Summer of 1990, Fez

I stand tall, weathered by time and kissed by the sun in the heart of Fez’s old Medina. My essence, crafted from the resilient cedarwood of these lands, carries the weight of centuries within my sturdy frame. But I am not merely a door! I am a keeper of tales, an observer of life’s vibrant dance in this bustling Moroccan old Medina. While some may perceive me as an inanimate soulless object, I am a silent witness to the ebb and flow of existence.

My journey began in the heart of Fez’s ancient Medina, within a Zenka known as Ziyat. A place where the very essence of Fassi’s history thrives. It’s a neighborhood steeped in the legacy of old Fassi families whose roots stretch across generations, their lives interwoven with the flamboyant tapestry of Fez’s rich history.

As for my looks, I am a wooden door adorned with hues of saffron and dark brown muted by the weight of past centuries. Carved into my own surface are two knockers; one on the upper left and another in the middle, which gives way to a smaller door. The knocker higher up is for guests and strangers, and the knob in the middle is for family members. You can distinguish the sound of who’s knocking. This way, it is helpful for women, when home, to know whether to cover or not when opening the door. The first knocker, also, is at a convenient height for merchants who often came by on horse or mule so they wouldn’t have to dismount in order to knock.

Now let me share with you the story of the man who resides behind me, the bearer of the house I guard — Haroun Touhami Idrissi. The son of Allal Touhami Idrissi, a revered artisan within Fez’s ancient Medina. Allal’s renown echoed through the
narrow streets, his craftsmanship revered by many. Haroun, his son, now carries the weight of this heritage. In the bustling Sefarin, his father, like his grandfather before him, used to run the most esteemed boutique, where they have crafted seamless miniature copper décors.

Yet, destiny took an unexpected turn. Haroun, an outlier in his lineage, harbored no affinity for copper or commerce. Instead, his heart yearned for a different path.
Words, not metals, fueled his passion. He dreamed of becoming a storyteller, a weaver of tales steeped in Arabic eloquence. His desire was to caress the world’s soul with narratives spun from the depths of his imagination.

Haroun lives alone, spending the majority of his time at home engrossed in writing stories inspired by his childhood memories, the bustling medina, and the tales he might have gathered through hearsay. A perfectionist at heart, he meticulously crafts his stories only to discard them, restarting and despising his previous work. He becomes so immersed in his writing that he seldom ventures outside, except for
essential groceries and sustenance. Haroun’s solitude is a recent development. He was once married to Touria Ouazzani Touhami, his cousin, in a family-arranged union that proved to be an utter disaster. Some individuals, I believe, aren’t made for marriage, and Haroun seems to belong to that category. His tranquility and inner peace seem to manifest solely in the act of writing.

As a doorway, I serve as a witness to both the external and internal worlds, each starkly contrasting the other. Within Haroun’s home, a pervasive silence reigns — a silence characteristic of a writer’s abode. Haroun treasures this silence; it provides him with the necessary mental space to contemplate, craft stories, and pen beautiful narratives. Meanwhile, outside, in Zenkat Ziyat and the neighboring streets, chaos unfolds. As I tell you this, there’s a cacophony of screams and shouts outside. You might question why. Well, it’s important not to forget that this is Fez in 1990, specifically the 14th of December, a day marked by university students leading protests and riots. They set fire to and looted several public buildings in rebellion against the state of education.

Amidst this tumultuous external scene, Haroun remains ensconced in the quietude of his father’s ghostly house, nestled in his study. There, he persists in his pursuits of writing, reading, and dreaming. However, Haroun found himself in dire financial straits as his father’s money ran out. He could no longer sustain himself solely by selling his stories to the few libraries tucked away in the obscure corners of the old Medina.

One afternoon, just as Haroun was preparing himself to go out in search of a job, due to immense financial stress, a very well-known and wealthy couple from Kuwait knocked on his door. I mean, they knocked on ME (it feels weird when you say it). It was Sheikha Hussa Al-Sabah and her husband, Sheikh Nasser Sabah Ahmed
Al-Sabah, the former Minister of Defense.
“Who is it?” Haroun yelled.
“Salam Alaikum,” Sheikh Nasser greeted.

