Going to Morocco was like breathing fresh air again for the first time in 8 years. And not just one mouthful of fresh air, but mouthful after mouthful after mouthful as I finally relaxed my thick wall of self-preservation until I realized it was crashing down around my feet and everything inside of me was alive again. Suddenly I was me again.
What do I mean by this? Wasn’t I me at all in the last 8 years while living in America?
Of course I was. But when you come from another country and your heart is broken and there’s no one around you to keep that piece of you that was the happiest from dying, you carefully begin to section off what is and is not acceptable. Living overseas for the 6 most influential growing up years of your life means that that place leaves an indelible mark on you and your character, but when that mark becomes disregarded or misunderstood, you hide it. Protect it. Ignore it.
I like to think that I’m good at processing my thoughts and feelings and allowing pain to have it’s way for a season so that I can find healing on the other side. It’s important to me that I cry when I need to cry, and express myself when I feel full of thoughts and words and emotions. But somehow there was a piece of me that got missed. Or maybe it didn’t get missed, it was just untouchable. Not because of me, but because of life. Because I was gone. Because no one called me Samira anymore, or told me to, “eat, to get fat, to get married.”, or invited me over to drink atay b’na3na3, or could understand me when words burst forth from my mouth that were in another language. It wasn’t that people didn’t care, or want to understand, it’s just not the same. It can come close. It can touch the edges and whisper on the side, but it doesn’t touch the empty, aching hole right in the middle.
Thailand was “close” because it was another country.
Turkey was “closer” because you could see minarets and hear the call to prayer.
Egypt was “almost close enough!” because it was the same continent!
But the second I saw those vibrant green fields and rolling hills out of the window as we descended over Casablanca, tears filled my eyes, my throat felt tight, and I realized, “I know this place. This is home. It’s my home! I know this place!” The wheels touched down and I tried my hardest not to cry, but I couldn’t hold back a few tears because, wow! It felt good to breathe again.
I kept myself in check, though, because I was nervous. How much had this nation changed without me? How much had I changed without it? We both still looked the same, but was I going to face the sting of realizing that too much time had passed and “home” was gone forever now? I kept to myself as I made my way through the airport and finally through to the outside.
Now what?
“Get on a train,” my brother said. So I did, allowing my excitement and adrenaline to carry me through this unknown process. Still, I held myself back. One part of me was soaking in the sunshine streaming through the window and knowing it was the same sunlight that used to kiss my face as a teenager, the other part was preparing myself for disappointment or the familiar touch of fear, whichever might come first. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
A hand on my shoulder. An earful of Arabic. My apologies as I told her I didn’t understand and to repeat it, please. Instead of her throwing up her hands and going to find someone else, she repeated her request to use my phone to call someone. Again, I apologized, but this time because my phone wasn’t from there and didn’t have service. Ah, she said, understanding, then left.
The Samira inside of me that had been shut up deep, deep down in the most repressed part of my soul saw light for the first time in so long and, yes! There it was! Fresh air in my lungs, and I couldn’t stop the joy that bubbled up inside of me. I had spoken and been understood. I had said words and she understood what they meant. I had been understood. Understood.
Living in the country that I do now means that I am “Samira” and I encounter the Arabic language almost daily. But it’s not the dialect of my heart. It’s not the language that fills my head and sometimes cannot be pushed back down but must come out before I can think of English again. Here, I cannot talk and be understood. In America, I cannot talk and be understood. And it’s fine. I’m where I am supposed to be and every step of my journey has had more purpose than I can fathom, but I missed that; that feeling of fresh air filling my lungs when I speak and see recognition light up another person’s eyes. They understand me.
By the second day of my trip, I had let down all my inhibitions and allowed myself to revel in the sweetness of being home. And truly, it was home for me because I could walk down the street or enter a home or interact with a stranger and I knew what was expected of me culturally. I wasn’t constantly searching for clues to tell me how to behave or what to say or give me an escape. The stress and fear that had been building up the last seven months were stripped away and, breathe in, breathe out… I was home.
After 6 days, I felt like a new person. Every part of my being was refreshed from the inside out. That weight of fear was gone. That shadow of doubt telling me that I was doing everything wrong was nowhere to be found. I was Samira again; full of life and breathing deeply.
Leaving that all behind was hard, of course, but I quickly focused on where my feet are now. Here. On the other side of the continent. Yes, I’m not fully who I am in Morocco when I am in this country, but I’m not supposed to be. I’m here to love these people and honor them by learning their language and their culture. I came back realizing how much I have left to offer this city and the people in this place. It’s important to do all that I was made to do in this time, and going home gave me the strength, understanding and desire to do that.
One of my favorite parts of this story is that it’s not over yet. Not even close. There will be more trips home for longer periods of time where I can breathe again. I can remember who I am and who God made me to be again. Hmdlah, He is faithful.
All my love,
Samira
