The Hijrah Diaries Into The High Atlas III

Brooke Benoit returns to her long running series about gracelessly adjusting to living in Morocco – this time in a rural village in the High Atlas mountains.

Day 46
The landlord brought the water bill over to the husband today and hubby says that the guy was “very shocked” by our excessive water usage. I was so upset by this. It has truly been amazing to see firsthand just how much water we use in our household. For the first few weeks up here, without the water heater, we had to heat water by the potfulls every time we needed it for washing dishes, clothes and bodies. This gave us an opportunity to really see exactly how much water we are using- and wasting! Though we tried to be creative, there was very little we could do with rinse/grey water other than dump it. If I ever a garden again, insha Allah, I want to have a little tank under the kitchen sink (maybe the bathroom too) to catch rinse water for reusing in the garden.

I think that where we have failed up here is in our clothes washing. Even though I have completely reassessed my idea of what exactly are “dirty clothes,” we still used a lot – apparently more than anyone ever in the 4,000 year history of the village – of water to wash our clothes. I mostly blame the teenager who would try to hose off his clothes to a near state of clean with the shower head. We are all hoping to get a washer machine in the next few weeks, as the kids have been helping with the laundry and the husband has been doing a lot of it. I know machines use less water than handwashing, but since nearly all the other women in the village wash in the river, I’m afraid my landlord may be only slightly less freaked-out next billing cycle.

Day 60
One of my worst I’m-a-monster-city-slicker nightmares came true today. I was left with the task of burning the trash while hubby is back in the city. Though several of my neighbours burn trash right in front of their homes, we were told to do our burning far from houses, which after having toxic burning trash stench fill my home in Casablanca – I can appreciate that suggestion. I had to get the kids to haul the trash up the mountain, then buy petrol from the little hanout during one of the small windows when he is open and rush up the mountain to build my bonfire while the baby is sleeping or otherwise happily preoccupied. I looked out the window to check the kids’ progress and had a good, hearty laugh seeing my 10 year old son carrying bulging plastic bags up the hill while wearing pink kitchen gloves, which is actually a habit their father instilled in the kids for when they do the dishes, but sure – blame the bourgeois-kid-making on the mother. So, they got the trash out and I called to my eldest to run out and get the petrol as the guy was open – and then he suddenly closed, then he opened a few minutes later and seemed to not have petrol or any idea what son was saying and he closed again. Great. Now cats and wild dogs would surely find some smell of interest to warrant tearing through my trash and spreading it across the mostly pristine valley, which is what I am really worried about and why I wanted to do this in one fell swoop. But I couldn’t have foreseen what our nine year old neighbour was about to do… Ignoring the pleas of my son, the boy tore into every single one of our tightly tied up dozen or so small plastic bags and sifted through the entire contents of each, spreading the trash all over the burn site.
The horror! Quickly I realised there wasn’t anything overly embarrassing in there other than a few too many cellophane treat wrappers. But why would he do this?! My son suspects that he was scavenging for something valuable or reusable as many of the local kids make innovative toys with scraps and trash remnants. I was oddly proud to hear that he found nothing of value or interest among our trash – this means we are doing well to reuse everything reusable.

And I’m realising – once again – that while I work myself into a frenzy worrying about things – I really have no control. Now I have to ‘jab‘ up and go figure out where the husband bought that petrol from and pull my evil disposable nappies out of the thorn bushes.

Day 65
When we first attempted to move to Morocco a decade ago, I very much wanted to simply recreate my US lifestyle in the North African Mediterranean. In Casablanca that was easy enough to do. The few things I missed from the US were mostly food items, and with a little extra work I could I whip up nearly any of those dishes in my Casa kitchen. Before we moved out here to the sticks, I noticed myself doing that same thing again, I was hoarding up every possible thing that I was worried that I would want or need – new shoes, craft supplies, kitchen wares, hair accessories, specialty foods and homeopathic remedies – all these things that are not immediately available on the mountain, but surely my husband or someone could drag them in if we really, really needed them. As I was wondering around another Casa niche shopping district trying to remember what wasn’t on my list, (as there is always something else needed isn’t there?) I finally became aware of my behaviour, immediately stopped shopping and went home. I decided to “just make do” – to truly let go of stuff and just bring in what I could, not worrying about the rest – it would come if we truly needed it.

I began to hope that moving out here to the sticks would help me reevaluate some of my not-so-good dunya habits, such as my materialism as well as my eco practices. If my neighbour can make do without so much that I think is necessary, maybe I could rethink my needs. Maybe we cut our lifestyle down by force, since there really isn’t that much retail and entertainment-for-purchase to do out here, and then slowly we could decide where and if we want to build our… spending, really – it’s mostly about spending and now I have a chance to really see what it is that I value and to prioritise that.

