Whenever I have to travel to Marrakesh, my memory splits open and a torrent of recollections pours out memories. I lived in this “Red City” when I first came to it as a student, eager for academic knowledge and specialized university learning after obtaining my baccalaureate degree.
Back then, my eyes were dazzled. I who had never visited a large city of this scale—by the wide streets crowded with private cars, large and small taxis, buses connecting the city’s neighborhoods for those without personal transportation, and especially by bicycles and motorbikes. I was captivated by the yellow streetlights that transformed roads and public spaces into a lavish wedding celebration or a roaring festival brimming with every kind of joy, a movement that did not fade even after midnight. Lights that shone even upon the most trivial and aesthetically barren things, turning them into beautiful and valuable objects that pleased the eye. I had never seen lights like these, glowing as though a sun had descended from the sky to settle above our heads and into our souls as we walked the streets with confidence, reassurance, and joy without having to feel our way along the ground for fear of falling, or constantly look behind us in fear that someone might be following us in the darkness. In contrast, in our small, desolate towns, I had encountered only dim lights that rendered everything no matter how beautiful or valuable dark, obscure, and devoid of worth. Whenever I saw such pale lighting in any city, I concluded how forgotten and neglected that city must be, for it reflected no movement, vitality, or activity of any kind like major cities such as Marrakesh.
Later, after wandering deeply enough through the details of the Red City and discovering its red nuances, I came to understand that large cities like Marrakesh are careful to market their façade and adorn it with various cosmetic embellishments, while certain neighborhoods, streets, and alleys remain sunk in darkness, separated only by faint yellow lights that barely illuminate even themselves. How tempting that must be for those in whom evil or deviance resides, to turn such places into stages for their malicious acts. What appears in those semi-lit shadows is hardly visible; you can barely discern whether the inhabitant or passerby is a human being, an image of a human, or merely a thing or an image of a thing. Whether in these Marrakshi neighborhoods or in our marginalized towns, the view resembles that of a cave.
In this Red City, I was astonished because I saw what I had never seen in Tinghir or Ouarzazate. I saw women riding bicycles and driving cars just like men, walking side by side with them. For those accustomed to such a scene, it appears ordinary, nothing to provoke surprise, just as we have now grown accustomed in Tinghir to seeing women drive without rejection, disapproval, or even astonishment. But for someone who had never witnessed this before, the scene was brimming with wonder and questions. I wondered: how did this normalization occur, and when? Was it necessity that dictated it or freedom?
My astonishment deepened when I saw with my own eyes that famous square to which people flock individually and in groups, Moroccans and foreigners alike, everyone coming to capture living images of memories, lives, and arts that will remain resistant to oblivion. Fortunately, entry to the square designated as World Heritage is free; no ticket is required to stroll through it and enjoy its delights, except for what one chooses to purchase or give willingly to one of the performance circles that shape the square’s oral heritage. Jemaa el-Fna was, for me, Marrakesh itself, as it is for the world whether one has visited it or not. Marrakesh had been a dream that haunted my waking hours and adolescence as I watched its famous square on television, with its comedians, musicians, herbalists, and food stalls whose smoke rises into the air beneath cheerful lights that grant the night its magical delight. Smoke that speaks to the stomach and calls upon every person, even those without appetite, to take a seat and taste the dishes prepared for visitors. This is Marrakesh, the city of stories of food, imagination, and history. I would later discover that storytelling forms the city’s identity; it can not detach itself from its narrative essence, even if it changes its form. Marrakesh cannot live without stories… When the tales of Jemaa el-Fna were on the verge of fading, Marrakesh invented for itself modern stories, a kind of One Thousand and One Nights staged in riads, entertainment venues, and nightclubs.
As a child, I watched the magic of this city on television, and my imagination grew richer with the images that construct and furnish a place. My imagination would flow further when I saw people wearing white T-shirts—not representing a country like America with its flag, which we might wear in ignorance or indifference—but shirts bearing the words “Red Marrakesh,” with the image of one or two palm trees embracing each other in a peppery hug beneath a sun blending red and orange hues on a romantic horizon. Two palm trees, each growing independently, meeting at a certain height to embrace, then continuing each on its own path and destiny—whether self-chosen or decreed. Is that why the city was called the “City of Palms”? A name meant to symbolize the almost sacred reverence granted to palm trees in Marrakesh?
