Carlos Perez Marin

5.01 Key concepts for interpreting history

   In my view, many of the problems between Spain and Morocco stem from a lack of communication and understanding, resulting from an erroneous interpretation of history—especially of the Al-Andalus period—viewed from either a Christian or a Muslim perspective, oversimplifying it to the extreme and establishing absolutist taxonomies that certain politicians attempt to maintain centuries later. Had the concepts briefly outlined in the previous chapter been taken into account, this interpretation of history would be entirely different. Thus, terms such as tribes, nomadism, territories, religions, nationalisms, borders, colonisations, states, nations, ethnographic groups and civilisations should be considered in all their possible meanings on both sides of the Strait, allowing us to reflect on our identity or identities and avoid false conclusions.

   The risk of conflict between two neighbouring countries depends on the use made of history, and in particular on the border demarcations derived from it. However, if contemporary parameters are applied without taking into account the true meanings they held in their own time in order to press new (or old) claims, trouble is inevitable. For this reason, it is important to understand what tribes were and are, not to confuse nomadic movement areas with territorial boundaries, and not to assume that any tribe having alliances with the established power implies that power's ownership of tribal territories—arguments that are often used to claim territory today. On the other hand, while tribes inhabiting a region might have pacts between themselves, it was also very common for neighbouring tribes to be bitter enemies; hence, the homogeneity of a population cannot be assumed merely because they share a region. This would be better understood if it were known that the differences between Arab and Berber ethnic groups could reach the same level as those between Muslim and Christian groups; we are accustomed to using religion as a natural boundary line, but not ethnicity. Although it is sometimes explained that the Islamic concept of alliance differs from that used in Europe during the Middle Ages, it is also true that in the 16th century Morocco, under the Saadi dynasty, established the distinction between territories controlled by the makhzen and tribal territories with which agreements existed that did not include sovereignty over them—and they did so in order to agree the borders with neighbouring Algeria with the Ottoman Empire. This 'classification' of sovereign and non-sovereign territories does not, therefore, stem from an imposition by European colonising powers; furthermore, at the start of the French protectorate, it was decreed that the lands of tribes maintaining alliances with the Sultan should become of 'Moroccan sovereignty', abolishing the distinction established by the Saadis. As we can see, without understanding what a tribe is, the distinction between its sovereign territories and nomadic areas, and the types of alliances among tribes and between them and the Sultan, it becomes very easy to assert borders with maximalist claims.

   Building upon the aforementioned concepts, we will be able to evaluate nationalist claims over Greater Morocco, based in part on the Moroccan character of the Almoravid dynasty (the reason why Morocco should supposedly extend to the Senegal River); we will also possess arguments to evaluate who owns the Spanish possessions in North Africa or the Saharan territories.

Spanish Islamic or Arab heritage is often cited as a simplification of what Al-Andalus actually was, where multiple cultures coexisted: Arab, Berber, Jewish, Christian... From this coexistence emerged ethno-religious groups such as Mozarabs, Muladis, Sephardim, Mudejars and Moriscos, who lived side by side sharing urban and rural spaces. This social structure ought to be sufficient to prevent territorial demarcations based on religion, because a single territory could be inhabited by distinct religious communities bound together through alliances and sharing the same objectives.

Ethno-religious interweaving did not only occur in Al-Andalus, but also in North Africa; therefore, it cannot be asserted that what is today Morocco was always Muslim territory, let alone Arab.

The territories occupied by ethno-religious groups north and south of the Strait were not watertight; there was always a two-way movement of population (north–south), varying in intensity depending on different historical periods, but not necessarily triggered by the fall of a kingdom or a dynasty. These migrations took place across military, religious, social, technical, cultural and economic spheres. Thus, it is worth mentioning that the praetorian guard of the first Almoravid sultan in the 11th–12th centuries (as was also the case later with certain Marinid sultans in the 13th–15th centuries) was composed of Christians—mostly renegades who had converted to Islam voluntarily or by force, but who maintained Castilian as their language and kept connections with their relatives on the Peninsula—or that the military officer commanding the Saadi troops that conquered the Songhai Empire in Mali in 1591 was also a Christian, Diego de Guevara (also known as Judar Pasha). These mercenaries allowed sultans to avoid the conflicts and betrayals of the tribes that traditionally protected those in power; Moulay Ismail, for instance, created the Black Guard to equip himself with a professional army that would protect him from tribal disputes and secure control of the territory and the caravan trade from the shores of the Strait to the Sahel.

