The Pretending Health Minister

Moroccan Health Minister Mrs Yasmina Baddou - Photo ©MAP-All right reserved

Have you ever walked into a room and could not remember why you walked in? I believe that is how Yasmina Baddou spends her days at the Moroccan health ministry. Admittedly, the Moroccan health sector has been shoddy for decades. But a visit to Ibn Roshd, known as Morizgo, in casablanca, or any vermin infested public hospital – and private one for that matter – where destitute patients have to grease their palms to receive admittance into the premises and pay every step of the way to receive the medical attention the government ought to provide them for free, one gets a sobering sense of how declensional the state of our healthcare system is. Mrs. Baddou, whose judicial background hardly qualifies her to mend the budgetary and staffing ills of the Moroccan healthcare system initiated reforms that have been openly contested as ineffective by Moroccan health professionals. Her agenda has been criticized as being alienated from the health concerns of Moroccans.

Analysts contend that most Moroccans believe Mrs. Baddou’s appointment to the position was nepotistic; She is the daughter of Abderahmane Baddou, a prominent member of the executive committee of the Istiqlal Party, a former ambassador, and a State Secretary for Foreign Affairs under M’hamed Boucetta in the governments of Ahmed Osman and Mohamed Maati Bouabid; she is also the wife of Ali Fassi-Fihri, the newly appointed president of the Moroccan Football Federation and the brother of the current foreign minister. Growing up, she led a patrician life in France and Morocco far removed from what the majority of Moroccans know as the “lead years.” She was brought up by an elite fringe of the Moroccan society that regards accountability in the public service to the Moroccan citizens as a sign of abasement.

When the whole world is afoot in response to what the health officials of countries whose healthcare systems are more advanced than Morocco’s fear could soon turn into a pandemic of global proportions, Mrs Baddo wouldn’t deign to stand before the Moroccan public to enlighten them on the dangers of the swine flu and advise them on the alleged drastic measures her ministry put in place. Combined with the illiteracy “flu” over fifty percent of Moroccans suffer from, the lethal effects of the swine flu spreading in Morocco could be massive. Mrs. Baddou perfunctorily assured a handful of journalists that specialized ambulances had been made available, and enough surgical masks and vaccines had been purchased to counter the threat. Such statements from Mrs. Baddou only reinforce the belief that her competence as a health minister is rather lacking. Either that or she holds Moroccans in such low esteem that she reckoned any hogwash would do. The acting director of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, Dr, Richard Besser, stated that it would be months before an effective H1N1 swine flu vaccine is engineered and mass-produced; the six-month process entails growing samples of flu virus inside fertilized chicken eggs, breaking out the key proteins that provoke an immune response which are then purified, tested and packaged into syringes for distribution around the country. The U.S. has six facilities that specialize in the production of such vaccine. Morocco has none.

It is not a matter of how the swine virus will seep into Morocco, but when. A country’s preparedness to protect its citizens and counter a disease outbreak that has shown a sustained transmission among people so much so that the World Health Organization Director General Margaret Chan, after consulting with world-renowned influenza experts, declared a phase five alert, is measured first and foremost by the diligence and expertise of the people entrusted with executive powers. Mrs. Baddou, I am afraid, has neither the diligence, nor the expertise to keep Moroccans safe.

A. T. B. Copyright © 2009

When Apathy Kills

It was a rather nippy day for spring and pouring over this hamlet between Safi and Essaouira. The wet fields and the dirt roads were deserted and every now and then, a car or a truck zoomed by on the national route leaving a trail of muddy mist floating in the air. Travelers hardly stop here, Occasionally, a car would pull over just long enough for the driver to use the restrooms, drink some tea, and perhaps smoke a cigarette. A grand Taxis stopped in front of the only café in the area long enough for an old man to step out. The patrons looked at him through the glass door of the café with stolidity as he dragged his tired feet to a dry spot not far from the entrance and sat. The guy looked unfamiliar to the owner of the café who knows everybody in the region. The old man just squatted against a wall protecting himself as much as he could from the rain. He could not be one of those vagrants roaming from one village to another in search of odd jobs; although he was standing tall, the man was too old to work in the fields. Besides, he limped. Maybe he was a beggar who thought that the café would be a good spot to panhandle. There are hardly any other beggars around here and provided more travelers stopped here, the man could collect a handsome purse. But he did not walk into the café, nor did he extend his hand. He just sat there looking raddled. No one talked to him either.

He sat there all day. His clothes were drenched. Every now and then, he would stand up, limp a few steps to the left, stop in mid-motion, then limp back to where he was sitting. The seat of his pants was muddy, and the back of his jacket were sullied by the whitewash from the wall he was leaning against. His dark eyes were sucked into his skull; his protruding cheek bones pushed against the skin of his sunken face like the bridge of a hejhouj; his lips were a collapsed line over a toothless mouth; his nose, broken so many times, hugged the center of his face. Now that he was standing, people could see that he only had one shoe. In fact, he only had one foot. His other leg rested on a… peg. That explained the limping. It also affirmed the people’s belief that he was one of those handicapped beggars pullulating every nook and cranny of Morocco. But the old man just sat back down and hugged his knees. His head slung low. His lusterless eyes held that thousand yard stare.

