It's early afternoon, and Julie Klear, Moulay Essakalli, and their two children are seated in the courtyard of their Marrakech home for the big midday meal. A platter of grilled lamb wreathed in fresh mint has been handed around the tile-mosaic table. Bowls of mashed eggplant and roasted peppers have also been passed. Young Zak, a scarf tied around his neck, forks up his third sausage, while Noor, his older sister, launches into a song she's learned at the French-Arabic school she and her brother attend. And even though both parents know that e-mail concerning their business—the children's furnishings company Zid Zid—is queuing up on their nearby computers, they're in no rush to wrap up lunch.
"The way our lives were in the States, we'd be seeing our kids at dinner—if we were lucky," says Klear, an Ohio-raised artist who designs Zid Zid's mini poufs, tables, and wall hangings. "In Morocco, everything shuts down at noon, and Zak and Noor are home from school for two hours. So this becomes our family time."
Not that they envisioned such a life when they arrived here from Cambridge, Massachusetts, five years ago. At that time, Essakalli, a graphic designer born in Casablanca and educated in France and the U.S., was reeling from the collapse of the dot-com company he'd been working for. He and Klear, who was pregnant with Zak, seized the opportunity to go to Marrakech for nine months: He'd reconnect with his roots, she'd have the baby, and together they'd start up a business they could run back in Massachusetts. First they considered exporting tiles of their own design. Then, when Klear was sewing a camel cushion for Noor, Essakalli came up with the idea of a whole line of kids' goods made by local artisans.
The nine months came and went. They stayed on. And it's not just the need to oversee production and to remain close to their source of inspiration—magical Marrakech, with its swirling medina and serene countryside—that has kept them here. It's also their strong feeling that, at least for now, this is the best place to raise their children.
They rent two small, adjoining houses—traditional courtyard-centered riads—in a quiet working-class neighborhood. One is devoted to Zid Zid (the name comes from a common Arabic expression meaning "let's go"); in it are their offices and a work space where a staff of six puts finishing touches on products—naively painted flowers on wooden doll cradles, say—before everything is shipped out to stores in America and, increasingly, Europe. The family lives next door, and there's constant back and forth. "Having the two houses allows us a connection between home and work life," says Essakalli. "The kids understand, though, that each place has a different function. They can come into the work space anytime if they need to, but they respect it for what it is."
In both buildings, furnishings are kept simple. The blue-and-white tile floors are layered with patterned wool rugs made by Berber women. Chairs and tables are low, in the Moroccan style. Zid Zid poufs are everywhere. Some furniture was picked up at the local flea market, which Klear trawls almost daily. And what the couple can't buy, they invent: Baskets are hung from hooks for toy storage, leather suitcases on their sides serve as flat files for artwork, and tables are cobbled together from old doors.
Although the family's home is blissful, staying in Morocco has required some sacrifices. "It's hard to be so far away from family," says Klear—her parents, who live in Ohio, haven't seen their grandkids in a year. They've also made lifestyle adjustments in a land without dance classes and children's museums as we know them, let alone Gymboree. "At first I panicked," says Klear, who has just illustrated a children's book, The Butter Man (Charlesbridge), due out in February. "I didn't have pointers for how to raise a child in this culture. Then I stopped thinking about what Morocco doesn't have and started thinking about what it does have." On weekends, the family goes on outings—to the Atlas Mountains, where Zak and Noor ride donkeys, or to a beach on the Atlantic where there are flamingos and tide pools.
On this day, lunch ends with slices of honeydew and oranges. The kids drift into the living room, where they pile onto floor pillows with their dad to watch Mulan. Before long, they're splashing in the courtyard fountain as Klear looks on. "I feel lucky," she says, "to be living in a place I love, to be working with my husband, to be doing something creative—and for my kids to be part of it all."
