NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1920


Copyright, 1919, 1920, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published October, 1920

THE SCRIBNER PRESS

TO
GENERAL LYAUTEY

RESIDENT GENERAL OF FRANCE IN MOROCCO AND TO
MADAME LYAUTEY,

THANKS TO YOUR KINDNESS, THE JOURNEY
I HAD DREAMED OF FOR SO LONG
EXCEEDED MY EXPECTATIONS

[Pg vii]

Having started my book with the statement that Morocco still doesn't have a guidebook, I would have liked to take a first step toward fixing that gap.

But the conditions during my travels, although full of unexpected and scenic opportunities, weren't ideal for taking my time to study the places I visited. The time was limited by the impending rainy season, which ends motoring over the dangerous trails of the Spanish zone. In 1918, due to the vigilance of German submarines in the Straits and along the northwest coast of Africa, the journey by sea from Marseilles to Casablanca, usually so straightforward, had to be made with a lot of discomfort and delays. Once on the steamer, passengers were often stuck in port (without permission to disembark) for six or eight days; therefore, for anyone with a tight schedule, as most war workers had, it was necessary to travel[Pg viii] across the country and return to Tangier before the November rains.

This gave me just one month to explore Morocco from the Mediterranean to the High Atlas, and from the Atlantic to Fez. Even if I had a magic carpet to whisk me around, the overwhelming number of impressions would have made it hard to observe everything accurately.

The next best thing to a Djinn's carpet, a military vehicle, was available to me every morning; but wartime conditions imposed limitations, and the desire to use as little gas as possible often got in the way of the second visit, which is the only way to bring back a clear and detailed impression.

These downsides were more than balanced out by the benefit of taking my quick trip at a unique moment in the country’s history; the short period of transition between its near-total control by European powers and the upcoming time when it will be opened up to all the trivialities and casualness of modern travel.

Morocco is incredibly intriguing, stunningly beautiful, and richly diverse in its landscapes and architecture[Pg ix]. Above all, it’s such a unique experience that it’s bound to draw in a large number of spring travelers as soon as Mediterranean passenger traffic picks up again. Now that the war has ended, only a few months of work on roads and railways stand between it and the flood of tourism; and once that wave starts, no one will ever see Moulay Idriss, Fez, and Marrakech the way I did.

Despite the constant efforts of the current French government to protect Morocco's ancient monuments from damage and to safeguard its native arts and industries from the influence of poor European taste, the sense of mystery and isolation that the country currently offers will surely fade with the arrival of the "Circular Ticket." In just a few years, much more will be known about Morocco's history, but that history will be much less visible to travelers than it is today. Excavations will uncover new evidence of Roman and Phoenician presence; the distant connections between Copts and Berbers, between Baghdad and Fez, and between Byzantine art and the architecture of the Souss will be examined and explained; but,[Pg x] as these discoveries unfold, the unusual survival of medieval life—of a lifestyle contemporary with the Crusaders, with Saladin, and even with the golden age of the Caliphate of Baghdad—which now surprises travelers, will slowly vanish, until eventually the enigmatic people of the Atlas will have packed up and quietly disappeared.

Authoritative statements about Morocco are available for those who can read them in French; however, they are mostly found in large and often hard-to-access books, like M. Doutté’s "En Tribu," the Marquis de Segonzac’s notable explorations in the Atlas, or Foucauld’s classic (but unavailable) "Reconnaissance au Maroc"; and very few, if any, have been translated into English.

M. Louis Châtelain has explored the Roman ruins of Volubilis, and M. Tranchant de Lunel, M. Raymond Koechlin, M. Gaillard, M. Ricard, and many other French scholars have written about Muslim architecture and art in articles published in "France-Maroc," as introductions to exhibition catalogues[Pg xi], or in various reviews and newspapers. Pierre Loti and M. André Chevrillon have vividly captured the romantic and decaying Morocco of the past; and in the volumes of the "Conférences Marocaines," published by the French government, experts gathered around the Resident-General have analyzed the industrial and agricultural prospects of Morocco's future. Finally, one notable book sums up, with the clarity and coherence that only French scholarship seems to achieve, the key points on all these topics, except for art and archaeology. This is M. Augustin Bernard's book, "Le Maroc," which is the only concise yet comprehensive and informative work since Leo Africanus described the markets of Fez. However, M. Augustin Bernard focuses solely on the country's ethnology, social, religious, and political history, and physical characteristics, which, while "a large order," excludes the visual and picturesque aspects, except where the book addresses the always picturesque life of the people.

For the benefit of the happy travelers who might be planning a trip to Morocco, I’ve[Pg xii] added a brief overview of the country’s history and art to my personal reflections. To justify this attempt, I should mention that the main value of this overview lies in its lack of originality. The information will largely come from the works of M. Augustin Bernard, M. H. Saladin, and M. Gaston Migeon, as well as the valuable resources of the "Conférences Marocaines" and articles from "France-Maroc." It will also rely heavily on insights provided on-site by the talented experts of the French administration, including the Marquis de Segonzac, with whom I was fortunate to travel from Rabat to Marrakech and back; M. Alfred de Tarde, editor of "France-Maroc"; M. Tranchant de Lunel, director of the French School of Fine Arts in Morocco; M. Goulven, the historian of Portuguese Mazagan; M. Louis Châtelain, and many other educated and friendly French officials, both military and civilian, who at every stage of my journey did their best to answer my questions and broaden my perspective.

[Pg xiii]

In writing proper names and other Arabic words, the French spelling has been used.

In the case of proper names and names of cities and districts, this seems reasonable since they appear in a French colony, where French usage is the norm. Spelling Oudjda in the French way and koubba as kubba in English would create unnecessary confusion regarding their pronunciation. It seems simpler, therefore, in a book aimed at the average traveler, to fully adopt French usage.

[Pg xv]

PAGE

PREFACE vii

I. RABAT AND SALÉ 1

II. VOLUBILIS, MOULAY IDRISS AND MEKNEZ 35

III. FEZ 75

IV. MARRAKECH 121

V. HAREMS AND CEREMONIES 159

VI. GENERAL LYAUTEY'S WORK IN MOROCCO 207

VII. A SKETCH OF MOROCCAN HISTORY 229

VIII. NOTE ON MOROCCAN ARCHITECTURE 259

IX. BOOKS CONSULTED 279

INDEX 283

[Pg xvii]

FEZ ELBALI FROM THE RAMPARTS Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

GENERAL VIEW FROM THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS—RABAT 16

INTERIOR COURT OF THE MEDERSA OF THE OUDAYAS—RABAT 20

ENTRANCE OF THE MEDERSA—SALÉ 24

MARKET-PLACE OUTSIDE THE TOWN—SALÉ 26

CHELLA-RUINS OF MOSQUE—SALÉ 30

THE WESTERN PORTICO OF THE BASILICA OF ANTONIUS PIUS—VOLUBILIS 46

MOULAY IDRISS 48

THE MARKET-PLACE—MOULAY IDRISS 50

MARKET-PLACE ON THE DAY OF THE RITUAL DANCE OF THE HAMADCHAS—MOULAY IDRISS 52

THE MARKET-PLACE. PROCESSION OF THE CONFRATERNITY OF THE HAMADCHAS—MOULAY IDRISS 56

GATE: "BAB-MANSOUR"—MEKNEZ 58

THE RUINS OF THE PALACE OF MOULAY-ISMAËL—MEKNEZ 66

FEZ ELDJID 84

A REED-ROOFED STREET—FEZ 88

[Pg xviii]THE NEDJARINE FOUNTAIN—FEZ 94

THE BAZAARS. A VIEW OF THE SOUK EL ATTARINE AND THE QUAISARYA—FEZ 108

THE "LITTLE GARDEN" IN BACKGROUND, PALACE OF THE BAHIA—MARRAKECH 128

THE GREAT COURT, PALACE OF THE BAHIA—MARRAKECH 130

APARTMENT OF THE GRAND VIZIER'S FAVORITE, PALACE OF THE BAHIA—MARRAKECH 132

A FONDAK—MARRAKECH 144

MAUSOLEUM OF THE SAADIAN SULTANS SHOWING THE TOMBS—MARRAKECH 156

THE SULTAN OF MOROCCO UNDER THE GREEN UMBRELLA 168

A CLAN OF MOUNTAINEERS AND THEIR CAÏD 170

THE SULTAN ENTERING MARRAKECH IN STATE 176

WOMEN WATCHING A PROCESSION FROM A ROOF 194

A STREET FOUNTAIN—MARRAKECH 262

GATE OF THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS—RABAT 266

MEDERSA BOUANYANA—FEZ 268

THE PRAYING-CHAPEL IN THE MEDERSA EL ATTARINE—FEZ 270

INTERIOR COURT OF THE MEDERSA—SALÉ 274

THE GATE OF THE PORTUGUESE—MARRAKECH 276


MAP

THE PART OF MOROCCO VISITED BY MRS. WHARTON 8

[Pg 3]

To board a steamer in a Spanish port and three hours later land in a country without a guide-book is an experience that stirs the curiosity of even the most seasoned traveler.

The feeling is within reach for anyone willing to row out into the harbor of Algeciras and hop onto a little black boat heading across the straits. Hardly has the rock of Gibraltar disappeared into the clouds when your foot is on the land of an almost unknown Africa. Tangier is indeed mentioned in guidebooks; however, like a cuckoo, it has had to lay its egg in unfamiliar nests, and any traveler wanting to learn about it must get a book focused on another country—like Spain, Portugal, or Algeria. There’s no guidebook for Morocco, and there's no way of knowing, once you leave Tangier behind, where the long journey over the[Pg 4] Rif will end up, in the way someone familiar with European certainties would understand. The air of the unexpected blows at you from the roadless passes of the Atlas.

This sense of adventure is amplified by the contrast between Tangier—cosmopolitan, shabby, familiar Tangier, the place every tourist has flocked to for the last forty years—and the immense unknown just beyond it. Sure, you might meet travelers who have been to Fez, but they usually went there on special missions, with escorts, in a mysterious or potentially dangerous way; the journey seemed, until recently, like a big deal. And if you look at the accounts of Moroccan travelers written in the last twenty years, how many, even the most daring ones, have traveled beyond Fez? What do the names Meknez and Marrakech, Mogador, Saffi, or Rabat mean to anyone except a handful of political history students, explorers, and naturalists? Until just a year ago, Morocco wasn’t accessible for travel from Tangier to the Great Atlas and from Moulay Idriss to the Atlantic. Three years ago, Christians were being killed in the streets of Salé, the pirate town across the river from Rabat, and two years ago, no European was allowed to enter the Sacred City of Moulay Idriss, the final resting place of the rightful descendant of Ali, who founded the Idrissite dynasty. Now, thanks to the determination and vision of one of the greatest colonial administrators, at least the French zone of the country is as safe and open as the other side of Spain. All that’s left is to guide travelers on how to navigate it.

Ten years ago, there wasn’t a single wheeled vehicle in Morocco; now, its thousands of miles of trails and hundreds of miles of solid French roads are filled with countless carts, buses, and cars. There are light railways from Rabat to Fez in the west and to a point about fifty miles from Marrakech in the south. It’s expected that within a year, a regular railway system will link eastern Morocco with western Algeria and connect the ports of Tangier and Casablanca with major points in the interior.

What, then, stops the traveler from quickly boarding a ship at Bordeaux or Algeciras and unleashing their vehicle in this new world? Only the temporary[Pg 6] obstacles that the war has created everywhere for travel. Until these are removed, it will be difficult to travel in Morocco except with the permission of the Resident-General; but once normal conditions are restored, the country will be as easy to access, from the straits of Gibraltar to the Great Atlas, as Algeria or Tunisia.

To experience Morocco during the war meant witnessing its final phase of a strikingly quick shift from isolation and danger to safety and openness; at a time when its appearance and traditions were still largely untouched by European influence, and when a "Christian" could enjoy the fleeting pleasure of exploring cities filled with ancient mystery and resistance, where the locals seemed barely aware of his presence.

With such opportunities ahead, it was impossible on that brilliant morning in September 1917 not to leave Tangier quickly; it was impossible to truly appreciate the pale-blue town stacked within brown[Pg 7] walls against the lush gardens of "the Mountain," the liveliness of its marketplace, and the hidden charms of its steep Arab streets. Tangier is bustling with people in European clothing, with English, French, and Spanish signs above its shops and taxi stands in its squares; it belongs, just like Algiers, to the well-known, well-worn world of travel—and there, beyond the final slope of "the Mountain," lies a world of mystery, with the rosy dawn just breaking over it. The car is at the door, and we are off.

The so-called Spanish zone, which surrounds the internationalized Tangier with a wide stretch of territory, extends southward for about a hundred and fifteen kilometers. Consequently, when good roads are available, travelers can reach French Morocco in less than two hours by car on their way south. However, at the moment, Spanish infrastructure peters out after a few miles of paved roads (similar to what happens between Madrid and Toledo), leaving tourists to navigate the piste. These pistes—the old caravan routes from the south—are more suited for vehicles in Morocco than in southern Algeria and Tunisia, as they mostly run over[Pg 8] soil that, while partially sandy, is held together by resilient dwarf vegetation rather than pure desert sand. That said, this is about the extent of the Spanish pistes' advantages. In the French protectorate, there are ongoing efforts to maintain the trails for vehicle traffic, but Spain shows no sense of a similar responsibility.

After leaving the paved road that goes south from Tangier, it feels like you've set off on a solidified sea in a vehicle barely suitable for the journey. As you bounce over bumps and dips, plunge down steep banks into rivers, and climb up cliffs into sand pits, you slowly start to trust both your ride and your back; but both need to be in good shape at every joint to handle the long stretch to Arbaoua, the border station of the French protectorate.

[Pg 9]

Luckily, there are other things to think about. At the first turn out of Tangier, Europe and everything European fades away, and as soon as the road starts to dip and rise over the arid little hills beyond the last gardens, you know every figure on the road will be picturesque instead of ordinary, every garment will be elegant instead of bizarre. You also know that there will be no more buses or trams or motorcyclists, just long lines of camels rising up in brown silhouettes against the sky, little black donkeys trotting across the scrub with bulging pack-saddles, and noble figures walking beside them or majestically sitting on their backs. And for miles and miles, there will be no more towns—only, at intervals on the bare slopes, circles of huts with rush roofs in a blue fence of cactus, or a hundred or so nomad tents made of black camel's hair resting on walls of woven thorns, grouped around a terebinth tree and a well.

Between these nomadic colonies lies the bled, a vast stretch of barren land and palmetto desert: a landscape as devoid of life as the sky above it is of clouds. The scenery never changes; but if you appreciate great expanses and the play of light on long stretches of dry earth and rock, that sameness adds to the charm. In such a setting, every landmark becomes incredibly significant. For miles, you watch the little white dome of a saint's grave rising and falling with the undulations of the trail; eventually, you reach it, and the solitary tomb, accompanied only by its fig tree and its broken[Pg 10] well-curb, gives meaning to the desolation. The same intense significance marks the sight of every person. The two riders in white cloaks passing each other on the red slope toward that cluster of tents on the ridge seem to carry a mysterious and inexplicable importance: you watch their journey with eyes filled with curiosity. Even more thrilling is the sight of the first veiled woman leading a small group coming from the south. All the mystery that awaits us is visible through the eye slits in the grave-clothes that envelop her. Where have they come from, where are they headed, these slow travelers from the unknown? They are probably just moving from one thatched douar[1] to another; but endless distances stretch behind them, suggesting they hail from Timbuktu and the farthest reaches of the desert. Such figures must crowd the cities of the Sahara, Soudan, and Senegal. There’s no break in their connections: these wanderers have witnessed the rise of civilizations that were already dust by the time the Romans advanced their outposts across the Atlas.

[Pg 11]

A town at last—its proximity marked by the deep ruts of the path, the cactus fences, and the fig trees weighed down with dust leaning over crumbling earthen walls. Here are the first homes of the European El-Ksar—neat white Spanish houses on the hillside outside the old Arab settlement. Of the Arab town itself, above the reed fences and brown walls, only a minaret and a few flat roofs are visible. Beneath the walls, the usual gathering of the needy doze; others, momentarily revived, trail their burial shrouds behind a line of camels and donkeys heading toward the olive groves outside the town.

The journey to Rabat is long and tough, and there's no time to check out El-Ksar, even though its minaret calls out from above the fruit orchards. So, we stop for lunch outside the walls at a canteen with a corrugated iron roof, where skinny Spaniards serve thick purple wine and eggs fried in oil to a group of French soldiers. The heat has suddenly become unbearable, and a scorching wind from the south rushes in through the door, [Pg 12] bringing with it a swarm of blue flies, the smell of camels, crushed herbs, and the strong spices from the bazaars.

Luncheon finished, we rush between the cactus hedges and then dive back into the wilderness. Beyond El-Ksar, the last hills of the Rif fade away, leaving a stretch of wild land with no clear boundaries until the Lesser Atlas starts to rise in the east. Once in the French protectorate, the trail gets better, but there are still tough spots; eventually, on a high plateau, the driver stops in a tangled web of trails, throws up his hands, and admits that he's lost. The heat is unbearable right now. For the past hour, the hot winds of the sirocco have risen from every hollow we dipped into; now it hangs around us in the open, as if we’ve trapped it in our wheels and it has to linger above us whenever we stop.

All around is the endless wild land, with palmetto scrub stretching far into the distance. A few yards away, the inevitable ruined koubba[2] stands with its fig tree: in the shade beneath its crumbling wall, the buzz of the flies sounds like frying. Farther off,[Pg 13] we spot a cluster of huts, and soon some Arab boys and a tall, thoughtful shepherd hurry across the scrub. They seem friendly and probably have plenty of information, but our driver doesn’t speak Arabic, so the conversation fades into shrugs and head shakes. The Arabs move to the shade of the wall, and we decide to set off—for anywhere....

The driver cranks the engine, but it doesn't shake at all. Something's off; we can't move, and it's not very reassuring to think that even if we could, we wouldn't know where to head. At least we’d be cooler moving than just sitting here under the blazing sun.

Such an adventure introduces you right away to the harsh realities of driving in the desert. Every detail of our journey from Tangier to Rabat was carefully planned to keep us in continuous touch with civilization. We were going to stay in one European hotel and have dinner in another, with just enough picnicking in between to add some local flavor. But let even one tiny part fail, and the whole plan falls apart, leaving us alone in the wild, untamed Maghreb, as isolated from Europe as any medieval adventurer. If you lose your way in[Pg 14] Morocco, civilization disappears as if it were a magic carpet rolled up by a Djinn.

It’s a good idea to start with an experience like this, not just because it builds the acceptance needed to enjoy Africa, but also because it immediately gives insight into the country’s mysterious core: a place so influenced by its vast, untamed wilderness that you can’t really understand the cities until you’ve experienced the wilderness.

We finally arrived as the sun was setting on that first long day. The motor, skillfully patched up, had found its way to a real road, and speeding along between the stunted cork trees of the Mamora forest brought us to a final rise from which we could see, in the dim light, a line of yellow walls backed by the misty blue of the Atlantic. Salé, the fierce old pirate town where Robinson Crusoe was a slave for so long, lay before us, snow-white in its cheese-colored ramparts surrounded by fig and olive gardens. Below its gates was a stretch of wasteland, endlessly crossed by mules and camels, sloping down to the mouth of the Bou-Regreg, the blue-brown river that separated it from Rabat. The motor[Pg 15] stopped at the steam-ferry landing stage; surrounding it were crowds of donkeys, clusters of camels, merchants with plump faces riding crimson-saddled mules, accompanied by their Black servants holding the reins, bare-legged water carriers with hairy goat skins slung over their shoulders, and Arab women wrapped in layers of veils and cloaks, all in the same ashy white, with the caftans of clutching children peeking through in patches of old rose, lilac, and pale green.

Across the river, the native town of Rabat sat stacked on an orange-red cliff, battered by the Atlantic. Its walls, also red, dropped down into the darkening waves at the river’s mouth; and behind it, extending up to the towering Hassan and the ruins of the Great Mosque, the scattered homes of the European city displayed their numerous lights across the flat land.

Salé, the white city, and Rabat, the red city, glare at each other across the foaming Bou-Regreg River, each walled, terraced, and topped with minarets, creating a singularly complete picture of the two types of Moroccan towns: the snowy and the tawny. The Atlantic waves crash against the gates of both cities with the roar of northern seas, all beneath a misty northern sky. It's one of the surprises of Morocco to see familiar African scenes shrouded in this unusual haze. Even the fierce midday sun doesn’t completely clear it away: the air stays thick and opalescent, like water slightly clouded with milk. One might say that Morocco is like Tunisia viewed in moonlight.

The European town of Rabat, a fast-growing community, is situated almost entirely outside the walls of the old Arab city. The latter, founded in the twelfth century by the great Almohad conqueror of Spain, Yacoub-el-Mansour, extends its massive walls to the mouth of the river. From there, they climb the cliff to encircle the Kasbah[3] of the Oudayas, a rebellious tribe that one of the Almohad Sultans, suspicious of their loyalty, once gathered up, along with their flocks, tents, and camels, and moved across the bled to confine them within these strong walls under his watchful eye. Impressive crenellated ramparts, monumental and breathtaking, follow the curve of the cliff. On the land side, they are interrupted by a gate-tower that features one of the most beautifully decorated horseshoe arches breaking through the sturdy walls of Moroccan cities. Beneath the tower, the vaulted entrance turns, Arab style, at right angles, outlining its red arch against the shadows and mystery. This bending of pathways, a characteristic element of Moroccan architecture, reflects the complex and secretive essence of the land.

[Pg 17]

Outside the Kasbah, a narrow footpath is squeezed between the walls and the edge of the cliff. Toward sunset, it looks down on a strange scene. To the south of the citadel, the cliff drops down to a long dune that slopes to a sandy beach; both the dune and the beach are dotted with the tilted headstones of the vast Arab cemetery of El Alou. Acres and acres of graves stretch away from the red ramparts to the gray sea, and waves rolling straight from America send their spray across the lowest stones.

There are always things happening in the evening at an Arab cemetery. In this one, travelers from the bled are camping in one corner, donkeys grazing (on who knows what), a camel napping under[Pg 18] its load; in another area, around a freshly dug grave, there are ritual movements of cloaked figures and the sounds of a funeral hymn barely heard over the waves. Nearby, on a fallen headstone, a man with a thoughtful expression sits chatting with two friends, holding a tiny boy who looks like a grasshopper in his green caftan; a little further away, a solitary philosopher, his gaze fixed on the sunset, lies on another grave, smoking his long kif pipe.

There is endless sadness in this scene beneath the fading sky, next to the cold chaos of the Atlantic. It feels like we’re not in Africa itself, but in the version of Africa that northern crusaders might have imagined in snow-covered castles by the colder shores of the same ocean. This is what Moghreb must have looked like to the bewildered minds of the Middle Ages, to Norman knights eager to reclaim the Holy Places, or Hansa merchants dreaming, in their sloped-roof towns, of Barbary and the long caravans carrying monkeys and gold dust from the south.

Inside the gate of the Kasbah, you encounter more wasteland and other[Pg 19] walls—because every Moroccan town is surrounded by layers of fortified masonry. Then, unexpectedly, a gate in one of the inner walls opens up to a tiled courtyard enclosed by an ornate cloister, overlooking an orange grove that emerges from a sea of roses. This peaceful and well-organized spot is the interior of the Medersa (the college) of the Oudayas. Morocco is filled with these colleges, which are essentially lodging houses for students who frequent the mosques; all Islamic education takes place in the mosque, with only the preliminary studies conducted in the colleges. The most beautiful Medersas date back to the early years of the long Merinid dynasty (1248-1548), a time when Moroccan art, no longer heavily influenced by Spanish and Arab styles, began to develop its own subtle elegance, distancing itself from both the extravagance of Spanish decor and the Roman-Byzantine designs that the early Muslim invasion had brought from Syria and Mesopotamia.

These beautiful college buildings, while still in use whenever they are near a famous mosque, have all fallen into a state of shabby disrepair.[Pg 20] Unfortunately, the old tradition of building—never truly lost—has, like all Orientals, an undeniable aversion to repairing and restoring. One by one, the delicate exposed Arab structures, with their open courtyards and poorly made terrace roofs, are crumbling into ruins. Thankfully, the French Government has finally been asked to step in, and throughout Morocco, the Medersas are being repaired with skill and care. The one in the Oudayas has already been completely restored, and since it had long fallen into disuse, it has been converted by the Ministry of Fine Arts into a museum of Moroccan art.

The layout of the Medersas is generally quite similar: it follows the timeless design of an Arab house, centered around one or more arched courtyards, with long, narrow rooms surrounding them on the ground floor and several stories above, accessible by narrow stairs, often leading to beautifully carved cedar balconies. The main distinction between the Medersa and a private house, or even the fondak,[4] lies in how the rooms are used. In the Medersas, one of the ground-floor rooms is always set up as a chapel, separated from the courtyard by intricately carved cedar doors that are often adorned with remnants of gold leaf and red paint. A few students are usually praying in the chapel, while others sit in the doorways of the upper rooms with their books on their laps or lean over the ornate balconies chatting with friends who are washing their feet at the marble fountain in the courtyard before entering the chapel.

[Pg 21]

In the Oudayas Medersa, these local activities have been replaced by the quiet stillness of a museum. The rooms are filled with old rugs, pottery, brass items, and the interesting embroidered hangings that adorn the tents of the chiefs, along with other examples of Arab art. One room imitates a barber's shop found in the bazaar, with its benches covered in fine matting, a hanging mirror inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and silver razor handles decorated with niello. The horseshoe arches of the outer gallery overlook orange blossoms, roses, and the sea. It’s all beautiful, peaceful, and harmonious; and if one feels inclined to lament the lack of life and local color, a visit to an abandoned [Pg 22] Medersa is enough to show that without French intervention, the charming colonnades and cedar-lined chambers of the Oudayas college would have long been reduced to a pile of indistinguishable rubble—because plaster and debris don’t “die in beauty” like the enduring stones of Rome.

Before Morocco came under the control of the great governor who now oversees it, the European colonists quickly destroyed the beauty and privacy of the old Arab towns where they settled.

On the west coast, especially where Mediterranean peoples, from the Phoenicians to the Portuguese, have established trading posts for over two thousand years, it's difficult to assess the damage done to coastal towns like Tangier, Rabat, and Casablanca. The modern European colonist seemed to think that setting up his warehouses, cafés, and movie theaters within the walls that had long kept him out was the most striking way to assert his control.

[Pg 23]

Under General Lyautey, such views are no longer accepted. Acknowledging local customs, beliefs, and architecture is the primary principle taught to the civil servants in his administration. He not only insists that the local towns stay preserved, with no European buildings constructed within them; but his appreciation for beauty, which isn’t often seen in colonial governors, leads him to position the administrative buildings far outside the walls. This way, the modern colony surrounding them is completely separate from the old town, rather than emerging as an unattractive addition.

The Arab quarter of Rabat was already badly damaged when General Lyautey came to Morocco; but the fierce old Salé, a Phoenician trading post and home to Barbary pirates, had been saved from destruction by its Islamic zeal. Only a few Christians had set foot inside its walls, mainly prisoners who, like Robinson Crusoe, worked for the wealthy merchants in its mysterious terraced homes. It wasn't fully pacified until two or three years ago; and when it finally opened its gates to outsiders, it was still, just like today,[Pg 24] the epitome of an untouched Moroccan city—so pristine that, with the sunlight illuminating its cream-colored walls and the blue-white domes above, it sprawls on its carpet of lush fruit gardens like a rare piece of Arab art on a sliver of old Oriental velvet.

Within the walls, the magic remains: something that doesn't always occur when you enter the illusion-filled cities of Arabian Africa. Salé has a unique charm due to its extreme compactness. Nestled between the river mouth and the sea, its white and light-blue houses nearly touch across the narrow streets, and the reed-thatched markets feel like smaller versions of the vast trading mazes of Tunis or Fez.

Everything that a reader of the Arabian Nights expects to find is here: the whitewashed alcoves where pale young men weave the fine mats for which the town is still famous; the winding passages where lazy merchants with bare feet huddle in their little stalls filled with richly decorated saddles and weapons, or with slippers made of pale citron leather and brightly embroidered babouches; the stands with fruit, olives, tuna, sweet syrups, candles for saints' tombs, Mantegnesque garlands of red and green peppers, griddle cakes sizzling on hot pans, and all the various goods and treats that the lady from the story of the Three Calanders went out to buy that memorable morning in the market of Baghdad.

[Pg 25]

Only in Salé is everything on a small scale: there isn’t much of anything, except for the beautiful matting. The flow of trade has receded from the stubborn old city, and you can sense, while observing the indifferent shoppers in her fading bazaars, that her long-standing hostility towards outsiders has ultimately drained her own vitality.

The feeling intensifies when you step out of the bazaar into the surrounding streets. An even deeper stillness than what surrounds the affluent areas of all Arab towns hangs over these quiet thoroughfares, with heavy doors sealing off half-ruined homes. In a steep, deserted square, one of these doors swings open, revealing weathered cedar panels leading to the court of the most fragile and ghostly Madrasah—a mere carved and painted shell of a once-thriving place of learning. Mystical patterns of endless lines, [Pg 26] and patient designs endlessly repeated in wood, stone, and clay, are all present here, from the tiled flooring of the court to the honeycomb structure of the cedar roof, where patches of sky peek through like pieces of turquoise tiles.

This beautiful ruin is now in the care of the French Fine Arts administration, and soon the woodworkers and plaster artisans of Fez will restore its former beauty; however, it will never again be anything more than a display Medersa, standing empty and unused next to the mosque, behind whose secure doors and tall walls one suspects that the old religious fervor of Salé is fading, just like its knowledge and trade have faded.

