On change and memory

What is it aboutlife that makes it so elusive and changing? And how do we accept those changes that could be least described as dramatic?

Contemplating change, it seems to be but unavoidable. On the one hand, everyone has something they are not satisfied with, somewhere they want to go, or something they want to achieve. And that, whether one wants it or not, entails change. On the other hand, it would be traumatic to be having the same experiences all over again, to be standing at the same place forever and always, and that where change comes.

Some changes are of course something we have worked on, something we have probably wanted, planned for and looked forward to achieving. There are however sides to these changes that we were not really planning or maybe just did not really think about. Maybe while planning to live abroad, we do not really plan on leaving our cherished ones behind, yet that becomes a fact; or a collateral damage; they call it. We do not really plan to exchange our world with another one. The only thing we probably care about then is this need we feel inside, to just leave, to flee an injustice that inflicted us, the scent of our past memories, a love story, as it could be anything else… maybe we wanted to achieve something, somewhere else, to challenge ourselves, or to enjoy privileges that were not within our reach where we were initially!

Or maybe, change was at work while we were not even paying attention to that; it was eating up our lives, the people around us; eating us. Maybe change started when Ba H’md, the mint and herbs seller, passed away, or maybe way before, reaching its climax when grandpa passed away too… we all want to blame it on time; ‘times have changed’ ‘time flies’, well, somehow it does and at some point, turning back becomes so painful because you know when you will knock that door, no one is going to answer and even when you decide to intrude, they are not going to show up, even if you spend your lifetime waiting. Nothing will change, or maybe, once you go out, you will not recognize the outside you see. People are not the same and neither are the buildings.

Today, my day started with pictures of the remains of my grandmother’s house, posted by a cousin. The house that was once full of life, cheerfulness, and love seemed about to falter. There was dust everywhere. The kitchen still had some utensils testifying that, once, someone lived there; that once there was love, there was life around this place. This made me very sad. A feeling I have never experienced before sprung from somewhere deep in my heart, a feeling of total impotence, and some urging questions: where does our past go? Where do the people that made it go? It sounded like I have become un-whole, that part of me had crumbled somewhere, without me realizing it. I’ll never be the same again. Time took something from me that I cannot retrieve.

Not knowing how to handle this burden, I took refuge in my only solace, this little piece of flesh, blood and nerves that harbors my past memories and sensations.  That was enough to take me back to the school holidays we would spend at my grandmother’s. It was so good that we would stay until the holidays’ last breath. That meant only one thing; that we would have to take the earliest bus in the first day of school. Lalla would wake up, make us some delicious breakfast- coffee; semolina bread and olive oil- which we would eat, regardless of how sleepy we were. There was a special sensation to those early mornings; it was still dark, you could hear dogs barking from afar and the kitchen light was so dim that now, imagining it, or seeing something similar, all the emotions from then flow all over my body. What do we have left from those who have departed? Memories, scents and heartburns!

Back to life

I have long thought of what my come back post should be like. Should it consist an apology for having deserted this blog and probably with it my readers? The more I thought about it, the more I postponed writing. Then, I just decided to apply one of the lessons I have learned: When something needs or has to be done, then do it. Do not think too much about it.

And now, here I am writing and letting my thoughts flow freely, creating their own sense. Still, I cannot let the question as to why I have not been writing escape. Talking about writing with a friend, he told me that happy people did not write. I considered this thought for a while. Have I been too happy to write? Nah, I have been too far from happiness. In fact, I have been drowning for some time. Life has been incredibly hard on me and on those surrounding me. I have lost a few dear ones, to death or to some unknown force, with or without a reason. In sum, life has slapped me in the face, back and forth. Therefore, I can claim my right to say that it is not only happy people who do not write. You could be too bereaved to write, too heavy to write…. you could be going through a phase where all your feelings are stocked in a bundle. Then, there comes a time when you let it all go and tell the tale, and I guess this is high time I told my tale… Here is I am back.