Day 73
Two months in and The Eldest child is finally trying out this hiking bit. Yesterday we all went for a walk and he decided to climb up the foothills and check out a cave. We could barely see the dot of his red T-shirt as he neared the cave and then seemed to quickly descend back towards us. Turns out it’s some old man’s house! There were a few sheep on the ‘roof’ of it and a low rock building to the side. The old man was headed further up the hill to where a few other animals were. Of course now we are totally obsessed with why and how this man lives up there. Is he that poor or does he chooses to live in a cave? Where is his family and what happened that he is now living like that?

A general curiosity in hiking and discovery seems to have been piqued and The Eldest jaunted off after Fajr this morning with a pack full of snacks and the camera. I fully admit to being mildly jealous at my not being able to just go climb a mountain whenever I want, but then again – it’s no longer about me, at least not entirely.

Day 74
That old man on the mountain- found out that’s a shepherd’s daytime rest stop – not his home! This is exactly why I didn’t want to come for just a week or even a month. I want for my children (and myself) to have ample opportunity to really explore Allah’s I creation – to “get to know” each other and lots of goodness in between. As we watch tourists hike through town, (and I read their often cringeworthy blog and travel accounts) I become more aware of how travelling through can mostly just reinforce predisposed ideas. I imagine the story that we could have been spun about that mean old man, rejected by his family and left to fend for himself on the hillside. I’m becoming more aware of mine and our biases around class, gender and race, and I’m feeling that the local pace, which we are still acclimating to, is much more accommodating to explore and rectify these biases – insha Allah. And what a bonus that the backdrop for our “studies” is so magnificent.

