Open Mind, Open Heart.

The Taste of Orange.

I sit on the rooftop balcony of Cafe Glacion. The iced orange juice slakes my thirst on this sultry evening. Below, the Djemaa el Fna is a haze of light, smoke and movement. Food stalls offer an array of freshly cooked food such as battered vegetables, haira soup, broiled sheep’s head, lamb tajine and camel burgers.

My eye is drawn to the white robed acrobats twirling torches of dazzling fire, the traditionally costumed water sellers shaking brass cups and the snake charmers with their charges that suddenly loom menacingly out of woven baskets held innocuously on their hip. The chaos of drums, cymbals and flutes is exhilarating in this beating heart of the medina.

The orange juice is freshly squeezed, sweet. But the taste triggers a sinister reminder. My gaze is directed across the square to the shrouded remains of the Cafe Argana. In contrast to the whirling frenzy below, its deranged upper frame is silent. History has been repeated. Djemaa el Fna, loosely translated as 'Square of the Dead' because of past public executions, retains a dark cultural capital. In the cafe, a few weeks earlier, it was a simple order of the emblematic orange juice, which set in motion the bomb that would obliterate the lives of 17 people. I look around me. Cafe Glacion is filled with tourists tonight. The orange juice sours in my mouth.
Yesterday, as I approached an entrance to the souks, I found myself outside Cafe Argana. On the ground, in front of the white tarpaulins hanging forlornly on its skeletal remains, was a rudimentary monument. Gently placed flowers, cards and small mementos, vestiges of vibrant lives, sang a paean to the deceased.

It was the tourist tally that made the news reports. It was a sobering realisation that local men and women were killed or horribly injured. Gone too, were the livelihoods of the orange juice and fruit and nut vendors in the path of the blast.

As if to punctuate my shameful ignorance, a noisy crowd of mostly women and teenagers approached. It was a demonstration. They carried written banners and signs printed with The Hand of Fatima, an Islamic symbol of protection. But these signs showed the fingers pointing upwards, like a stop sign, instead of the usually downward direction.

‘What are they protesting about?’ I asked a man beside me.

‘They are angry that terrorism has come to our country. We do not want it here, he said sadly.


The taste of the juice lingers.