Frarabic

I wish I could say that I need to feel needed.

I wish I could say that I don’t do well with balanced relationships.

I wish I could say that I need to see your pain, because it proves your love. 

I wish I could say that I don’t make compromises, just the demands. 

I wish I could say that I’m not used to … not being in control.

But then… what would you say? 

I’m writing my ISP on microcredit in Morocco, but that isn’t nearly the most interesting thing I have experienced while being in this country.

How insightful are facts? If I were to look at the world factbook’s description of Morocco, it wouldn’t at all match what I have seen with my own eyes. Granted, that’s  what percentages are there for; to make people realize what the majority is and that there exists a minority. But that minority is a very real aspect that we can’t ignore. I have seen the extremes of Morocco; the isolated village in Litoushina with barely any electricity and no running water, to a five-star resort in Agadir where the simple thought of knowing Arabic, let alone Darija, is mind shattering for the Moroccan staff. I’ve been to the busy, metropolitan cities of Marrakesh but have lived in a homestay in the old medina of Rabat. I’ve stayed at the Hilton in the film-based city of Casablanca but have also trekked through the Sahara in a sandstorm. I’ve seen cities that have tourism as a pastime but have dragged my way through streets of screaming vendors and Euro menu prices. I’ve seen the shittiest streets in Essouiria but yet the most beautiful image of my life in Chefchaowen. I’ve been to places whose inhabitants swear that Mohammed the fifth is the  current, divine king of Morocco, and have walked through the streets of Fez where it’s impossible to go 2 seconds without seeing a banner or poster dedicated to His Highness Mohammed the VI.

Generalizations are scary. And this is just about one country. People group North Africa together, the Middle East, Middle East and North Africa, Eastern hemisphere…

I couldn’t’ for one second sum Morocco up in a list of statistics, facts, or percentages. Each city has its own culture, made for one tourist but maybe not the next. I’ve only been here 3 months and I’ve probably only scratched the surface on how multifaceted this country is, it scares me to think what else is out there. And then we debate and make assumptions about other nations and their politics, economy, social agenda… but if the diversity that exists in Morocco is also true for all these other nations, how can an outsider possibly believe that they can make political agendas, policies, or any kind of statement as to the current status or furthermore the direction a country should move towards. I hold that the people who live and run a country must know the most about that country, and if this is true, internal corruption is quite possibly the most detrimental force on a nation. If it’s own people, those who best know the state and potential of a country aren’t working in its best interest, and international actors are making blind assumptions about it… how effective are economic theories, political policies, or social programs?

So when I go back to Northwestern and Maryam hugs me and says “So… What’s Morocco like?” I guess I’ll give the majority percentages in relevant categories. Beautiful. Hot. Muslim. Developing. Progressive.

I can’t decide whether it’s a curse or blessing. Being able to mentally cut off, erase memories… not erase completely. But erase any emotion attached to the memory, so that when I reminisce I only think of the actual act, the event, the setting, that’s it. It’s come to the point now that my mind actively does it to every memory; however I think a part of that is true for all people. We want to hold on to certain feelings, certain memories, but it seems like the harder we hold on the easier they slip away. But mine is a different phenomenon… like I can cut off emotions from any person or memory, as long as I am distanced from it long enough. Ranjan was a blur, and not just right now… but from the second we broke up, I felt like I hadn’t even dated him. But it was 3 years. I didn’t even cry about him, about losing him. Not once have I thought about how much I lost. I’m starting to think that it’s a curse, because the things I want to hold on to, the people I want to stay attached to, I feel unable. Everything is temporary. I think it’s my way of never feeling any pain, but I have also sacrificed feeling happiness or love because of it. I’m so scared to attempt to regain the emotions and memories with Sameer, I know what I had with him was something different, special. Right now I haven’t even recognized what that means. All I know is that he’s always at the back of my mind… even when I look at Adnan, when I kiss him, when we’re hooking up. I think of Sameer’s name; not his face, a memory, an emotion, my mind has successfully cut all that off, but there’s still something there that a part of me is holding on to. Like when I was hooking up with Adnan and the Khuda Jaane came on- any normal person would feel really weird, feel a rush of emotions come thorugh… but I felt no emotion. The song as attached to his NAME, but no feeling, no memory, no pain, no love, nothing. Maybe while the dagger is cutting you it hurts and you feel like you’ll never survive, but it always ends, the pain always comes to an end. And maybe there’s something real, something right about having that scar. Maybe it allows you to recapture not just the pain, but the beauty that lived beneath the cut. Maybe there’s something beautiful about the scar.