One thousand grains of sand

What if all of a sudden you are disconnected from any and every thing familiar to you? What if all of a sudden you get stripped of your belongings and put in a land, totally unknown to you- a desert even? Such was my unbelievable experience- my Connecting Cultures desert excursion. In fact, it was somehow a mimicking of what was happening in my own world.
Suddenly, I was in the middle of Sharqiyya desert, Oman, accompanied by groups of faces I have encountered only few hours before. We were all stripped of our phones and all means of communication with anyone but us, the desert lying before us, and its people.

For me, it was something I needed, whether I was aware of that or not. My world had been in constant turbulence for months on; I most urgently needed to distance myself from it for a little while. I needed to hear my own voices, sometimes conflicting. I needed something; and there was the call of the Omani desert.

And there it was: our first encounter… I have never seen the desert but on TV channels, touristic brochures in Morocco, or otherwise through the accounts of friends who have been or lived. I have never pictured how it could be or feel like being in the desert, either…
As I walked through the billions of sand grains, I realized how not easy that was, but as I have been carrying one conversation after another with my newly made acquaintances, I forgot about the sand grainsthat infiltrated into my shoes to be utterly breathless by the sunset. The sun was being gulped by the distant mighty space, while the horizon wore wonderful colors… I was about to witness my first desert sunset… Once it was time, the view was majestic, warm and enlightening…

Sleeping in a small tent with my newly-met Polish friend was something new to both of us- my guess is. Having lived in Poland and she in Qatar for a year, we seemed to have some very deep understanding, appreciation and embrace of one another and so there was some sort of instantly felt affection between us… I could not stop tossing glimpses of my Polish experience every now and then- actually, it was the first time I discovered what love, admiration and belonging -yes- I have for Poland!! It was high time for self-rediscovery…

Exploring the desert, I also discovered how ignorant I had been about the many views and landscapes of the desert… Walking on the dunes was not any like walking on a solid ground… It was much more difficult than what we had on the first day. Then, arriving at the Ouadi, the view was just utterly majestic! I have been bewildered… I just fell in love with it… The Ouadi, extended proudly before us, offering an overwhelming aura of serenity- exactly what I needed.

Inside, I was contented, happy, proud, majestic… What an infectious effect it had!! Thinking of home seemed like an impossible task; home seemed distant in time and space, a quite intangible target… All I could recollect was the buzzing noise of horns in a fading street. I renounced. (to be continued)

Until further noctice

So, I have spent the past year in Poland- the experience being quite demanding but above all very rewarding. It has been a year of travels and encounters, of hopes and deceptions but above all of personal growth. Oush! Such a year!!

I have all along felt good about having a permit of stay in Poland which made it easy for me to travel around the EU Schengen countries and spared me the trouble of getting visas, which is not an easy task after all. I took advantage of that and travelled across 10 countries in one year (oh how proud I am of that!). The fun part is finished now, however.  My last day in Poland had been a complete horror as I turned into an illegal. That is, my visa expired one day before my scheduled flight and I have been horrified because I knew well  how sensitive this whole immigration legal or illegal is. What are they going to do to me? Everyone was telling me everything was going to be fine since I was leaving the EU, and everything was fine actually except for the quite not easy to explain look of the immigration officer that did not even bother to stamp my passport. My next concern was if next time I was going to apply for visa – which was to be a month later- there will be no issues. When I did go to apply for visa, the officer of course asked me why my passport stamp –from the Moroccan officers- shows that I came back only two days after the expiry of my permit of stay and I had to explain and tell stories and get questions about whether I mean to come back to Morocco when my next visa expires and that there would be more reasons for me to stay even illegally, oh! The shame! I got the visa anyways and I did come back to Morocco even the expiry of my visa.

My return! That is the story! I had to come back for something and I could not even grab my suitcase because I was in another place, so I left everything behind, all of my stuff stayed in Warsaw (but thanks God, safe at a friend’s). Now the issue is, if I want to go back for my stuff, I need to apply for visa again because the old one was for single entry. I need to have reasons why I want to go. I need to answer unnecessary questions. Hmm… Then, welcome to the 21^st century. Welcome to the World that had turned into a small village! Welkom!

Yet another departure

It seems like death insists on keeping as close as never before. I barely started accepting that my uncle has passed away when I got another slap on my face. The day started slow, raining and somewhat cold. something was in the air but I could not tell what it was.

