Since I published my last blog post, I had only nice interactions with Moroccans. And so many of them, it’s incredible. Just this morning, I took a cab and had the nicest conversation with Norin, my Moroccan cabby, the only problem being that my ride was too short for me to be able to ask all the questions that were ignited in me.
He grew up in poverty on the mean streets of Overvecht, one of Utrecht’s ghettos1, so to speak, in a one-parent household. Life was difficult, with many temptations to stray from the straight and narrow for a fatherless young lad. Still, he learned valuable lessons in the Dutch ‘hood. For example, he learned how to set clear boundaries in his taxi and not tolerate disrespect of a client towards him or his beautiful Mercedes because otherwise, things might spin out of control real fast at three o’clock on a Saturday night. We had the same opinion on Dutch men: not masculine enough. That is one of the things I like in Moroccan boys and men: they have retained more masculinity than most Dutchmen, who are thoroughly feminized. Of course, this masculinity is often deformed into criminality. There was a time in my life when I regularly got into conflicts with Moroccan teens (nicknamed Marokkaanse kutjochies in Dutch) in the street, and I guess one of the reasons was my fascination with this unbridled male energy and a desire to measure myself against it. I also admired their loyalty to each other in their close-knit friend groups.
There are many examples, the strangest one happening a week ago in Hoog Catharijne, the shopping mall I told you about in my last post. I was descending the rolling stairs, minding my own business, with some purchases under my arm. Two Moroccan youngsters ascended, and we had eye contact, and I nodded; then he pointed at me smiling, made a thumps up sign, and extended his fist for a fist bump. And we fist-bumped while passing each other in opposite directions on the rolling stairs, both all smiles.
Just never happens.
I was at the Xenos in Overvecht to buy lots of furniture, and my borrowed car was packed to capacity. I had a lot of fun with the Moroccan staff there. They were so helpful, and the manager gave me a nice discount on top of that. Also, I tried to get a date with their beautiful Iranian colleague. She was from Shiraz, and I impressed her by knowing that the famous Persian poet Hafiz was from Shiraz, too. Not enough to inspire her to give me her number though. It might have been different if she hadn’t been married, but she was. Ultimately, I invited her and her husband to my birthday party. Later that evening, after returning the car to its rightful owner, in the Albert Heijn in De Bilt I was so impressed by the Morrocan manageress that I asked her on a date. She refused most graciously. She had a boyfriend but really appreciated and enjoyed me taking the trouble and gathering the courage to come up to her and ask her out. So no luck in De Bilt either, but still, who knows? I might end up a Muslim one day; after all the only way to marry a Muslim lady is to convert to Islam (or is this not necessarily true anymore today?). So, a certified Islamophobe like myself might end up a Muslim for love. How fickle is the human mind (or mine, at least)!
Then there was the group of Moroccan teenagers helping me back drive through a group of columns, the happy whistling guy who said he was so cold because he just returned from a holiday in Morocco, the other cabby who was a fan of Thierry Baudets’ because they are both Covid-19 skeptics. I didn’t dare to ask (although I should have) whom he voted for. It would have been hilarious if he had voted for Wilders (as many non-Western foreigners did). Of course I don’t say he did, all I am saying is the world is so much more interesting and confusing and beautiful than simple binary readings of it would lead you to believe. This morning, I was waiting at the hospital for a blood test in a room full of people. The only people attracting me were an elderly Moroccan couple, she in traditional peasant wear. They appeared so bighearted and kind that I wanted to approach them, say hi, and become their friend.
How did this shift in perspective come about? There are two reasons. Consciously I wanted to go to the other polarity (relative to the position expressed in my previous post), because it is not easy on my psyche, soul and body to walk among people I wish were not there. So for a while, I said to myself when I saw a Moroccan girl: “She is my sister,” or “She is my daughter,” and when I saw an elderly Moroccan man: “There walks my father.” or “ See your mother” when an elderly Moroccan lady appeared in my field of vision. When I uttered these statements while looking at the distant Moroccan relative passing before me, I could feel their truth in my heart (and I mean this literally: I felt a warm physical sensation in the region of my heart).
The second reason is that I don’t like to be told what to think. When the well-meaning liberal press and most of my friends tell me it is wrong to believe that Holland would be better off with fewer Moroccans, something in me says, “Fuck off!” On the other hand, I was too scared to share my views for fear of being ostracized. Then, I decided to face and bear my fear like a man and publish my blog post. I came out of my racist closet, and nothing terrible happened, although, to be sure, I had some serious conversations with friends unhappy with my views. So now I could freely express and live the opinion I shared in the previous piece. This gave me access to a layer of thought and feeling hidden under my resentments. I still fully support as valid and honorable the views expressed in the previous post, but they are now complemented with another more happy and connected vision, which gives me access to a field of unknown and richer experiences.
To be sure, they have nothing to do with the ‘hoods in the States or the banlieues in France. I don’t believe there are no-go areas in the Netherlands (please comment if you think otherwise; I might be wrong). There are (parts of) neighborhoods where one wouldn’t go in the middle of the night, but in the daytime, it would be no problem to visit.