Strong… stubborn… independent. Since high school my family, specifically my mom, has attached those adjectives to me. I internalized this and prided myself on being mentally, emotionally, and financially independent from anything. I have successfully cut off a lot of my emotions towards my family, but that just transferred over to my dependence on men. Since the age of 16 I’ve had a man in my life, and have been heavily dependent. While I don’t feel like I am, and others from the outside would never guess it, it is very apparent to me that at every second I need someone there for me, someone who makes me their priority. This isn’t new, I knew this for about a year now after seeing my past year performance, but what I HAVE realized is that the one person that I dubbed as being too dependent and the anti-thesis to myself actually embodies what I promote; my mother. Granted, prior to the divorce it was a mess, she didn’t have her finances in order, didn’t have a track for her life, nothing. But that was simply because she was completely invested in my brother and myself- her future was our future, simple. When the drama happened with my dad, my mom broke cultural barriers and went along with a divorce, which wasn’t emotionally, financially, and socially easy at all. And now… she lives on her own, works for herself, has no one else in Dallas other than the friends she individually makes… and has no man in her life. She is completely and utterly independent. Granted she hit that at the not-so-ripe age of 53, but that it makes it even more inspiring… having everything and then losing it is much more of a feat then never having it all and being content.

I’ve established that I’m a pretty intelligent human being. From the 5th grade, I was smart. Granted, a lot of that was because I worked hard, but I think my intelligence grew over time. I don’t think it’s the amount of intelligence we have, or even the kind, but rather the way we manipulate it to fit with our personality that’s clutch. In middle school, I used it to shell myself from other people; I secluded myself in my intelligence, kept my head down, did my work, got my grades. Come high school, I started wanting more; I blamed my intelligence for why I was socially introverted, and thought that I could somehow slowly transform that into something that was more attractive to people. By 11th grade it turned into a form of ditziness- allowing people to get the upper hand, leaving my jokes and comments open ended and setting people up. I was the setter, they were all spikers. But I knew their game, I knew I was setting. I was completely conscious. But it was attractive as a personality trait, it made me more desirable to hang out with, so I was winning. Or at least I felt like it.

At some point I think I started realizing that maybe my intelligence in the form of wit would be more appealing, and more fun for me to do. After setting so many spikes up, I realized that it prepared me to be a very, very strong hitter. Come sophomore year of college, that’s the skill I honed in on. I had already been doing this for a long time around my brother, he was the one person the “ditziness” I would never even attempt to pull off on. Him and Ranjan. 

But at some point my wit spiraled out of control… it’s like once I realize I have the attention of many, I keep going in a whirlwind, unable to stop. I prey on the weak, people like 10th grade Natasha who set people up. Who knows if they consciously set, but I hit regardless. I know that it hurts people, I can read when it’s about to come but I can’t stop, it’s like adrenaline. 

I want to tone it down, but I’m worried it’s one of my strongest attributes, and also what characterizes me. If I lose that… I don’t want to end up like the 5th grade version of me, secluded in my own world. I shouldn’t have to prey on people’s weaknesses to create my strength. But I don’t know what else I have.

I was probably one of the most blessed students when it came to my homestay. I have two amazing sisters, both around my age, speak english very well, and sweet as can be. A younger brother whose so sweet, respectful, cute, and fun. An older brother whose protective, smart, and quite witty. A mother who is ridiculously strong, hilarious, caring, a great cook, and so responsive to all my needs. Aside from my absent father, I have what you call a perfect Moroccan family. Not even comparatively to others, in general. 

Funny story: I probably, compared to most students, spent the least time at home.

I don’t know what it is… it’s like my habits from home followed me here. I just didn’t find the time to spend time at home. I was always out with friends, traveling every weekend… I know they noticed it, wondered what I was doing… Especially in their culture where you spend almost all your time at home with the rest of the family in the same room. And even when I was here most of the time I was in my room reading or on the internet. I definitely had some good conversations with them, but I could probably count how many and what they were about. I guess I always feel like I’m missing out on life when I’m at home… they just watch TV and have the same mundane schedule… But I do love them and love talking to them. I just regret what happened but I don’t know how I would’ve changed it. Maybe I should’ve made more of an effort to at least include my sisters in what I do. But it’s so awkward because we go out and eat a lot and I’m sure they didn’t want/couldn’t spend that kind of money. 

I do feel like I’m at home here, I really do love it. But I know it could’ve been so much more… Oh well, not everything about Morocco can be perfect.

