As a tourist pauses at the entrance of the Sidi Abdel Aziz district in the old city, they are captivated by a small fountain nestled in the courtyard of a renovated ancient hotel that has now become a vibrant tourist space. The visitor snaps a picture before lifting their gaze to the colorful artwork hanging from upper balconies, while soft music fills the air amidst the stone columns. However, this visitor is blissfully unaware that just a few years ago, this very square buzzed with the sounds of raw leather being worked on, drowning out all else.
Nearby, another hotel stands, retaining its original function for decades, filled with age-old tools and workers moving to the same rhythm known to their ancestors. In its corner, sixty-year-old craftsman Abdel Salam Khamissi is engrossed in completing a unique leather piece. He reflects on the fate of the adjacent building, saying to Al Jazeera: "The place that used to resemble this one has changed more than I have. We knew it as a workshop operating from dawn until dusk, but today, we hardly hear anything except the voices of tourists searching for souvenirs."
From Local Service to Tourist Attraction
Just minutes away from the two hotels, a simple wooden door in the Mouassine neighborhood, which once opened into a modest family home, has morphed into a decorative entrance to a hospitality room within a riad hotel. The window that once overlooked the alley has been fitted with soundproof glass, while the courtyard that used to serve the family's needs is now divided into a reception area and a breakfast table for guests.
Tourism and heritage researcher Hicham Sidou describes this transformation as "touristic gentrification," explaining that it represents a gradual shift from serving local residents to catering to new clients, leading the heritage value to become a "socially changing construction" rather than a fixed reality. This shift has been facilitated by the state, foreign owners, and even UNESCO evaluations. Sidou believes that reviving these buildings could create added value without destroying the social fabric, but this success hinges on governance that involves the original residents in decision-making processes.
Conversely, cultural anthropologist Aba Sadqi argues against reducing the scene to a complete loss. He views the situation as a "double-edged sword," where tourism-related initiatives have saved dozens of buildings from collapse and revived crafts that were on the verge of extinction. However, he simultaneously warns of the risk of some of these riads turning into exclusive tourist residences, inaccessible to local residents who cannot afford to enter, thereby creating an economic and social gap within the same neighborhood.
The Dichotomy of Yesterday and Today
In the Darb Dabbashi area near the old city, a traditional bathhouse now displays a new price list: massages with argan oil, luxurious Moroccan baths, and facial treatments, all priced in euros. While the stone arches and the domed ceiling remain unchanged, the once lively atmosphere has been replaced by a serene ambiance reminiscent of hotel spas. Researcher Sara Ouaziz from Sorbonne University notes that places like these are perceived by many locals as catering to "the other, the tourist, the affluent," leading them to feel disconnected, causing them to pass by Darb Dabbashi and other old baths without entering.
Following this logic, academic Sidqi explains this transformation with a simple principle: "Heritage is shaped by both its vessel and its content." The traditional bathhouse is a social institution tied to purity and prayer, not merely a place for cleanliness. When it transforms into a luxury spa, the vessel remains, but the social significance evaporates. The walls stay intact, yet the functions and rhythm of the place change, resulting in what he describes as a "reconfiguration; a state between two conditions." This transformation also threatens artisanal workshops, as these spaces serve as informal schools passing skills from master to apprentice, and when the learners are absent, the chain is broken even if the façade and tools remain.
In the Sidi Ben Slimane neighborhood, those who passed through years ago would barely recognize the few familiar faces today. Abdel Salam himself stops at a securely closed door, gazes at it momentarily, and continues on with a sense of sorrow, remarking, "The paths we once knew, where we recognized each stone and neighbor by name, have now become strange corridors to us. Some lifetime relationships have faded away, replaced by suitcases and the silence of closed riads. We no longer possess the neighborhood; we have merely become passersby."
Researcher Ouaziz describes this feeling as a "symbolic barrier" that forms between residents and the renovated spaces, sometimes embodied in paid entry tickets. Even if neighbors are allowed free entry, that feeling of alienation is often insufficient to encourage them to visit. On the other side, a twenty-something man stands at the entrance of a neighboring riad, dressed smartly, welcoming foreign visitors with a smile. He was not employed here five years ago when the house was abandoned, but today he holds the key to the reception area, replacing a forced unemployment in the neighborhood.
Despite this "heritage valorization" that has pulled certain aspects of the old city from neglect, geography professor Abdul Aziz Benadi asserts that preserving heritage "should not be limited to walls and façades, but must also safeguard the people, social practices, collective memory, and the rights of residents in their city."
In Jemaa el-Fnaa Square, the lights illuminate the same scene every evening that the ancestors of the city's inhabitants knew. However, the square, once alive with the spontaneous performances of snake charmers and storytellers, and the aromas of street cooking mingled with dust, has been repaved and fitted with modern lighting. This material improvement, while necessary, does not solely address the question of living memory. Benadi continues his observation, stating that the courtyard designed for family privacy has become a space for commercial reception, while rooftops have turned into platforms and open restaurants for tourists. He describes the outcome as a "touristic class elevation" that maintains appearance at the cost of social functions.
Ultimately, Sidou concludes that many neighborhoods have lost their original inhabitants to foreign owners, leaving the ownership and decision-making of the place in the hands of transnational companies, warning that the outcome of these transformations is not predetermined but depends on who governs the city. As twilight approaches, the lights gradually dim over both hotels. In the first, decorative lights illuminate the display tables, while in the second, the last lights in the workshop are extinguished over piles of leather. Two structures built in the same era will stand in the same place tomorrow, yet each evening, they tell only half of the same story, while the other half is narrated by the neighbor.
As reported by aljazeera.net.
