That Friday night, I came late. As usual.
A seat was left for me at Agadir’s English Pub. The table’s occupants were already drinking. Glasses of Flag Speciale in hand, they were all smiles. A college friend duly introduced me, but I was a bit distracted.
I wanted a glass of that Flag Speciale so bad.
I started drinking at 25, which was very convenient given that I had just cleared my head of all things Islamic. In Casablanca, my early drinking was done mainly around expats. It was a safe, non-judgmental environment for someone still deemed Muslim by their countrymen. I drank the finest foreign beers, wines and liquors. But none of these could beat the symbolic irony of shitty Flag Speciale, which is produced in the Muslim Kingdom of Morocco. In the Muslim Kingdom of Morocco, those born to Muslim parents are supposed to be Muslim. It follows that they are legally barred from drinking, an “offense” punishable by jail. Bars, clubs, supermarkets, hotels and other sellers of alcohol are thus required to only serve booze to non-Muslims. Unenforceable by any measure.
You now understand how a sip of Flag Speciale can invigorate the contrarian Arab infidel in me. It’s a statement, a middle finger to a regime that thrives on inconsistency. Moroccan style. I would never, ever miss a chance to do that.
Cheers.
It was all I drank at the English Pub that Friday night. In less than an hour, the club was full. Europeans, Sub-Saharan Africans and of course local “foreigners,” those Moroccans who dare to drink in public. I looked around me. Two ladies braved the floor with contagious insouciance. It was karaoke time. My college buddy grabbed the mic.
“(It’s my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way”
As he uttered those words, he pointed at me. I couldn’t help but laugh.
And then it hit me.
While angrily slamming the door behind Morocco a year ago, I allowed myself to forget about this side of it.
A year consuming US media coverage of the Mideast didn’t help.
Turn on cable news in America and you will be delivered quite the summary on how we desert people feel about the world around us. The story goes that Sunnis hate Shias. The feeling is unequivocally mutual. They both hate non-Muslims. Especially Jews. Kurds don’t even want to hear about this and need their own state.
Where is my young, modern and defiant Middle East in all that noise? Nowhere.
It’s out there, though. All you have to do is look for it.
Tipsy and indignant at what the world was missing of my region, I remembered the two soldiers who were standing by the English Pub at my arrival. I also remembered that my bag was thoroughly searched at the door. There is after all no denying that in today’s Middle East and North Africa, terrorism is always around the corner.
The soldiers of the Commander of the Faithful were guarding us against the army of the Caliphate. Everything was going to be okay, apparently.
Now, hold that thought. Don’t you dare suggest that ISIS has anything to do with Islam. You racist Islamophobe.
The Arab Cynic 
