Salamu Alaykum. Peace be unto you.
Morocco 1998. I landed in Casablanca, and then took a charter plane into Marrakech - commonly referred to as the "Gateway to the South" - the last major city before entering the sprawling Sahara Desert. I had never been to Africa, never to a third world country, nor to a Muslim land. Here I would spend three months working on an adventure television reality show.
The first week I had breakfast with my colleagues, the conversation consumed with the inane details of production logistics. How would we coordinate getting 200 camels on the beach? The slurs against Moroccan culture and the local people left me with a pit in my stomach. I felt lonely among these people, and was thus compelled to venture out on my own into the reality that was Marrakech...
Now let me tell you a little bit about who I was when I arrived in Morocco. I was a person who enjoyed blending in. Like a chameleon, I adapted to anything. I liked being invisible. Suddenly, I found myself on display - tall, blond, white - clearly a Westerner. I think it was Hemingway who said it's not enough to live in two countries; it's the third country that gives you the third dimension. I had lived in the United States and France, so for me Morocco was that third dimension - a part of me that had yet to come out of the woodwork. There was no place for me to hide in Marrakech.
I quickly learned to navigate through the old city, a never-ending string of narrow dirt pathways. I felt myself in a kind of time warp - among the donkeys, carriages and dusty roads - looking for some kind of connection to this strange land. I noticed that Marrakech was filled with awesome sounds. With a conspicuous boom-box in hand, I spent hours meandering the streets recording grunting donkeys, zooming mopeds, bike-bells ringing, the light patter of rose petal fountains, the pouring of sweet mint tea, the calls to prayer emanating from the mosques. But where was the music? The musicians. The instruments. There I would surely find the soul of the people. I thought maybe the cafés, but they were packed with men smoking. As for the ladies in view, it was me and the local prostitutes. The others hid not only behind their veils but also behind closed doors. The only street musicians I could find were the snake charmers in the middle of Place Jama El'Fnah.
Then, one evening, my colleagues and I dined at Al Baraka, a restaurant situated in the heart of Marrakech. The production stress was mounting: "The walkie-talkie receivers aren't working! The High Atlas Mountains are in the way!"
Beyond the chatter, I heard a melody in the air. I spotted two young musicians playing on a small stage, housed in a canvas tent. A lute and a darbuka drum. The sounds were complex in their simplicity, resonating a lyrical interplay between the acoustic strings and the rhythmic drumbeats - the Moroccan spirit I'd been longing to experience. I approached the two musicians before leaving: Hicham and Mohammed. They both looked to be early-20s. Hicham only spoke Arabic, while Mohammed served as translator in his broken French. Fortunately, I too spoke French.
I invited them to my house to share their music at a dinner party. They were a hit. The guests flocked around. Hicham and Mohammed were beaming. As I escorted them out, Hicham pulled Mohammed aside to request a specific translation.
"Hicham wants to thank you," Mohammed said to me. "He wants you to know that you are the first person who has ever approached him in the restaurant and expressed appreciation for his music."
I couldn't believe that was true. But then I looked at Hicham standing there, rail-thin, holding his lute in his lanky arms, exuding a simple humility that left me speechless.
A week later, I was surprised when Hicham stopped by with Mohammed, unannounced, to invite me to his home for lunch. I felt honored.
"See you tomorrow!" I said.
"Inch'allah," he replied. If God wills it so.
In order to get to his house it was necessary for them to escort me in a taxi. I was entering unfamiliar territory, a place where few foreigners venture. Within moments of arriving in Hicham's neighborhood, the police stopped us, demanding to see Hicham and Mohammed's tour guide credentials. When they could not deliver, the police informed me in French that it was against the law for locals to be escorting a foreigner anywhere - due to a crime problem against tourists - and then hauled Hicham and Mohammed all the way to the precinct. I followed in bitter outrage, demanding to talk to the Head of Police. All I kept thinking was that Hicham's mother was preparing lunch, and the food was getting cold. Somehow I convinced the officers that I was not in danger, not to arrest them, and that I would return home. Instead, we strategized our way to Hicham's house, by taking separate routes, and reuniting at the other end.
