LAST WEEK ONE OF THE NEIGHBOURS near my home in Casablanca slipped a note under my door.
With almost toe-cringing politeness, he asked if I might introduce his niece to a friend of mine with connections in the art world. The girl, he explained, was eager to get an internship at a British auction house, but she was thin on contacts.
At first I wondered how the neighbour, a man I hardly know, had such good information on whom I know. But then I remembered that in Morocco everyone knows everything about everyone. They know how much money you make, the names and phone numbers that fill your address book and, most importantly, they know how you may be of help to them.
The matrix to pass on the minute details comes through the hierarchy of maids and cooks, drivers and guardians, who are relied upon by many to share each word that touches their ears. They know so much sensitive information that no employer in their right mind would ever fire them.
I sent a message to my friend with contacts at the auction house, and later advised my neighbour that his niece could be certain of an interview. The next day there was a knock at the door. I went and opened it, to find a delivery man straining under the weight of an enormous bouquet of exotic flowers. Having placed them on the table in the sitting-room, I sat back and smiled to myself.
It was a good example of the favour network in action.
You can’t live in Morocco long without brushing into it. The favour network is all around, a blurred backdrop to life. In a culture based on connections and trust, the only way forward – or upward – is to rely on favours.
All Moroccans live with the same niggling fear: withdraw from the system before you’ve paid in, and the creditors will come calling. That was the reason for the pricey bunch of flowers – a fear that if the favour wasn’t repaid at once, I would demand a favour in return. But as with the lure of instant credit in the West, there’s always the danger of taking a favour that you can’t pay back, and plunging into debt.
For anyone new to Arab society, the situation can be baffling. It’s a kind of silent language. Everyone knows who has helped whom, and what strings have been pulled – now, yesterday, or a century ago. The slate is never wiped clean, because it’s part of a system built on pride, written on an invisible chalkboard in the sky.
Our maid, Zohra, once told me of how her family’s fortunes had been swept away in repaying a favour left owing by her great, great grandfather. I had asked why she simply didn’t dispute the request.
She smiled.
‘Do you not know about honour?’ she said.
My father, who had been brought up in the East, drilled into my sisters and me his motto – ‘Never owe anyone anything!’ After moving to Morocco, I now understand his reasoning. He knew that, like Zohra, a family’s security can be lost in the blink of an eye while striving to uphold its honour.
As a policy, I rarely ask favours. If I do, I repay at once and with abundant dividends. Equally, I have come to learn that only a fool boasts about whom he knows, or what contacts – or favours – he has in his arsenal.
The only difficulty is when someone pays into the system covertly, before turning up to be repaid in kind. In such situations, even the most astute expert must tread with care. The conditions are usually the same. First comes an absolutely over-the-top box of chocolates, a bottle of expensive aftershave, or perfume, just like that – out of the blue. In Arab society refusing a gift is tantamount to a declaration of war. So you have no choice but to accept. Once the gift has been received, you must respond with an equally lavish gift. If you don’t, you can be certain that a request will be on its way.
If I’m unsure of how to act, I ask Zohra. She’s an expert on the right etiquette. When I told her about the neighbour, the favour, and the flowers, she wagged a finger towards the door.
‘Some people have no shame,’ she said.