God’s protection
Rescued from Danger by Muslims in Morocco
“Keep me safe, Lord, from the hands of the wicked; protect me from the violent.” (Psalm 140:4)
Are you a traveler with an adventurous sense of risk who is drawn to cultures in foreign lands?
Have you ever made choices that landed you in mortal danger? Or maybe the kind of danger you were protected from but didn’t even realize you were in at the time?
Here’s a true tale of two Americans roaming off the beaten path on foot in a third-world country before cellphones were invented where Arabic is spoken, and Islam is the dominant faith.
Near the mosque in the ancient walled city of Marrakech, Morocco, the sun beat down mercilessly on my wife Susie and me in the 110-degree heat. It was July 1971, and Arab women wearing formless robes and purdahs (veils) passed us carrying fruit baskets to the noisy market where beggars wailed for coins.
Our destination was Ouarzazate, a ragtag provincial capital some 150 kilometers away in the Sahara Desert on the opposite slope of the High Atlas Mountains.
After five months abroad, we were seasoned hitchhikers in our mid-20s from the United States, having thumbed our way here via Britain, France, and Spain. By 7:00 in the evening, we were 90 kilometers into the dusty foothills of these red mountains, but hours had passed since our last ride.
As we watched the sun dip toward sundown, a rickety Renault came into view. Crossing our fingers, we stuck out our thumbs.
The Arab driver peered at us carefully, slowed down, and stopped. He must have thought two Westerners in blue jeans and work shirts with long “hippie” hair presented an odd sight. The Arab man riding with him hopped out and held the door open while Susie and I struggled to fit our backpacks into the confined space.
But the driver’s appearance made us hesitate. He was toothless, foul‑smelling, unwashed. He rattled off something in Arabic to the second man, who then looked at me as if sizing me up.
“I’m not so sure about this, John,” Susie whispered.
I nodded, frowning. The alternative of pitching our sleeping bags that night on the craggy terrain and the nocturnal presence of lizards, scorpions, and snakes made for a quick decision.
Turning to the driver, I spoke in broken French (the language of Morocco) about reaching Ouarzazate by nightfall. “Monsieur, are you headed for Ouarzazate?”
“Oui…oui!” he exclaimed. He made it seem there could be no doubt.
The first signs of danger
Shrugging, we settled in. Susie sat in the passenger seat next to the driver, and I jammed myself behind her in the back seat next to the second man, who seemed friendlier than his companion.
It became clear they didn’t speak English. Within minutes Susie reported, “This guy just touched my knee.”
Her tone was simple but shaky with alarm. The driver sensed this as well because a rapid exchange in Arabic with the man next to me followed.
Since the driver’s French seemed rusty like ours, might he be confusing what I had said about going to Ouarzazate? Indeed, he didn’t look like a long-distance traveler.
He and his friend were not dressed as many Arabs in kaftans and leather slippers. Instead, they wore farming clothes and appeared to be of the hardy Berber mountain breed.
“If he tries it again, we’ll ask him to stop the car,” I muttered.
Before I finished the sentence, the driver unceremoniously turned right at a fork in the road leading away from the main road. Susie and I both sensed we were in trouble. For about three kilometers, we jostled up and down.
“Monsieur,” I said, “Is this the way to Ouarzazate?”
“Oui…oui!” he reassured us, indicating it was a shortcut. But then, he turned to look back at the second man, who also nodded a bit too enthusiastically.
The smell of alcohol on their breaths now became apparent as they laughed boisterously. Drinking alcoholic beverages is prohibited by the Muslim religion, and these men appeared to have no qualms.
“He just did it again, John.”
“Okay, that settles it.”
I demanded that the driver stop and let us out. He ignored me. We bounced along the rutted gravel route another few yards. “But, Monsieur!” I protested. “This is not the main road!”
He shook his fist and turned livid purple. Was this madman kidnapping us?
“I think they’re going to try to rob us or rape me, John.”
God help us! I exclaimed to myself, although at the time, God was simply a benign concept.
At each bend, our fears soared, and our frightened eyes gazed at the sparsely populated area inhabited only by secluded farms and a meager farming village.
We were indeed strangers in a strange land. Ten minutes later, three or four earthen shacks joined by a flimsy fence formed a roadblock, a dead end.
I patted Susie’s shoulder. Now, I bet, is when they will attack us!
As the driver stopped, we pushed our backpacks outside, got out, and jerked them on. Then, staring at the men in defiance, we made an abrupt about‑face and started walking. No thank yous, no goodbyes.
Instinctively, I clenched my fists. Let them come after us, and I’d fight for our lives. Barking dogs greeted the two men as we hurried away, our hearts fearing an attack.
A hundred steps later, we dared to breathe, and 500 steps later, we reached a bend in the road, with our backs to them and everything they represented.
Still feeling unsafe, we worked out a plan: don’t stop, don’t camp out, don’t sleep until returning to the main road. We estimated that goal would take us until three or four in the morning.
Dangers in the dark of night
We walked through the meager farm village as the full darkness of night blanketed the serene rocks and peaks. Dogs watched us, then young children, and finally some curious adults, especially several men. Suddenly a man’s hand gripped my upper arm, squeezing it firmly.
