In August of 2022 I undertook a solo trip to Oujda, a city in the northeast of Morocco near the borders with Algeria and Spain.
After an unfortunate two day delay in Casablanca I landed at Oujda Angads Airport and late that evening I arrived at my hotel, a family owned and run Riad in the Medina near the jewelry quarter. I settled in. I’ve been to Morocco several times before. Always alone or with my son. Always to the tourist hotspots. Marrakech, Fez, Tangier, Chefchaouen, Safi… all places where English, and Americans, are a common enough occurrence.
Oujda was different. I came across Sahara Chronicle, a documentary film by Ursula Biemann, and felt I had to see this particular borderland for myself.
Oujda marks the end of the line for many migrants. Sitting at the edge of both Africa and the EU you find the entire city imbued with a sense of longing for other places. Do you want to go back? Can you possibly go forward? Whatever your mind settles on what sure is this is not home… you do not care for it like a home. This ancient desert outpost is straddling a hostile border with Algeria and an even more hostile border with Spain. I ask the hotel owner to arrange a car to take me to the border fence at Melilla. He says it is too dangerous and refuses to help me. Two months prior to my visit 23 migrants were massacred in what is now known as the Melilla incident. In June 2022 roughly 2,000 migrants gathered near the border fence with intentions of reaching Spain by way of Melilla— EU soil on African land. Some climbed the border fence while others forced open a gate. Spanish and Moroccan border forces opened fire. A political border is nothing without the humans who guard it. Most of the migrants were from Sudan, a country in near constant armed conflict of late and most recently in the news for the war in Khartoum.
Despite warnings from the owner of my hotel and from a local friend I wandered around by myself each day in and out of the parts of the Medina considered dangerous even by locals. I purchased water from a small corner shop. I didn’t speak, just pointed to a bottle with the price clearly labeled and paid with exact change. I’ve lived long enough in a state of liminality that my presence rarely disturbs others. I know how to be unobtrusive when called for. My body language simultaneously communicates that I belong wherever I am in that moment and that I am just passing through. Whatever I am I’m not a threat, maybe a mild curiosity at best. I’m rarely bothered or approached except in markets by people eager to hawk their wares. I look like I am someone’s sister or aunt or mother… In the early mornings women can walk the street alone here, going about their daily errands. I walk in the mornings too.
The feeling in this place is unlike anything I’d experienced before everyone seems unsettled. There were groups of darker skinned migrants from further south on the continent gathered together selling what looked like mass produced trinkets from China. Oujda is a place you can easily transit. No one asks you questions. People fleeing war and poverty can rest here. Many stay for years or even decades.
There was also the rest of the souk, full of everything you’d expect in a Moroccan marketplace. There were young boys wandering around kicking balls to each other, older boys riding scooters through narrow Medina alleyways and older men walking alongside donkey pulled carts. Mid-day to evening the women only went out in groups or with their families. Mostly covered but some not.
I spent most of my time wandering in the mornings. I’ve found that in many places, Morocco included, early mornings are the best time for me to explore. Not too close to dawn but just after, when the homemakers are out buying meat and produce and whatever the local variation of bread is.
The shop keeps are just opening and the food sellers come to set up first. Carts with juices and breads and pastries appear. Next the cafes will open, closer to noon. Slowly and sleepily the world around me comes alive. No one looks twice at me.
What struck me so deeply about this place was that even the locals felt like migrants. The widening of the eyes once my accent was placed as American. The shock. The rapid fire listing of American TV Shows and Music and Celebrities. The not very subtle sizing up. Is she young enough to marry? Is she traveling alone? Is she insane? The longing to escape that I always carry with me magnified, and reflected back from every eye that met mine.
