The Blue Gate



  The Blue Gate

  C.R. Black

  Copyright 2012 C.R. Black

  This book is dedicated to Erik, whose love and encouragement have seen me through many dark days, and to the people of Fez, Morocco.

  Chapter 1 - Wednesday - 10:15 am

  "O Fez! In you are gathered all the beauties of the world. How many are the blessings and riches that you bestow on your inhabitants. The challenge will tax man's capacities and imagination to the full." Amadou-Mahtar M'Bow b.1921

  Quickly placing the precious seeds into a pocket of his djellaba, Fettah Bou Chantouf walked out of the herbalists shop and down the narrow street, barely an arms span wide. Turning right onto the Tala'a Kebira, he merged into the deluge of shouted bargaining by local shoppers, school children, tourists and vendors.

  The Tala'a Kebira, Broadway of the medina, was one of two main thoroughfares, running from near the Bab Bou Jeloud, the Blue Gate, downhill to the Oued Boukharareb, what passed for a river in this time of drought. Stretching along them cheek to jowl were 10,000 small businesses crammed into this densely populated, one square mile old quarter, the worlds largest car- free urban area. This was Fez el Bali, old Fez, dating back to the late eighth century.

  A cacophony of sound, smell and color like no other in the world dazzled the senses of all who entered. Mixing with the shouts of merchants were undertones of neighbors exchanging gossip, tourists exclaiming over exotic sights, school children hurrying to class from a home lunch break, the smell of small street-side grills cooking brochettes, brilliant colored hanging Berber carpets and kaftans worn by the passing women. None of this was of the slightest interest to Bou Chantouf. What was first and foremost in his mind was to make sure he was not followed by agents of the makhzen; the governing elite in Morocco surrounding the monarchy. He particularly wanted to avoid the police, their military stooges, and especially the Direction de la Securité du Territoire (DST), the Moroccan secret police. Having spent his early years in this, his birthplace, he was intimately familiar with this labyrinth of the over 9,000 streets and alleyways inside its walls.

  He had been careful to have more than one safe house easily accessible from several directions, including the rooftops of surrounding buildings and hidden doorways. He protected his real identity by using a cover name when renting the properties, but most usually he simply found an empty dwelling and had one of his cohorts either pick the lock or break in.

  Within the small terrorist cell he was only referred to as Yattuy, the "tall one," which offered further protection. Few in this city knew his real name since he had gone to live with his mother's family in city of Zagora, between the Middle Atlas Mountains and Sahara Desert, when he was a teenager. Zagora, most famous for a sign on its outskirts reading, "Tombouctou (Timbuktu) 52 days," supposedly referring to the time it takes for a camel to walk to the fabled city in the desert. His height and dark skin betrayed his mother's Tuareg ancestry. Tall and lithe, standing straight and unbent, he carries himself like a warrior, which in fact is exactly how he sees himself. He always wears the same clothing; a white d'jellaba and kufi skull cap. Dark, hooded eyes, and serious, often scowling continence gave any observer second thoughts about entering a casual conversation with him.

  Walking up the tala'a he passed through the food markets; stalls overflowing with baskets of dates, eggs, nuts, all manner of fresh fruit and vegetables. The meat markets selling everything from live pigeons to sheep heads with unseeing eyes glazed in death. He noticed one of the growing number of American families calling the medina home watching as the poultry butcher swept up the chosen bird, quickly blessing it before slitting its throat and placing it head down in a metal funnel to bleed. In short order the skinned chicken is placed, still warm from life, into a plastic bag.

  Fettah did not smile at the young blonde haired boy begging to feed the chicken heads to the ubiquitous cats hanging around the meat and fish shops. Once his plans were carried out, it would be increasingly difficult for non- Muslims to live in his country. He believed in the purity of his religion and like most fundamentalists believed his idea of Islam was the only true version. Fiercely religious, hating anyone or anything that diluted the promises of the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be unto him, Bou Chantouf was as committed to his cause as any suicide bomber. He did not believe that the Quran was a living document, pliant to a changing world condition. Islam was an immutable force to Fettah Bou Chantouf, and the world would have to adjust to its sublime teachings as it was written. He was resolute in the belief that allowing the coexistence of other religions in his cherished Morocco was an abomination not to be tolerated.

