Link (self)Love: OnIslam Coming Home with the Cows

Being one of those Muslims who spent a lot of time using the resources available online while coming into my deen (and I still do of course!), it is especially exciting for me to have written an article on parenting, nature and green stuffs for the site OnIslam.

“Allah also gave me an opportunity to get away from it all. I don’t mean the five-star sort of getting away; rather it was a chance to try this simple living thing that so many people pine for, though I had never.”

Recently I read an interview with Ibrahim Abdul-Matin, the author of ‘Green Deen,’ in which he laments about how and why so many Muslims are out of touch with the nature and therefore, apathetic to environmental issues.

Seated 1200 feet above sea level in my mud house located in a mostly self-sustaining farming community in the High Atlas Mountains, I was geographically so far away from Abdul-Matin in Brooklyn and living a much different lifestyle, still I embarrassedly felt that he spoke exactly about me.

Before moving to Morocco, I assumed that I would relocate there, creating my long dreamed of suburban family home, but with Arabic (or French) subtitles. I don’t knock myself (or anyone else) for having such dreams.

I wanted a big chunk of Allah’s glorious bounty: my own semi-private yard, a comfortable car and enticingly displayed foods for sale within a short driving distance.

Please keep reading here.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

Hijrah Diaries: Into the High Atlas Mountains

Mountains in the distance with a sprinkling of trees and shrubbery in front in a valley, from SISTERS Magazine’s November ’12 issue.

Day 2: While I was in a fairly frantic speed-settling mode, first thing this morning The Kids (#1- #5) burst out of the house with their homemade arsenal of wooden weaponry and introduced themselves to the neighbourhood. Though I was happy to get them out of my way, I really didn’t feel this was the most effective approach to meeting the neighbours, you know, sharing cookies maybe… but it actually went really well, which just reinforces how little I understand the male species. They were happy, their new friends were happy; the injuries were few and superficial, and still, I got next to nothing done. Perhaps this is because I have a continually nursing one month old and unrealistic expectations.

A small circle of men had gathered round and were discussing a pressing problem in the village – our children.

This is one of the many things I am hoping our move up here into the mountains will do for me. I am hoping that I will learn to let go, to “hand it over to Allah (SWT)” as they say. Though I certainly don’t consider myself a “control freak,” I am open to the possibility that I could be wrong. I know that I do too much, but I don’t know what else to do – or not do! The problem can’t be prioritising as there is nothing on my list that I can give up: I cannot give up nursing Asiya – it is her right and was extended to all of her siblings, so that would just be too wrong for me to do. I do truly feel that nursing her is a blessing and our relationship is symbiotic. I don’t interrupt her feedings for anything, and I also don’t walk around while feeding her (I am lacking in grace and coordination) so at least breastfeeding forces me to SIT. I also cannot give up on working, and even though I sometimes fantasise about giving up homeschooling, the kids won’t let me at this point, as they say “We won’t get on the yellow bus!” Obviously I cannot give up the bare essentials: praying – I already don’t feel that I do enough acts of ‘ibadah and should be adding in this area; eating – I am perfectly content to eat simple foods, but the family has been really spoiled by my SIL and trying to one-up each other in the kitchen the last couple of years. I’m sure eating gruel three times a day isn’t going to be an easy adjustment for the husband and kids to make (though I will serve it up); and sleeping – even though for decades I have tried to reduce my sleep time, Alhamdulillah my body won’t deny me that right. And there is so much more I want to do, like hiking in these beautiful mountains, and everyone else manages somehow. So ultimately I lean towards thinking that my problem is about time management, though I have an inkling that it is worse than that – it’s a problem with my belief. I believe that I can do it all and just haven’t found a way yet, but I may be wrong there. Allah (SWT) may just show me what I have to let go of – I hope!

