Mediterranean Medinas: Comparing the Cultural Treasures of Sousse and Fez

Stepping into Sousse's medina is like entering a living museum of Islamic architecture. The 9th-century fortifications embrace approximately 32 hectares, considerably smaller than Fez's sprawling 280 hectares, yet no less remarkable in its preservation. The clean, whitewashed walls reflect the Mediterranean sunlight, creating an almost clinical brightness that contrasts sharply with Fez's labyrinthine passages.

In Fez, the world's largest car-free urban area unfolds like an intricate anatomical puzzle. Founded in the 9th century, its narrow, winding streets—some barely shoulder-width—create a capillary-like network that seems designed to disorient the visitor. While navigating these passages, my pocket compass proved invaluable when GPS signals faltered within the dense urban tissue of the medina.

What struck me most was how the architectural differences reflect distinct approaches to climate adaptation. Sousse's wider streets and sea-facing orientation harness coastal breezes, while Fez's narrow, high-walled passages create natural cooling systems in the inland heat—a remarkable example of vernacular environmental engineering that predates modern sustainable design by centuries.

Markets have always been the heart of medina life, and my background in both Bangalore's vibrant bazaars and years of surgical precision give me a unique perspective on these commercial ecosystems. In Sousse, the souks follow a relatively straightforward layout, with goods organized in a logical progression that feels almost taxonomical. Spice vendors cluster near the central mosque, their aromatic offerings displayed in perfect conical formations that remind me of the careful organization of a surgical tray.

Fez presents a stark contrast—its market system is an intricate organism with specialized districts for everything from copper craftsmen to woodworkers. The famous tanneries of Chouara offer a sensory experience unlike any other, where animal hides are processed using methods unchanged since medieval times. The pungent odor can be overwhelming; I was grateful for the natural scent balm offered by a local shopkeeper to dab beneath my nostrils.

In both cities, I was struck by the preservation of artisanal knowledge passed through generations. In Fez particularly, I observed master craftsmen teaching apprentices the intricate art of zellij tilework—their hands moving with the same practiced precision I once employed in the operating theater. These are not merely commercial spaces but living academies of cultural heritage.

Both medinas face the delicate challenge of preserving their heritage while adapting to contemporary needs. In Sousse, I was particularly impressed by the adaptive reuse of historic buildings. The ancient fondouks (merchant inns) have been thoughtfully converted into boutique accommodations and cultural centers without compromising their architectural integrity.

During my stay, I used a solar lantern which proved remarkably useful during Sousse's occasional evening power fluctuations, while also aligning with my commitment to sustainable travel practices.

Fez has taken a different approach to preservation, with significant international investment in restoring its monumental madrasas and mosques. The Médina Conservation Project has trained local craftspeople in traditional building techniques, ensuring these skills aren't lost to time. I spoke with Hamid, a master plaster carver whose family has practiced this art for seven generations. "When we restore a building," he told me, "we are not just fixing walls—we are keeping our ancestors' knowledge alive."

What struck me most was how both cities are addressing water conservation—a critical issue in North Africa. In Fez, I observed the restoration of the historic khettara water system, an ingenious method of groundwater collection that once supplied the entire medina. Similarly, Sousse has implemented rainwater harvesting systems integrated discreetly into historic structures—a marriage of ancient wisdom and modern necessity that reminded me of how medical practice similarly honors traditional knowledge while embracing innovation.

The gastronomy of these medinas offers another fascinating lens for comparison. In Sousse, the Mediterranean influence is evident in the abundance of fresh seafood, olive oil, and citrus. At a small family restaurant near the Great Mosque, I enjoyed a remarkable ojja (spiced tomato and egg dish) prepared in a traditional clay tagine. The proprietor explained that his grandfather had used the same recipe for decades.

Fez's cuisine reflects its inland position and imperial history with complex flavors and slow-cooked dishes. The famous pastilla—a sweet-savory pie of shredded poultry, almonds, and cinnamon wrapped in paper-thin warka pastry—exemplifies the sophisticated Andalusian influence on Moroccan cuisine. I found myself using my food journal to record the nuanced spice combinations, much as I once documented precise surgical protocols.

Tea culture in both locations reveals subtle differences in social customs. In Sousse, mint tea is often served with pine nuts floating atop—a delightful regional variation. In Fez, the ceremonial pouring of tea from height creates a frothy top considered essential to proper presentation. When I mentioned my interest in tea traditions to my riad host in Fez, he gifted me a handcrafted tea glass set similar to those used in their daily service—a treasured souvenir that now brings North African hospitality to my Birmingham home.

What fascinates me most is how food preparation in both medinas remains primarily women's domain, with recipes transmitted orally through generations. These culinary traditions represent another form of cultural preservation worthy of documentation.

Beyond architecture and commerce lies the true essence of medina life—its communities. In Sousse, I was struck by the relatively relaxed social atmosphere, with men and women sharing public spaces more freely. Children played football in small squares while elderly residents observed from doorways, reminiscent of the neighborhood dynamics I recall from my childhood in Bangalore.

Fez presents a more traditional social structure, with clearer delineation of gender roles in public spaces. Yet within private homes, I experienced remarkable hospitality when invited to join a family for iftar during Ramadan. The mother, learning of my medical background, proudly introduced her daughter studying medicine at Fez University—a beautiful bridge across generations and cultures.

In both cities, I observed how the physical structure of the medina shapes social interaction. The density necessitates a certain intimacy between neighbors, creating community bonds that function almost like extended family networks. Residents navigate the delicate balance between privacy and community, much as the human body maintains homeostasis through complex feedback systems.

During evening walks, I found my compact audio recorder invaluable for capturing the sonic landscape of medina life—calls to prayer, children's laughter, the rhythmic hammering of coppersmiths—creating an auditory journal that complements my written observations. These recordings preserve ephemeral aspects of cultural heritage often overlooked by traditional documentation methods.