Recently I returned the country of my birth, Morocco. We were forced to leave there after hundreds of years just as the Arab world came out from under the yoke of colonial rule and pan-Arab nationalism was at its peak. Having always been quite skeptical about the positive effect of nationalism, particularly in its heightened form I get why my fellow Moroccan’s turned on those that were not of the Muslim faith. But as I stood in the narrow ancient streets of the Medina in Marrakesh I couldn’t help but wonder what my life wold have been like if we had stayed, if that fist pumping moment of anger towards the ‘other’ in their midst had never happened. I’ve spent my life in Canada. For the most part we have not been a hand on the heart, over the top country. I like that. Lately with the reality of a newly hostile American government there has been a call to have our elbows up. I believe that there is and will be a dark side to that ‘proudly’ Canadian narrative. Canada Proud, The Proud Boys. Enough said. But a few months ago as I stood their with mayhem all around me on that Moroccan street I felt gratitude for my life in Canada. And a deep connection to a life that might have been. One race, one planet, one tear of joy and sorrow.
A tear for what might have been and what is