[Pg 27]

In reality, the only life within her revolves around the marketplace outside the city walls, where the growing city of Rabat supplies her needs on certain days. The market in Salé, while typical of Moroccan markets, has its own lively and picturesque charm. The rows of white tents set up on a dusty square between the outer walls and the fruit gardens give the impression that a hostile tribe has come to lay siege to the town; however, this army consists of vendors, farmers from the fertile lands by the river, sun-tanned nomads, and peasant women in leather boots from the hills, along with servants and tradespeople from Rabat and Salé. It’s a crowd of draped, veiled, turbaned people shouting, haggling, shaking their fists, and calling on Allah to witness the outrageous deceit of their trading partners, only to then succumb to a mysterious Eastern indifference, collapsing in languid heaps of muslin among the black figs, purple onions, and rosy melons, alongside fluttering hens, tethered goats, and whinnying foals, all surrounded by a circle of resting camels and mules dozing under faded crimson saddles.

The Merinid Sultans of Rabat had a seriously challenging neighbor across the Bou-Regreg, so they built Chella to keep watch on the pirates of Salé. But Chella has crumbled like a Babylonian city conquered by prophets; meanwhile, Salé, cunning, fierce, and unstoppable, continued well into the nineteenth century to produce pirates and fanatics.

[Pg 28] The ruins of Chella are located on the far side of the plateau, above the local town of Rabat. The imposing wall that surrounds them looks towards the city wall of Rabat, separated by one of those vast red, powdery expanses that seem, in this unusual land, like death and the desert steadily advancing to overpower the fragile creations of humanity.

The red earth is crossed by countless trains of donkeys carrying water from the springs of Chella, long caravans of mules and camels, and the buzzing engines of the French administration; yet it still gives off a sense of isolation and decay that even the ordinary sound of trams making their way from the European town to the Exhibition grounds above the sea can't easily shake.

Perpetually, even in the newly thriving French Morocco, the outline of a ruin or the look in someone's eyes changes the scene, tears away the thin veil of the European Illusion, and brings one face to face with the old grey Muslim reality. Walking under the gate of Chella, with its intricately carved corbels and tall crenellated towers, you feel completely pulled back into the past.

Below the gate, the ground slopes down, bare [Pg 29] and hot, to a hollow where a small blue-green minaret shines through fig trees, and pieces of archway and vaulting show the shape of a ruined mosque.

Was there ever a shade as deep and inviting as that of the cork tree by the spring where the donkey's water cans are filled? Under its branches, a Black man in a blue shirt lies sound asleep in the dust. Nearby, women and children splash water and chat around the spring, while the dome of a saint's tomb glimmers through the dull leaves. The Black man, the donkeys, the women and children, and the saint's dome all make up the unique Eastern scene where stillness and movement coexist in such an intriguing way, and a layer of loud noise dances above a profound silence.

The ruins of Chella are from the purest era of Moroccan art. The intricate designs of the broken arches are all carved from stone or covered in glazed turquoise tiles, and the remnants of the walls and vaults have the graceful elegance of a classic ruin. But what would their beauty be without the lush surroundings? The "unimaginable touch of Time" gives Chella its unique charm: the ancient fig tree wedged in broken tiles and reaching its gnarled branches between the arches; the vines draping from column to column; the hidden pool where women without children come to bathe, and where the tree growing from a crack in the steps is always adorned with colorful pieces of fabric, which are the votive offerings of Africa. [Pg 30]

The shade, the sound of springs, the tiered orange grove with irises blooming along streams of flowing water, all this greenery and coolness in the valley of a blazing red hill makes Chella appear, to a traveler new to Africa, the perfect representation of the continent's classic contrasts of heat and refreshment, of fire and fatigue. It's like a desert traveler's dream in his final fever.

Yacoub-el-Mansour was the fourth of the great Almohad Sultans who, in the twelfth century, drove out the weakened Almoravids and led their victorious armies from Marrakech to Tunis and from Tangier to Madrid. His grandfather, Abd-el-Moumen, focused on conquest and civic administration. It was said of his rule that "he seized northern Africa to establish order there"; and indeed, out of a chaos of wild tribes fighting and robbing, he built a strong and well-governed empire, where caravans traveled safely from the Atlas to the Straits, and "a soldier wandering through the fields wouldn’t dare to pick an ear of wheat."

[Pg 31]

His grandson, the great El-Mansour, was also a conqueror; but where he conquered, he planted the lasting seed of beauty. The victor of Alarcos, the soldier who subdued northern Spain, dreamed a big dream of art. His ambition was to give his three capitals, Seville, Rabat, and Marrakech, the three most beautiful towers the world had ever seen; and if the tower of Rabat had been finished, and that of Seville hadn't been affected by Spanish enhancements, his dream would have come true.

The "Tower of Hassan," as the Sultan's tower is known, rises from the plateau above old Rabat, overlooking the steep cliff that drops down to the final winding of the Bou-Regreg. Cut off at half its height, it stands at the edge of the cliff, a distant beacon for travelers by land and sea. It is [Pg 32] one of the world's great monuments, so impressive in strength and majesty that until one has seen its counterpart, the Koutoubya of Marrakech, one might wonder if the builder's genius could achieve such a perfect balance of massive wall spaces and ornate openings to a triumphant completion.

Near the tower, the red-brown walls and massive piers of the mosque built around the same time stretch in a roofless line beneath the sky. This mosque, before it was destroyed, must have been one of the most impressive examples of Almohad architecture in Morocco: now, with its fallen red bricks and large cisterns surrounded by clusters of blue aloes, it remains a ruin of Roman grandeur.

The Mosque, the Tower, the citadel of the Oudayas, and the impressive walls and towers of Chella form an architectural ensemble as grand and complete as that of some medieval Tuscan city. The only thing missing for a perfect comparison is that they should be closely grouped on a steep hill, instead of being spread out over the wide area between the Oudayas promontory and the Chella hillside.

The founder of Rabat, the great Yacoub-el-Mansour, [Pg 33] The Moroccan Arab, although he keeps expanding it—and called it, in honor of the battle of Alarcos, "The Camp of Victory" (Ribat-el-Path), and the monuments he gave to it made the name meaningful in a different way, by providing the beauty that endures when battles are forgotten.

[Pg 37]

One day before sunrise, we left Rabat to head to the ruins of Roman Volubilis.

From the Bou-Regreg ferry, we gazed back at one last view of orange walls under a deep blue sky dotted with stars; ahead, over gardens still cloaked in shadow, the walls of Salé were shifting from dull to peach in the morning light. Dawn is the enchanting hour in Africa. Grime and decay fade away under a soft haze, while a sea breeze sweeps away the memories of rancid markets and grim crowds. At that time, the old Moroccan cities resemble ivory fortresses in a Persian painting, and the plump shopkeepers heading out to their vegetable gardens[Pg 38] look like princes setting out to save captured maidens.

Our path took us along the main road from Rabat to the modern port of Kenitra, close to the ruins of the Phoenician colony of Mehedyia. Just north of Kenitra, we found the trail that branched off to the east towards a European village on the light railway connecting Rabat and Fez. Beyond the railway sheds and flat-roofed stores, the wilderness began, stretching into clear distances framed by the Rarb hills,[5] where the sun was rising above.

Range after range, these clear hills rose in front of us; solitude was all around. Village life, and even life in tents, usually gathers around a riverbank or a spring, but the area we were crossing was just dry sand held together by sparse desert plants. Only an abandoned well here and there cast its blue shadow on the yellow bled, or a saint's tomb floated like a bubble between the sky and sand. The light had an unnatural purity that hinted at mirages: it was the light where magic feels real, and it helps explain how, for people living in [Pg 39] such an environment, the line between reality and dreams constantly shifts.

The sand was marked with countless tracks and ruts, as the road between Rabat and Fez is used not just by French government vehicles but also by local caravans and groups of pilgrims traveling to and from the holy city of Moulay Idriss, the founder of the Idrissite dynasty, whose tomb is located in the Zerhoun, the mountain range above Volubilis. To untrained eyes, it was impossible to tell which trail to take; and without much surprise, we suddenly found the vehicle stopping as its wheels spun uselessly in the loose sand.

The military driver wasn’t surprised either, and neither was Captain de M., the French staff officer who was with us.

"It often happens right here," they admitted thoughtfully. "When the General goes to Meknez, he's always followed by a number of cars, so that if his gets stuck, he can continue on in another one."

This was interesting to know, but not really helpful, since the General and his vehicles weren’t heading our way that morning. Neither was anyone else, it seemed. It’s funny how [Pg 40] quickly the bled clears out to the horizon if you happen to have an accident in it! But we had learned our lesson between Tangier and Rabat, and were able to put on a decent imitation of the country’s fatalistic smile.

The officer cheerfully noted that someone might show up, and we all took a seat in the bled.

A Berber woman appeared out of nowhere and sat down next to us. She had the slim, sun-kissed face typical of her people, striking eyes accented with khol, high cheekbones, and a very short upper lip that adds charm to the smiles of young nomadic women. Her outfit was the usual faded cotton dress, secured at the shoulders with brass or silver clasps (still the antique fibulæ), and wrapped in a loose drapery where a brown baby squirmed.

The coolness of dawn had disappeared and the sun blazed down from a harsh sky. The village by the railway was too far away to reach on foot, and there were probably no mules available there. Closer to us, there was no sign of help: not a fortified farm, or even a group of nomad tents. It was just the empty desert—and we waited.

[Pg 41]

Not in vain; for after an hour or two, from far off in the direction of the hills, an army with banners appeared. We stared at it in disbelief. The mirage, of course! We were too sophisticated to doubt it, and stories of sun-dazed travelers tricked by such visions surfaced in our well-stocked memories.

The driver thought differently. "Great! That's a journey from the mountains. They're heading to Salé to pay their respects at the tomb of the marabout; today is his feast day."

And so they were! As we waited for them to come closer and wondered if they would stop to help, I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of this long train moving toward us under colorful banners. There was something heavenly, almost ethereal, about the hundreds of people wearing turbans and dressed in white, slowly marching through the blazing, dull light over the scorching, colorless sand.

Most people were on foot or riding small donkeys, but a distinguished Caïd rode alone at the back of the group on a horse adorned with crimson velvet; and to him, our officer turned for help.

[Pg 42]

The Caïd politely replied, and twenty or thirty pilgrims were instructed to attach themselves to the motor and pull it back to the trail, while the rest of the procession continued on solemnly.

I felt guilty about diverting even a bit from the path of this devout group; but they jumped in with a saintly eagerness, and soon the motor was on the trail. Then rewards were handed out; and instantly those holy men were taken over by the darkest emotions. Even in this land of contrasts, the shift from peaceful devotion to greedy rage must have rarely been so quick. The followers of the marabout fought, screamed, tore their clothes, and rolled over each other with bloody gestures in the scramble for our pesetas; then, noticing our indifference, they suddenly remembered their religious obligations, got to their feet, fixed their flowing garments, and rushed after the end of the procession.

Through a golden heat haze, we made our way to the hills. The land was mostly left fallow and too sandy for farming, but now and then we came across one of the deep-set Moroccan rivers,[Pg 43] with its reddish-yellow path carved between steep banks of red soil, marked by a thin line of greenery that expanded into fruit gardens wherever a village had developed. We passed through several of these "sedentary"[6] villages, nourwals with clay houses featuring thatched conical roofs, set in gardens of figs, apricots, and pomegranates that must turn into lovely pink and white paradises after the winter rains.

One of these villages seemed to be entirely populated by Black people, big friendly individuals who came out to guide us on which trail to take to reach the bridge over the yellow oued. In the oued, the women were washing the colorful family rags. They were beautiful blue-bronze figures, bare to the waist, with tight black curly hair and strong sculpted legs and ankles; and all around them, like a swarm of gnats, danced countless cheerful children, naked as lizards, with thin legs and round bellies from eating only grains.

Half scared but completely intrigued, these kids[Pg 44] buzzed around the motor while we paused to take pictures of them; and as we observed their antics, we wondered if they were the descendants of the young Sudanese boys that the founder of Meknez, the fearsome Sultan Moulay-Ismaël, used to abduct from beyond the Atlas Mountains and raise in his military camps to create the core of the Black Guard that protected his borders. We were along the route between Meknez and the sea, and it seemed quite possible that these nourwals were all that was left of scattered outposts of Moulay-Ismaël's soldiers.

After a while, we left the rivers and villages behind and found ourselves in the mountains of the Rarb, trudging across a high sandy plateau. In the distance, a line of greenery hinted at shade and water, and finally, against a light mass of olive trees, we spotted something that, no matter where you are in the world, evokes the same sense of awe: the ruins of a Roman city.

Volubilis (known to the Arabs as the Castle of the Pharaohs) is the only significant Roman colony found in Morocco so far. It sits on the edge of a high plateau, surrounded by the Zerhoun Mountains. Below the plateau, the land[Pg 45] drops steeply into a narrow river valley filled with orchards and gardens, and at the neck of the valley, where the hills converge, the conical white town of Moulay Idriss, Morocco's Sacred City, rises sharply against a wooded backdrop.

So the two powers gaze at each other across the valley: one, the lifeless Roman ruin, symbolizing a system, an order, a social idea that still influences our modern ways; the other, the untouched Muslim city, more lifeless and trapped in an incomprehensible past than any broken arch of Greece or Rome.

Volubilis appears to have been as large and wealthy as a major military outpost, like Timgad in Algeria; however, in the seventeenth century, it was almost completely destroyed by Moulay-Ismaël, the Sultan of the Black Guard, who took its monuments apart piece by piece to construct his new capital, Meknez, which travelers today consider one of the wonders of the age.

Little remains of significance in Volubilis: just the remnants of a basilica, part of a triumphal arch built in honor of Caracalla, and the broken columns and[Pg 46] architraves that scatter along the path of Rome across the world. However, its location is stunning; and since the excavation of the ruins was halted by the war, further exploration may reveal other treasures similar to the beautiful bronze sloughi (the African hound), which is now its main artifact.

It was amazing, after seven hours of travel under the African sun, to sit on the shady terrace where the Curator of Volubilis, M. Louis Châtelain, welcomes his guests. The French Fine Arts have built a lovely house with gardens and pergolas for the guardian of the ruins, and they have found in M. Châtelain an archaeologist so dedicated to his work that, as soon as conditions allow, every inch of soil around the city will be explored for whatever secrets it holds.

We hung out under the pergolas of Volubilis until the heat became less unbearable, and then our friends suggested going to Moulay Idriss.

[Pg 47]

Such a possibility hadn’t crossed our minds, and even Captain de M. seemed to question whether the expedition was a good idea. Moulay Idriss was still said to be upset about Christian involvement: it was only a year ago that the first French officers had entered the area.

But M. Châtelain was sure that there would be no objections to our visit, and with the stacked terraces and towers of the Sacred City glowing golden in the afternoon light across the valley, it was impossible to hesitate.

We drove through an olive grove as ancient as those in Mitylene and Corfu, then along the narrowing valley, surrounded by gardens that were lush even in the dry Moroccan autumn. Soon, the engine began to climb the steep road to the town, and at a gateway, we got out and were greeted by the local police chief. Immediately, at the high windows of mysterious houses, veiled heads appeared, and sidelong glances cautiously observed us. But the area was deserted, and we walked on without encountering anyone, heading to the Street of the Weavers, a silent narrow path lined with low whitewashed niches like those in a convent. In[Pg 48] each niche sat a serious young man dressed in white, creating a large amphora-shaped grain basket out of tightly woven straw. Vine leaves and tendrils hung from the reed roof above, and grape clusters cast their classic shadows at our feet. It felt like walking on the unrolled frieze of a white Etruscan vase decorated with black vine garlands.

The silence and emptiness of the place started to hit us: there was no sign of the crowd from the East that usually emerges from the dust when strangers arrive. But suddenly we heard nearby the sound of the rekka (a type of long flute), combined with a wild thrum of clay drums and an excited chanting of men’s voices. I had heard that kind of chant before, at the other end of North Africa, in Kairouan, one of the major Sanctuaries of Islam, where the Aïssaouas sect performs their bloody rituals in the Zaouïa[7] of their brotherhood. Yet it seemed unbelievable that if the Aïssaouas of Moulay Idriss were having their ceremonies that day, the chief of police would be calmly guiding us through the streets in the very direction the chant was coming from. The Moroccan, while not wanting to get into trouble with Christians, prefers to be left alone on feast days, especially in such a stronghold of faith as Moulay Idriss.

[Pg 49]

But "What’s done is done" captures the essence of Eastern philosophy. For centuries, Moulay Idriss had held on fiercely to its sacred heights; then, suddenly, in 1916, its leaders realized that it was all over and gave in without any show of defiance. Now everything was finished, the new rules were accepted, and the police chief assured us that with the French uniform on our side, we would be safe anywhere.

"The Aïssaouas?" he explained. "No, this is a different group, the Hamadchas, who are doing their ritual dance on the feast day of their patron, the marabout Hamadch, whose tomb is in Zerhoun. The celebration takes place publicly in the market square of Moulay Idriss."

As he spoke, we stepped into the marketplace and realized why there hadn't been a crowd at the gate. Everyone was in the square and on the roofs that climbed up against the wooded hillside, tier by tier: Moulay Idriss had[Pg 50] more important things to do that day than to stare at a few tourists in dusty coats.

Short of Sfax and the other coastal cities of eastern Tunisia, there’s probably no town in North Africa as white as Moulay Idriss. Some towns are pale blue and light yellow, like the Kasbah of Tangier, or cream and blue like Salé; but Tangier and Salé, having been influenced by Europeans for centuries, likely got their colors from Genoa and the Italian Riviera. In the interior of the country, especially in Morocco, where the color palette is much more muted than in Algeria and Tunisia, the native houses are usually a dull shade of mud and ash.

But Moulay Idriss that afternoon was as white as if its arcaded square had been carved out of a huge block of cream cheese. The late sunlight rested like gold leaf on one side of the square, while the other side was in pure blue shade; and above it, the crowded roofs, terraces, and balconies filled with women in colorful dresses looked like a field of flowers at the edge of a marble quarry.

[Pg 51]

The bright dresses were just as striking as the white walls, since the typical Moroccan crowd matches the color of their homes. But this was a special occasion, as the Hamadchas feasts happen only twice a year, in spring and autumn. With the ritual dances taking place outdoors instead of inside the confraternity building, the women take the chance to bloom on the rooftops.

It’s uncommon, in Morocco, to see women in the streets or markets except for those from the lowest classes, like household slaves, servants, peasant women, or the wives of small tradesmen; and even they (with the exception of the unveiled Berber women) are usually wrapped in the typical somber attire. The filles de joie and dancers, who wear bright clothing that brings life to certain streets in Algerian and Tunisian towns, are either absent or not noticed in Morocco, where life overall feels much less lively and colorful. Women from wealthier classes, whether from commerce or aristocracy, rarely leave their harems except for marriage or funerals. A crowd of women dressed in lighter colors can only be seen in public during some street festival when they gather on the rooftops. Even then, it’s likely that the crowd mainly consists of[Pg 52] slaves, household servants, and women from the lower bourgeoisie; but since they are all dressed in mauve, rose, and pale green, with long earrings and jeweled headbands sparkling through their parted veils, the illusion, from a distance, is complete, as if they were the ladies-in-waiting of the Queen of Sheba. That brilliant afternoon at Moulay Idriss, above the vine-draped square, and against the backdrop of stacked terraces, their vivid groups stood in such stark contrast to the usual gray crowds of the East that the scene felt like a setting for some extravagantly produced ballet.

For the same reason, the spectacle unfolding below us felt surreal in a strange way. Anyone normal who has seen a dance of the Aïssaouas—watching them swallow thorns and hot coals, cut themselves with knives, and roll on the ground in a fit—must have secretly wished, after the initial excitement faded, to escape from the disturbing scene. The Hamadchas are much more brutal than the Aïssaouas and take their display of cataleptic anesthesia even further; knowing this, I had wondered how long I could bear to watch what was happening below our terrace. But the beauty of the setting made the horrific scene feel more symbolic. In that unreal golden light, it resembled one of those bizarre animal masks that the Middle Ages brought down from antiquity through the satyr plays of Greece, where the half-human figures still grin and twist among the Christian symbols of Gothic cathedrals.

[Pg 53]

At one end of the square, the musicians stood on a stone platform above the dancers. Like the musicians in a bas-relief, they were flattened side by side against a wall, the fife players with raised arms and puffed cheeks, the drummers pounding frantically on long clay drums shaped like giant hourglasses and decorated in wild patterns. Below, stretching down the length of the marketplace, the dance unfolded in a wild rhythm that would have made a Paris or London impresario envious.

In the center, a seemingly inspired creature spun around on his axis, the black ringlets jutting out in snaky curls from his worn-out head, his cheek muscles twitching uncontrollably. Farther away, the dancers swayed and circled with[Pg 54] loud, raspy cries, overwhelmed by the sorrowful, booming music; and in the sunlit space between the dancers and the holy man, two or three mischievous kids bounced around with wide eyes and exaggerated faces, seriously mimicking his movements.

Meanwhile, a tall, serious person in a doge-like cap, the only calm figure in the chaos, moved slowly to and fro, managing the dance, encouraging the frenzy, or soothing some worshipper who had broken away and was writhing and foaming on the ground. There was something much more unsettling about this emotionless figure, who had his hand on the key that unleashed such wild energies, than about the unfortunate central figure who just provided the rhythm for the upheaval.

The dancers were all in white caftans or blue shirts that marked the lowest classes. Under the sunlight, something that looked like fresh red paint shimmered on their shaved black or yellow heads and created dark stains on their clothes. Initially, these stripes and spots seemed like flashy ritual decorations, similar to the patterns on the drums; then it became clear that the paint, or whatever it was, kept dripping down from the spinning caftans and[Pg 55] forming new pools among the stones; as one pool dried up, another formed, brighter and shinier, and these pools were filled from deep cuts that the dancers made in their own heads and chests with axes and sharp stones. The dance was a blood ritual, a significant sacrificial symbol, where blood flowed so freely that all the dancing feet were splattered with it.

Gradually, it became clear that many of the dancers were just swaying and shouting, without injuring themselves, and that most of the bleeding heads and chests belonged to African Americans. Occasionally, the circle would open up to let in another figure, either black or dark-skinned, someone from the crowd in a blue shirt suddenly "finding faith" and rushing forward to grab a weapon and cover himself in his own blood; and with each new person joining the dancers, the music got louder and the performers howled more like wolves. Meanwhile, in the center, the crazy marabout twirled, and the kids mimicked him, rolling their wide eyes.

Such is the dance of the Hamadchas, the brotherhood of the marabout Hamadch, a powerful[Pg 56] saint from the seventeenth century, whose tomb is located in the Zerhoun above Moulay Idriss. Apparently, Hamadch had a devoted slave who, devastated by his master's death, took his own life. The self-inflicted wounds of the brotherhood are thought to symbolize the slave's suicide, although the origins of the ceremony likely go back to the depths of that blood-stained grove where Mr. Fraser found the Golden Bough.

The more simplistic interpretation, however, has its benefits, as it allows the followers to split their ritual responsibilities into two categories: the free men direct their devotions to the saint who died peacefully in bed, while the slaves focus on the slave and must therefore imitate his terrible fate. This explains why most of the white caftans merely sway and shake, while the plain blue shirts are soaked with blood.

[Pg 57]

The sun was setting as we came down from our terrace above the market. We needed to head to Meknez to find a place to stay for the night since the French military post was expecting us; so we had to reluctantly decline an invitation to have tea with the Caïd, whose elevated house overlooks the entire white amphitheater of the town. It was disappointing to leave Moulay Idriss with the Hamadchas in the midst of their wild celebrations and so much more to see, but as we drove away beneath the long shadows of the olive trees, we considered ourselves lucky to have visited the sacred town, and even luckier to have been there on the day of the dance, which, until a year ago, no foreigner had been allowed to witness.

A nice French road goes from Moulay Idriss to Meknez, and we traveled on through the twilight between wooded hills and open areas where the fires of nomad camps added orange highlights to the darkness. Then the moon came up, and by its light, we saw a broadening valley, with gardens and orchards that extended up to a large walled city silhouetted against the stars.

All evening, from the garden of the Military Subdivision on the opposite hill, we sat and gazed at the dark tree clusters and moonlit walls of Meknez, while we listened to its incredible history.

Meknez was built by Sultan Moulay-Ismaël,[Pg 58] around a small town that he found appealing, at the same time Louis XIV was constructing Versailles. The coincidence of two contemporary rulers developing cities from scratch has led some people who enjoy analogies to refer to Meknez as the Versailles of Morocco; an expression that is just as informative as calling Phidias the Benvenuto Cellini of Greece.

There is, however, a reason for the comparison in the fact that the two kings were very interested in each other's issues. Moulay-Ismaël sent several diplomatic missions to negotiate with Louis XIV about the ongoing problems of piracy and the ransom of Christian captives, and the two leaders were constantly exchanging gifts and polite remarks.

The governor of Tetouan, who was sent to Paris in 1680, brought gifts for the French King that included a lion, a lioness, a tigress, and four ostriches. Shortly after, Louis XIV sent M. de Saint-Amand to Morocco with two dozen watches, twelve pieces of gold brocade, a six-foot-long cannon, and other firearms. Following this, the relationship between the two courts remained friendly until 1693, when tensions rose due to France's refusal to return the Moorish captives who were working on the king's galleys, who were likely as necessary there as the Sultan's Christian slaves were for constructing Moorish palaces.

[Pg 59]

Six years later, the Sultan sent Abdallah-ben-Aïssa to France to restart negotiations. The ambassador was received with great enthusiasm, similar to how a contemporary statesman would be on an official visit, and his openly stated admiration for the personal appeal of the Princesse de Conti, one of the French king's recognized children, was thought by the court to be a marriage proposal from the Emperor of Barbary. However, he returned without a treaty.

Moulay-Ismaël, whose long reign (1673 to 1727) and remarkable achievements have made him a legendary figure, developed a passion for Meknez early in his career. Throughout his turbulent rule, filled with brutal warfare, extensive negotiations, palace intrigue, violent bloodshed, and significant administrative reforms, his heart consistently longed for the wooded slopes on [Pg 60], where he envisioned creating a city even more magnificent than Fez or Marrakech.

"The Sultan" (writes his chronicler Aboul Kasim-ibn-Ahmad, called "Ezziani") "loved Meknez, which had enchanted him with its climate, and he wished he could stay there forever." He did leave often, in fact, he left continuously, to battle with rebellious tribes in the Atlas, to defeat one Berber army after another, to carry his forces across the High Atlas into the Souss, to decorate Fez with the heads of seven hundred conquered chiefs, to suppress his three rebellious brothers, to strip all the cities of his empire of their black inhabitants and bring them to Meknez ("so that not a black person, man, woman or child, slave or free, was left in any part of the country"); to fight and defeat the Christians (1683); to capture Tangier, to lead a campaign on the Moulouya, to initiate the holy war against the Spanish (1689), to seize Larache, the Spanish trading post on the west coast (which provided eighteen hundred captives for Meknez); to besiege Ceuta, conduct a campaign against the Turks of Algiers, control the looting in his army, subdue more tribes, and build forts for his[Pg 61] Black Legionaries from Oudjda to the Oued Noun. But almost every year's bloody record ends with the calm phrase: "Then the Sultan returned to Meknez."

In 1701, Ezziani writes, the determined old man "took away his rebellious sons' principalities; after that, he dedicated himself solely to building his palaces and planting his gardens. Then in 1720 (nineteen years later in this long reign!), he ordered the destruction of the mausoleum of Moulay Idriss to make it larger. To create the needed space, he purchased all the surrounding land, and the workers didn't stop these new tasks until they were completely finished."

In that same year, a new tax was imposed on Fez that was so burdensome that the residents had to leave the city.

Yet it is said of this terrible old king, who devastated entire regions and sacrificed countless lives for his cruel enjoyment, that under his rule of his disordered and unstable empire "the country enjoyed the utmost security. A Jew or a woman could travel[Pg 62] alone from Oudjda to the Oued Noun without anyone questioning their purpose. Abundance filled the land: grain, food, and cattle could be bought at the lowest prices. Nowhere in all of Morocco was there a highwayman or a robber to be found."

And both sides of the picture are likely true.

What, then, was the wonder across the valley, what were the "grand pleasure-houses" that Moulay-Ismaël kept coming back to for their creation and expansion throughout his nearly hundred years of life, despite all its struggles and upheavals?

The chronicler continues: "The Sultan had all the houses near the Kasbah[8] demolished, and forced the residents to clear away the debris from their homes. The entire eastern side of the town was also destroyed, and the walls were rebuilt. He constructed the Great Mosque next to Nasr's palace.... He personally oversaw the building of his palaces, and before one was completed, he had another one started. He built the Elakhdar mosque; the walls of the new town [Pg 63] were equipped with twenty fortified gates and topped with platforms for cannons. Inside the walls, he created a large artificial lake where people could row boats. There was also a granary with huge underground water reservoirs, and a stable three miles long for the Sultan's horses and mules; it could accommodate twelve thousand horses. The flooring was supported by vaults where the grain for the horses was kept.... He also built the Elmansour palace, which had twenty domes; from the top of each dome, one could see the plain and the mountains surrounding Meknez. The rarest trees were planted all around the stables. Inside the walls were fifty palaces, each with its own mosque and baths. This had never been seen in any country, whether Arab or foreign, pagan or Muslim. The responsibility for guarding the doors of these palaces was assigned to twelve hundred black eunuchs."

Such were the wonders that 17th-century travelers ventured across the desert to see, coming back dazzled and almost in disbelief, as if they partly suspected that some spirit had tricked them with the image of a phantom [Pg 64] city. But without the more serious European records and the evidence of the ruins themselves (since the entire new Meknez is a ruin), one might actually consider Ezziani's claims as an Oriental myth; yet, just a quick glimpse of Moulay-Ismaël's Meknez makes it easy to believe everything his chronicler says about it, even the three miles of stables.

The next morning, we drove across the valley and, going around the old town on the hill, entered through one of the twenty gates of Moulay-Ismaël, onto a long empty street lined with half-collapsed arcades. Beyond that was another street of packed red earth bordered by tall red walls splattered with gray and mauve. Ahead of us, this road stretched on endlessly (Meknez, before Washington, was the "city of magnificent distances"), and down its empty length, only one or two draped figures passed by, like shadows heading to Shadowland. It was clear that the living had no further connection with the Meknez of Moulay-Ismaël.

