Painful Wonderings

 As I took my seat on the train this morning, I looked out of the window in the hope of catching a glimpse of the sun. Not to my surprise, the heavens were still adamant that it was non grata on their premises despite it being April. Stubborn at they are, they would not budge to grant the sun the joy of weaving its rays, and caressing our skin so hungry for its touch and warmth. 

The scenery was the usual flat green space with new houses dotted around randomly as if someone closed their eyes and sprinkled them around on the ground… the view was hardly one to take one’s breath away. My gaze turned to the people inside the train instead. 

A pre-teen boy was sat a few seats down the train carriage opposite me; he caught my attention when he stood up to help an old lady with her luggage. This sight triggered my motherly mind which started wondering as it does sometimes… I started thinking about the baby boy that I had and who would have been of a similar age to this boy…wondering about what he would have looked like now, what likes and dislikes he would have had… about which sister he would have been drawn to most… whether he would have had the British stiff upper lip or the Algerian fieriness…

With the football chants from fans on the train growing louder, I wondered if he would have liked football, about how my life would have turned out had he fought harder for his life…

I wish he knew that he gave me so much joy on the day he was born that I said I wanted to have 10 children. I wish he knew that there was a beautiful world out there… he who saw of this world nothing but the harsh lights of the NICU and its uniformed staff…he who came to this world too soon…he who after 2 agonising months, on a fateful April day, 12 years ago stopped his fight, he whose mention gives me misty eyes but I have learnt to control the tears…

He who lies beneath the ground thousands of miles away from me, my only solace is that the sun is shining over him constantly. 

Some clarity in murky waters

With lockdowns and death of social life, I have taken to Twitter to vent off my frustration with the way the British government has been handling the Covid-19 pandemic. But, as my screen time increased so did my frustration with the amount of misinformation that it out there on many scientific questions and one of these is how the drug development process works. So, I see it fitting to shed some light on how the sometimes very precious medicines make their way to you. 

The drug development industry is one of the most if not the most regulated industry in the world, all aspects of drug development from the conception of the molecule in the laboratory to the day the last patient in any clinical trial has taken the medicine have to be documented, inspected, reviewed and contested before any medicine gets the green light to be marketed and then make its way to the patient. The reason this industry is heavily regulated is due to some disasters that happened in the past from the Nuremberg trials where Nazi doctors were conducting human experiments on concentration camp prisoners to the Thalidomide scandal to name just a few. 

The first step in the development for novel therapeutic molecules is to make sure they show efficacy which is another way of saying that they have the potential to treat an ailment. This is usually done in vitro, if there is a glimpse of evidence that the molecule has a beneficial effect, animal studies can be the next step in the process. These studies will have to be conducted according to guidelines, and the safety of the product has to be assessed in these models. For some indications, there exist animals exhibiting symptoms of the studied condition but these are not available for all indications. Experimentation on animal models is conducted by utilizing multiple concentrations and multiple dosings of the product under investigation. If the animal data show that the product has the potential to be well-tolerated, then the move to clinical trials can be considered. 

The move to the clinical phase of the development is when regulatory agencies such as the FDA which act as the police of the pharma industry start getting involved. For large companies with extensive development experience, the move can be smooth as they have an army of staff with all expertise required. For smaller companies, regulatory agencies tend to take them by the hand offering them incentives, reduced fees and scientific advice. The latter procedure is when the company has a set of questions on the drug development process that they would like to discuss and get validated and through this procedure they can tap into the expertise offered by regulatory agencies around the world. It is of note that most if not all sovereign countries around the world have regulatory agencies. The G7 countries have the largest and most experienced staff but countries rich and poor have committees in place to study and decide whether to approve procedures based on the evidence presented in documents submitted by pharma companies. 

For any company to start a clinical trial, a dossier needs to be compiled this is called the clinical trial application. In this application the drug developer needs to have the protocol that is like a manual to be followed by investigators (clinicians) and staff at the sites where the clinical trial will be taking place in addition to other technical documents detailing the efficacy and quality  and  safety tests that have been conducted to show that the product is fairly safe to proceed to usage in humans. 

Phase I trial is the first-in man, this is the riskiest of all phases for participants, and it usually is conducted on healthy volunteers unless it is unethical to do so (e.g. drugs known to have serious side effects that a healthy patient should not be exposed to). This phase usually focuses on showing safety and involves a small number of volunteers. The drug developer needs an approval from each nation where the trial takes place. This comes after studying the dossier submitted and getting an ethics committee involved to approve the trial. Ethics committees look at whether the way the study is designed ensures the safety and integrity of trial subjects. They have doctors, lawyers, as well as patients in these committees.  Not many nations allow phase I trials to be conducted on their people but countries in the EU, as well as the US and Canada and South Korea do allow phase I trials because they can monitor patients in case of serious incidents following the administration of the drug. 

If all goes well, then the drug developer can move to phase 2, which is a larger trial where both efficacy (proof of concept) and safety are assessed. Some phase 2 trials are used to identify the best dose (safest and most efficacious). These trials are usually multi-center conducted in several countries around the world. An approval needs to be received for this phase from each regulatory agency in each country where the trial is conducted.

If phase 2 trials show evidence that the drug under investigation has the potential to show some efficacy in a larger population then the move goes to phase 3. This phase is a decisive phase in dug development. A huge proportion of trials do not make it past phase 2, but once phase 3 starts, there is a lot at stakes. The trial in this phase are usually designed to show efficacy either in comparison to a placebo (rare these days) or another drug that is thought to be not do good and is already in use by doctors. Phase 3 trials can include even 40-50 countries, with multiple sites in each country. The same process of approval is needed as in phase I and 2, but at this stage, more animal and human data is available and drug developers are scrutinized more by the regulators. Approvals can take months to be handed to them by regulators. 

In general, trials can take from 1 to 4 or 6 years, and the length varies depending on the indication to be treated, the prevalence of the disease and the speed of recruiting the patients. Rare diseases are very hard to recruit for and trials for these would only include 10-20 patients sometimes. 

If all goes well, and it seldom does, the drug developer now has data from phase 3 trials to suggest that the drug is efficacious and superior to either placebo or standard of care. To show this the trial would have been designed to include enough patients (powered) to show that any difference between the treatment group and the placebo group could not be due to chance or in other words proving that the null hypothesis in wrong. 

During the clinical trials, the drug developer would have started to has to prepare a marketing authorization application. In this application all the details of the development need to be documented. This is a colossal dossier especially if the drug is a novel molecule. The experts in the agency make sure that all the guidance laid out by the regulators (e.g. FDA and EMA) have been followed and that the quality of the product is ensured as well as safety and the claimed efficacy can be verified. Questions are asked by regulators at every step of the process, and every regulatory agency can have its own questions that need to be answered in a timely manner with very tight deadlines.