  Hurrying along the Derb Douh leading from the Bab Bou Jeloud with its ATM's and fashionable sidewalk cafes and restaurants, he noticed a pretty, though scandalously dressed young Moroccan woman. She sits without hijab, a head covering, and wearing what he considers is an immodestly short skirt, drinking nus- nus, milky coffee, with a young man. While still the domain of the Moroccan male, increasing numbers of young Moroccan women were also now joining them at the cafes.

  "She is the evil, spoiled, and corrupt Westernized woman. Her day will come too," Bou Chantouf said to himself, "and all those who would bring the evils of western culture into Morocco".

  He continued onward, passing in front of the Continental Tourist Hotel, barely noticing a load of western tourists disgorging from a green tourist bus. Neither did he pay much attention to the coffee shops crowded with men sipping their cups, smoking their cigarettes, talking politics and the upcoming royal visit. He did, however, notice a seated figure dressed in the cotton djellaba over an obvious blue uniform shirt and striped trousers of the La Sûreté Nationale, the National Police force.

  Walking on he quickly found the man he was looking for. Leaning into the cab window, he surreptitiously dropped the package into the cab drivers waiting hands, and asked,

  "When will it be ready?" The driver, Hasan, one of a very small group of trusted cell members replied,

  "It will be ready in time, In'shallah," God willing replied Hasan gruffly.

  "Just be sure that the chemist knows that he will be amply rewarded when he is finished." Fettah seemed almost to hiss like a snake when he talked.

  A brooding, muscular man whose thick, dropping eyelids conceal any trace of warmth or humanity, Hasan was a very useful cell member. Not only does he own a car, but with the cover of a taxi he could be seen in many areas without causing suspicion. No one noticed an ever-present red petit taxi since ALL petit taxis in Fez were identically painted red Fiat Uno's. Hasan possesses utter ruthlessness and his particular ability to quickly break the neck of any one carelessly crossing his path or deemed expendable by Fettah. He wasn't an intelligent thug, but a useful thug nonetheless.

  Turning, Fettah casually scanned the passing crowds with humorless eyes before walking on downhill towards a safe house on the Ras Cherratene. A warm breeze carried the heady scent of this ancient quarter on its wings. Bou Chantouf, residents, tourists and children all deftly step out of the way at the call "balak, balak","lookout!" from the driver of a passing string of donkeys delivering bags of cement to some building site within the medina. Making his way to the safe house, he climbed a neighboring stairway leading to the rooftop. Ducking under one of many clotheslines, he stepped around an ever- present satellite dish puncturing the sky of this ancient city before climbing over a short wall. Reaching under a roof tile he retrieved a hidden key unlocking a rooftop door and allowing him to gain entry into the safe house.

  It had the musty, closed-up smell of someplace that hadn't been lived in for a long time. Here he would finish making preparations, taking pains that everything would be perfect in time for the coming royal visit. Later, at the call of the muezzin,
he would go to a mosque to pray for Allah's blessings on his cause. He thought he might go to the Andalusian section of the medina, maybe the Gzira or Makhfiya neighborhood, which would mean a walk, but that would all right. After all, he had almost 300 mosques to choose from inside the medina. It would only make it more difficult if anyone was either trying to follow him or tie him to one particular neighborhood. One could never be too careful at this point in the game, and security forces reportedly had informants everywhere.

  Chapter 2- Wednesday - 10:18 am

  "Instruction in youth is like engraving in stone." Moroccan proverb

  Eian noisily begged to throw the head of the slaughtered chicken to the waiting black and white cat. Getting his way, he deftly tossed the head to the mewing cat, setting off a squall of hissing among the assembled street cats. Christopher, out on a shopping trip to gather food for tonight’s dinner, smiled down at his son thriving here in Morocco, and especially in the medina.

