by Dr Muzaffar Iqbal
As the train left Marrakech, rolling green hills appeared on both sides of the track and somewhere in the middle of the journey to Casablanca, I had a quick glimpse of the proverbial old man with his staff in the right hand, tending to his flock of sheep, utterly disconnected to the twenty-first century, living in the centuries-old time filled with tranquility and peace we have all lost. But it was a fleeting moment; the train rushed passed the country-side, dotted with little farms.
Then, close to Casablanca, signs of small industries appeared and finally, the train stopped at Dar al-Bayda, “the white house”, as Casablanca is called in Arabic.
