Casablanca is progressing with the relentless rhythm of bulldozers, reflecting the anxieties common to all major cities. Authorities speak of alignments, safety, and urban fluidity, yet behind every wall that is torn down lies an invisible capital that technical reports fail to measure. This includes a collective memory, discreet solidarities, and an emotional geography. The act of demolition is never solely about the destruction of concrete; it involves displacing habits and uprooting entire lives. The demolition of Derb Mouha Ou Saïd, situated in the historic medina, in the name of the royal avenue connecting the historic city to the Hassan II Mosque, exemplifies this paradox. While the intentions behind such urban planning may not seem absurd, the scars of haphazard and sometimes chaotic urbanism are deeply etched in the city’s fabric. It raises a critical question: how can a city be transformed without erasing its human connections?
The relocation of residents to areas like Errahma, Mohammédia, or Sidi Maârouf is not merely a matter of changing addresses; it represents an anthropological rupture. Within the old popular neighborhoods, poverty has its invisible infrastructures—be it the neighbor who watches over children, the grocer whose old ledger helps families make it through the month, or the small shop that functions as a social agency, alongside cafés that serve as informal meeting places filled with endless discussions and the occasional waft of smoke. By dispersing these residents, the very mechanisms of survival that have been built over generations are fragmented, leading to a loss of community.
The disappearance of Derb Rmad carries significant symbolic weight. This neighborhood was not just a collection of buildings; it embodied a particular vision of Casablanca—a rough, dense, imperfect city that remains deeply human. While urban planners may view it as mere parcels of land, for the residents, it represents cherished memories. Decision-makers focus on land use and security concerns, while families prioritize social roots. Between these two perspectives lies a chasm that administrative procedures can never fully bridge. The case of Derb Moulay Chrif reveals another dimension to this issue. Despite its troubled reputation, razing a territory does not erase the mechanisms that produced it. Numerous international experiences demonstrate the opposite; for instance, Harlem in New York still bears the scars of brutal renovations. In France, urban renewal initiatives have replaced dilapidated high-rises with new residential buildings without restoring the human connections severed by such demolitions.
Other cities have opted for a more nuanced approach. Barcelona has successfully restored certain old neighborhoods without displacing their inhabitants, while Medellín, Colombia, has connected popular neighborhoods to the rest of the city through transportation, libraries, and public facilities rather than through physical erasure. These experiences underscore an essential truth: modernizing a city does not necessarily mean amputating it from its memories. Otherwise, urban modernity risks producing 'Cities of Salt'—functional, vertical spaces devoid of human ties. Casablanca is not Dubai; Dar Al Baïda has been built amidst the mingling of diverse communities, social wounds, and the voices echoing through its alleys. The ambitious program for 200,000 housing units, touted as a solution to urban deficit, has instead resulted in an urban crime that uprooted thousands of families into dehumanized outskirts.
The old popular neighborhoods create a daily citizenship that the new peripheral developments struggle to replicate. In the narrow streets of Mdina Lekdima, Derb Soltane, or Hay Mohammadi, everyone is aware of each other's dramas, marriages, and losses. This closeness fosters organic solidarity, where residents share gestures and emotional memories. When a neighborhood disappears, part of this transmission disintegrates with it. In the new developments, the buildings may be taller, the facades cleaner, and the sidewalks better designed, yet residents often live like silent strangers. Community bonds dissolve behind fortified doors, with social media and anxiety medications replacing the old solidarities. True urban modernity involves repairing without mutilating, transforming without humiliating, and renovating without uprooting. A 'smart city' should protect its residents as much as its future economic prospects, preserving the collective memory that transforms a city from a mere backdrop into a true home, rich with voices, accents, aromas, and soul.
As reported by maroc-hebdo.com.