Here it was at last. Another grand entrance brought us, under a beautifully adorned arch of turquoise-blue and green, into another empty space of red clay; a third gate led into even larger voids, and at the far end stood a massive red ruin, resembling the lower levels of a Roman amphitheater that seemed to stretch endlessly instead of forming a circle, or like a series of Roman aqueducts built side by side and merged into one structure. Below this indescribable ruin, the barren ground sloped down to an artificial body of water that was surely the lake the Sultan created for his boating parties; and beyond it, more red earth extended to more walls and gates, revealing glimpses of abandoned palaces and enormous crumbling corner towers.

The vastness, the silence, and the catastrophic desolation of the place were even more striking given the relatively recent age of the buildings. Just as Moulay-Ismaël had managed Volubilis, time had similarly affected his own Meknez; the destruction that took thousands of lash-driven slaves to impose on the sturdy walls of the Roman city had been quickly accomplished here through neglect and abandonment. But although the sun-baked clay used by the impatient Sultan to build his pleasure houses cannot compare to the solid stones of [Pg 66] Rome, "the high Roman fashion" is evident in the shape and outline of these ruins. No one knows exactly what they are. Despite Ezziani's text (written when the place was already partly in ruins), archaeologists disagree about the purpose of the crypt made of rose-hued clay, whose twenty rows of giant arches resemble a line of Roman aqueducts. Were these vaulted granaries or the underground reservoirs beneath the three miles of stables that housed twelve thousand horses? The stables were certainly close to this location, as the lake is adjacent to the ruins, just as described by the chronicler; and between it and old Meknez, behind walls within walls, lie all that remains of the fifty palaces with their domes, gardens, mosques, and baths.

This inner area is less damaged than the mysterious vaulted building, and one of the palaces, still reserved for the current Sultan's use, is off-limits for visitors; however, we roamed freely through deserted courtyards, gardens filled with cypress and olive trees where dry fountains and painted summer houses are crumbling, and empty areas bordered by long, vacant façades. This was all the work of an eager and demanding old man who, to make his dream come true quickly, built with materials that wouldn’t last; yet the design, the size, and the entire concept clearly show that he had not only heard of Versailles but had seen Volubilis with his own eyes.

[Pg 67]

To build on such a large scale and complete the work in one lifetime, even if the materials were easy to work with and life was long, requires a level of human labor that the other Sultan at Versailles must have envied. Implementing the corvée was, of course, much easier in Morocco than in France because the resources available were unlimited, as long as one could assert control over them; for this, Ismaël had his Black Army, the one hundred and fifty thousand disciplined soldiers who enabled him to maintain his authority over the rugged terrain from Algiers to Agadir.

The ways this army was formed and grew are worth recounting in Ezziani's words:

"A taleb[9] from Marrakech showed the Sultan a record that listed the names of the black individuals who had been part of El-Mansour's army, [Pg 68] Moulay-Ismaël instructed his agents to gather all that remained of these black individuals and their children.... He also reached out to the Beni-Hasen tribes and those in the mountains to buy up any black individuals found there. In this way, every black person in all of Moghreb was collected, from the cities and the countryside, until not one remained, whether slave or free."

"These Black men were armed and clothed and sent to Mechra Erremel (north of Meknez), where they were instructed to build houses for themselves, plant gardens, and stay until their children turned ten. Then the Sultan had all the children brought to him, both boys and girls. The boys were apprenticed to masons, carpenters, and other tradesmen; some were tasked with making mortar. The following year, they learned to drive mules, the year after that to make adobe for building; in their fourth year, they learned to ride horses bareback, and in their fifth, they were taught to ride while using firearms. At sixteen, these boys became soldiers. They were then married to the young Black women who had been taught cooking and washing in the Sultan's palaces—except for those who were attractive, and these girls received a musical education, after which each of them got a wedding dress and a marriage settlement before being handed over to their husbands."

"All the kids from these couples were eventually geared up for the Black Army or for household work in the palaces. Every year, the Sultan went to the camp at Mechra Erremel and brought back the kids. The Black Army had one hundred and fifty thousand men, some of whom were at Erremel, some at Meknez, and the rest in the seventy-six forts that the Sultan built for them across his territory. May the Lord be merciful to his memory!"

Such was the army that Ismaël used to impose the corvée on his unruly tribes. Many thousands of lives were sacrificed to build the imperial Meknez; however, his subjects alone wouldn’t have been enough if he hadn’t been able to augment them with twenty-five thousand Christian captives.

M. Augustin Bernard, in his excellent book on Morocco, states that the seventeenth century was "the golden age of piracy" in Morocco; and the great Ismaël was undoubtedly one of its main backers. One can understand his reluctance to reach an agreement with his close friend and rival, Louis XIV, on the challenging issue of the ransom for Christian captives when one reads in the admiring Ezziani that it took fifty-five thousand prisoners and captives to carry out his architectural visions.

"These prisoners worked on various tasks during the day and were locked up in underground dungeons at night. Any prisoner who died while working was built into the wall he was building. (This statement is confirmed by John Windus, the English traveler who visited the court of Moulay-Ismaël in the Sultan's old age.) Many Europeans likely succumbed quickly to the heat and the whip, as the wall-builders had to coordinate each stroke with their neighbors, facing severe punishment if they fell out of sync; and it’s clear that the skilled craftsmen from France, Italy, and Spain were even more precious to the old architectural madman than the friendship of the palace-building despot across the sea."

Ezziani's chronicle comes from the early nineteenth century and is a bland tribute to a great Arab leader from an Arab perspective; however, John Windus, [Pg 71] the Englishman who joined Commodore Stewart's embassy to Meknez in 1721, experienced the imperial palaces and their creator firsthand, capturing them with the vibrant perspective of a foreigner amazed by all the contrasts.

Moulay-Ismaël was about eighty-seven years old, "a medium-sized man with traces of a decent face, lacking any African features, even though his mother was black. He has a high nose that's quite long from the eyebrows down, and it's thin. He's lost all his teeth and breathes heavily, as if he has lung issues, coughing and spitting pretty often, which never hits the ground since men are always ready with handkerchiefs to catch it. His beard is thin and very white, his eyes used to sparkle, but their brightness faded with age, and his cheeks are very sunken."

Such was the look of this extraordinary man, who deceived, tortured, betrayed, assassinated, terrorized, and mocked his slaves, subjects, women, children, and ministers like any other brutal Arab tyrant, yet somehow during his long reign managed to uphold a savage empire, [Pg 72] to control the wild land, and create at least an illusion of prosperity and security where there had once been nothing but chaos.

The English envoys seemed to be really impressed by the grandeur of his palaces, which were then full of the fresh beauty of novelty and shining with marbles brought from Volubilis and Salé. Windus especially praises the sunken gardens with cypress, pomegranate, and orange trees, some of which were set seventy feet below the level of the palace courtyards; the beautiful plaster decorations; the miles of tiled walls and floors made with the finely patterned mosaics from Fez; and the long terrace walk trellised with "vines and other greenery" that led from the palace to the famous stables, where it was the Sultan's custom to ride in a chariot pulled by women and eunuchs.

Moulay-Ismaël welcomed the English ambassador with great ceremony and friendship, and right away "gifted him" a handful of young English captives; however, just as the negotiations were about to wrap up, Commodore Stewart was secretly informed that the Sultan had no plans to let the rest of the English be [Pg 73] ransomed. Fortunately, a diplomatically crafted letter from the English envoy to one of the Sultan's favorite wives made Ismaël reconsider, and the captives were eventually released and left with their rescuers. Standing in the blazing sun among the massive ruins of those tragic walls, one imagines the other Christian captives pausing for a moment, risking death, in the steady rhythm of their work, to watch the small group of their friends making their way across the desert to freedom.

On the way back through the long streets leading to the ruins, we noticed the shafts of fluted columns, blocks of marble, and Roman capitals lying by the roadside: remnants of the long plunder from Salé and Volubilis. We asked how they ended up there, and were told that according to a tradition still believed in the country, when the prisoners and captives dragging the building materials toward the palace under the scorching sun heard about the old Sultan's death, they all dropped their loads and ran. At that moment, every worker on the walls tossed down his trowel or hod, every palace slave stopped grinding or scouring or drawing water or gathering firewood or polishing the miles of tiled floors; so that when the tyrant's heart stopped beating, life ceased to flow through the huge house he had built, and it became a lifeless shell along with his own.

[Pg 77]

Many-walled Fez appeared before us from the plain as the day was coming to an end.

The walls and towers we saw belonged to the upper town, Fez Eldjid (the New), which sits on the edge of the plateau and blocks the view of Old Fez, which cascades down into the Oued Fez ravine below. From this angle, the city only shows a long line of ramparts and fortresses that blend into the vast, dusty plain and are surrounded by barren mountains. There’s not a single house visible outside the walls, except for a few low-profile buildings of the European colony at a respectful distance, and there isn’t a village to break the emptiness of the landscape.

As we got closer, the walls loomed over us, and as we walked around them, we reached an open area outside[Pg 78] a massive horseshoe gate, suddenly finding ourselves in a scene straight out of a painting by Carpaccio or Bellini. Where else have you seen exactly those rows of majestic figures in white turbans, sitting in the dust beneath towering walls, all their pale faces framed by curly beards turned toward the storyteller in the middle of the group? Change the storyteller into a captivated young Venetian, and you've got the crowd and the setting from Carpaccio's "Preaching of St. Stephen," right down to the camels stretching their curious necks above the turbans. Every step we take in North Africa confirms the careful observations of early travelers, whether painters or storytellers, and reveals the unchanging nature of the Oriental life that the Venetians portrayed and that Leo Africanus, Windus, and Charles Cochelet wrote about.

There was time, before sunset, to head up to the hill, where the ruined tombs of the Merinid Sultans overlook the city they once made glorious. After the brutal massacre of foreign residents in 1912, the French surrounded the heights above Fez with one of their well-designed military roads, and in just a few minutes, our car had climbed[Pg 79] to the spot where the great dynasty of artist-Sultans imagined looking down on their capital forever.

Nothing lasts in Islam except what human laziness has allowed to remain and what its own strength has kept safe from decay. Or rather, nothing stays completely intact, and nothing completely goes away, but the architecture, like everything else, endures in a state of being half-ruined and half-unchanged. The Merinid tombs, however, are just empty shells and crumbling walls, now part of the brown cliff they cling to. No one thinks of them except as a beautiful detail in an already picturesque scene: they exist as the best viewpoint to look down at Fez.

There it is, spread out in golden light, with roofs, terraces, and towers cascading over the edge of the plain, interrupted here and there by barriers of cypress and holm oak, but becoming steeper as the Fez ravine narrows down with the river’s flow. It’s as if some powerful sorcerer, after deciding that the city should be thrown into the abyss, was so taken by its beauty that, with a wave of his wand, he kept it floating above destruction.

[Pg 80]

At first, the eye only captures the impression of a massive city over a green abyss; then the intricate scene begins to take shape. Surrounding us are the outer lines of ramparts, walls beyond walls, their crenellations rising high, and their angular fortresses commanding the cliffs. Almost at our level lies the upper city, the elite Fez Eldjid with its colorful palaces and gardens; then, as the houses cluster closer and drop more steeply, terraces, minarets, domes, and long reed-thatched roofs of the bazaars all converge around the green-tiled tomb of Moulay Idriss and the tower of the Almohad mosque of El Kairouiyin, which sit next to each other in the heart of Fez, creating its central sanctuary.

From the Merinid hill, we noticed a long facade among the cypress and fruit trees of Eldjid. This was Bou-Jeloud, the old summer palace of the Sultan's harem, now the residence of the Resident-General, where accommodations had been arranged for us.

The road went down again, crossing the Oued Fez on one of the beautiful old single-arch bridges that symbolize the architectural connection between Morocco[Pg 81] and Spain. We passed by tall walls, roadside pools, and dripping mill-wheels; then one of the city gates swallowed us up, and we found ourselves in the neglected areas of inner Fez, which used to be the defenses of a wealthy city that was always under threat, but now mostly served as dumping grounds, open-air inns, and resting places for homeless people wrapped in their rags in the dust.

Through another gate and more walls, we arrived at an arch in the inner line of defense. Beyond that, the car stopped in front of a green door, where a Cadi in a silk caftan welcomed us. We were led across squares of orange trees separated by flowing water to an arcaded apartment decorated with Moroccan embroideries and lined with wide couches; the reception hall of the Resident-General. Through its arches, we could see other tiled areas, fountains, and arcades; further in, the vibrant flowers of a garden in lush greenery. This was our first glimpse of Bou-Jeloud, which used to be the summer palace of Moulay Hafid's wives.

Upstairs, from a room lined with cedar and adorned with vibrant rose-pink embroidery from Salé and the detailed old needlework from Fez, I gazed out over the upper city toward the lavender and tan mountains.

Just below the window, the flat roofs of a cluster of small houses sloped down like the steps of a crooked staircase. Between them, a few cypress trees and a green minaret stood tall; from one house's courtyard, an old fig tree stretched out its gnarled branches. The sun had set, and one by one, bright figures began to appear on the roofs. The children were the first to come, adorned with silver amulets and amber beads, followed by women in striped turbans, who bustled in with rugs and mats; then the mothers showed up more leisurely, freed from their dusty layers, revealing, beneath their light veils, long earrings from the Mellah[10] and caftans in soft green or peach tones.

The houses were simple, nestled in the gaps of a wealthy neighborhood, and their residents were likely just ordinary people; but in the magical African twilight, the terraces bloomed like gardens, and when the moon rose and the muezzin called from the minaret, the arguments and loud shouts from rooftop to rooftop turned into a tale [Pg 83] in Baghdad, overheard a thousand years ago by that legendary detective Haroun-al-Raschid.

It’s common to refer to Fez as ancient, and this description makes sense when you consider that the Bou-Jeloud palace is located on the site of an Almoravid Kasbah from the eleventh century, and that when this Kasbah was built, Fez Elbali had already been around for three hundred years. Additionally, El Kairouiyin was founded around the same time as Sant' Ambrogio in Milan, and the original mosque of Moulay Idriss II was constructed over his grave in the eighth century.

Fez is actually the oldest city in Morocco without any Phoenician or Roman history, and it has kept more evidence of its architectural heyday than any other city. However, it would be more accurate to say, like with all Moroccan cities, that it has no real age, since its seemingly unchangeable appearance is constantly falling apart and being rebuilt in the same old style.

When we set out the next day to explore some of the palaces of Eldjid [Pg 84] our pink-saddled mules took us away from the normal flow of time. How could we connect anything as specific and modern as years or centuries with these fleeting visions of beauty through cypresses and roses? The Cadis in their flowing muslins welcomed us through hidden doorways and guided us through winding paths into the stunning gardens and fountains; the brightly earringed women of color peeking down from painted balconies; the pilgrims and visitors lounging in the sun against warm walls; the empty halls adorned with intricate plasterwork and gold accents in tiled recesses; the Venetian chandeliers and gaudy rococo beds; the terraces from which pigeons burst into a white cloud as we walked on a carpet of their feathers—were these mere remnants of a lost grandeur, or the actual backdrop of the life of some wealthy merchant with "business ties" in Liverpool and Lyons, or some government official racing to Meknez or Casablanca in his powerful car?

We visited both old and new palaces, some occupied and some abandoned, and everywhere there was the same fine dust of forgetfulness, like the silvery mold on an overripe piece of fruit. [Pg 85] Overripeness is really the hallmark of this rich and stagnant culture. Buildings, people, and traditions all seem on the verge of crumbling under their own weight: the present feels like a constantly extended past. To actually touch the past is something you can only do in dreams; and in Morocco, that dreamlike feeling surrounds you at every turn. You constantly worry that the "Person from Porlock" might show up.

He is definitely on his way; but Fez hadn’t heard of him when we rode out that morning. Fez Eldjid, the "New Fez" of palaces and government buildings, was established in the fourteenth century by the Merinid princes, and it likely looks much the same as it did back then. The palaces, surrounded by overgrown gardens with pale-green trellises separating the rose beds from the blue-and-white tiled paths, and fountains set in fluted basins of Italian marble, all have the same sleepy charm; yet the oldest were built only a century or two ago, with others built within the last fifty years. Later on our journey in Marrakech, we would visit an opulent home where plaster-cutters and ceramists from Fez were actually recreating, with remarkable skill and spontaneity, the old ornamentation [Pg 86] that traces back to Rome and Damascus.

Of really old private homes, palaces, or rich people's houses, there are surprisingly few in Morocco. It's hard to tell how old some of the plain houses leaning against each other in old Fez or old Salé are; but wealthy people capable of rebuilding have always done so, and the love for building seems connected, in this country of contradictions, to the laid-back indifference that allows existing structures to fall apart and return to clay. "Dust to dust" could have been the motto of the Moroccan palace builders.

Fez has one ancient public building, a nice fondak from the fifteenth century; however, in Morocco, typically only mosques and the tombs of saints are preserved—though not very carefully—and even the sturdy stone structures from the Almohad period have fallen into ruin, like those at Chella and Rabat. This lack of care for completed structures—which mirrors a sort of collective disregard similar to an artist’s indifference to their finished work—has led to the complete loss of the furniture and artworks that must have filled the stunning buildings from the Merinid era. There are no surviving pieces of pottery, brass work, enamels, or fine textiles. [Pg 87] There is no equivalent in Morocco to the textiles of Syria, the ceramics of Persia, or the Byzantine ivories and enamels. Some say that Moroccans are always nomadic, living in their homes as if they were tents; but this doesn’t adequately explain the modern Moroccan's enthusiasm for European furniture. When you look at the list of treasures found in the palaces of the medieval Sultans of Egypt, it’s hard to believe that, while artists may have been lacking in Morocco, the princes and merchants who brought skilled artisans across the desert to build their cities must have also imported treasures to embellish them. Yet, as far as we know, the famous fourteenth-century bronze chandelier from Tetuan and the exquisite old ceremonial furniture said to be in certain mosques are the only significant artworks in Morocco dating later than the Roman sloughi from Volubilis.

[Pg 88]

The distances in Fez are so long and the streets so narrow, and in some areas so crowded, that only saints or simple people travel by mule.

In the afternoon, the pink mules came back, and we headed out for the long tunnel-like street that goes down the hill to the Fez Elbali.

"Watch out—watch your heads!" our leader would shout at every turn, as our path narrowed to a dark passage under a house spanning the street, or a line of donkeys overloaded with bulky reeds or date branches forced the people nearby to press themselves against the walls.

On either side of the street, the houses loomed over us like fortresses, leaning across the narrow strip of blue and extending large beams and buttresses to support each other's bulging sides. There were no windows on the lower floors; only a few iron-barred slits stuffed with rags and ages-old dirt, from which a thin cat would suddenly spring out and scurry off under an archway like a witch's familiar.

[Pg 89]

Some of these narrow streets were crowded with people, while others were as empty as a graveyard; and it felt odd to go from the busy streets heading to the markets to the deep and mysterious quiet of a neighborhood filled with upscale houses, where only a few veiled women accompanied by Black servants moved silently over the clean cobblestones, and you could hear the sound of fountains and streams coming from concealed courtyards and beyond garden walls.

This sound of water is as much a part of Fez as it is of Damascus. The Oued Fez flows through the center of the town, covered by bridges, channeled, built over, and occasionally breaking out into wild cascades and pools surrounded by greenery. The main artery of the city isn’t a street but a waterfall; and stories are told about the shady purposes for which the underground streams are still used by some of the residents behind the blank walls and fragrant gardens of those very respectable streets.

The crowd in Eastern cities is made up of many different groups, and in Morocco, Turks, Jews, and non-believers, along with Berbers from the mountains, hardcore members of the brotherhoods, Soudanese people, and weary Blue Men of the Souss, [Pg 90] bump into merchants and government officials with a sort of democratic familiarity that goes hand in hand with extreme servitude in this land of constant contradictions. But Fez is primarily the city of wealth and education, filled with universities and businesses, where merchants and the oulama[11]—the stationary and lavish types—dominate.

The slippered Fazi merchant, dressed in white muslins and comfortably seated on a wide velvet saddle anchored to the back of a sturdy mule, is as different from the Arab horseman of the desert as Mr. Tracy Tupman was from Dumas's Musketeers. His main interests are comfort, music, making money, managing his harem, and raising his children. His chubby pale face, with long-lashed hazel eyes, curling beard, and plump, delicate hands, reminds one of the round rulers in Hindu miniatures, lounging among houris by lotus ponds.

These people, when they go out, are accompanied by a dark-skinned footman who holds the embroidered reins, and the government officials and dignitaries of the Makhzen[12] are typically followed by several mounted officers from their household, with a servant assigned to each mule. The shouts of the runners clear the way, and even the loaded donkeys and endlessly bewildered camels somehow manage to appear flat as the white procession passes by. [Pg 91]

Then the crowd closes in again, so quickly and densely that it seems impossible they could have ever been separated. There are water-carriers, women wrapped up, beggars covered in sores, sinewy and greasy "saints," Soudanese sorcerers adorned with amulets made from sardine cans and rabbit feet, long-lashed boys from the Chleuh wearing clean embroidered caftans, Jews in black robes and skullcaps, university students with their prayer rugs, sparkling black women, sickly children with gazelle-like eyes and mangy heads, and blind men walking together with linked arms, reciting verses from the Koran. They all swarm to the point where the marketplaces converge around the mosques of Moulay Idriss and El Kairouiyin, pulled in by an irresistible force.

From a terrace in the upper town, the long thatched roofs of El Attarine, the main bazaar of Fez, hint at incredible insights into local life; however, the dull-colored crowds moving through its dim light, the absence of ornate shopfronts and brightly decorated cafes, and the lack of colorful chests and vibrant embroideries like those in Tunis, serve as a reminder that Morocco is a melancholic country, and Fez is a deeply sad city. [Pg 92]

Dust and ashes, dust and ashes, echo from the gray walls, the decaying thatch of the souks, the long, sorrowful song of the blind beggars sitting in rows under the feet of camels and donkeys. No young men stroll through the bazaar in bright caftans, with roses and jasmine tucked behind their ears; no vendors offer lemonade, sweets, and golden fritters; no flower sellers chase after you with tight bunches of orange blossoms and little pink roses. The well-off pass by in white, while the rest of the people move along in dull earth tones.

But gradually, one becomes captivated by another influence—the influence of the Atlas Mountains and the desert. Unknown Africa feels much closer to Morocco than to the white towns of Tunis and the pleasant oases of South Algeria. You sense the proximity of Marrakech from Fez, and from Marrakech, you can feel the closeness of Timbuktu.

[Pg 93]

Fez is dark and the markets surrounding its holiest sites create its most serious area. Night comes early there, and oil lamps flicker in the merchants' spaces while the bright African daylight still shines on the gardens of upper Fez. This twilight enhances the mystery of the souks, making them, despite the noise, crowds, and dirt, a striking entry to the sacred places.

Until a year or two ago, the areas around Moulay Idriss and El Kairouiyin were horm, meaning they were off-limits to non-believers. Heavy wooden beams blocked the ends of each souk, sealing off the sacred spaces, leaving Christians to wonder what was beyond. Now they have some knowledge; while the beams haven’t been removed, anyone can pass under them to the streets near the mosques and even pause for a moment at their open doorways. One cannot go further, as the shrines of Morocco are still restricted to non-believers; however, anyone who knows Cordova or has stood beneath the arches of the Great Mosque of Kairouan can imagine some of the hidden beauties of its namesake, the "Mosque Kairouan" of western Africa.

Once you step into the bars, the beauty of the old Moorish Fez hits you with unexpected charm. Here’s the elegant tiled fountain of Nedjarine, sparkling with vibrant blues and greens of ceramic mosaics; nearby is the courtyard of the Fondak Nedjarine, the oldest and grandest of Moroccan inns, featuring three levels of intricately carved cedar above stone arcades. A little further along, lights and incense invite you to a doorway where it’s best not to stay too long. Under a deep archway, between stalls selling colorful votive candles, the glow of hanging lamps highlights patches of gold and mosaic, and veiled women kneeling before an unseen shrine—this is the entrance to the mosque of Moulay Idriss, where, on specific days of the week, women are allowed to come and pray.

Moulay Idriss wasn't built over the grave of the Fatimite prophet, the first of his name, whose remains rest in the Zerhoun above his holy town. The mosque of Fez was established around the tomb of his son, Moulay Idriss II, who came down from the hills, encountered a camp of Berbers on a tributary of the Sebou, and there laid the foundations of Fez and the Moroccan Empire.

[Pg 95]

Of the original monument, not much is left. The zaouïa[13] that surrounds it is from the reign of Moulay-Ismaël, the seventeenth-century Sultan of Meknez, while the mosque and the green minaret rising from the center of old Fez weren't built until 1820. However, a rich layer of age has already formed on all these different buildings, and the overly ornate details of the shrines and fountains on their outer walls blend into harmony through a veil of incense smoke and the residue of countless worshiping lips and hands.

Featureless walls of uninviting houses close in again at the next turn; but a few steps further, another archway reveals another hidden scene. This time it’s a section of the closely guarded ablution courtyard in the great mosque El Kairouiyin, with its twin green-roofed pavilions that resemble those of the Alhambra.

Those who have walked around the outer walls of the mosque of the other Kairouan, and remember the series of doors leading into the forecourt and the mosque itself, will be able to imagine the layout of the church of Fez. The grand Almohad sanctuary in Tunisia is remarkably free from extra buildings, and you can approach it just as easily as that of Cordova; however, the pathways to El Kairouiyin are so built up that you can never tell at which turn in the maze you might catch a glimpse of its fountain courtyard, or look down the endless colonnades, which the Arabs say: "The person who tries to count the columns of Kairouiyin would go mad." [Pg 96]

Marble floors, sturdy whitewashed pillars, figures lying in the shadows, and rows of yellow slippers in the sunlight—through these glimpses, one has to piece together a vision of the long stretches of arches, the blues and golds of the mirhab,[14] the shine of bronze chandeliers, and the intricate ivory inlay of the twelfth-century minbar[15] made from ebony and sandalwood.

No Christian has ever set foot in Kairouiyin, but art students studying Moroccan culture have gathered pretty clear details about its layout. They’ve counted its "countless" columns and discovered that, to the right of the mirhab, there are carved cedar doors leading into a [Pg 97] mortuary chapel known as "the mosque of the dead." It’s also known that in this chapel, old books and valuable manuscripts are auctioned off on Fridays.

This unusual mix of functions reminds us that Kairouiyin is not just a church but also a library, as well as the University of Fez and its cathedral. The beautiful Medersas that the Merinids added to the city are merely the dorms for the students; all the classes take place in the courtyards and galleries next to the mosque.

El Kairouiyin was originally a prayer hall built in the ninth century by Fatmah, whose father moved from Kairouan to Fez. Later, it was expanded, and its dome was topped with charms that protect sacred places from rats, scorpions, and snakes; however, despite these measures, not all animal life was successfully kept out. In the twelfth century, while building the grand gate Ech Chemmâïn, workers discovered a well underneath its foundations. The entrance of the well was blocked by a huge tortoise; but when the workers tried to remove the tortoise, she said, "I'd rather be burned than taken away from here." They honored her request and incorporated her into the foundations; since then, women who suffer from back pain only need to come and sit on the bench above the well to be healed. [Pg 98]

The actual mosque, or "praying hall," is said to be shaped like a rectangle or double cube measuring 90 meters by 45. This vast space is evenly divided by rows of horseshoe arches supported by whitewashed piers, which are covered in finely patterned matting from Salé. Fifteen monumental doorways lead into the mosque, with cedar doors that are heavily barred and decorated with wrought iron. One of these doors even bears the name of the craftsman and the date 531 of the Hegira (the first half of the twelfth century). The mosque also includes the two audience halls of the Cadi, one of which features a graceful exterior façade with paired lights under horseshoe arches; the library, which is said to have dwindled from 20,000 volumes down to about a thousand; the chapel where the Masters of the Koran recite the sacred text in fulfillment of pious bequests; the "museum" in the upper part of the minaret, where a remarkable collection of ancient astronomical instruments is said to be preserved; and the mestonda, or raised hall above the court, where women come to pray. [Pg 99]

But the highlight of El Kairouiyin is the Merinid court of ablutions. This remarkable gem is located just underneath the Medersa Attarine, which is one of the oldest and most stunning academic buildings in Fez. Thanks to the generosity of the Director of Fine Arts, who was with us, we were taken up to the roof of the Medersa and given the chance to look down into the courtyard.

It’s so well-protected from below that from our hidden spot, it felt like we were peering into the core of forbidden places. The spacious and calm tiled cloister spread out beneath us, with water flowing from a central marble basin, creating a cool sound that smaller fountains responded to from beneath the sloping green roofs of the twin pavilions. It was close to prayer time, and worshippers were arriving, taking off their shoes and robes, washing their faces at the fountains and their feet in the central pool, or lounging in the shade of the surrounding arcade.

This was the famous courtyard "so cool in the great heat that [Pg 100] sitting by your beautiful fountain, I feel complete bliss"—as the learned scholar Abou Abd Allah el Maghili described it; the courtyard where students gather from the nearby halls after memorizing the fundamentals of grammar in both prose and verse, the "science of reading the Koran," the creation, explanation, and embellishments of style, as well as law, medicine, theology, metaphysics, and astronomy, along with the magical numbers, and the skill of calculating the influences of angels, spirits, and celestial bodies, "the names of the victor and the vanquished, and the desired object and the person who desires it."

This is the modern curriculum of the University of Fez. Repetition is fundamental in Arab education, just like in Arab art. The teaching at the University relies entirely on the medieval technique of memorization. Since there are no exams, no degrees, no limits on how long a course can take, and no shame in being a slow learner, it’s not surprising that many students, starting as young adults, stay by the fountain of Kairouiyin until their hair turns gray. One well-known oulama recently completed his studies after [Pg 101] twenty-seven years at the University and is rightly proud of how long he stayed. The scholar's life is relaxed, the pursuit of knowledge is lengthy, and there's a striking contrast between the dirty alleys and noisy markets outside and this cool refuge of learning. It’s no wonder the students of Kairouiyin say with the tortoise: "Burn me rather than take me away."

