Men of Letters

Jamal and Yusef Mansoor sat in the middle of a desert oasis when they received the call from their father.
Buildings surrounded them on all sides. Like the other buildings of downtown Essaouira, they were square in shape, stood about three stories high, and were made of plaster, concrete, and sandstone. Unlike the white-washed buildings of the Medina with antique doors painted in blue, the buildings of the University were all painted light brown, the color of desert sands.
The courtyard itself was filled with decorative trees and plants, including date palms, just like the ones at the Citadel. Students filled the picnic tables and benches, studying in the sun and relaxing in the shade.
Yusef had been staring at the same page of his Engineering book for over an hour. His eyes darted from the book to the people in the courtyard.
When his cell phone rang, Yusef quickly snatched it, eager to get a study break.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” said Mr. Mansoor, “Is Jamal nearby?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re here at the Medina getting ready to eat. Would you like to join us?”
“I’m ready to eat,” replied Yusef.
“Who is it?” interrupted Jamal.
“It’s our father. He wants to know if we’re hungry.”
Jamal nodded enthusiastically.
“What are we having?” Yusef asked his father.
“Mother ordered green tea and Pastilla.”
“That sounds good. We’ll be there soon,” replied Yusef.
The boys packed their backpacks and headed for the bus stop. When they boarded the bus, it was so crowded they were forced to stand in the center aisle. They held the safety straps hanging from the ceiling. As the bus weaved through the busy streets of Essaouira, the boys struggled to keep their balance.
As soon as Jamal and Yusef stepped off the bus from the University, they carved their way toward the various markets between the Citadel and the café. Street vendors pinched the already narrow alleys of the marketplace. The vendors sold just about anything a person could want, including baskets, carpets, and grains. One vendor even sold live snakes.
Jamal and Yusef avoided all of this, sharing the cobblestone-covered alleys with shoppers, fishermen, and bicyclists. Still, they made it to the café in good time.
“Jamal! Yusef! Over here” called Mrs. Mansoor.
The boys entered the restaurant, walking out onto the open patio. A canvas awning over the table flapped gently in the warm ocean breeze.
“How was school today?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“It was long,” said Yusef.
“My day was long, too, but it was fantastic,” added Jamal.
“What made it fantastic?” asked Mohammed.
“Well, little brother, I got an A on my Moroccan History test.”
“Congratulations, Jamal!” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“What was on the exam?” asked Mohammed.
“We’ve been studying Phoenicia.”
“Faneesha? Who’s that?”
“It’s not a who, little brother, it’s an ancient civilization that existed around three-thousand years ago. The Phoenicians lived at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea.”
“What does that have to do with Morocco?”
“Everything,” replied Jamal, “the Phoenicians sailed throughout the Mediterranean. They traded their goods with people from north Africa and southern Europe.”
While Jamal continued to talk, Mrs. Mansoor ordered Pastilla for everyone. When it arrived, Mrs. Mansoor cut the meat pie into six pieces, serving one to each person at the table.
Ameena bit into her piece of Pastilla, savoring every bite. The Pastilla was made in three layers: scrambled eggs on the bottom, roasted lamb in the middle, and an almond-cinnamon-sugar top layer. The layers mingled in her mouth with every bite.
The flaky crust was another matter altogether.
Made from tissue-thin Phyllo dough, the Pastilla crust crumbled with each bite. Buttery soft flakes melted on Ameena’s tongue, revealing the pieces of shredded lamb and mixture of scrambled eggs that made up the lowest layer of the meat pie.
“The Phoenicians also connected the eastern Asians with the western Europeans,” continued Jamal.
At this point, he lifted his hands above his plate. One hand stretched west and the other hand stretched east as he drew the map of three continents in the air.
“The ancient Phoenician sailors brought fine fabrics from India, exotic spices from southeastern Asia. When they returned to the east, they took Greek architecture and Italian wines. All of these things they brought to Morocco.”
