Taking a long way home

 

“You look Moroccan”

“Why don’t you have a Moroccan passport ?”

“Didn’t you go to settle things ?”

“Why don’t you speak arab ?”

I don’t know.

I don’t know  even though I’m French by my mother, Moroccan by my father and  I used to spent my summer holidays between Rabat and Agadir with my father’s family until my 13th birthday.

I have memories from this time.

I went back in 2014 for 3 weeks with my wife and my daughter after a break of more than 25 years, to talk to a father who was out of my life for almost the same amount of time. I went to get some answers, I guess. I’m a father too, now, after all.

The meeting didn’t happen. I went back a second time in december 2017 and it didn’t happen either, because he was abroad.  It was like a compressed reenactement of our story.

Why was I here, to be left with useless questions ?

And the fear, and the lack of sense and the stupid anger mixed with relief and the misunderstanding and my childhood memories flashing straight to my 42 y.o man’s eyes and this feeling of disconnected belonging.

So, I took some pictures to recreate a link and make friends with doubt.

I didn’t shut it out. I let it speak.

 

 

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