the thing that always struck me most: the royal celebrations for the Throne Day never stopped, even during drought and famine. Millions were spent while the people starved.
Let this current generation—the “Rasta” crowd, with their ripped jeans and saggy pants—know that those times made real men. There was dignity and pride, not cowardice like today.
My oldest brother joined the education system in Beni Mellal. We were overjoyed—our brother was becoming a teacher, and we thought he’d lift the whole family out of poverty.
In the next episode...
Our beloved teacher brother...
...will teach us lessons that baby cuckoos learn while still inside the egg.
To be continued...