‌Shame

Can shame be erased? Can it be expunged? Or does the memory live with us for the rest of our lives?

I raised these questions in a conversation with my closest friend, Nabil. At the time of my story, Nabil was the head waiter at the Argana, the famous restaurant which faces the square. He is a Berber from a village in the Tafilalt, in the Oued Ziz Valley, one of the most beautiful oases in the northern Sahara. What brought him to Marrakesh is a story in itself, and I will tell it later. But for now, in response to my questions, Nabil raised some of his own.

What is your first emotion upon encountering the Jemaa, Hassan? he asked. Isn’t it excitement? An excitement of the senses? Come now, admit it. In other words, it appeals to your sensuality. But I will go even further and suggest that the Jemaa, especially at night, is all about unadulterated sensuality. It is the nature of the place. Why introduce shame into it?

I don’t think it’s as simple as you make it seem, I countered. It’s more complicated.

Of course, it must seem more complicated to you, Nabil answered with a smile, but that’s because you’re a storyteller. You enhance reality with your own mythologies.

My own mythologies?

Yes, yes, mythologies. Have you ever asked yourself where your stories come from? They are nothing other than the result of your own preoccupations, obsessions, fantasies.

I will have to think about that, I said with a frown.

Take as much time as you need, he replied. Personally, I do not think the matter has a clear resolution, but I can well understand your fascination with the two foreigners, believe me. I myself have yet to come to terms with the full implications of my own meeting with them that evening.