Apres moi, le deluge...

The spirit of Eid (or Muslim Christmas) must be in the air. The taxi driver was humming a little tune all the way to my stop. There is a glow on everyone's faces as they walk down the street. And even though my family stopped stuffing me like an Eid goat (or Thanksgiving turkey), they're still mass producing food for the upcoming holiday.

They make these adorable little cookies and chocolates in the shape of hearts and roses as an independent business undertaking. They're not funded by anyone and they don't have their own shop, so they work at home. This past week, they've been selling their treats to women in the community and pocketing "gateaus" for themselves. My sister was eager to purchase the pound of chocolate she placed delicately on the scale. And of course, they gave me several to try, which were nothing short of delicious.

The first day they had people over to view their selection, I was very confused. There was a woman standing outside our door with a lost look on her face and at first I walked past her, then I turned around and asked her if she had a problem. She said no, I'm just waiting for my friend. Mostly the confusion came from not being accustomed to seeing women near our apartment. We have an abundance of men at all times though.

Unfortunately the street life in Morocco renders me cold and expressionless in public. I've grown so desensitized to the taps on my shoulder and the long speeches given to me in Arabic by someone who wants money. We were advised to ignore them because if we give money to one, then they'll all come running. It's also important not to show any sign of insecurity so remaining expressionless is crucial, otherwise you'll attract all sorts of unwanted attention and the majority of it comes from men. If you go to any of the tourist sites, you'll often encounter two or three pesky henna artists. One girl from our group was grabbed and forced to pay for a blob of henna that a lady dropped on her hand. It's crucial to have a sense of humour about everything as well.

For instance, I'm used to people butchering my name in the United States all of the time. But I definitely didn't think it would happen here being that my name is Arabic. It happens anyway. My name is spelled Anishah, Anissa, Hachmi, Hachim, and the list goes on. They use "ch" instead of "sh" here and I'm not really sure why since they have the "sh" letter in their alphabet.

This week was full of brouhaha and hilarity. We had our first tempest and deluge, which left much of the city without power for a day or two, maybe more. But my rainy day experience was one to remember. A 10 minute drive took us an hour through the unrelenting downpour to school. When I finally made it there, all of my friends looked like they had just gone swimming. Many of the girls used their shawls as skirts since their jeans were too soaked to walk in. Most people had trouble finding a taxi that morning as all the taxi drivers refused to sail atop the newly formed rivers.

And when I got home our power was still out in half of the house. We were bathing by candlelight and cooking by flashlight. We heard a lot of noise beneath our window so Jihane shined my flashlight over the crowd. There were several men outside trying to fix a refrigerator and they needed a flashlight to do it. I'm not sure how they were supposed to figure out if it was working or not because the power was out, but I volunteered my flashlight and didn't get it back until the next day when they decided to come back and return it.

"Hurry, hurry! Get your shoes on!" Jihane scooted her grandmother and me out of their apartment. The fire alarm only made me more confused. Where was the fire? Jihane said there was a fire downstairs due to the flooding and faulty power lines. This wasn't the bad part. The bad part was getting Haja, the grandmother, down the five flights of stairs with the light from our cellphones. Whoever designed this building wasn't thinking of poor Haja walking up and down the stairs with a bandaged knee. We stopped at the second flight and couldn't make it all the way down. So we just waited for the alarm to stop and for our power to be restored. It's possible the fire was bogus. That night we sat around candles making faces and singing songs until we were too tired to wait for the lights to turn on.

This week also consisted of the night of Laylat Al Qadr, the night that the prophet (pbuh) received the first revelation of the Quran. In Morocco, many women dress up in their best djellebas and go out on the town. Fatine and Jihane were showing me photos of when they were little and would dress up like queens for this special night. They kept telling me they were going to put me in wedding clothes with a faux crown, but they decided to save me the embarrassment. I can always play dress up on Eid.

There's this concept of "I'm more Muslim than you" here coupled with much proselytizing. Everyone is constantly trying to assert their religiousity in small ways. For instance, I am always asked if I pray or fast. Also I am sometimes asked to recite Surahs from the Quran. One time I did it for my host aunt's husband and he said that I'm a Muslim short of a veil. I've noticed that people will break out into Quranic recitatations on the street, in taxicabs, and at home just because. I suppose since I'm quite reserved about my spirituality, it sometimes catches me off guard. My non-Muslim friends keep coming to school with stories about Moroccans trying to prove to them that Islam is the only true religion. They feel like they're doing a service to my non-Muslim friends.

