With my Spanish passport I can go to Morocco whenever I want. I take a plane, land in Marrakech, Tangier, Casablanca, Essaouira or the desert, I enter, leave, and return home without thinking too much about it. Like so many other Europeans, I enjoy the charme of Morocco, its light, its gastronomy, the sensuality of its streets, the kindness of its people. I take photos, buy spices, books or carpets and, when the holidays are over, I return to Barcelona.

I currently attend to more than a dozen young people in my practice, some born in Morocco and others here, children of Moroccan parents. When I listen to them, I often think about how little they resemble the portrait we usually paint of the children of immigrants. They all have higher education: degrees, master's degrees, or doctorates. They hold diverse professions and occupy positions of responsibility in hospitals, universities, professional associations, and other institutions in the country. But there is a characteristic that unites them even more than their résumés.