Khadija Mahamdi: A Story of Baking Boundaries

It's 6am and Khadija's phone alarm is going off. She quickly rolls over to turn off her phone so as not to wake her other family members. Khadija shuffles around in the dark trying to find her clothes, quietly walking over her family members soundly sleeping in the room with her. She says her morning prayers and heads out the door, quickly hurrying to open up the Association and Baking Cooperative.

The other bakers begin to trickle in, each getting ready to start their designated tasks. Khadija begins to prepare morning croissants and Moroccan sweet bread, krashal, before the hungry customers start lining up. She measures out the flour, butter and other ingredients, just using her eye. She has been doing this for so long she only goes by look and feel. Pushing the palms of her hands into the dough, stretching and pulling, huffing and puffing as she kneads the dough. Doing this for several minutes.

"Khadija, that's enough, time for tea!" the other bakers say to her as she covers the dough to rest. They gather around the table sipping on their hot cups of mint tea, laughing and joking, teasing one another like a bunch of sisters, taking advantage of the slow morning before the hustle and bustle of the Baking Cooperative begins.

The day passes by in a flurry as the smell of fresh bread and Moroccan sweets fill the air. Men, women and children start rolling in. "Is there any bread?" they ask. Khadija responds, putting down her rolling pin as she quickly walks over to the customers, handing them a fresh warm loaf of bread. Khadija goes back to assisting the other women. Kneading and rolling out dough. This rhythm continues into the early evening.

The sun is setting as Khadija makes a pot of tea. The other bakers slouch in their chairs exhausted by the long day, but Khadija, not quite ready to leave the cooperative nor her friends, insists on having kaskort, tea time, together. And so they sip away at their hot cups of tea as the sky darkens, enjoying one another's company and preparing to do it all over again tomorrow.

Not so long ago, Khadija’s day looked very different. Her world was much smaller, confined almost entirely to her family’s home. She had spent her life in a house filled with relatives, thirty people under one roof in the village of Ait Yahya Oualla. Though she attended school until high school, she still followed Moroccan tradition of the time and married young, around the age of eighteen. However, not long after her marriage, her life took a devastating turn. Shortly after giving birth to her second child, her husband was diagnosed with cancer and passed away. Leaving Khadija in her early 20s with two little kids to look out for. 

In Morocco, a 99% Muslim country, it is custom for a recent widow to partake in Iddah. Iddah is a year of mourning in Morocco. The recent widow wears all white, the color of mourning in Islam, as well as staying in the home of her and her deceased husband for a year, only leaving for urgent matters. So Khadija partook in Iddah. She put aside her normal clothes in exchange for all white. She had already lived a somewhat isolated life before marriage, only leaving the house to go to school, but now her world became even more isolated, confined to the house to grieve the loss of her husband.

Even after the mourning period passed, Khadija continued to confine herself to the home. She never remarried, instead focusing on family chores and raising her children, only leaving for essential matters. When Abdelhak and I were getting ready to launch the first sewing training class put on by Abdelhak's Association, he began to recruit other women to join the sewing classes. Abdelhak and his sister Nora stopped by Khadija's house to recruit some of them. Thirty people under one roof, surely the Mahamdi household had some women that would like to partake in the sewing classes.

Abdelhak and his sister Nora sat with Khadija's father, explaining to him the opportunity that they were proposing to the village. Khadija's father was hesitant, not sure if the women in his family should get involved. Their conversations continued over tea, Abdelhak and Nora trying to ease Khadija's father's nerves. "Ok, but only because I respect you and the Charrou Family so much I will allow it for Khadija, but only if her Aunt enrolls with her as well," Khadija's father stated.

A couple weeks later when we opened the doors to the Association to start sewing classes, there Khadija was sitting right next to her Aunt Lala. It had been years since Khadija had been in a space that wasn't her family's. Everyday I would sit in the back of the sewing class assisting when needed. I could tell right away that Khadija was shy, constantly glued to her Aunt Lala's side. Never saying much besides a hello. She struggled to get comfortable with the sewing machine, worried she was going to make a mistake. Chyiwa b chyiwa (little by little) Khadija began to come out of her shell. Feeling more and more comfortable in front of the sewing machine and more importantly feeling comfortable with the other women. I saw as she began to build relationships, a support group, a community with the other sewers. Coming more and more out of her shell no longer confined to her home.

Khadija (left) and her sewing classmate, Fatiha (right)

After the women finished their six-month intensive sewing classes, word was going around that a group of women were going to start a sewing cooperative. One of the sewers, Fatima, approached Khadija, trying to convince her to join. It didn't take much convincing for Khadija. After all, the last thing she wanted was to turn away from her new friends and spend all day at home like she had before. 

The following year, Abdelhak was back again, recruiting women for a new baking training class. Khadija got wind of this and jumped at the opportunity. She loved sewing but loved baking even more. So she enrolled, eager to develop her skills and be surrounded by her girlfriends once again. 

Khadija spent the next six months perfecting her baking skills, learning the intricate techniques involved in Moroccan baking. She mastered recipes like chebakia, a deep-fried cookie drizzled with honey and made from strips of dough folded together like a rose, fekkas, a Moroccan-style biscotti and much more. It was clear from the start that she had a natural talent for it.

With encouragement from Abdelhak, a group of women began entertaining the idea of launching a baking cooperative alongside their sewing cooperative. Without hesitation, Khadija eagerly joined, balancing her time between sewing and baking. Before long, her skills had earned the admiration of the community. Requests for special event orders - weddings, baby showers, and other celebrations - began to roll in.

Over the past eight years, I have had the privilege of witnessing Khadija’s journey unfold. Once confined to her home, interacting only with family, she has shed her shy, timid layers and grown into a confident, skilled woman. I’ve seen her master her craft, connect with customers, and build a sisterhood of women who uplift one another both at work and in life. Khadija’s journey inspires me, not just for what she has accomplished, but for what she represents: the life changing transformation that becomes possible when a woman is given the right opportunities.