Citrus

I was sitting comfortably on the patio of a Moroccan household in the middle of the medina in Rabat on Friday laughing as hard as I’ve laughed since I’ve been abroad. The woman of the house, fifty-three with a white lace veil covering her face and a pink bathrobe, had just forcibly persuaded Esteban, the American man of our group, to eat a huge orange with only a smile and some words in Arabic and French. We had just eaten a huge and delicious meal of olives, round white bread, rice, Coca Cola, and a veggie and chicken stew with our hands. Our collective laughter was echoing off the colorful tiles and the high ceilings, louder than the droning of Arabic and French on the television.

So we lived for two days. A Californian, Texan, and Minnesotan adopted into a family of seven Moroccans: a mother (whose husband has passed away), and their three sons and three daughters, ranging in ages from 31 to 11. It sounds like the setup to a bad joke, but it was truly amazing being a part of this cohesive family for a couple days, even if they didn’t speak much English. The truth is (and I reiterate), you don’t need a common language for jokes to be funny, photos, facial expressions, and video games, or sitting around the patio on a Saturday night with the whole family snacking on baked goods for dinner while the rain pounds on the sky light. The family bond was tangible, in Morocco as well as Spain, and it was obvious there was no place any of them would have rather been.


The concept of privacy in Morocco, as well as Spain, doesn’t exist. In fact, there is no real word for privacy in Spanish, but the concept has developed in recent years along with the English-derived word “privacidad” (o algo así). The house we stayed in consisted of, aside from the patio, a kitchen, and two bathrooms, four rooms with cushioned benches lining the walls. Downstairs these rooms were colorful and ornate, to be used for eating, formal occasions, family gatherings, or sleeping. Upstairs, most of the family members that didn’t sleep elsewhere slept in a particularly big room, while the three Americans slept in the other. We were given two furry blankets, a pillow, and a section of bench each. The youngest daughter of the family (age 11) was, it seemed to us, the “Cinderelli” of the family. She was up at the crack of dawn helping to make breakfast or running out to buy some last minute items, taking out the trash, making beds, answering the door, serving and clearing our breakfast and other meals of the day (basically, doing jobs the youngest of my family would never stand for). She was the only family member who was monolingual in Moroccan Arabic, so communicating with her was hopeless besides smiles and the occasional badly pronounced word or phrase from our Lonely Planet guide to her language. The rest of the family spoke at least a couple words of English, at least enough to generally communicate with the three of us who were full of questions and thanks.


Los chicos: Esteban (el americano), Adiel (oldest boy), Monsef (youngest), Ishane (middle).


Las chicas: Nadia (the youngest girl), the cat Leo, Fatimazara (middle), Brett (la americana), ME (la otra), Keltoum (la madre), Hanene (oldest).

Just meeting this family shattered all my stereotypes about the Muslim/ Arabic world. Morocco is 98% Muslim, 1% Christian, and 1% Jewish. Moroccan Arabic is a separate dialect from written Arabic, and the languages/dialects that are spoken in other Arab countries. Five times a day there is an eerie call to prayer that permeates every windy street of the city, and many women choose to wear veils. But not everyone prays or covers their skin, just as not everyone abstains from drinking, smoking, or physical contact with the opposite sex. It’s just like anywhere else in the world.