dardaba

The tannery in Essaouira is a place that has been lost in distant memory. It is a long way from the clamour of the medina, down dust-filled abandoned streets. An unmarked door opens to reveal a vision of hell made real; an acrid stench rises from piles of rotting skins, chemicals and fat stagnate in dug-out pools, and there is a constant drone from the swathes of flies revelling in the filth.
Omar has worked there for 67 years, 6 days a week. He sits in a single room filled with fleeces in almost complete darkness, away from the blistering sun. He spends hours bent double scraping flesh from skins, choking fibres and dust filling the air as he works.
My reaction was one of horror and pity; how could a person spend the majority of their life in such awful surroundings and how could I help him to get out? What I didn’t realise was that I was judging him by western standards that simply don’t apply, and worse still, are patronising. Over the days that I spent with him I came to realise that Omar was, in fact, one of the most contented people I know. His happiness was not founded on material possessions or salary but upon something far more valuable; pride and dignity. He described himself as ‘an honest man’ and he was grateful for every good thing in his life; his health, his family, his religion and his work. There was a sense of peacefulness about him which was fascinating – something that privileged westerners pay counsellors and life coaches a fortune to help them find in their own lives. As my understanding of him grew, so did my guilt and shame for assuming that he needed fixing.