36 Days Through Morocco: A Journey Within Myself

Day 4: Clermont Ferrand

It’s May 18th, 1:30 a.m., and I am sitting on the FlixBus, heading to Barcelona. I am disappointingly not by the window; it’s going to be a long night. I cannot believe I actually caught the bus. It was a close call, but honestly, I don’t think I would have minded missing it. It is very dark in here. The only lights around me come from the middle aisle and the glow of my neighbors’ phones, all still awake, watching short videos or calling their relatives.

I was so exhausted earlier, but now I can’t seem to close my eyes. I’ve had such a good time so far, first Paris, and now Clermont, why do I have to leave already? Maybe I should have stayed here a little longer. Maybe I shouldn’t have planned this whole trip so spontaneously. What if I don’t make any friends? What if my mom is right and something bad happens to me? Or even worse, what if I hate it there?

I can’t even count the number of times people told me how cool it is that I’m going on this trip, how they could not cross France, Spain and Morocco all alone like I am. But honestly, I don’t know if I can either, yet now I have to prove them but also myself that I can.

Have you ever been on a trip you knew you had to take, even if it might hurt? This was one of them. Like Georgina Lawton describes in Raceless, it’s the kind of journey that slowly shifts into something else, a process of getting to know yourself, and learning to accept yourself as a whole, often before you even realize it’s happening.

Day 10: Tangier

 It feels so nice to sleep in a proper bed tonight. No Spanish hostels, no lying across two bus seats, trying to find comfort in some strange position. I can feel how exhausted my body is, carrying my bag every day for the past week, walking under the sun in Barcelona, Madrid, Granada, Algeciras’ harbor.

 Luckily, I took my seasickness pills today; I don’t know how I would have managed on the boat otherwise. I stayed on the deck, sitting on a bench for the two-hour crossing of the Strait of Gibraltar, mesmerized by the sea and by fleeting glimpses of the Moroccan shore. What a surreal feeling it was to see the country I had dreamed of returning to so close.

People on board seemed quite curious about me, and I understand them. Among the vast majority of Moroccan men, there was me, a young French woman, happy to feel included, even though I couldn’t understand a single word of the Darija spoken to me, everyone wrongly assuming that I could. Being the only woman on board wasn’t very pleasant at first, but it quickly became quite convenient: I was offered a Coke, guided through customs, offered a tour of Tangier (which I politely declined), and helped through Tangier Med harbor while looking for Ghani, a man I had only met as a child, who had come to pick me up.

I like Ghani. I think we’re quite funny together: him, a very loving but rather grumpy man, and me, an excited puppy following him everywhere, asking ten thousand questions. On our ride home, I was overwhelmingly happy, first because I was told they had kept a portion of couscous for me (it was Friday, and on Fridays you have couscous), but foremost because I had finally made it to the North of Morocco. My eyes were wide open, taking in the city as if I were seeing it for the first time.

Day 13: Tetouan

I said goodbye to Ghani this morning. He drove me to the grand taxi station, exchanged a few words with the driver, told me to sit in the car, paid for my fare (of course I wasn’t allowed to refuse), and just like that, we were on our way to Tetouan.

According to my Routard guidebook, Tetouan is the city of tanneries, and apparently some very nice spots can be reached through the medina. But of course, I didn’t follow rule number one of what a careful tourist is supposed to do in Morocco: I wandered too much and got lost. A man from a shop started talking to me, and I didn’t follow rule number two either by answering him. He was a tanner, selling all kinds of small handcrafted decorations. He asked me if I was lost (I tried to confidently reply that I wasn’t), asked if I was visiting (my big backpack gave me away), and then told me to follow him (I didn’t really know how to refuse, so I did).

We spent a little under an hour together. He showed me the tannery, from the raw animal skin to the dyeing process and the final product. He introduced me to his friends, brought me to his shop, and then to his workshops, where artisans were busy shaping different materials. When it was time for me to leave, we exchanged contacts and said goodbye, but right when I was about to start walking, he asked me to wait. He went back upstairs to the workshop and came back with a small blue, almost sparkling babouche carved out of wood, a gift for me (and once again, I wasn’t allowed to refuse).

Later that day, I was able to take a grand taxi alone to Chefchaouen. As we drove through the Rif Mountains, the driver mumbling Quranic verses along with the radio, I couldn’t help but check the map on my phone every now and then, double-checking that we were taking the right road. I could hear so clearly the words of caution my mom would repeat to me, but I knew I would soon overcome this feeling.

