Salé has its roots, its most glorious past and a promising future, just like any city that has had the misfortune, for reasons other than geography and its topographical location, not to have left History indifferent to its fate.
Salé preserves herself and, through the women and men she has endorsed, breathes through their works: poems, novels, short stories, films, songs, music ... and through them, kept alive every stone, every wall, every monument, every work forged in and by her body.
Forgetfulness is not Slaoui. The dream is.
In the past, Salé has often turned her back on the rest of the country, closing her doors on the continent at dusk to defend it better, to alone expose herself to all external threats, to confront with her men and stones, as one flesh, every sinister tide, any hostile wave seeking to seize the country, through the ocean.
Salé inherits from the coastal cities the ulyssian resistance to the cries of the sirens and to the eddies of the ocean ; from the female riverside residents the art of making the mud speak and of talking to one another by carving the stones torn from the course of the waves. From the continental women, Salé inherits the language of the trees which, on fire, crackle without groaning or shedding a tear.
On the edge of an immense expanse of salt water, a long stream of fresh water, and a similarly moist forest, lies this soft and humid town called Salé.