If the evidence to suggest that the drug under investigation has a favorable benefit/risk profile i.e. the benefits from taking the drug to treat an indication outweigh the potential risks associated with it, the drug receives a marketing authorization or a license and can be marketed. However, it does not all stop here, pricing and reimbursement have to then be negotiated with governments around the world before the product can be placed on the market. 

The whole process takes years and years, but for serious diseases like cancer, the process can be sped up as there is a potential for accelerated reviews if drug has the potential to save lives  as is the case with Covid-19. 

The good, the bad and the ugly

As humanity finds itself in unchartered waters trying to steer away from an invisible enemy, our interconnectedness as human beings has never been more apparent. We are living at a time when a pandemic is sweeping across the planet at unprecedented pace, reshaping the post-modern world as we know it. The incubation period of many viruses which would have elapsed during travel in the olden days seems to be long enough now for these to cross continents in a matter of days. The speed of travel and the pace of life that we have become accustomed to is now coming back to haunt us.

This virus is not a great leveller, those who are considered to be at the bottom of the heap by society are paying a high price during this pandemic. Reports are showing us that wealth and privilege play a great part on deciding who lives and who dies. As I see this pandemic emphasising the inequality of societies around the world, I cannot help but draw parallels with scenes from the epic movie Titanic. First class passengers being the first to evade the sinking ship with guaranteed comfort whilst the lower classes are left to perish in the cold waters.

This pandemic has brought out the worst in people; we are seeing how companies are profiteering in trading with people’s lives by hiking prices of essential life-saving equipment, how air piracy has become a norm with world leaders literally stealing medical equipment destined for others, and how the blaming fingers of politicians are trying to find a scapegoat to divert attention away from their utter failures in dealing with the crisis.

Amidst all this heinousness, the planet is now breathing, neighbours are talking to each, families are getting to know each other and society is already thinking how to make the world a fairer place where the next pandemic will be easier to handle.   

Beauty and The Beast

In 2008, when the world’s eyes were turned to a new kid in the block, giving a victory speech in one of the most historic passings of power in recent history, thousands of miles away, another history was being made. The president of Algeria was to change the constitution to allow himself to stay “with” the presidency until death do them part. 

When Bouteflika was brought in by the army in 1999, Algeria was trying to turn the page on one of the most difficult and darkest chapters in its history. A decade of blood and terror where the struggle to survive and the fear of facing death was the daily routine of all Algerians. A few years into his rule, peace-in the form of decrease in the number of massacres-started to crawl back into our lives; daily news of death was not the norm anymore, and life started to go back to normality, except that everything had changed, and society was never to be the same again. Suspicion of the other meant that people started to withdraw into self-inflicted confinements, and apathy started to reign. Public space was confiscated from Algerians by the regime in place and the ghost of the black decade was always hovering around to deter people from any attempt of change. The people had divorced their country, their regime and each other.

With all this apathy, a new beast was growing, fuelled by soaring oil prices, the appalling management of public money meant that anything was up for grabs. Algeria was the new Eldorado where anyone who wanted to make a quick buck would go to. The regime running the country continued to deteriorate and became a mafia in all sense of the word, and as the oil prices started to plummet, the mafia had to find new ways to satisfy its insatiable appetite for money, this meant that illegal trading, money laundering and drug dealing was also on the table; the mafia was pushing the country into a dystopia.

My family like many other families had to think of ways to survive in a country under regime that cared for no one and where everyone was for themselves. Water supplied by the government is not trusted for consumption so my dad started a weekly trip to a spring to fill jerrycans with clean water to use for cooking and for drinking as bottled water would not be sufficient. Meat was sourced directly from farms as my sister, an inspector of food quality warned of the dangers of meat consumption, hospitals were to be avoided at all cost as my sister who is a doctor warned against these. Our cities became open air prisons, and got uglier by the day, so trips to the countryside were our escape from small living spaces and eyesores mushrooming like there is no tomorrow.  

As the beast grew bigger, it engulfed every corner of the country and every fabric of society, very few were those who resisted the regime and its practices. But as history has it, against the backdrop of all this chaos, a new beautiful generation which saw the pain, the chaos, and the injustice, and witnessed on a daily basis the further descent of the country into an abyss was waiting for the right moment; it seized it in the most beautiful way , it broke the silence and lifted the fear and the rest is very recent history.

Back in Blighty

"You must be mad!”. This is how friends and family  greeted my decision to return to England after leaving it some years ago. Four cities and three countries later, I find myself in the town that I used to love so very much, but which I had to leave for greener pastures.
I do question my sanity when I look out of the window and cannot tell whether it is morning or afternoon because of the constant dark aura that wraps this country in the autumn months, or when I look at the sky and the dreary greyness is all I can see. I sometimes wonder if it was the right decision when I think of all the taxes we pay and how childcare fees make you think that you get punished for having children in this country.
I left England because I was lonely, I wanted to be close to family. London was great, it offered me everything I dreamed of as a youngster, yet hitting the age of 30 and having no kids and no family around me made me unhappy.  I convinced my husband that brining up kids in a good area of London without having a million pounds stashed away was going to be impossible. I could not see myself continuing to take the tube or public transport beyond the age of 30 or as a pregnant lady, inhaling all the horrible black dust on the underground…  Aside from the vibrant atmosphere of the city and the illusion that you are somewhat important just because you happen to wear a suit and take a boat to a business meeting, there was nothing to keep us in London, so move away we did.
When I left, I wanted to be somewhere that offered me everything; the family, the children, the sun, and the money. Above all, I wanted a new beginning. Fast forward a few years, my decision, which was great for my social life did not seem to do much for my career. My freelance business never really took off and I had enough of sponging off my husband. So after a few years of dwindling income, I decided it was time to head back to England  to spend more years working in a box, looking at a box and dealing with people who cannot think outside the box, aka the corporate world. Now that I am back, I sit in front of a box all day making sure I clock up enough years, serving my corporate sentence so that I can be free again. For a rebel like me, every day is an agony mostly because of the red tape that exists everywhere. People follow procedures blindly and seem to leave their common sense and brain at home before heading for work. What the business world calls streamlining, I label dumbing down and automating tasks so that work becomes merely a robotic repetitive mechanism. Sitting at your desk wishing your life away until the weekend is what I do. But the weekend is not a time for fun anymore.
We left as 2 and now we are 4. Life with young children is very different; nothing prepares you for it. What seemed like a given before is now a luxury-at least in this country. Life for middle class families here is hard. Finding Alibaba’s treasure cave is easier than finding decent childcare. Nurseries are run by half-wits who cannot even spell and who hate looking after children;  but they ask for astronomical amounts of money.
As parents, we run from school to nursery (which are never near each other) to after school activities to nowhere. The weekends are spent trying to entertain the kids or get ready for a new school week. Nannies and babysitters are so fussy that you think they are doing it for free. As a result, your social life as an adult away from the kids becomes non-existent
In all this chaos, you find pleasure in knowing that your kid attends an outstanding school and seeing them thrive there makes all the agony worthwhile. The school becomes your life again as a parent, and your kid performing a song or a play during a school assembly warms your heart.

