Tingis - A Moroccan-American Magazine of Ideas and Culture
"This is a spectacular magazine. It works against prejudice and cultural divisions, building and expanding bridges between the U.S. and Morocco, based upon natural affinities and mutual attractions."
Allen Hibbard, author of Paul Bowles, Magic & Morocco
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Sententia Tingitana
Fabric of Our Identity
By Anouar Majid

Not long ago, I came across a thought-provoking article by Jamal Boudouma about the history of Morocco’s flag and our national hymn. If you go back to Issue No. 262 of the Moroccan weekly TelQuel, you will find out that it was General Lyautey who, through a dahir (royal decree) promulgated on November 17, 1917, gave the Moroccan flag the shape and colors with which we are now familiar. TelQuel doesn’t mention that the French added a mini tricolore on the upper left corner to indicate who were the actual rulers of the country at the time, but this detail is not the point of the article. The point is to show that prior to this period, the Moroccan flag sported not the five-pointed star (pentagram), but the Star of David (the hexagram known in Arabic as Khatam Suleyman and in Judaism as the Seal of Solomon). Morocco’s Semitic heritage, which it shares with Jews, was acknowledged on the most visible symbol of the nation, until French colonialists thought differently. TelQuel goes on to record the history of our national hymn, first composed by one Captain Léo Morgan and only put to words in 1969, after Morocco’s national team had qualified to play in the soccer world cup of 1970. After a national contest, Moulay Ali Skalli’s “manbita al ahrar” (which, roughly translated, means “land of the free”) was selected by King Hassan II, who added a few touches to the lyrics.


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The Daughter of Dr. Butrus: A Short Story
By Abdennabi Benchehda

I lay on my mattress tossing and turning. I have been restless ever since I talked to Sundus. The family’s return to Morocco complicated life for me. Their departure was abrupt; my father came home early one day and unceremoniously announced that we were going back to Morocco. The war had been raging for some time now and relationships between old friends were unraveling. Rivalries flared, creating an atmosphere of mistrust and vengeful violence. Dubious alliances sprouted like weeds after a rainy season. The Iraqis quickly turned against the non-Iraqi Arabs living amongst them who benefited greatly from the welfare system set up by Saddam’s regime. It was obvious that when my father came home that night, he had reconciled himself to never be at home in this country again – after thirty years of toil. “Pack what you can,” he said, his voice stern, his face the grayness of a full moon. “We are leaving at dawn.” Neither my mother nor my sister and I objected. Not a word was uttered. Like Baghdad, the candles cried while burning. “Haj, what’s the matter?” my mother inquired. “Let me sit!” he simply answered. The candle lit room all of a sudden seemed darker and a pregnant silence weighed on us. Questions lurked about; how are we going to leave? Where are we going to go? What to pack? And school? And friends? My father said not another word and my mother was never the one to object to anything my father said. “Rest a bit! I’ll get the dinner ready,” she simply said as she stood up to leave the room. My sister, as if mimicking her, stood up as well and walked in her wake. I got up to leave, but he directed me to sit back down with a wave of his hand. His clothes were sullied and his trousers bore tear marks at the knees. He slipped off his shoes and eased out of his jacket. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and hobbled to a corner of the room. He stood there a moment with sweat beading on his brows, his eyes haggard, and his shoulders slouched, as if unable to decide what to do next. He finally crumpled on the divan and simply said: “I saw death with my own eyes today.”

The Bridge With Islam
By Haim Ovadia

I am a Jew of Islam. Not an Arab Jew, mind you, since that term makes as much sense as Slavic or Baltic or Arian Jew, but a Jew of Islam. It is not only because in my family's veins runs the blood of people who lived in Iraq, Syria, Morocco, Tunisia and Turkey, nor because among my congregantsthere are natives of Bahrain and Indonesia. It is true that my I-pod is packed with Abdul Wahab, Sabah Fakhri and Farid Al Atrache and the Shabbat songs and liturgy borrows freely from generations of Islamic, Sufi and secular Arabic music, but the connection runs much deeper.