Only from this perspective of territories with diverse ethno-religious populations sharing fluid, non-watertight spaces can the ties between Ceuta's Muslims and Spain be understood. Many of them may well be descendants of tribes that arrived on the Peninsula from North Africa during Al-Andalus (or even from the Middle East), converted to Christianity at some point, were expelled from the Peninsula as Moriscos in the 17th century—settling in Tetouan and other northern regions—and then arrived in our city and the Peninsula in the late 19th and first half of the 20th century as merchants or soldiers. In other words, this is a population that has moved back and forth between the northern and southern shores of the Strait, altering their religion and coexisting with other communities (Christian, Jewish and Arab) in both Spain and Morocco. Should we really treat the generations that have arrived in Spain from Morocco in recent decades merely as immigrants? Are we going to deny them their ties to Spain across the centuries?

5.02 Historic and shared heritage

   The same could be said on a different scale. When 'shared heritage' between Spain and Morocco is mentioned, it sounds like an obligatory addition to every joint diplomatic declaration, yet without any real understanding of what we have shared and its implications for the present day. Some researchers argue that one cannot understand the history of Spain or Morocco without taking into account the history of the neighbouring country, especially from the beginning of the 20th century onwards. Personally, I would add that we could even trace this back to prehistory. Spain and Morocco have, literally, shared a large part of their geographies (whether African or European) over the centuries; that is to say, they formed the same geographical space before the emergence of what we know today as the kingdoms of Morocco and Spain. It is as if the two countries arose from the splitting of a single territory, as if the Strait of Gibraltar had appeared out of nowhere in the 16th century, shaping our minds and leading us to believe that it was always a border.

The importance of historical heritage lies in the fact that it stands as a testament to these shared histories. When standing at Lixus (Larache) or Baelo Claudia (Cádiz), we are conscious that these sites are common to us both—that they constitute shared heritage. Or indeed when visiting the marabout of Sidi Bel Abbas in Ceuta and its zawiya in Marrakech. The same applies to all the heritage outlined in Chapter 3 of this article, regardless of the political circumstances that led inhabitants from other continents to be present in Europe or North Africa. For this reason, the loss of heritage through action or inaction—whether a Spanish fortification in Dakhla, an Arab wall on the Peninsula, or a well in the middle of the Sahara Desert —creates an amnesia in our memory that is subsequently very difficult to repair. We know from experience in Ceuta that written or oral narratives cannot be taken as definitive proof of what occurred at a given moment; only archaeology and architecture can establish a fact, making self-serving interpretations harder to maintain. Regrettably, everywhere there are commercial interests pushing to dispose of heritage in order to free up land for new development, or political motives arguing that such heritage is colonial or belongs to an era that is better concealed to preserve an identity—one that is, in many cases, fictitious. The truth is that if heritage disappears, a piece of our identity vanishes with it.

The most compelling aspect of the shared heritage between Spain and Morocco is its sheer extent and the depth of mutual influence they have exerted upon one another—despite religious, cultural and geographical differences. This stands in stark contrast to the shared heritage we have with another of our neighbours, France, which is virtually negligible despite supposedly sharing culture, religion and civilisation (there were influences, of course, but there is no extensive heritage built by them on Spanish soil).

