Black Hole Morocco
The Djemaa el-Fna square bustles and throbs. Its lights glimmer in the smoke of cooking fires that rises and twines its way through the thronging crowds of hustlers, beggars, locals and tourists. But at it’s heart, on the eastern edge and in full view of the stalls and restaurants there is a hole. Bandaged in sagging earthen cloth over a makeshift wooden construction frame, the Argana Cafe is a stark emblem of violence, like a wound on this colourful square. Less than a year ago an explosion ripped through its guts, wounding 20 people, and killing 15. What colour they were, their social standing or occupations was swept aside by a blast that scattered bodies, and drained the square of its touristic life blood for months afterwards. They’ve come back of course; they always will explains my friend Hakim. But it’s a frightening reminder of the darkness here or anywhere that there is a cultural clash between worlds and attitudes. Do locals turn their heads away and tr