Day 89
Hubby keeps asking me if I want to go back to the city, as if I will suddenly change my mind. Things are getting easier and my self-doubts are waning. As he was walking out the door for Thur, he asked for the second or third time today if I am “ready to go back” and then added that the landlord wants us to sign a contract if we plan to stay for a full year. Apparently the homeowner usually stores apples in this house during the winter and wants to be sure he isn’t displacing his harvest for nothing. “Sign it!” I called out to the husband. I am committed. And although I have said that I don’t want to think past one year, today I did walk over to see a little farm that is for sale. Just a little walk, just a little farm, just a little thought.

~~~

Living in the High Atlas mountains with her husband and six home-educated children, Brooke Benoit is (mostly) savouring living in a community where hands-on and doing from scratch are the norm.

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The Hijrah Dialogues: Hijrah Hopping with Jayla

From discussions of identity, belonging and race, to home and family – SISTERS brings you The Hijrah Dialogues, chronicling a diverse body of brave adventures and trials as muhajiras seek out their own spot on the spaciousness of Allah’s I earth, in search of that elusive greener grass.

Part Two: Brooke Benoit discusses hijrah-hopping across the Middle East with education specialist and EFL instructor, Jayla Muhammad, and her American-born children who have lived in Kuwait, Egypt, UAE, Qatar and now, insha Allah, are readying to move to Oman.

 
What is your family background?
My uncle was the first to become Muslim in my family. My other
uncle became Muslim next, then my mother and grandmother. After
a while all the cousins who were not born into Islam as well as my
two aunts took their shahadah. At one point in my life I gave myself
a year to make up my mind. I wanted to have a religious life and
I knew that I could not straddle the fence forever. I am grateful to
have been exposed to more than one faith and I think that I have a
deeper understanding and compassion for people from many walks
of life. I have a respect for others’ views and after giving myself that
year of learning and discovery, I chose Islam. So now, we have five
generations of Muslims in our family.

 
What was the first country you made hijrah to and how did you go
about doing it?
Egypt. I hated it from the first day. I got mistaken for being Sudanese
all the time. This is not a problem for me, but but it seems like the
people I ran into didn’t like people from Sudan. I was called every
name in the book! At first it didn’t bother me because they were
calling me names in Arabic, but after I learned what they were saying
it drove me crazy.
I was hired to teach at a fairly new school in Cairo which needed
teachers from the US to help them get certified. We did all the
interviews over the phone and they never saw me or any other
teacher. All together there were twelve teachers from the US, four
of us were black and all four of us got fired before the ninety day
probation period was over.

 
What other Muslim-majority places have you lived in?
I have lived in Kuwait, Egypt, UAE and Qatar. I didn’t like Kuwait and
I left because I didn’t feel safe as I had men follow me home from
work and shopping. From there I went to the UAE, which I really
enjoyed. I lived there for three years and made some great friends
and felt as if I could stay there for a long time. My kids all took Arabic
classes, had great friends and there were tons of wonderful parks
for them to play in or just to spend the day flying kites in. They were
happy and that alone made me happy.
We had to leave when I lost my job as I couldn’t find a replacement
job that I liked. I was offered many positions, but all of them required
me to take off my abaya and/or wear coloured scarves. Not that I am
of the opinion that a woman has to wear all black, but I’m not going
to work for a company that makes that choice for me. I knew Allah
I would provide something for me as long as I did what I knew in
my heart was right. I went to Doha and well, it didn’t really work out
for me so I returned home to the US.

 
You said you didn’t think you would ever go back to the ME after the first
time, what changed?
When I returned home I felt like I was in my own skin for the first
time in a long time, but that feeling didn’t last. After the honeymoon
wore off I started to feel like an outsider. I lived in Texas and there
are not many people in abayas there. I started to just wear hijab
and normal clothes, but I felt naked – I just couldn’t do it. I was also
uncomfortable in the abaya as people stared at me. Once, a lady had
rushed to grab her child away from where I was standing, insinuating
that I was going to do something harmful towards her child. I really
felt so low at that time. I don’t think I ever mentally recovered from
that day, and from there things just went downhill.
I started questioning everything. Why do I feel the way I do and why
am I allowing my children to deal with these issues? I wondered
what my life would really be like, if I would ever have the quality of
life I had before and would my children want to be Muslim as adults
or not? I felt that I was putting too much pressure on my children.
Then my children started asking me when we were going to go back
overseas. Our lifestyle in the US was very different when compared
to the UAE. My daughter was the only one in her school with a hijab.
Although this was not an issue for her, as she is she is very selfconfident, it did make it harder for her to make friends. We lived in an
apartment, we had an old car, we were struggling and it was hard on
them. In the UAE life was just better for me and my children.
Not many people have teens and tweens that want to move
overseas. Alhamduillah, I did. I think I needed that time away to really
appreciate the Gulf. Right now, we’re living in Egypt and while I can’t
see us making this home, I think I do feel better about being here
than I did about being in the US. Insha Allah once I am in Oman I will
be more at peace.

 
What are your long-term plans?
Well, we have several options. My husband wants us to settle in
Egypt. He has land here and wants to build an apartment for us in
Alexandria, but I am not sold on that idea. There are other countries
with large Muslim populations and I don’t and won’t just settle for a
place because it is convenient.
Once I retire, my kids can always sponsor me and that way I won’t
have to move. Or I can save my money, and once I find a place I
like, that offers a visa, I will retire there insha Allah. I find that saving
money is easier in the Gulf, after the first year it is easy to save up to
a quarter or even half of your salary. The first year I will have to set up
my home and buy a car, and if I work another ten years I can retire
with a nice piece of change. The one thing my children all have in
common is they all say they want to see the world. None of them
can even imagine a life without travelling.

 
*At the time of printing, Jayla was considering separate job offers in
Oman, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia

Brooke Benoit is an American artist who is home-educating her children
in Casablanca, Morocco. She hopes, insha Allah, that life in The Mahgrib
is the first leg of her own hijrah endeavours. Amongst her many interests
and concerns are radical education reform, sustainable living practices,
self-expression and discovery through art and sisterly love.