How green is your grass?

We are told that the grass is greener where we are not. Just like the color of the sea which gets bluer the further away you move from the shores, the grass seems greener the further away you drift from your home.

Undeterred by Dahmane Elharrachi’s song  and the tales of those older than us who tell us that leaving one’s  home is not for the faint-hearted, we embark on a journey of discovery and adventure,  leaving everything familiar behind. We follow our dreams, which we later realize they are not even ours. We taste the different flavors of each land and we keep moving in search of that perfect place to finally realize that it only exists in our hearts.

Some wise people exercise discipline and convince themselves that whatever they have is perfect and that the only way to be content is to accept what is there, deal with it and improve it. This is the case of those Algerians who enjoy their life back home. The case is also true for citizens of other countries who never complain about the bad weather, the high taxes or the dirty and polluted cities. They will just live in their little town or big city never yearning to know what if feels like to be somewhere else.

I came across people on my various trips who are just like me, they have lived in various countries, and are always willing to move, this gives me reassurance. But, I have also met people who stayed in one place all their lives, and worked at the same company for as long as they have been employed; life abroad does not tempt them in the slightest. These people have travelled but they have always come home. I feel jealous of them sometimes. They have found satisfaction, and are confident that the land where they are offers just as much as anywhere else.

Along my trips, I met so many people each with their own story of leaving their land. For some, it is the search of freedom. A roommate of mine in college told me once that she could never imagine herself wearing a bikini in England (on a hot day), but she would gladly do it in Egypt because there she feels free(er). Many other expats also re-iterate the same feeling of being free,  away from the eyes of those who have come to know them very well; as if ones’ homeland becomes a confinement and freedom is only to be found away, anywhere but at home. For those of us who come from conservative societies, we think that our society is suffocating because of customs, and religion; we flee to get away but even those from the free world seem to be fleeing. Some flee taxes, others flee the cold weather, for others it is just the experience to put in a CV to get promoted and earn more money. For a few, it is the love of adventure.

Beacuse you have lived in multiple lands, people think that you are an authority on the best places to live; I personally think that there is no perfect land but that which exists in your heart and that the grass is as green as your eyes make you see it. If one’s heart is content and happy, it will always be happy no matter where it lives, and if you are miserable grumpy soul, you’ll always find faults with every country that you have called home. I belong to the latter category I am afraid.

Ramdhan Z'man

As someone living in nostalgia, I keep trying to convince myself that many things used to be better before. One of them is Ramadhan. As a kid, I used to get so excited about this month and await its arrival with great anticipation; for me, it meant eating more sweets, and being able to play outside when it is dark.

One of the things I miss dearly these days is the smell of Ramadhan and the aura that accompanied this month. You could not escape it,  it was in the air everywhere; it was not just the smell of coriander in shorba emanating from every house in the neighborhood, not the smell of Z’labia being deep fried or dipped in syrup, not that of Qalbellouz sold in stalls in many places, and not that of orange flower water in the Sherbet. It was all of that and a lot more. Even if you were too young to fast, or were at school where you would not whiff any of the above delightful smells, you could still feel the presence of the month.

As I grow wiser, I feel that aura less and less and start to believe that it was maybe one of those childish feelings I had, which rendered my world a lot more exciting. Sometimes, I wish I could reconstruct the atmosphere in my head for it is a great one. I travel to Algeria in Ramadhan sometimes hoping to experience that feel again but it is not there anymore. All you experience is the heat and the dead streets. I think that people have just given up on trying to make this month exciting.

People complain a lot about this month, I do, sometimes, as well. We find the fast difficult, and I find the cooking difficult. We are expected to fast, pray, be spiritual, and cook decent food without tasting it. If there is an invitee, we pray that the salt is just right.

In all of the extra tasks we create during this month, we distract ourselves from the true essence of this month, and as Ramadhan nears its end, we feel a sort of regret for having complained about its arrival, for not welcoming it warmly enough, for not having done enough good deeds and wonder what our lives will be like next Ramadhan, and whether the aura will visit us again. 

Mrs La Blanche

Mr Le Blanc, according to Gad Elmaleh, is this guy whom the universe conspires to make his life as smooth as silk. When he eats all the components in his sandwich enter into a pact and decide to do their best to make it to his mouth without soiling his nice clean clothes. Eating a sandwich for him is a pleasure, no mayo, no sauce leaves that sandwich until it reaches the desired destination. At the airport, his luggage is the first to arrive on the belt, intact and spotless; and the list of fortunate events in his life is endless. At the other end of the spectrum there is Mr. Swad essa3d, whom Murphy’s law shapes his life and everything he does goes awry.

For every Mr. Le Blanc, there is of course Mrs La Blanche. You spot her at the local coffee shop drinking a skinny latte, looking like a million dollars. She has three kids, not one, not two but three! Yet she manages to have a figure of a single woman in her teens. She has three kids and she manages to have hair that looks like she has just stepped out of a salon. No dark circles under the eyes; so her kids must have slept through the night from day zero.

Mrs La Blanche’s kids sit quietly when she eating out with hubby, playing with their toys; eating all their veggies and any crap that Mrs La Blanche offers. She of course manages to stay as fresh looking as when she stepped out of her house. Her kids do not seem to grab her hair or clothes. The kids smile or laugh all the time, you wonder if they were born in Stepfod town. You look at what she is having and you want to ask the waiter to get you exactly the same stuffs maybe some of that luck would rub on you.

She drives a Range Rover to drop her kids at school or at nursery. She wears a different outfit everyday, which looks like it has just arrived from the drycleaners. Her kids put a kiss on her cheek and say bye and run to their classroom looking like they are going to a playground. At nursery, she leaves her baby who has such a big smile on his face, you wonder if he on something. Everyday you see Mrs La Blanche, you hate her more; you try to convince yourself that she has at least two maids and three nannies for she sets the standards so high you wonder if she is human.

You, on the other hand, never sleep through the night, because your baby does not; so looking fresh is out of the question. Your barely have time to comb your hair because your baby is screaming for something that is not among the 1000 things in front of her. You decide to wear hat nice outfit to outdo Mrs La Blanche just that once but on the way to the car, the baby decides to puke all over you and you run back to the house and grab that dress that does not need ironing but which makes look like Jo Brand. You decide to wear it anyway because you are so late for everything. You run around the house like crazy checking and rechecking that you have got the million things that you baby does not need at nursery, but which you decide to pack anyway because you want to make your life more stressful.

At nursery, your baby screams and screams when you leave her that you decide to either be the first or last to arrive at the nursery so that you can make it out quietly and avoid the accusing eyes of  those mums looking at you like it is your fault that your baby does not want to leave your side. There is nothing worse than judging eyes of other mums who want to tell you how to bring up your child.

