Perspectives on Love
One of the most iconic scenes of cinema history to me is the a shot of Tatooine in the first Star Wars movie.
Luke walks from his underground home on this desert planet, it’s two suns shining far off on the horizon. He makes his way to a little rock hill, and stares out into the sand waste ahead. When I watch it, it just fills me with this vast and empty alieness, but the most striking part of it (perhaps because of the desolation around him) is that there’s such a clear and human hope on Luke’s face. Sure, the shot is striking because of the immensely grim landscape, but what brings it together is how despite it we believe Luke’s hope to be genuine.
In Morocco, there is this kind of hope and love and hospitality that is difficult to understand as an American. To put it into words is almost a disservice, but the cooking I have eaten, the visits I have had, and the laughs I have shared have felt unburdened, shamelessly honest, and spiritually dense. The only way to survive here is through a heavy faith and a deep reverence, and it fills the cracks in life like the cement between bricks.
This isn’t superficial, or even superstitious, it’s evident walking down the streets and through the towns. There is a connection to the land here that goes back generations, and as I make my way through the winding side-streets and suburbs, it is shocking noticing just how disconnected I am in comparison. While I learn the path to work, which markets I like, and which street foods are the most palatable for my stomach, I notice how the essentials of live are almost always to be found within a hundred meters of every house. Stores all have the basic grains, drinking water can be found if clean tap water is unavailable, and fresh bread is behind almost any counter. I can’t stress this last point enough, I could probably move anywhere in town and someone would be selling bread less than five doors away.
It seems that it’s because of the harshness of the desert here that Moroccan hospitality is so generous. I myself have a rather harsh exterior look when I walk the streets, but whenever I try and make conversation, or a child tries to talk with me in French, I can’t help but feeling my face light up in a smile.
My work is the absolute pinnacle of this, and I learn more about Morocco and my city in the classroom than anywhere else. I’m not all sunshine and smiles though. My discipline style would absolutely have some entitled parent suing me for my life in the states. Yet here when I reprimand a student if I’m not a reminder of the harsh summer sun, or of the biting winter nights, then I am not something worth respecting. It is from a place of love of my students, but also from understanding the challenges I have to prepare them for.
It’s difficult to write these kinds of things, because I am coming to love and care for the people of this city. I know in my heart that I will return back to America in two years time, and I just hope that I can return the love to the States when the time is right.
