Sometimes I wonder whether I bring enough joy to this home to outweigh Naima's sorrows. She is a housewife; confined by the walls of her home, the medina, and those which were constructed by Abdellah.
I have come upon Naima crying twice now. The first time it was late and I was packing to leave for Spain in the morning. I went to the roof to find a sweater that she had recently washed, but I found Naima sitting in the open doorway, holding Salma and quietly weeping. In the reflection of the moonlight I could see the hurt in her eyes. It wasn't a hurt that she had carried with her for a long time, but a hurt that had recently been inflicted. I put my hands on her shoulder and asked if she would be alright, and of course she assured me that she would. I felt such sadness for her, for her situation and that she had nowhere to turn in a moment that left her so weak.
The second time, I had just come through the door from school and Salma was sleeping on the couch next to Naima, whose legs were covered in a blanket. She looked unhappy. Not sad, not sorrowful, not sorry for herself, just plain unhappy. I asked if everything was okay and she said her legs hurt. I asked why, and she said she didn't know. I wondered silently if it was because she spent most of her days bent over cleaning or carrying Salma on her back as she went about her daily routine. But when I returned from my seconds of wondering, tears were falling from Naima's dark eyes. Did her legs hurt that much that she started to cry in that moment? Or did her unhappiness leave her incapable of fighting the tears? I found her Advil and water but what I think she needed was company.
There are times when I observe Naima infected by such a powerful despondency that I wonder if the strong hands that make this house a home might someday fall apart. After some discourse with Adbellah, I see her shrink away into a small, self-conscious woman who hides beneath her veil and her household duties.
I can't help but wonder if sometimes she wishes I weren't here because I am the cause of many of her woeful moments. This happens mostly while we are eating and I ask a question about something I observed or something that I don't understand. Abdellah will begin explaining to me and Naima will contribute. He will so quickly shut her down and shut her up that she is reluctant to speak again while we eat. I have magnified a freedom and liberation in her world that she is so starkly denied that she must wonder how life can be so circumstantial; how she was born into her world and I into mine.
But then there are times when I know that I bring her a joy that she would not have found without me. Naima is only eight years my elder but she thinks of me like a daughter. This she has told me. We laugh so hard sometimes that I wonder if she will cry as she shakes her right hand in the air, exclaiming, "willie willie willie//oh wow that is funny". She loves to teach me things and tell me stories, mostly about Morocco and certain funny customs. If this makes her happy, I will let her re-teach me all that I have learned here, because seeing the way she carries herself as she describes things to me in our limited shared language is so far from the small, forlorn woman that I sometimes find around this house.
Naima has told me that she feels me in her heart and that she doesn't like to think about the end of May. She has given me so much comfort during this time which could have been so scary and difficult for me. In the beginning, I thought of her as someone who took care of me, but more and more I think of her as a companion and someone who will live in a big part of my heart forever. I hate to think of the end of May also because it means leaving this home behind. In the beauty of forging relationships with people across the world, I've found the pain in living a world away from them.
I have come upon Naima crying twice now. The first time it was late and I was packing to leave for Spain in the morning. I went to the roof to find a sweater that she had recently washed, but I found Naima sitting in the open doorway, holding Salma and quietly weeping. In the reflection of the moonlight I could see the hurt in her eyes. It wasn't a hurt that she had carried with her for a long time, but a hurt that had recently been inflicted. I put my hands on her shoulder and asked if she would be alright, and of course she assured me that she would. I felt such sadness for her, for her situation and that she had nowhere to turn in a moment that left her so weak.
The second time, I had just come through the door from school and Salma was sleeping on the couch next to Naima, whose legs were covered in a blanket. She looked unhappy. Not sad, not sorrowful, not sorry for herself, just plain unhappy. I asked if everything was okay and she said her legs hurt. I asked why, and she said she didn't know. I wondered silently if it was because she spent most of her days bent over cleaning or carrying Salma on her back as she went about her daily routine. But when I returned from my seconds of wondering, tears were falling from Naima's dark eyes. Did her legs hurt that much that she started to cry in that moment? Or did her unhappiness leave her incapable of fighting the tears? I found her Advil and water but what I think she needed was company.
There are times when I observe Naima infected by such a powerful despondency that I wonder if the strong hands that make this house a home might someday fall apart. After some discourse with Adbellah, I see her shrink away into a small, self-conscious woman who hides beneath her veil and her household duties.
I can't help but wonder if sometimes she wishes I weren't here because I am the cause of many of her woeful moments. This happens mostly while we are eating and I ask a question about something I observed or something that I don't understand. Abdellah will begin explaining to me and Naima will contribute. He will so quickly shut her down and shut her up that she is reluctant to speak again while we eat. I have magnified a freedom and liberation in her world that she is so starkly denied that she must wonder how life can be so circumstantial; how she was born into her world and I into mine.
But then there are times when I know that I bring her a joy that she would not have found without me. Naima is only eight years my elder but she thinks of me like a daughter. This she has told me. We laugh so hard sometimes that I wonder if she will cry as she shakes her right hand in the air, exclaiming, "willie willie willie//oh wow that is funny". She loves to teach me things and tell me stories, mostly about Morocco and certain funny customs. If this makes her happy, I will let her re-teach me all that I have learned here, because seeing the way she carries herself as she describes things to me in our limited shared language is so far from the small, forlorn woman that I sometimes find around this house.
Naima has told me that she feels me in her heart and that she doesn't like to think about the end of May. She has given me so much comfort during this time which could have been so scary and difficult for me. In the beginning, I thought of her as someone who took care of me, but more and more I think of her as a companion and someone who will live in a big part of my heart forever. I hate to think of the end of May also because it means leaving this home behind. In the beauty of forging relationships with people across the world, I've found the pain in living a world away from them.
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