My past month in Morocco has been a blast to say the least. Instead of giving a summary of the past four and a half weeks, I have chosen to share the events of this past Friday night.
My homestay brother Taha and I entered his cousin’s house, dressed head to toe in traditional Moroccan regalia, and greeted by the traditional “Salaam Alaikum” which was followed by a handful of other Dureeja (the local dialect of Arabic) phrases that flew right over my head. We were there to celebrate the birth of his cousin’s first child, a boy who had been born only a week before. A quick word about Moroccan post-baby showers- There isn’t just one party, not even just two parties. There are THREE parties that take place over the course of a week. From what I understand, the first party includes members of both sexes, while the second party is strictly for males and the third for females. We were attending the “Boy’s only” party.
After entering, we were ushered upstairs and into a beautifully furnished Moroccan style living room where about a dozen men sat, making forced conversation with each other. We did the customary circle around the room, shaking hands with everyone and repeating “salaam alaikum…salaam alaikum” over and over, then seated ourselves on the luxurious blue and white couches. I remained sitting, sharing the occasional word with Taha for the next forty-five minutes. Then, a man entered, dressed in a white suit carrying an enormous platter of cookies, at least three and a half feet in height. Behind him came a man in an identical white suit carrying a platter with a large pot of tea and somewhere in the neighbourhood of 20 cups. We gathered around one of the small tables and were served tea and cookies. I sat there eating, listening to the guests babble away in Dureeja, when “ALAAAHHHHHHH WULAAAAA!!!!” A beautiful voice broke through the chatter. I looked around to see where it was coming from. The culprit: an unassuming, balding man who had been sitting hunched in the corner, talking to nobody. His chant continued uninterrupted for five minutes as we all sat and listened. After it ended and conversation had resumed, I asked Taha what that was. “A prayer to start the party” he informed me. Oh, how festive. We continued enjoying our sub-par cookies. Then- the tap tap tap of a finger on a microphone. We all fell silent again. A man began speaking. And he kept speaking, for a very, very long time. Afterwords I learned that he was giving a speech on the Quran (Holy book of Islam) and how it related to the life of the newborn. I’m sure it was lovely, but I barely understood a word, my Dureeja being mediocre at best.
When people are speaking in a language I cannot understand (which happens quite often here in Morocco) I like to play a game, wherein I try to make english words out of what I am hearing. In this particular instance, the word “Tofu” came up a lot. Here is an example of what was going through my mind throughout the entirety of the speech.
“ hmm….Oh I know that word…that one also…This couch has no back support…Most of the men with beards are sitting next to each other…Aha I know that word…That one sounds like “tofu”,,, My thighs are mushed together…I wonder if they’l start chaffing…Yes, another word I know…Ohhp there’s “tofu” again.”
The speech ended, and back in came the Men-In-White (MIW) carrying several platters, each laden with four whole glazed chickens and baskets of bread. Each table got four chickens, and there where only between 5-8 people per table. That’s two people per chicken. The MIW also brought drinks, but since Alcohol is not served in Morocco, they brought out bottles of soda, which, for whatever reason amused me a great deal. The eating commenced, and good lord was it tasty. Moroccans eat with their hands, which I found incredibly convenient as we gorged ourselves on the chicken, tearing it to bits with our fingers. After only bones remained, the platters where taken away. I assumed that now they would bring out fruit, which is the usual dessert of choice in Morocco, but I was very wrong. Out came more platters, this time carrying mountains of beef with some type of dried fruit that I could not identify, but was delicious. After the beef was devoured, the fruit platters made an appearance. These where at least two feet tall, and had to be held together by plastic wrapping. There was a whole array of fruits, and I chose two oranges and an apple as my victims. When the meal was finally over we leaned back on the sofa, our hands resting comfortably on our protruding bellies. Slowly, people began to make their exit to the tune of “bslema”, meaning goodbye. My family was the last to leave, as I think we were the only ones who were actually related to the host and his newborn. We took our leave, repeating “Shukran, Shukran” (Shukran meaning thank you) and stepped out into the night. My two brothers and I piled into their small car along with his uncle, his uncles father and his younger cousin. Now, the car seats four people comfortably, and five at most, but there where five of us crammed into the backseat alone. We dropped the extended family off home, and headed back towards our house. We pulled into the dirt drive around twelve-thirty pm, stumbled up the stairs and crawled into our beds, pleasantly stuffed and exhausted. My last thought before I slept was “Who were the Men-In-White”?
— Omar Yazbek