Then, all of a sudden, the news came from home.I started hating those news coming from home. They all have carry that feeling of repressive heat, the smell of smoke and ashes… The new fog of smoke announced the death of yet another uncle… Do I still have any strength to take it (the third person in a row)?

The Taming of the Shrew

Finally, the snow is something from the past. The long-awaited Spring is here and I am becoming more of myself. It has been the longest winter I have had in my entire life; in one word: A DRAMA! It was my first encounter with the snow, all previous encounters being looking through my window in Fes and seeing the distant mountains all clad in white. I never really approached the white mountains, being the cold-hater that I am.

In fact, I do hate cold, in all its manifestations. I hate the real cold that makes the body shiver, and I also hate that of people. For, yes, there are cold people and there are the too cold people. There are many types, like those who simply think they are above all when they score really below in the humanity scale. There are also those that have chosen to numb themselves and their feeling, probably in response to something really bad that happened to them. They have chosen not to feel anymore. In response to an unlimited number of things that occurs across the journey of life, especially when you start experiencing life, walking with all the pride and confidence in the world, energetic-ally, bouncily that you might close your eyes, then you get the first slap, something shrinks in you.  You become more awake- or that is what you think. Then, out of nowhere, the second slap downs on your face. Then, successive slaps pervade… With each slap, something shrinks in you. You try- or even endeavor to adjust yourself, to change, to tame the free spirit in you. The impetuous you- you call it…. Then something dies. You numb your feelings, your enthusiasm, your willingness to explore new things… You just cling to the new cage you invented for yourself… The shrew in you is tamed, not realizing you never considered how much you should be willing to tame…. without going numb.

P.S: The drawing was the outcome of  feelings triggered by an awfully  snowy day

Most unbearably….

I don’t have the courage to look into your eyes 
Or hear your voice as you weep
Immense is your suffering, 
That I know 
And I have no means to be there
To offer a hug, an embrace
or a word of solace
….

I am in the other corner of the world
Dazed,
Betrayed,
Speechless,
Every moment that passes by
gives leave to the most unbearable pain of being, 
That of having a loved one depart
without saying a proper Goodbye

To die in Spring

My uncle passed away few hours ago while I am thousands of miles away from home. What to do? What to say?!  Nothing could express how I feel. My uncle’s voice keeps resonating in my mind. Words from our last call keep coming up. It was a weird conversation, what with my uncle hardly being able to speak and me not finding the proper words to keep the conversation going on. My uncle sounded very frail and very much in pain after a year-long treatment of cancer. What could I do to alleviate the pain?

Now I see my uncle’s house, I picture myself entering, looking for my uncle just to see him lying in bed, lifeless. I can hardly believe next time I’ll be there, he will not. I can hardly believe next time I’ll ask about him, I will be looked at in the weirdest expression and I will be looking back in disbelief. I am not there, and I will not see him as he departs, however dramatic the scene could be but I would then have seen it happening. I wouldn’t have to construct the scene in my mind… I would not try hard to believe it. Next time I am there, I’ll probably just think that he is at school, or that he went for an errand, and I’ll probably wait and wait and wait for him to come back….

I am here, in my incredibly silent room, but in my head, there is a buzz, there are noises, there are sounds of people weeping, of people offering solace, of people standing there in disbelief…  Why does it have to be like this? Why does it have to happen now? How else could this have been?

Throughout the past months, I kept hearing news about how my uncle’s health was deteriorating. I was so much in denial; I would call him often just to hear him assuring me he was just fine. Each time, he would orient the conversation to something else, like how I am doing, my travels, my future plans, etc… and he would always show pride in that.

I saw my uncle last time I went to Morocco, knowing he was in his last stage; it was all the same- no talks about his health, only questions from him on what Poland was like, what studies were like here, future plans and finally plenty and plenty of prayers… Now, the scene of when I last saw him resonates, as I and my dad walk him and his wife to a cab (I think they were going to the hospital) with a three-minute walk being a real challenge for the strongest man I knew. All I see now is my uncle getting into the red cab which fades away in no time. Could I have seen my uncle one more time?

Questions and Answers

 

As I wander through a very long trail of thoughts, a sudden question stops me: what is more important: questions or answers?

