Morocco: Where Love Strangles You Like Generously Sweetened Tea

I’m not saying Morocco is a bad place to grow up. I’m saying it’s a nasty place to raise a family in (if it's not too late). Because here, love is like sugar: abused, overused, and likely to rot your insides if consumed in excess.

Fouad FARJANI

1/19/2025

The land of mint tea so sweet it makes dentists weep, a country of endless sunshine that doesn’t care if you’re turning black already, and last but not least a hot spot full of love—lots and lots of love.

If you thought love was a warm, fuzzy feeling that lifts you up like a bubble in a glass of champagne, think again. Here, love isn’t just a part of life; it’s a weapon, a tool, and occasionally, a trapdoor into a bottomless pit of emotional overindulgence.

I’m not saying Morocco is a bad place to grow up. I’m saying it’s a nasty place to raise a family. Because here, love is like sugar, abused, overused, and likely to rot your insides if consumed in excess.

Being raised Moroccan is like being wrapped in a blanket that’s so tight, you can’t breathe, but hey! at least it’s warm, right? Parents here don’t just love their kids; they love them to death. Literally. You’re not just a child; you’re an extension of their soul, their legacy, their reason for living.

Your mom doesn’t just want you to eat dinner; she wants you to eat until you question your life choices. “You’re too skinny!” she’ll scream, even as you struggle to button your jeans. Your dad? he loves you so much that he’ll guilt-trip you into staying in the same job, the same city forever. Because why would you need independence when you’ve got family?

And don’t even think about boundaries. Privacy? That’s not love. Love is barging into your room at 12 a.m. because “Are you asleep? Are you depressed? Do you need tea?”

Marriage in the same Morocco is like a romantic comedy, except the comedy is unintentional, and the romance quickly becomes a full-time job. Here, love isn’t about partnership; it’s about ownership.

Your spouse loves you so much they want to know everything about you. Who you talked to. What you ate. Why you didn’t text back within three minutes. Forget personal space, that’s a myth. Love means merging into one person, and if you dare to assert your individuality, well! you clearly don’t love them enough.

And God forbid you have friends, hobbies or interests that don’t include them. Love, in Moroccan relationships, means sacrificing yourself inside the mosque of togetherness.

Having kids in a much dangerous Morocco is like taking out a loan you can never repay. Your children are your everything, and you’re theirs. You love them so much that you’ll do their homework, their laundry, and eventually their beliefs.

But don’t think that love flows both ways. No, no, no! Children in Morocco grow up knowing one thing, they owe their parents. Forever. It doesn’t matter if you’re 40 with kids of your own; you still have to call your mom every day, visit every weekend, and consult her on every major life decision even if it's irrelevant to her generation or set of beliefs.

Because love here isn’t just a feeling; it’s a lifetime contract. And if you fail to fulfill your end of the deal, prepare for the guilt trip of "you've guessed it", a lifetime.

In African Morocco, even the environment loves you too much. The culture, the traditions, the expectations—they all conspire to keep you “safe.” Safe from what, you ask? you know, little things like individuality, ambition, and self-expression.

Want to curse in public? Nope, that’s not “respectful.” Want to challenge authority? Better not; it’s not “proper.” Want to wear something that doesn’t scream conformity? Good luck with that.

Here, love is the reason you have to greet every single aunt, uncle, cousin, neighbor, but not the stranger you meet. It’s why you have to attend every wedding, funeral, and baby shower, even if you barely know the person. It’s why you’re expected to smile, nod, and agree, even when you don’t. Because love isn’t about honesty; it’s about maintaining the peace.

And then there’s the system. Oh! the system loves you too. It loves you so much it wants to mold you into the perfect citizen. Education? It’s not about learning; it’s about income. Jobs? They’re not about passion; they’re about survival.

What if you don’t want to specialize? What if your dream is to struggle and fail and figure it out as you go? Too bad. The system loves you too much to let you fail. It wants you to fit neatly into a box, a teacher, a doctor, an engineer. Something respectable.

But what if you want to be a pirate, a hippie or a gypsy living under a bridge?

What if your dream is to wander, explore, and live outside the lines? Well, the system loves you too much to allow that.

Because love, in Morocco, isn’t about freedom; it’s about lives-killing.

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