One of my favorite Moroccan customs is couscous Friday. Every Friday practically every family sits down together to a meal of homemade couscous covered in vegetables, meat, and broth. Guests are often invited and everyone converses happily while the latest soap opera dubbed in darijia plays on the TV in the background. My first invite came from one of the younger girls in my cooperative, Sa3ida (the "3" in the western spelling of her name represents a long "e" sound). Sa3ida (about 17 years old) lives with her mother (her only brother attends a university in Fes and is no longer at home). She provides the primary income to the household through her work at the Coop. Her house consists of two rooms and is part of a low income commune with neither running water nor electricity. The commune is located on the outskirts of Taza is a picturesque neighborhood with a fantastic view of the nearby Rif mountains. I was surprised to find out that she has about an hour's walk to work everyday since the girls in my Coop all warn me regularly that my apartment is too far to walk to (I live aprox. 45 minutes from the Artisana.)
Upon entering her hom Sa3ida puts on a CD of Moroccan pop music and we find ways to converse despite my limited Darijia (most conversations break down to lively games of charades). Her mom is an amazing cook and very welcoming. Watching their dynamic reminded me of my family back home and how much I miss them.
After a while the couscous was brought out with all my favorite veggies and what looked like a whole chicken. Everytime I took a spoonfull of couscous from my section of the communal bowl it was magically refilled by Sa3ida's mother, who would wait til I wasn't looking and push the best parts to my section.
We ate for almost 45 minutes and after several assurances that I was incredibly full and couldn't eat another bite, Sa3ida and I took a long walk around her neighborhood.
As always, I was in awe with the incredible generosity of the people in Morocco- especially when they have so little to give like Sa3ida. When I begin to lose faith in why I'm here, I think about experiences like this one and remember why these women deserve my best efforts.
Upon entering her hom Sa3ida puts on a CD of Moroccan pop music and we find ways to converse despite my limited Darijia (most conversations break down to lively games of charades). Her mom is an amazing cook and very welcoming. Watching their dynamic reminded me of my family back home and how much I miss them.
After a while the couscous was brought out with all my favorite veggies and what looked like a whole chicken. Everytime I took a spoonfull of couscous from my section of the communal bowl it was magically refilled by Sa3ida's mother, who would wait til I wasn't looking and push the best parts to my section.
We ate for almost 45 minutes and after several assurances that I was incredibly full and couldn't eat another bite, Sa3ida and I took a long walk around her neighborhood.
As always, I was in awe with the incredible generosity of the people in Morocco- especially when they have so little to give like Sa3ida. When I begin to lose faith in why I'm here, I think about experiences like this one and remember why these women deserve my best efforts.