Outside the holy areas of Moulay Idriss and Kairouiyin, across the Oued Fez, is El Andalous, the mosque that the Andalusian Moors constructed when they settled in Fez in the ninth century.

It stands apart from the markets, on higher ground, and even though it’s not horm, we found it less easy to see than the more famous mosques, since the Christian loiterers in its doorways are noticed more quickly. The Fazi aren’t used to seeing outsiders near their sacred spaces yet. It’s only in the chaos of the souks that you can linger on the edge of the inner mysteries without feeling the weight of annoyed stares; and my only impression of El Andalous is of a stunning Almohad door and the rich blur of an interior where there was no time to focus on the details. [Pg 102]

Turning away from its forbidding entrance, we rode through a poor neighborhood that leads to the grand gate of Bab F'touh. Beyond the gate, a dusty, rocky slope rises toward the outer walls—one of those bleak, lifeless areas that surround Fez with desolation. This one is scattered with gravestones, not enclosed, but, like in most Moroccan cemeteries, simply popping up like weeds among the rocks and out of the scorching dust. Here and there among the slabs stands a well-curb or a crumbling koubba. A lone palm tree rises beside one of the shrines. And between the crowded graves, the caravan trail crosses from the outer to the inner gate, with constant lines of camels and donkeys trampling the dead a bit deeper into the dusty ground.

This Bab F'touh cemetery also serves as a kind of makeshift shelter. Poor caravans set up camp there against the walls, surrounded by a mess of waste and chicken feathers, with stripped date branches being scavenged by hungry dogs and swarmed by big blue flies. Camel drivers sit next to iron kettles over piles of coals, shamans from the Sahara are selling their charms to Black women, vendors with portable wooden stalls are peddling greasy cakes that look like they were made from the leftovers of the caravans, and amidst the unknown dead and dormant saints, the grim, indifferent lives of the impoverished continue to flow. [Pg 103]

A walled path goes down from Bab F'touh to a lower slope, where the Fazi potters have their baking kilns. Under a series of grassy terraces covered with olive trees, we saw the old ovens and spinning wheels that create the pottery sold in the souks. It’s simple and down-to-earth pottery, still well-shaped, though dull in color and repetitive in design; and stacked on the red earth beneath the olive trees, the rows of jars and cups, in their unglazed and unpainted form, displayed their classical heritage more clearly than after they’ve been decorated.

This serene green valley, where people in turbans were carefully moving around the basic ovens, so close to the area filled with flies and waste we had just left, brought an old phrase to mind, and as our mules [Pg 104] stumbled back over the graves of Bab F'touh, we understood the harsh meaning of the words: "They carried him out and buried him in the Potters' Field."

Fez, for over two centuries, was both the trade and cultural capital of Morocco.

Culture actually arrived in northwest Africa mainly due to the Merinid princes. The Almohads built impressive monuments from Rabat to Marrakech and strengthened Fez, but their "massively wasteful empire" broke down just like those before it. Stability needed to come from the west; it wasn't until the Arabs learned it from the Moors that Morocco was able to create a dynasty strong and enlightened enough to realize the ambitions of its founders.

No matter how the conversation goes about whether eastern or western influences are more important in Moroccan art—whether it originated from Syria and then spread to Spain, or was first developed in Spain and then reshaped by Moroccan creativity—it's clear that Fazi art and culture, at their peak, reflect European civilization to some extent. [Pg 105]

Fugitives from Spain arrived in the new city when Moulay Idriss established it. One part of the town was allocated to them, and the river split the Elbali of the Almohads into the two neighborhoods of Kairouiyin and Andalous, which still keep their original names. However, the full intellectual and artistic growth of Fez didn't really take off until the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. It seems that the influences of the renewing art from Europe had finally inspired the diverse desert tribes to develop their own unique style of beauty.

Nine Medersas emerged in Fez, six of which were built by the princes who were also constructing the beautiful colleges in Salé, Rabat, and old Meknez, along with the stunning mosque and minaret of Chella. The power of these rulers was constantly changing; they were always fighting the Sultans of Tlemeen, the Christians of Spain, and the princes of northern Algeria and Tunis. However, during the fourteenth century, they established a rule that was broad and stable enough to allow for the significant surge of art and learning that created the Medersas of Fez.

Until a year or two ago, these college buildings were just as out of reach as the mosques; but now that the French government has taken on their restoration, visitors can explore them with the help of the Fine Arts Department.

All are built on the same design, the design of Salé and Rabat, which (as M. Tranchant de Lunel[16] has pointed out) became, with slight adjustments, that of the wealthy private houses of Morocco. But as interesting as they are in layout and decoration, their main beauty lies in their details: in the combination of carved plaster with the delicate mosaic work of niches and coverings; the intricate arabesques of the upper walls and the bold, almost Gothic sculpture of the cedar beams and corbels supporting them. And when all these details are listed, along with the intricately carved cedar panels, the bronze doors with their large shield-like knobs, and the honeycomb patterns and ruffles of the gilded ceilings, there still remains an overarching sense of dry decay, as if everything is slowly being consumed by a desert sickness—that, and the final awe of witnessing, in such a setting, the ongoing life that took place there when the tiles were laid and the gold was fresh on the ceilings. [Pg 107]

For these shaky Medersas, already in the hands of those restoring them, are still occupied. As long as the stairs are sturdy and the balcony hasn’t decayed from its supports, the students of the University see no reason to leave their rooms above the cool fountain and the prayer house. The strange men giving confusing orders for unnecessary repairs don’t need to interrupt their thoughts; and when the noise of hammering becomes too loud, the oulamas just have to walk through the silk market or the souk of the embroiderers to the mosque of Kairouiyin, and continue weaving the tapestry of their dreams by the fountain of perfect bliss.

One reads that the bazaars of Fez have been the central market of the country for centuries. Here, you can find not only silks [Pg 108] and pottery, the work of Jewish goldsmiths, weapons, and embroidered saddlery produced by the city itself, but also "morocco" from Marrakech, rugs, tent hangings, and matting from Rabat and Salé, grain baskets from Moulay Idriss, daggers from the Souss, and whatever European goods the local markets consume. You look at the layout of Fez and see the area occupied by the bazaars; you push through the crowds that flow through them from dawn to dusk—and you end up feeling perplexed and disappointed. They are less "Oriental" than you expected, if "Oriental" means vibrant colors and liveliness.

Sometimes, it really does mean that: for example, when a procession passes by carrying gifts for a Jewish wedding. The gray crowd makes way for a group of musicians in bright caftans, and following them is a long line of women with their faces uncovered and adorned necks, balancing on their heads the dishes that the guests have sent for the feast—kouskous, sweet creams and syrups, "gazelles' horns" made of sugar and almonds—in finely woven baskets, each covered with several squares of colorful gauze trimmed with gold. Then one recalls the shopping of the Lady from "The Three Calendars," and Fez once again transforms into the Bagdad of Al Raschid.

[Pg 109]

But when there are no special events, parades, ceremonies, or anything like that to liven up the underworld of the souks, the atmosphere is consistently gloomy. The colorful markets, bright houses, flowers, and flute music of North Africa can be found in her Mediterranean ports, influenced by European culture. The further west she goes, the more isolated, somber, and untouched she becomes, a bleak fanatic with her back to the Atlantic walls and the Atlas mountains. Color and joy mostly exist along the trade routes, where people from around the world interact out of curiosity and competition. This gray crowd moving drearily through the dark tunnels symbolizes the true Moghreb, which is close to the wild tribes of the "hinterland" and the harsh feudal castles of the Atlas. To understand how close, one just needs to visit Sefrou on a market day.

Sefrou is a military outpost in an oasis under the Atlas Mountains, about forty miles south of Fez. For most people, the word "oasis" brings to mind palm trees and sand, but even though Morocco has many oases, it lacks pure sand and [Pg 110] has few palm trees. I remember it being a significant moment when I spotted one from my high window at Bou-Jeloud.

The bled is made of very different material than the sandy ocean of the Sahara. The light doesn’t create many illusions here. Its dullness is more tiring than striking, and because there's usually some small vegetation present, the shift to the rich green of the alluvial land isn’t as shocking when it's finally encountered. One always kind of anticipated it, and it doesn’t suddenly appear like a magical burst from barren gold.

But the reality brings its own benefits. Moroccan oases vary much more from each other than those in South Algeria and Tunisia. Some have no palm trees, a few have some, and others are true palm oases, though even in the south (at least on this side of the great Atlas) none have the thick, uniform canopy of metal-blue fronds like the date oases of Biskra or Tozeur. As for Sefrou, which Foucauld called the most beautiful oasis in Morocco, it’s simply an incredibly fertile valley with vineyards and orchards set against a stunning backdrop of mountains. However, being located just below the Atlas makes it an [Pg 111] important market and hub for caravans.

Though it’s very close to Fez, it still sits on the disputed border between the loyal and the "unsubmissive" tribes—the ones that are Blad-Makhzen (loyal to the Sultan's government) and those that aren't. Because of this, it was mostly off-limits to visitors until recently, and even now, a heavily fortified French outpost overlooks the area from the hill above the town. From the fort, you can see a suburb of Arab houses surrounded by gardens through the varied shades of green, and further down by the river is Sefrou itself, a sturdy little walled town with corner towers boldly reaching out toward the Atlas Mountains. Just outside these walls, the market takes place.

It was packed with hill people the day we were there, and the contrast between the crowd inside the circle of tethered horses and the white-robed locals from Rabat who filled the marketplace of Salé was striking. Here at last, we were connected with the un-Arab side of Morocco, with the Berbers from the countryside and the hills, whose women don't wear veils and aren't secluded, and who, beneath a thin layer of Islam, keep their old stone and animal worship, along with all the crude fetish beliefs that [Pg 112] Muhammad sought to free Africa from.

The men were lean and weathered, some with full lips, others with prominent noses and sharp cheekbones, all looking muscular and fierce. Some wore the black cloaks of the Blue Men of the Sahara, with a large orange sun stitched on the back; others were dressed like the Egyptian farmers, in rough striped outer garments decorated with bright patches and tassels of wool. The men from the Rif had braided locks on their shoulders, while those from the Atlas had ringlets over each ear, with brown wool scarves wrapped around their heads, leaving their shaved crowns bare.

The women, squatting with their kids, poultry, and cheeses, looked at us with bright hennaed eyes and smiles that raised their short upper lips playfully. Their thin faces were decorated with stripes and patterns of indigo. Silver necklaces adorned their throats, long earrings hung beneath the wool-embroidered scarves wrapped around their temples with a twist of camel hair, and below the cotton shifts secured on [Pg 113] their shoulders with silver clasps, their legs were bare to the knee or covered with leather leggings to protect them from the thorny bled.

They seemed more skilled at negotiating than the men, and the mix of expressions on their dramatic and highly feminine faces as they sweet-talked a fierce hillsman into lowering the price of a calf or argued over a pile of dates that a Jew with greasy ringlets was trying to get for his secret distillery showed that they were aware of their advantage and were having a good time with it.

Jews were everywhere in the marketplace and around the town. Sefrou has a large Jewish community, and after we wandered through the steep streets, over rushing waterfalls crossed by "ass-backed" Spanish bridges, and through a thatched souk that smelled strongly of camels and the desert, the French commissioner (the only European in Sefrou) suggested that we might be interested in visiting the Mellah.

It was our first glimpse of a typical Jewish quarter in Africa. The Mellah of Fez was nearly completely destroyed during the massacres of 1912 (which also included a pogrom), and its unique character, fortunately for the residents, has vanished in the rebuilding. North African Jews are still forced to live in ghettos, which they are locked into at night, just like in France and Germany during the Middle Ages; until recently, the men were required to go unarmed, wear black coats and black slippers, remove their shoes when passing by a mosque or a saint's tomb, and in various other ways show their submission to the dominant race. Nowhere else do they live in such degrading closeness as in some of Morocco's cities. They have been subjected to relentless exploitation by the Muslims for so long that even the wealthy Jews (who are numerous) have adopted the habits and appearances of the poorest. Sefrou, which has only recently come under French control, is a good example of a Mellah before foreign sanitation has illuminated its dark corners.

Dark they were, for sure. After wandering through narrow and stinky alleys, and stepping around the garbage in the souks, we were suddenly led under an arch that should have had "Abandon all light—" written over it, which made everything we had seen before look clean, bright, and airy.

[Pg 115]

The generous African sun dries and cleanses the long-standing grime of Africa; wherever that sun shines, there's none of the mustiness of moisture. But it never reaches the Mellah of Sefrou, as the streets create a kind of underground maze beneath the upper floors of a solid cluster of tall buildings—a hidden city that’s even illuminated at noon by oil lamps hanging in the goldsmiths' shops and under the arches of the dark and smelly stairways.

It was a Jewish holiday. The Hebrew stalls in the souks were closed, and the entire population of the Mellah filled its winding paths in festive attire. Young women with round white faces and beautiful eyes rushed past us, wearing brightly colored wraps and draping themselves in faded muslin over gaudy brocaded caftans. Their lighter-skinned children swarmed around them, little girls with long earrings like wax dolls dressed in bits of old finery, little boys in worn caftans with long lashes and sly grins; trailing behind were their bulky grandmothers, large masses of soft flesh who were probably still in their thirties.

With them were the men of the family, in black coats and skullcaps: pale young men, incredibly old ancestors, [Pg 116] round-bellied husbands and fathers bouncing along like black balloons; all rushing to the low doorways decorated with lamps and paper garlands behind which the feast was laid out.

One hears that in cities like Fez and Marrakech, the Jewish quarter hides beautiful courtyards and luxurious rooms filled with heavy European furniture that wealthy Jews love. Maybe even in the Mellah of Sefrou, among the tattered figures moving past us, there are a few with gold hidden in their walls and valuable items stashed away in painted chests; but for courtyards, flowers, and sunlight, there seems to be no space in the dark bolgia they live in. It's no surprise that the babies in the Moroccan ghettos are fed date-brandy, and their elders drift off to sleep, lulled to death by its comforting influence.

It’s best to say goodbye to Fez at night—preferably on a moonlit night.

Then, after having dinner at the Arab inn of Fez Eldjid—where it might be a hassle to stay, but where eating is really enjoyable [Pg 117] kouskous under a grapevine trellis in a tiled and fountain-filled patio—once this pleasure is done, you can head out on foot and wander down the alleys toward Fez Elbali.

Not long ago, the gates between the different parts of the city were locked every night at nine o'clock, and any merchant who went out to dinner in another area had to stay with their host. Now, that practice has stopped, and you can wander freely through the old neighborhoods, which have become as quiet as the grave after the bustling life of the bazaars has ended at night.

Nobody's in the streets: wandering from eerie alley to alley, the only sound is the watchman’s footsteps with his staff and lantern. Suddenly, a light appears in the distance, like a low-flying firefly; as it gets closer, it’s revealed to be from the Mellah lamp made of open-work brass that a servant carries in front of two merchants heading home from Elbali. The merchants are serious men: they move quietly and slowly on their soft slippered feet, pausing occasionally to talk confidentially. Finally, they stop in front of a house wall with a low blue door secured with heavy iron hasps. The servant lifts the lamp and knocks. There's a long wait; then, with great caution, the door opens a few inches, and another light shines faintly on shiny tiled walls and the face of a woman slave who quickly veils herself. Clearly, the master is a respected man, and the house is well protected. The two merchants touch each other on the right shoulder, one of them goes inside, while his friend continues on through the moonlight, the servant’s lantern flickering ahead. [Pg 118]

But here we are in an open space, looking down one of the slopes toward El Attarine. A misty glow washes over the tall houses, the garden walls, and the archways; even the moonlight doesn’t brighten Fez, it just turns its gray into a dull silver. Above, a single light twinkles in a tower window: women’s voices rise and fall on the rooftops. In the doorway of a wealthy man, slaves are sleeping, huddled on the tiles. A rooster crows from someone’s trash pile; a bony dog roams around looking for scraps.

Everywhere, you can hear the loud rush or soft murmur of water, and the scent of jasmine and rose wafts over every wall. In the distance, from the vivid chaos between the buildings, you can hear the wild beat of a party; here, everything is peaceful and fragrant. A minaret rises up from the roof like a palm tree, and from its balcony, a small white figure leans out and bestows a blessing on all the beauty and all the misery. [Pg 119]

[Pg 123]

There are countless Arab stories about evil Djinns that disguise themselves as sandstorms and hot winds to overpower tired travelers.

In spite of the new road in France connecting Rabat and Marrakech, memories of those stories keep surfacing from every mile of the flat red earth and the barren rocky areas of the bled. As long as the road stays in view of the crashing Atlantic waves, it brings energy and vibrancy to the scene; but when it turns inland and stretches across the wilderness, the overwhelming vastness and stillness of Africa can feel incredibly heavy.

The road goes through no villages, and not even a cluster of nomad tents can be seen in the distance on the[Pg 124] wide stretches of farmland. Occasionally, our vehicle passed a train of loaded mules or a group of farmers gathered around a well, and sometimes, in the distance, a fortified farm stood with its thick towers against the sky, or a white koubba appeared like a mirage above the brush; but these rare hints of life only made the solitude of the long stretches feel even stronger.

At noon, we felt refreshed by the sight of the little oasis near the military post of Settat. We had lunch there with the commanding officer in a cool Arab house, surrounded by a flowery patio; but once that brief break was over, the scorching plain stretched out before us again. After Settat, the road continues for miles across the barren land to the gorge of the Oued Ouem; beyond the river, it climbs to another plain that is so hopelessly dry that the prickly scrub we had just left seemed like lush vegetation. For fifty kilometers, the ground beneath our wheels was a kind of shiny red slag scattered with pebbles and stones. Not even the hardiest of plants managed to push a leaf through its harsh surface; there wasn't a well or any darker spot in the rock that showed any sign of a trickle[Pg 125] of water. Everything around us sparkled with the same relentless dryness.

A long way ahead were the Djebilets, the mountains haunted by Djinn that stand guard over Marrakech to the north. When we finally reached them, their wicked purple slopes shimmered like a volcanic eruption on the plain. We had watched the clouds building up over them for a while, and as we reached the top of the pass, rain was falling from a line of thunder in the south. Then the mist cleared, and we saw another red plain below us with a cluster of palm trees in the middle. Mysteriously, from the center of the palms, a tower rose up, seemingly alone in the wilderness; behind it were the sunlit cliffs of the Atlas, with snow-capped peaks appearing and disappearing through the storm.

As we drove down, the rocks slowly changed to red dirt, cracked by yellow streams, and scattered clusters of palms emerged, thin and messy, around wells where people were watering camels and donkeys. To the east, towering over the oasis, the twin-peaked hills of the Ghilis stood, fortified at the top, watching over unseen Marrakech;[Pg 126] but still, above the palms, we could only see that solitary and proud tower.

Right now, we crossed the Oued Tensif on an old bridge built by Moroccan engineers. Beyond the river were more palm trees, then olive orchards, then the blurry outline of the new European settlement, with a few shops and cafés on streets that abruptly ended in clay pits, and finally Marrakech emerged in front of us, appearing as a red wall against a red landscape.

We went through a gate and encountered more walls. Then we entered a series of dusty red streets lined with clay huts, where shadowy figures moved by like ghosts. After that, there were more walls, more gates, more winding paths, more gates again, more turns, and a dusty open area filled with donkeys, camels, and people of African descent; a final wall with a large door under a tall arch—and suddenly we were in the Bahia Palace, surrounded by flowers, shadows, and flowing water.

[Pg 127]

Whoever wants to truly understand Marrakech should start by heading up to the roof of the Bahia at sunset.

Outspread below lies the oasis city of the south, flat and vast like the great nomad camp it really is, with its low roofs stretching in all directions to a ring of blue palms surrounded by desert. Only two or three minarets and a few noble houses amid gardens disrupt the overall flatness; however, they barely stand out, as the eye is irresistibly drawn to two dominant features—the white wall of the Atlas and the red tower of the Koutoubya.

Foursquare and solid, the great tower rises with its reddish stone sides. Its expansive, unadorned walls and the three levels of grouped openings brighten as they go up from the harsh rectangular windows at the base to the elegant arches just below the parapet, showcasing the strong harmony of the finest architecture. The Koutoubya would be impressive anywhere; in this flat desert, it stands grand enough to confront the Atlas Mountains.

The Almohad conquerors who built the Koutoubya[Pg 128] and decorated Marrakech envisioned a dream of beauty that stretched from the Guadalquivir to the Sahara; and at either end, they built their watchtowers. The Giralda monitored civilized foes in an area rich with ancient Roman culture; the Koutoubya stood at the edge of the world, facing the desert tribes.

The Almoravid princes who founded Marrakech came from the black desert of Senegal; they were leaders of wild groups. The history of North Africa has repeated this same cycle over and over. Generation after generation, chiefs have emerged from the desert or the mountains, overthrown their predecessors, massacred, plundered, gotten rich, built impressive palaces, and encouraged their loyal followers to do the same; then they would turn on them and take their wealth and their palaces. Often, some religious fervor or strict opposition to the excesses of city life has driven these attacks; but the same outcomes always followed, just as they did when the Germanic tribes invaded Italy. The conquerors, overtaken by luxury and intoxicated by power, constructed even larger palaces and designed grander cities; yet Sultans and Viziers resided in their golden homes as if they were on the move, while the mud huts of the tribesmen within their walls were only a step up from the mud-walled tents of the bled.

[Pg 129]

This was especially true for Marrakech, a city of Berbers and Black people, and the last outpost against the fierce black world beyond the Atlas Mountains from which its founders originated. When you look at its location and think about its history, you can’t help but admire the level of civilization it achieved.

The Bahia itself, now the residence of the Resident General, though built less than a hundred years ago, showcases the architectural extravagance of the great southern chiefs. It was constructed by Ba-Ahmed, the all-powerful black Vizier of Sultan Moulay-el-Hassan.[18] Ba-Ahmed was clearly both an artist and an archaeologist. His goal was to recreate a Palace of Beauty like those the Moors built during the height of Arab art, and he brought skilled craftsmen from Fez to Marrakech—the last surviving masters of intricately carved plaster, ceramic mosaics, and gilded cedar designs. They came, they built the Bahia, and it remains[Pg 130] the most beautiful and fantastical of Moroccan palaces.

Court within court, garden beyond garden, reception halls, private apartments, staff quarters, sunny prophet chambers on the roofs, and baths in vaulted cellars, the maze of passages and rooms stretches out over several acres of land. A long courtyard enclosed in pale-green trellis, where pigeons preen themselves around a large pond and the dripping tiles shine with scattered sunlight, leads to the cool shade of a cypress garden, or through jasmine-covered pathways lined with running water; and these in turn open into arched apartments faced with tiles and stucco, where, in a lazy twilight, the hours float by to the constant sound of the fountains.

The beauty of Moroccan palaces is made up of countless details and refinements that bring sensuous pleasure, too many to count; but to grasp their overall character, it's worth crossing the Court of Cypresses at the Bahia and following a series of low-ceilinged passages that twist and turn until they reach the heart of the labyrinth. Here, passing by a low locked door that leads to a crypt, known as the "Door of the Vizier's Treasure-House," you'll find a painted portal that opens into an even more hidden sanctuary: the room of the Grand Vizier's Favorite.

[Pg 131]

This beautiful prison, completely cut off from the sights and sounds of the outside world, surrounds an atrium paved with turquoise, black, and white tiles. Water flows from a central alabaster basin into a hexagonal mosaic channel in the floor. The walls soar at least twenty-five feet high, topped with painted beams that rest on panels of intricately designed stucco featuring a clerestory of jewel-like glass. On either side of the atrium are long recessed rooms closed off by vermilion doors adorned with gold patterns and vases filled with spring flowers. These dim inner rooms, furnished with rugs, divans, and soft pillows, only receive light when their doors open into the atrium. I was fortunate to stay in this amazing place while I was in Marrakech.

In a climate where, after the winter snow has melted from the Atlas, every breath of air for months feels like flames, these enclosed rooms in the middle of the palaces are the only places of[Pg 132] refuge from the heat. Even in October, the temperature in the favorite's apartment was refreshingly cool after a morning spent in the bazaars or dusty streets, and I never returned to its damp tiles and constant twilight without feeling like I was diving into a deep sea-pool.

From a distance, the smell of citron blossom and jasmine wafted through winding hallways, occasionally accompanied by a bird singing before dawn, sometimes by a flute's mournful tune at sunset, and always the call of the muezzin at night; however, no sunlight entered the apartment except for a few distant beams through the clerestory, and the only air came through one or two cracked window panes.

Sometimes, lying on my couch and looking out through the bright red doors, I would catch a glimpse of a pair of swallows dropping down from their nest in the cedar beams to preen themselves at the fountain's edge or in the cracks of the pavement; the roof was filled with birds coming and going through the broken panes of the clerestory. Usually, they were my only visitors; but one morning just at dawn, I was awakened by the soft sound of bare feet, and saw, silhouetted against the cream-colored walls, a procession of eight tall Black men in linen tunics, moving silently across the atrium like a moving statue in bronze. In that surreal setting and the stillness of the early morning hour, the sight resembled a scene from a "Seraglio Tragedy," as if some fragment of a Delacroix or Decamps had floated into my sleepy brain, leading me to almost believe I was witnessing the ghosts of Ba-Ahmed's executioners revisiting, with daggers and bowstrings, the site of an unavenged crime.

[Pg 133]

A rooster crowed, and they disappeared... and when I foolishly asked what they were doing in my room at that hour, I was told (as if it were the most natural thing ever) that they were the city’s lamp-lighters in Marrakech, whose job it is to refill the two hundred acetylene lamps that light up the palace of the Resident General every morning. Such unexpected facets take on ordinary domestic tasks in this mysterious city.

[Pg 134]

Passing out of the magical circle of the Bahia, it's shocking to dive into the local life around its entrance.

Marrakech is the major marketplace of the south; and the south includes not just the Atlas with its feudal leaders and their wild clans, but everything beyond it filled with heat and untamed land: the Sahara of the veiled Touaregs, Dakka, Timbuktu, Senegal, and Sudan. This is where the camel caravans arrive from Demnat and Tameslout, from the Moulouya and the Souss, as well as those from the Atlantic ports and the borders of Algeria. The population of this ancient city in the southern region has always been even more diverse than that of the northern Moroccan towns. It consists of descendants from all the peoples conquered by a long line of Sultans who brought their captives across the sea from Moorish Spain and across the Sahara from Timbuktu. Even in the well-cultivated area on the lower slopes of the Atlas, there are groups of different ethnic backgrounds, descendants of tribes[Pg 135] relocated by long-ago rulers and still maintaining many of their original traits.

In the markets, all these people come together and interact: cattle dealers, olive farmers, villagers from the Atlas, Souss, and Draa regions, Blue Men from the Sahara, and people from Senegal and Sudan, all coming in to trade with wool merchants, tanners, leather sellers, silk weavers, armor makers, and producers of farming tools.

Dark, fierce, and fanatical are these narrow souks of Marrakech. They are simply dirt paths covered with rushes, like in Southern Tunisia and Timbuktu, and the crowds in them are so thick that at certain times, it's nearly impossible to get close to the tiny raised stalls where the merchants sit like idols among their goods. You immediately sense that something beyond just the desire to negotiate—so dear to the African spirit—drives these constantly moving masses. The Souks of Marrakech feel, more than any others, like the heart of a native life that stretches far beyond the city walls into hidden cracks of the mountains and distant oases where schemes are plotted and holy wars stir—further still, to yellow deserts where[Pg 136] black people are secretly brought across the Atlas to that deepest corner of the bazaar where the ancient trade in flesh and blood continues discreetly.

All these different threads of everyday life, woven from greed and desire, fetishism and fear, and blind hatred of outsiders, create a dense web in the souks where sometimes your feet feel like they’re tripping over themselves. Fanatics in sheepskins glare from the guarded entrances of the mosques, fierce tribesmen with ornate weapons tucked in their belts and tufts of wiry hair escaping from their camel-hair turbans, and wild-looking men standing completely naked in wall niches, chanting Soudanese spells over an entranced crowd. There are sickly Jews with pathos and cunning in their large eyes and smiling lips, robust slave girls with clay oil jars resting against their swaying hips, almond-eyed boys leading hefty merchants by the hand, and bare-legged Berber women, tattooed and proudly cheerful, trading their striped blankets or bags of dried roses and irises for sugar, tea, or Manchester cottons. From all these hundreds of unknown people, connected by hidden bonds or subtly scheming against each other, there[Pg 137] radiates an atmosphere of mystery and threat more suffocating than the smell of camels, spices, sweaty bodies, and frying food that hangs like a fog beneath the low ceilings of the souks.

And suddenly, you step away from the crowd and the smoky air into one of those quiet corners that resemble the backwaters of the markets: a small square where a vine stretches across a shopfront, hanging ripe clusters of grapes among the reeds. In the patterns of grape shadows, a very old donkey, tied to a stone post, dozes under a pack saddle that is never removed; and nearby, in a cozy nook, sits an elderly man dressed in white. This is the head of the Guild of "morocco" workers in Marrakech, the most skilled craftsman in Morocco when it comes to preparing and using the hides the city is named after. These sleek moroccos, either cream-white or dyed with cochineal or pomegranate skins, are crafted into the luxurious bags of the Chleuh dancing boys, the embroidered slippers for the harem, and the belts and harnesses that play a significant role in Moroccan trade—and in the past, the finest ones were used for the pomegranate-red morocco bindings prized by European book collectors.

[Pg 138]

From this peaceful corner, you step into the vibrant chaos of a souk filled with countless fluffy bunches of silk—skeins of bright yellow, deep red, lively green, and rich purple. This is the silk-spinners' area, and right next to it is the dyers' section, featuring large boiling vats where the raw silk is dipped, and ropes overhead where the colorful strands are hung out to dry.