5.03 Islam and Spain

   In reality, the approach by Gerard Mortier with which this article opens is by no means entirely new; in fact, it is one of the most widely debated issues within the scientific community in Spain: the place occupied by Al-Andalus in our country’s history and whether it forms part of Spanish identity—a debate that remains unresolved and is often approached according to political and religious stances for partisan ends. Some deny the existence of a Muslim Spain, while others champion a romantic narrative of multiculturalism. This text does not intend to enter into that debate, but I believe there are numerous difficulties in constructing a narrative of what Al-Andalus meant for Spain, as it is impossible to draw a parallel with the transition made by other European countries from the Middle Ages to the Early Modern period, precisely because of the disruption that Al-Andalus represented compared to other European nations on religious, social, cultural and economic levels... Perhaps for this reason, Spanish identity cannot be analysed from an exclusively European perspective; the North African viewpoint must also be included, and it is precisely here that the concepts set out in chapter four must be taken into account, along with the variety of meanings they hold on either side of the Strait. In any case, there is no doubt that this legacy is present in our contemporary world—in our language, gastronomy, onomastics, in our tangible and intangible heritage, and in our social behaviours...

Inscribing this legacy into our identity is a different matter altogether, and one that certainly cannot be done from subjective positions (whether political or even academic). To achieve this, it will be necessary to analyse that identity from the southern shore of the Strait—where Ceuta and Melilla would have much to contribute—and always with an acceptance of the complexity involved in drawing borders, especially during the Middle Ages, whether from a geographical, political, religious, cultural or social standpoint, starting by not viewing the Strait of Gibraltar as a border per se.

   If disputes over Spanish identity and the role of Al-Andalus are relentless at a national level, in Ceuta they become political arguments without any regard for the medium- and long-term consequences they might have on our society. We have politicians who reduce everything to a single idea: Ceuta is Christian and Spanish. Our regional president navigates through contradictions: on the one hand, championing coexistence alongside the recognition of the unity of all Ceutís in defence of our Spanishness, regardless of how they pray or what their names are, and showing seamless appreciation for our multicultural reality and our coexistence as the intangible heritage of all Ceutís—one that enriches and distinguishes us. This coexistence is real, though incomplete, and we are not fully aware of the wealth it brings us as a society and the opportunities it offers, as highlighted by the media following the events of May 2021 and most notably during those of July 2026, which underscored the unity of Ceutí society and its solidarity in the face of the border surges. Yet the very same president denied Ceuta's history between the 8th and 15th centuries in his 2011 address to the Senate in Madrid: 'an attractive city because history has left many traces; a rich, deep history, for Ceuta was Phoenician, Ceuta owes its name to Rome, Ceuta was Byzantine and Visigothic. In 1415, Ceuta entered the modern era at the hands of the Kingdom of Portugal...' If we do not accept that the city was 'Moroccan' for just under three centuries, we will fail to make progress in our own identity, and any modification in social structures relative to more recent historical periods will also be viewed as a decline and a conflict. We observed this when our politicians proposed measures to overcome the crises that hit the city in 2020 and 2021, adopting positions on Ceuta’s identity that were seemingly moderate yet made it clear that we require a new economic and social development model based on 'More Spain and More Europe', moving away from potential relations with Morocco (despite the difficulties imposed by our neighbour) and disowning the African continent—that is, refusing a part of our identity and brushing aside the potential social, cultural and economic consequences of such ruptures, just as we suffered during the more than two years the border remained closed.

5.04 Constructing identities

   Does the past genuinely influence how we think about the present? What tools do we have to gain an awareness of who we are? Who determines that identity? By what parameters and methodology? Have those reference points always remained the same throughout history? How is an identity constructed? Are identities individual or collective?

   Regrettably, in Spain today we have no political leaders capable of articulating a discourse around identity, with the exception of the nationalists; writers and professors have scarcely any media space to present their thoughts; as architects, we do occasionally raise issues relating to identity (as we did during the presentation of the Paseo de las Palmeras Dualling Project in Ceuta in 2002; culture is all we have left to find the odd filmmaker, playwright, musician, choreographer or visual artist, but they are few and far between. It is a shame, because when culture is created not purely as an economic activity, but as a means to foster social awareness and to change or evolve our societies, the results can be spectacular. To support this claim, I refer to documenta fifteen, the fifteenth edition of the world's most prestigious contemporary art exhibition, held every five years in the German city of Kassel—an edition in which I participated as a member of the Le 18 Marrakech collective, invited by the artistic directors of that edition, ruangrupa. The Indonesian collective put forward a proposal in which the majority of participants were collectives from all over the world—a large percentage from the so-called Global South—whose works helped their societies evolve through culture. How? By delving into history, cultures, roots, identities... In reality, what the specialist press labelled a radical proposal was commonplace within the programming developed since 2013 by Le 18 Marrakech in the medina, and which we, alongside a group of Moroccan friends, had also been organising since 2013 in the Tighmert Oasis in southern Morocco.

