Dozens of small and large tents stood scattered across the golden sand of this Moroccan beach at the Atlantic Ocean. It was a calm summer morning, with waves lapping gently at the shore, quiet and inviting. More families braved the hot sand, hauling their tents, food, and kitchen utensils in search of a free spot. Meanwhile, swimmers, sunbathers, and playful beachgoers paid no attention to the man at the edge of the beach, who was directing a bulldozer as it shoveled sand into a waiting truck.
Tamo shouted instructions to her sisters, younger siblings, and the children, gesturing to where the large tent should be set up and where the luggage could be placed safely away from the sand. Pleased with their teamwork, she headed home to pick up her mother, who hadn’t fit into the two taxis, and to gather the rest of the luggage.
The man standing beside the bulldozer shouted and waved frantically, trying to catch the attention of the excavator operator. The operator leaned out of the window, his mouth moving as if to speak, but his expression quickly changed to confusion as the roar of the machine drowned out any attempt at communication. At last, the bulldozer driver, with evident reluctance, turned off the engine and climbed out of the cab. The man by the bulldozer pointed toward the truck —a white cloth and a small arm protruded from beneath the sand.
Tamo and her mother stepped out of the taxi, lugging their heavy bags across the asphalt toward the wide staircase that separated the road from the beach. Their progress halted abruptly; the beach view was completely obscured by a dense crowd. Struggling through the disappointed beachgoers, Tamo made her way to the crush barrier.
“What’s going on here?” she asked a young policeman stationed nearby.
“An investigation is underway,” he replied curtly.
“Investigation into what?” she pressed, her concern growing.
“You’ll hear about it later from others,” the officer said dismissively, shutting down further questions.
Undeterred, Tamo subtly used her mother as a shield, opened her wallet, and slid a twenty-dirham note into the officer’s hand. The young man felt it, pocketed it swiftly, glanced around to ensure no one noticed, and then nudged the barrier aside to let Tamo and her mother through.
An ambulance and three police cars were parked at the edge of the beach. Policemen stood scattered about, while individuals in white coats moved from tent to tent, their progress hindered by curious children.
Tamo’s sisters, unable to contain their impatience, eagerly shared what they had overheard with their attentive older sister. “A baby was found —dead— buried under the sand,” one of them whispered urgently. “The police and two doctors are looking for the mother. The women aren’t allowed to leave the beach, though the men might have already... You missed it...” The speaker fell silent abruptly, her words cut off by the sound of a man coughing outside their tent.
“May we come in?” a female voice called from outside. A middle-aged doctor stepped into the tent, leaving the two agents to wait outside. “The little children should stay out here,” she stated, her tone brisk and businesslike. She scanned the women’s faces and checked their breast and lower parts bodies.
“What a mess!” Tamo blurted out, breaking the silence. “Yes, it certainly is,” the doctor replied with stoic detachment. “The poor child —it must have been just born, right?” Tamo pressed, fishing for information. “We don’t know that yet, madam,” the doctor answered curtly. “There are still families who long for children,” Tamo continued. “Giving them a child isn’t illegal, is it?” “No,” the doctor replied dryly, “but there are procedures to follow.”
With that, the doctor concluded her examination, thanked them, and exited the tent.
Tamo’s family had just started their lunch when loud voices and shouting filled the air. Tamo rose from the table and stepped outside the tent. A young girl, sobbing, was escorted between two policemen. Behind them trudged three other women, likely the girl's mother and two older sisters, all afraid and in tears. The girl was driven off in a police car.
Tamo, braving the hot sand, quickened her pace and stood beside the grieving mother.
Tamo: "What a disaster!"
Mother: "God is great... What have we done to deserve this?"
Tamo: "Where are they taking her?"
Mother: "To the police station."
Tamo: "Can’t you go with her?"
Mother: "No, only a lawyer can visit her at the police station."
Tamo: "It’s a shame. That poor child is so scared. She’s not even fifteen."
Mother: "Yes, she’s fourteen. And the one who’s responsible is at home with his family, enjoying a lavish meal."
Tamo: "Doesn’t she live with you?"
Mother: "No, we placed her with a family a year ago. A 'respectable' family. We wanted her to have a future. We thought she’d learn to cook, clean, and shop, and that she would gain something from city life, maybe even earn some money. But look what they’ve ‘taught’ her instead!"
Tamo: "'Respectable' families aren’t everything."
Mother: "That’s my fault. She often complained about their son, who wouldn’t leave her alone. I told her it would pass, that she needed to be patient, and everything would be okay. I’m the one who should be at the police station, not she."
Tamo: "What did they say at the hospital?"
Mother: "She gave birth at home the day before yesterday. I didn’t dare take her to the hospital; I was worried about what they’d ask. A midwife helped us."
Tamo: "And you came to the beach to recover?"
Mother: "No, not really. The baby was born dead, and we were scared. You see, madam, we come from the countryside. We thought that if we revealed who the father was, that wealthy family would take us to court, and we can’t afford a lawyer. With a child, my poor daughter won’t ever achieve anything in life."
Tamo: "I know. A child can sometimes be an additional burden for young girls. There are many young girls walking around with children, poor things!"
Mother: "In our neighborhood, behind the beach, there’s no place to bury the child. So, God led us to the beach."
Tamo: "Poor girl! Who knows what she’s going through."
Mother: "Yes, madam. Our suffering is great. May God have mercy on us."
Tamo handed the mother some coins for a taxi, kissed her and her daughters, and wished them strength.
“Those damn waves are lost again!” Tamo cursed at the USB modem. She had been so eager to catch up with her husband, who was abroad, and tried to push aside the grief that the word "waves" always stirred in her. She searched for the elusive signal, but couldn’t find it indoors. Stepping outside, laptop in hand, she found the connection. The Skype call was waiting, and Tamo was relieved.
"Hello, you may not see me well, it’s dark here, I’m outside the house; there is no coverage... Wait a minute, this thing is so heavy." She turned to the night watchman on her street. "Mr. Omar, would you mind holding this for me for a second?" She rummaged through her dressing gown for a few coins, handed them to him, and then spoke to the device, "Okay, I’m back. How are you, darling? Just a minute, it’s starting to drizzle. I’ll grab an umbrella."
A moment later, she returned. "I’m back. Are you still there?"