I can honestly say… this is the first time, in my life, that anything has ever taken my breath away. Chefchaouen. What was so special about it was that it may not be everyone’s paradise. Of course it had the conventional beauty; mountains, beautiful clouds, sunset… But what I felt was different, like it was MY paradise. Everything was perfect. The air reminded me of Canada… small medina streets, quant small-town restaurants, Greece-like walls… I knew from the moment I got off that train that I could honestly live here and be happy. I didn’t need anything; Goldman, a man, friends, nothing. This place completed me in a way that I haven’t felt… maybe ever. 

We had gone to Tangier the day before, which was beautiful as well… Had that Spanish influence, gorgeous beaches, nice Medina, beautiful sites… but didn’t hold a torch to Chefchaouen. I loved the mountainous vibe, and how it was touristy but still retained culture. It was so cold at night but it felt so right. 

I pray Allah lets me return there one day. I could die happy.

I have never fallen in love like this before. I was scared to go, thought I wasn’t ready, that I wasn’t strong enough, from the minute we got to the village to the second I left, I was in love. I had never felt peace like that before, and that was with taking care of two ridiculous, dirty, obnoxious kids. But they were mine. The village, Litouchina, had a population of about 300, of which I can attest to knowing about 90% I’m sure. The routine was similar every day… wake up at 6am to my little sisters, play with them till 9am, meet the other commune of study abroad students at the center, go back for lunch, walk/hike/sit by the tree/play with kids, watch tv, eat dinner, sleep. For such a mundane schedule, I have never been so happy. But I won’t idealize it, the nights were long. Long and and uncomfortable. I hate fleece blankets, I don’t know what it is, so that was already a problem. And it was really, really cold at night. And not that clean. I had weird flashes all night, and was constantly tossing and turning, staring at my watch waiting for it to be morning again. I was both anxious and dreadful of the 5:30am wake-up attack from Imaan and Fatima Zahra.

But God, the days made up for the nights. I loved having no pressure, no expectations. Granted my mom, one of the most beautiful, sweetest women I have EVER met, definitely had a lot on her plate. With her husband working in Spain for 2 years and her taking care of 4 kids on her own, not to mention the animals, cooking, etc… these are the “Superwomen” ignorant singers talk about. But I just took care of the girls all day, and occasionally got to run away from them to hang out with my friends. But I loved them, through the snot, screaming, and sass, they were my bacha. 

I can’t explain how beautiful it was, and no picture can bring the sweet sound of peace and beauty that filled every sense of my being. I hope when I read this in a few years it will flood back to me, but even now I can’t grasp what I felt there. Only in Litouchina. I left a part of my heart there.

The title seems contradictory and ridiculous- how can I put one against the other when the first is a part of the latter? It’s because being in Morocco has made me feel like Ismailism is not only not a branch of Islam, but that the two seem to be at odds in almost every physical aspect; amount of daily prayers, how they actually pray, the way they view the Quran, the conservative nature, the rules of fasting and praying, gender relations, and I’m sure a few other areas that I have yet to experience. 

I can say that they have personally come at odds with each other becasue during my time here I have simultaneously felt “more Muslim” and “less Ismaili.” I don’t know what the really means, as I fundamentally believe that religions is a state of being and a guide to life practices and decisions, but there is also a practicing side of religion that we can’t deny. And while all my beliefs are still mostly in accordance to what I have been taught through Ismailism (I haven’t become more conservative in my ideas), the practices and way of life that I am now a part of is feels very contradictory to what I have done for 20 years of my life. I love the community that I feel being in Muslim country but it feels completely different than what I felt in Khorog. The scariest part is that I don’t feel like an outsider, I’m passing off as a “true” Muslim to everyone here and to myself.

As an American student passionate about the Middle East and critical of American efforts to “save” the Arab World, I determined in my mind that the Middle East hates America and think its a country of sin and greed. While the latter may be true, I have found the former is not. Moroccans see America with envy, but base their ideas on America and its ideals on one source; the media. This isn’t anyone’s fault, it seems like the easiest access to images of the world outside of Morocco. However, the sources within that channel is truly problematic: MTV. And these aren’t just the youth watching it, families get together, grandmothers, mothers, teenagers, children to watch the latest episode of Cribs or My Super Sweet 16.

I spoke to Saad yesterday, one of the host brothers who actually studied in America for a year. He said when he came back to Rabat everyone kept asking him if it was really “that easy” to make money in the States, and why he didn’t come back with a million jobs lined up. I guess the media doesn’t portray the social classes within America, and although the gap between the rich and poor doesn’t rival that of developing countries, the existence of middle and lower class can’t be overlooked.