Where the waves of the Atlantic break untamed against the rocky coast, the buildings of Casablanca rise above the Chawiyan Plains; wide open boulevards ready to take in any wanderer or conquering army that washes up on its shore. Everyone from the Berbers to the Portuguese, the Spanish to the French have tried to claim this place as their own, yet beneath the European-sounding neon lights and Arabic named streets the pounding heart of the city races to a rhythm outside any man knows.

Bury your romantic Hollywood ideals and conceptions of urban life in the sands. This city isn’t here to cater to that; the souks and squares filled with vendors jostling for tourist change in other cities in Morocco seem a far away off.

Despite name changes and different flags casting their shadows on the street below, there is a driving energy found here that pulses through the many people that call this place home. A city of more than 6 million, Casablanca is the epicenter of trade and commerce as it has been since the native Berber people first settled here, drawing cultures from every corner of the globe. The heart and soul of this place belong to the people. On every corner and available space found in either alleyways or even abandoned buildings, you can find someone selling something, making the life from rebarb and rubble, or simply laying the foundations that Casablanca is constantly remaking itself from. One of the largest economies on the continent is there, the population is young and hungry, and the streets reverberate with the fervent belief that something better can be built from hand and faith.

In the past, the Berbers mixed with the Almoravids, calling this place Anfa. Then came the Portuguese, giving it the name that it carries today. After, the Spanish, English and French, each leaving a mark and influence in and still felt on a passing breeze. It wasn’t until 1958 that the land was returned to the sovereignty of Morocco, and the predominate faith and culture of many there. Yet even the lines in the ever-shifting sands fall short of defining the city.

Morocco was also no stranger to the Arab Spring. However, unlike other countries along the North African Coast, the king here was willing to cave and make just enough concessions to stave off protestors and avoid serious change. And though terrorist’s bombs and street demonstrations have both since occasionally exploded on these streets, the people here have and continue to carry on as they have since the Romans first learned the difficulty of imposing faith through force. The thing guiding the compass of this city cannot be swayed by the changing winds that blow from different directions and lands across the sea.

The Casablanca of today belongs to the youth. With them lies the hunger for knowledge and a hope for a better tomorrow, a healthy questioning of the status quo, and a willingness to test the boundaries of what the state and church say is right and wrong.

At this point, I am probably over thinking it or just being a little too political. If you ask most here, it probably wouldn’t matter what which king sat in some far off city calling the shots. God will bring the sun in the morning, and with its light the struggle begins again.

If you are simply a stranger here or your only knowledge of this place is that the Germans wore gray and Ingrid Bergman wore blue, you could probably get a long without all of this. But in my opinion, if you aren’t going to try to step outside of the places surrounding you; the things you think define you, then why come to another country in the first place?

At the end of the day, Casablanca is a Moroccan city, an African city. A place that despite modern skyscrapers, traffic-lined streets, and late night clubs filled with the newfound, name brand-wearing upper middle class kids, it’s a place that still runs on handshakes and diesel generators; a place where the dream still flickers and hums from every street lamp and open apartment window.