Another turn takes you to the street of metalworkers and armorers, where sunlight shining through the thatch catches the rounded sides of polished copper or highlights the silver details of fancy powder-flasks and pistols. Nearby is the souk for plowshares, packed with peasants in worn Chleuh cloaks waiting to get their old plows fixed. There's also the smiths' area, in a side lane of mud huts, where Black men sit in the dust and muscular, bare-skinned figures in ragged loincloths lean over glowing coals. And this is where the maze of the bazaars ends.

[Pg 139]

One of the Almohad Sultans who, during their hundred years of empire, spread impressive monuments from Seville to the Atlas, wanted some cool shade around his southern capital, so he created the olive orchards of the Agdal.

To the south of Marrakech, the Agdal stretches for many acres between the city's outer walls and the palm oasis—an unbroken strip of silver foliage crossed by deep red paths, surrounding a sprawling summer palace and two massive walled reservoirs. The sight of these calm bodies of water, where olives and palms are perfectly mirrored, creates one of the most poetic impressions in that city known for its deep-rooted poetry.

On the edge of one of the reservoirs, a nostalgic Sultan constructed a small getaway called the Menara in the last century. It consists of a few rooms with a two-story loggia overlooking the water and palm groves, surrounded by a garden filled with cypress and orange trees. The Menara,[Pg 140] once deserted, is usually unoccupied; but on the day we drove through the Agdal, we saw a group of well-dressed servants at the gate holding mules with embroidered saddles.

The French officer with us asked the porter what was happening, and he replied that the Chief of the Guild of Wool-Merchants had rented the pavilion for a week and invited some friends to join him. The porter added that they were now having tea in the loggia above the lake; and the host, having learned of our presence, requested that we honor him and his friends by visiting the pavilion.

In response to this friendly invitation, we walked through an empty lounge filled with couches and stepped out onto the loggia where the wool merchant and his guests were sitting. They obviously held some importance: large, hefty men dressed in fresh muslin, lounging side by side on divans and cushions covered in muslin. Black slaves had set up brass trays in front of them with pots of mint tea, glasses in filigree holders, and platters of gazelle horns and candy; they sat peacefully enjoying these refreshments and gazing calmly with their big eyes at the still water and the trees reflected in it.

So, we were told, they would likely spend most of their holiday here. The merchant's cooks had taken over the kitchens, and around sunset, an extravagant multi-course meal would be brought into the dining room on covered trays. The guests would sit around it on rugs from Rabat, using their fingers to tear into tender chicken wings and small artichokes cooked in oil, plunging their fat white hands into large piles of saffron and rice, and washing off the remnants of each course in a brass basin of scented water carried around by a young black slave girl wearing hoop earrings and a green-and-gold scarf around her hips.

Then the singing girls would come out from Marrakech, round-faced young women with lots of henna and jewelry, accompanied by skinny musicians in bright caftans; and for hours they would sing sentimental or raunchy ballads to the relentless, annoying twang of violins, flutes, and drums. Meanwhile, fiery brandy or sweet champagne would probably be passed around alongside the steaming glasses of mint tea that the servants constantly refilled; or maybe the sultry air, heavy meal, scent of the garden, and the dizzying repetition of the music would be enough to send these relaxed folks into the blissful daze that every festive evening in Morocco ends with.

The next day would go similarly, except that likely the Chleuh boys with sidelong glances and clean caftans would show up instead of the singing girls, and they would perform their dance in place of the singing. But the outcome would always be the same: an extended period of overwhelming happiness ending in piles of snoring fabric on the divans against the wall. Finally, at the end of the week, the wool merchant and his friends would all ride back to the bazaar with dignity.

[Pg 143]

"Do you want to see the Chleuh boys dance?" someone asked.

"There they are," another one of our friends said, pointing to a thick crowd of onlookers on one side of the huge dusty square at the entrance of the souks—the "Square of the Dead," as it's called, in remembrance of the executions that used to happen under one of its dark red gates.

It’s the heart of the living now, the center of all the life, fun, and chatter of Marrakech, and the crowd is so tightly packed around the storytellers, snake charmers, and dancers who gather there that you can only figure out what's happening in each group by the wailing monologue or the constant drumbeat coming from it.

Ah, yes—we really want to see the Chleuh boys dance; we who, since we arrived in Morocco, had seen no dancing, heard no singing, and caught no glimpse of any celebration! But how were we supposed to get a glimpse of them?

On one side of the "Square of the Dead" stands[Pg 144] a large house, built in a European style but inspired by Eastern designs: the office of the French municipal administration. The French Government no longer permits its offices to be constructed within the walls of Moroccan towns, and this house dates back to the legendary days of the Caïd Sir Harry Maclean, who was gifted it by the extravagant Abd-el-Aziz when the Caïd was both his favored companion and military advisor.

At the suggestion of the local officials, we climbed the stairs and looked down on the crowded square. There's no other Oriental sight like it this side of the Atlas and the Sahara. The square is surrounded by low mud-brick houses, fondaks, cafés, and similar places. In one corner, near the archway leading into the souks, is the fruit market, where the red-gold branches of unripe dates[19] for animal feed are stacked high, and dozens of donkeys are coming and going, their packs filled with fruits and vegetables that are piled up on the ground in stunning pyramids: purple eggplants, melons, cucumbers, bright orange pumpkins, mauve, pink, and violet onions, rusty crimson pomegranates, and the golden grapes of Sefrou and Salé, all mixed in with fresh green bundles of mint and wormwood.

[Pg 145]

In the middle of the square sit the storytellers' audiences, wearing turbans. Beyond them, there are the smaller crowds around the wild-haired snake charmers, with their frantic gestures and hissing chants. Farther away, in the thickest crowd, we can just make out the shaved heads and waving arms of the dancing boys in their robes. Under a nearby archway, an important person dressed in white muslin sat on a beautiful mule, surrounded by his attendants, with a serious expression and narrowed eyes, intently watching the dancers.

Suddenly, as we stood there watching the amazing scene, a reddish light spread across it, and one of our friends exclaimed, "Oh—a dust storm!"

In that moment, it hit us: a red cloud rushing into the square out of nowhere, swirling the date branches over the heads of the seated crowds, toppling the piles of fruits and vegetables, ripping the canvas awnings from the[Pg 146] lemonade sellers' stalls and in front of the café doors, sheltering the blinded donkeys against the walls of the fondak, and exposing the torsos of the black slave girls hurriedly making their way home from the souks.

Such a blast would instantly have scattered any Western crowd, but "the patient East" remained undisturbed, hunching its shoulders against the storm and continuing to watch intently the movements of the dancers and the storytelling. However, eventually, the wind became too fierce, and the spectators were so caught up in collapsing tents, swirling date branches, and stampeding mules that the square started to empty out, except for the listeners around the most popular storyteller, who remained seated and calm. Then, at the peak of the storm, they too were suddenly scattered by the rush of a procession crossing the square. First came a well-dressed man, carrying a small boy in a gold-embroidered orange caftan on his peaked saddle, holding an open book in front of him; behind them was a group of men in white drapes on showily adorned mules, followed by musicians in colorful outfits. It was just a circumcision procession on its way to[Pg 147] the mosque; but the dust-covered rider in his rich attire, clutching the bewildered child to his chest, looked like some Eastern prince trying to escape with his son from the fiery embraces of desert spirits.

As quickly as it started, the storm calmed down, leaving the fruit market in ruins beneath a sky that was as clear and innocent as a baby's eyes. The Chleuh boys had disappeared with everyone else, like puppets being tossed into a drawer by a restless child; but soon, around sunset, we were informed that we would see them after all, and our hosts took us up to the roof of the Caïd's house.

The city spread out in front of us like a huge terrace surrounded by palm trees. The sky was a clear blue, turning to turquoise green where the Atlas Mountains hovered above the mist; and against the snowy peaks stood the Koutoubya, glowing red in the sunset.

People were starting to gather on the rooftops: it was the time for relaxation, for washing up, for family moments on the rooftops. Groups of women in light colors and flowing veils chatted with each other from terrace to terrace, amid the laughter of children and the loud calls of decorated African women. And soon,[Pg 148] on the roof next to ours, the slim dancing boys in white caftans with hennaed feet appeared.

The three dark-skinned musicians who joined them crossed their thin legs on the tiles and started their throb-throb and thrum-thrum, and on a narrow section of the terrace, the young men began their rhythmic steps.

It was a serious, still dance, like the one David might have performed before the Ark; free from joy or silliness, fitting for such a solemn place, and drawing its magic from its seriousness. Even when the tempo picked up with the intensity of the music, the movements remained controlled and formal; only when, one by one, the dancers stepped out of the circle and knelt before us for the peseta that it's customary to press on their foreheads, did we see, from the moisture making the coin stick, just how quick and intense their movements had been.

The performance, like everything related to the East, like life, the patterns, the stories, seemed to have no beginning and no end: it just went on endlessly and tireless until fate cut it short by calling us to dinner. And so we finally went[Pg 149] down into the dusty streets, feeling refreshed by that vision of young men dancing on the rooftops against the golden sunset that made them look—despite the ankle bracelets and painted eyes—almost as innocent and joyful as the circle of angels on the roof of Fra Angelico's Nativity.

On one of the final days of our time in Marrakech, we were told, almost mysteriously, that we would be allowed to visit the tombs of the Saadian Sultans.

Though Marrakech has been under French control since 1912, the authorities were unaware of the existence of these tombs until 1917. Then, the Sultan’s government privately informed the Resident General that an unexpected treasure of Moroccan art was falling into disrepair, and after some hesitation, it was decided that General Lyautey and the Director of Fine Arts could visit the mosque housing the tombs, on the condition that the French Government agreed[Pg 150] to restore them. While we were in Rabat, General Lyautey told us about his visit, and at his request, the Sultan authorized us to see the mosque, which no travelers had been allowed to enter yet.

With a lot of ceremony, and after the usual talks with the great Pasha who oversees local matters in Marrakech, a time was set for our visit, and we drove through long streets lined with mud huts to a remote area near the walls. Finally, we arrived at an empty square where the long, low mosque of Mansourah stands, featuring a turquoise-green minaret decorated with intricate terra cotta designs. Across from the mosque is a gate in a crumbling wall; the Pasha's Cadi was supposed to meet us there with the keys to the mausoleum. But we waited in vain. The slow pace typical of the region, or perhaps a final hesitation to let non-believers enter a sacred site, made the Cadi forget our appointment; and we left feeling disappointed.

The delay made us curious about these mysterious Saadian Sultans, who, although they appeared late in Morocco's history, had at least[Pg 151] one monument that’s considered worthy of the Merinid tradition. And the story of the Saadians is definitely worth sharing.

They arrived from Arabia to the Draa (the fertile region south of the Great Atlas) in the early fifteenth century, when the Merinid empire was already close to falling apart. Like all previous invaders, they promoted the idea of a pure Islam to the polytheistic and indifferent Berbers, and they found a receptive audience because they condemned the problems of a divided empire. Additionally, all of Morocco was in revolt against the Christian colonies of Spain and Portugal, which had surrounded the coast from Ceuta to Agadir with a series of fortified trading posts. To push out the money-driven unbeliever was a goal that gathered support from the Rif to the Sahara, and the Saadian sharifs quickly built a vast following. Islam, although it never truly provided a doctrine for the Berbers, offered them a battle cry as powerful today as it was when it first echoed across Barbary.

The history of the Saadians is a shortened version of all their predecessors' stories. They overthrew[Pg 152] the artistic and luxurious Merinids, and then themselves became artistic and luxurious. Their greatest Sultan, Abou-el-Abbas, nicknamed "The Golden," after defeating the Merinids and ending Christian rule in Morocco with the decisive victory of El-Ksar (1578), aimed to enrich himself and beautify his capital, focusing on the black kingdoms to the south.

Senegal and the Sudan, which had been Muslim since the eleventh century, had reached a high level of commercial prosperity and cultural sophistication by the sixteenth century. The Sultanate of Timbuktu appears to have been a flourishing empire, and although Timbuktu wasn't the grand vision of Carthaginian palaces depicted in the stories of imaginative travelers, it seemed to possess some of the splendor of Fez and Marrakech.

The Saadian army, after a march of four and a half months across the Sahara, took control of the entire black south. Senegal, the Sudan, and Bornou submitted to Abou-el-Abbas, the Sultan of Timbuktu was overthrown, and the famous black jurist Ahmed-Baba was taken prisoner to Marrakech,[Pg 153] where his main sorrow seemed to be the loss of his library of 1,600 volumes—although he claimed that, of all his many family members, he had the fewest books.

Besides this well-read book lover, Sultan Abou-el-Abbas returned with a massive amount of treasure, mainly gold ingots, earning him the nickname "The Golden." As a result of the expedition, Marrakech was adorned with mosques and palaces, for which the Sultan brought marble from Carrara, paying for it with loaves of sugar made from the sugarcane that the Saadians cultivated in Souss.

In spite of these impressive beginnings, the dynasty's rule was brief and ultimately unremarkable. Driven by a fierce hatred of outsiders and fueled by the ongoing resentment of the Moors towards their Spanish conquerors, it constructed even taller walls of exclusivity that the more progressive Almohads and Merinids had tried to dismantle. From that point on, less and less sunlight and fresh air would enter the souks of Morocco.

The day after our failed attempt to visit[Pg 154] the tombs of these short-lived rulers, we got another message with a specific time for our visit; this time, the Pasha's representative was waiting in the archway. We followed him, under the openly suspicious gazes of the Arabs lingering in the square. After carefully navigating through a winding path between walls, we emerged into a filthy, overgrown area against the ramparts. Every thirty feet or so, impressive square towers rose from the walls, and in front of one of them was a cluster of crumbling buildings hidden behind other ruins.

We were first taken into a narrow mosque or prayer chapel, similar to those of the Medersas, featuring a coffered cedar ceiling supported by four marble columns and beautifully designed traceried walls. From this chapel, we moved into the hall of the tombs, a cube about forty feet square. Fourteen columns of colored marble hold up a domed ceiling made of gilded cedar, with an outer walkway beneath a tunnel vault also covered with cedar. The walls are typically made of carved stucco, above ceramic mosaic coverings, and between the columns lie the white marble cenotaphs of the[Pg 155] Saadian Sultans, adorned with delicate Arabic inscriptions in low relief. Beyond this central mausoleum, balancing the prayer chapel, is another long narrow chamber, also with a gold ceiling, containing a few tombs.

It's tough to describe the architecture of Morocco without creating an impression of monotony. The layouts of mosques and Medersas are pretty much the same, and the same few elements are repeated endlessly in the materials and the design of the ornamentation. The visual effect isn’t monotonous, though, because skilled artisans have created countless variations in patterns and color combinations; plus, the depth of the stucco carving and the design of the bronze doors and carved cedar corbels change significantly with the different periods that produced them.

But in the Saadian mausoleum, a new element has been added that sets this small monument apart. The marble columns supporting the roof seem to be one of a kind in Moroccan architecture, and they allow for a new roof design that connects the building more closely to the traditions[Pg 156] of Venice or Byzantine through Kairouan and Cordoba.

The late date of the monument rules out any notion of a direct artistic tradition. The most likely explanation is that the architect of the mausoleum was influenced by European Renaissance architecture and appreciated the beauty of using precious marbles not just as decoration, but in the Roman and Italian style, as a structural component. Panels and fountain basins serve as decoration, and decoration doesn't change anything fundamental in architecture; however, when heavy square piers are substituted with detached columns, a new style emerges.

It’s not just the unique design that makes the Saadian mausoleum stand out among Moroccan monuments. The intricate details of its decoration are incredibly refined: it feels as if the final touches of the fading Merinid art have been collected into this rare gem. The angle of sunlight on the shiny columns, the depths of the carved gold, the dark ivory of the walls, and the bright white of the cenotaphs, so classically minimal in decoration and design—this subtle harmony of shapes and colors gives the dim, rich chapel an almost dreamlike quality.

[Pg 157]

And how can this not feel like a dream? Who could have imagined, in the middle of a wild Saharan camp, the tranquility and harmony of this secret spot? And how did such delicate beauty manage to survive, maintaining, behind a barrier of crumbling walls, thorns and waste and dead animals, every curve of its patterns and every part of its intricate design?

Such questions inevitably lead one back to the central mystery of the enigmatic North African civilization: the constant change and the unyielding stability, the savage traditions and the sensual sophistication, the lack of artistic originality and the ability to reassemble borrowed ideas, the careful and exquisite craftsmanship and the quick disregard and decline of something once created.

Revering the dead and camping on their graves, building elaborate monuments only to abandon and defile them, valuing scholarship and wisdom while living in ignorance and crudeness, these talented races, constantly trying to reach a higher level of culture but being swept down by new waves of barbarism, are still just a people in the making.[Pg 158]

It’s possible that the political stability that France is helping them gain will finally allow their better qualities to develop; and when you look at the mausoleum of Marrakech and the Medersas of Fez, you sense that if this experiment were conducted solely for artistic reasons, it would still be worth pursuing.

[Pg 161]

To Western travelers, the most striking impression from the first encounter with the Near East is the surprise of being in a place where the presence of people enhances rather than detracts from the beauty of the landscape.

After all, the close connection between nature, architecture, and the human body shown in Greek art wasn’t an artist's ideal, but a true representation of reality: there were, and still are, special scenes where the way a green grocer's drapes fall, a milkman's cloak, or a beggar's rags are part of the picture, clearly connected in line and color, and where the natural, unstudied poses of the human body fit together in harmony, no matter how routine the actions they’re involved in. For travelers coming back from the East, this realization takes away some of the charm from the most romantic spots in Western Europe: in the Piazza of San Marco or the marketplace of Siena, where at least the robes of the Procurators or the colorful tights of Pinturicchio's young men once made man's presence among his creations feel justified, one initially sees only the offense to beauty posed by the "plentiful strutting manikins" of the modern world.

Moroccan crowds are always a visual treat. The skillful use of fabric and the sense of color—subdued by tradition but peeking through with subtle hints amid the universal gray tones—turn even the simplest gatherings of donkey handlers and water carriers into a constant delight. However, it's only on rare occasions, particularly during court ceremonies that few outsiders get to witness, that the hidden richness of local life is unveiled. Even then, the word "richness" might not feel quite right, as the nomadic essence of African life endures despite the palaces, courtiers, and all the elaborate rituals of the Makhzen. The grandest ceremonies often wrap up with a dusty gallop of wild tribesmen, while the most regal processions tend to feature a line of half-naked kids riding bareback on donkeys.

As in all Eastern countries, the interactions between royalty and commoners, high officials and laborers, are strikingly casual and familiar. One can witness top court officials bending down to kiss the Sultan's robe and hear genuine stories of slaves being exchanged by one merchant to another after a lively night out, reminding us that nothing looks as democratic as a society completely dependent on the whims of a single person.

In the veranda of the Residence of Rabat, I stood looking out between posts draped with bright blue morning glories at the first glint of light on dark cypress trees and white tobacco blooms, over the scattered rooftops of the new town, and across the plain leading up to the Sultan's palace overlooking the sea.

We were informed late the night before that the Sultan would allow Madame Lyautey and the three ladies in her party to attend the important religious ceremony of Aïd-el-Kebir (the Sacrifice of the Sheep). This was an unprecedented honor, likely granted only at the last minute, since usually no women are allowed at these ceremonies. It was an opportunity we couldn't miss; and all through the short, sweltering night, I lay awake worrying about whether I would be ready in time. Eventually, the cars gathered, and we set out with the French officers escorting the Governor's wife.

The Sultan's palace, a large modern building reflecting traditional Arab architecture, sits in a bare and gardenless area surrounded by high walls and close to the blue Atlantic. We drove past the gates, where the Sultan's Black Guard was lined up, and headed to the msalla,[20] a public space near all the Sultan's residences where ceremonies often take place. The sun was already beating down on the vast plain, crowded with horsemen and the local people of Rabat on mules and on foot. In an open[Pg 165] space in the middle of the crowd, a canvas barrier with a bold black pattern surrounded the Sultan's tents. The Black Guard, dressed in red tunics and white and green turbans, stood at the edge of the open area, keeping the spectators back; but with the help of our friends, we made our way to the edge of the crowd.

The palisade was open on one side, and inside we could see a group of men in straight, narrow gowns of almond green, peach blossom, lilac, and pink moving around among the snowy-draped officials; they were the Sultan's musicians, whose colorful outfits always stood out against the white attire of the other court attendants.

In the tent closest to the entrance, set against a backdrop of embroidered hangings, a group of dignified, turbaned elders sat calmly on Rabat rugs. Soon, the group dispersed; people started moving around anxiously, and someone said, "The Sultan has gone to the tent at the back of the enclosure to slaughter the sheep."

A feeling of impending seriousness filled the crowd. The mysterious rumor known as the[Pg 166] Voice of the Bazaar swirled around us like the wind in a palm oasis; the Black Guard fired a salute from a nearby hill; the clouds of red dust kicked up by circling horsemen thickened and then cleared, revealing a white-robed rider bursting out from the tent of the Sacrifice with something red and dripping across his saddle, galloping away toward Rabat amidst the cheers. A slight shiver ran through the group of Western spectators, who understood that the dripping red thing was a sheep, its throat expertly slit so that, if the omen was favorable, it would survive the long journey to Rabat and die in agony on the tiles of the Mosque.

The Sacrifice of the Sheep, one of the four major Muslim rituals, is simply the annual offering made by each Muslim head of the household, as well as by the Sultan. It's not mandated by the Quran but is based on the "Souna," which is the record of the Prophet's customs and practices, serving as an authoritative guide in Muslim rituals. This is where Muslim interpretation starts. In reality, the Muslim blood sacrifice traces its origins back through Semitic rituals much further back in time, and the belief that the Sultan's success for the coming year relies on the prolonged suffering of the animal seems to connect the ceremony to the dark magic that was deeply embedded in the mysterious tribes of North Africa long before the first Phoenician ships reached its shores.

Between the Black Guard and the tents, five or six horses were being led up and down by muscular grooms in white tunics. They were beautiful animals, typical of Moroccan horses, and each was a different color; the bay horse had a red saddle embroidered in gold, the piebald had a peach-colored and silver saddle, the chestnut had a grass-green saddle encrusted with seed-pearls, the white mare had purple coverings, and the gray horse had orange velvet. The Sultan's band started playing a high-pitched rhythm, the salute of the Black Guard continued at intervals, and the adorned steeds began to rear and snort, pulling back from the harsh Arab bits with their stunning niello inlays. Someone whispered that these were His Majesty's horses—and that it was never known until he appeared which one he would ride.

[Pg 168]

Right now, the crowd around the tents got thicker, and when it parted again, a grey horse appeared, carrying a still figure wrapped in blinding white. Walking alongside the horse, lean brown grooms in white tunics rhythmically waved long strips of white linen to keep the flies away from the Imperial Presence; and beside the motionless rider, aligned with the horse's side, rode the Imperial Parasol-bearer, who held a large sunshade of bright green velvet above the sovereign's head. The grey horse slowly moved a few yards in front of the tent; behind it followed the court dignitaries, then the musicians, who looked in their bright, short caftans like the slender, music-making angels from a Florentine fresco.

The Sultan, stopping under his velvet canopy, waited to greet the tribute from the gathered tribes. An official rode forward, pulled his reins, and called out a name. Immediately, a wild group of tribesmen came charging across the plain, rifles slung over their shoulders, pistols and cutlasses at their belts, and twists of camel hair wrapped around their turbans. A few feet from the Sultan, they halted; their leader let out a shout and lunged forward, leaning down to his saddle, and with a loud cheer, the tribe rode past, each man hunched over his horse's neck as he sped by the dignified figure on the grey horse.

[Pg 169]

Again and again, this ceremony was repeated, with the Sultan stepping forward a few feet as each new group thundered toward him. There were over ten thousand horsemen and chieftains from the Atlas and the wilderness, and as the ceremony continued, the clouds of dust became thicker and more fiery-golden, until finally, the advancing lines appeared through them like hazy images in a tarnished mirror.

As the Sultan moved forward, we followed alongside him, facing the oncoming cavalry. The contrast between his still figure and the chaotic waves of horsemen crashing against it illustrated the complex nature of Islam, with its passionate energy always leading to calmness. The sun hung high, a glaring orb in a bright sky, casting harsh rays on the dust-covered plain and the peaceful white figure beneath its shade. The fat man, with his soft, round face framed by a beard, wrapped in layers of pure white, one plump hand[Pg 170] on his embroidered bridle, his yellow-slippered feet planted firmly in large velvet-lined stirrups, became, through his sheer stillness, a symbol, a mystery, a deity. The human tide surged against him, faded away, and another wave of cavalry surged up behind it and also ebbed; and he remained sitting, hour after hour, under the scorching sky, unaware of the heat, the dust, the chaos, representing to the frenzied, restless crowds a long tradition of calm detachment.

As the last riders rode up to pay their respects, we were called to our cars and driven quickly to the palace. The Sultan had informed Mme. Lyautey that the women of the Imperial harem would host her and her guests while his Majesty met with the Resident General, and we had to hurry back so we wouldn't miss the next part of the show.

[Pg 171] We walked across a long courtyard lined with the Black Guard, passed under an archway, and were greeted by a poorly dressed Black woman. Walking through a hot shine of colorful tiles, we reached another archway guarded by the chief eunuch, a tall Black man with the glazed eyes of a basalt statue. The eunuch led us to more women, and we entered a maze of inner passages and patios, all echoing and dripping with water. Moving down long hallways where slaves in dull grey clothes pressed themselves against the walls, we caught glimpses of large dark rooms, laundries, pantries, bakeries, and kitchens, where delicious foods were simmering and cooking, and where more women, leaving their pots and pans, peeked at us from the doorway. In one corner, on a bench against a wall covered in matting, grey parrots in tall cages were being fed by a slave.

A narrow staircase led up to a landing where a princess from an Arab fairy tale awaited us. Stepping softly in her embroidered slippers, she guided us to the next landing, where another figure in golden slippers smiled at us—a little girl this time, blushing and grinning under a jeweled tiara and pearl-braided hair. On a third landing, a third girl appeared, and surrounded by the three[Pg 172] graces, we ascended to the tall mirador in the central tower to look down at the upcoming ceremony. One by one, our little guides kicked off their golden shoes, which a servant neatly placed outside the door, leading us on soft bare feet into the upper chamber of the harem.

It was a spacious room, surrounded on all sides by a balcony fitted with brightly colored glass panels. On a flashy modern Rabat carpet were ornate gilt armchairs and a table featuring a commercial bronze sculpture of the "art goods" type. Divans with muslin-covered cushions were lined against the walls and down a nearby gallery-like area, which was otherwise filled with clocks. The obsession with clocks and other mechanical devices is typical of all non-mechanical cultures, and every chief's palace in North Africa has a collection of timepieces that could be described as striking if so many weren't broken. However, the clocks in the Sultan's harem in Rabat are noteworthy because, while styled after contemporary European designs, they are scaled to match the Imperial grandeur, turning a Dutch "grandfather" clock into a wardrobe, and the box-clock[Pg 173] of a European mantelpiece into a cupboard that needs to be placed on the floor. At the end of this row of clocks, a European double bed draped with a vibrant silk quilt and adorned with Nottingham lace stood proudly on a carpeted platform.

But aside from the beautiful views of the sea and fields through the latticework of the gallery, the apartment of the Sultan's ladies falls short of modern ideas of elegance. There was hardly time to consider this, though, as the door of the mirador kept opening to let in another enchanting figure, until we were finally surrounded by a dozen beautiful women, laughing, chattering, taking us by the hand, and asking shy questions while looking at us with affectionate eyes. They were all (as our interpreter whispered) the Sultan's "favorites," round-faced girls with a warm apricot hue in their teens, high cheekbones, full red lips, surprised brown eyes between curved-up Asian eyelids, and little brown hands fluttering out like birds from their intricately embroidered sleeves.

In honor of the ceremony and Madame Lyautey's visit, they wore their finest clothes, though their movement was somewhat restricted by their tight, luxurious gowns,[Pg 174] adorned with gold and silver brocade and soft pink gauze held in place by corset-like sashes made of gold fabric from Fez, along with heavy silk cords that looped through their flowing sleeves. Their hair was shaved at the front, resembling the style of a 14th-century Italian beauty, with only a black line as thin as a pencil-thin eyebrow visible through the gauze twisted and secured with a jeweled clasp above their actual eyebrows. Above the forehead jewel rose an intricate headdress. Ropes of black wool were woven through their hair, forming a double loop at the back that stood out like twin handles of a vase, veiled in light, shimmering gauzes and secured with jeweled bands and ornaments. On either side of their red cheeks, additional braids were draped over their ears, adorned with large filigree earrings set with rough pearls and emeralds, or gold hoops and pendants made of coral; and an unexpected tulle ruff, reminiscent of a Watteau shepherdess, framed their round chins above a cascade of necklaces made of amber, coral, and baroque pearls, hanging with mysterious, exotic amulets and charms. As the young women moved gracefully on soft henna-dyed feet[Pg 175], the light danced upon shifting glimmers of gold and silver, blue, violet, and apple-green, all beautifully blended with clouds of pink and sky blue; and amidst the changing scene, a little black child pranced around in a caftan of silver-purple with a raspberry red sash.

But right then, there was a stir in the aviary. A new pair of babouches clicked on the landing, and a young girl, dressed more simply and with a less striking face than the others, walked in on bare painted feet. Her movements were shy and hesitant, her full lips pale, her eyebrows less dark, and her head less adorned. Yet all the little hummingbirds gathered around her with respectful rustling as she approached us, leaning on one of the young girls and extending her ringed hand to Mme. Lyautey's curtsey. It was the young Princess, the Sultan's legitimate daughter. She looked at us with sad eyes, exchanged a few compliments through the interpreter, and sat down quietly, allowing the others to sparkle and chatter.

Conversation with the shy Princess was slowing down when one of the favorites waved us over to the balcony. We were told we could open the[Pg 176] painted windows a bit, but as we did, the butterfly group stepped back so they wouldn’t be seen looking out at the forbidden world.

