By Ahmed Jalali
We were university students when the Moroccan Green March holiday arrived. I didn’t like the idea of my friend, the American orientalist Erik, staying alone in the empty university residence — a place ruled by silence, despair, and stray cats whenever students left for holidays.
So I invited him to accompany me to the countryside as a guest of my family in my native village, Awlad Jalal. He didn’t hesitate. His eyes sparkled with excitement at the thought of discovering another side of Morocco, where he had come to study Arabic for six months.
We boarded the train under cold, heavy rain — “raining cats and dogs,” as the English saying goes. I wore my modest winter clothes, while he appeared in his well-equipped American rain gear.
We arrived in Kenitra before sunset, then took a taxi to Sidi Allal Tazi village. It was already dark and still raining heavily when we reached my family’s home.
At that time, there were no phones, no WhatsApp, and none of those modern marvels that have since captured people’s hearts and eyes. As we stepped through the gate, our old dog, Dogol, greeted us with a bark that mixed welcome and suspicion — for he could smell the scent of a foreigner.
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| Ahmed (left) with Erik,1994 |
Before entering, Erik asked me how he should greet my father, may God rest his soul.
“Just do as I
do,” I told him.
I kissed my father’s head and stood respectfully. My father looked at Erik, then asked:
“Where did you
meet this young Christian?”
“He’s my
classmate,” I answered.
We sat together in the large guest room. I noticed in my father’s eyes both curiosity and unease — it was the first time he had ever welcomed a Christian into his home.
But when Erik began speaking in classical Arabic, my father’s expression changed. Amazement lit his face. He was both proud and delighted to hear a foreigner speak our sacred tongue. Smiling, he poured us his special tea — a recipe whose secret he alone knew. Erik sipped it in two gulps and said politely, “Thank you, sir. It’s delicious.”
My father never forgot that well-mannered young American. And I believe Erik never forgot my father either — I still keep his moving letter of condolence after my father’s passing. Erik’s kindness and humility made him a fine ambassador of his country’s culture.
The next day, we walked through the village and across the green fields. Among the sugarcane, Erik greeted shepherds and patted their sheep. He was, and remains, a true lover of nature and animals. He told me of his dream to build a model farm — one that combined agriculture and livestock in an environmentally friendly way.
That evening, a strange fever struck us both. I had never felt anything like it before — shortness of breath, high fever, heavy sweating, and a temporary loss of hearing and vision. We trembled under our blankets. I feared my foreign friend might die — not only because he was dear to me, but because he was a guest of my family, and of my country.
At breakfast, my mother, may God rest her soul, brought us dishes full of mysterious spices — I never knew where she kept them all. At lunch she repeated her culinary magic, and again the next morning.
By the third day, Erik’s fever had eased. His voice returned, and he began to sing and dance in the Irish way, joking with the dog and mimicking my father’s expressions.
We spent the rest of the holiday visiting Kenitra, Rabat, and the nearby village of Dar El Gaddari, where we sat cross-legged on the ground around a steaming bowl of couscous, leaving not a single grain behind.
When it was time to return to Tangier, we felt recovered. But once back at the university, the fever returned — even worse than before. Our bodies burned like furnaces. Our clothes were soaked in sweat no matter how many times we changed them.
While our classmates attended lectures, Erik — though sick himself — would come to check on me. He brought fruit and medicine, caring for me like a brother, or like a comrade on a battlefield.
I still don’t know how he managed to find those medicines, but he shared them equally between us. For ten long days, we suffered together — until, at last, we regained the strength to stand.
When I stepped outside after that semi-medical quarantine, the world looked blurred. Erik, too, seemed weaker than before. I felt as though we had survived a brutal, invisible enemy.
His face had paled, but his strong, soldier-like body soon recovered. We returned to life, celebrating our survival in our usual way — over coffee at the Havana Café.
Years passed, but that strange illness never left my memory. When the new global epidemic struck, I began to wonder — was what we suffered back then an early version of the same virus?
Perhaps it was — a forgotten “corona” from the twentieth century, shared between two young men: one Moroccan, one American of Irish descent.
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About the Author
Ahmed Jalali is a Moroccan writer, journalist, and poet. His work explores memory, identity, and the intersections between cultures. He writes in both Arabic and English and has published essays, short fiction, and political commentary across several digital platforms.