Day 7: Zaynab, the nearly six years old, has quickly assimilated the local schedule. She knows exactly when the bread starts to be baked in the outdoor ovens and makes the rounds looking for scraps. “Please don’t let your children go around begging for food,” the Husband whined. Of course I assumed the ladies just gave it to her because she’s so cute, masha Allah, but upon questioning it turns out she demands it. In her limited Tshilhit, Zaynab goes around saying “Give me bread.” Lovely, she’s not a beggar, she’s a forty pound bully. And today I saw her coaching the three year old on how it’s done.
Day 9: Husband went back to Casablanca after Fajr this morning and I just want to bawl about it, but I am really too tired and dehydrated to shed a tear. There is just so, so much not the way I want it. I have no idea how to refill the prepaid electricity card and no idea how long it will last, and neither does the landlord or anyone else because who knows how excessive we Americans will be in our use? And I don’t even know where he lives or how to use the phone to call him or anyone else! I forgot to ask husband to explain how this phone works as it has a passcode and uff!

My biggest concern is the kids. Salams, my name Brooke is and I am a permissive parent. And if I don’t get a hold on things fast we are all going to really suffer. They are completely out of the habit of doing any chores as the extended family did everything for them. And even though I insisted to the husband that “I can do this with or without you,” since he needs to take care of things in the city too, truth is, it’s less than ideal to be out here all alone (but I know that I am not alone, I just have to remember that). Many of the women around me have husbands and other relatives who emigrate to Morocco’s cities and beyond for work, but they also have extended family to help with everything from chores to dealing with the kids, and I just moved away from that help. I am having plenty of doubts, but then I just look around me at the incredible beauty of this valley and the amazing opportunities to learn hands-on so much about nature and life… I’m continuing to make a lot of du’a and begging for guidance.

Day 15: I am exhausted. Snoring and drooling into my pillow exhausted. The domestic workload around here is just too much. I said I could do it without a fridge and a washing machine, as it was too much of commitment to drag them up here in case we didn’t like it and did only stay a month, and I am doing it – but exhaustedly. Yesterday, I finally “let something go” and got out of the house for the first time in nearly a week! I went for a walk in the orchards and fields with my friend who lives in the valley and came into the village for Jumu’ah. She was shocked to hear that I am handwashing nappies – every other day! But how could I not?! How could I distribute my toxic disposable nappies into these (nearly) pristine hills? And just as I was asking her that, we serendipitously passed by a plastic nappy caught up in a blackberry bush. And then we came upon a few more along with other non-biodegradable debris caught in the branches above the river. These signs did not encourage me to quit, but less than 12 hours after my friend insisted that “all the locals use disposables” (as evidenced by them hanging about!) I sent one of the kids to the hanoot to get me some. I am weak. And tired. And plotting how to get a washing machine, insha Allah.

Day 19: Husband is back less than a day and walked into one of his worst possible nightmares this afternoon. Turning to leave the mosque after Dhuhr prayer, a man pointed at him and called out “There’s the father!” A small circle of men had gathered round and were discussing a pressing problem in the village – our children. Seems they had a blast in the communal irrigation canal – the Splash Mountain meets Children’s Museum Water Table kind of fun. They ran through it and filled it with rocks and opened all the gates to let the water rush out into the fields. Yeah. It never occurred to anyone of them this may be bad, even when they vaguely understood the village children’s admonitions that “the water is bad for the plants.” How could water be bad for plants my smart children insisted? I have read that home-schooled children can occasionally be a little too self-confident.

The community was very understanding, and explained to my husband that the kids were welcome to play in the water as the other children do, just not to interrupt the flow in any way, such as blocking it with small boulders or bodies and not to open the gates. What a great teachable moment about the sunnah of shura, the history of aquaducts, the importance of being humble – after my husband recovered from his mortification, of course.

Day 21: Camp is over! The Husband has installed a gas water heater and has therefore redeemed himself of every wrong he has even considered committing towards me. Even though it vacillated between scalding and freezing, it was still the best shower I have ever taken. I had to seriously resist making cooing Mr. Bean like noises while I was in there. Instant hot water is such a luxurious blessing, Alhamdulillah.

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.

This article originally appeared in the November ’12 issue of SISTERS Magazine- the magazine for fabulous Muslim Women.

Read Full Post »

Hijrah Diaries Update – Into The High Atlas

Brooke Benoit returns to her long running series about gracelessly adjusting to living in Morocco- this time in the bled.