Tonight, I spend my first evening alone, in Chefchaouen, and I didn’t follow rule number three either: walking by night through a city known for being full of hash sellers. But what a great time I had; answering street vendors with the few words I had tried to learn with Ghani’s family, and even daring to display some Moroccan audacity by telling restaurant owners that their tajine was too expensive (I very easily agreed to sit at their table once they offered me mint tea).

The first days are a crash course: you pick up lessons fast, but mistakes are inevitable. Georgina Lawton describes the same experience arriving in New York: forgetting to tip, panicking in a taxi, getting lost. Integrating into an unfamiliar environment is never easy. But after a few days, patterns begin to emerge. You pick up key words, notice social cues, understand some of the unspoken rules. You move with more confidence, doing what you can to appear as if you belong, as if you’ve always lived there.

Day 14: Fez

I am already in Fes, proudly keeping up with my travel schedule. Richard told me I was crazy to want to move so fast, to rush through every city, that I could stay longer with him if I wanted to, but I don’t really have a choice. I want to see everything, to experience Morocco in all its diversity, to know the country as if it had always been my own.

The first thing Richard told me when we met earlier today was that I look like my father, as he called him, that we share the same features: brown eyes, a wide nose, big lips, curly hair, tan skin. I smiled politely and replied something like, “That’s funny you say that, people tell me that quite often.” What else could I say? They are friends, after all.

Richard and I spent the day together, which was very kind of him, especially considering that the French Open was on TV that week. He walked me through the medina, showed me its narrow streets, where the sound of our conversation got lost among the vendors’ voices, mixed with the hammer striking metal as craftsmen worked, and with the buzzing of hundreds of bees hovering over honey-drenched pastries displayed at the front of the shops.

Richard has a daughter. From what he told me, he wasn’t always the most present father, but they do seem close now, the two of them. When we were in the taxi, he even told me how proud he was of her, how amazing she is, adding, “But I’m sure every dad says the same thing about their daughters.” I stayed silent for a few seconds, watching the streetlights and car headlights through the window as the city faded into darkness and answered in half a sentence that I wasn’t so sure about that.

Not being close to the person who gave you your heritage (half of your identity in my case), makes this kind of exploration more complicated. It’s like a plant with its roots cut: you can see and understand the shape you’ve grown into, but you can’t fully access the deeper meaning that comes with it. Georgina Lawton describes similar experiences for transracial children raised in families whose culture doesn’t match their own heritage. When your upbringing only reflects part of who you are, it becomes easy to feel disconnected from a culture, and even harder to claim the right to address it. 

Day 15: Meknès

I love walking at night in Morocco. It’s still so warm outside, and even though I love the sun, I have to admit that the softness and tranquility of the dark are an incomparable pleasure. I’m sitting on the steps in front of the Agdal Basin, watching families stroll together, vendors selling small light-up toys, street performers playing for the crowd.

Time seems suspended here, and for a split second I almost forget that I am on a trip, that I am only passing through. I don’t feel foreign at all here, maybe because I seem unnoticeable, no different from the others around me; because no one comes to talk to me; because in this crowd, I am just one among many. I think this is the feeling I’ve been waiting for all along, to truly belong to a place and its people, even if only for a split second, a moment that will stay with me forever.

Day 19: Safi

I am sleeping on the couch in one of the living rooms of my family home, which is unbelievably comfortable, though a bit poorly soundproofed. I can still hear my aunts and uncles talking in the background. I wonder what they are saying.

I am so glad to finally be experiencing his hometown, even if it feels a little strange, especially since I had to introduce myself to the entire family. Their faces lit up when they saw me and they have all been looking at me with such a tender gaze since our meeting. That kind of beautiful, unconditional love makes me slightly uncomfortable; I think. I never quite know how to act, or what I could have done to deserve so much affection after knowing each other for only a day.

We all look alike, same features, though I am tanner than everyone else. Myriam said it’s because I spent so much time in the sun. But despite, our similarities, it is our differences that I find fascinating, and that sometimes make me feel out of place. I feel too reserved, too distant from physical touch, too individualistic, too French maybe?

Being with family highlights how complicated belonging can be. You see where you come from in stark detail, yet it does not always match the story you imagined. Even in moments of acceptance, it is possible to feel like an outsider, like a temporary observer, present but not fully integrated. You notice the differences, the ways you navigate between familiarity and distance, and sometimes you question your own place. But it does not have to feel like failure; it is part of the process of understanding your identity. Belonging is not instantaneous, and its process can be trickier than one can imagine.