The man laid there for two days. Never talked to anyone. Nobody ever talked to him. The owner of the café late at night, before shuttering down, covered him with a canvas to protect him from the rain.

Two days later, two cars stopped in front of the café. They were packed with young men and women. They had a sadness about their exhausted faces. The redness and puffiness of the eyes of some of the women clearly indicated they were crying. They all rushed into the café and headed to the counter. They did not seem like they wanted a table, or use the restrooms. One of the men pulled a picture and showed it to the owner.

“Assalamu aalikum! Have you seen this man, please? It‘s our father. He disappeared three days ago.”

The owner needed nothing more than a glance at the picture to recognize the man laying on the very mud under the canvas outside his café. He confessed that he wanted to bring the man inside, but was worried he would die in his hands, then he would be in trouble with the police.

Everybody in the café rushed outside; the women started crying and wailing. The sons pulled the canvas on their father; he was emaciated; his body was covered in mud; his hands tightly gripped his pirate-like peg with its leather cup as if it were a rifle – he had always refused to get one of those modern prosthesis. It took them a while to revive him; when he came to, he pushed against the wall and yelled: “foutez-moi le camp! enculés! Laissez moi tranquille!” He did not recognize any of them. And spoke only French.

The old man has a name: Mahmoud. He drifted 165 kilometers away from his home.

Three days earlier, the ninety years old man left his home and headed to the post office to retrieve his pension checks. See! When he was a gritty young man, he was conscripted into the French army and shipped during World War II to Italy with the 4^th Tabor to fight alongside the U.S. 1^st Infantry Division against the Italians and the Germans. When Mohammed V and his family were exiled to Madagascar in 1953, he joined the Moroccan resistance against the French. It was during one of the resistance operations he was involved with that he sustained a gunshot wound that resulted in the amputation of one of his legs from the knee down. After the independence, he joined the civil defense. His peg did not stop him from raising horses and becoming famous in Aabda and Doukala as a fantasia leader. He raised a family of eleven.

When he arrived at the post office, he was told that it would be four more days before he would be able to get his checks. Maybe that was the catalyst to his amnesia. His mind took him back to when he was in the French army. He forgot where he lived and that he had a family. He wandered aimlessly for a good part of the day before he decided to take a grand taxi to a place the name of which sounded vaguely familiar to him.

When he failed to return at night, his wife called their sons and daughters, and other members of the family. They printed his pictures and went out looking for him. They knew there was no time to loose. The search was frantic. Neighbors and friends joined the search party. They caught a break when the driver of the grand taxi recognized him. How could he not? He was the last old man with a weathered face, walking on a peg, and speaking French he saw. It was lucky he did not head to a bigger city such as Marrakesh or Casablanca; he would have drowned in the chaotic misery and the impregnable anonymity of its people.

When his family found him, it was clear he was robbed; he had no money, no ID card; his carte de resistant and French army card were missing too. Even his little leather pouch of tanfiha was missing.

What was really missing was the kindness of Moroccans to ask an old, disoriented man what his story was. Many more decent men and women are wondering the streets today under our uncaring gaze, enduring unnecessary suffering because of our opprobrious disregard. It would have been a shame for a man who has done so much, raised a family the love of which he has enjoyed all his life to die away from it, be labeled “unidentified” and buried in an unmarked grave.

A. T. B. Copyright © 2009

“Secret Son” By Laila Lalami

Laila Lalami ‘second novel, “Secret Son“, is finally coming out on April 21. I found Lalami’s debut novel, “Hope And Other Dangerous Pursuits“, published in 2005, a gripping tale of desperation and hope steeped in sheer realism. Her eloquent and graceful style cuts through the page with confidence as she depicts the successes and failures of four Moroccans undertaking a journey to a better life. Being a Moroccan, I was familiar with the subject, but her syle so enthralled me, I read the book three times.

“Secret Son” promises the same intensity. Advance reviews of the book have given it high marks.

Set in modern Morocco against a background of corrupt liberalism and Islamic fundamentalism, the novel explores the struggle for identity and the myriad ways in which the political, the personal, and the religious bind us together. Here’s a little bit about it: For years, Youssef, a young man from a Casablanca slum, has heard his mother’s stories about his dead and respectably poor father, stories he used as inspiration for his own life. But when a religious group, known simply as The Party, moves into town, he discovers the truth-his father is a wealthy businessman and very much alive. Youssef sets out to find his real father and enters his Westernized world, setting off a chain of events with disastrous consequences.

In the coming weeks, Lalami will be reading from and discussing “Secret Son” in different cities and venues throughout the U.S. You can find more details about the events here.

Buy the book and read it. If you have a chance to attend Lalami’s readings and congratulate her on her new book, please do so.