All the World’s a Stage: The Theatrics of Life in the French Quarter and Moroccan Medina

By: Madison Ashley

October 31, 2014

Ana askun fi l-madīna al-qadīma

One of the first sentences taught in my introductory Arabic class here, meaning simply, “I live in the Old Medina.” Translating literally to "city" in Arabic, the medina is the historic heart of the Moroccan city, a walled city-within-a-city packed to the brim with homes, souks, food markets, and mosques on every corner of the endless, winding streets.

Tourists come for the bargains in the souk but stay for the joie de vivre, the freedom represented by a seemingly unordered space, or in some cases, simply because they’re lost within its labyrinthine streets, whose bewildering layout was once used to keep out foreign invaders.

For those who actually call it home, the medina represents a sanctuary—a self-sufficient stage for the great theatrics that are daily Moroccan life. Here, members of Morocco’s oldest families take pride in being cast in the same roles as their forefathers—proudly worshipping at the same mosque each Friday donned in a traditional white djellaba, buying bread from the hanuts(convenience stores) that dot every corner, or catching up with friends over a bath at the long-standing neighborhood hammam (public bath houses).

For outsiders, however, the medina’s glaring anachronism in the face of rapid Moroccan modernization can be jarring. While I live in the medina, I leave its walls each morning and walk 25 minutes to the gleaming, post-colonial neighborhood of Quarter Hassan to attend classes. Returning to the medina each evening just as the sun begins to set over the souks, my senses are immediately assaulted by the madness of it all.

In the company of Moroccans and others I have met, I wear my medina residency like a badge of honor. Having been cast in a production I do not recall auditioning for, I have tried to play my role, though minor, as best I can—frequenting the hammam, bargaining for every day items in the souk, or most notably, loudly spurning the advances, and occasional marriage proposals, of the men that occasionally follow me through the streets.

In many ways, the medina reminds me of the French Quarter, the veritable heartbeat of my hometown of New Orleans. On the surface level a playground for intoxicated tourists seeking ghost tours and an eternal Mardi Gras, the French Quarter, or Vieux Carré, represents the epicenter of a deep history dating back to 1718. Beneath the grit and grime of the quarter’s ironwork can be found some of the most magnificent examples of Spanish colonial architecture; around the corner from Bourbon Street, neighborhood churches that have served the faithful for centuries.

Both the quarter and the medina appreciate "those passing thru”—not the tourists, though they too find a place interloping among us—but those who dare to enter the windy, unmarked streets, to join an impromptu second-line down Royal Street, or to trust the unmarked fish stall not listed in any guidebook but with a line of locals stretching around the corner—these people will find themselves rewarded by the majesty of these spaces.

And, at the end of the day, those who seek it can also find a quiet solitude in these spaces. In the early morning hours as the bells of St. Louis Cathedral echo on empty streets, as rhythmic chanting emanates from the neighborhood mosque, garbage men pass through, ridding the streets of the only remnants of the previous night’s events. For a few solid minutes, the streets of both the French Quarter and medina are clean, just in time for the first wave of residents to wake up and begin a new day in two of the most dynamic places in the world.

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