“You must be stranded, mon ami (my friend), no?” His schoolbook French was easily understandable. I looked but couldn’t see his face in the dark.
“Let go of me,” I said.
His grip tightened on my arm. “You are far off the main road, mon frere (my brother). If you wish, I will arrange for a taxi to take you back to Marrakech. Otherwise, you and your femme (wife) are welcome to stay and share our house. My mother will be honored.”
“What a line!” sighed Susie. “A taxi out here?”
“Sorry,” I told my anonymous adversary, jerking my arm away. “But tonight, we continue on our way.”
We walked another half kilometer fueled by adrenalin until we heard a swooshing sound. Bicycle wheels suddenly were churning behind us, and the bicyclist zoomed past us, then stopped and deliberately blocked our path.
“Mon frere!” the same young man shouted. “You must accept my invitation. Please, monsieur. My mother will not let me come back without you.”
“His mother, right!” Susie humphed, insisting we stick to our plan.
“It’s pitch black out. Maybe we should accept.”
“Please, monsieur,” he begged again. “We promise that you will come to no harm. Tomorrow, after you have eaten and slept, you are free to go.”
In the moonlight, I saw for the first time that our Good Samaritan was just a teenager, not a man, perhaps eighteen years old. Like Susie, I was fully aware of the danger, too.
But a voice within me said to trust him. A still, small voice.
“I think he’s being honest, Susie.”
She objected vigorously, but I put my arm around her and calmed her. She nodded okay.
“All right,” I told him. “We will go with you.”
Extending his hand, our new friend grinned, his smile visible in the moon’s dim glow. “I am pleased, mon frere,” he said. “My name is Moulay Brahim. Welcome to our village.” We shook hands.
Moulay led us back to the village, where we paused at a steep incline and followed him down a rocky cattle path as he lit matches so that we could find our way from the road through vegetable fields to his house. It was utterly dark, coal‑black as a cave. Abruptly, we stopped.
First came the creaking of heavy wooden hinges. Then, a massive plank door opened slowly, revealing an ageless woman, barefoot and tattooed, wearing her finest, shiniest beads sitting on her haunches tending a tiny fire.
“Meet Mama,” said Moulay. “Mama, these are our honored guests.” Standing up, she greeted us, bowing elaborately, then kissed both of our hands.
Welcome guests?
Awed, Susie and I watched her prepare supper. Steaming pots of cous‑cous and boiled tomatoes were cooking on an open fire. She placed these dishes on a low, just‑off‑the‑ground circular metal table, their only furniture.
Moulay lit a candle, the only artificial light. He invited us to sit on fiber mats spread out on the earthen floor. Above the roofless house stretched the wide-open starry sky.
I couldn’t help thinking, God is watching over us.
An hour later, a dessert of fresh figs and mint tea completed the meal. The combination of extreme excitement and strange food had rattled us, yet calm conversation continued late into the night.
Moulay solemnly promised that the two men who had waylaid us would be dealt with sternly; he knew who they were by our description. Then, highly curious, he asked about the USA’s vast cities, skyscrapers, and freeways — were they as huge as rumors claimed?
From hidden crannies, meanwhile, rabbits scurried up and gobbled down morsels scattered on the floor. Finally, when it came time to sleep, we said goodnight and stretched out on mats in a tiny utility room near the rabbit and chicken cages.
The following day we did not feel recuperated enough to travel to Ouarzazate. Moulay was jubilant. He invited us to tour the village and acted as our guide. Showing us fields of onions and groves of pomegranates, he gave us an insiders’ tour of the village mosque, the river where the villagers obtained water, and landmarks such as the general store and new granary.
Picture‑taking and a game of checkers with Moulay passed the time while Susie helped Mama slice vegetables for supper. That evening, drum music and dancing by a crowd of neighbors topped off another of Mama’s meals.
Moulay, my Brother’s Keeper
The following morning we once again set out to reach Ouarzazate. Mama packed us a lunch of flatbread, figs, and hard‑boiled eggs. Moulay looked
sad to see us go. We, too, felt sad to leave. By now, he seemed like a brother. “Vive, mon frere!” he repeated, escorting us out of the village toward the main road.
“Vive, mon frere!” I replied, over and over, hoping we could someday repay his generosity and Mama’s. At precisely the point where he had stopped his bicycle two nights before, we paused to say goodbye. We embraced, then stood in somber silence.
“Mon frere,” I finally said. “Tell Mama we will always remember.”
“Oui. Please remember our humble Muslim hospitality,” Moulay said.
“Always,” replied Susie.
Warm feelings of gratitude abounded for this Muslim brother. At the time, neither Susie nor I believed yet in Jesus as savior, but I sensed the Holy Spirit’s gracious, protective Hand on our lives nevertheless. And this memorable event would replay in our memory years later when we came to ask Jesus into our hearts.
Moulay waved goodbye for the final time as Susie and I looked back while walking ahead. Then, sensing deep in our hearts a soothing peace that passes understanding, we watched him and his tiny village disappear — a peace that stayed with us and confirmed that we are all our brother’s keeper.
Thank you, Moulay. Bless you, Mama. Praise you, Lord.