I have thought of America as being on the right side of the political spectrum, but I didn't realized how socially conservative we are as a culture. I don't think the concept of personal space holds much importance here. There is no room that is off limits to anyone, of course, I live in a household of girls. It would be different if there were men in the house. Even when someone is using the bathroom, it is okay to walk in and retrieve something or help a family member wash their back while they're taking a bath. There is no place on the face that is off limits to kiss. My host mom kisses me on the mouth and I see women kissing each other in public all of the time, but it's platonic. And we all share everything with each other. It's a very warm culture.

One day I came home from school after having a very long and tiring day. The best way for me to release all of the built up stress is to vent or to cry. I felt it was easier to cry in this situation since I was tired of expressing myself in foreign languages all day everyday. But there wasn't a private room for me to cry in, so my whole family saw me and thus commenced the sob fest. They kept asking me if I had a problem with one of them or if I was angry. And I repeatedly replied that I was just overwhelmed by fatigue, stress and work. It was a hard thing for them to grasp that my tears were not those of an anguished soul, but of a person who couldn't express stress or release it in any other way. They all began to cry themselves and I had to reassure them that I was going to be okay. I just needed to adjust. I've become a member of their family and I think this was the moment when I finally realized just how much I matter to them.

The last few events have no particular place in time, since my brain has lost all concept of when and why. I don't believe that's a bad thing. It means that I'm really living and absorbing every moment each day.

I remember one day I was sitting on the divan sipping fresh tea and reading some thick historical text when I heard this scratching on the wall behind my head. I turned around and saw nothing, so the first thought that occurred to me was that a ghost must be visiting. I chose to ignore it to see if my new friend would give me some clues. Then I heard a soft cooing of a bird. I asked my mom if there were pigeons in the wall and she nodded her head and said yes, they live there. Well, I've heard of a rat infestation, but I've never heard of a winged rat infestation. It's still comforting to hear the slight ruffling of feathers above my head as I work.

There are rarely ever men in our house and when there are, the atmosphere changes. I've noticed that when family friends bring their husbands, the men will sit very quietly next to their wives with stern looks on their faces. The conversation floats around their heads, but it feels like there is an elephant in the room. When my aunt's husband comes to visit, he will utter a word here and there, but it's as if he ignores the existence of the other family members in the room. I've heard from some of my friends that this is a common occurrence and women will care for the men of the house like kings. It seems my mother would never cater to men because they're men, but she will prepare special meals for all of her guests.

I've had another interesting taxi experience to add to my long list of escapades. I get in a cab to go home from school one day and I went through the usual question and answer process about where I'm from, what religion I practice, and what languages I can speak. Then the taxi driver asked me a new line of questions and required a new set of demands I was not expecting. "You are not allowed to leave Morocco. If you had come to Morocco a few years earlier, I would have married you to my son. But you it's too bad he's already married. You must marry someone though and stay here. I will find you a nice Moroccan." He gave me his phone number and told me to call him at some point to get coffee and find out if he's found any fine suitors for me.

The last story I'm about to tell is not easy to stomach nor is it an extremely common occurrence. My Moroccan friend Adil was driving home a little before ftour when he was stopped by a couple of armed men in the street. They threatened him with knives and took all of his possessions except his car. They also managed to cut his arm somehow and I'm not sure of the details since Adil was too shaken up to explain. This is why we have been cautioned to stay off of the streets and get home an hour before ftour time. There are a lot of muggings that occur during that hour and Jihane believes that's why we had the massive thunderstorm. God is apparently angry with all of the sinners who are roaming the streets during Ramadan. I can see the connection. The earth has a funny way of expressing its fury. Even so, I am vigilant and aware of the crazies lurking around each corner.

(And as I was writing this blog entry, a lurker was around the corner. I heard this strange meowing coming from somewhere in the house. Being the jumpy person that I am, I yelled HEY! to try to scare whatever it was away. I thought it was a person who had crept up on to the balcony and was trying to get my attention. I brought a hard pillow with me and snuck around the corner. It meowed again and I struck whatever it was. Jihane fell on the floor laughing hysterically at my paranoia. She was the creepy cat in our house.)