“That’s all? That doesn’t seem like much,” argued Mohammed.
“That’s everything,” replied Jamal.
“Not quite everything,” interrupted Yusef, “What about alphabet?”
“I forgot about that,” said Jamal.
“What do you mean?” asked Mohammed
“The Phoenicians are credited with using one of the first alphabets. In fact, most countries in Africa, Europe, and western Asia use an alphabet based on Phoenician writing.”
“How is that possible?” asked Mohammed.
As Ameena listened to the boys talk about alphabet, she knew the answer. She only had to look across the shore. The rocks that made Essaouira dangerous did not exist on all sides of the walled city.
On the northern shore of Essaouira, the ramparts that encircled the main part of the city gave way to a massive pier, where trading ships of all sizes docked. This was the same port that brought fabrics and spices into the western half of Morocco – and also an alphabet. As one culture met with another, they not only shared their goods, but their ideas, too.
Jamal grabbed a paper napkin and began to write.
“Take the letter S for example,” replied Jamal, “This is how the Phoenicians wrote it, 2000 years ago.”
Jamal scribbled the Phoenician S, which zigzagged like a lower case Roman w.
“Now take a look at the Arabic S.”
Jamal carefully scribed the Arabic S. He drew Two tiny cups, like a curved w. He followed that with a long tail on the left, like the Roman J and two dots, above and below the script. When he was finished, it looked like this: ښ .
“Of course, Arabic is much prettier,” noted Mrs. Mansoor.
“I think so, too,” said Mohammed.
“Not prettier, just different,” argued Mr. Mansoor.
“Prettier,” repeated Mrs. Mansoor.
“Why is there another cup on the Arabic S?” asked Mohammed.
“The alphabet changed over time.”
“How do you know?” asked Mohammed.
“You sure full of questions,” replied Jamal.
“Well?”
“There are scientists, called archaeologists, who dig in the dirt, looking for artifacts – things older generations left behind. Those can include dishes, furniture, buildings, and even ancient writings.”
“But how do you know all of this?”
“I read it in my antiquities books.”
“What are those?”
“They’re history books that study old civilizations, like the Phoenicians. I’m learning about languages from every part of the world.”
“That seems weird to me,” replied Mohammed.
“It’s not very weird at all,” replied Jamal, “Most of us Moroccans already speak three languages: Berber, French, and Arabic. It’s because of other cultures, like the Phoenicians, who have visited our cities throughout time.”
With that, Mohammed was finally satisfied with his eldest brother’s answers. He turned his attention to the meal. He picked at the piece of Pastilla on his plate, carefully avoiding the lamb and egg. He devoured every last bit of crust, especially the parts with the almonds, sugar, and cinnamon.
“It’s getting late,” noticed Mrs. Mansoor, “We’d better get moving along.”
Mr. Mansoor paid the check and everyone headed to the exit.
“Ameena, hold your little brother’s hand,” said Mrs. Mansoor as she held Ameena’s free hand. Ameena grabbed little Mohammed’s hand. They walked, one-two-three, through the alleys of the Medina, linked daisy-chain style.
They filtered through the crowds, headed back towards the Citadel. Their car was parked in a small parking lot just beyond the citadel. The children squeezed into the back seat of the tiny black hatchback. Ameena had to sit on Jamal’s lap next to one window. Mohammed sat on Yusef’s lap, while Kareem was squished in the middle of the back seat.
“Are we all set?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“We’re ready,” answered Jamal.
Mr. Mansoor weaved the tiny black hatchback through side streets the whole way home. As soon as they arrived at their house, the children eagerly unpacked themselves from the backseat.
Inside the house, everyone went their separate ways, ready for bed. Ameena went upstairs to her tiny bedroom next to her parent’s room.
She quickly took off her hijab, carefully butting it back in its place on the only empty hanger in her closet. As soon as she laid in bed, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep, deep sleep, dreaming of the day she could go to school just like Yusef and Jamal.