A letter about Spain, Morocco, and what happens when two shores stop listening to each other.
By Abderrahim Ouadrassi — 4 September 2026
My son,
The other day, as we walked past the town hall square, you saw the crowd gathered there and asked me what was happening.
I didn’t know what to tell you.
Or rather — I didn’t know how to, not in that moment. We kept walking, and I gave you one of those short answers a father gives when a child’s question carries more history than can fit into a few minutes.
I have thought about that question many times since.
What you saw that day was only a small scene from something far older. Spain and Morocco are two countries divided by a strait so narrow that, on certain nights, one shore seems close enough to touch the other. And yet, after all these centuries, we still manage to turn a few kilometres of sea into an immense distance.
We have known each other, needed each other, traded, argued, lived side by side, and hurt one another too. And every time a crisis comes, all of that seems to vanish, and we go back to looking at each other like strangers.
That was the hard part to explain to you.
Because I was born in Morocco, and I have built an important part of my life in Spain. You have grown up with both shores woven into our family’s story. And one day, someone may try to convince you that loving one means distrusting the other.
Don’t believe them.
I don’t want to teach you to defend Morocco against Spain, or Spain against Morocco. I want to teach you something far more important: never to let anyone think for you.
When a story sounds too simple, ask yourself what is missing. When you hear people speak of “them,” try to find out who those “them” really are. And when everyone seems certain about who is to blame, hold on, just for a few minutes, to your right to ask questions.
That doesn’t mean staying indifferent. There will be injustices you will need to take a side on. There will be things you will have to defend. But I want you to do it only after you have learned, listened and thought — never because someone else chose beforehand who you should fear.
Perhaps that is why your question struck me so deeply that afternoon.
You were only looking at a square full of adults, flags and voices. But without knowing it, you were asking me about centuries of history, about borders, pride, wounds, and above all, about something we still haven’t learned: how to know one another without needing to resemble each other.
There is one thing I want to make very clear.
You will never have to choose between your two shores to know who you are.
A root doesn’t have to kill another to grow.
And loving one land should never require despising your neighbour’s.
Perhaps, many years from now, you will walk past that same square again. Perhaps there will be another crowd, another reason to argue. And perhaps, by then, you will be the one holding a child’s hand, and he will ask you the very same question you once asked me:
“Dad, what’s happening?”
I hope you remember this letter when that day comes.
And that you can tell him that behind every flag, there are still people. Fathers afraid for their children. Mothers who want to watch them grow. Families who simply want to live in peace. People who love, work, lose, hope and dream, just as we do.
Because that, perhaps, is the answer I didn’t know how to give you that afternoon:
Borders exist.
History exists.
So do our differences.
But there is no “them” on the other side.
Only another us.
And as long as someone remembers that, my son, there will still be a bridge to come home by.
With all my love,
Dad
Author’s note: this letter grew out of a real conversation with my son, at a time when the relationship between Spain and Morocco is once again making headlines. It is not meant to explain the politics between the two countries, but to share how I try to teach him to see beyond the flags.
