Through my open window, I hear the familiar sound of the early morning call to prayer. I stare at the ceiling, listening for my father’s footsteps on the stairs. It is 5:30 a.m. and like Baba Said, I am awake. In my mind, I picture him as he makes his way to the mosque, removes his shoes, and begins to pray the first prayer of the day. Surrounded by others who have made the early morning walk across desolate medina streets, he will kneel towards Mecca, reciting words from the Quaran, just as he does everyday. For a while, I let my mind skim through images of mosques and their minarets. Despite my weariness, I know sleep has left me for the night. Usually infused with the dulcet tones of my younger sister’s voice or sounds from the bustling market below, at this hour, the house lies dormant, couched in a rare silence. I love the quiet and the way it lets me wander through my thoughts, undisturbed. On this particular morning, I think of the date, placing it on an imaginary timeline of my stay here. November 20th-it marks the beginning of my last month in this land. I wonder to myself how time has brought me to this point-to a state in which what was foreign is now familiar. I am suddenly mystified by the closeness I feel towards my host family, the medina, and the routine I seem to have established for myself.
Around seven, my thoughts are interrupted by Mama Hafida’s voice as she calls out to my sleeping sister. Like any fifteen year old, my sister is slow to respond to her mother’s wake-up call. Eventually, she stumbles out of bed-I hear the rustle of the curtain that divides my room from the rest of the house. Her head peaks in as she whispers, “Katrina, yalla, manges le petit-dejeuner.” As I have been awake for close to two hours, it doesn’t take too much effort to get out of my bed and make my way upstairs. My mother is cutting the bread, distributing the pieces around the table. As usual, the piece in front of my seat is twice as large as anyone else’s. I give her a smile as I take half of the piece and leave the rest for my sisters. She doesn’t look surprised, but just chuckles as she pours me a glass of black coffee. My glass stands out against the other glasses full of milky coffee. My inability to digest the whole milk they drink here continues to mystify my mother. Mama sits back on the couch and says “Coolie Katrina!” The homemade bread is warm and delicious-I enjoy each bite as I try and decipher fragments of the conversation between my sister and Mama. I love listening to my sister, Souad, in the mornings-her voice is so lively and I feel I can follow along just by watching her bright eyes. Soon enough, however, I take my last bite, drain my glass of coffee, and say “Yalla, bye bye!” Mama blows me a kiss, reminds me to be back at one for lunch, and we part ways.
The walk to school takes me through the narrow streets of the medina. As it has just gone 8:00, they are still relatively quiet. At the center, I have class till 10, a thirty minute break, and then class till 12. I spend the empty hour before lunch reading emails and browsing through news stories about that place on the other side of the world. As this sometimes disheartens me, I am all too eager to shut my laptop and head home for the comfort of a family lunch. Walking up the stairs of my house, I can smell the heavenly aroma of a piping hot tagine. The bread is fresh, the chicken is tender, and with the initial taste, my taste-buds are overcome with ecstasy. I wish all of you could taste one of Mama Hafida’s tagines! There are bananas and mandarins to follow. My sister and I compete to see who will be the first to peel a mandarin for Mama. She usually wins. We all clear the dishes, clean the table, and I say goodbye as I once again head off to school.
Three hours of Arabic can be wearing, but even the slowest of progress is rewarding. My teacher, Assia, is patient and kind as I struggle with correctly pronouncing the new vocabulary. It’s dark outside when we finally finish class for the day. I tally in the library for a bit and eventually make my way to my home on what we students call fish and vegetable street. It is still buzzing with the voices of unrelenting fruit, vegetable, and fish sellers. In the evenings, my sister and I stroll around the medina, visiting her friends and sneaking off to satisfy her cravings for various snacks. Often times, we preface our outings by saying we have errands to run or need homework help. In the bustling streets, I greet people I have come to know and wave at those who are too far away for words or handshakes. Best to be home by nine though, as dinner is usually around then. Souad and I love when it’s scrambled eggs with bread. Delicious and perfect after a long day. Mama pours me a glass of sweet mint tea as she insists that I am not eating enough. I protest and list all that I have had that day. She seems unconvinced, simply responding with her usual “coolie.” We watch television together for a bit- I catch a few words here and there, but soon realize there is Arabic homework waiting for me downstairs. While at college I can usually work late into the night, here, I often run out of steam around 11. I know the very early mornings are to blame. The rest of the house has usually found sleep by then, and so I am quiet as I brush my teeth and splash my face with cold water from the tap. Sleep comes quickly and once again, another day is over.
In its own sly way, while I wasn’t looking, it’s as if time has built a whole new world for me, a remarkable, vibrant world that is tainted only by its impermanence. I can sense the imminent goodbye and I do my best to keep it out of mind. For now, I immerse myself in this place and these people, living a life that I have come to love. I think it will be a good last month, in’challah.