The homestay

Note: The way that I am spelling the names of my family members is likely incorrect. I am just spelling them as I pronounce them…which is probably incorrect as well.

Mama Fatima, with a huge grin crawling across her face took my hand and pulled me in for a kiss on each cheek, ignoring the drops of sweat that rolled the length of my face. Mehid extended his hand and said “Hello.” Niema also offered her hand and I took it softly, nervously; she didn’t say anything. Immediately, they ignored my protests and took two of my bags; Mama Fatima and Mehid shared the weight of my duffle while Niema carried my daypack, which probably matched her in weight. From time to time on the walk, Niema would crunch her face up towards me, pump her arms, and take five, rapid breaths, signifying the workoutshe was getting from carrying it. She would then let her face soften and her mouth form a smile to let me know that she didn’t mind. Later, I would meet Hameda, my other brother, and my Baba Saiid. The five of them make up the Ben Mekhish family and they have been kind enough to take me into their home for the next couple months.

Mama Fatima radiates kindness. Like many Moroccan women in the Medina, she spends her days around the house cooking, cleaning, and caring for the children. She is always looking out for me, making sure that I have eaten enough and that I am comfortable. She doesn’t let me say no to what she offers: food, sandals, a spot on the couch, more food, anything. For my bedroom, she has given me the salon of the house, by far the biggest and most beautiful room and has given me my own key so that I feel absolutely secure. She is wonderful and I’m very happy to call her Mama.

Baba Saiid walks with a cane and laughs like Santa Claus. He has a friendly face and his teeth are beginning to rot and he speaks with a slight slur and holds onto my arm while we walk together through the souq (market). As we stroll, he points to things and says the Darija word for it, which I mispronounce back to him and he repeats it, slower the second time, even breaking it into syllables for me if I am really struggling. Once I get it, he asks “American?” and we repeat the process, I the teacher, him the student. This is how Baba Saiid and I pass the time, sharing in the struggle and frustration that is learning language.

Mehid and Hameda are my age and treat me like a mute brother. They shake my hand and give me high-fives, they introduce me to their friends in the souq, and they always ensure that the street vendors aren’t ripping me off. Mehid took me to get a cell phone and a hair cut yesterday. Hameda and I sit in the living room and bob our heads to 50 Cent (he’s a big fan even though he has no idea what is being said). When you don’t share language, you have to find other things to experience together: sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and, when those fail, simple silence often works too.

My little sister Niema is my best friend in the family. She is twelve years old and is learning English in school. Through a combination of her very limited English, my very limited Darija, and pointing, we can often find a way to just barely, sort of, kind of communicate. We sit and listen to music (she plays me a song and then I play her one), walk through the Souk, and look at her English schoolbook together. She goes to school four days a week for a few hours a day and spends the rest of her time helping her mother around the house.

It’s strange to see; her older brothers hanging around the souk, making catcalls and giggling like school boys when women walk by and Niema at home, 9 years younger, helping her mother bake bread and clean. That’s not to say that women in Morocco are utterly mistreated. Compared with much of the Middle East and North Africa, Morocco is quite progressive and women have more rights today than any day in the past. I don’t think that Mama Fatima and women like her are necessarily forced into this domestic lifestyle; however, they are strongly encouraged to go there by culture, family, and religion. Will this change by the time Niema is a young woman? It’s tough to stay. But my hope is that at least she will get some more choice than Mama Fatima did and that the generation after her will get even more and like the wheel of a bicycle, Morocco will roll forward.
  

My short time with the Ben Mekhish family has been a lot of things: exciting, nerve racking, fun, emotional. It’s strange to know that my time with them will end; that in a couple months, I will leave their house and their lifestyle and return to my own: showers everyday, a toilet that flushes, utensils, my own cup of water with meals. It’s strange to know that the computer I’m typing on now likely costs approximately the same amount as the family’s yearly income and that the clothes I brought with me may well exceed the clothes each member owns. Yet strangest of all is knowing that this isn’t poverty. Compared to many others in Morocco and around the world, the Ben Mekhish family lives in comfort and it’s the incredible privilege I was born with that makes me see otherwise.

So the question becomes: how does one react to privilege? Should one feel guilty and try to rid them self of it? Or just accept their luck and enjoy it while it lasts? Can one truly strike a balance between maintaining the privileges they were blessed with while using those privileges to make real, beneficial change in the lives of those less fortunate? I can’t say that I know the answers to these questions now; however, hopefully by the end of my stay I can begin to.  

Baba Saiid holding my right arm for support and Niema clutching my left hand while we parade through the skinny streets of the souk. We walk at a slow pace for Baba, whose legs struggle with the weight of his personality. We get looks as we walk, giggles too and we smile and point and nod at everything around us, defining the world in our own strange and silent language. Until next time.

-Granger Tripp

My bedroom (the salon)

My house is the second on the left.

Niema and I (notice the haircut!)