Salutes were booming again from the direction of the msalla: puffs of smoke floated over the slopes like thistledown. Farther away, a cloud of red vapor obscured the last horsemen galloping off toward Rabat. The vapor cleared, and emerging from it, we saw a slow procession. First came a group of the Black Guard, riding black horses and looking comically fierce in their British scarlet and Meccan green uniforms, which were created by a retired English army officer in the early nineteenth century. Following the Guard were the standard-bearers and the high-ranking officials, then the Sultan, still detached and unmoving, as if lost in thought about his mystical role. More court officials followed, then brightly dressed musicians on foot, and finally a lively, unpredictable crowd of pilgrims, beggars, saints, performers, and other common people from the Bazaar, finishing with a line of boys jabbing their bare heels into the sides of tired donkeys.

[Pg 177]

The Sultan rode into the courtyard below us, and the Vizier and chamberlains, dressed in white against the red line of the Guards, rushed forward to kiss his robes, his shoes, and his stirrup. Getting down from his velvet saddle, still in a daze, he walked across the tiles between two rows of white servants bowing to the ground. White doves flew around him like petals falling from a huge orchard, and he vanished with his entourage under the shadowy archway of the audience chamber at the back of the courtyard.

At this point, one of the favorites called us over from the mirador. The door had just opened to let in an elderly woman, accompanied by a respectful group of girls. From the newcomer's round, rosy face, her short, stout body, and the round hands that came from her round wrists, an undeniable sense of majesty radiated; and although she was less elaborately dressed than the favorites, she wore her striped gauze headdress like a crown.

This impressive older woman was the Sultan's mother. As she extended her plump, wrinkled hand to Madame Lyautey and exchanged a few words through the interpreter, it felt like a painted window of the mirador had finally been broken, allowing a thought to seep into the emptiness of the harem. Figuring out what that thought was would require a deep understanding of the Arab mindset, but its sincerity was clear in the old Empress's voice and smile. Finally, here was a woman who rose above the trivial pretenses, childish tricks, and mindless cruelty of the harem. It wasn’t surprising to learn that she was her son’s most trusted advisor and the primary authority in the palace. If such a woman were to deceive and scheme, it would be for significant reasons and causes she truly believed in: her inner self had fresh air and light, and she would never purposely exclude them.

The Empress Mother talked for a bit with Mme. Lyautey, asking about the Resident General's health, checking in for updates on the war, and saying, with emotion that was clear even through the unclear words: "Everything is fine in Morocco as long as everything is fine in France." Then she left, and we were called back to the mirador.

This time, we saw a group of officers in bright uniforms trotting across the plain from Rabat. At the sight of the figure that[Pg 179] led them, so slender, upright, and young on his beautiful chestnut horse, wearing a pale blue tunic decorated with the wide orange ribbon of the Cherifian Order, salutes rang out again from the slope above the palace, and the Black Guard presented arms. Moments later, General Lyautey and his staff rode in through the gates below us. At the entrance to the inner court, they dismounted, and on the other side of our balcony, we followed the next part of the ceremony. The Sultan was still seated in the audience chamber. The court officials stood lined up in a perfect white line against the snow-white walls. The high dignitaries moved across the tiles to greet the General; then they stepped aside, and he walked forward alone, with his staff following at a slight distance. He paused a third of the way across the court, in accordance with Moroccan court etiquette, and bowed towards the arcaded room; a few steps later, he bowed again, and a third time at the threshold of the room. Then French uniforms and Moroccan draperies surrounded him, and all faded into the shadows of the audience hall.

Our audience also seemed to be done. We had[Pg 180] exhausted the limited small talk from the harem, learned from the young women that, even though they weren’t allowed to watch the ceremony, the dancers and singers would come to entertain them soon, and we had started to say our goodbyes when a Black woman rushed in to say that his Majesty asked Mme. Lyautey and her friends to wait for him. This was the highlight of our visit, and I wondered what elaborate ritual the Anointed One, fresh from his priestly duties, would be welcomed with among his women.

The door opened, and without any announcement or fanfare, a hefty man with a friendly face, his robe stretched over his round belly, walked in holding a little boy by the hand. This was his Majesty Sultan Moulay Youssef, stripped of ceremonial robes and turban, shuffling along in just his yellow slippers with the walk of a sturdy older gentleman who has taken off his shoes at the door to relax for the evening.

The little Prince, one of his two legitimate sons, was dressed simply as well, since silken clothes are only worn in Morocco by musicians,[Pg 181] boy-dancers, and other androgynous performers. With his formal attire, the Sultan had shed his aura of superhuman majesty, and the look on his round pale face matched the plainness of his clothing. The favorites buzzed around him, respectful but not intimidated, and the youngest started to play with the little Prince. We could easily believe the rumor that his was the happiest harem in Morocco, as well as the only one that ever felt a hint of the outside world.

Moulay Youssef greeted Mrs. Lyautey with warm simplicity, delivered the right speeches to her companions, and then, like a businessman who forgot to give an order before leaving his office, walked over to a corner of the room. While the flower girls fluttered around him and we watched the last participants in the mystical ceremonies riding away toward the crenellated walls of Rabat, his Majesty, the Priest and Emperor of the Faithful, unhooked a small device from the wall and put his sacred lips to the telephone.

[Pg 182]

Before General Lyautey arrived in Morocco, Rabat had to endure the humiliation of European "improvements," forcing visitors to navigate boulevards lined with tram tracks and pass by hotel terraces, cafés, and cinema theaters to finally reach the remaining core of the once beautiful native town. Then, just around an ordinary street corner, it appears unexpectedly. The shops and cafés stop, the noise of trams and honking cars fades away, and suddenly, there is silence and solitude, along with the dignified restraint of the windowless Arab house fronts.

We were headed to the home of a senior government official, a traditional Moroccan dignitary, who had invited us for tea and mentioned that the women in his household would be pleased to welcome me.

The house we were looking for was down a quiet white-walled street. Our friend knocked on a low green door, and we stepped into a hallway with a wooden staircase[Pg 183] leading down. A brother-in-law of our host was there to greet us: following him, we climbed the steep stairs and entered a long room with a fancy French carpet and matching gilt furniture. There were no intricate walls, no painted cedar doors, no fountains gently trickling in hidden courtyards: the house was crammed between others, and any signs of old decor it might have had had disappeared.

But soon we understood why the locals cared little for such details. Our host, a charming old man with a white beard, greeted us at the door; then he took us to a raised oriel window at one end of the room and seated us in the ornate armchairs, facing one of the most beautiful views in Morocco.

Below us were the white and blue terrace roofs of the local town, with palms and minarets rising up between them, or the shadows of a vine trellis casting patterns on a quiet street. Beyond that, the Atlantic sparkled, breaking into foam at the mouth of the Bou-Regreg and beneath the towering walls of the Kasbah of the Oudayas. To the right, the ruins of the great Mosque stood on their plateau above the[Pg 184] river; and on the other side of the turbulent waters, old Salé, bright and wicked, lay like a jewel in its gardens. With such a view before them, the residents of the house could hardly feel its lack of architectural interest.

After exchanging the usual compliments and giving us a moment to enjoy the view, our host left, taking the men from our group with him. A moment later, he returned with a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired girl dressed in Arab attire, but clearly of European descent. The brother-in-law explained that this young woman, who had "studied in Algeria," and whose mother was French, was a close friend of the ladies in the household and would be our interpreter. Our host then left us again, joining the male guests in another room, and the door opened to let in his wife and daughters-in-law.

The lady of the house was a striking Algerian with sad, expressive eyes; the younger women were pale, plump, and friendly. They all wore simple dresses, matching the modesty of the house, and if it weren't for the blank looks on their faces, the group could have been that of a professor's[Pg 185] family in a college town in England or America, nicely dressed for an Arabian Nights-themed event on campus. I was never more powerfully reminded that human nature, across the world, naturally falls into certain categories, and that Respectability looks the same in an Oriental harem as it does in England or America.

My hosts greeted me with great friendliness, we sat down in the window nook facing the view, and the exchange of questions and compliments began.

Had I any kids? (They all asked it at the same time.)

Unfortunately, no.

"In Islam," one of the ladies said, "a woman without children is seen as the most unhappy person in the world."

I replied that in the western world, childless women were also looked down upon. (The brother-in-law smiled in disbelief.)

Knowing that European fashions are of great interest to the harem, I then asked: "What do these ladies think of our formal tailor-made dresses? Don't they find them really unattractive?"

[Pg 186]

"Yeah, they do," (the brother-in-law replied again.) "But they think that at home you dress more nicely."

"And don't they ever want to travel or visit the markets like the Turkish ladies do?"

"No, definitely not. They are too caught up in their own lives to think about such things. In our country, women of the highest social status focus on their homes and kids, with the rest of their time spent on sewing." (At this, I gave my brother-in-law a smile as skeptical as his own.)

All this time, the blonde interpreter had not been allowed to say a word by the watchful keeper of the harem.

I looked at her with a question.

"So your mom is French, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Which part of France is she from?"

A confused pause. Finally: "I don't know ... maybe Switzerland," this shining example of Higher Education said. Despite her "advantages" from Algeria, the poor girl could only speak a few words of her mother’s language. She had[Pg 187] retained her European features and complexion, but her soul was that of Islam. The harem had left its strong mark on her, and she looked at me with the same distant and passive eyes as the daughters of the household.

After wrestling with a conversation that my watchful brother-in-law kept steering as he wanted, I felt my lips hardening into the resigned smile of one in a harem. It was a relief when their guardian finally led the pale group away, and the charming old gentleman who owned them came back, bringing my friends along with him, accompanied by servants and tea.

What thoughts, what speculations, one wonders, go on under the narrow veiled brows of the little creatures destined for the high honor of marriage or concubinage in Moroccan palaces?

Some are taken down from mountains and cedar forests, from the freedom of tents where nomadic women live without veils. Others come from[Pg 188]harems in the fortified cities beyond the Atlas, where blue palm groves sway all night under the stars and caravans filled with dates travel across the desert from Timbuktu. Some, raised in a spacious palace surrounded by pomegranate gardens and white terraces, move on to one of the feudal strongholds near the snow, where for half the year, the powerful chiefs of the south reside with their clan, among warriors, falconers, and packs of sloughis. Still others grow up in a cramped Mellah, wandering unveiled on its blue terraces overlooking the gardens of the elite, and, seen one day at sunset by a wealthy vizier or his pale young master, are purchased for a good price and taken to the lavish confines of the harem.

Worst of all must be the fate of those who leave the tents and cedar forests, or a sea-blown garden above Rabat, to enter one of the houses in Old Fez. These palaces of Elbali are nearly impenetrable: the Fazi dignitaries don't welcome visits from strange women. On the rare occasions they are received, a family member (usually one of the sons or a brother-in-law who has "studied in Algeria") typically serves as the interpreter;[Pg 189] and perhaps it’s for the best that no one from the outside world should come to remind these indifferent souls that somewhere the seagulls dance on the Atlantic and the wind whispers through the olive groves, rattling the metallic fronds of the palm trees.

We were invited one day to visit the harem of one of the top officials of the Makhzen in Fez, and these thoughts filled my mind as I sat among the pale women in their decaying confinement. The descent through the steep, winding streets felt like being lowered into a mine shaft. With each step, the strip of sky above us shrank, often blocked by the low, arched passages we plunged into. The sounds of the Bazaar faded away, leaving only the sound of fountains behind garden walls and the clatter of our mules' hooves on the stones. Eventually, the fountains and gardens fell silent too, the towering buildings closed in around us, and we found ourselves in an almost underground maze where sunlight and air never penetrated. Finally, our mules turned into a cul-de-sac blocked by a tall building. To our right was another building, one of those obscure, mysterious façades in[Pg 190] Fez that looks like a part of its old fortifications. Clients and servants lounged on the stone benches built into the wall; it was clearly the residence of an important person. A charming young man with intelligent eyes waited at the entrance to greet us: he was one of the sons of the household, the one who had "studied in Algeria" and knew how to interact with guests. We followed him into a small, arched patio surrounded by the tall walls of the house. To the right was the familiar long room with archways opening to the courtyard. Our host, a patriarchal figure draped in layers of fat like a toga, approached us, a massive presence in elegant muslin, his eyes sparkling in his dark, silver-bearded face. He seated us on divans and lowered his substantial body onto a pile of cushions on the steps leading into the courtyard, while the son who had studied in Algeria instructed a Black servant to prepare the tea.

Across the patio was another arcade draped with unbleached cotton. From behind it came the sound of chatter, and now and then a bare brown child in a short shirt would dash out, only to be quickly pulled back with bursts of laughter, while a Black woman came out to straighten the curtains.

[Pg 191]

There were three of these Black women, stunning bronze figures, wearing white djellabahs over brightly colored caftans, striped scarves tied around their wide hips, and gauzy turbans on their curly hair. Their wrists jingled with heavy silver bracelets, and big circular earrings swayed in their purple earlobes. A sense of lethargy hung over all the other people in the house, including the servants and those lounging in the shade under the arcade, as well as our grand host and his smiling son; but the three women, full of energy, constantly rushed from the curtained room to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the master's reception room, balancing trays made of Britannia metal with tall glasses and fresh mint sprigs on their delicate pinky-blue palms, shouting orders to dozing servants, and calling to each other from opposite sides of the courtyard; and finally, the heaviest of the three, disappearing from sight, suddenly reappeared on a pale green balcony above, where, silhouetted against a patch of blue sky, she leaned over in a dramatic pose and yelled down to the others like an excited parrot.

Despite their frenzied activity and the loud cries of tropical birds, we waited in vain for tea; and after[Pg 192] a while, our host suggested to his son that I might want to visit the women of the household. As I had anticipated, the young man led me across the patio, lifted the cotton curtain, and introduced me into a room that was just like the one we had just left. Divans covered with striped mattress fabric were against the white walls, and on them sat seven or eight calm-looking women while a number of pale children climbed over them.

The oldest in the group, clearly the head of the household, was an Algerian woman, probably around fifty, with a sad and delicately shaped face; the others were her daughters, daughters-in-law, and concubines. The word “concubine” brings to mind images of sensual seduction that the Moroccan harem rarely embodies. All the women in this dignified official household shared a look of somewhat melancholy respectability. In their stuffy, curtained apartment, they resembled flowers grown in a cellar—pale, heavy, fuller but more fragile than the ones in a garden. Their clothes, rich yet modest, along with the veils and diadems worn in honor of my visit, had a dignified dowdiness that contrasted strangely with the frivolity of the Imperial harem. What struck me most was the apathy of the younger women. I asked them if they had a garden, and they shook their heads wistfully, saying there were no gardens in Old Fez. Therefore, the roof was their only escape: a roof overlooking countless other roofs, closed in by the bare, fortified mountains that surround Fez like prison walls.

After a brief exchange of compliments, silence settled in. Talking through interpreters is a dull process, and there are few connections between the free-thinking Western mind and people trapped in a worldview shaped by servitude and constant surveillance. These lethargic women on their muslin cushions do not work or spin. The Moroccan woman knows little about cooking, sewing, or any household skills. When her child is sick, she can only hang amulets and mourn over it; the grand lady of the Fazi palace is as clueless about hygiene as the peasant woman in the bled. All these colorless, uneventful lives depend on the favor of one overweight, tyrannical man, stuffed from indulgence and power, who is nearly as lazy and sedentary as his women, having imposed his whims on them ever since he raced around the same patio as a little boy in a short smock.[Pg 194]

The redeeming factor in this stagnant domestic life is the love that parents have for their children, and Western writers have emphasized this so much that one might think children could only be loved by passive and uninformed parents. It’s truly lovely to see the tired eyes of the Moroccan father light up when a little brown grasshopper baby hops onto his knee, and the genuine affection that childless women of the harem show when they cuddle the babies of their luckier rivals. However, the sentimentalist who feels touched by this show of family affection should consider the lives of these overly pampered children. Ignorance, poor health, and an early introduction to sexuality are common across all classes. Education consists of memorizing endless passages of the Koran, and entertainment involves attending events that would be confusing to Western children, but the playful antics of the harem make them entirely understandable to Moroccan kids. Little girls are married off at eight or nine, and by twelve, the son of the house is "given his first black slave"; thereafter, in the wealthy and idle class, both boys and girls grow up surrounded by a sensual atmosphere that lacks genuine seduction.

[Pg 195]

The young son of the house led me back across the courtyard, where the Black women were still shouting and rushing around, going back and forth like a staged event with the pointless setup for a tea that never happened. Our host continued to smile from his cushions, used to the delays typical of Eastern culture. To keep the impatient Western guests entertained, a servant took down a cage holding a softly cooing dove from the wall. It was brought to us, still cooing, and looked at me with the same resigned and vacant expression as the women I had just left. As it was being returned to its hook, the slaves lounging at the entrance respectfully scattered at the approach of a handsome man in his thirties, with delicate features and a black beard. Crossing the courtyard, he bent down to kiss the shoulder of our host, who introduced him as his eldest son, the husband of one or two of the little pale wives with whom I had been exchanging polite comments.

From the growing excitement of the Black women, it was clear that the tea-making ceremony had been delayed until he arrived. A metal tray[Pg 196] holding a samovar and tea pot was set down on the tiles of the courtyard, and the newcomer sat beside it, solemnly preparing the mint tea. Suddenly, the cotton drapes rustled, and a small child in a very short smock dashed out, running across the courtyard. Our elderly host, stretching out his arms with delight, scooped the little boy up, who nestled against him like a squirrel, watching us with wide, sidelong eyes. He was the youngest child of the patriarch and the little brother of the stately bearded man making the tea. While he was still in his father’s arms, two more sons entered: charming, almond-eyed schoolboys coming back from their Koran class, accompanied by their attendants. All the sons greeted each other warmly and lovingly petted the lively baby who had just joined them; and finally, to complete this scene of family closeness, the three Black women, after their hard work was done, handed out glasses of hot mint tea along with trays of gazelle horns and white sugar-cakes.

[Pg 197]

The farther you go from the Mediterranean and Europe, the tighter the curtains of the women's quarters are pulled shut. The only harem where we had an interpreter was the Sultan's. In the private harems of Fez and Rabat, a French-speaking relative relayed (or claimed to relay) what we said; in Marrakech, the prominent nobleman who graciously invited me to his home ignored our suggestion that having a woman from one of the French government schools could make communication easier for us.

When we drove up to his palace, one of the grandest in Marrakech, the street was crowded with clansmen and clients. Dignified merchants in white muslin had grooms holding white mules saddled with rose-colored velvet, warriors from the Atlas were sporting corkscrew ringlets that signal military strength, Jewish traders wore black gabardines, leather-gaitered peasant women held chickens and cheese, and beggars rolled their[Pg 198] blind eyes or showed their sore-covered bodies, all gathered in a mix of cultures around the impressive man's door; while under the archway stood a group of young men and older, battle-ready men who were clearly from his own clan.

The Caïd's chamberlain, a middle-aged man with a dignified presence, approached us amid bowing clients and merchants. He guided us through cool corridors adorned with the intricate mosaic work of Fez, past beggars sitting on stone benches, murmuring their blessings, and pale Fazi craftsmen laying delicate tiles. The Caïd appreciates old Arab architecture. His magnificent house, still a work in progress, has been designed and decorated like the ancient Imperial palaces, and after a few years of sun, rain, and a bit of Oriental neglect, it will have the same faded beauty as the fairy tale palaces of Fez.

In a garden where fountains splashed and roses grew among cypress trees, the Caïd himself was waiting for us. This great warrior and loyal friend of France is a magnificent man with an eagle-like nose, brown skin, lean and muscular, with sharp eyes looking out from beneath his carefully draped muslin turban, and dark lips partially hidden by a tight black beard.

Tea was prepared in a familiar setting: a long room with arches, a painted ceiling, and richly decorated walls. All around were the usual mattresses covered in striped fabric and piled with muslin cushions. There was a brass bed that looked like a Louis XVI cane bed, decorated with brass garlands and bows, sitting on the usual platform. The only other decorations were a few clocks and some bunches of wax flowers under glass. Like all people from the East, this hero of the Atlas, who spends half his life with his warrior clansmen in a medieval fortress in the snow, and the other half driving a 60 hp car on smooth French roads, seems oblivious to any standards of beauty or appropriateness in European designs. He places the shoddiest knick-knacks from cheap stores against the exquisite mosaics and designs of his Fazi craftsmen.

While tea was being served, I noticed a small Black girl, no more than six or seven years old, standing still in the alcove of an archway. Like most of the Moroccan slaves, even in the[Pg 200] largest households, she was poorly, almost raggedly, dressed. A dirty gandourah of striped muslin covered her worn caftan, and a cheap scarf was wrapped around her serious and mature little face. With an intense awareness, she observed every move of the Caïd, who never spoke to her, looked at her, or gave her the slightest visible cue, but whose slightest wish she instantly sensed, refilling his tea cup, passing the plates of sweets, or taking away our empty glasses, as if obeying a hidden communication on which her entire existence depended.

The Caïd is a prominent figure. He and his well-known older brother, who defended the southern borders of Morocco against foreign invaders and internal rebellion, played a significant role in protecting the French colonies in North Africa during the long period of war. Enlightened, cultured, an admirer of the arts, a scholar, and a diplomat, he appears, unlike many from the East, to have taken the best aspects from European influences. However, when I looked at the small figure watching him with anxious, joyless eyes, I was reminded once again of the deep divide that slavery and the harem create between the most Europeanized Muslim and the Western view of life. The Caïd's little black slaves are well-known in Morocco, and behind the sad child leaning in the archway stood all the hidden ills of the social system that weighs heavily on Islam.

Right now, a beautiful yet worn-out Black woman walked across the garden to invite me to the harem. Captain de S. and his wife, who had come with me, were old friends of the Chief, which is why the closely guarded doors of the women's quarters were opened for Mme de S. and me. We followed the Black woman to a marble-paved courtyard where pigeons were fluttering and walking around the central fountain. From under a trellised arcade draped with linen curtains, a few ladies came forward. They greeted my companion with shouts of joy and then led us into the usual simple room with divans and whitewashed walls. Even in the grandest Moroccan palaces, it seems that little effort is made on the decor of the women’s quarters; unless, of course, the room where guests are welcomed resembles a boarding-school "parlor," and[Pg 202] the personal touches are saved for the private spaces.

The women who welcomed us were dressed more lavishly than anyone I'd seen, except for the Sultan's favorites; however, their faces were more refined, more European in shape, compared to the round-cheeked beauties of Rabat. My friends had mentioned that the Caïd's harem was made up of women from Georgia, and that the ladies greeting us had been raised with a certain level of freedom in Constantinople. It was clear to see in their wistful smiles that they remembered a life that was unfamiliar to the passive daughters of Morocco.

They didn’t hide their regrets at all, because soon one of them, smiling, pointed out some faded photographs hanging above the couch. They showed groups of chubby, provincial-looking young women in plain European ball gowns; and it took a lot of imagination to believe that the beautiful women in velvet caftans, with delicately tattooed temples under elaborate headpieces, and hennaed feet resting on muslin cushions, were the same as the cheerful plain girls in the photographs. But for the lavishly dressed[Pg 203] exiles, these faded photos and unattractive dresses symbolized freedom, happiness, and everything they had lost when fate (likely in the form of a wealthy Jewish couple “traveling with their daughters”) moved them from the Bosphorus to the Atlas.

As in the other harems I had visited, there seemed to be perfect equality among the women. While they talked with Mme de S., whose limited Arabic had helped them open up, I tried to figure out who was the favorite, or at least who ranked the highest. I found myself torn between the lovely pale woman with a ferronnière across her forehead and a tea-rose caftan draped in blue gauze, and the nut-brown beauty in red velvet adorned with pearls, whose lazy poses and long-lashed eyes reminded me of the Keepsake portraits of Byron's Haïdee. Or maybe it was the third woman, less pretty but more vivid and lively, who sat behind the tea tray, dramatically mimicking a soldier shouldering his rifle and another falling dead as she tried to ask us "when the terrible war would end." Perhaps ... unless it was the striking octoroon, slightly older than the[Pg 204] others, but dressed even more extravagantly, moving gracefully and being treated with such warm respect by the others.

I was amazed to see that there wasn't a child among them; it was the first harem without babies that I had encountered in that fertile land. Soon, one of the women asked Mme. de S. about her children; in response, she asked about the Caïd's little boy, the son of his late wife. The women's faces brightened with a sense of longing, a servant was given a task, and soon a large-eyed, frail child was brought into the room.

Instantly, all the arms covered in bracelets reached out to the dead woman's son; and as I watched the frail little body adorned with amulets and the heavy head with fine curls resting against a brocaded chest, I was reminded of one of the coral-adorned child-Christs by Crivelli, looking pale and waxy on the lap of a beautifully dressed Madonna.

The poor baby, who carried all these hopes and dreams, looked at us with a serious, unimpressed expression. His eyes seemed to be asking whether all his caring mothers would be able to help him grow up[Pg 205] despite the dry summers of the south and the suffocating life of the harem. It was clear that every possible measure had been taken to shield him from harmful influences and the dangers that come at night, as his delicate neck and wrists were adorned with countless charms: verses from the Koran, Sudanese spells, and images of forgotten idols made from amber, coral, horn, and ambergris. Maybe these will protect him from evil forces and allow him to grow up to carry the weight of the great Caïds of the south.

[Pg 209]

It’s fair to say that General Lyautey has saved Morocco from disaster twice: first in 1912, when the inaction and deceit of Abd-el-Hafid left the country vulnerable to the rebellious tribes that had attacked him in Fez, and the second time in August 1914, when Germany declared war on France.

In 1912, due to the threatening stance of the rebel tribes and the generally unstable situation in the country, Sultan Abd-el-Hafid requested France to establish a protectorate in Morocco. The resulting agreement, known as the "Convention of Fez," stated that a French Resident-General would be sent to Morocco with the authority to act as the Sultan's sole representative in negotiations with other powers. The convention[Pg 210] was signed in March 1912, and shortly after, a rebellion broke out in Fez that was more serious than any previous uprisings. This sudden revolt was partly fueled by local and native issues and partly due to the inherent weakness of the French position. The French government thought they could rely on a native army led by French officers to support the Makhzen and maintain order; however, Abd-el-Hafid's increasing unpopularity had alienated his people, leading the army to turn against both the government and the French. On April 17, 1912, Moroccan soldiers killed their French officers after subjecting them to horrific torture. The people of Fez rose against the European civilians, and for two weeks, the Oued Fez was stained red with the blood of innocent French colonists. It was at that point that France appointed General Lyautey as Resident-General in Morocco.

When he arrived in Fez, it was under siege by twenty thousand Berbers. Rebel tribes were gathering to support them, shouting for a Holy War; and the scared Sultan, who had already said he planned to resign, warned the French troops[Pg 211] who were trying to protect him that unless they promised to get him safely to Rabat, he would use his influence against them. Two days later, the Berbers attacked Fez and broke through two gates. The French pushed them out and drove them back twenty miles. The edges of the city were quickly fortified, and a few weeks later General Gouraud, attacking the rebels in the valley of the Sebou, completely freed Fez.

The military threat dealt with, General Lyautey started his major job of civilian administration. His goal was to support and strengthen the current government, calm and reassure the suspicious and opposing groups, and establish French authority without upsetting or discouraging local ambitions.

Meanwhile, a new Mahdi (Ahmed-el-Hiba) had emerged in the south. Betrayed by Abd-el-Hafid, he was declared Sultan in Tiznit and was recognized by all of the Souss. In Marrakech, local unrest had forced Europeans to flee to the coast, and in the north, a new group of rebellious tribes threatened Fez.

El-Hiba entered Marrakech in August 1912, and[Pg 212] the French consul and several other French residents were captured. El-Hiba's forces then moved to a location halfway between Marrakech and Mazagan, where General Mangin, who was a colonial colonel at the time, confronted and completely defeated them. The chaos in the south, along with pleas from the local population for protection against the brutal attacks of the new Mahdist rebels, made it essential for the French troops to continue their advances; and in September, Marrakech was seized.

Such were the quick and impressive results of General Lyautey's intervention. The initial challenges were swiftly tackled; however, more complex issues remained. The military occupation of Morocco needed to be followed by its civil reorganization. With the Franco-German treaty of 1911, Germany finally agreed to acknowledge the French protectorate in Morocco; yet, despite what seemed like a clear acknowledgment of this right, Germany, as usual, found a way to include some ambiguities in the agreement that could lead to future conflicts.

To get even this incomplete treaty, France had to give up some of its colonies in equatorial Africa. On top of the shaky relationship[Pg 213] with Germany, there was also the burden of the Spanish zone and the complicated international administration of Tangier. The poorly governed Spanish zone has always been a hotspot for German plots and local conspiracies, as well as a constant hurdle to Morocco's economic development.

Such were the challenges that General Lyautey faced. His extensive colonial experience and a unique mix of military and administrative skills prepared him for the nearly impossible job of tackling these issues. He is quick and resolute when military action is needed, but he also possesses the long-term vision and endless patience essential for a successful colonial governor. France’s policy in Morocco had been inconsistent and weak; under his leadership, it grew solid and coherent. His empathetic understanding of local prejudices and genuine affection for the native people motivated him to create an administration that aimed not to impose French ideas on African conditions but to nurture the best aspirations of the locals. The challenges were huge. Governing as much as possible through the Great Chiefs was a smart move, but it was complicated by the reality that these influential leaders, despite their loyalty to the Protectorate, only knew how to administer through extortion. It was crucial to both utilize and educate them; one of General Lyautey's greatest successes has been effectively using local talent in the country's governance.

The first step was to establish a solid border against the rebellious tribes of the Blad-es-Siba. To achieve this, it was essential for the French to control the natural defenses of the region, including the foothills of the Little and Great Atlas, as well as the Moulouya valley, which acts as a corridor between western Algeria and Morocco. This was nearly achieved in 1914 when war erupted.

At that moment, the home government sent a telegram to the Resident-General, ordering him to send all his available troops to France and to give up all the conquered territory except for the coastal towns. Doing so would have meant handing over France's richest colonies[21][Pg 215] to Germany at a time when what they could provide—meat and wheat—was exactly what the enemy needed the most.