When you have had enough and you want to eat out with hubby, you pray and pray that your baby does not make a scene; she of course does not let you eat and you end up taking turns with your husband on eating and drinking. She barely eats her food, and ends up being grumpy as she can see all the people around her eating and she cannot do the same. Your baby decides all of a sudden that bedtime that night is when the dessert arrives. You ask the waiter to pack it for you and make your way back home.

As a mum, you want to be Mrs La Blanche everyday, you tire yourself like mad to get there; but then you realize that she is 10 years younger than you, she started having kids when you were busy climbing the career ladder. She married a loaded Mr. right, and after all her kids go to school, she can start her career and will become a CEO by the time she is 45. You give up trying...

Married! Keep away from me!

Marriage and men are a recurring theme in some excellent blogs run by single Algerian females. Patriots on Fire also has some posts dealing with the problem of marriage in Algeria, and in a post published last year,  there was a mention that Algerian women only care about getting married and Turkish soaps. As extreme as it may sound, there is actually some truth in this.

When I was in my early twenties, I used to get regular calls from a friend of mine, informing me of all the marriages amongst the small Algerian community in England. Some of the names I knew, but in most part they were people I did not know and could not care less if they got married, stayed single or did anything else. That friend of mine used to share the news to get things off her chest, for the news were too great a sorrow for her to bear alone. I remember once she contacted me to break the hot off the press news that one of our friends had a baby boy, with a lot of melancholy in her voice. As if the universe was conspiring somehow to give the baby boy to her friend and consequently deprive her of it.

Some years passed, and it was my time to witness things through the married woman’s eyes. As I am a discreet person, I did not send a group e-mail to everyone in my inbox who are spread across the globe telling them that I had got married. So, many of my acquaintances learnt about it from others, or years later.  

I was recently travelling and decided to inform an old colleague of mine whom I had not seen for 8 years, of my being in her city. I sent her an e-mail, and I got a reply straight away asking me of how I was and giving me her mobile number suggesting that we meet for coffee. In the second e-mail I sent her, I said that I was with my husband in town that it would be nice to see her. I had not heard from her ever since. The meeting for coffee was cancelled and my calls were unanswered.

The second funny event was at Harrods, and more precisely in the ladies bathroom. I was speaking to my sister and a woman was looking closely at us making it clear that she understood every single word; she was Algerian. She informs her daughter who comes straight to us and introduces herself, after names, the next question was: “are you married?” When the answer was positive, she did not look happy and decided to disappear with her mum.

Another recent event was a meeting with another single friend of mine after years of absence. She made it clear that she was not happy to see me and was quite aggressive towards me. 

These are all reactions of girls who have not even met my husband or asked about his profession or his looks.  It is true that some married women in Algeria think that they are somehow superior to their single counterparts. But these women are certainly sad creatures. Also, I find it strange that many single women always try to find faults with people’s marriages or husbands/wives.

My mother finds these reactions unjustified and silly as well. She always reminds us that most people end up getting married and that when she was young, it was not a big deal to be married, and no one felt jealous or bitter as it was the norm. Just like having kids; she, who has had so many,  never understood why women these days show off being pregnant and ostracize those who cannot have kids. 

Black or White

When strolling around Algerian cities in recent year, a new phenomenon becomes apparent to the observer, the ever increasing presence of the colour black among women.

The little black dress has always been described as a must have in any wardrobe. So are black jeans or black tops, as these have the tendency to give the allusion that one is thinner than one actually is. As someone who has never suffered from excess weight, I never felt the need to acquire black clothes except for the odd thing or two; so I am not mad about this colour.

But the black thing that is parading in our streets is not the little black dress, but the abaya or the milaya as some would like to call it. After several years of the disappearance of the white hayek that women used to drape themselves in, and years of adopting the fashion that comes from the other side of the Mediterranean, our girls have found a new way to express themselves i.e. copy those from the Gulf countries.

Women after the independence started to conquer the work place and realized that the hayek was not practical, so they decided to opt for more practical clothes, those that allow the woman to move freely, catch public transport, and run sometimes to do that. This, in addition to the feeling that the hayek was a sign of backwardness, something the French encouraged by promoting the burning of the hayek in the fifties, contributed to its gradual disappearance.

When visiting Morocco, I noticed that women there were still wearing their traditional jellabah, young and old women alike. In fact, hardly any women were wearing the black abaya. The black abaya which made its way to the front of fashion in Algeria is a lot less prevalent in our neighbouring Morocco. I don’t know about Tunisia now, but last time I was there in 2007, there was no sign of it. 

What I like to question here, is not the hijab itself but the fascination of Algerians by what comes from abroad.  Since it was possible for the Moroccan kaftan to be adapted by top end designers around the world, and has become a must have item, why can't we have our own attire and develop it into something practical and fashionable? Isn’t the kablye dress worthy of developing into a modern fashion item? why not make the karakoo algerois a practical everyday clothing item? Have we no imagination or will do nothing but just import everything? 

Back in life

As I have disappeared from the blogging scene for nearly a year, I thought I would write a word or two to explain the reason behind the absence to the one or two readers who visit this page.

Well, I have been on maternity leave. I know that writing a post should not be compared to working full-time, but when you are sleep-deprived for what seems like an eternity, putting two words together in your mother tongue is sometime a challenge let alone trying to write something meaningful in another language. 

I have got some drafts  from before, which I will publish in the next few days. That is until I can get my brain to think about things other than baby naps, sleep and food. 

The Open Door

A friend of mine has lent me an interesting collection of short stories written by kids whose ages range from 8 to 18. The stories selected were winners of a writing contest on the theme “The Open Door”. These kids come from different cultural backgrounds; I read all the stories and was impressed by the quality of the writings, and the imagination that these kids have, and the effort that they put into their work.

Some of the stories were written in Arabic and others were written in English. One of the intriguing things that I noticed after finishing the book was the difference between tackling the subject between Arab kids and Western kids. Most of the Arab kids, writing either in Arabic or English thought of the open door as a metaphorical expression, and built their stories around hope, which the open door signifies. On the other hand, the Western kids always thought of the actual door as an object and their stories evolved around walking through open doors, or trying to open closed ones.

What makes things even more interesting is the theory that Malek bennabi proposed in his book Le Problème des Idées dans le Monde Musulman. He states that the European man has always looked towards the ground or his feet using what is beneath to make things, whereas the Eastern or precisely the Middle Eastern man has always looked towards the sky in search for answers to his existence and being. He also believed that the obsession of the European with material things (objects) made this continent incapable of producing a prophet or a religion.

In this book he cites the examples of Daniel de Foe’s Robinson Crusoe and Ibn Tufail’s Hay ibn Yakdhan. The Castaway Robinson Crusoe tries to occupy himself by writing a diary, making a table, and other things, whereas Ibn Tufail’s protagonist who finds himself alone in a forest searches for a meaning to life and he finally comes to realise the existence of a creator.

