It was the kind that you could feel in your bones– the sickness. Rising from my soul, it spread through my body like quickfire, imparting more than a mild unpleasantness through the whole of my being. It felt like a rabid bat took my stomach his vampire coffin; even more, like a ferran heated to cook 1000 loaves of bread (damn that fool and his flying ship!), like alladin’s third wish was to confine Jafar to my intestines. It was the third night in a row that I was awoken at 3 am; today my stomach was my alarm. I barely remember the long 20 meter marathon to my personal oasis, my haaj to the cleansing land; all I knew was that my tender American belly needed release. I couldn’t count how often faded into near-hallucinogenic trance states in the confines of that three-walled bathroom, nor could I even diagnose quite how many hours were spent in that humble hammam palace. I saw the villainous heroes of 1001 nights pass before my eyes, I heard the sands of the Sahara, felt the high atlas wind and tasted the scents of spice. Like Ramadan, this experience gave way to spirituality.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned, it has been 20 years since my last confession.” In my private privy, I checked off the crimes of my life, confessing every last sin since arriving to Africa, in the hope that it would save me from the stabbing sensations in my sides. I told of ill intentions toward individuals, and acts deemed hshuma by native culture. I went back further, admitting to acts of theft, violence and the worst of all, ethnocentrism. Pouring my soul, I ratted myself out, much like an underling snitching on his mafia don for the prize of a cushy witness protection position. All through my revelation, I was spontaneously and unpleasantly interrupted by my insides trying to get out. I imagined a priest, imam, rabbi and Buddha listening to my philosophical musings, grunts and groans as I emptied for what must have been the 9th time the contents of my insides. Once upon a more enlightened time, I would have been diagnosed with a demon, djinn, or devil. They wouldn’t have been far off. As I was about to find out, a tiny monster-of-sorts had taken up residence in my intestines (and didn’t even bother to pay the required security deposit!) I was a forgiving landlord, but this parasite was treating my home-body like a college dorm. It wasn’t like I was a stranger to sickness here: three times before I had been stricken (while traveling no less) with ailments that usually involved raising my center of gravity. But who would have guessed that water, the sustainer of life, here more precious than even cleanliness, would be my downfall?
I contemplated paying rent, living in this small room for the rest of the semester; I would have to move in a desk to write on, but at that time I was confident that illness abroad could compose an epic ethnography: What strategies do people use to cope with illness? I recall my family, force feeding me as I withered to skin and bone, each time sponsoring the benfits of the next noxious treatment. I was given everything from oil soup to zatar, none of it stayed very long inside of me. What I could stomach was fed to me in abundance, two or three khobzette (small loaves of moroccan bread) each meal, and I was a picky child who whose parents quarantined him to the table until he had finished his food. Each time I expelled my medicinal meal, the explanation was the same, and I was soon advised to “drink tea, the sugar is good for you.” If only.
Pain snapped me back to the moment, and after cycling through the five stages of grief multiple times, my countenance calmed, and I was left with a strange peace that couldn’t be shaken even by the temper tantrums of my intestinal tsadik. I mentally put my friend in timeout, and pondered my epiphany. There is something folks don’t have to worry about in the states, a sanitized country, barren of life, but secure in health because even our soil is pasteurized. We are like industrial pigs, risking death if we venture from our lonely lysol-ed lives into the world that created us. We have been bred passive, unfit and ignorant, and as long as we stay within our four suffocating walls, we are happy with it. Elsewhere though, the rugged rest of the world exposes themselves to unmoderated cycles of life. Often, people live with sickness their entire lives. They don’t have relapses of illness, or even good days and bad days; it’s extreme to the degree of a stopwatch. One minute healthy followed by ½ hour of pain, 3 hours of health, then 1 of misery. What does this do to morale? Somehow, this state doesn’t interfere with happiness. The “blighted” exist content, and I feel sympathy towards them, only now realizing how much I take my health for granted, and how much I misunderstand the concept in the first place. I should pity myself, as a being comfortable with consistency, I cannot live without knowing what even the next 10 minutes will bring? Which side of status am I really on, if I can’t embrace the unknown.
Moroccans have a saying, “inshaallah.” This, literally translated to “as god wills” or “godwilling” is applied to everything from being home for lunch (”I’ll be back at 2.” “Inshaallah.”) to having a happy marriage (”You two will live happily together.” “Inshaallah.”) to getting change at the hanout (”I’m just going to get five 20s real quick.” “Inshaallah.”). There’s something liberating about thinking of the future in this way. Everything, from the most serious to the most mundane becomes uncertain, but instead of fearing what is to come, people instead leave it up to god. Moroccans actively dispel discomfort because they leave reality only up to the present. Everything else is folklore. Maybe that’s why Moroccans cling to meals so ardently (sorry to spring this at the last minute, but the thought isn’t fully developed yet). Because god handles the future, it is up to the individual to fully experience the present and indulge in awareness. Maybe only through food can a sense of comfort be maintained, I thought. Then I threw up once more, in harmony with the morning call to prayer. Inshaallah, I will soon evict my tenacious tenant.
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