General Lyautey took forty-eight hours to think it over. He then decided to "empty the egg without breaking the shell," and the response he sent was from a true patriot and a great general. Essentially, he stated: "I will provide you with all the troops you need, but instead of retreating from the interior, I will maintain what we've already captured and strengthen and expand our territory." No other military document comes close to having the same impact as Marshal Foch's legendary Marne dispatch (written just a few weeks later): "My center is broken, my right wing is faltering, the situation is favorable, and I am about to attack."

General Lyautey had crafted his response in a moment of patriotic fervor, when the spirit of every Frenchman was heightened to an almost superhuman level. But once the pledge was made, it had to be fulfilled; and even those who cheered his decision wondered how he would tackle the nearly insurmountable challenges it presented. When he was called to Morocco, the country was already riddled[Pg 216] with German business interests and covert political schemes, and the situation seemed primed to explode when the declaration of war shook the tree. The only way to secure the colony for France was to maintain its industrial and agricultural operations and to genuinely apply the famous "business as usual" approach.

General Lyautey was completely successful, and the first impression of all travelers arriving in Morocco two years later was that they had suddenly returned to a world with normal conditions. There was even, so convincing was the illusion, an initial moment of almost painful surprise upon entering a lively, prosperous community, seemingly focused on immediate material interests, completely overlooking the horrific drama unfolding in the mother country; and it was only upon reflection that this focus on daily tasks and this atmosphere of hopeful optimism for the future were recognized as Morocco's best way of supporting France.

For not only was France supposed to be supplied with food, but also the belief in her eventual victory had to be maintained in the local people's minds at all costs. German influence was as deep-rooted as a[Pg 217] cancer: removing it required the most extreme measures. This process involved demonstrating that France was strong and thriving enough for her colonies to grow and develop without fear, while she kept at bay the most formidable adversary the world has ever known at her own borders. This was the “policy of the smile,” consistently promoted by General Lyautey from the start of the war, and he and his family were the first to embody this approach.

The General had said that he wouldn't "break the egg-shell"; however, he knew that this wasn't enough, and that he had to make it seem unbreakable if he wanted to keep the trust of the locals.

How this was accomplished, with the help of the few remaining troops, is still almost unbelievable. Holding the line was practically impossible, so he pushed it forward. An anonymous writer in L'Afrique Française (January, 1917) described the maneuver like this: "General Henrys was instructed to watch for storm-signals on the [Pg 218] front, to seal the gaps, strengthen the weak spots, and clarify uncertain lines. Thanks to these actions, which kept the rebels constantly on edge by anticipating their plans, the occupied territory expanded through a series of heavily fortified positions." While this was happening in the north, General Lamothe was extending and strengthening the influence of the Great Chiefs in the south through peaceful negotiations, and other agents of the Residency were busy monitoring and countering the ongoing German plots in the Spanish zone.

General Lyautey is quoted as saying that "a workshop is worth a battalion." He put this principle into action even during the early tough days of 1914, and the internal development of Morocco continued alongside strengthening its defenses. Germany had long recognized how valuable northwest Africa would be during the war, and General Lyautey was committed to showing how right Germany was. He achieved this by convincing the government, who he had given almost all his troops to, to provide him with an agricultural and industrial workforce, or at least enough[Pg 219] specialists to create such a workforce from the resources available in the country. For every battle fought, a road was constructed; [22] for every rebel fortress bombarded, a factory was built, a harbor was developed, or more acres of unused land were plowed and planted.

But this economic development didn't satisfy the Resident. He wanted Morocco to expand its trade relationships with France and other allied countries, so he organized and successfully executed a series of exhibitions in Casablanca, Fez, and Rabat. The outcome of this bold strategy exceeded even his expectations. The Moroccans in the plains are hardworking and money-minded, and the sight of these quickly put-together exhibitions, showcasing the industrial and artistic products of France and other European countries in beautiful buildings surrounded by flower-filled gardens, captivated their imagination and boosted their confidence in a country that could undertake such an effort during a major war. The Voice of the Bazaar spread the word to the farthest reaches of Moghreb, and one by one, notable figures from different tribes showed up, accompanied by delegations from Algeria and Tunisia. It was even rumored that several rebel leaders had yielded to the Makhzen just to be part of the Exhibition.

At the same time as the "Miracle of the Marne," another, less famous but almost equally important event was taking place at the other end of France’s territories. It’s not an exaggeration to refer to General Lyautey’s accomplishments during the first year of the war as the "Miracle of Morocco," considering how crucial his actions were at that particular moment. To grasp this significance, one only needs to think about the resources and troops Germany could have tapped into from a German North Africa, and how France would have fared in the war with a strong German colony controlling the western Mediterranean.

General Lyautey has always been one of those insightful leaders who recognize that effectively governing a foreign country relies on many small details, especially the administrator's genuine understanding of the traditions, habits, and tastes of the local people. His strong appreciation for beauty allowed him to recognize the most exquisite and cherished aspects of Moroccan Arab art. Even while facing political and military challenges, he made time to gather a team of archaeologists and artists responsible for inspecting and preserving national monuments and reviving the struggling local art industries. The traditional pottery, jewelry, metalwork, rugs, and embroideries from various regions were meticulously collected and categorized; schools of decorative arts were established, talented artisans were identified, and every effort was made to encourage European residents to adopt local styles and hire local artisans for construction and furnishings.

At the various exhibitions, a lot of space was dedicated to these revived industries, and the matting from Salé, the rugs from Rabat, and the embroideries from Fez and Marrakech have already found a strong market in France. They've also sparked an appreciation among the educated colonists for the historical buildings and traditional arts of the country, which will be the best protection against the harmful effects of[Pg 222] colonial expansion. One only needs to see the damage caused in Tunisia and Algeria by the heavy hand of the colonial government to understand what General Lyautey has accomplished in preventing this kind of destruction in Morocco as well.

All this has been achieved by the Resident-General over five years of unprecedented and continuous challenges; and likely the real reason behind this accomplishment is what he himself states when he says, with the calm smile that represents his Moroccan war policy: "It was easy to do because I loved the people."

Because the neglected and roadless Spanish area lay between the French territories and Tangier, which serves as Morocco's natural port, one of General Lyautey's top priorities was to create ports along the harsh Atlantic coast, where there are no natural harbors.

Since 1912, despite the high costs and the challenges of finding labor, the following has been accomplished:

Casablanca. A jetty 1,900 meters long has been planned: 824 meters completed in December 1917.

[Pg 223]

Small jetty started in 1916 and completed in 1917: length 330 meters. This small harbor provides shelter for small boats (up to 150 tons) in all weather conditions.

Quays 747 meters long are already finished.

16 steam cranes in operation.

Warehouses and depots covering 41,985 square meters are finished.

Rabat. Work finished December 1917.

A 200-meter-long quay where boats with a draft of three meters can dock.

Two groups of warehouses, steam cranes, etc., covering 22,600 square meters.

A 100-meter long quay on the Salé side of the river.

Kenitra. The port of Kenitra is located at the mouth of the Sebou River and has the potential to develop into a strong river port.

The work completed by December 1917 includes:

A channel 100 meters long and 3 meters deep was dug through the bar of the Sebou.

Jetties constructed on both sides of the channel.

100-meter-long quay.

Building sheds, storage depots, warehouses, steam cranes, etc.

At the ports of Fedalah, Mazagan, Safi, Mogador, and Agadir, similar plans are being carried out.

[Pg 224]

1. Creation of French courts for French nationals and those under French protection. These courts handle civil cases where both parties, or even just one, are subject to French jurisdiction.

2. Moroccan law is Islamic and enforced by Islamic judges. Private law, including inheritance law, is based on the Quran. The Sultan upholds the principle that real estate and administrative matters fall under local law. These courts are supervised and managed as much as possible by the establishment of a Cherifian Ministry of Justice, to which the local judges report. Special attention is given to preventing the sale of property held collectively or any similar transactions that could lead to political and economic instability.

3. Criminal jurisdiction is assigned to Pashas and Cadis by the Sultan, except for offenses committed against or involving French nationals and those protected by France. These cases are handled by the courts of the French Protectorate.

[Pg 225]

The goal of the Protectorate has been, on one hand, to provide the children of French colonists in Morocco with the same education they would get at elementary and secondary schools in France; on the other hand, to offer the local population an education system that gives young Moroccans proper commercial or vocational training, or prepares them for administrative roles, while respecting their native customs and beliefs.

Before 1912, there were only a few small schools in Morocco funded by the French Legation in Tangier and by the Alliance Française, along with a collection of Hebrew schools in the Mellahs, supported by the Universal Israelite Alliance.

In addition to the French and indigenous schools, sewing schools have been established for the local girls and have been extremely successful.

Moslem colleges have been established in Rabat and Fez to enhance the education of young Muslims from the upper classes who plan to enter wholesale business or banking, or are preparing for political, judicial, or administrative positions under the Sultan's government. The program lasts four years and includes Arabic, French, mathematics,[Pg 226] history, geography, Islamic studies, and Koranic law.

The "Ecole Supérieure de la langue arabe et des dialectes berbères" in Rabat welcomes both European and Moroccan students. The courses offered include Arabic, Berber dialects, Arab literature, ethnography, administrative Moroccan law, Islamic law, and Berber customary law.

The Protectorate has set up 113 medical centers for the local population, including basic dispensaries and small local clinics, as well as the major hospitals in Rabat, Fez, Meknez, Marrakech, and Casablanca.

Mobile health teams equipped with light motor ambulances travel across the country, vaccinating, conducting health inspections, investigating outbreak areas, and providing general hygiene education in remote regions.

Night shelters in towns. Every town has a shelter for the many needy travelers in Morocco. These shelters also serve as disinfection centers, from which suspicious cases are sent to a quarantine camp at the town gates.

Central Laboratory at Rabat. This is similar to a Pasteur Institute. In 1917, 210,000 people were vaccinated across the country and 356 patients were treated at the Laboratory for rabies.

[Pg 227]

Clinics for sexually transmitted infections have been set up in Casablanca, Fez, Rabat, and Marrakech.

More than 15,000 cases were treated in 1917.

Ophthalmic clinics in the same cities provided 44,600 consultations in 1917.

Radiotherapy. Clinics have been established in Fez and Rabat for treating skin diseases of the head, which local children frequently experience.

The French Department of Health distributes massive amounts of quinine every year in areas affected by malaria.

Madame Lyautey's private charities include well-run child welfare centers in the major cities, along with clinics for local mothers and children.

[Pg 231]

Note.—In the chapters about Moroccan history and art, I aimed to provide a brief and general overview of a vast and complex topic. To justify this summary effort, I want to clarify that its main strength is that it's not original.

Its facts are mainly taken from the books listed in the short bibliography at the end of the volume. Additionally, I am very grateful for the information provided on the ground by the group of outstanding specialists associated with the French administration, as well as the knowledgeable and friendly French officials, both military and civilian, who, at every stage of my quick trip, did their best to answer my questions and broaden my understanding.

In a quick look at Morocco's history, we must first consider a key factor that has shaped the entire history of North Africa from the start: the presence of a mysterious, resilient indigenous population that stretches from the Sahara to the Mediterranean. This group has stood its ground against every foreign power that has tried to control the region, from Carthage to France, and has only partially adopted the languages, religions, and cultures that various civilizations have attempted to impose on it.

[Pg 233]This race, the Berber people, has never truly become Islamic, modern explorers tell us, just as it never fully became Phoenician, Roman, or Vandal. It has maintained its customs while seeming to adopt those of its conquerors, and has continuously represented, outside the Islamic and Hispano-Arabic sphere of the Makhzen, the large, troubling force of the dissenting, rebellious, and unconquered tribes of the Blad-es-Siba.

Who were these indigenous tribes that the Phoenicians traded with when they established their first trading posts on the north and west coast of Africa, exchanging goods, pottery, and weapons for ivory, ostrich feathers, and slaves?

Historians honestly admit that they don’t know. Various material challenges have made it difficult to study Berber origins; however, it seems clear that from the earliest historical times, they were a mixed race. The ethnologist trying to define them faces the same challenge as the historian of modern America attempting to determine the racial identity of an "American." For centuries, North Africa has been like America today: a melting pot of the world. When explorers finally realized that the natives of North Africa weren't all Arabs or Moors, they were overwhelmed by the numerous possibilities of who they could be. The connections to their identity were so complex and tangled, and their pre-Islamic culture was intricately woven with remnants of older, richer societies.

M. Saladin, in his "Manuel d'Architecture Musulmane," after trying to figure out the influences that shaped the mosque of Kairouan, the walls of Marrakech, and the Medersas of Fez—influences that trace back to Chaldæan branch-huts, the walls of Babylon, and the embroideries of Coptic Egypt—somewhat hopelessly sums up the outcome: "The main elements that contributed to Moslem art from the earlier styles can be listed as follows: from India, floral ornament; from Persia, structural principles of the Acheminedes, and the Sassanian vault. Mesopotamia offers a system of vaulting, incised ornament, and proportion; the Copts, ornamental detail in general; Egypt, mass and unbroken wall-spaces; Spain, construction and Romano-Iberian ornament; Africa, decorative detail and Romano-Berber traditions (with Byzantine influences in Persia); Asia Minor, a blend of Byzantine and Persian characteristics."

As with the art of North Africa, so with its so-called indigenous population. The Berber dialects stretch from the Libyan desert to Senegal. Their language was probably related to Coptic, which is itself linked to ancient Egyptian and the non-Semitic dialects of Abyssinia and Nubia. However, linguists have found what seems to be a distant connection between Berber and Semitic languages, and the Chleuhs of the Draa and the Souss, with their tall, slim, Egyptian-looking bodies and hooked noses, might have some Semitic ancestry. M. Augustin Bernard, when discussing the natives of North Africa, concludes similarly to M. Saladin when talking about Muslim art: "In their blood are the remnants of many races, Phoenician, Punic, Egyptian, and Arab."

They weren't entirely nomadic like the Arabs; however, the tent, the flock, and the tribe always shaped their view of life. M. Augustin [Pg 235] Bernard has noted that in North Africa, being sedentary or nomadic doesn't indicate a permanent difference, but rather a temporary one based on situation and opportunity. The sedentary Berbers can be nomadic under certain conditions, and since ancient times, the invading nomadic Berbers often settled down when they arrived at the fertile plains north of the Atlas. But when they built cities, it was just like their ancestors and neighbors setting up tents; they would destroy or abandon them just as easily as their desert ancestors packed their camel bags and moved to new pastures. Everywhere behind the strong walls and rock-bound towers of old Morocco, the shadowy spirit of instability lingers. Every new Sultan constructs a new palace and allows the previous ones to fall apart; and the same goes for his vassals and officials. Change is the norm in this seemingly unchanged civilization, where "nothing may last but change."

[Pg 236]

Far to the south of the Anti-Atlas, in the yellow deserts that lead to Timbuktu, live the wild Tuareg people, the Veiled Men of the south, who go to war with their faces covered by linen masks.

These Veiled Men are Berbers; however, their alphabet consists of Libyan characters, which are closely related to the symbols carved on certain vases from the Nile valley that are likely six thousand years old. Additionally, among the rock-cut images in the African desert is a depiction of Theban Ammon, crowned with the solar disk between serpents; and the ancient Berber religion, with its worship of the sun and animals, shares many similarities with Egyptian beliefs. All of this suggests trade interactions that predate written history, along with the movement of restless groups over incredible distances long before the Phoenicians established their first trading posts on the North African coast around 1200 B. C.

Five hundred years before Christ, Carthage sent one of its admirals on a colonization journey beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Hannon set out [Pg 237] with sixty fifty-oared galleys carrying thirty thousand people. Some of them settled at Mehedyia, at the mouth of the Sebou, where Phoenician remains have been discovered; and it seems the exploration extended as far south as the coast of Guinea, as the inscription recounts that Hannon saw elephants, hairy people, and "savages called gorillas." In any case, Carthage established stable colonies at Melilla, Larache, Salé, and Casablanca.

Then the Romans arrived, continued the trade, established a tolerant protectorate over "Tingitanian Mauretania,"[23] and built an important military outpost, Volubilis in the Zerhoun. This outpost was likely connected by a series of smaller defenses to Salé on the west coast, protecting the Roman province from the unconquered Berbers to the south.

Tingitanian Mauretania was one of the many African grain suppliers for Rome. It also provided the Imperial armies with their famous African cavalry, and among the lesser exports were guinea hens, [Pg 238] snails, honey, euphorbia, wild animals, horses, and pearls. Roman control ended at the line drawn between Volubilis and Salé. There was no interest in pushing further south since the ivory and slave trade with the Sudan was carried out through Tripoli. However, the spirit of adventure never faded in the people, and Pliny notes the journey of a Roman general—Suetonius Paulinus—who seems to have crossed the Atlas, likely via the Tizi-n-Telremt pass, which is still so difficult that accessing the Souss by land will remain a tough task until the route through Imintanout is safe for European travelers.

The Vandals overthrew the Romans in the fifth century. The Lower Empire enjoyed a brief revival of civilization, but its power ultimately faded to the almost mythical reign of Count Julian, who was trapped within the walls of Ceuta. Then Europe disappeared from the African coast, and although Christianity persisted in some vague Donatist communities and in the names of Roman bishoprics, its last weak presence vanished in the eighth century in the face of the powerful proclamation: "There is no God but Allah!"

[Pg 239]

The first Arab invasion of Morocco is said to have reached the Atlantic coast, but it didn't leave any lasting impact, and the real conversion to Islam in Barbary didn't occur until close to the end of the eighth century. At that time, a descendant of Ali, fleeing from Mesopotamia due to the Caliphate, arrived in the mountains above Volubilis and established an empire there. The Berbers, though not particularly interested in religion, had always leaned toward heresy and division out of a desire for independence. Under Christian Roman rule, they had been Donatists, as M. Bernard describes it, "in opposition to the Empire"; and similarly, in opposition to the Caliphate, they supported various Muslim dissenters. Their major popular movements have always had a religious foundation, or it might be more accurate to say, a religious excuse, because they were actually a mix of moral and envious rebellion by hungry and ascetic warrior tribes against the wealth and corruption of the "cities of the plain."

Idriss I became the first national saint and ruler of Morocco. His rule [Pg 240] spread across northern Morocco, and his son, Idriss II, attacked a Berber tribe along the banks of the Oued Fez, defeated them, took control of their oasis, and established the city of Fez. There, schismatic refugees from Kairouan and Moors from Andalusia arrived. The Islamic Empire of Morocco was established, and Idriss II became the legendary ancestor of all its future rulers.

The Idrissite rule is a chaotic mix of conflicts among groups of followers that are quickly losing cohesion. Its main aspects include the establishment of Moulay Idriss and Fez, and the construction of the mosques of El Andalous and Kairouiyin in Fez for two groups of refugees from Tunisia and Spain. Meanwhile, the Caliphate of Cordova had reached its peak, and the Fatimite Caliphate stretched from the Nile to western Morocco, while the small Idrissite empire, crushed under the pressure of these growing powers, once again became just a scattering of broken tribes.

It was only in the eleventh century that the dust settled again. Two Arab tribes from the desert of the Hedjaz, suddenly pushed westward by the Fatimites, entered Morocco, not with a small military [Pg 241] mission, as the Arabs had previously done, but with a wave of emigrants estimated at around 200,000 families; and this first colonizing effort was surely followed by others.

To secure their control in Morocco, the Arab colonizers got involved in the dynastic conflicts of the Berbers. This led to a time of widespread chaos that wiped out the little prosperity that had lingered after the collapse of Idrissite rule. Many Berber tribes sought refuge in the mountains, while others stayed and blended with the invaders, forming new tribes with a mix of Berber and Arab heritage. This invasion was largely destructive; it represents one of the bleakest periods in the history of the "wasteful Empire" of Moghreb.

While the Hilalian Arabs were conquering and destroying northern Morocco, another, more productive invasion was coming from the south. The Almoravids, one of the tribes of the Veiled Men in the south, fueled by a usual mix of religious fervor and desire for wealth, set out to invade the wealthy black kingdoms north of the Sahara. They then crossed the Atlas under their great leader, Youssef-ben-Tachfin, and established the city of Marrakech in 1062. From Marrakech, they moved towards Idrissite Fez and the valley of the Moulouya. Fez rose up against its conquerors, and Youssef executed all the male inhabitants. By 1084, he had control of Tangier and the Rif, and his rule extended as far west as Tlemcen, Oran, and finally Algiers.

His ambition took him across the straits to Spain, where he defeated one Muslim prince after another and destroyed the lavish civilization of Moorish Andalusia. In 1086, at Zallarca, Youssef fought against Alphonso VI of Castile and Leon. The Almoravid army was an unusual mix of Arabs, Berbers, blacks, wild tribes from the Sahara, and Christian mercenaries. They defeated the Spanish forces, and Youssef left his successors an empire stretching from the Ebro River to Senegal and from the Atlantic coast of Africa to the borders of Tunisia. But the empire collapsed under its own weight, leaving little record of its short and tumultuous existence. While Youssef was defeating the forces of Christianity [Pg 243] at Zallarca in Spain, another breakaway faction of his own people was carving out Marrakech and the south from his control.

The leader of the new invasion was a Mahdi, one of the many Saviors of the World who have spread death and destruction throughout Islam. His name was Ibn-Toumert, and he had traveled to Egypt, Syria, and Spain, and completed the pilgrimage to Mecca. Preaching the idea of a pure monotheism, he called his followers the Almohads or Unitarians, to set them apart from the polytheistic Almoravids, whose beliefs he condemned. He fortified the city of Tinmel in the Souss and built a mosque there, of which the ruins still remain. When he died in 1128, he chose his disciple Abd-el-Moumen, the son of a potter, as his successor.

Abd-el-Moumen continued the campaign against the Almoravids. He fought them not only in Morocco but also in Spain, capturing Cádiz, Córdoba, Granada, as well as Tlemcen and Fez. By 1152, his African territory extended from Tripoli to the Souss, and he had built a disciplined army where [Pg 244] Christian mercenaries from France and Spain fought alongside Berbers and Sudanese. This great leader was also an effective administrator, and under his rule, Africa was surveyed from the Souss to Barka, the country was policed, agriculture was safeguarded, and caravans traveled safely along the trade routes.

Abd-el-Moumen passed away in 1163 and was succeeded by his son, who, despite facing setbacks in Spain, was also a great leader. He died in 1184, and his son, Yacoub-el-Mansour, avenged his father's failures in Spain with the significant victory at Alarcos and the capture of Madrid. Yacoub-el-Mansour was the greatest of the Moroccan Sultans. His reputation was so widespread that the famous Saladin sent him gifts and requested the assistance of his fleet. He was both a builder and a warrior, and the peak of Arab art in Morocco and Spain occurred during his reign.

After his death, the Almohad empire began its decline, which seems to be the fate of all Eastern rule. In Spain, the Berber forces were defeated in the significant Christian victory at Las-Navas-de-Tolosa, and in Morocco, the early movements of the Beni-Merins (a new tribe from the Sahara) were setting the stage for a new dynasty.

The Beni-Merins or Merinids were nomads who roamed the desert between Biskra and Tafilelt. It wasn't a religious revolution that led them to conquer Morocco. The demoralized Almohads brought them in as mercenaries to defend their failing empire; and the Merinids came, expelled the Almohads, and took their place.

They took over Fez, Meknez, Salé, Rabat, and Sidjilmassa in the Tafilelt; and their second Sultan, Abou-Youssef, built New Fez (Eldjid) on the hill above the old Idrissite city. The Merinids restarted their conflict with the Sultan of Tlemcen and renewed their Holy War in Spain. The battle with Tlemcen was long and unsuccessful, and one of the Merinid Sultans was assassinated outside its walls. In the fourteenth century, Sultan Abou Hassan tried to piece together the scattered parts of the Almohad empire. Tlemcen was finally captured, and all of Algeria [Pg 246] was annexed. However, in the plains of Kairouan, Tunisia, Abou Hassan was defeated by the Arabs. Meanwhile, one of his brothers led a revolt in Morocco, and the princes of Tlemcen regained their old kingdom. Constantine and Bougie revolted in turn, and Abou Hassan's kingdom vanished like a mirage. His successors struggled futilely to control their vassals in Morocco and maintain their territories outside its borders. By the end of the fourteenth century, Morocco was in chaos, filled with conflicting tribes that owed no loyalty and followed no laws. The last of the Merinids, divided, weakened, and bound by humiliating treaties with Christian Spain, maintained a facade of sovereignty in Fez and Marrakech, at war with each other and their neighbors; and Spain and Portugal took advantage of this internal collapse to drive them from Spain and carry the conflict into Morocco itself.

The brief and turbulent reign of the Beni-Merins doesn’t seem to allow for the growth of more humane traits; however, the blossoming of Moroccan art and culture occurred during those chaotic years, and it was under the Merinid Sultans that Fez became the hub of Moroccan education and industry, akin to an Oxford with a Birmingham attached. [Pg 247]

Meanwhile, behind all the chaos among the Berbers, a secret campaign of religious propaganda was unfolding. The Arab presence had been defeated but not completely eradicated. The rough, wealth-driven Berbers seemed to be in control; however, whenever there was a new uprising or invasion, it was fueled by the ongoing religious discontent stirred up by Muslim agents. The yearning for a Mahdi, a savior, combined with the desire for purity and the opportunity to kill and steal, always provided a ready opening for the Muslim preacher. The fall of the Merinids was the result of a long series of religious movements, which the European invasion turned into a cause and a rallying cry.

The Saadians were Cherifian Arabs, newcomers from Arabia, who found the relaxed Berber paganism completely unacceptable. They advocated for a return to the faith of Mohammed and declared a Holy War against the despised Portuguese, who had established fortified outposts all along the west coast of Morocco.

It's a mistake to believe that hatred for Christians has always been present among North African Muslims. The earlier dynasties, especially the powerful Almohad Sultans, maintained friendly relations with the Catholic powers of Europe. In the thirteenth century, a treaty guaranteed Christians in Africa full religious liberty, except for the right to preach their beliefs in public spaces. There was a Catholic diocese in Fez, and later in Marrakech under Gregory IX. The Pope even sent a letter thanking the "Miromilan" (the Emir El Moumenin) for his kindness toward the Bishop and the friars living in his territories. Innocent IV recommended another Bishop to the Sultan of Morocco, and the Pope requested that certain strongholds be allocated to Christians in Morocco as safe havens during times of unrest. However, the best evidence of the friendly relations between Christians and non-believers is that the Christian armies that assisted the Sultans of Morocco in defeating Spain and conquering Algeria and Tunisia were not made up of "renegades" or captives, as is commonly believed, but of Christian mercenaries from France and England, led by knights and nobles, fighting for the Sultan of Morocco just as they would have fought for the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Flanders, or any other prince who offered high pay and the promise of rich rewards. Anyone who has read "Villehardouin" and "Joinville" will agree that there’s not much difference in the motivations driving these noble mercenaries and those that led the Crusaders to plunder Constantinople "on the way" to the Holy Sepulchre. Back then, war was seen as a profitable and legitimate business, just like when the earlier heroes embarked on conquering the wealthy city of Troy.

The Berbers have never been religious extremists, and the Vicomte de Foucauld, during his significant exploration of the Atlas in 1883, noted that hostility towards foreigners was always rooted in fear of military surveillance rather than religious reasons. This was also true for the Berbers in the sixteenth century, when the Holy War against Catholic Spain and Portugal was being promoted. The real reason for the sudden intense hatred of foreigners was twofold. The Spaniards were [Pg 250] hated for their brutal treatment of the Moors after driving them from Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella; the Portuguese were resented because of the arrogance and violence of their military colonists in the fortified trading posts along the west coast. Additionally, both groups were feared as potential conquerors and rulers.

There was also a third reason: the Moroccans, who traded in black slaves for the European market, had realized the value of white slaves in Muslim markets. The Sultan had his fleet, and each coastal town had its strong pirate ships. From pirate havens like Salé and Tangier, the raiders continued, well into the first half of the nineteenth century, to capture European ships and take their passengers to the slave markets of Fez and Marrakech.[24] The suffering experienced by these captives, vividly described in John Windus's travels and in "Naufrage du Brick Sophie" by Charles Cochelet,[25] shows how intense the hostility towards foreigners had become.

With the rise of the Cherifian dynasties, which coincided with this [Pg 251] religious reform and was actually caused by it, Morocco became a closed-off country, fiercely protective like Japan against European influence. Isolated from any civilizing impacts, the Muslims secluded themselves in a lonely fanaticism, driven more by race than by faith, and the country's history from the fall of the Merinids to the French annexation is mostly a dull story of tribal conflicts.

The religious movement of the sixteenth century was driven by zealots from the Sahara. One of them took control of Rabat and Azemmour and preached the Holy War; other "feudal fiefs" (as M. Augustin Bernard aptly described them) were established at Tameslout, Ilegh, and Tamgrout: the tombs of the marabouts who led these uprisings are scattered all along the west coast and continue to be sites of popular reverence. The unorthodox saint worship that characterizes Moroccan Islam, marked by the numerous white koubbas throughout the country, largely developed during the religious revival under the Saadian dynasty, and almost all the "Moulays" and "Sidis" honored [Pg 252] between Tangier and the Atlas were warrior monks who came out from their fortified Zaouïas to drive the Christians out of Africa.

The Saadians were probably a bit embarrassed by these fanatics, who they found useful for opposing the Merinids but troublesome when it came to their own plans. They were ambitious princes who loved luxury, invading the wealthy kingdom of Soudan, conquering the Sultan of Timbuctoo, and returning loaded with slaves and gold to decorate Marrakech and spend their wealth in the usual demoralizing parties. Their beautiful tombs in Marrakech highlight, in elegant language, the extraordinary virtues of a series of rulers whose excesses and vices were often cut short by assassination. Eventually, another strict and fanatical mountain tribe came down, wiped them out, and took over their rule.