   In 2019, I wrote a short text, Cultural Development in (Southern) Morocco, on the difficulty and value of developing artistic research applied to contemporary culture, based on my experience in Morocco and Mauritania as a university lecturer, as co-organiser of workshops with the desert research platform Marsad Drâa (2013-present), as well as cultural events and artistic residencies such as Caravane Tighmert (2015-2026), Caravane Ouadane (2021-2023), Project Qafila (2016-present) and Sakhra (2019 and 2025). 

   Being immersed in so many cultural activities alongside artists, researchers and curators (Moroccan, European, from other Arab countries and, most interestingly, those born in Europe but of Moroccan origin) has allowed me to accompany them in their research and discover essential insights to understand my city and my own identity—even if these insights or awarenesses were acquired in a geographically distant desert territory like the Sahara, across its northern and southern shores.

   It could be said that since 2010 Morocco has experienced a revival of the spirit initiated in the past by the so-called Casablanca School collective (1964–1969), in which artists, researchers and lecturers Farid Belkahia, Mohamed Melehi, Bert Flint, Mohamed Chabâa and Toni Maraini established a methodology for teaching fine arts that distanced itself from European academicism and centred on African roots. Thus, the Dutch anthropologist Bert Flint, having travelled tirelessly between the Maghreb and the Sahel, acquired knowledge and objects that enabled him to demonstrate Morocco's connections with the Sahel in what he termed 'Afro-Berber culture', (Afro-Berber Planet – The Trans-Saharan arts at the Tiskiwin Museum, from Marrakech to Timbuktu, Bert Flint), proposing that members of the collective work on those objects, those drawings, those identities. Just as they did in the 1960s, initiatives such as Caravane Tighmert, Caravane Ouadane and Project Qafila have allowed us to reconnect territories that until the 1990s were linked via caravan routes, demonstrating how the cultures of Adrar and Wad Noun continue to keep alive a history built over centuries through music, dance and poetry. It is intriguing to listen to comments from inhabitants of the Moroccan oases to the effect that they feel culturally closer to their 'neighbours' on the southern shore of the Sahara, 1,000 km away, than to the residents of Rabat and Casablanca. These events have also prompted research by artists such as M'barek Bouhchichi (Nous sommes des mots. Des écriture; Nomadisme des luttes, principe d'hybridité : retour sur « Global(e) Resistance ») into the visibility of Black people in Moroccan society—he himself being Black, from the Akka Oasis (Tata, Morocco), yet belonging to the Ait Murabitum tribe originating from the Azougui Oasis (Mauritania), supposedly the cradle of the Almoravid dynasty. Or by the artist and founder of Le 18 Marrakech, Laila Hida, who uses artistic research to 'plug the gaps in our memory' and understand why her parents, having arrived in Casablanca from the Figuig Oasis in the early 1980s, stopped speaking their mother tongue—Berber—to each other and to their daughters, severing all cultural transmission linked to their Berber tribe (Interview with Laila Hida, Link’Art Africas).

   All of these personal and artistic investigations give rise to a contemporary culture specific to these regions, setting it apart from other global proposals and demonstrating the aforementioned power of contemporary culture to strengthen the identities of societies—whether through multiculturalism (coexistence), pluriculturalism (a shared history), or interculturalism (an active relationship). Therefore, culture—and education—must be the primary instrument for constructing our identities, rather than political speeches.