  Moroccan culture embraced young children, whether native or not, and it was unusual for children to pass by older adults without being patted or kissed on the head. Eian quickly discovered that oftentimes shop owners would also bestow small gifts of sweets or a toy.

  Divorce had been hard on both Christopher and Eian. After seven years of marriage, his wife had suddenly decided that she didn't want to be married to him any longer and did not want the burden of a young child either. Christopher was left in the lurch before finally accepting a years travel magazine assignment to Morocco, which would allow him to take his young son with him. He had found that both he and Eian easily settled into life here in Fez, first finding a family willing to provide a home stay for cultural immersion. Days and weeks quickly turned into months before stumbling upon a riad, a Moroccan version of a Bed and Breakfast with a garden attached, for lease. That had been 3 years ago, though sometimes it seemed like a lifetime.

  Christopher took the day in, knowing that two days hence he would take his son as part of a group to represent the community to meet the King on his visit to Fez to bestow blessings on the festival day of Moulay Idriss II, founder and patron saint of the city. The main event, a raucous procession which began outside the Blue Gate before winding its way along the Tala'a Saghira to the shrine at the heart of the medina.

  Being culturally curious, he was quite content living here in Fez, the soul of Morocco. He could also run his own small guesthouse. He loved the unique blend of the ancient, modern and exotic around every corner; the fact that his home was built over 200 years ago and was still considered new; that the pace of life, at least in the medina, was on a slower, more human scale than outside its protecting walls; that his child seemed truly happy. He also loved the people he was becoming more and more familiar with. Passing by a dar, a small guesthouse like his own, but without a garden, he exchanged greetings with the owner.

  "As-salam alaykum" called out the owner, Kamal, in greeting.

  "Wa alaykum e-salam" replied Christopher. "No time to chat today. Eian is on a mission to get home and play with a new toy he received in the mail from his grandmother. Bislema, goodbye."

  He smiled as Eian continued running down the narrow, cracked and dusty street to the corner where the old beggar woman always sat, eyeing especially visiting Western tourists. He did feel sorry for elderly widows, who often had to resort to begging, especially if there were no children to take them in, so he dropped a small coin in her lap as he walked by and received her blessing and thanks.

  Passing onwards he met a group of American tourists dutifully following behind their guide towards either a carpet shop or the tanneries. He wondered if they knew that Morocco was the first nation to recognize the fledgling United States in 1777 or that the Moroccan-American Treaty of Friendship was the US's oldest unbroken treaty. He seriously doubted it. Smirking, he looked at the group tour guide who was paid a fee of up to 30% to bring them to specific shops and who always guaranteed that this was the place where you could get the best quality at the lowest price.

  Passing through a portal separating neighborhoods, they continued on towards the Tala'a Saghira with its many small shops selling clothing, shoes, luggage, handbags, antiques (both old and freshly created) carpets, souvenirs, videos, pottery, musical instruments; a polyglot of goods being browsed by the bargaining crowds.

  That was another thing he found enjoyable about life in the medina. With few exceptions, all purchases for goods were completed only after serious bargaining takes place between the buyer and the seller. If you didn't bargain it is often considered an insult. If you set too hard bargain then you may be called a Berber, which meant either you were very good at bargaining and was a compliment or that you were penurious and was an insult. Such were the vagaries of language and custom!

  At the corner of Derb El-Horra, they stop to sample a bowl of snail soup, rich with the earthy taste of freshly cooked snails. Eian thought the snails were simply interesting, but was really waiting for the olive seller down the street where he could sample to his heart's delight.

  Moving out of the way as a donkey passed delivering clinking cases of Coke, they continue on down the slope where corbeled buildings seem to reach out to touch them from above. In several places the buildings passes over their heads, one side connecting with the other, punctuated by unseen eyes, now rare traditional windows on the upper stories called rawashin, where women could look out onto the streets below unobserved.