Many people (read my mom and two of my dearest friends) have asked me to update my series about moving with my husband and five children (now six) from Alaska, USA to Casablanca, Morocco.  I’ve been uneager to write since the time in Casablanca was full of hardship for my family as we experienced many of the discomforts familiar to muhajiroon: unfulfilled expectations, too-close quarters, financial strains, new cultural clashes between spouses, culture clashes between three generations of family, and just a whole lot of general discomfort. Let’s not dwell, again, on the heat, the pollution, the unIslamic behaviour, and the bedbugs! But finally I have good news, some relief and a little inspiration to share: we have given up big city living and have moved to a rural village in the High Atlas mountains.

Nearly 2 years in: We are fast coming up to our two year anniversary here in Casablanca and facing my incessant demand of “What next?” I begrudgingly agreed to live in an apartment with too many people that is much-too-small-for-mosts’ comfort for two years – a seemingly infinite amount of time – and though it has crept by quickly enough, I am still very, very ready to move on and out. These last few months, I have really felt the strain of nearly every movement I make being restricted by my worrying about how will it affect someone else. I mean every movement. And while I am uber eager to know what the next move is for us, the husband doesn’t have any idea or tangible options, so I am scurrying around looking for possibilities of what to do with ourselves. I am willing to move either the entire family or just the portion I birthed, but we must move some bodies very, very soon!

A friend of mine has been suggesting for a few years that I go live near her, out in the deep, deep bled (countryside) which she loves so much. While I have been skeptical about what I would do there and how I would manage such a different lifestyle, the idea has really grown on me. Access to nature has been so depressingly lacking in our home-educating experience here in Casablanca and this would surely be remedied by living in a mudhouse in the mountains. Or maybe it’s the only option I can really see happening at this time. Either way, I am pestering the husband to “go get a place there” and not thinking too much about the harrowing logistics of dragging my kids and furnishings up a narrow, windy road into the Atlases. And while I am excruciatingly nervous about actually doing this move, recently I remembered how, when I was a teen, I would frequently drive up the coast of northern California with my mother or friends and dreamed of someday living in a small, rural, artsy community in the woods. Was that dream so far off from what I am anticipating now? Several people have told me that they “would love to do that!” But what is that? Some people want to do the whole live-off-the-earth/back-to-the-land thing, while others want to stockpile for a vacation or a retirement in the relaxing countryside. I can’t and don’t want to do either. While my husband often says that his “hands are tied,” I feel that my hands have been turned.

