Avenue de la Victoire

Behind this city lies the story of a tender and happy childhood. Scraped knees from playing in the schoolyard, vast Moroccan carpets on which he played with his sister, and the family photo taken in the living room where he stands proud and upright like an "i".

But this city is also the story of a forced exile. Overnight, leaving, abandoning Algeria. Crossing the border to avoid the worst. Messaoud, the father, left first with the eldest brother. He left later with the women and daughters.

He remembers the tiny car bouncing on the road, making him feel nauseous. The back seat from where he gazed at the Algerian land he was leaving for Morocco. In the FLN-chartered Douglas DC3 plane, he remembers, "it was cold, I remember that, I was cold, they brought me a blanket, and we arrived at Rabat airport at night. My father kissed us." He is my father; he is 5 years old then.

Dad often talks to me about the house in Rabat.

I wanted to find it.

So, we first looked on Google Maps, "no, it's not here," "not here either...", "the garden was at the corner with a small street." We couldn't find it. He drew a map that I took with me to Rabat.

I first only drove by the avenue of his house. Nothing.

I decided to come back alone, with the map drawn by dad in front of me, I strolled again on the avenue. I observed every house in detail. No, this one has no balcony. That one has no garden at the corner. And it's too far down the avenue. I go up, I go down.

And then, I stopped in front of an all-white house; there's a small street at the corner. The balcony too. And a sloping garage entrance, just as he described it. I called dad. "Tell me again what the house was like? Dad, I found it."

I am moved, more than expected. So does he, on the phone. I sent him photos. "Yes, it's the house, at the top where there is the balcony, that was my room."

I rang the bell; the owner and her grandson looked for and found my grandfather's name on the property deed. They let me in and served me a cool lemonade. We chatted a bit, then we visited "your father's house."

I entered his room, I sat for a moment on the balcony.

And I saw the little boy, next to me, "leaning over to watch the American cars going by."