Babi: "By the end of the 1920s, my father had already established his career at the hospital as an ambulance driver - which in itself was a sign that he was now part of the "petite bourgeoisie". For in the impoverished, colonized Morocco of the inter-war years, not everyone could earn a regular salary. On payday, his mother, Hashemeya, would wait for him outside the hospital, demanding a quarter of his money. For she and her three grown-up children still lived under the same roof and had no other source of income.
My father, Jilali Dahbi, on the right, with a doctor from the Fez hospital, probably around 1925. My father was a member of the so-called "Groupe Sanitaire Mobile" (GSM), which patrolled around the Fez region during epidemics such as typhus or ringworm, to treat people in the villages and prevent them from bringing these diseases back to the city.
One day, Hashemeya decided it was time for Jelila to get married. She set about finding a suitable wife for her son. In her eyes, the world was divided into two categories: filalis and non-filalis. By definition, anything that wasn't filali was no good. As for the women of Fez, she simply considered them to be the most wanton of women.
She found a filali girl among her cousins and demanded that her son marry her. With his back to the wall, my father agreed. However, once married, he soon realized that the union wasn't working out. After only forty days of marriage, he initiated divorce proceedings without consulting his mother. Incensed by this affront, she decided she would never speak to him again.
After this disaster, my father remained a bachelor for four or five years, until his best friends, worried about him, persuaded him that it was time to look for a new wife. He was then 27 or 28, an age already considered advanced for a bachelor in Morocco at the time, where "old" bachelors were not well regarded.
One day, at the end of 1932, the wife of a friend of my father's suggested one of her distant cousins as a potential candidate. This young woman, named Fatima, aged sixteen, was to become my mother. She was Jamaï by her father and Lahbabi by her mother.
I would now like to briefly introduce these two families:
The Jamaï were a tribe originally from the Fez region. Around 1870, this tribe suddenly gained in prestige because the mother of the Sultan, Moulay Hassan ben Mohammed, known as Hassan I, was a Jamaï. As is well known, the role of the mother is of great importance in Moroccan culture, as was highlighted during the 2022 Football World Cup, when the mothers of the Moroccan team players were celebrated. And so, the entire Jamaï family benefited from the fact that the Sultan's mother shared the same name.
The Palais Jamaï in Fez
The Lahbabi were a family of Andalusian immigrants. These were Arabs who returned to Africa after the Spanish and Portuguese reconquest of Andalusia in the 15th century. Most had settled in the big cities of the north, such as Nador, Tangier and Tetouan. A few had even reached Fez, where the University of Kairaouine enjoyed a high reputation. The Moroccans born of this immigration were more refined than their compatriots in the south. They had adopted European customs and had a virtual monopoly on foreign trade. Fatima's mother, my grandmother, was a perfect example: she had a pale complexion, a pronounced taste for culture, cuisine and the art of entertaining, and was always extremely elegant.
The Porte des Andalous in Fez
This is how young Fatima Jamaï came into my father's life. He met her at a distance at a large family event to which he had been invited by his friend and his wife. He fell in love with her instantly and decided to marry her.
To make his wish come true, however, he first had to convince his own family. In those days, marriage was not an individual decision; families, especially parents, played an active role from the first meeting of the future spouses through to their engagement and marriage. When my father told his mother of his desire to marry this young woman from a family of Andalusian immigrants and Fassis, her filali blood ran cold. She told her son: "Do what you like, but do it without me".
To understand the rest of the story, I now need to go back a little in time. As I mentioned earlier, my grandmother Hashemeya had three children: Jilali (my father), then two daughters, Mahjouba and Drissiya. She had also raised what you call "une fille de lait" in French, i.e. a girl she had breast-fed and brought up because her mother, a filali cousin of course, was unable to do so. This type of adoption was common at the time. My father and aunts considered this foster sister, who was also called Mahjouba, as a true sister. Unfortunately, Drissiya died at a very young age (giving birth to twins). And so, at the end of 1932, when my father met Fatima, he was left with only two sisters: Mahjouba, his biological sister, and Mahjouba, his foster sister.
After my grandmother vetoed his marriage proposal, my father turned to his biological sister Mahjouba, hoping she would help him gain the approval of Fatima's family. However, she refused to cooperate, fearing a falling out with their mother.
Jilali then turned to the other Mahjouba, his foster sister, who lived in a neighboring house. She was extremely fond of my father, and so she immediately agreed to help him: It was she who represented Jilali to Fatima's family and made all the marriage arrangements. Thanks to her, the wedding finally took place in the autumn of 1932.
My parents, ca. 1940
As Hashemeya continued to oppose this union, my father finally decided to leave the family home and move to a rented house on the other side of town, in a neighborhood called Sidi Souaf. This separation was heartbreaking for the family, as in those days young couples usually lived with one of their parents, and it was rare to sever family ties.
Another turning point came in July 1933, when my paternal grandmother died of diabetes, from which she had been suffering for some years. As my mother was eight months pregnant at the time, my parents decided not to move immediately. So it was that I was born on August 23, 1933 in Sidi Souaf. A few weeks after my birth, my parents returned to live in the family home. This explains why I'm the only member of my family not to have been born in this house. All my other siblings (with the exception of my brother), as well as my paternal aunts and, of course, my father, were born there.
After my birth came three more children: Al Hashemeya in 1936, Fatima Zohra in 1938, and little Layla in 1939. In 1941, at the age of 25, my mother became pregnant for the fifth time.
My mother Fatima with my sister Fatoum Zohra in her arms, my sister Al Hashemeya in her skirts, and me on her right, - 1938
Unfortunately, events took a tragic turn, as there was a diphtheria epidemic in Fez at the time, which hit my family hard. The first to succumb was my little sister Layla, who died when she was just two years old. Tragically, a few days later, my mother died in childbirth, probably as a result of the same disease. Her newborn son, whom my father named Abdeljelil, only survived her by a few days.
In the space of a month and a half, my father had lost his wife, their newborn son and their youngest daughter. It was a terrible trauma for him. He remained inconsolable, widowed and single for the next four years."
My mother, Fatima, ca. 1940