I have received many messages from you over the past week. Messages that moved me, made me laugh and melted my heart. Because I was so excited I couldn’t wait for Dad to come back from vacation to share the messages with him. So I grabbed my phone and pressed the call button of Whats app. Long live free calls to Morocco.
“Your story is doing well online. You have received very nice messages from people. I think they’ll like you.” With my phone to my right ear, I’m pacing through the shop meanwhile. A habit that one can laugh about and the other annoyed. “Hamdulliah. Which story?.” I can tell from his voice that he doesn’t understand for a moment. Quite logical since he had no idea that his daughter has started blogging in the meantime. So I explain to him that I put short stories online every week. Where I tell people about the origin of Kaftan Fes, about the pitfalls, the growth, the beautiful moments and the learning processes. “I started the blog with how you got into the business. You know? When you told me about grandma (allahyrahma) and that she didn’t want you to leave and that’s why she put a sedative in your tea.” He laughs. “And for my next blog I would like to tell you how you went from florist to your current profession in the Netherlands. But I would also like to tell you about what you have experienced in Morocco. Do you remember? That when you were 19 years old and had a shop in the Sahra? And one day you had enough and let everything go?” I can’t hide the enthusiasm in my voice. “No, no, don’t tell me.” he shouts ashamed.
Young and driven as he was, it had felt as if that hadn’t been his calling. He had felt that his path was not there. That Allah swt had other plans for him. So he left the shop and left the Sahra overnight. A decision that he is sometimes ashamed of because he still believes it would have been nicer if he had at least informed his customers about his departure. My father can be impulsive (so are his daughters. Who are we talking about?). So when he decided that he wanted something different, he left immediately that same evening. He had left his shop locked. Later, an agent would open the shop so that the women who left their dresses/fabrics could pick up their belongings.
“Why not Dad? I think that’s one of your beautiful stories. I understand that looking back on it, you wish you had returned the women’s property yourself before you left. But had you not made such a decision, you might have postponed your plans, never went to Casablanca and never afterwards decided to emigrate to Amsterdam and never opened Kaftan Fes.” “And you had never met me.” I hear my mother calling in the background (my parents almost always have their telephone conversations on loudspeakers, so you can follow all conversations nicely) “Hahah right! And never met your mama and so never could have had such a wonderful daughter like me. Besides, you were still young. I get that the responsible man you are today is ashamed of the irresponsible behavior of your 19-year-old version. But hey, one learns from mistakes and I think that customers should also know the things we are not proud of. Just makes us humanly right!” “That’s actually true.” my father then admits.
These are the kinds of moments when I become aware of how much I appreciate Dad. He is the kind of father who also listens to the opinions of his daughters. Who doesn’t have the kind of pride that makes him think he knows better already. No, Dad listens, weighs up and corrects where necessary. In our culture, making mistakes is seen as failure. As something terrible that you should be deeply ashamed of. That’s why I understood his first reaction well. I just see it a little differently. Through mistakes one learns what feels good and what doesn’t. One can grow and become a better version of oneself. It’s not about what you do wrong, but how you deal with that mistake and how it shapes you afterwards. His irresponsible behavior made him feel ashamed and because of this he grew into the Abdelaziz we know today. A responsible man with a heart of gold and an honesty that is characterized by the Norwegian he radiates.
I wasn’t supposed to share this story with you right now. I actually wanted to tell you about his first years in the Netherlands. I wanted to tell you that he had registered for nursery school in the Netherlands.