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Flying to My Home in the Mediterranean (7/19/22)

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Flying to My Home in the Mediterranean (7/19/22)

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It was my first time travelling back to Morocco, North Africa after not seeing my family there for three years. For context, we are incredibly close to our family there and it pains my mother when we go a year or so without seeing them. I was nervous but incredibly excited to navigate new culture and a completely different setting from what I was used to.

I loved the idea of that.

It felt like I was going home again, which may be odd to say because I was born in the US, but both of my parents are from the Northern region. I'm more involved in our Moroccan culture than anything else, so it truly felt like home.

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After landing in Morocco on the 20th, I frequently went for pastries with my Mom and Aunt, though really my Aunt had felt like my second mother.

I quickly observed that Morocco incorporated a lot of cuisine from it's Mediterranean neighbors. I ate a lot of Greek, French and Spanish foods (with constant insistence from my aunts, which I gratefully accepted).

It was only a simple thing, really, but it walking into that pastry shop with the fine delicacies and hospitality from the natives made my heart swell with love. I'd never felt so at-home anywhere else.

It was something about going out for a box of croissants, plaisir sucré, mille feuille, baklava and other foreign foods I'd never tried that added meaning to my heritage.

In my most sad, isolated moments, I remind myself of the beauty I witnessed the first few days in the people--the strangers who owed me no hospitality, but still showed it immensely--the food, the family, and the community.

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Me and my family had gone to a place in Morocco situated between the beach and country side; a crossroad between both worlds.

From the gated community where we stayed, we could watch the as the sun set on the beach. We were incredibly close to the overlapping waves on the shore, smell of salt and seagulls.

I met people of varying nationalities and ethnicities there--some French, Spanish or native to Morocco. This one place, known for it's popularity in tourists, brought together a slew of people who probably wouldn't meet under normal circumstances.

The place had beautiful flowers placed throughout, fields of grass and people walking up and down the sidewalks laughing amongst themselves.

It was a time of peace in my life. A place where I could rest, with the beach to my right and the animals/farms to my left. In fact, I'd actually seen a horse whilst walking with my friend.

There was hardly any communication between me and the people there. After all, I couldn't fluently speak Moroccan Arabic, Spanish or French, but people my age still gathered in a spacious field just outside of the community and play with fireworks.

We didn't need to speak the same language. We came together through games, watching fireworks and laughter. Going there taught me that humans universally understand one language: laughter, excitement, joy and happiness.

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At this point in my journey through Morocco, I had become much accustomed to the beach, countryside and loving community. But we had started going out to the city more often--about a 30 minute drive.

It was quite an experience interacting with the countryside folks and city residents. I expected a stark difference in hospitality between both groups of Moroccan citizens, but to my surprise, the loving community I found in the country was near omnipresent.

I was sitting inside of the restaurant shown above, with a lovely view and great seafood to dine on. There was one child behind my table that would tap on my shoulder, but once I turned around, he would quickly duck behind his chair.

For reference, I was inside of the restaurant sitting with my cousins but my back was to the window. This child and his family were outside, but close enough to communicate with me.

This child and I played a long game of tapping and quickly ducking, until I assume what was his Mother (and other family members) caught on and pulled him down.

His family members looked at me with the warmest smile, and I'd again felt the love Morocco seemed to radiate with. Their sincerity touched my heart deeply, and the rest of my dining was filled with joy.

That little boy's joy especially touched me. I felt a little spring in my step, a little more love and hope for humanity because of an interaction with a boy--a stranger.

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It wasn't easy to say goodbye. I spent all day taking many walks, remembering the faces of people I loved, hugging the babies I'd become best friends with. I'd heard them begin to use their vocal cords, trying new sounds and copying almost everything they see. I was so grateful to be apart of their early years, and watch them grow. I hugged my younger brother (he came to be like one, though really he's related by cousin) tight, my brother who had followed me all around and protected me if anyone wanted to say something mean.

I took long walks, appreciating the town and all the sights I had seen. All the friends I had made, experiences I'd had, and walks I'd taken in the town my parents had grown up in.

But what made me hurt the most was seeing how much my cousins had grown since I last saw them. They had changed personalities, too, in the years I'd been gone. My younger brother had grown so much to be almost nothing like I remembered, but still so lovable.

And I knew it would all happen again. My younger cousins would grow to be more mature, and I would never have the same experience with them as I did in the two weeks I'd been there. Time would go on after I left.

I would miss them growing up. I love my brother so much. I cried and begged for my mom to find a way for me to stay. She tried so hard to, even contemplating cancelling my ticket home and letting me stay for even only a week more. But in the end, there was no way to do it.

That night, the air was cold and sharp. It reminded me, jolted me conscious to one realization: always love hard in every moment, cherish every second, so that you can bury memories within your heart and recall them years down the road, as you look at how much has changed and how things will never be the same.