5.05 Migratory Identities

   At the end of the 20th century, Spain began to receive an immigrant population on a more intensive and constant basis, altering its paradigm from a country of emigrants to a host nation. According to 2025 data from the National Statistics Institute (INE), the country contributing the largest population to ours is Morocco, accounting for 14% of the total foreign population, while those born outside our borders make up 19.3% of Spain's total population. The continent contributing the most is the Americas, with 50% of immigrants. This considerable increase in immigrants is reflected in the neighbourhoods and cities of the Peninsula, through the emergence of shops selling products from their countries of origin, restaurants, styles of dress, and the impact on culture through music, literature, cinema, fashion... Some will view this as an invasion; others among us see it as a source of richness. Although the arrival of immigrants does not occur uniformly across all Spanish cities, how much time must pass for these new inhabitants from a specific country to integrate and gain visibility—first in the neighbourhood, then in the city, and finally across the entire country? On a local scale, it might take two or three years; a generation for it to start being noticed in a city; and perhaps two or three generations for these presences to become normalised in popular culture, such as music and cinema—as has been the case in France, where actors of Arab origin no longer only play roles of immigrants or Arabs. We could phrase the question another way: how many generations of a family arriving from abroad must pass before they are fully accepted in our cities? Two, three? Would it be the time required for them to have no discernible accent, provided their physical features do not differ from the 'Spanish' norm, so they can no longer be identified as an 'immigrant'? In short, we are talking about 50–75 years—that is to say, the grandchildren of an immigrant. If we apply this same reasoning to a population that may have remained on the Peninsula for 10 centuries, we would be talking about 40 generations. Even by current social standards, could we assert that after 40 generations those citizens can be considered fully Spanish? The answer seems obvious. If we consider that after 40 generations these Spanish inhabitants were forced to leave the country because of religion, settling on the other side of the Strait and forming a cohesive community for three centuries, only to co-exist once again for 50 years with Spaniards arriving in northern Morocco during the protectorate, and 30 years later emigrate to the Peninsula or the neighbouring city of Ceuta—would this really be a population alien to the country's culture, history, and even its identities? It is very likely that in many of those neighbourhoods and cities, the Spanish population with whom they now share living space is the very same with whom their ancestors co-existed, yet we continue to view their culture as completely alien to our own, simply because they practise a different religion...

   If we analyse the perspective from the Moroccan side, in recent decades a phenomenon very similar to that experienced by the Spaniards expelled in the 15th and 18th centuries has been taking place, except that the 'return' of Europeans born in Europe but of immigrant background (second, third and even fourth generations) is bringing about a shift in Moroccan society—in some cases even deeper than it might appear. New businesses and enterprises are developing by leveraging this dual 'identity' and nationality, whilst also using Morocco as a springboard to make the leap into other countries in the Maghreb and the Sahel. These Europeans of African origin can also act as intermediaries for European companies seeking to establish themselves in Morocco, just like Moroccans who have studied, and perhaps worked, in Europe. The degree of integration will depend fundamentally on their knowledge of the country and the language, but we should not assume they are accepted immediately. These emigration processes towards Morocco are encouraged by a weariness with European bureaucracy and by a chronic pessimism among young Europeans.

   There is another intermediate situation: mixed marriages of Moroccans who have studied in Europe, marry Europeans and settle in Morocco, or of Europeans living in Morocco (currently or in the past, during the protectorate) who marry Moroccans. The artist Zineb Benjelloun explains this process and its consequences for her own family in the graphic novel Darna. In truth, these are post-colonial processes, yet they can offer an insight into what occurred both on the Peninsula during the Al-Andalus period and in subsequent centuries (both north and south of the Strait), with a clear and positive impact on society. These changes leave a lasting trace on cities and their inhabitants, as is the case with Tangier. The legacy of International Tangier is visible in its streets today, where groups of young people or adults switch seamlessly from one language to another, sometimes using four or five languages in a single conversation. In conversation with them, they proudly display that past—one that young people did not experience firsthand, though their parents and grandparents did—making them feel culturally closer to Spain and Europe than to Rabat and Casablanca. Tangier, however, has for years been receiving heavy immigration from rural areas, which is shaping and defining the new metropolitan area (Tanger Métropole) promoted by the government, incorporating new values and identities characteristic of the countryside. I raised this in 2006 alongside the Moroccan team with whom I was participating in a series of reflections on the future of Tangier organised by the wilaya. All the teams put forward the idea of International Tangier as the city's main identity, but the governor changed his mind when I pointed out that the area of historic Tangier represented only 10% of its current territory, and that the population arriving from the countryside had to be considered and integrated to avoid excluding them. This new population could contribute values that needed to be incorporated—not only theoretically but practically—through the creation of a network of green spaces connecting the beach and the city centre with the countryside, and peripheral rural settlements with the city centre and the beach, creating balance and connectivity across the city's various neighbourhoods. Furthermore, green spaces needed a more natural character featuring native species—in short, incorporating the countryside into the city to endow it with another identity or to evolve the existing one. These reflections were incorporated into the strategy upon which the development of the Tangier metropolis by the Moroccan government is based.