I thought the answer to this question would be easy, like saying: questions are more important because they provide direction, or else, answers are better because they generate peace (but are they? Haven’t we all regretted knowing the answer to something because it turned out too far from what we expected)?

The more I thought about it, the more and more complicated things grew. What questions are we talking about? Are we talking about those questions we put, or those that are imposed on us through our life journey? Huh? Are we talking about the dissuasive questions we sometimes tend to put while facing something we feel uneasy about? Or, are we talking about experiences, for each experience can be seen as a question we have to answer, thus, testing our capability of handling the situation, regardless of the fact that we never had any sort of directions or pre-knowledge of what should or should not be done in such cases, nor did we know what would be considered the best answer.

Then, does that mean the answer is more important? How can we put questions but at the same time be sure that they are not unnecessary, like those whose only influence is to cripple us and make us lose our way to what ought to be the answer. Is there one and only one answer to the different questions that life insists on throwing on our way? What and who decides what is best? Haven’t we all been warned not to do something (assuming that something was a response to a question (an experience) that imposed itself on us), then someone finally dared to face it, and made something out of it  and  has then been hailed and praised?

What is what? What is a question and what is an answer? What is a good question? And what is a good answer?

Questions, questions, questions- they are looming everywhere and I ask I ask I ask…

 

Across Borders

 

 

Being asked what my biggest wish or dream was, I would always answer: I want to travel lots and lots and lots; I would like to see this and that country, etc… Then, being asked- up to my late teenage years- about the countries I have been to, I would simply say: None!! I have never left Morocco, nor have I been on board of a plane or seen one from close. Very weird as it is for some, my fellow Moroccans would understand it very well.

When I was 19, I was taking part of a cultural exchange program in Georgetown University in the United States, and was very happy at the thought that I finally was going to board on a plane and see those places the details of which I had already built in my own imagination. I even remember telling a friend who had already studied in the US that I was planning to write about my very first time on a plane. I also can remember that she was somewhat not easy about that and said: But you know, Fadoua. They- meaning Americans, since I was going to the States- travel a lot, and being on a plane is nothing unusual for them.

I think what my friend was trying to tell me is to spare myself the embarrassment of stating the fact that I was 19 when I first got on board of a plane.  I, on the other hand, wasn’t the least embarrassed. It WAS my reality and I was happy I was having that long waited chance. Then, followed my Egyptian trip after which everything seemed to stop. I didn’t leave Morocco for the following three or four years, as the chances of visiting Europe were very slim for many reasons, including one unsuccessful visa application to Spain, the denial of which was that the money I had was not enough to fund my trip.

Then, I picked my Europe call at last, or maybe Europe did pick mine, and I went for a study program in Poland. I got to travel and see for myself so many of the places I always wanted to be. My Christmas holiday went like crazy; it was MY European trip and I was living it my way, with people I cherish. I went all the way to Switzerland, Turkey, Belgium, The Netherlands, France, Italy, then back to Warsaw, waiting for my upcoming trips to Ukraine, Austria and maybe Czech and Spain. These have been crazy months, very lively, very satisfying and energizing.

I just cannot find any existing words that can describe it; it was deep, it was deep; it was deep.

Being in a train crossing the French-Italian borders, the Dutch-Belgian borders or the Belgian-French borders with no checks, no scanning looks, no words, nothing at all… It was but a smooth journey, with plenty of tea, music, deep-hearted enjoyment and a very much enjoyed slowness. But at the same line, I- as always- had questions generating, rising and disturbing my finally retrieved peace of mind. I again had thoughts about all those lines by foreign consulates across my county, about the looks of disappointment on the faces of the denied visa persons. 

 Why should there be a circle enclosing some people, limiting their freedom, breaking their most peaceful dreams? Why should we line along the sides of consulates with millions of forms and papers in hands and receipts of the already paid insurance, visa fees, plane tickets and hotel reservations then still being denied the visa? Visa! What a lame word!

I was saddened by this reality and also by the thought that that was also the case with some other Arab countries, like having to apply for Visa for Egypt and all that entails. It hurt but I could do nothing about it, so I just decided to silence all those questions and enjoy my very long looked for trip.