From Chefchaouen to Larache: Hearts That Lit the Way
part 3
I left the city of Chefchaouen at four in the morning, heading toward Tetouan. The night was laboring to give birth to a beautiful day. I sat alone near the bus window, and watched as darkness slowly faded and light began to spread in gentle strides, revealing the secrets of the Creator displayed in the nature of the place and its stunning beauty. If you look closely at the scene above, it resembles an old man asleep on a hill, gazing at the sky—God’s magnificence encompassing what lies between earth and heaven.
Anyone who visits this place cannot help but be moved by all that God has bestowed upon this region—its nature, its bounty, its people, and their generosity to travelers. I wished the bus would keep going without stopping, but it’s a matter of time, and time does not stop until God inherits the earth and those upon it.
The bus arrived in Tetouan in the morning.
This is the city of Tetouan. You may not be able to distinguish it from Chefchaouen in pictures, but the sea sets Tetouan apart, giving it even more beauty and making it a magnet for tourists from all over the world. I got off the bus and began to explore the place. I found vendors selling smuggled goods from Spain. I asked one of them a question, and he directed me to a place I would go to later that same day. Then he said, “Come back here at noon.”
When I returned, the area was crowded with visitors and buyers. He took a plate and walked around to all the vendors, collecting 22 dirhams for me and giving me three liters of shampoo. I thanked him and said goodbye, then bought a ticket to the city of Larache. I boarded another bus, which sped along, swallowing up the road through time. Everything I left behind vanished, but at the same time, I was entering a world that was entirely new to me—until we reached Larache at sunset.
I wanted to sleep in a mosque, but the muezzin refused. So I left and headed to the outskirts of the city, where a school was under construction at the time. There were small buildings nearby, likely for the workers. I saw a faint light from afar and walked toward it, not knowing where fate was leading me. I called out from a distance, “Sir! Mohamed!” He opened the door and instantly understood what I needed. He welcomed me in and gave me some money, saying, “Go there—you’ll find a small shop. Buy two loaves of bread and four eggs, then come back here.”
I bought what he told me to and returned. Inside, there were two men working in construction, neither from the area. We started talking. One of them was frying the eggs for me in olive oil. They got to know who I was, and I learned that they were from the city of Al Hoceima—a place known for its generous and kind people. A land that gave birth to rare men. A land of struggle and resistance.
I spent that first night in Larache with the sons of Al Hoceima. At dawn, they went to work, and I left my belongings in the house and went out to look for work. Every place I asked turned me away and said, “You’re still too young; you can’t handle it.”
At noon, I walked to the sea and stayed there for a while to rest my tired feet. I began to feel hungry and thirsty, wandering and thinking about how I would find food and water. As I was walking, I smelled a scent dear to all Moroccans: the smell of fresh, hot bread from a traditional oven. It was still far away, but I sensed it because a woman had passed by carrying the bread.
I said to myself, “I must follow the path this woman came from.” Another woman passed, and a man as well, and soon I found myself standing at the door of the bakery. But I stepped back a bit, watching people, trying to judge who I could ask for a piece of bread, and who I should avoid.
A boy, about 10 years old, passed by. I quietly asked him for some bread. He looked at me and shook his head no. My face turned red. I looked around; no one could see me—except God and a woman who had apparently been observing me since I arrived. At that moment, I saw her looking at me. She called out, “Come here, my son.”
She was a beautiful, kind woman in her mid-thirties, married, and her husband was at work. When I reached the door, she kissed me on the cheek, as if moved by what she saw. She led me into the dining room and brought out a plate of Moroccan couscous, saying, “This was for my husband, but never mind. Eat it—I’ll prepare another one for him.”
I was afraid. What if her husband came home? Would he beat me? Kill me? As I lifted the first spoonful to my mouth—“In the name of God”—I heard keys turning in the door. The man entered, and I watched him from a distance as he watched me. That first spoonful froze between the plate and my mouth, not reaching its destination out of fear.
But then he walked into the room and came over to greet me. I extended my hand, and he pulled me into an embrace, holding me close for a moment. He sat down smiling and said to his wife, “Bring me a spoon—I want to share the food with this young man.” We ate together. Then the woman brought tea and asked, “Do you want it cold?”
I replied, “Somewhat.”
She started cooling it down for me, and as I watched her, I remembered my mother—she used to do the same thing for us.
We drank tea, and they asked me questions to get to know me. I answered them. I liked how they spoke—it was different from people in the interior cities. When I wanted to say goodbye, the woman said, “Stay with us.”
I apologized and said, “I can’t. My two friends are coming at five, and they won’t find me there. I also left my belongings with them.”
She said, “Listen, I won’t forgive you if you ever need something and don’t come to me. Consider me your mother.”
I said, “Of course—you are my mother, and this man is my father. I’ve come to love you like my own parents, and I truly thank you for your kindness.”
I hugged them both warmly. Tears ran down my cheeks, as if I knew I would never see them again. Then I left, wiping my tears. After walking a little distance, I turned around, letting my tears flow freely—and there she was, still standing at the door.
I turned my face forward and continued walking toward my friends, lost in thought about that woman and her husband. Despite their age, I had seen no sign of children in their home. I assumed one of them must be infertile. But I loved them both, and I will never forget them for as long as I live. That happened around 30 years ago, and their memory has never left me. May God reward them.
I thought my friends would ask why my eyes were red—because I had been crying. So I looked for water, washed my face, and waited about twenty minutes. Then I continued walking and found them there. I knocked on the door, entered, and greeted them. One of them had already made tea. We drank it together, then I stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and gazed around—the place was about a kilometer from any populated area.
I thought of speaking to my friends, asking them to let me work with them, even just for one day—just enough to continue my journey. They agreed. The next day, I went with them and worked for a single day. The following morning, I traveled to the city of Ksar El Kebir.
To be continued…