   There is another form of immigration in Morocco, though it is not regarded as such due to the ease with which Europeans can settle in Moroccan cities without even having to apply for residency (leaving Maghrebi territory every three months suffices), whilst retaining the social privileges granted by their respective European governments. These range from retirees to European entrepreneurs carrying out their professional activities in Morocco. While the former tend to live completely isolated from the local population, the latter can indeed have greater interaction and influence in certain social sectors.

Ultimately, identities are neither unique nor static throughout history; rather, they are modified and transformed—by foreign and national populations alike—evolving with each social change. Therefore, one cannot attempt to freeze an identity based on a specific era, as some wish to do with Ceuta, or indeed with Spain. 

5.06 Africanity

   Our geographical position leaves no room for doubt, and the question we should be asking ourselves is not whether we are African, but what being African entails and what its consequences are. It is no easy matter, as there are physical, psychological and social barriers. Starting with the border itself—a subject of claims by one side and a symbol of separation between supposedly antagonistic civilisations—yet even if we cross it, we do not feel as though we are in Africa either. There is a conviction among the inhabitants of the north of the continent (Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and Libya) that they do not belong to Africa either, given that the most widespread and accepted idea is that the African population is Black; although these countries do have Black communities, they are considered exceptional cases—most often associated with the heritage of former enslaved people. This is factually incorrect, because since antiquity the population inhabiting and leading a nomadic life between the High Atlas mountains and the Senegal River consisted of Black tribes (Le Maroc saharien des origines à 1670, Denise 'Djinn' Jacques-Meunié), several of which still remain today, such as the Draoua in the Drâa Valley in Zagora or the Ait Murabitum of Akka.

Associating skin colour with Africanity is an error that distances us even further from an African consciousness. However, in Mauritania—which has historically been an 'interchange' for tribes and ethnic groups—despite the greater white political presence of Arab and Berber tribes, a 'traditional' African identity remains clearly evident, owing to the presence of the Soninke, Fulani, Wolof and Serer ethnic groups, and their cultures and traditions rooted in Senegal, the Gambia, Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger... From a Mauritanian perspective, it would therefore come as no surprise if Moroccans, Algerians, Tunisians, Libyans and even the Spaniards of Ceuta were regarded as Africans; after all, our region has served as the connection linking the Maghreb with the Sahel, southern Europe and the Middle East. These connections—thanks to the caravan routes established from at least the 9th century in the Atlantic zone of the Sahara—meant, for instance, that Ceuta received students arriving from the Sahel and the Middle East to study under eminent figures such as Cadi Ayyad in the 11th century, as we have already seen, giving rise to continental benchmarks in education and culture.

   For all these reasons, it is important—indeed essential—to assert our Africanity and the historical connections we have maintained with various countries, and not merely our immediate neighbours (Melilla, furthermore, has been connected to Algeria due to its proximity), so that we are not viewed as an anomaly or an alien European presence on the continent; in short, so that we are not labelled a colony. Although we do not fit the United Nations' definition of a colony and are therefore not included on the list of Non-Self-Governing Territories, it is evident that this perception—fuelled by our neighbours' communication strategy—has taken root among their population and in other countries sympathetic to their claims, driven simply by the conviction that they are opposing the neocolonialism represented by the Spanish presence in North Africa, thus falling into an oversimplification of reality.

