I Didn't Always Live In America: A Love Story

On my Facebook bio I have the phrase “I didn’t always live in America” because my heart needs people to know that it belongs someplace else. I don’t always talk about it because coming back to the states was complicated. Not in the on-again-off-again type of complication, but like two lovers forced apart because of situations and circumstances type of complicated. I didn’t always love that place, but when I finally fell in love, it was for forever and I can still feel the ache sometimes even though it has been six years, eleven months and twelve days since I said goodbye. Didn’t really say goodbye that day, though, did I. No. Like I said, it was a forced separation. 

You know how you can look at someone and love so many things about them that you don’t even know where to start? That’s how it is for me with Morocco. I close my eyes and I think of the mountains. Summer days by the fresh water springs with the freezing water that will numb your feet within three seconds of dipping them in. The sound of the water rushing past as you eat tajine and fruit in the shade, laying back on the berber carpets and reveling in the coolness in the midst of summer heat. When it was hot, that’s where you would go; up, up, up to where the spray misted off the frigid mountain water, creating rainbows that shimmered in the sunlight. You would sit and eat and talk in simple shelters that shade you from the blazing sun that used to turn my skin dark. 

The long twisty, curvy roads covered in dust, slowly crumbling from the years of use, past the tall forests of trees and orchards. Wide open spaces where you can see hundreds of sheep and black dots of nomadic tents where families would live for a season. Even in the mountains the green of plant life doesn’t stay forever and you look forward to the beauty of things coming alive after a winter snowed into your chilly home. Warmth comes and trees bloom, grass grows and the sun turns everything from gloomy cold to the bright stepping stone to summer that is spring. Instead of snow, we get cherry blossoms and buds that will one day become apples. You look down from the high points and see miles and miles of green spread out before you. If you live there you know that in a few weeks the heat will turn scorching and all the green will die until the fall rains come back, so you soak in those moments. You breathe in deep and smell the distinct smell of mountain air and animals and flowers in the sun, and your heart swells. And then you add the people, the food, the beautiful babble of Tamazight and Darija and my heart just bursts. From the tiny villages to the bigger towns, there is always a welcoming smile, a pot of tea on to boil, a new word or part of the culture to learn and a laugh to be had. The people are the same everywhere, though, from the mountains to the coast. The kind of kindness and hospitality that would invite a stranger into their home and feed them the only food they have in the kitchen. The kind of friendship that would give you a place to sleep and help you overcome whatever cultural obstacle you face. The ones who laugh with you when you blunder through a new word or situation you weren’t prepared for, telling you that you’re doing great and they welcome you to their country. The ones that stand between you and the those who would take advantage of you whether it is because of your gender or nationality. The ones who take you under their wing and show you how beautiful life can be in the most northern and western country of Africa. They invite you to weddings and engagement parties, music festivals, baby showers and to the public bath. They answer your myriad of questions, call you their sister, put their arm around you when you walk down the street, help you buy clothes and beg you to teach them English, all the while correcting your pronunciation and expanding your world with every friend they introduce you to. 

Sometimes I close my eyes and picture the city. The cities are large, crowded, noisy… fascinating. All the excitement of crossing the road at the perfect moment, catching a taxi to take you across town because it’s too far to walk, smelling the mixture of exotic spices, exhaust, and freshly baked bread. Everything is literally right there as soon as you walk out your door. Hanouts where you buy two eggs at a time because you only need two eggs for this meal and you can just buy more next time you need one. If you live in the right neighborhood you could go to the corner and buy an ice cream cone for a durham, but then later two dirhams, because inflation, I guess. There were the two main roads where the middle median is wide and there are fountains, benches, palm trees, twinkling lights strung across like power lines and the murmur of gossiping housewives, laughing children and exuberant teenagers. You’ll see football games in any open square, candy and cigarette stands every half a block and bump shoulders with smartly dressed businessmen. Brown and yellow buses rumble past, shiny cars honk at every little thing and bright red petit taxis dot the roads like a ladybug’s spots. Well, they were red in my city. You could tell which city you were in by what color the petit taxis were. Blue? You’re in the capital city. Green? You’re in Ifrane. White? Oh, you’re down south in the Hollywood of Morocco where they filmed Kingdom of Heaven and Babel. 

But my favorite part of the city was the old city. I love the winding pathways that work around corners and buildings, sometimes becoming too narrow for anyone to pass through. The way the paths dipped down and then came back up, walls closing in around you, and then leading you to a wide place. I loved the places where every shop was a butcher and you would smell them cooking their meat for you right there, spiced and ready to stick into a half of a piece of khubs. Or where all the olive sellers were in a line and you could see bucket after bucket of green, purple and black mixed with things you never thought to mix together. You can smell exactly where the bakeries are when walking down the street. Woman carry their unbaked goods and come back for them when it was ready, the smell and the steam wafting up from under towels where the food is kept warm. You could stop a hundred times by Beboujloud and find something to eat; a juice shop, a sandwich shop, a rotisserie chicken place where you buy a whole chicken with sides of rice and fries. Be careful of donkeys, though. Listen for the men to shout, “Balak!” and move to the side until they pass. They might be carrying cases of pop, or large boxes of things to be sold at a tourist shop, or maybe they are pulling a garbage cart. Either way, they don’t stop for you and I know from experience that a metal crate hurts when it bumps your arm because you weren’t paying attention. Also, the tunnels have amazing acoustics and singing at the top of your lungs with a group of your friends at night is a memory you’ll never forget. 

Of course, there are other places in Morocco. The beaches with burning sand and waves from the Atlantic or the Mediterranean, depending on where you are. Humidity that makes you feel just as damp and sweaty as you did before your shower. The ice cream tajine in Agadir, the ferry port in Tanja filled with every language and color of skin you can imagine, the beach town of Mehdiyya where you can stand in your kitchen and see the sun setting over the ocean through the window. The cities and villages in the far south where the endless expanse of the Sahara desert lies and where they live in mud houses and eat spicy food and wear black sheets called Lzars when they leave their houses. 

I miss the familiarity of the place that I love. The way I could smell the wood burning stoves in the winter and cedar when I walked past the woodworking shops. The dinging of metal workers, saying hello to the people at the cafe who spoke English, making up stories about the faces I saw every day but didn’t ever meet. The colorful sea of gorgeous headscarves and jellabas that move around you as you walk through the streets, and the huddles of friends and families on the steps by the square, soaking in the late afternoon sun. I miss my mind and heart coming alive as I learned a new language and culture. I miss all night dancing at weddings and having belly dancing dance-offs with my friends and learning what they were learning because they thought learning was fascinating. I could go on and on about the shibakiya and harira during ramadan, or eating sheep’s tongue on the first day of Aide, or our neighbors bringing us couscous on Friday’s because they love us. I could tell you how I wore headscarves and rode the bus and learned the national anthem, but I’ll stop. Like I said, I fell in love hard and once I unlock the memories I have saved of that place the words come gushing out. 

It’s a beautiful place. 

A beautiful place to call home.