  Aromas assailed their nostrils. From cooking food, animal dung, fresh mint at a hundred different vendors, unwashed bodies, sandalwood or benzoin gum incense, neighborhood bakeries and the always-present dust that swirled through the air at this time of the year. No longer seen were the yellow blossoms of the agave plants that painted the distant hillsides yellow in mid-summer. September was the end of the dry period, when the surrounding hillsides were at their brownest and the only colors were the dyed sheep and goat hides, laid out on the ground to dry in the sunshine. Winds often whipped dust from as far away as the Sahara to the south and east. Soon he knew cooling rains would again fall on his adopted city, and bring with them ultimately the coming of the New Year.

  As he entered the courtyard to his home, he noticed Fatima, the local girl who cooks and helps clean. Now he would be able to leave Eian with her and go back and wander the streets for a while, practicing his Arabic and soaking in the local flavor.

  Chapter 3 - Wednesday - 10:22 am

  "A narrow place is real big to the narrow-minded." Moroccan proverb

  Salima sat talking with her brother Akmed as the tall, bearded man walked glaringly past their table. She knew by the way he was looking at her that he was mentally disapproving of her dress; her lack of head covering and, though modest by western standards, mid-calf skirt. She puts him down to a small group of Islamists that live in the medina who wanted Morocco to be a strict Islamic republic on the model of Saudi Arabia, where modern European or American fashions, music and other cultural influences were banned. He was soon followed by an American with his young son, a man that she knew slightly through her family and who lived in the medina. Handsome, she thought, with a slight smile on her face, but even the thought of dating such a man would be impossible because of the religious differences, no matter how outwardly acceptable he might be. Just the thought of marrying outside her faith would bring disgrace to her family as well as being outside the tenets of Islamic law.

  Salima Benharoun was a striking 35 year old woman. With pale skin, blue eyes and almost blonde hair, she stood out against her darker haired and complexioned Moroccan sisters. She also was as yet, unmarried. She knows that she drew appreciative looks from most passing men, the isolated fundamentalist excluded. It was just that she was very picky and no one she had been introduced to had met either her or her family’s expectations.

  Like the majority of young, educated urban women in Morocco today, Salima has one foot firmly planted in the future and another in the traditional past. She came from a prosperous old Fasi merchant
family that followed traditional Sunni Islam, as did almost all Moroccans. Her father was well respected in the medina, both living and having business ventures there for most of his life, even though he now lived in modern apartments in the Ville Nouvelle, the newest part of Fez built by the French after 1916. He still made daily trips to sit outside the families' carpet and antiquities shops on the Tala'a Kebira. The old family home now housed a small but luxurious guesthouse near Batha; another family enterprise.

  Salima's Berber mother and her father had met while he was buying carpets in the Rif Mountains of northern Morocco. Her features bore those physical traits of her father, easily passing for a northern European, unlike her brothers and sisters who resemble her darker, rounder-faced mother. She did, however, have her mother's joie de vivre and laughing eyes, and was encouraged, within limits, to experience the world around her.

  After finishing high school she had attended the University Sidi Mohamed majoring in accounting. Now she was part owner, along with her family, of an accounting office that was located in the medina and she was proud of its growing clientele. Salima thought of some of her clients, knowing outsiders would be surprised at the splendor of the homes hidden behind walls and unassuming doorways; the cooling fountains, marvelous tile and carved plaster work.

  Salima eagerly awaited the promised coming government reforms sweeping the Arab world at this time. While progressive compared to virtually any other Islamic country, Morocco was still stifling to one such as Salima. She loved her country and believed that democratic liberalization was the only answer to its problems. Some of the more conservative religious political groups in Morocco wanted to fence the country off from the rest of the world and keep any western influences from entering, turning the clock back to a time that never really was. Morocco had always been influenced by forces from across the Mediterranean Sea and was a crossroads between Europe and Africa.