The front door opened into the kitchen, where Hicham's mother was cooking, the smell of Moroccan spices in the air. She welcomed me in graciously, and then I was quickly ushered into the dining room. The apartment consisted of the bare minimum - flat-board walls, a table, an old tape deck, two benches and a few standing chairs. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a couple of beautiful cloth dolls prominently displayed on a corner-table. Their precious quality stood out in this humble home, almost like an heirloom. Hicham said his mom had made them; she had crocheted their Flamenco-style dresses. Soon after, a group of Hicham's friends joined us. It was just me and the boys eating home-cooked couscous, meat and vegetables. They pushed the larger pieces of meat towards me, insisting I take the very best. At one point, I grabbed a piece of bread from the basket, and the Arabic banter erupted into a burst of laughter, clearly directed at me. Mohammed explained that Muslim custom requires you to keep your left hand in your lap at all times when eating. Apparently, the left hand is the one they use to wipe in the bathroom. When I complimented the henna body-art on his mom's ankles, she promptly called a young girl from next-door, who spent hours covering my hands and feet in intricate designs, Hicham's brother playing the lute beside us. Now I grew up in a family where expression was much more guarded, so this kind of embrace completely overwhelmed me. I left with cotton balls stuck all over my arms to protect the henna from smearing, and Hicham paid for my taxi to get home safely.
I didn't see Hicham again until the day before I left the country six weeks later. My work on the TV show had taken me away, but the truth is I felt a deeper, emotional need to disconnect from Hicham and that experience. I was out of my comfort zone. Yet the fading henna reminded me that I couldn't leave Morocco without saying goodbye to him. So I stopped by the restaurant where we first met to drop off a small box of cookies as a gesture of thanks. Hicham greeted me at the door, where Mohammed translated that Hicham had been waiting to hear from me this whole time, that he had a gift for me, too. He handed me a big box, already wrapped.
"Hicham says not to open this until you get home," said Mohammed. He also said that Hicham insisted seeing me off at the airport.
5 a.m. the next morning, Hicham greeted me at the terminal with a bouquet of roses--poor Mohammed in tow. When the check-in attendant informed me that my extra suitcase would cost me an extra two hundred dollars, my protests amounted to nothing. Hicham caught wind of my scuttle and leaped into action. He shouted out to the baggage clerk, a friend of his, who promptly launched my suitcase onto the conveyor-belt. The lady issued me my ticket without another word.
I didn't know quite how to say goodbye to him. I knew that something important had transpired between the two of us. But what exactly? I walked away feeling grateful, yet relieved.
Just as the plane was taking off, I opened the box. Inside were the two dolls that Hicham's mom had made. The same ones I'd admired at dinner. It took my breath away. I was immediately overcome with emotion, a stream of tears and a deep pain that I couldn't identify or bear. It made me feel sick to my stomach. Hicham had given to me a piece of himself, of his family, of his home. How could someone who appears to have so little find a way to give so much? I just wanted to hear some music, to engage in a simple friendship. Suddenly, things felt way out of hand. So I closed the box. And, when I returned to New York City, I stored it under my bed and spoke of it to no one. There seemed to be no place for it in my life. I forgot about it.
Until a year later. I was moving, and when I cleaned the things out from under my bed, I came across the dolls. I was overcome by the same intense emotion.
And so I threw the dolls away.
The amount of shame contained in this confession is more than you would imagine. I sit here and feel a deep regret for throwing away such a gift. Why did I do that? I don't know. It's a question I still ask myself years later, something I've yet to make absolute peace with. Maybe I didn't feel worthy. But, there seems to be more to it... What was it really that affected me so deeply? Was it the thoughtfulness in such a simple gift, the memory of a wonderful day at Hicham's home, the purity and goodness in his soul, or the thought that I had touched his life as well - me a complete stranger? Who was I to him? Or was it the richness in his poverty? That his heart, like so many in Morocco are so open and ready to engage, full of generosity and warmth, willing and happy to give you what they have. It has absolutely nothing to do with money, with culture, with religion or language. It's the spirit--so strong it still moves me today.
I wish I'd had the foresight to keep those dolls until I reached a place in my life where I could accept and cherish the message that they held. All I can hope for is that one-day I'll have the opportunity and the courage to show that kind of selflessness to another.
Inch'allah.