Although it is an interesting comparison to make, and it lends supports my observation above. I believe that Malek  Bennabi has missed crucial differences between the two stories. Danield De Foe and Ibn Tufail lived in completely different times, separated by hundreds of years of civilization, which at the time of the writing of Robinson Crusoe was moving towards industrialization, i.e. the making of things which must have influenced the line of thinking of Daniel de Foe. Robinson Crusoe was an adult when he was cast away on the island. He had already seen the world and experienced life, so he was trying to make a life that resembles the one that he left behind. However, Ibn Yakdhan was raised alone in a forest, away from human influence and civilization.

Having said that, it has been some time since I read the book; and I may be missing some other points which led Malek bennabi to deduce the crucial difference between the Eastern and Western man.    

Going back to the Open Door, I would have thought that the age of globalization would produce kids that were not so different.

The land of Timgad…The home of the mud

In an article published in World Finance on urbanization 2.0, Dan Lewis, a Director of the Economic Research Council, states that Today’s municipal planners dream wistfully of Timgad, a perfectly symmetrical, self-contained grid-laid Roman town in Algeria built in 100 AD. Instead they have given us the likes of Milton Keynes in the UK.

The statement above shows his dissatisfaction with modern town planning which has given the world cities without a soul. However, if this author were to visit Algeria, he would lament the state of our town and cities (and thank god for Milton Keynes), he would realize that Timgad, which appears to be an inspiration for town planners around the world, has not enthused our architects to produce anything remotely as decent.

If he were to drive on the East-West highway, he would find himself alternating between beautiful dreams and nightmares. One moment he could imagine himself in the best of countries, beautiful landscape as far as the eye can see unraveling herself to the observer, inviting to be seen and enjoyed. Another moment eyesores erected by men, never thinking about creating harmony between nature and buildings, resulting in an esthetic unevenness that would detract him from looking out of the car’s window and push him to look away. He would also notice the inexistence of spaces and structures that lift the spirit. He would certainly question the shocking designs by our architects and their inability to know where a building is not suited.

If he were to take walks around our cities, he would see how some rare decent buildings metamorphosed into ugly ones thanks to the jealous man who thinks that by turning a balcony into a window or even a block of concrete, he would be protecting the honor of his family, by hiding his wife, sisters or daughters from the preying eyes of other men. And if he were to venture outside his hotel room on a rainy day, he would bring heaps of mud back.

If he were to read comments on Algerian newspapers and blogs, he would find people objecting to the creation of beautiful buildings, he would come across articles criticizing any attempts to build decent roads and bridges. He would find people asking for a freeze on projects until a democratic system is established. If he were to talk to people about cleanliness, he would find everyone espousing the idea that cleanliness of homes and streets should be a priority, but he would realize soon after that everyone brilliantly destroys it.

If he were to visit Timgad, he would find a ghost town, revived only for concerts to hypnotize the people.

Stop the bashing!

Today, I decided to pick up on a a posting by an Algerian blogger on Algerian women.

On Patriots on Fire, a post entitled “Algerian women serve no purpose” was recently published,  which amongst other things states that some interviewed Algerian men think that Algerian women serve no purpose and that their interest is centered  around marriage and Turkish soaps.  Shockingly, the comments to the post seem to endorse the statement in the title.

I cannot deny that marriage and men are a recurring theme in some very popular blogs run by single Algerian females. Searching for a husband seems to be a favourite preoccupation of young women in Algeria. There is the famous slogan that girls at Algerian universities use which is diplôme plus un homme, which makes finding a man a priority for a young woman just as much as getting the degree. Indeed, some girls just want to go to university to be able to find a partner as the milieu offers more choice than one would find in the small community from which one hails.

Nevertheless, the interviewees or the blogger seem to suggest that there is a norm and that Algerian women by focusing on finding a husband or a partner seem to be shifting from the norm. But the need to find a male partner or a mating partner to be more biologically precise does not only occupy the Algerian female’s mind. Bridget Jones’s Diary and Sex and the City are very good examples of the pressure put on women in Western societies to be hitched once they reach a certain age and also to produce descendants. So, it is a bit unfair and shortsighted to imply that this phenomenon is purely Algerian or even Arab by reaching conclusions based on this fact.

On a recent assignment in a town not far from London, in a company dominated by women, I was surprised to find out that babies and children were the preferred discussion topic during lunch breaks, and that everyone made sure to mention the achievements, the concerts, the pantomimes, the sports days that their children were attending. These women were not without a purpose, 80% of them had PhD’s from top universities in the UK and in Europe. The question: ”Do you have children?” was asked by everyone I met, and someone went even further as to ask me: “Do you not want to have children?”. I decided to make a joke about it.

So, it is really only natural to try and find a life partner to fulfill a biological need and to pass one’s genes on.  If people who are looking for a partner are thought to serve no purpose, then most of young people on this planet are useless.  

Memoirs of Little Aicha: Summer Camp in France

After experiencing the camp life in Algeria, the free-spirited little moi decided to cruise the Mediterranean, and witness at first-hand how the poor French kids spent their summers.

One happy summer day, quite some time agoooo, I was informed that I would have the fortune to be amongst some kids selected by the state to go and spend a few weeks at a summer camp in France. It is not exactly how they put it. We were just informed that we would be going to France on holiday, and who says France says shopping. The first picture that came to my little mind was the Eiffel tower, and then the Eiffel tower, and then lots and lots of shops.

My preparation for this trip was quite different from my Algerian summer camp days. I was going to France yew! I had to have nice clothes because no one would steal them, and then I had to give a good image of my country (beh mayadahkouch 3lia les Français). So, my three sisters who were at Uni then, chipped in using their summer grant money (bourse) to buy me clothes. We decided to go to Algiers. Shops in my hometown did not cater for young teenage girls who failed to grow up fast; you had to be either a child or a woman, you had to choose. If you went to a shop and tried something on and asked for a smaller size, the answer would always be a big NO!!!!! It was my fault after all, I was thin and should have defied my genes and grew fatter quicker. My mum always used to remind me: “I told you, you should have stayed in that volleyball team, you would have put on some muscle and grown taller!”. She was right of course, most of my friends who stayed in the team, undeterred by the psychopath coach that we had, were a few inches taller, and bigger than me.

My sister knew la Rue Disley very well and that’s where we headed for the shopping. My previous shopping trip that year was to Bab Ezzouar in Ramdhan to buy clothes for Eid. There was a big market there where they sold clothes that fit young teenage girls. It was my first time in that Rue Disley, and it was a real step up from souk Bab Ezzouar. After paying an arm and a leg for the clothes, I felt sad that I had used up my sisters’ grants for the clothes; and I promised myself that I would return the favour one day.

Departure day was in August, it was hot in Algiers. The port was full of  immigrés coming or going back, and over a hundred kids queuing up, all excited to be on this adventure of a life time! The ship was grand; it made me think of Titanic. It was the first time I had seen anything like it: a floating palace!

