So, this dude at the language center says he’s going to go get a shwarma, the Moroccan version of a calzone, and I decide to go with him. It was pretty good and served with fries. The ketchup here is really sweet. I like it. But something happened on the way there that is bothering me.
We come around a corner, and a cobblestone goes skittering past my feet. At first I think some kid kicked it, then I think the kid’s dad will be pissed because it was a big rock and could have hurt someone.
I look up, down the street, just in time to see a man in a green shirt hurl a cobblestone or rock the size of a melon. I watch the rock fly through the air until it hits the wall of a garden about three feet from some girls’ head. She’s sort of frozen against the wall. For a moment I think it’s some sort of political riot, but when I see the girl, I take a couple of steps towards the guy. I look back and the dude I’m with shakes his head ‘no’ at me.
Up until this point, nothing that much bothers me about this story. What bothers me is that there are twenty or thirty people standing silent and watching what’s going on. Maybe they were shocked into inaction. This is supposed to be a country of really kind, caring people, maybe the violence stultified them into inaction. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. What bothers the hell out of me is that after that second rock rolled to a stop, some bystander picked it up and threw it on a rubbish pile to keep the sidewalk clean.
If this happens again, I’m sure as hell not going to look back for some damn fool hippie’s cultural relations advice. That’s just shameful.