**This article originally appeared in the SISTERS Magazine (The Magazine for Fabulous Muslim Women) October 2011 issue.

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The Hijrah Dialogues: Muhajir Mama’s First Flight

From discussions of identity, belonging and race to home and family – SISTERS brings you The Hijrah Dialogues chronicling a diverse body of brave adventures and trials as muhajiras seek out their own spot on the spaciousness of Allah’s earth, in discovery of that elusive greener grass.

Part One: Brooke Benoit catches up with Iman Zaineb 44, an English as a Foreign Language instructor and professor of World Religions with an MA in History of Religions-focus on religions of South Asia, to discuss her journey from the USA to Morocco, and back again.

 A Muhajir Mama’s First Flight

When American convert Iman Zaineb was seeking a second husband, her marital forum profile insisted that hijrah be included in the package, “I want to live where I can hear the adhan five times a day, and not from a clock that looks like a mosque!” Her call sent out from Atlanta, Georgia was answered from Casablanca, Morocco.

 Iman, a well-seasoned traveller, avoided the typical expat intercultural communication and intestinal discomforts as she, along with her young daughter, quickly settled into a honeymoon period – both as a newlywed and also what expat experts call those first idyllic days of living in a new-to-you country.

“When I first arrived in Morocco, I lived in a very conservative, simple neighbourhood of working families. Because of the architecture of the place, neighbours saw each other frequently, while coming and going, hanging laundry, etc. We spent a lot of time chatting, going back and forth from each other’s houses and watching our children play. This was probably my best time as a Muslimah because there was a beautiful mosque in the area and I would often go with my neighbours to pray. I learned a lot about Islam and about Moroccan culture at this time.”

 Iman felt the rawness of being a stranger, an immigrant, and a black one at that.

It all gets real

Then Stage 2 began. As was agreed upon before the purchase of airline tickets and the nikah, Iman returned to work. She found a job at an American school where her daughter enrolled. The family moved closer to her job, which meant higher rent, and in turn Iman had to take on more work during evenings and weekends. This was less than ideal as she was now “always working” and spending few waking hours with her young child. Six months later she began a better paying job teaching English as a Foreign Language full-time at a costly international English language center in an urban district of Casablanca.

New unforeseen challenges arose for her as she was now forced to make choices she hadn’t imagined to be concerns in a Muslim country. “If I wanted the best paying classes in the banks, in the offices, of the CEOs of various industries, wearing my hijab was going to be an issue. It became a choice between looking like a Muslimah, or feeding and educating my daughter.”

Between the commuting, working long hours, de-hijabing for work, and the power plays with Iman being the family’s breadwinner, her marriage began to suffer under the stress. Iman and her husband amicably agreed to separate and she was granted a talaq (divorce).

“I went [to Morocco] to marry a Muslim man, with the desire to complete half of my deen. And within two years, I was back to being a single parent – struggling and outside of my homeland and without my family.”

By Myself

Iman moved, for the third time, within walking distance of her job and her daughter’s new school. In her new neighbourhood, not only was the masjid and Islam not “at the forefront of the scene at all,” but Iman felt the rawness of being a stranger, an immigrant, and a black one at that, “There were very few Muslims interested in entertaining a friendship with an African American single mother. Issues of race and marital status began to crop up in way that I, inspired by this Qur’anic verse, had not expected:”

“O mankind! Lo! We have created you male and female, and have made you into nations and tribes that ye may know one another.” [Sura Al-Hujurat:13]

When applying for her latest apartment, this time by herself, Iman was shocked and frustrated that, “I had to show my passport and have the office manager of the company vouch for my American-ness!” The landlord was upfront about not wanting to rent to sub-Saharan Africans due to stereotypes and biases common in Morocco. Innumerable micro aggressions and overt occurrences of racism became par for the muhajir’s course. In the chic interior of her job’s offices her “blackness” had her occasionally mistaken for a cleaning lady. Outside the offices, her treatment was sometimes worse:

“I was walking close to my home, after having taken my daughter to school when I saw a beautifully dressed older Moroccan woman walking past me. Her jeleba and scarf were amazing, and so I smiled and gave my salaam, since she was looking at me right in the face. She responded, “Shnoo briti, aziya?!” This is one of the strangest responses to ‘As salaamu alaikum’ that I have ever received. It’s Moroccan Darija for, “What do you want, black girl?!” Her response was an indication of the fact that to her, despite my hijab and modest dress, my Islam wasn’t enough. She saw me only as a Black person.”

 And away we go

These unexpected treatments were immensely different from Iman’s professional life as a teacher in the United States, at the prestigious all African American Morehouse College for men. She was the first woman, the first Muslim and even the first non-Minister to teach in the Department of Philosophy and Religion. Iman did not experience open discrimination based on her religion or gender, rather she was awarded for her teaching excellence.

EFL teachers in developing nations are notoriously treated as expendable. After five years of teaching, living, loving and learning in Casablanca, Iman’s stay unexpectedly came to an end when her company restructured and she was offered to renew her contract with too little work to support her small family. Not only did she not have the time and resources to quickly find another position elsewhere, but back in Atlanta her family was begging to see her and her daughter. Iman heeded her mama’s call and flew home.

On opposite shores of the Atlantic Ocean Iman has had to consider which side is greener and why? “Sometimes, while in Morocco, I wondered why I had left Atlanta?” She admits it was partially, “a bit of an Orientalist’s desire to live in the magical, mystical world of an Islamic nation, surrounded by fellow Muslims, and to raise my daughter in such an environment.”

For all the struggling of back and forth, Iman notes that her daughter has benefitted the most from their hijrah experience. Not only is the nine year old fluent in three languages, she has learned far more Qur’an than Iman has had the time to do so since her conversion over a decade ago.

Currently Iman is embarking on a new home-based career that she hopes will travel well, either back “to Morocco or some other Islamic nation – with more awareness and more mental preparation – so that my daughter can continue to study Arabic and Qur’an.” Insha Allah!

Brooke Benoit is an American artist who is home-educating her children in Casablanca, Morocco. She hopes, insha Allah, that life in The Mahgrib is the first leg of her own hijrah endeavors. Amongst her many interests and concerns are radical education reform, sustainable living practices, self-expression and discovery through art, and sisterly love.

