Remnants of a Dying Colonialism

The Sais plain which stretches over lightly rolling countryside between the cities of Fez and Sefrou (both founded in the ninth century A.D.) is one of the most fertile areas in Morocco. Its verdure totally belies any romantic imagery of desert tents or Moorish landscapes. Leaving the magnificent walled city of Fez, the landscape is more reminiscent of France. The Sais was one off the regions in which French colonial implantation had been most active, bringing mechanization, irrigation, and profit.

The regularly drawn fields, the rich dark soil, the elevated irrigation canals that snake along for miles, the grid-like patterns of orchards, and the occasional farmhouse exemplify perfectly what Jacques Berque has chosen as a symbol of the French colonial experience in North Africa: the land without people surrounded by the people without land/ The tile roofs of the scattered farmhouses stand in strong contrast to the clusters of farmworkers' mud and brick dwellings, which become more frequent as one moves along the Sais plane towards Sefrou. The farmhouses are still clearly set off by fences and the workers' quarters by cactus hedges, but the owners of the farms are no longer French. Much of this area had been nationalized and is run by the Moroccan government. The rest is owned by the affluent merchants of Fez.

Even after passing through this fertile countryside, one is struck by the lushness of the city of Sefrou as it appears on the horizon. It is hidden from view as one approaches from Fez. The hills are now somewhat more substantial and the vistas less sweeping and regular. Sefrou, with a population of some twenty-five thousand, is literally an oasis town. The richness of the irrigated Sais hides this fact at first; but behind Sefrou lie the Middle Atlas Mountains, which are now dry and largely deforested. A series of rocky, sparsely populated hills and plateaus lie to the south of Sefrou and lead to the mountains proper. Sefrou itself is located within a narrow piedmont which circles the lowest edge of the mountains and which is marked by a series of large springs which water sizable gardens, orchards, and olive groves. The Moroccans call such an ecological niche the dir — literally, the "breast." This niche follows a series of geological faults along the edge of the mountains. As one follows the line of the dir, one also follows a line of well-watered, climatically favored, and prosperous towns. Sefrou is such a town.

Because of its location Sefrou has served as a marketing and commercial center for the tribes in the surrounding region. In addition to the farmers who work the gardens of the oasis, and the merchants, it has traditionally had a large and active population of artisans. Sefrou has also had, as far back as the ninth century, a dynamic Jewish community which has often served as a link between the urban community and the rural Berber tribal groups. These Moroccan Jews activated an exchange of mountain products (wool, mutton, rugs) with imported and manufactured goods (textiles, tea, sugar).

French colonization of the farmlands around Sefrou — which began in the late 1920s and increased steadily until the 1950s — and the establishment of French governmental, commercial, and educational institutions in the town had a substantial impact on Sefrou's growth and direction. Following the colonial policy of Lyautey, they built new quarters, a Ville Nouvelle, alongside the older walled medina of Sefrou. They never colonized Morocco to the extent that they did Algeria, however. The French population of Sefrou in 1960, for example, was less than 1 percent, and this included the new wave of schoolteachers.

I was driven to the Hôtel de l'Oliveraie, perhaps one hundred yards outside the crenelated walls of Sefrou's medina. Old and drab, its paint cracking, L'Oliveraie was clearly a decaying edifice, yet it had its charm. One entered through a double jalousie doorway into a rectangular room divided approximately in half by a shabby screen. To the left were some ten neatly set tables (I never saw more than two in use) and to the right were a long wooden bar, several bare tables with old restaurant chairs, and a rickety pinball machine in the corner. All the windows had shutters, most half open, and the pall or quiet of the late afternoon hung over a besotted Moroccan cab driver, the only customer, at the moment of my arrival.

Emerging from behind the bar with a swift bow, neatly groomed but casually dressed, was Maurice Richard, the owner of the hotel, the patron. Yes, he did have a room; in fact he had ten, would I follow him? Which shall it be, he mused, and a gentle charade began, although its hollowness and pathos were apparent from the start. Richard later showed me to one of the ten tables, holding the chair for me and graciously informing me that there was only one menu.

The next morning, my fourth in Morocco, I had coffee and bread in the courtyard of l'Oliveraie. It must have been lovely in earlier years. There was an enclosed garden with a grillwork from which vines once grew, there were metal tables which once shined, and there was Ahmed, the waiter, impeccably groomed, who might have served (or so I imagined) tables of French families preparing for the tasks of the day ahead. I was alone. It was already getting hot. Ahmed brought me the brown earthenware coffee pot with a polite, pseudo-French bow, refused my overtures, and moving swiftly, left.

How ethnographic. In Morocco only several days and already I was set up in a hotel, an obvious remnant of colonialism, was having my coffee in a garden, and had little to do but start "my" fieldwork. Actually, it was not exactly clear to me what that meant, except that I supposed I would wander around Sefrou a bit. After all, now that I was in the field, everything was fieldwork.

Whistling, moving his portly frame with speed and grace, Richard appeared from behind his jalousie doors, wished me "bon appetit," and handed me a tourist card to fill out. He was somewhat surprised that I was American. He was sure, he said, that I was an Eastern European (which I suppose I am, ethnically at least), and then he launched into a hearty but cautious set of pleasantries.

The second day in Sefrou he told me his life story. He was from an upper-middle-class Parisian family. He had left home in 1950 to seek adventure, ending up in Morocco, where he had followed a series of professions ranging from mechanic to hotelkeeper. The lack of the usual French reserve and hostility was startlingly indicative, I mused, either of a transformation of French culture once it left France or an intense loneliness on Richard's part. Here it was the loneliness which prevailed. It quickly emerged that he was a Parisian manqué. The expectations his family of colonels and doctors had placed on him was too heavy to bear, and...