Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

najat el hachmi

hair, regal Rif forehead and headscarf. They’ve been more than generous and hospitable towards you. You’ve no reason to complain, as you speak their language as well or better than they do, they’ve almost forgotten where you come from and who you are, almost. I said goodbye to them all as I reached the station square and went into the building with the faded salmon-pink walls and red lettered station name. I waited on the platform my heart racing. All at once the smell of the slurry filled my nose and now lodged there. I wondered if this was the city’s revenge, to fill my nostrils with its characteristic stink that I could never now throw off; even though my life was so different far from here, or

I was quite a different person, I’d carry this pungent stench wherever I went. But then I saw a frizzy head slip through the door and started to worry in case somebody saw me. A Moroccan, of course, someone who knows who I am and what I do by the minute, who will scrutinise me so later they can tell each other they spotted me in such and such a place and then tell their wives and their wives will talk about it among themselves until one pays a visit to our house and speaking to my mother will happen to mention it without making any big deal: no girl is as well behaved as yours, we’ve never seen her do anything silly, she never says a word to anyone. By anyone they mean I never speak to men, however much they aim remarks at me in the street, however much they chase

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