  

A day at sea, and lots and lots of laughs and happy moments later, the ship finally arrived in Marseilles.  After the formalities, the counting, lunching and a bit of sightseeing, we were divided into groups of 8, and each group was sent somewhere. That somewhere remained a mystery up until we reached the train station. We were overwhelmed by how different everything seemed, some of us had never been on a train before, so there was some excitement there. A train, then a bus journey later, we arrived at our destination, which was in the middle of nowhere...There was no Eiffel tower to be seen, no shops, and hardly any people walking around. It was raining and dark, and I could feel each one of us dreading what was to come.

Sleep came hard to me that night. I wanted to cry, but realized that it was silly of me to do that. I was in France, the land from where all that publicité de chocolat, de Chambourcy came from. It could not be that bad…

Things got better. After a few days, we realized that there were not many rules, no lines to walk in, no anthem to sing, no 3-4hr siesta. Well, there was a routine but we did not have to follow it religiously! The continuous sunshine of August, and the beautiful surrounding landscape made it easier for us to adapt. There were about 40 kids in the camp, 8 Algerians (4 boys and 4 girls), and a dozen adults (20 somethings) looking after them; One director, an avid photographer, who did not bring his family. I don’t think he had one; he had a red sports car!

The Camp had three buildings which looked like old chateaux, but were well-renovated inside, there were 4 of us in each room. The rooms were painted in a happy colour, I think it was pink for us girls. There was a nurse but no doctor. The gardens, full of fruit trees, were so big and as there was no fence, we could not tell where they ended. We also had huge sequoias, which were towering over us. Activities ranged from swimming and horse-riding, hiking and mountain biking to caving and kayaking. The siesta was less than an hour and it could be taken either indoors or outdoors. When it rained, there was a game room facility to use with table tennis and table football. Some afternoons were spent drawing wall frescoes. In the evenings, we had murder mystery games, board games, Pictionary, story nights, or quiz nights; there were two parties one to say hello and the other one to say goodbye.

Our sheets and clothes were washed regularly, and I was very surprised to find my clothes washed, ironed, and left on my bed, come sunshine or rain. I had to ask how they could do it when it rained. And it was then that I discovered the amazing mysterious sèche-linge.

During my time in the camp, I forgot about the Eiffel tower about the shops, and about the cities that I was expecting to visit. A couple of days before our departure, we were taken to the nearest city, ate McDonald, and did a bit of shopping. Time not permitting, I could hardly buy anything, and thought of all those requests I got before my departure and that handsome sum of Francs that was to be returned almost untouched.

When the three weeks came to an end, we had to say our goodbyes. We were told that we Algerians had made life a lot more enjoyable for the kids. I enjoyed my time in the camp mostly because there were people from my country to make it fun, to make jokes about everything, and to make life a bit less serious in the Camp. It was great to be there but I don’t think I would have been happy without them.

Judging by the red eyes of some of the kids who stayed up until midnight to say goodbye, the red eyes of some of the people who were looking after us, I understood that friendships could be knit between different people of different cultures and languages, within a short time. 

Memoirs of Little Aicha: Summer Camp in Algeria

Going to children Summer Camp or Colonie de Vacances was a rite of passage for Algerian children, a way to taste freedom, and explore new places, away from the overprotective eyes of parents.

Like many children, I was unlucky enough to be posted to one of these. At the age of 7, my dad decided it was time for me to follow the family tradition and be let free to go to the amazing place that is camp. Of course, the previous years I had always envied my sisters who used to come back looking very dark, I mean very tanned, and who would tell endless stories about their time there and how great it was. 

So in preparation for the big day, my dad would take me to his company’s doctor who used to run multiple tests to make sure it was safe enough for the camp to let me in! Four times, four different camps, one story…

The big day is here,  my sister and I would be up early enough to beat the sunrise, my mum would have prepared our luggage, which would consist of ancient bags containing our worst clothing, so that it would not get stolen. My mum always made sure however that a tooth brush was included, for in summer camp you had to have a toothbrush. My dad would accompany me and my sister who was two years my senior and was a feisty fighter, so no worries about getting bullied, I who had always looked younger because of my small stature, was an easy prey for kids at school and I expected it would be the same in summer camp which had at least 300 kids (i.e.my child mind estimation).

When it was my first time, I could not be happier; but, when dad dropped us at the bus station and I saw all the other kids, I could feel my heart pounding off my chest, fear took  over, and the excitement disappeared. Kids I did not know; they did not look friendly, and they were all older and bigger than me was a sight that made me tremble, there was no going back though; dad had already paid the fees. When it was time to leave, dad would kiss us on the cheeks and wish us a happy holiday and then go to work.

The coach rented by my dad’s company was always old; it had a horrible smell like old motor vehicles did in those days. You would be lucky to find a new taxi or a bus in Algeria in the eighties. We used to be round 30 (always a child’s estimate), accompanied by a few adults whom we would later call moniteur for male and monitrice for female. The journey was never dull; as soon as the bus starts moving, singing would start and the moniteur who would have a derbouka would make the atmosphere very jovial. Two or three hours later, we would reach our destination (a coastal town in Algeria). This is the condition for any summer camp; it had to be in a coastal town, and a few hundred meters away from the beach.

My first day in the camp was full of confusion, all these people from different corners of the country, speaking dialects that sounded foreign to me. Some of them looked very different to us, they were black; it was the first time I  met someone Algerian who looked so different to us, I later learnt that they were from Tougourt a town in the south East of the country. After having lunch, it was time to divide us into groups of 11 just like a football squad; sometimes it was 12, if there were left-overs. The aim was to put people from different towns in one group, a way of getting people to know one other. Girls were put in separate groups to boys, which was great relief because as a child, I never liked  boys just like any female. By the end of the distribution! I realized that would be sharing a tent with another 21 girls, we were two groups per tent. The tents were big enough for 24 beds, including those of the monitrices. Being with twenty one girls whom I had never met in my life  was enough to bring tears pouring down ; I started to cry and demanded that my sister would be in the same tent as me. One moniteur could not stand it, and he decided to go hunting for my sister, tent by tent,  in that rather big camp. The search had nearly ended when we headed back to my tent and we realized that there was a tent about 50 cm away from mine, my sister was there and they decided to put her in the same tent as me.

The beds were older than time itself, made of metal boards. The mattresses had stains everywhere, and smelled horrible, but the sheets were thankfully clean. The routine starts the second day and it was the day all the kids suddenly realize that mum and dad are not there and it is custom that we all decide to cry our eyes out and then be comforted by either seniors who enjoyed being there or moniteurs who did make life enjoyable and were all comedians.  