   A strategy needs to be established so that Spain begins to build a presence in African institutions—starting with professional associations, business confederations, chambers of commerce, educational institutions and cultural associations—intensifying educational, cultural and business exchanges without falling into neocolonialism or paternalism, as often happens with Morocco. That said, I do not believe that our politicians or diplomats in Madrid and Brussels possess a mindset conducive to such a strategy, so convincing the state of its necessity will be no easy task. However, it would be far simpler if initiated by the autonomous cities themselves; it would suffice to fund the travel expenses incurred by the aforementioned bodies when attending host countries for various events and meetings. This matter was discussed on occasion at the Official Association of Architects of Ceuta, but budgetary constraints forced us to abandon the initiation of talks to gain admission to the African Union of Architects. In a sense, the Association of Architects had already pioneered relations with Morocco when, in the year 2000, it organised the exhibition Larache: Urban Evolution—produced by the Junta de Andalucía—which crossed the border from Morocco to be displayed in the city. The opening was attended by the Mayor of Larache and several city councillors, representing a diplomatic milestone, as acknowledged by local authorities and state representatives such as the Cultural Attaché of the Spanish Embassy in Rabat (Más Ceuta, Carlos Pérez Marín).

5.07 Arabis as a concept for identity

   In 2010, I had the opportunity to provide technical assistance to the Tetouan artist Younès Rahmoun  for the work Zahra-Zoujaj, which had been commissioned from him for the inaugural group exhibition at the Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art in Doha (Qatar), alongside 23 artists from the Arab world. During one of the dinners with all the artists and their assistants, a conversation arose surrounding Arab identity: who can be considered Arab? Anyone living on the Arabian Peninsula? Anyone who spoke Arabic? What about French-speaking Moroccans who spoke neither Darija nor Fusha—were they not Arab? And what of Ceuta's Muslims—could they be considered Arab? And Ceuta's Christians? If Lebanese, Egyptian or Palestinian Christians were Arab simply by virtue of speaking the language, did that mean a Christian Ceutí who learned Arabic would be considered as such? The answers were varied and at times contradictory, so no one was able to offer an exact definition of what it meant to be an Arab (artist).

   In 1946, the Arab League defined a person as Arab if they met three criteria: a person whose language is Arabic, who lives in an Arabic-speaking country, and who sympathises with the aspirations of Arabic-speaking peoples; this political concept, however, does not appear in the pact that established the organisation in 1945. According to the Union of Islamic Communities, the percentage of Muslims in Ceuta (Spaniards and Moroccans) in 2024 stood at 42.54% (Demographic Study of the Muslim Population, UCIDE). What will happen when the majority of Ceuta's population is Muslim? According to the CEU CEFAS Demographic Observatory in its 2026 report, Demographics of Islam in Spain, it is already the majority. One could assert that society is predominantly Arab in its culture and language, even if Ceuta's Darija is an Arabic dialect. In that case, would an institutional declaration suffice to fulfil the three criteria established for membership of the Arab League—linguistic, geographical and political? This is a debate that will arise in the city, just as it has with the 'co-officiality' of the Ceutí Darija dialect, and depending on the capacity of the authorities and residents to understand concepts and terms like those explored in previous chapters, we will—or will not—avert future social and political conflict, or even something worse...

   One of the causes of the civil war in Lebanon was the rapid increase in the proportion of Muslim citizens relative to Christians (who had hitherto been the majority) and the imbalance in terms of representation between the two communities in power-holding bodies—a war in which language was not one of the battlegrounds, as everyone shared Arabic as their mother tongue; that is to say, language was not used as a religious or nationalist symbol. Ceuta would do well to study the history of Lebanon so as not to repeat the same mistakes and to learn from its culture, which will require us to accept, as outlined previously, that Ceuta was never exclusively Muslim, nor Christian; it was so only at specific and defined moments in history, whereas generally, both religious communities coexisted in our city, as they do today. And if the problem is a religious one, perhaps we ought to opt decisively for secularism, rather than levelling upwards the visibility of the various religious communities.

For all the reasons outlined, the fact that the city could be described as Arab (not to be confused with Moroccan) should pose no problem whatsoever, especially considering that it was precisely that for nearly seven centuries.

Credits texts, photos and drawings: Carlos Pérez Marín