The Caliph's House

by Tahir Shah

These included all of us sleeping in the same room on a single grimy mattress, around which a circle had been etched with a lump of coal. We were instructed not to open the windows, despite the suffocating press of summer heat. Nor were we permitted to sing, laugh, or speak in anything but a whisper. I asked why.

In the West we are driven by an extreme form of guilt—if you are not seen to be working like a dog, you’re perceived as being slothful.

Moroccans see it as their duty to help those they are close to. Not being of assistance at all times can bring dishonor and disgrace on the family. This wonderful tradition has evolved into a state in which everyone tries desperately to get you to do what they think is best for you.

“Just because someone is begging,” he replied, “does that mean they should be given items of low quality? We are not like that here in Morocco.”