Day 24: Erg Lihoudi

Now I know that it takes exactly 24 days to go from Dunkirk to the Sahara, because here I am, lying in the sand, watching the moon on this warm, cloudless night.

I’ve never been someone particularly interested in the sky, but tonight I am completely mesmerized, feeling every emotion at once in the same instant. I saw a shooting star a few minutes ago, the first I’ve ever seen in my life. Needless to say, that, that alone was enough to make me silently cry, a few tears running down my cheeks, my eyes not leaving the moon. I feel so soothed right now. I think I could stay here all night, unmoving, not even sleeping, just letting my body and soul merge with the nature around me.

I hear Brahim calling me from afar, pulling me out of my thoughts. I think he wants us to head back to the camp.

Day 31: Tamraght

I could listen to Mohammed sing for hours, and I think I’m not the only one. Here we are, all next to each other, doing different things, but together. Maryam is braiding her friend’s hair, Ismail is bouncing a football against the wall, most of the guys are smoking and chatting, comparing their Arabic dialects, and a few of us are listening to Mohammed. The only thing missing is the little puppy everyone calls mine; he followed me to the hostel yesterday and stayed close all day. But today, when we came back, he wasn’t there, I hope he will come back soon.

It feels like a perfect night scene, young people hanging out like one big, recomposed family, a family I feel I clearly belong to after only a single day with them. But I know there are also small tensions, a few intercultural misunderstandings, and I feel caught in the middle. The English girl just told one of the guys not to take her guitar without asking for permission. I understand her, she’s setting boundaries, trying to have her belongings respected. I also understand him: we’re all sharing everything here, so why is she so intense about her guitar? She could take his without asking anytime.

I think I’ll go to bed soon. It’s almost two, and some people are finally starting to cook dinner. I couldn’t keep up with their pace even if I tried, especially with only three days left in Morocco, I want to savor these last moments. I definitely cannot push my flight back again. Tomorrow, I’m going to the beach, and I’m hoping Ismail will come, we get along well. I’d love to keep learning from him, hearing perspectives about Morocco that I’ve never encountered before.

Being mixed race often means becoming skilled at navigating different cultural codes and adjusting how you present yourself depending on the situation. You become someone others can confide in, a trusted companion for both sides of your heritage. But that ability to blend in comes at a cost. It is useful in some social settings, allowing you to be seen as white by some and as colored by others, but it can also erode a stable sense of self. Instead of being consistent, you end up constantly adapting, responding to the expectations of others rather than grounding yourself in your own identity. Georgina Lawton describes this as “worlds swapping”, moving between identities without fully understanding why, but convinced that you must.

Day 44: Dunkirk

I received these texts from Ismail yesterday night:

Day 237: Marseille

It’s a very cold day today, at least by Marseille standards. That said, we found a spot sheltered from the wind where both Hippolyte and I could take off our coats and let the sun warm our skin. It’s my first time seeing the Mediterranean Sea since Morocco, and I find myself feeling quite nostalgic. For lunch, Hippolyte took me to a Tunisian restaurant where we had couscous (even though it wasn’t Friday), and walking down the street, smelling olives, spices, and sweets in the shops, I was reminded of another version of myself.

Hippolyte asked me where I would like to live in the future. I said Morocco, because not a day goes by without me missing it: its landscapes, its food, its sun, its people. I wish I had kept in touch the ones I crossed paths with there. I am so grateful to every single one of them, I wish I would have told them how much they mean to me. I wish I would have told them that I still think of them, that each of them left a mark on me.

I never replied to Ismail, or to any family member or friend since then. I think I panicked. I think I was not ready, not ready to receive their smiles, their warm welcoming, their love. I think it was easier for me when everything seemed harder; when I had an excuse not to feel accepted, when Morocco seemed far away, when I had no prospect of going and meeting my family. Now that I hold all the cards, I need time, time to do the hardest part, time to reflect on my discoveries and add them into my sense of self.

When a community accepts you, the one you have always sought, you can still feel a gap, a distance between them and yourself. It is one thing to embark on a journey to explore a long-lost culture, to reconnect with a heritage, to dig deep; to, as Georgina Lawton puts it, “add your Moroccaness to your whiteness.” Yet this process, even when physically realized by traveling to the country, must also occur within the mind. Belonging is not just granted by others; it is claimed by oneself. We are often so afraid of hearing, “you don’t belong here,” that we fail to recognize the most vital step: affirming to ourselves, firmly and unconditionally, “I belong here.” True acceptance, at its deepest level, has to continue within, and it is a journey that endures a lifetime.