A funny story from the weekend

On Tuesday of last week, each member of my program was paired with an English-speaking, Moroccan journalism student to work with for the remainder of the trip. On Friday night, a few of us Americans went out for the evening with our Moroccan partners. We went to a neighborhood called Agdal, which is much younger and more hip than the medina, and went to a bar with live music. We spent the evening drinking, dancing and bonding; my partner is named Mohammad, he loves music (especially Israeli music) and politics and seems like he will be fantastic to work with. But really, that’s beside the point, all you must know is that it was a late night and I looked forward to sleeping in the next morning.

Now for some background information. Along with the Ben Mekhish family, there is another family that occupies a room in my house. It’s a young couple (mid to late twenties I’d guess) and their young boy (he might be 1 year old). They are very kind and join us for some meals and the boy is adorable and he can’t stand being without his mom and, like so many infants, has the power to bring you to smile no matter what mood you’re in.

Over the course of the week, a strange phenomenon had been occurring during meals whenever Haitem (that’s the boys name) came into the room. My family would giggle and point to me and then Heitem and then me again while speaking Darija and making the sign for scissors with their index and middle fingers...above their genital region. My first thought was utter confusion, which I feel is an appropriate emotional response to a table full of Moroccans laughing and pretending to cut their penis’ off. This confusion turned to fear when it was made clear that I was to be somehow involved in whatever was to occur. A few more giggles and points at Heitem and I had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen: Haitem was going to be circumcised. What I had to do with any of it was still a mystery to me.  

So Saturday morning arrived, it was raining outside (the first rain I’ve seen in this country) and I was in bed. I wasn’t awake but I wasn’t asleep, enjoying immensely that in-between state one enters in the morning, where the line between your dreams and your conscious blur and you lay there, content with everything that enters your drowsy mind. Suddenly, a knock on the door; it was my brother summoning me for breakfast. Although another half an hour in bed would have been nice, 9:30 wasn’t the worst hour to be called upon and so I rose and joined the family for coffee, milk, bread and cheese. During breakfast, there was a certain buzz about the house, people were coming and going, people I didn’t know. At 10, Haitem’s mom came into the living room, smiling proudly and said something that made everyone stop eating and form a small parade that marched, frenzied and giggling, straight into my bedroom. Confused and a bit worried, I followed them and there, on the table crying, lay Heitem, his legs spread and his family circled around him.

I can’t say I really watched the procedure. Instead I paced, awkward and uncomfortable, in and out of my room, sitting on my bed, leaving to "use the bathroom," walking to the kitchen for no apparent reason, trying to conceal the fact I didn’t want to be a witness from the enthused crowd that did. After it was done, Haitem cried for about three hours while the family, in true Moroccan fashion, prepared a feast to celebrate the boyhood Haitem gained that morning…and I guess what he lost too. 

Over the next couple days, I'm going to try to get some photographs of my family members so you have an idea of what they look like...I know that I often say that I will do/post things on this blog and often fail to but I will try!