Entering university was thus an opportunity to place these images, which had draped themselves over my memory, into the frame of reality—to see whether reality would accommodate them as well. The years I spent at the Faculty of Arts and Humanities were years of exploration and searching for the truth of this city. The question gnawing at my mind and soul remained: is the city truly red? And what meaning can we extract from this redness?
Before I managed to enter the university residence, I inquired about rental prices—and they bared their burning fangs at me joyfully. That burning made me conclude that the city was not the city of joy as people claimed. A narrow rooftop room to be shared with another person at an inflamed price. This conclusion extended into the university campus itself, where professors were divided into categories: some forced students to buy their books, renewing the cover each year and labeling it “revised and expanded edition” to compel the purchase of a new copy that was old in content; if not money, then sometimes sex was the price—no grade without compensation. Others were more concerned with brokerage, deals, and personal projects than with teaching. Yet there were still professors who listened to their conscience, even as the university’s condition deteriorated and the moral and academic level of incoming students declined.
Relations among students were marked by friendship and strangeness. Differences between student factions sometimes led to bloodshed; dogmatism formed gangs to intimidate dissenters. Tribal and ethnic tensions resurfaced. At times security forces intervened to impose order. Alongside this, “pleasure friendships” flourished—students forming relationships for enjoyment or benefit. If you refused to participate, you were labeled “complex.” Stories of conquests filled intimate gatherings; those without such tales felt diminished. Poverty stories—borrowing money, freeloading, theft, even prostitution in the worst cases—circulated between humor and sorrow. Such was university life: sweet and bitter, beautiful and harsh, especially when unemployment loomed upon graduation.
The struggle for survival was not merely a university principle but the dominant trait of the city. Social relations shifted from mechanical to organic solidarity without one eliminating the other. Rarely does anyone do something without expecting compensation. In the bus station, someone forcibly carries your luggage, then demands payment. At public toilets, a coin must be placed in a dish. In the old medina, brokers impose their services when you look for a hotel, expecting reward—and ready to lament their hardships if refused.
In Marrakesh, there is another kind of tourism: through cinema we visit countries without traveling. For the first time in my life, I entered a movie theater—and cinema entered my life. Its large screen overwhelmed me; I felt like one of the film’s heroes. Only cigarette and drug smoke spoiled the magic. Once the film ends, the dream collapses; reality strikes with tragic smells. Cinema Rif became a thing of the past, even as the International Film Festival is celebrated yearly, while theaters close due to piracy and the internet.
Beauty in Marrakesh is not only in lights and palms but also in gardens—so much so that the city might be better known for them than for its palms. Yet trash and urine odors kill beauty. In the absence of free public toilets, some relieve themselves against walls. Gardens are divided between free and paid; the public flock to the free ones.
Meanwhile, stark class divisions persist: elite neighborhoods versus poor districts, public versus private education and healthcare. Restaurants thrive; everything is consumed with astonishing appetite. What is the secret of this frenzy?
In the past decade, Marrakesh has truly and metaphorically soared. Property prices skyrocketed. Old houses and riads slipped from their original owners’ hands. An earthquake erased ancient alleys; in their place rose palaces and guesthouses. A secret city sells packaged “One Thousand and One Nights” in varying sizes and prices. Marrakesh rose—and another Marrakesh descended to cover the loss. It lives, grows, builds, extends, attracts millions of tourists. Everyone finds their share: the poor, their bread; real estate magnates, their fortunes; traffickers, their clients; adventurers, their chances.
So what is Marrakesh? It is the dream. The dream for which each person carved a segment of life to live in its shadow. A dream tucked under the arm in the form of a file or life project. Even thieves and gamblers believe in its promise. Those who flee it do so because it denied them entry into that dream. Many live on its margins, excluded from development. The human being there becomes a lost truth, deprived of dignity, while we long for the ideal of citizenship and dignity.
This is Marrakesh truly red, even in its nights.