~~~

This article originally appeared in the September 2011 issue of SISTERS Magazine–the magazine for fabuous Muslim women!

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The Hijrah Diaries #8 via SISTERS Magazine

Day 150: The culture shock books don’t say how long it should take me to stop bristling under my skin every time someone wags a “no” finger at me. This is perfectly acceptable, not-at-all rude and frequently used here, which is completely different from my own cultural training that dictates finger wagging as a very, very rude action only used to scold particularly naughty people. I’m pretty sure that I grimace each time someone wags at me, which must seem pretty weird.

Day 158: Today I negotiated to buy a fixer-up bicycle – fixed up. Well no, I’m not completely sure what I negotiated. We seemed to agree at 400 dirhams, but I’m not too sure what that includes. I think I’ll get a frame and new gears that the mechanic will transfer from the mountain bike we were both gesturing at, and I hope he puts on new tires because he kept saying “mzee’in,” meaning “good” – but what’s good? Ok, good, he’ll do it or no, the threadbare tires are good so he’ll leave them on? And I felt confident that the pick-up time was agreed upon for one week from now, but in hindsight, dude pointing at his watch and making rolling motions with his index finger and my response of counting off the days of the week in English on my fingers – that doesn’t seem very clear does it? I have no idea what was agreed upon!

Though it was a little rusty, the frame was nice, but purple –  which I don’t normally like, however I’m trying to get my preconceived aesthetics anyway. I am curious to see how he fixes it up for me, kind of like when I would go to a new hair stylist and say “do what you think is best.” I am so excited about having a bike and someone to occasionally watch my littlest people so I can actually go riding with the bigger ones.

Day 165: The bike situation is not going well. I got it. He seemed disappointed, perhaps I came back later than he expected – more pointing at his watch. I am really disappointed with the work and not sure how to proceed. He didn’t change the wheel and in addition to it being threadbare, all of it is warped. I peddled away feeling kind of wobbly, thinking wow, I was really rusty. Uh, no, it’s the tire! And some spokes are broken. The breaks do not work at all; found this out going downhill to the beach. He only put gears on the back, none on the front. Grr. Unsurprisingly, the husband is not happy that I adventurously handled this transaction by myself. Yeah, yeah haste makes waste, but I’m just not willing to wait a few more months for a bike, nor are the kids who are now expecting to go to the beach every weekend. I’m negotiating for every other weekend and holidays off. But first I need to go back to the mechanic and do a lot of pointing and fingering wagging. And I’m going to continue to try hard not to read into why the dude felt he could do such shoddy work on my bike. Female? Foreigner? Allahualim—my business is getting a rideable bike!

Day 170: The sister-in-law and I are going to try an organised cooking schedule. This forced meals at specific intervals is killing me, but I concede that it probably is best when you’re feeding eight to ten people at non-arbitrary times. I am very used to squeezing food in-between all the activities and stuff the kids and I were doing, but now the meals are central and squeezables are much more rare. We are going to try switching off for whole weeks at a time, she will be in the kitchen for one week, then me the next week and so on. Not only are we going to trade off the cooking, but it will be overall kitchen management, so also cleaning and shopping. The days of living like kings will now come to end for my boys, who will be back to regularly contributing to cooking and cleaning. They are huffing and whining about – gasp – having to wash dishes by hand! But they are looking forward to cooking and making their favorite dishes again. They are also plotting science experiments and have started a list of needs, including food coloring, cupcake wrappers, rock salt and cornstarch. These kids know their crafts and snacks!

I’m hoping to reduce production time in the kitchen. I could easily, and sometimes do, spend four to five hours a day cleaning, preparing and cooking food – plus sauces and vinaigrettes are made entirely from scratch, as most Moroccans do. It’s not uncommon for folks here to make mayonnaise from scratch – no way! Sometimes I feel like my sister-in-law and I are one upping each other, getting far too grandiose creating multiple dishes for each meal. Living in the Mediterranean is really a gourmet delight, but it’s just too wasteful to spend so much time pleasing our tongues. So, I want to find ways to satisfy eight to ten different preferences and dietary needs and not be too extravagant about it. And we are going to have to get some canned tomatoes in this pantry.

Day 177: The house next door has been sold, emptied and demolished in the past couple of weeks. We are now the last house on the block, and one of the few remaining houses in the neighbourhood, which is full to capacity of zone-allotted six-story apartment buildings. Actually, they follow the silly European protocol of calling the second storey the “first storey” so we are shadowed all around by seven storey buildings. And due to the unique, non-uniform shape of our block – we are now wedged between three concurrent construction sites. Two are immediately next to us on the north and south side of the house and another is just about five meters off of the east/back side. I could stick my arm out several of our windows and reach a construction worker. Nice. That’s three different angles from which we are hearing construction sounds all daylight hours, six and even seven days a week. And they occasionally drill and hammer holes into the outer walls of our house to do various things for their sites. We have new and bigger cracks in the plaster all the time. Whenever someone slams a door in the house or the Chergui winds swirling around the house slam the doors, a grandparent yells something about how the front balcony is going to fall off.