Access to nature has been so depressingly lacking in our home-educating experience here in Casablanca and this would surely be remedied by living in a mudhouse in the mountains.

~~~

Day 1: I cannot believe the van the husband rented to get us here. It’s rented with a driver- actually three drivers which is problematic considering our family alone is over maximum capacity, plus we have a few tons of stuff and the van is miniscule! The whole while the kids were dragging their stuff downstairs to be loaded into the van, Husband kept saying “Is there more?! Is there more?! It won’t all fit!” Yeah, it didn’t. Ok, I fully admit that while he has agreed to one month with the possibility of two or three more, I have packed for one year, but still. He knew the size of the vehicle he was renting and he knew I was adamant about getting all of the bikes in good working order before we left, so why didn’t he understand that they were supposed to go with us? Alhumdulillah, the bikes, the dozen baby chicks eldest son just bought specifically to take with us and the children’s playstands were the only things left behind. Oh, and of course the box with my books didn’t make it and we brought the power cord but not my laptop! We did bring the other laptop though, so alhumdulillah. Somehow Husband managed to bump off one of the drivers too, so just the two drivers traded off during the several hour drive which we did overnight and I got a little extra leg room while husband squeezed himself up front.

Apparently, these journeys regularly happen by leaving Casablanca at one in the morning to avoid the baking midday heat in the mountains. Sure we missed the scenic drive, but I am so thankful to do it this way as otherwise I would have been horribly carsick and almost completely useless to care for the kids other than being handed the baby to breastfeed. I took motion sickness pills – both over the counter and homeopathic – and slept through most of it along with everyone else, except the incredibly chatty drivers. At about seven in the morning we arrived in the little town that was three-hours from our destination and had a quick breakfast and bathroom breaks before the hardest leg of the journey- the slim (but paved) roads that wind through the Atlas valley, the loveliest bit of the ride I’m sure, but I took more drugs and passed out again. The half hour or so that I was awake to nurse the baby was a sickening enough blur of cameo colours outside the thankfully curtained windows to make me not want to do the drive again for at least a year. We stopped at a little trickle of a waterfall, but I didn’t trust my legs enough to stand and see it. Instead I sat at the side opening of the van staring off to the other side of the valley at a simple lone house nearly blending into the dirt from which it was made. I thought to myself, ‘Why do they chose to live this way?’ then had the sudden realisation: ‘Oh God, why did I choose this?!’

A half dozen ridiculously friendly kids of varying ages met us upon our arrival in the village and helped dragged our dozens and dozens of pieces of luggage and odds and ends into our truly lovely mud and thatched-roof rental house. I was absolutely paranoid about leaving anything of need or value tucked somewhere into a fold or crook of the van, but was too dizzy to do much more than make a silent du’a and bark something incoherent to the husband. Feeling like a stinky disheveled mess, I just wanted to scurry into the nearest room to hide from any and all potential helpers or visitors, but none of the rooms had doors! None of them. Not even the bathroom or the shower. And the bathroom is… a traditional… very common around the world… even luxurious to many people… hole in the ground. With a little porcelain foot base thingy, of course, but not what we (me and the kids) had hoped for. ‘Hope’ being all we could cling to since Husband would not answer any questions about the bathroom, which he had seen when he procured the place a week ago and now we know why he had kept mum. But really- no door?!?! When the homeowner said it was “unfinished”… no bathroom door?!?! And when he said he would finish it before we got there, he didn’t mean to install a bathroom door?!?! And then I remembered that we forgot the water heater, also not provided with the rental…

~~~

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.

  This article originally appeared in the October 2012 of SISTERS Magazine.

Read Full Post »

Normally I wouldn’t: Tale From The Moroccan Countryside

As much as I had hoped to educate myself about my host nation, I have gotten excruciatingly weary of guide books and websites and cookbooks and so on that claim to know-it-all about Morocco, but are actually full of inferences and assumptions and, just uff. What may be true in one house, for one family, for one Moroccan-verily cannot be true for all. So recently when an elder Moroccan Amazigh woman brought us some tales from her vacation in the countryside I was enthralled to hear her version of something I had read similarly about in a guide book. Here’s my interpretation of what was interpreted to me through one woman about what another woman witnessed in one community:

Like many villages, once a week the souk comes to this rural community a little south of Marrakesh and all the menfolk head over to what is part farmers’ market, part flea market and purchase their weekly food and supplies. While the men are away for the day, all the womenfolk of the village come together for a picnic and chit chat. I was told that these villages are very, very quiet unlike our traffic-congested Casablanca neighborhood and though made of thick mud, the houses are not at all sound proof, so any kind of disturbance or raised voices are easily heard by neighbors. Therefor, once a week, these women come together and cut loose quite a bit. The gathering is actually called something to the effect of “Bad word gathering” as the women do on these occasions cut loose with their language as well.

These gatherings are known of to the men and they also know to stay away from these women-only events. On the rare occasions that men have either intentionally or unwittingly happened upon these picnics, they have been beaten up by these ladies! Once an oil seller was passing through the region and stopped by the group of women not knowing what he was intruding on. Not only did they beat and scratch him, but they also ripped off his clothes! This really shocked me and I asked how could these Muslim women defend their actions of attacking an innocent man and exposing his awrah  (portion of the body that should not be exposed to others)? Wasn’t this a hshuma (shameful) act on their part?

The elder woman explained to us that it was necessary for the women to pro-actively defend themselves and their honor from the intrusion. Firstly, their diligent behavior is a way to discourage any man from willfully spying or intruding on their events, and also necessary to defend their honor–no questions will be asked as they take action before any man can.

My guidebook made it sound like these occasions were just a bunch of cantankerous old women being meanies. Now you know the truth. Er, one truth. Fierce.

Read Full Post »

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!

Read Full Post »

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.”

