I recently met a young man from Congo when I was traveling with the train from Casablanca to Rabat. He asked a contribution to continue his journey. After he told me that it was 35 dirhams, I gave him the total amount and also my Starbucks muffin that I bought on Casa Port. I kept the coffee to myself. He was surprised I gave him enough for the rest of his trip. With a relieve he sat down in on the train bench towards me. He wore flip-flops with socks. I looked outside and saw that it was raining. I felt a sort of pity for him.
We started talking. What are you doing in Morocco? I asked him. The conversation was a bit in Arabic and French. He wanted a better future. He was 23 years old and he lived solo in Morocco. He earned some money on a demolition in Kenitra. Thinking about his situation automatically my father came across my mind. He also left his homeland in 1974 to move to Europe in 1974 to try to make a decent living. I told him about it. And I continued telling him that I was a migrant worker daughter who returned Morocco. That now I myself start recruiting Dutch speaking people (whether yes or no with a Moroccan background) from Europe. He looked at me with disbelief. But I also saw hope in his eyes. He raised from the bench asking me to watch over his belonings in a plastic bag and went to the restroom. When he came back he took the paper bag, prevelling bismillah and enjoyed his blueberry muffin. When we arrived in Rabat, I said goodbye and left the train. He stayed to continue his journey