I’m trying to remain positive. After all, the construction sites are endlessly interesting for the kids to watch and learn from. The work is done quite differently from the States; much more is done with bare hands and even bare toes in sandals! Still, I can’t help but feeling the very literal encroaching of urbanism all around us and it is choking our dreams of a little land, a vegetable garden and some animals. The “BAM, BAM, BAM. DUHG, DUHG, DUHG. TUNK, TUNK, TUNK” is chipping away at my sabr, sabr, sabr.

~~~

As originally published in the June 2011 issue of SISTERS Magazine–while you’re over there, check out their article “The Down Low, Let’s Talk Clinical Depression.”

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Hijrah Diaries Seven: J-O-B

Word cloud with the word "Solace" central forming a coffee/tea cup with steam rising out. "Finding Solace" appears below.

Day 112: Ok. I know that happens. I know some brothers have multiple wives on multiple continents. I know some of those wives by name. But – as if I don’t have enough on my plate right now – I really don’t need women projecting their fears onto my life. I know that! I know brothers do that and I know it is their right and I know my rights too, thank you very much. Allahualim, what is to be will be. I just don’t need to be wasting any of my energy worrying about that or about much of anything. I am struggling to be in the moment while simultaneously planning for the future, appreciating that Allah is the best of planners and being patient. This is a really tall order for me. So just shut up already. I’m going back into my cave now.

Day 120: I haven’t been going out much at all, and “out for her needs” means “exercise and fresh air” for me. Those are my needs. I need them! But I feel guilty about dumping all my kids on my m-i-l or s-i-l for babysitting and it isn’t easy to drag five little kids around on foot in Casa, actually I have yet to see anyone else doing it! So, I take them out in pairs, but then this doesn’t really give me a break does it, so I just don’t go out much. This is temporary, I tell myself. This is temporary. And Allah knows best. Oh yeah, socialization is a pretty big need too, but since I have no friends, in the physical immediate, guess that is a moot point. At least the kids have each other. And cabin fever. Gah.

Day 125: Not digging this separation thing with me being alone here in the Hub’s backhomelandia and him being alone (well, with the son) in my backhomelandia. I am stuck in a  cycle of resentment  for feeling that I am carrying too much of our load and I’m angry at myself for being unappreciative. Resentment, anger, resentment. I also have small doses of fear thrown into the mix for variety. I do fear that we will have to do this again next year and maybe every year for the rest of my life, as so, so very many people do. Oh yes, and there is also me recognizing, not really dealing with, just recognizing my feelings of entitlement. While confronted with how so many people live and accept their lives, I am impatient at how we are living ours and I am questioning – very loosely, as I just don’t presently have the concentration for too much deep thought – what kind of life I have been conditioned to believe and believed to think that I am entitled to have versus what my reality is. I feel entitled to something other than what I currently have, and that is a very ugly thing to feel. Still, not keeping my nose out of the resentment, unappreciative, fear cycle long enough to confront this entitlement business. I’m just mad. All.the.time. And like a good ummi, I’m trying to hide it – all of it. Amazingly, the kids seem far more patient with the adjustments, but I do think they have not gotten past the newness of it all, yet.

Day 133: Thinking about getting a job. I see the absurdity as I type this sentence. As if I’m not frustrated enough! Would a job magically cure my ills? It most likely would add more stress to my load, so I keep trying to suck on that unsavory word – sabr – but I know I could buy some tastier whatnots with the few bucks a job would provide. I could even take coffee breaks all by myself!

When we were negotiating our marriage I told the would-be-hub that I wouldn’t work after we had kids. We now have five kids and I have only very briefly held myself to that promise. When we had our first a year after our nikah, I felt a little guilty about handing him the full load so soon, so I kept working – for two more kids! Then I started working from home, as if the lack of drive time makes it any less work. And then when a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity came up while I was pregnant with our fourth, I briefly went back to work, or rather out to work – remember I never actually stopped working except that other year that we were here in Morocco.  Of course, I was homeschooling that year and all subsequent years. “Teacher” is what I believe the paid position is called. And then I went back out to work again when I was pregnant with the fifth. See, so, I don’t know why I keep thinking this should be such a cut and dry, yes or no decision to make about getting a job – here, there or anywhere – when obviously it is very very very complicated.

The husband has asked me to be patient, ride out this rough patch, but of course if I can find something to do from home as I previously have… Grrr. The major problem with working from home is that the spousal unit has always struggled with recognizing my need for allocated, separated, recognized Work Time in order to be able to effectively work at home. He will recognize this need only when I am stressed out, when things are running smoothly, it’s as if he thinks I have mastered the work stuffs and can add the childcare to my work duties. Then I get stressed out again.  I suspect that the in-laws are really going to struggle with the work-at-home ummi dynamics – on top of their current struggles with the homeschooling thing and not only the kids always being home, but also having such different rules than what Moroccans are typically used to for their kids. Pshaw, even Americans don’t understand why I let the kids play with a water table and sand box in the house! Anyway. Do I continue to let the almighty dollar command my lifestyle? It does anyway doesn’t it? Where is my mountaintop and my goat!? How much do goats cost here?

Day 135: Oh. So I just revisited some websites about the stages of expat culture shock and apparently I am exactly where I am supposed to be. The stage has even been coined “The Irritation and Anger Stage.” Excellent. I am clinically where I am supposed to be and I haven’t even been doing it right. These expatry expertys recommend A LOT less dependency than I have been partaking in. They suggest taking the bus! My God, no one in this family does that. I mean I tried to figure out the bus routes and was guffawed and discouraged by the other adults in the family. Again, too much dependency. Maybe instead of a goat and a mountain, I should figure out how to get a donkey and a wagon.