7 o’clock, we all wake up and make our beds, then we would walk in a line, one behind the other…Everyday, down we marched in a line like ants, to the restaurant, led by the shortest youngest girl in the group. Before entering the restaurant it was custom to salute the flag and sing, not just the national anthem but all sorts of nationalist songs and other meaningless songs. If there was one thing we learnt in camps it was singing, and sing we did. After the choiring, we finally head to the restaurant which was made of concrete flooring and sugar canes for walls and roofing, it was very nice, especially in comparison to the rest of the camp. Breakfast was always a bowl of milk with chocolate. It was supposed to be hot chocolate, but was rarely hot, occasionally warm, and mostly tepid; and piece of bread, which is quarter of a baguette cut in the middle and butter and jam for a filling.

By the time breakfast is finished, it is around 8:00; we head back to our tents, change into our swimwear and wear flip-flops and head to the beach, in a line but this time walking in twos. The beach was usually a few minutes’ walk away from the camp, we would pass by restaurants and see some tourists mostly French Algerians. Once at the beach, we also sing all sorts of songs, one of which mocks socialism; (Algeria was ruled by a socialist party, and was very influenced by Russian and Chinese thinkers-the country was on the brink of collapse but little did we know at the time). There was also a song about the agricultural revolution of Houari Boumediene. After all the singing we are finally left to go and swim. Security was very tight and we were never allowed  to go beyond a line which was a few meters into the sea. This meant that we never swam but just splashed water. We spent at least three to four hours, until lunch time. Come mid-day we would be led back to the camp where we are washed and then dressed and readied for lunch.

Outside the restaurant, we sing, and sing until lunch is finally served. The food varied but it was mostly soups and sea food. I had never eaten fish, except for sardines, before going to summer camp. I did not even know the names of the fish we were served there. Fish for most Algerians who do not live in coastal towns means sardines. It was the only fish that we saw or ate in my town which was a two-hour drive away from the sea, it is now one hour after the construction of the highway, but fish is still scarce.

When lunch finished, it was time for siesta, a very long punishment, from 2 pm to 4 or 5 pm. We were not allowed to chat, laugh or play, we had to sleep and if we did not, there was another form of punishment. Once we decided to defy the system and our punishment was the cleaning the whole camp. It was harsh. Add to that the naming and shaming by the director of the camp who would always bring his family to camp and put his kids in a separate tent.

Following the siesta, it would be time to go to the forest. Funnily enough, there was always some sort of woody area near the camp. The best was in Jijel. During our time there, it is singing again in preparation for the evening galas. I don’t know if it was part of national strategy in the eighties, but there was so much of it. By the amount of that tebrah we did in camps, I am quite surprised we do not have a Pavarotti, or a Charlotte church. Well, it is not like the singing we did was to train us to be proper singers; it was to fill the rather long hours of summer…

Two weeks, sometimes three was the length of our stay in the camp.  They seemed like a life time for me. I missed my parents, my hometown and my street; I missed the freedom of playing outside. During this time, we would get one or two visits by our parents. Only those who lived nearby had their parents come to visit them. Luckily I was one of them. I had a lot of pride when my dad used to come and visit me and my sister. My sister never cared much, I, on the other hand, felt that a visit from dad meant that I was important, by what logic? I don’t know. When my name would be called out, to go and see dad, I would stand up and take a long walk of pride, sometimes I would get applauded! My dad never missed an opportunity to show us that he loved us as kids. His visits meant a lot to me. I would talk about them for the few days that followed and would show off the stuffs he bought me which were chocolates or biscuits.

Two weeks later, a few shades darker, a bag of dirty clothes heavier and a ton of memories richer;  it is time to head back home. The mother would be waiting with a bar of soap ready to disinfect us at arrival.

It is so third world but I love it

I know the wedding season in Algeria is over or nearing a closure, but it is never late nor out of context to talk about weddings in Algeria.

In recent years, there has been a tendency to formalize Algerian weddings. This is most cases means having the celebration in a wedding hall, decorated tackily with Chinese plastic flowers and tinsel. For those who are real show offs, it is real flowers, but it is rare because there are never enough flowers in the shops to decorate one wedding hall let alone a few.  I remember as a kid, there used to be more florists selling real flowers, but their numbers have declined dramatically like everything beautiful in Algeria.

As I am an old-school at heart, I am all for wedding celebrations at home. I have recently watched a video of Mourad Djaafri playing at a wedding for men. The celebration took place in the open air, more precisely in the space between apartment blocks (the formal name of which I ignore). I am glad he did not feel that he needed a hall for his performance, for having men dance happily in the street at night, where no alcohol or blasting DJ music are needed, simply cheerful people sitting on plastic chairs is what a celebration should be about. It reminds me of a wedding about 20 years ago, before Algeria was plunged into years of darkness. Our neighbour held his wedding in the street; it was a quiet street where hardly any cars passed by, and everyone one was dancing and happy for him to be married, nothing formal, just happy people enjoying themselves.

 I am glad this tradition has not completely died out in favour of a wedding hall where people sit around tables, staring at each other, and the host is so bitter about spending a fortune to rent the hall that the food ends up being a few biscuits and you are meant to fast for a day just for the pleasure to be in a wedding hall.

Chadli est mort

For those of you familiar with Fellag’s comedy, he said in one of his stand-up acts that in Algeria, we would have to interpret documentaries to find out about what is happening in the political scene. He gave the imaginary example of when Boumediene died; they showed a wild-life documentary on TV in which an elephant was left to die by the rest of the herd. And as Algerians are clever, they figured out that it was a message telling them that their then president Boumediene “est mort”.

Lucky for us, it is not as bad as that with previous presidents*, we learnt about the death of one Algeria’s presidents Chadli Bendjedid in the numerous newspapers that have been in circulation since the reforms he introduced following the uprising of October 1988. Prior to these reforms, Algeria was under one party rule where all newspapers and media outlets were the echo of the voice of that party.

As I read about the news of his passing away, I felt sad.  I am sad that one of our rulers died and we did not get to learn much from him. I know that he wrote his memoirs, but I believe that he exercised auto-censorship in writing them. They will be published soon, but the truth about our pouvoir* will still remain a mystery to most of us.

Bendjedid is the only president whom I stood for hours waiting to see, when I was 4 or 5. He visited my small town, and luckily for us, his procession was only meters away from my childhood home. I was excited all day, made sure I got a flag, and waited in a line to get a glimpse of him, for hours. He was whisked away in a black convertible, and kids were running trying to follow his car. He is also the only president in Algeria’s history to have so many jokes made about him, about the fact he was not the cleverest of presidents, especially in comparison to the likes of Mitterrand or Regan.

As Muslims, we are meant to recount the deceased’s good deeds and good character. He has his mistakes like all humans, and more so because he was a military man, then a politician. What will he be remembered by? Each one of us will remember him by something, but he will be mostly associated with the 1988 uprising and the reforms that followed.