Haroun noticed the unfamiliar accent and sensed that there might be a foreigner at his door. Out of curiosity, he hurried toward me, swiftly grasping the handle and pulling me open. Standing before him were a man and a woman in their forties. The man was dressed in an immaculately white thobe, with an equally immaculate keffiyeh atop his head, encircled by a black agal. On the other hand, the woman wore a long black dress under a black blazer. Their appearance exuded wealth and confidence.
“Salamun Alaikum,” the couple greeted.
“Alaikum Assalam,” Haroun replied. “How can I serve you?” he added.
“Allow us to introduce ourselves,” Sheikha Hussa said in her soft voice. “I am Sheikha Hussa Al Sabah from Kuwait, and this is my husband, Sheikh Nasser Sabah Ahmed Al Sabah.”
“Oh, hello. My name is Haroun.”
“Nice to meet you, Brother Haroun,” replied Sheikh Nasser. “Hopefully, you have some time, for my wife and me. We have an offer we’d like to discuss,” he added.
“I was actually on my way out, but yes, I have a few minutes. Please come inside, and let’s talk,” Haroun said, inviting them in.

He guided them toward the salon. It was evident that the couple was captivated by the interior design — the Moroccan Zellij that breathed centuries of Moroccan history, alongside the white marble in the ceiling, exquisitely crafted with Arabic words extracted from the Quran, showcasing beauty and grandeur.

“I’ll cut straight to it,” said Sheikh Nasser. “My wife and I were exploring the enchanting streets of the Old Medina. As we passed your house, we were captivated by your front door.”
“Yes, we fell in love with it,” added Sheikha Houssa. “There’s something about it that’s just mesmerizing.”
“That’s me, I suppose, nothing out of the ordinary!” I grinned with pride, for I always knew that I was a unique door.
“I’m delighted you appreciate it,” chuckled Haroun. “What can I say?”
“Appreciate? That’s an understatement. We’re utterly enchanted by its charm,” exclaimed Sheikha Hussa, placing her hand over her heart.
“And that’s why we want to make you an offer,” said Sheikh Nasser solemnly.
Intrigued, Haroun leaned in, “An offer? What might that be?”
“We want to buy your front door,” both Sheikha Hussa and Sheikh Nasser replied warmly.

A shiver ran down my spine as I heard those words. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Haroun looked taken aback. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect a wealthy couple to approach him, especially when he needed the money most. Sensing Haroun’s surprise, Cheikh Nasser knew he had to propose a substantial sum to dispel any confusion. “Dear Haroun, name your price. I’ll write the check.”

I felt my muscles tense with distress. Suddenly, I was a commodity, an item for sale, after having lived through centuries in this old medina, witnessing its highs and lows, its sadness and joys. I watched the two men shake hands. The deal was sealed. In a snap of a finger, I would be uprooted, torn away from the place I called home for so many years — the house of this solitary, melancholic man haunted by the ghosts of silence.

 

Summer of 1990, Kuwait

Here I am, in a completely different country, a stark contrast from my beautiful, glorious city of Fez. The Khaliji couple has placed me in a museum that they own, known as Dar al-Athar al-Islamiyah. I am an uprooted piece of art, a representation of a significant chunk of Islamic history that draws in visitors who come to observe, examine, and peruse me. I feel vulnerable, as if every day is a recurring nightmare of being a teenager caught naked in a high school hallway. I hate being scrutinized in this manner — it feels like constant judgment.

My days continued in this way, each one ushering in a new group of visitors who marvel at my irresistible beauty. It’s flattering, no doubt, but incredibly embarrassing — I’m just not accustomed to this much attention. While life within the
museum remains tranquil, outside in Kuwait, there’s a haunting air of intense political distress. I wasn’t entirely sure of the details, but rumors circulated about issues involving Iraq. It seemed that ongoing tension stemmed from Iraq’s inability to repay the US$14 billion borrowed from Kuwait during the Iran-Iraq War.

On August 2, 1990, Iraq launched its first invasion of Kuwait, and life here was turned topsy-turvy. Kuwait’s vibrant atmosphere, so well-suited to its hot, humid climate, suddenly turned mute. Fear permeated the air amidst the sounds of bombs and gunfire; the scent of blood lingered. I was terrified — fearful that they might raid and attack the museum, bringing an end to my existence.

A few days after the invasion, Iraqi military troops raided the museum. This beautiful place, where my newfound friends — sculptures, Arabic calligraphy, tapestries — were all looted and brutally destroyed by those monsters. The moment I saw the armies with their rifles and merciless faces, I knew death was near, inevitable. Just before they began their massacre, in a flash, I saw my entire life before me — the joyful streets of the old Medina, lonely Haroun, the scent of almond briwat filling my nostrils. Everything I had lived flooded back into my memory, and with a slight yet triumphant smirk, I whispered to myself, “Damn, I have lived.”

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Harriet B. from Pexels