[Pg 253]

The new rulers came from Tafilelt, a part of Morocco that has always been problematic. The first two Hassanian Sultans were the typical tribal leaders looking to exploit Saadian misrule to plunder and take over. But the third was the remarkable Moulay-Ismaël, whose long and successful reign (1672 to 1727) has already been discussed in the chapter on Meknez. This fierce yet enlightened old man restored order from chaos and left behind, at his death, a well-organized and governed empire, along with a legacy of seven hundred sons and countless daughters.[26]

The empire collapsed as expected, and just as quickly as usual, under his successors; and from his death until General Lyautey took control of the situation, the Hassanian rule in [Pg 254] Morocco was mostly a chaotic mix of conflicting ambitions. The successors of Moulay-Ismaël inherited his thirst for blood and his desire for power without his ability to govern. In 1757, Sidi-Mohammed, one of his sons, attempted to restore order to his kingdom and pushed the last Portuguese out of Morocco; but under his successors, the country remained isolated and stagnant, making sporadic attempts to defend itself against European influence, while its rulers wasted their efforts on deceit and trickery. In the early nineteenth century, the government was forced by European powers to put an end to piracy and the trade in Christian slaves; and in 1830, the French conquest of Algeria shattered the isolation in which the country was decaying by placing a European power on one of its borders.

Initially, the conquest of Algeria seemed to create a connection between France and Morocco. The Dey of Algiers was a Turk, and thus, a longstanding adversary; Morocco was inclined to support the power that had ended Turkish rule in a neighboring area. However, the Sultan couldn't resist taking advantage of the overall chaos to capture Tlemcen and [Pg 255] incite rebellions in western Algeria; soon Morocco was engaged in a Holy War against France. Abd-el-Kader, the Sultan of Algeria, had sought refuge in Morocco, and the Sultan of Morocco provided him with supplies and weapons, prompting France to officially protest. At that time, Marshal Bugeaud landed at Mers-el-Kebir and invited the Makhzen to discuss the situation. The offer was accepted, and General Bedeau and Caïd El Guennaoui met in an open area. Behind them, their respective troops were lined up, and almost as soon as the first salutes were exchanged, the Caïd announced that the negotiations were over. Consequently, the French troops withdrew to the coast, but during their retreat, they were attacked by Moroccan forces. This ended any peaceful discussions, leading to the siege and capture of Tangier. The following August, Bugeaud brought his troops up from Oudjda through the pass that leads from West Algeria and defeated the Moroccans. He intended to advance on Fez, but international politics intervened, preventing him from executing his plans. England viewed the [Pg 256] French expansion into Morocco unfavorably, making it essential to reach a peace agreement immediately to demonstrate that France had no territorial ambitions west of Oudjda.

Meanwhile, a great Sultan was about to emerge in the land. Moulay-el-Hassan, who ruled from 1873 to 1894, was a capable and dynamic leader. He worked to reunite his fractured empire, established his control in Fez and Marrakech, and battled the rebellious tribes in the west. In 1877, he asked the French government to send him a permanent military mission to help organize his army. He planned an expedition to the Souss, but the lack of food and water in the area the army traveled through caused severe suffering. Moulay-el-Hassan arranged for supplies to be sent by sea, but the weather was too rough to allow landing on the exposed Atlantic coast, and the Sultan, who had never seen the ocean, was as shocked and frustrated as Canute to realize that the waves would not obey him.

His son Abd-el-Aziz was only thirteen when he became king. He spent six years under the guardianship of Ba-Ahmed, the black Vizier of Moulay-el-Hassan, who built the enchanting Bahia Palace in Marrakech, featuring its mysterious pale green padlocked door that led down to the secret vaults where his treasure was kept. When the powerful Ba-Ahmed passed away, the young Sultan was nineteen. He was smart, charming, and enjoyed the company of Europeans; however, he was indifferent to religious matters and even more so to military affairs, making him vulnerable to local distrust and European scheming.

Some awkward efforts at financial reform, along with a heavy inclination towards European customs and connections, stirred up resentment among the people and the conservative upper class. The Sultan's older brother, who had been sidelined for him, was plotting against him; the typical Cherifian Pretender was inciting rebellious tribes in the mountains; and the European powers were trying, amid the chaos of a lawless country, to establish their own influence.

The discouraged state of the country justified these actions and made European intervention unavoidable. However, the powers were carefully monitoring each other, and Germany, wanting the known agricultural resources and the suspected mineral wealth of Morocco, was especially determined to prevent the establishment of a French protectorate.

In 1908, another son of Moulay-Hassan, Abd-el-Hafid, was declared Sultan by the conservative Islamic faction, which accused Abd-el-Aziz of selling out his country to the Christians. Abd-el-Aziz was defeated in a battle near Marrakech and retreated to Tangier, where he lives in a powerless state. Abd-el-Hafid, proclaimed Sultan in Fez, was recognized across the country; however, he struggled to handle the rebellious tribes (those outside the Blad-el-Makhzen, or governed country). These rebel tribes besieged Fez, and the Sultan had to ask France for help. France sent troops to his aid, but as soon as the rebels were defeated and he was safe, Abd-el-Hafid refused to support the French army. In 1912, after the horrific massacres in Fez, he abdicated in favor of another brother, Moulay Youssef, who became the current ruler of Morocco.

[Pg 261]

M. H. Saladin, whose "Manual of Moslem Architecture" was published in 1907, concludes his chapter on Morocco with the words: "It is essential that we understand and explore Morocco as soon as possible to study its monuments. It's the only country besides Persia where Moslem art still exists; and the traditions passed down to today will certainly clarify many things."

M. Saladin's wish has been partly fulfilled. A lot has been accomplished since 1912, when General Lyautey was appointed Resident-General, to clarify and categorize the history of Moroccan art; however, since 1914, although the work has not stopped, it has inevitably been delayed, particularly regarding[Pg 262] its published record. So far, only a few monographs and articles have summarized some of the interesting research from the past five years.

When I was in Marrakech, a message reached Captain de S., who was with me, saying that a Caïd from the Atlas, whom he had captured years ago, had now been captured by the Pasha's troops and was in Marrakech. Captain de S. was asked to identify several rifles that his old enemy had taken from him, and when he received them, he discovered that, in the meantime, they had been intricately decorated with the Arab niello work, a tradition that goes back to Damascus.

This little incident is a great example of how much the medieval tradition mentioned by M. Saladin has continued in Moroccan life. Nowhere else in the world, except among the fading fresco-painters of the Greek monasteries, has an art form survived from the seventh or eighth century to today; and in Morocco, this art form is not just a lifeless expression of an outdated theology but a reflection of the everyday life of a people who still wear the same clothes, follow the same customs, believe in the same fetishes, and use the same saddles, plows, looms, and dyes as they did when the first mosque of El Kairouiyin was established.

[Pg 263]

The origin of this tradition is unclear and hidden. The Arabs have never been known for their artistic creativity, nor have the Berbers. As research continues in Syria and Mesopotamia, it seems more likely that the influences on pre-Islamic art in North Africa come from Egypt, Persia, and India. Each new study pushes these influences further back and further east; however, it’s not very helpful to trace these ancient connections, as Moroccan art, so far, has not produced anything from pre-Islamic art except what is purely Phoenician or Roman.

In any case, the essence of Moroccan art isn't to be found in Morocco itself; although intriguing hints and mysterious reminders can certainly be discovered in places like Tinmel, in the gorges of the Atlas, where a ruined mosque from the earliest Almohad period has been photographed by[Pg 264] M. Doutté, as well as in the unique Algerian towns of Sedrata and the Kalaa of the Beni Hammads. Both of these towns were wealthy and thriving communities in the tenth century and were destroyed in the eleventh, leaving them as medieval Pompeiis of exceptional interest, since their architecture seems to have been largely untouched by classic or Byzantine influences.

Traces of very old indigenous art can be seen in the designs on modern white and black Berber pottery. This work, with examples displayed in the Oriental Department of the Louvre, appears to connect back through Central America, Greece (sixth century B.C.), and Susa (twelfth century B.C.), to a distant time before human invention branched off, when the same loops, ripples, and spirals were found on the flowing surface of every river.

It’s a debated question whether Spanish influence played the biggest role in shaping the unique Moroccan art of the early Muslim period, or if European influences came through Syria and Palestine and then mixed with those from Moorish Spain. It's likely that both occurred[Pg 265] since the Almoravids were in Spain, and the influences likely crossed paths. Regardless, Byzantine, Greek, and Crusader-era Palestine and Syria contributed just as much to the development of that distinctive Muslim art, which, from India to the Pillars of Hercules, was created using similar elements with minor variations.

Arab conquerors tend to destroy as much as possible of the work of those who came before them, and nothing is known to remain of Almoravid architecture in Morocco. However, the great Almohad Sultans left their mark across Spain and Northwest Africa with their monuments, and no later buildings in Africa match their strength and grandeur.

It’s definitely because the Almohads used stone that so much of their work has lasted. The Merinids used rubble and soft tufa, while the Cherifian dynasties built with clay, similar to the Spaniards in South America. As a result, seventeenth-century Meknez has decayed while the Almohad walls and towers from the tenth century remain.

The main old buildings in Morocco are defensive and religious—and under the latter category[Pg 266], the beautiful college houses (the medersas) of Fez and Salé definitely belong, as the educational system of Islam is fundamentally theological. There are almost no known examples of old secular buildings, such as palaces or private homes; however, their designs and decorations can easily be reconstructed from early chronicles, as well as from the surviving palaces built in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and even those that wealthy nobles in modern Morocco are currently constructing.

The entirety of civilian Muslim architecture from Persia to Morocco is based on four constant factors: a hot climate, slavery, polygamy, and the separation of women. The private home in Muslim countries is essentially a fortress, a convent, and a temple: a temple where the deity (like in all ancient religions) often comes down to visit his secluded worshippers. In places where slavery and polygamy exist, every household head is essentially a god, and the home he lives in is a shrine dedicated to his divinity.

[Pg 267]

The Moroccan chieftain always had a defensive mindset. As soon as he set up a camp or established a city, it needed to be protected from the hungry hordes surrounding him. Every small center of culture and luxury in Moghreb was like an island in a sea of constant storms. It's surprising that, while constantly threatened from the outside and betrayed from within—with the desert at their doorstep and their slaves just outside—they managed to create an environment of luxury and stability that amazed not just the flattering local historians but also travelers and captives from Western Europe.

The truth is, as many have pointed out, that even until the end of the seventeenth century, the levels of civilization in France and England were not much greater than those in North Africa. North Africa had long been more connected to the ancient empires of long-standing luxury and was therefore ahead in the arts of living compared to Spain and France during the Dark Ages. This is why, in a country that might seem as primitive to the average modern European as Ashantee does, you can find signs of a refinement in life and taste that are hard to match by the standards of Carolingian and early Capetian Europe.

[Pg 268]

The short Almoravid dynasty didn’t leave any monuments.

Fez had already been established by the Idrissites, and its first mosques (Kairouiyin and Les Andalous) were in place. Chroniclers tell of great things about the Almoravid Fez and Marrakech; however, the fierce Hilalian invasion and the later arrival of the Almohads from the High Atlas destroyed everything that the earlier dynasties had built.

The Almohads were impressive builders, and their monumental structures are all made of stone. The oldest known example of their architecture that still exists is the ruined mosque of Tinmel, located in the High Atlas, which was discovered and photographed by M. Doutté. This mosque was constructed by the visionary mystic, Ibn-Toumert, who started this dynasty. After him came the great palace-building Sultans, whose fortified cities filled with magnificent mosques and towers feature Romanesque qualities of mass and proportion. As M. Raymond Koechlin has noted, they inevitably remind us of the "robust simplicity of the master builders who were at the same time initiating the construction of the first Gothic cathedrals and the grandest feudal castles in France."

[Pg 269]

In the 13th century, with the rise of the Merinids, Moroccan architecture became more intricate, luxurious, and perhaps more distinctively its own. The blend of Spanish and Arab art that created the style known as Moorish reached its peak in Morocco, across the Straits. It was during the Merinid period that Moorish art blossomed in Spain, and under their rule, Fez rebuilt the Kairouiyin mosque and the mosque of the Andalusians, and established six of its nine Medersas, which are the most perfectly preserved buildings from that unique era of refined elegance and dignity.

The Cherifian dynasties brought a decline in taste. A rough desire for instant gratification and a shift towards a more barbaric luxury led to the construction of fragile palaces that were as temporary as tents. However, a final bloom emerged from the twisted and dying trunk of the old Empire. The Saadian Sultan, who invaded the Sudan and returned loaded with gold and treasures from[Pg 270] the great black city of Timbuktu, covered Marrakech with hurriedly built monuments, of which hardly any remnants remain. Yet, in a weed-filled corner of a crumbling neighborhood, the Chapel of the Tombs was hidden until yesterday: the last expression of pure beauty from a mysterious, incomplete, forever regressing yet persistently striving people. The Merinid tombs in Fez have fallen, but those of their destroyers still linger in fragile elegance, like a flower teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Moroccan architecture can be easily broken down into four categories: the fortress, the mosque, the educational building, and the private home.

[Pg 271]

The central part of the mosque is always the mihrab, or niche that faces the Kaaba in Mecca, where the imam[27] stands to lead the prayer. This design allows as many worshippers as possible to kneel toward the mihrab, creating a layout that generally features long aisles parallel to the mihrab wall, with additional aisles added as the number of worshippers increases. Where there wasn’t enough room to widen these side aisles, they were extended at both ends. This common layout is modified in Moroccan mosques to include a wider transverse space, similar to the nave of a Christian church, which runs across the mosque from the prayer niche to the main entrance. On the right side of the mihrab is the minbar, a carved pulpit (usually made of cedar wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony) from which the Koran is recited. In some mosques in Algeria and Egypt (like in Cordova, for example), the mihrab is surrounded by a type of screen called the maksoura; however, this alteration of the simpler design was apparently not adopted in Morocco.

The design of the mosque's interior was certainly influenced by the nearby Roman or Byzantine ruins. M. Saladin notes that there are only a few examples of columns made by local builders; however, this doesn't mean that all the columns in the early mosques were taken from Roman temples or Christian basilicas. The Arab invaders brought their architects[Pg 272] and engineers with them, and it’s very likely that some of the earliest mosques were constructed by prisoners or fortune-seekers from Greece, Italy, or Spain.

At any rate, the columns that support the arches in the earlier mosques, like those in Tunis and Kairouan, as well as the El Kairouiyin mosque in Fez, were later replaced by piers—either square or with attached pilasters, as seen in Algiers and Tlemcen. Typically, the outside of the mosques is almost entirely obscured by a dense collection of buildings, narrow streets, and covered markets. However, where the outer walls are exposed, like in Kairouan and Cordova, they feature large sections of windowless masonry broken up by impressive gateways.

Beyond the mosque, accessible through several large doors made of beaten bronze or carved cedar wood, is the Court of Ablutions. The openings in the front were increased so that, on special occasions, those who couldn't enter the mosque could still hear the prayers and catch a glimpse of the mihrab.

In a corner of the courtyard stands the minaret. It[Pg 273] is the structure where Muslim art has shown the most variations, with its angles trimmed, built on circular or polygonal designs, and constantly altering the pyramids and pendentives that connect the ground plan of one level to the next. These challenges of transition have always intrigued architects, leading in Persia, Mesopotamia, and Egypt to many different styles and treatments; however, in Morocco, the minaret, until modern times, remained firmly square, demonstrating that no other design is as beautiful as this simplest one of all.

Surrounding the Court of the Ablutions are the classrooms, libraries, and other facilities that expanded as the Muslim religion thrived and Arab culture evolved.

The medersa was an extension of the mosque: it served as the academy where Muslim scholars prepared their theology and other unique subjects that, to this day, make up the curriculum of the Islamic university. The medersa adapts a private home for religious and educational purposes; or, if you prefer another analogy

M. Tranchant de Lunel has pointed out (in "France-Maroc") how well the Merinid architects customized this decoration for the buildings' purposes. On the lower floor, beneath the cloister, there is a covering of marble (often alabaster) or almost indestructible ceramic mosaic.[28] On the floor above, large cedar-wood corbels topped with monster-like figures, reminiscent of Gothic style, support the intricate balconies; and above them are stucco designs, positioned high enough to escape damage from people and protected from the weather by overhanging eaves.

[Pg 275]

The private house, whether it’s a merchant’s home or a chieftain’s palace, is designed similarly, with separate areas for women; and what's left in Spain and Sicily of Moorish secular architecture shows that during the Merinid period, the use of ornamentation must have been—even more so than in the medersas—quite elaborate.

The Arab writers vividly describe Merinid palaces, like the House of the Favourite in Cordoba, which modern views were reluctant to accept until the medersas of Fez were uncovered, showcasing the old decorative style in the 18th-century Moroccan palaces. The previous articles detailing the palaces of Fez and Marrakech mean that it's unnecessary, in a brief note like this, to delve again into their design and decoration. They illustrate how elegantly the art of the mosque and medersa was adapted to fit these cool rooms and flower-filled courtyards. [Pg 276]

Regarding the massive fortifications that are the most striking and noticeable architectural features of Morocco, the first thing that catches the traveler’s eye is the challenge of telling when they were built until specific structural details are examined or the decorative elements of the grand gateways are observed. For example, the Almohad sections of the walls in Fez and Rabat are made of stone, while later sections are constructed from rubble; and the influence of European style in certain gateways of Meknes and Fez immediately places them in the seventeenth century. However, the medieval outline of these impressive structures and some technical aspects of their design, like the arrangement of the towers alternating between the inner and outer walls, have remained consistent throughout various dynasties. This consistency in Moroccan military architecture allows us to imagine not only the appearance of the fortified cities built by the Greeks in Palestine and Syria, which the Crusaders later introduced to Europe, but even the distant Assyro-Chaldean fortifications, which seem to connect the entire fortified architecture of the Middle Ages in Europe.

[Pg 281]

[Pg 285]

Abdallah-ben-Aïssa, 59

Abd-el-Aziz, 256-258

Abd-el-Hafid, 209-211, 258

Abd-el-Kader, 255

Abd-el-Moumen, 30, 243, 244

Abou-el-Abbas ("The Golden"), 152, 153

Abou Hassan, 245, 246

Abou-Youssef, 245

Agdal, olive-yards of the, 139

Ahmed-Baba, 152

Ahmed-el-Hiba, 211, 212

Aïd-el-Kebir, the, 164-170

Aïssaouas, the, of Kairouan, 48
dance of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Algeria, French conquest of, 254-256

Almohads, the, invasion of Morocco by, 243-245
architecture of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

Almoravids, the, invasion of Morocco by, 241-243
destruction of architecture of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

Andalusian Moors, the, mosque of, 101, 102, 240, 268, 269

Arabs, conquest of Morocco by, 239-241

Architecture, Moroccan, four basic conditions of, 266
four groups of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of the Almohad dynasty, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of the Cherifian dynasties, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of the Merinid dynasty, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
the Saadian tombs, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
the college building, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-275
the stronghold, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
the mosque, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-273
the private home, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Art, Moroccan, sources of influence on, 104, 262-265
disappearance of treasures, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
and Moorish art, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__


Ba-Ahmed, builder of the Bahia, 129, 256, 257

Bab F'touh cemetery, at Fez, 102-104

Bahia, the, palace of, at Marrakech, 129-133
apartment of the Grand Vizier's Favorite in __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Bazaars, of Fez, 91, 107-109
of Marrakech, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-138
of Salé, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

Beni-Merins. See Merinids

Berbers, the, attack of, on Fez, 210, 211
origins of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
dialects of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
nomadic nature of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
heresy and schisms of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Bernard, M. Augustin, 69, 234, 235, 239, 251

Black Guard, the Sultan's, 164-167
uniform of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Moulay-Ismaël's raising method, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-69

Blue Men of the Sahara, the, 112

Bou-Jeloud, palace of, 80, 81, 83

[Pg 286]Bugeaud, Marshal, 255


Carthage, African colonies of, 236, 237

Casablanca, exhibitions at, 219
port of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

Catholics, in Morocco, 248, 249

Cemetery, El Alou, 17, 18
Bab F'touh, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-104

Châtelain, M. Louis, 46

Chella, ruins of, 28-30

Cherifian dynasties, the, 247, 251
architecture of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Children, Moroccan,
in the harem, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Black, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__-201
training of, for Black Guard, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-69

Chleuh boys, dance of, 148

Christians, captive, and the building of Meknez, 69, 70, 73
religious freedom in Africa, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

Clocks, in Sultan's harem at Rabat, 172, 173

Cochelet, Charles, his "Naufrage du Brick Sophie," 250

Colleges, at Fez, 97-100, 105-107
at Salé, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-22, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Muslim, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
architecture of Moroccan, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-275

Colors, of North African towns, 50

Commerce, Moroccan, 223

Conti, Princesse de, 59

Convention of Fez, the, 209

Courts of Justice, Moroccan, 224

Crowds, Moroccan street, 161, 162

Culture, in North Africa, 104-106, 246, 267


Dance, of Chleuh boys, 148
of the Hamadchas, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__-57

Dawn, in Africa, 37

Djebilets, the, 125

Doutté, M., 264, 268

Dust-storm, at Marrakech, 145-147


Education, in Morocco, 225, 226

Elakhdar, mosque of, 62

El Alou, cemetery of, 17, 18

El Andalous, mosque of, 101, 102, 240, 268, 269

Elbali (Old Fez), 88 et seq.
harems of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-196

Eldjid (New Fez), 77, 80
palaces of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-87
founding of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

El Kairouiyin, mosque of, 80, 83, 93, 95-100, 240, 263, 268, 269
the prayer hall of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
the washing area of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
legend of the tortoise of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

El-Ksar, 11, 12, 152

El-Mansour, Yacoub, 16, 30-33

Elmansour, palace of, 63

Empress Mother, the, 177, 178

English emissaries, visit of, to Meknez, 71-73

Exhibitions, planned by General Lyautey, 219-221

Ezziani, chronicler of Moulay-Ismaël, 60, 61, 64, 66, 67, 70


Fatimites, the, 240, 241

Fez, the approach to, 77
unchanged nature of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
ruins of Merinid tombs, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
the upper or new, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
old summer palace at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-83
night in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-119
antiquity of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
palaces of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-87
the inns at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
streets of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-91
a wealthy city, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
the merchant of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
bazaars of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__-109
a sad city, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
twilight in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
[Pg 287]the shrines of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
mosque of Moulay Idriss at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
mosque of El Kairouiyinat, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-100
the University of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Medersas of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-107, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
mosque of El Andalous at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Bab F'touh cemetery, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-104
the potters of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
art and culture of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-106, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
the Mellah of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
harems of the past, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-196
the Convention of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
uprising in __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Berber attack on __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
exhibits at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Muslim college at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
founding of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Almoravid conquest of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
center of Moroccan learning, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Catholic diocese in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
mass shootings at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Fez Elbali, 88 et seq., 188-196

Fez Eldjid, 77, 80, 83-87, 245

Fondak Nedjarine, the, at Fez, 94

Fortifications, Moroccan, architecture of, 276

Foucauld, Vicomte de, 110, 249

Franco-German treaty of 1911, 212

French Protectorate in Morocco, 209-222
work of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-227

French, conquests in Morocco, 254-256
at Fez, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Furniture, disappearance of Merinid, 86, 87


Ghilis, the, 125

Gouraud, General, 211


Hamadch, tomb of, 49, 56

Hamadchas, the, ritual dance of, 48, 49, 51-57

Harem, in old Fez, 188-196
an Empire, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-181
in Marrakech, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-205
in historic Rabat, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-187

Hassan, Sultan, 129, 245, 246, 256

Hassan, tower of, at Rabat, 31, 32

Hassanians, the, rule of, 253-258

Holy War, the, against France, 255,
against Spain and Portugal, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-250

Hospitals, in Morocco, 226, 227

Houses, Moroccan, architecture of, 266, 275
color of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
plan of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
rich private, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__


Ibn-Toumert, 243, 268

Idriss I, 94, 239

Idriss II, 61, 80, 83, 94, 240

Idrissite empire, the, 240, 241

Inns, Moroccan, 86, 94, 116, 117


Jews, of Sefrou, 113-116
treatment of North Africans, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__


Kairouan, the Alïssaouas of, 48, 52
Great Mosque of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__

Kairouiyin, mosque of. See El Kairouiyin

Kalaa, ruins of, 264

Kenitra, port of, 38, 223

Koechlin, M. Raymond, 268

Koutoubya, tower of the, 127, 128


Lamothe, General, 218

Land, area of cultivated, in Morocco, 224

Louis XIV, and Moulay-Ismaël, 58, 59, 70

Lunel, M. Tranchant de, 106, 274

Lyautey, General, 23, 149, 150
[Pg 288]at the Sultan's court, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
appointed Resident-General in Morocco, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
military occupation of Morocco by __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
policy of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ et seq.
The economic development of Morocco was achieved by __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-222.
summary of work of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-226


Maclean, Sir Harry, 144

Mamora, forest of, 14

Mangin, General, 212

Mansourah, mosque of, 150

Market, of Marrakech, 144
in Moulay Idriss, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of Salé, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
of Sefrou, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-113

Marrakech, the road to, 123-126
founders of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
Koutoubia Tower at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Bahia Palace at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-133
the streetlight workers of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
diverse community of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
bazaars of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-138
the "Morocco" workers of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
olive groves of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
the Tower of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
a merchants' holiday, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-142
the Square of the Dead in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-145
French admin office at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
fruit market of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Chleuh boys' dance in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Saadian tombs of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-158, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
a harem in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-205
taken by the French, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Catholic diocese in __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Chapel of the Tombs at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Medersa, the, of the Oudayas, 19-22
Attarine, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
at Fez, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-107
at Salé, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
architecture of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-275

Mehedyia, Phenician colony of, 38, 237

Meknez, building of, 57-64, 69, 70
the Kasbah of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
palaces of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
stables of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
entering __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
ruins of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-66
sunken gardens of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
visit of English envoys to, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-73

Mellah, of Fez, 113
of Sefrou, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-116

Menara, the, in the Agdal, 139, 140

Mequinez. See Meknez

Merinids, the, tombs of, at Fez, 78, 79
conquest of Morocco by, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-247
architecture of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__

Mirador, the Imperial, 170-181

Moorish art, 269

Mosque, of Elakhador, 62
of El Andalous, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__
of El Kairouiyin, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__-100, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__
of Kairouan, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of Mansourah, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of Rabat, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of Tinmel, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
of Tunisia, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
architecture of Moroccan, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-273

Moulay Hafid, 81

Moulay-el-Hassan, 129, 256

Moulay Idriss I, rule of, 239
tomb of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Moulay Idriss II, tomb of, 61, 80, 83, 94
rule of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Moulay Idriss, Sacred City of, 5, 39, 45-57
[Pg 289]Street of the Weavers in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
feast of the Hamadchas in, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-57
marketplace of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
whiteness of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
founding of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Moulay-Ismaël, and Louis XIV, 58, 59, 70
exploits of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-62
the mausoleum of Moulay Idriss expanded by, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Meknez built by, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__
the Black Guard of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-69
description of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
palaces of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
and English envoys, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
death of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
rule of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
successors of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Moulay Youssef, 180, 181, 258


Nedjarine, fountain and inn of, 94

Night, in Fez, 116-119


Oases, Moroccan, 109, 110
Marrakech, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ and following
Sefrou, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ et seq.
Settat, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Oudayas, the, Kasbah of, 16, 17
Medersa of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-22


Palaces, Moroccan, the Bahia, 129-133
Bou-Jeloud, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-83
at Fez, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-87
at Meknez, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
of Moulay Ismaël, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Phenicians, the, African explorations of, 236, 237

Pilgrimage to Salé, a, 41

Population, Moroccan, varied elements of, 89, 134

Ports, Moroccan, 222, 223

Portugal, the Holy War against, 248-250

Pottery, Berber, 264

Potters' Field, the, 104


Rabat, 15, 16
Tower of Hassan at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
ruins of mosque at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
called "Camp of Victory," 33
Sacrifice of the Sheep at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ et seq.
Sultan's harem of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-181
a visit to a harem in the past, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-187
exhibitions at __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
port of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Muslim college at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Central Lab at, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Railways, Moroccan, built by French Protectorate, 224

Rarb, the, 38, 44

Roads, Moroccan, built by French Protectorate, 224

Romans, the, African explorations of, 237, 238


Saadian Sultans, the, history of, 151-153
tombs of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-158, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
rule of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-252

Sacrifice of the Sheep, the, 164-170

Saint-Amand, M. de, 58

Saladin, M. H., his "Manual of Moslem Architecture," 233, 261, 271

Salé, first view of, 14
type of preserved Moroccan city, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
bazaar of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Medersas of __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-22, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__
market of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
colors of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Schools, in Morocco, 225, 226

Sedrata, ruins of, 264

Sefrou, 110-116
[Pg 290]marketplace of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-113
men and women of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
Jewish community of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-116

Senegal, 152

Settat, oasis of, 124

Sheep, sacrifice of the, 164-170

Sidi-Mohammed, 254

Slaves, Moroccan, 171, 191, 199-201
trade in white, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Sloughi, bronze, at Volubilis, 46, 87

Soudan, 152

Spain, the Holy War against, 248-250

Spanish zone, the, German intrigue in, 213, 218

Stables, of Meknez, 63

Stewart, Commodore, 71

Street of the Weavers (Moulay Idriss), 47

Streets, Moroccan, 47, 88-91, 161, 162


Tangier, 3-8
colors of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
taken by the French, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Tetuan, bronze chandelier of, 87

Timbuctoo, the Sultanate of, 152

Tingitanian Mauretania, 237

Tinmel, ruins of mosque at, 243, 268

Tlemcen, the conflict for, 245, 246

Touaregs, the, 236

Tower, of Hassan, 31, 32
of the Koutoubya, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

Tunisia, Almohad sanctuary of, 96


Vandals, the, African invasion by, 238

Veiled Men, the, 236, 241

Versailles and Meknez, 58

Villages, "sedentary," 43

Volubilis, ruins of, 44-46
bronze sloughi of, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
founded by Romans, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__


Wedding, Jewish, procession bringing gifts for, 108

Windus, John, 70-72, 250

Women, Moroccan, dress of, 51, 52
of Sefrou, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__
of the harems, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-189
in Sultan's harem, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-175
in harems of Old Fez, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__-194
in Marrakech harem, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-204
in the harem of Rabat, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__-187
black, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__


Yacoub-el-Mansour, 16, 30-33, 244

Youssef-ben-Tachfin, 242