 ~~~

This article originly appeared in the May issue of SISTERS Magazine. Other entries can be found around my blog here (will organize them soon, insha Allah) and a few HERE on the SISTERS site.

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My Hijrah Diary in SISTERS Magazine

I’ve been meaning to tell ya’ll that my Hijrah Diary is being chronicled in SISTERS magazine (The Magazine for Fabulous Muslim Women). It started up in November and should run for several months insha Allah. Here’s a lil’ excerpt from last month:

January 27:  We have 840+lbs of luggage allotment—nearly a ton! — and I can’t decide whether to take the bake ware or not. And I still don’t know if we will be living in the north or south and whether or not to pack for winter or spring! I HATE stuff. If Hassan asks me one more time “not to take too much, but be sure to take ____”, I’m going to a mountain top with my sheep BY MYSELF! Well, I’ll take the baby too, of course. And I’m so mad at myself for being attached to all this glittery distraction, though the bake ware is hardly glittery anymore. I know almost all of it is available there. And if it’s not, then surely I don’t need it because Moroccans don’t need it. Right? Except for the kids’ paperbacks. I need those. And the half dozen books about and by Muslim women that I have bought and not yet read. And the Legos which I can’t afford to replace there. And my mini Pampered Chef spatula. AstagfirAllah.

Really, I know it’s not about stuff. I finally cried a bit today and I couldn’t blame it all on hormones. And I can’t blame it all on stuff.  The reality is that I’m leaving home and I feel like a big baby about it.

SISTERS went monthly last month (congrats Sisters!) and are regularly adding new content to their site, where you can read some articles, so check them (us!) out.

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Keeping You In A Stereotype: I’m Still Racist and more!

One of the very first things I did when I moved to Casablanca was buy a street map. The in-laws, kindly, suggested that I not actually read it in the street, because–you know–it would make me look more like a tourist and thereby make me more susceptible to unwanted attention. So last week when I saw a young couple reading a map together on a corner, I took notice of them and their touristy ways. Then I wondered if maybe they were Moroccan (yes, I’m a bit of a lookie-lou) and thought that he could probably pass, but even though there are people here of all shades, she just looked too European and then they were out of sight and out of mind.

Just a few streets down–wow– I saw another couple and a map! I’ve never seen people reading maps on the street before and now two in a row! But this time, the first thing that “innocently” popped into my mind was “prostitute.” Sit with that a second.

~ ~ ~

There are various rumors and urban legends about prostitution here in Morocco. There are rural areas that are reputed to be known for having many prostitutes. There are rumors about wealthy Arabs touring the country for solely for the purpose of soliciting. Then there is the rumor about sub-Saharan women (read Black) coming to Morocco to prostitute.

The couple on the corner was a Black woman–probably not Moroccan because she had extensions and Moroccan women don’t generally have them–and the man was a chubby white guy who was a little older than her. It is very likely that this was another European or maybe American or whatever couple–maybe not even a bonafide couple–but what obviously left an impression in my head was the rumor–and stereotype–that Black women come here to prostitute themselves.

I can already hear the skeptics, supporting me and my racist thinking. Whether or not the rumor is true is not the point and comments should not address that aspect, because that is derailing. I can also hear my/your inner racist demanding “Well, so what?” It’s not like I said anything or did anything. But I could have had I been in a position to interact with them. It could have been something as uncontrollable as a questioning look to a more “knowing” dirty look, shake of the head, click of the tongue, snide comment and so on. I feel it’s safe to say that if this couple goes about as a couple at all, it is likely that someone has acted on either that specific stereotype or some related trope.

I’m sure that I have acted on a stereotype or racist idea before. One isn’t immediately coming to mind, but being in Morocco I know that I have had quite a few Orientalist thoughts pop to the front of my brain and I must have acted on them somehow. Perhaps I am more inclined to act on them when they remain subconscious, but I am not sure and that is why I keep trying to recognize my isms when I notice them–so that I can correct myself.