I believe that he was a tolerant president, having allowed so many exiled politicians to return to Algeria, and particularly the two heroes of the Algerian revolution: the late Ben Bella, and Ait Ahmed. Chadli came to power before I was born, and during his rule, I enjoyed the happiest days of my life as a child. I guess that is what I will remember his era by. I will try to forget anything post 1990, for now.  

*Algeria has one of the most opaque governance systems in the world. Communications with the people or the rest of the world about Algerian matters is very obscure.  

*Le pouvoir is the ruling clan in Algeria

The Final Countdown

A few months ago, The FT published a series of articles on a new source of energy which will take the Western world by storm. It is shale gas: an unconventional source of energy, a gas that is extracted using sophisticated technology called fracking. The US has made immense progress and is set for the first time to become a gas exporter rather than an importer. Energy independence has been a title of American strategy on energy; Barack Obama spoke on several occasions about weaning the US off Middle Eastern oil, and it looks like he has kept up his promise.

Given that the price of this gas is cheaper than natural gas, the success made by the US drew the attention of several other countries. The Chinese are keeping a close eye on the matter and they have funded some of the projects and are hoping to get the US technology to start projects at home. The Poles are following suit with their own attempts at extracting this gas; and the Brits are investing in several projects in the US.

Articles like these should set alarm bells ringing in oil producing countries and especially Algeria. Algeria is in a double whammy because it depends on oil and gas for its existence, and the US is our number one trading partner. We export the equivalent of 24billion USD of crude oil and gas to the US. What adds salt to the wound is that even if our rulers know anything about this, which I doubt they do, they do not have any tricks up their sleeves to come up with strategies to deal with the consequences of losing a significant customer like the US. They made us believe that we did not have to worry about this problem for another 50 years or so. It looks like they were wrong, and the time to do something about it was yesterday not tomorrow.

Many Algerians believe that our rulers have planned well for their escape to Europe, by stashing Swiss bank accounts with stolen money in preparation of the dreaded day, when oil and gas run out. Let’s hope they will do that sooner, when they realize that the US and the West do not need their oil anymore.

P.S: some environmentalists are against the extraction of shale gas in the US due to the dangers of polluting drinking water. Maybe they will slow the process down and give our rulers some time to re- build a few roads… 

The neighbours

As summer is in the air, people start thinking about holiday destinations. As usual, when searching the net for holiday packages, the Algerian is faced with  very limited if any choices in his own country, so he or she starts looking elsewhere. This elsewhere has traditionally been our neighbour to the east. It used to be both neighbours; but I believe that the traffic to the western borders is very limited both by air and by land. Some holidaymakers are even eyeing destinations like Turkey, which seems to be offering some good packages even for the Algerian in the middle-class category. 

This year, I did not have the chance to make a choice about my summer-holiday destination (which most of the time is Algeria), as my husband is very busy I decided to accompany him on a business trip to Casablanca and try and make a holiday out of my time there.

After much anticipation, we landed at Mohammed V airport, a dated airport. I was surprised to see very few tourists mostly people from the Gulf countries, which made me think that Casablanca was probably not a very touristy destination.

As my husband’s company was footing the bill, we decided to stay in a decent hotel in town, a luxury hotel in the centre of the new quarter of the city. It is certainly not the best hotel I have been to, and I would go as far as saying that it needs better management. There are no spaces for non-smokers, and breakfast and the internet are not included in the extortionate price they charge.

My first impression of the city was a negative one, as we entered the city from the old quarter which is run down, and neglected; I felt that Casablanca was overrated. However, after a couple of days and a few strolls around the city, I changed my mind. The new modern quarter of the city is very nice, and had it not been for the crazy driving (Indian style), I would have thought I was in a southern European city. The street cafes give the city a Parisian feel, and add a certain je ne sais quoi to the atmosphere. The food served at cafes and restaurants is very nice albeit being dearly priced in some places. The cafes are full at most times of the day which makes me think that they are frequented by tourists (mostly Moroccans though). The service at restaurants and cafes ranges from I could not care less a l’Algerienne to very good Asian-style hospitality.

As an avid culture tourist, I was looking forward to visiting the old Medina, which is in the old quarter of the city. Except for the wall that surrounds it, which looks old, it does not offer much in terms of architecture, culture or style. It is just a few street shops selling knick-knacks and a few souvenirs.

As I read about the city, I realized that it was conceived in 1912, hence the absence of old monuments. The Hassan II mosque was worth the visit. The mosque looks out onto the ocean, and its architecture is magnificent. However, it is in much need of maintenance as the carpets are old and a bit smelly; and the ablution area should have been outside the main mosque. The entrance is free but the staffs need training on how to run it. Very few people speak English and unlike the Zeitouna in Tunis, there is hardly any information about the mosque.

A few days in Casablanca and one feels that one has seen enough of the city, so I decided I wanted to discover the rest of the country. After much begging, I succeeded to convince my husband to drive us to Marrakesh. Finding a car to hire for a day was an impossible task, and after a long search we found someone willing to rent us a car for one day. However, the price was extortionate, but we felt that Marrakesh would be worth it.

After a three-hour drive in the scorching heat without AC, we arrived in Marrakesh.  The city was a disappointment mostly because of my expectations. I was imagining a Ghardaïa but with a well-developed tourist infrastructure. I have heard so much about it  in the media, which raised my expectation a lot.  The city is basically a desert town with lots and lots of compound villas,  apartments, and resorts. All the buildings are painted in a brick-like earthy colour, which is the only thing positive I can say about this place.

I was looking forward to discovering the Medina. We went to Jemma El-fnaa, which is an old mosque with hardly any information about it, and very old watchmen who open the mosque's doors to only a few people at a time. It was just a few of us, mostly Moroccan tourists. Not far from the mosque there is the shrine of Youssef Ibn Tachfine, which is not well maintained.

All in all Marrakesh was a disappointment as the old Medina was just a few old houses. This side of the city is not welcoming and is very poor. Loads of mechanics decided to open shops there and the shops selling souvenirs are not nice like the ones in Tunisia.

Unlike Marrakesh,  Casablanca has nice streets and the new quarter can rival some places in Europe. What Casablanca offers is a very pleasant weather. It is rare to find a city with such a mild summer in the south Mediterranean. If one is looking for a destination to escape the summer heat and have nice food then Casablanca won’t disappoint especially with the green spaces that they have here. Some suburban areas are beautiful and the investments that rich people have made here are apparent. Palaces and huge gardens add a lot to the beauty of this city. 

When I started writing this post, which I must admit reads like a travel review, my intention was to say that branding is key when it comes to tourism. Morocco has done a brilliant job at selling itself to the world, and people are flocking in. I know many Europeans who love this country for its the culture and heritage. However, as an Algerian, I feel that Algeria has a lot more to offer in terms of diversity as a cultural destination. Ghardaïa, Timgad, and Djemila are museums in the open air. Tlemcen is an excellent place to develop. As someone who has been to many Algerian cities in recent years, I see enormous potential but very little will, on the part of the people, and most sadly very little tourism culture.