Read Full Post »

Our Neighborhood Fish Monger is Now A Candy Store

Early last year a small family fish store opened a block away from my house. Most businesses in Morocco are still family owned and run. It was a cute little place with new glass-covered display fridges and a fisherman motif, you know, plastic seaweed and fishing nets artfully hung from the ceiling. When the BP spilled their oil, I thought about my fish mongers. I didn’t pass by for a week or so and when I finally did it seemed the lights were on but no one was home, literally. Just a few fish sat in the lit cases, the doors were closed.

Around that same time, a neighbor friend commented that there hasn’t been any fish in the souk. It had been a couple of weeks since the spill. I remembered that she is illiterate and unlike most of our neighbors, she doesn’t have a satellite dish. Perhaps her own children had failed to share with her their findings in Le Mondial. In my broken Derijench—(Derija and French)—I pathetically tried to explain it to her, “Oil in the ocean. A lot of oil in the ocean. Boat broken.”

The gates of the shop were always drawn soon after that. We didn’t have a weekend fish-fry for months until we happened past some men at the beach with coolers strapped to their bicycles. My husband bought a few kilos of fat iridescent delicacies from a man who smiled and said that he would have eaten them if we didn’t buy them. He was happy either way.

~~~

Yesterday the kids pulled me into a candy store to get 10 cents worth of sunflower seeds. The store is sparkly new and fastidiously organized, unlike the chaotic and dim old dinosaur of a hanoot next door. Brightly colored cellophane packages are stacked behind the counter a little higher than my head. The one large display case, which stands between the buyers and the dealers, tempts with artificial colored, chemical-laden and salted indulgences for as little as a penny each.

The kids are only allowed to buy “salty-snacks” and I suggest they try pumpkin seeds. They get 10 cents worth of those too and I buy myself two rolls of sugar-crusted gumdrops. Clearly a case of “do as I say.”

I wish this all were a metaphor.

God, Please help us all, ameen.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

Remade Moroccan Folk Tales

Eldest son went to the epicerie (bodega/corner store) the other night and when he got back I noticed his shirt was inside out. He often does this when he goes to pray and has some kind of image (person or animal) on his shirt. This one has different sets of eyes that glow in the dark, so turning it inside is kind of useless—but anyway—I asked him if he wore it like that to the store. “Yeah. And a couple of people said something.” “What did they say” I ask. “I dunno. I don’t understand what they are saying. It wasn’t English.” “Then how do you know they said something about your shirt?” “One lady pointed to it and then the epicerie guy pointed to the seams on his own shirt.”

Me, The SIL and The Hub had a good laugh about folks concern for Our Boy and then SIL told me this “Moroccan folktale” that I have since seen elsewhere online as various kinds of a “Middle Eastern folktale”-

An old man decides to take his donkey to the souk and sell it. The journey is not too far and they start off early in the day when it is still cool. After walking just a short distance they come across some people who tell the old man that he should make use of his donkey and ride it. So, the old man climbs up on the donkey and rides along a little further with the boy keeping pace at his side.

Just a little ways down the road they happen on another group of people. These people scold the old man for selfishly riding the donkey and making the young boy struggle to keep up alongside! So, the old man gets off the donkey and puts the little boy up on the blanketed saddle.

As they are getting closer to the market they come upon a third group and this group feels the donkey is too tired to even carry the child and again the old man is scolded for his thoughtlessness. Finally, coming into the marketplace, all the people turn to stare at the old man who is carrying a donkey across his shoulders with a small boy following sheepishly behind him. No one says a word to either of them.

~ ~ ~

That is exactly how I felt carrying my eldest son in a baby sling in Brooklyn. It seemed as if crossing the imaginary border into every new neighborhood I would be met by some sagely mother from another culture or era who would either praise me or chastise me for carry my baby like that!

So, my sil and I kidded my son that next time he goes to the epicerie he should wear his shorts on top and top on bottom. This wouldn’t be too hard since he already does sometimes pull a sweater onto his waist—as in the neckhole around his waist!—also for prayer, to cover up. And now, of course, we have to pretty much beg him not to go out like that—-yes, he has figured out a way to wear shorts as a top.

Read Full Post »