Lately, a frequent ism I see popping up in my mind is my ableism. I’m not very well versed in ableism at all and have only just recently begun to notice my own ableism. It usually pops up regarding mental health. For instance, this weekend I was reading about this medical condition that may be a physical condition, but is often thought to be a mental disorder. I read a statement from a woman who says that it is a physical condition and she sufferers from it. Now, I am completely unsure about whether this condition is “real” or not, but because this woman is a famous singer from the sixties my brain did this super fast strawman/Rochard thing that looked like–”singer from sixties/must be burnt out stoner/therefore crazy.” This isn’t the first time I have noticed myself dismiss someone or their opinion based on a bias towards mental illness/disability.

Logically I know this is ridiculous, but since I have “caught” myself thinking this way I must–on some level–either believe or (hopefully) do some sort of auto-regurgitation of the ism ideas which I have been indoctrinated with–both the idea that Black women are “hotter” and more sexually promiscuous (again, I get that is all very conflated and wrong–that is the stereotype) and that people with a mental disorder/illness are not as accountable as say–me. Sheesh. That’s some ugly stuff.  As difficult as it is for me to write about these things, I am really thankful that I am beginning to “see” them more clearly.

Anyway, for now, let’s consider why it is so important to recognize these little racist (and other ist) thoughts that surface through from my/our unconsciousness.

 

Although they may appear like insignificant slights, or banal and trivial in nature, studies reveal that racial microaggressions [racial transgressions] have powerful detrimental consequences to people of color. They have been found to: (a) assail the mental health of recipients, (b) create a hostile and invalidating work or campus climate, (c) perpetuate stereotype threat, (d) create physical health problems, (e) saturate the broader society with cues that signal devaluation of social group identities, (f) lower work productivity and problem solving abilities, and (g) be partially responsible for creating inequities in education, employment and health care.

Acting on stereotypes in anyway hurts people in many ways. And again, we can’t change our behavior unless we identify it, so please don’t tell me that I’m not racist. Go identify some of your own isms. Further reading:

A brief history of how white people created and maintain the Over-Sexualized Black Woman trope aka Jezebel,The Jezebel Stereotype at the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia

Historically, White women, as a category, were portrayed as models of self-respect, self-control, and modesty – even sexual purity, but Black women were often portrayed as innately promiscuous, even predatory.

An explanation of how well-meaning white folks (and others) unknowingly commit racial transgressions all.the.time.  Racial Microagressions in Everyday Life

In our 8-year research at Teachers College, Columbia University, we have found that these racial microaggressions may on the surface, appear like a compliment or seem quite innocent and harmless, but nevertheless, they contain what we call demeaning meta-communications or hidden messages.

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A Little Etymology: Third World

“Like the third estate, the Third World has nothing, and wants to be something,”

 ~1952 Alfred Sauvy, coiner of the term Third World. 

I’ve been thinking about how “Third World” sounds so derogatory. What does that mean? Third in relation to what? And I never hear the term “Second World,” so what does that mean? Actually, I never hear “First World” either. Perhaps because it can be assumed that all talk is about the First World unless it is identified that the talk is about the Third World (or that Second World that I never hear about)? Well. I finally took a minute to review what my friends at wiki have to say about it:

The term arose during the Cold War to define countries that remained non-aligned or not moving at all with either capitalism and NATO (which along with its allies represented the First World) or communism and the Soviet Union (which along with its allies represented the Second World).

So, you are either a good guy or a bad guy, or a nation to be conquered, colonized and absorbed into the good guys or the bad guys.

More wiki:

This definition provided a way of broadly categorizing the nations of the Earth into three groups based on social, political, and economic divisions. Although the term continues to be used colloquially to describe the poorest countries in the world, this usage is widely disparaged since the term no longer holds any verifiable meaning after the fall of the Soviet Union deprecated the terms First World and Second World.

Ah. Outdated, antiquated, derogatory or “not pc” as some may say. What are we calling these nations now?

From Apropedia: Majority world

The majority world (sometimes capitalized as Majority World) is a term used in preference to the largely inaccurate, out-of-date and/or non-descriptive terms developing countries, third world and the “South”. In the early nineties, Bangladeshi photographer Shahidul Alam [1]began advocating for a new expression “majority world” to represent what has formerly been known as the “Third World.” The term highlights the fact that these countries are indeed the majority of humankind. It also brings to sharp attention the anomaly that the Group of 8 countries—whose decisions affect majority of the world’s peoples—represent a tiny fraction of humankind.

Majority world defines the community in terms of what it is, rather than what it lacks.

Read more

Actually, I can’t think of a time when I have used the term third world, so I kind of doubt that I would even use majority world. I just wanted to know what that was all about. And now you do too

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