Casablanca, Morocco (Part 1)
About six weeks had passed between our last run of programs in North Africa and the Middle East and my next trip. I vowed to stay away from the latter of the two regions for a while due to the ongoing conflict, but I was excited for our next set of programs, which were slated to be held in Morocco and Tunisia. Two new countries added to the Around the Worlds roster.
Why those countries, though? I wish I had a better reason but honestly, while in Egypt at a local market, a vendor overheard me speaking some very very basic Arabic. He asked if I was Arabic, and I replied I was from the U.S. He said I looked like I was Moroccan or Tunisian, hence why he had responded as such. I didn’t think too much of it, but I got back to the U.S. and remembered the conversation and thought I should go there next. So that was that. Nothing crazy or glamorous about it, but sometimes that’s exactly how life is.
I double checked visas and other entry requirements, booked a multi-city itinerary, and got to prepping. I linked up with an incredible organization named IDMAJ, doing important work across multiple communities and centers scattered throughout Casablanca. First, I exchanged a couple texts with their president, Mr. Boubker Mazoz. Later, I did most of my correspondence with a program coordinator by the name of Leo. She was super responsive, and had a keen attention to detail. We quickly hammered out a bunch of details re: how many programs, how many kids, what equipment to give away, etc. and she even drafted up some flyers to print at the centers – drumming up interest and excitement for the programs to come.
On my side, I tried my best to meet that level of excitement, quickly setting aside nearly 150 different pieces of equipment for the kids to leave sessions with – ranging from new soccer balls, brand new Nike jerseys, tee-shirts, drawstring bags, and more. Leo hooked me up with a customs document and Mr. Boubker called in some favors from his friends. I hoped it would be enough, but we know how the customs game goes by now. It wasn’t perfect, but at the end of the day – customs said I was free to go and that’s all I heard and cared about.
Barely two rest days later, jetlag was still very much in play, but I could hardly think about it because it was now Saturday and it was now program day at Ain Sebaa, our first of a three day slate of straight programming. The kids all sat patiently in their classroom, excitedly wearing their favorite football kits (PSG, Barcelona, Moroccan National Team – were some of the ones I recognized first). They looked on with anticipation, taken aback by my French but responding to it in Arabic. I was given a brief introduction by the administrative head at IDMAJ Ain Sebaa, before telling the kids what would be going down for the next 90-120 minutes.
I was told we’d have some additional participants at the nearby park (as a bunch of residential apartments overlooked the public playing space) so I decided to do gifts first for our registered guests. We wouldn’t be turning anyone away later, but the center’s members would be the ones getting gifts today. Just so that there was a bit of order before there’d be none at all later on. They each received a shiny new Better Everyday bag, and we passed out markers for them to write their names for when we returned back to the center after the session.
All the boring stuff out of the way, we made the two block walk over to the nearby park and I instructed our group of 15 to sit down in front of me while I set up our listening drill.
“Asseyez vous, s’il vous plaît,” I said, gesturing towards the center circle of our cement court. Once there, I partnered the kids up in groups of two, and quickly explained our listening drill in French. Some understood, most didn’t. I was banking on my French being sufficient but unfortunately for me, only a few of them spoke it. The rest were Darija-speaking only – a Moroccan version of Arabic, similar to traditional Arabic spoken in Egypt, but also very different. Unlike traditional Arabic, Darija featured a mix of Spanish & French influences, as well.
Nevertheless, I ran a couple rounds, switching midway through to Arabic, utilizing the same commands that I used back in Egypt and Lebanon. Darija mainly called for differences in pronunciation, so we managed with my makeshift Arabic for as long as we possibly could. Then, I designated a captain, a young man in a PSG kit named Glime, to run the next couple rounds for me while I set up relay races. Quickly, we moved over from that to three teams of nine. Our numbers soon went up from 15 to 27 participants, just as expected. Eventually, 30 kids were participating, so we had basically doubled up.
Three teams set, we hit some stepovers – demoed by Captain Glime, then lateral jumps, zig-zag dribbles, sole of the foot dribbles, and other small variations. We broke from that into ball control grids led by myself and two other football coaches, working on push-passing, volleys, and headers. Finally, I brought the kids into a big circle for “les mains ou la tete”. Well, it was more like ra’s or yed today.
I explained the rules and watched on with joy as the kids laughed and smiled their way through each round. Our first round gave us three winners, while our next had two kids emerge victorious. Their take home prize was precious gear donated to Around the Worlds just two weeks prior from Oakwood Soccer Club (OSC).
Back in 2018, I had linked up with an old UConn classmate to pick up some OSC equipment to redistribute through our sessions. They were mostly all brand new and tagged, just with some minor flaws in customization, such as a hanging thread, an improper screenprint, a backwards number, or sometimes nothing at all. At the end of the day, they were tagged, they were new, and they were Nike. It was a game-winning combo for the kids, many of whom were so accustomed to never owning anything brand new, original, or customized before. As expected, our prizewinners jumped with joy upon learning of their new riches. They waited patiently, well as patiently as they could, before ripping the tags off each jersey and pulling their tiny heads through each neck slot.
“Perfect fit!” Stephen yelled out, complimenting Oakwood’s newest recruits.
A group photo later, we made the short trek back to IDMAJ’s Ain Sebaa center to regroup with our original 15 registered participants. Once there, we listed off names and placed their Better Everyday bags back in their hands – and in their hands they remained for about two seconds. After those precious few seconds, I was tapped on the shoulder by Doha, a young woman of 21 years, who along with her mother Zineb, ran this particular center. They were an integral part of the organization’s success – coordinating classes with kids as young as preschool-aged all the way up to sewing and cooking classes with Ain Sebaa’s adult population, primarily the kids’ mothers.
Every car requires an engine to move and if the center was a car, well Zineb and Doha were, effectively, its engine. Doha whispered in a soft tone, although she was naturally an outgoing person – speaking English, French, and Darija all very well. Careful not to interrupt my cooldown time at program’s end, she asked – “Stephen? Can you come with me?” I nodded my head and followed her lead, much like I had before and during the program.
“The boys want you to autograph their new bags,” she said, with a smile.
Once in the room, the autograph session commenced. I was not just signing bags, I was autographing their new Nike jerseys, their shorts, basically everything they had on their person. I honestly always feel weird doing this because I put myself in their tiny shoes and think, “man… if I came home and my mom saw a signature on my new jersey she’d kill me haha” but alas, armed to the teeth with sharpies I got straight to work. Once every piece was signed, Doha returned for one last comment – “Stephen, if you have time I would like to invite you and your mother over to my home for dinner, so you can eat some home cooked Moroccan food.”
I smiled ear to ear. Sure, the food I was eating so far had been good – but it was all restaurant-made and for lack of a better term, western. Tacos, cordon bleu, pasta, hamburgers, you name it – I was eating it. My ears perked up and my mouth salivated at the thought of some real, homemade Moroccan dishes. Plus, I’ve been in this game long enough to know that this is where the best food comes from. That has rung true since eight years ago and I trusted this meal at Doha’s family home would only further prove my point. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait. But still – this meal was to be a celebration, a time to reflect at the tail end of back-to-back-to-back days of programming. As such, that meal would have to wait until the Monday after our Saturday-Monday slate of straight sessions.
With Monday on my mind, but three more programs to look forward to before then, I put my bags down, lifted my legs up, and rested my head. From just outside our ninth floor window, a sun set over the Casablanca skyline – leaving nothing but a cotton candy sky in its wake, a twinkle in my eye, and a smile on my face. Fifty-five countries, and to think, they’re never ever the same. Each experience is as different as the next. But that’s the beauty of it, right?
