Mouad Ezzahir, 18, Casablanca

A woman so demure, A society so impure.

Growing up in a male-dominated Moroccan society, I have always come across this sort of subsequent patriarchal culture that is very condescending to women, a culture where they are facing general and blatant devaluation. Women have been told that they occupy no other place but that of caregivers, that the sole purpose of their creation is to reproduce and care for the generations that follow.

Moral codes are very complicated and intricate and when they cross religious statements, they implicitly impose immense boundaries on one’s sense of decision making, and now allow me to flip the coin and tell you a story I have witnessed growing up, the story of a woman who, against all odds, was able to get a proper education and raise her daughters well when everyone and everything stood in her way in the name of “decency”: my grandmother.

From a young age, I have always seen my granny as a power figure, she was the first person that taught me the meaning behind how to live and not simply exist. She always says that certain memories fade away quickly like they were never meant to be remembered whilst the most bitter ones stick like honey to a pot, and with that being said, her painful story goes as follow.

Let me take you back to the 1950s in a setting where Morocco was still in an early postindependence phase, imagine having to live as a daughter of a Franco-Moroccan soldier in a city as conservative as Rabat., living in the midst of unbearable envy and a certain sense of not belonging.

The tale gets even more crooked as everything gets taken away from her by the time her husband and daughter die leaving her with nothing but her other four daughters and strong will. Her husband’s family conspired against her and kicked her out with nothing in her hand or pockets; luckily, one of them took her in until she became financially

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stable and able to provide for her family; I will not bore you with the details, the only thing with relevance to the story and that you should know is that she forgave the people who put her to the streets immediately; Ah, my sweet grandmother.

Fast forward to my childhood; this demure hard-working woman has been my biggest and most meaningful role model and inspiration since I came to this world, and she has been there for me ever since pulling me up when I reach rock bottom.

I’ve seen her happy, ill and drowning in sorrows, but I would never have guessed the later if she hadn’t told me because she is always positive and joyful.

She was once a sharp object that rounded up with times, finding happiness in that of others; if I could sum her entire existence in one word, it would be “giver”, that is what she does best, her love is so pure and genuine that meeting her is as close as getting to the tangerine sun without getting burnt.

She taught me how to love unconditionally, how to give without ever expecting counterparts; it is because of her that I stand up in front of people and animate workshops; it is because of her that I feel that I matter, that my words have a weight and resonate, that they’re not just a distant whisper that fades away as soon as it is spoken.

She was the first person that has accepted me for being “different”, for thinking outside the box; I used to feel like an intruder, like I somehow never belonged to wherever I set foot in but I always knew that I could go to her house and be myself, that there was where the efflorescence of my personality took place

My tears are swirling up with the ink I used to write this paper, they stream down more and more with every glide my ballpoint makes because talking about my grandma is to me the equivalent of standing down the Acheron river screaming prayers to the Gods; because I have never loved someone as much and I will never.

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