“He says that you should help in the
kitchen because you're a girl,” I translate for my sister, “I'm
not sure if he's joking.”
“That's fine. I want to see how the
couscous is made anyway,” my sister rolls with the punches.
I forgot how traditional Muhammad is.
Should I also offer to help out in the kitchen? Should I tell my
sister to decline and join us in the living room? Should I explain
that segregated gender roles can be harmful for society? It's not
worth it. I follow Muhammad and my brother into the dining room.
The three toddler daughters are shy
towards strangers, but Muhammad makes sure they greet us. They show
us some of their school work. The oldest has unbelievable penmanship
for a six year old. Muhammad is keen on their education, having
received little formal education himself. He affords a cheap private
school for them. He hopes to move back to his southern homeland by
the time they reach high school.
To do this, Muhammad operates a dairy
store 70 hours per week. He watches soccer or the news as he waits
for costumers. If shoppers are present he engages. He keeps track of
the community this way, always well aware of people's relations,
hobbies, and careers. He attentively seeks education from everyone.
He often provides his own wisdom too. When someone claimed they could
easily pick up English living in an English speaking country,
Muhammad asked why he hadn't learned Berber while living in Morocco.
“80 percent of the country is Berber.
Most people think they're Arab, but they studied people's blood and
most Moroccans have Berber backgrounds,” he explains after my
sister returns from her visit to the kitchen. “Like the French, the
Arabs colonized Morocco, and forced another culture.” He is proud
that his family uses a Berber language in the home despite living in
an Arabic speaking community. A friend in his shop once tried
telling Muhammad that being Muslim and being Arab were the same
thing. As a devout Muslim, Muhammad defended his culture explaining
that Iranians and Indonesians are non-Arab Muslims too. After a few
minutes of intense debate, they laughed off the confrontation and the
man left unconvinced. “Crazy,” Muhammad said in English referring
to the man.
I visit him in his shop everyday, as a
costumer and as a friend. Often, he gives me free juice or yogurt. My
foreign perspective amuses him. He says he would never go to America
because there are too many Jews. It's a joke, as he also says Berbers
and Jews share a similar culture in Morocco, representing the
merchants and traders. Indeed, several of the local stores are run by
Berber families. Also, Muhammad knows many Berber families in the south who are in fact Jewish. Today Berbers and Jews share the distinction of being minority
cultures in a land of Arabs and Islam. Muhammad sympathizes with other minorities whether they be Berbers, Jews, or American Peace Corps volunteers.
Since my brother and sister are
visiting, and live in Bolivia, he has a new culture to explore today.
“Who is the president of Bolivia?” World politics is his favorite
subject. My siblings describe the political and economical climate in
Bolivia. Muhammad's responses show he is not unfamiliar with South
America.
The wife emerges with the bowl of
Couscous. “Because your sister is here, it is not a problem for my
wife to eat with us.” Her name is Naima and I've never heard her
talk. She sits on a stool completing the circle around the bowl of
couscous. The girls have already eaten and are on their way back to
school. “In the name of God,” Muhammad commands us to start
eating. Naima balls the couscous in the palm of
her hand to eat. My sister tries to imitate the traditional style
with some success. My attempts fall apart and I make a bigger mess
than the girls did. Muhammad however, eats with a spoon, and admits
he can't eat with his hand. It's delicious and I try to make sure
Naima understands that we appreciate it. She almost smiles.
We insist we couldn't possibly eat
another bite, and Naima clears the table. While she's in the kitchen
Muhammad comments on her. “She's too shy,” he apologizes, “she
doesn't talk to anyone.” I wonder if she is timid because she never
leaves the house, or never leaves the house because she is timid.
It's probably a little of both. She joins us again handing her
husband the tea tray.
“Thank God for this opportunity. He
has led us to this moment. Even though you are American and your
siblings live in Bolivia you have come to my house. This is a special
conversation. This is what is important in life. Thank God for my
family and for my friends," we appreciate the moment.
Muhammad never pushes Islam on me. We
talk about religion and he is certainly devout, but he won't harass
my beliefs. He has confidence that God will show me the way.
“What did Berbers believe before
Islam arrived in Morocco?” I ask.
“Some were Jews maybe. Most worshiped
the sun and the moon and that kind of thing.”
“It's a good thing that the Arabs
brought Islam to Morocco?”
“Yes. It's great they showed us
religion. But the Arabs should have left our culture alone.”
Six glasses wait in front of Muhammad.
He holds the teapot but his tongue won't let him pour. He is ecstatic
comparing Morocco, Bolivia, and America. Every time he is about to
pour another idea jumps out of his mouth and the glasses remain
empty. We return the enthusiasm. Naima laughs once or twice,
beginning to enjoy the strange company. When Muhammad realizes how
long he's held the teapot he explains, “We don't drink tea to drink
tea. We drink tea to slow down our day and laugh and talk with
friends and family.”
We stay longer than expected. On
Fridays, Muhammad doesn't re-open the dairy shop until late
afternoon. Naima also seems in no hurry to return to her chores. We
are exhausted however. The intake of information is heavy and my
Arab-Spanish translations are draining. When we leave, Muhammad
reminds my sister, “Come over to greet and spend time with Naima.
She's all by herself here all day. She could use your company.”
