Le Troisieme Soir

In Morocco, Muslims mourn the death of a loved one for three days. During that time, friends and family will come and visit, but on the third night, they congregate en masse to sit together, pray, and in the wee hours of the morning, eat a large meal. Since I had been told that in this culture you should show support in difficult times by being present, when Mohamed and his wife Soundousse gave me the option of accompanying them to his brother’s house or staying at home, I accepted their invitation. Soundousse told me there was going to be a lot of people there and I think she was concerned it might be weird for me, but I really wanted to show my support since they have been so kind to me and have really accepted me as part of their family.

To be honest, I didn’t really know quite what to expect…but a three-story house filled with people—I think at least 75 if not 100—was much bigger than I had imagined. I should have realized that Moroccans were going to approach commemorating the end of a life in a similar fashion to they might celebrate the start of one, like when I’ve attended weddings. Large scale, lots of people, and a big meal very late at night. We arrived somewhere between 6:30 and 7pm, and didn’t leave until about 1:30am.

When we arrived Faris and Sourour scampered off with the many kids and Mohamed told me to go with Soundousse. We went to the second floor, which had a kitchen (there was also one on the first floor), a bathroom, and two very large salons where the women were sitting. I was the only one not wearing a jellaba, the ankle length robe with a pointy hood, and one of about four women not wearing a headscarf. It felt ok though, since everyone seemed to know that I was not Moroccan and staying with Mohamed and Soundousse, but I did feel a little weird since I had asked Soundousse if what I was wearing was okay, and felt like I stuck out a lot and it was not that respectful. Some of the men set up a giant stereo in the window facing the street, and played a recording of the Qur’an; later they chanted into the microphone downstairs themselves. All the women sat around, giving bissous (the kisses on the sides of the cheeks) to almost everyone when they came in, including me. I sort of found it interesting, how some women will kiss multiple times on the second cheek, and tried to figure out why they did that with some people and not others. To be honest, the whole night was a bit of an anthropological study for me. I also realized that I never really see Moroccans hug each other…in fact I have yet to be hugged, really, since I arrived. I could use a hug, not gonna lie.

So basically I just sat there for 3 hours, occasionally talking to a couple of Mohamed’s adult nieces who were very nice, sipping mint tea, and trying to not let the women force-feed me croissants. I was saving myself for the delicious smelling tagines, and I even thought I caught a whiff of my favorite dish, bastilla, but alas I was wrong…and dinner was not served until 12:45 am. There were a few incredibly adorable three year olds who were sticking close to their mothers, and this one three-year old, Jihad, was such a little flirt, at one point he just sat next to me for about ten minutes for no reason, then ran back to his mother and would smile at me sheepishly whenever I looked at him.

One of these cute kids was in the hall, and she was trying to get me to do something, but didn’t speak French and didn’t understand that I couldn’t understand her. However, thanks to her, a girl closer to my age poked her head out of the kitchen and motioned for me to join her inside.

Upon entering, I finally found my demographic—a group of about seven girls, between the ages of 15 and 23, as it turned out. They completely took me under their wing and took a great interest in me. Not all of them spoke French, but I hit it off well with one girl (whose name I can’t remember and I feel terrible) who was my age and seemed to understand my level of French and was just really nice. There was some confusion at first…some of them thought I was French, and told me that I have a French face (I said, “thank you, I think?”), and wanted to know which of my parents was Moroccan or French. We moved to the balcony and it felt like I was the cool new girl in elementary school, and everyone wants to be her best friend, as three of them all said, “Sara, sit by me!” It was a little hard at times when they all talked to me at once, but they decided I was “tres gentille” (very nice) and other good adjectives I can’t remember. Another girl I got along well with, a 19 year old student also named Sara, told me she loved English and wanted to practice, but she couldn’t understand my American accent and wondered if I could try speaking with a British one! Which then made sense why they had told me that I sounded like an American movie star…since maybe that’s the only time they hear American accents!

Somewhere in there, it was difficult to tell, but I realized some of the girls were asking me about something having to do with the word praying, which all the other women were doing in the salons, and had begun to read from the Qur’an. At first I explained that I didn’t pray, but later when they pushed and asked what religion I was, I finally told them that I was Jewish. I couldn’t really tell from their reaction whether I should have said that or not. One girl, the one who had originally motioned for me to join them who was in her teens, kind of had an “oh jeez!” expression and said something in Arabic as she got up and left. The girls were laughing though, so I was confused. I asked one if there was a problem, and she assured me there wasn’t. Later, a Moroccan friend of my dad’s told me that I might have been the first Jewish person they’d ever met. I explained to the girl next to me—I’ll just call her my translator friend, since I almost felt like that’s what she was, especially with the girls who didn’t speak much French, only Arabic—that I’m not religious. However this just opened up the door to them, making them think that it would be easier to convert me! Joe, AMIDEAST’s Morocco country director, explained to me later that I should have said I don’t really practice, and they would be more likely to lay off. So I had to explain to my translator friend that I’m not religious, but that the traditions are important to me and it’s also an important part of my family. She was very understanding, relayed this to the girls, and at one point as everyone was talking at once turned to me and said in French, “I’m defending you!” I was quite relieved.

At some point in there the mother of two of the girls, Mohamed’s sister, came out onto the balcony and upon discovery that I was unmarried and single decided that I was going to marry her son (as long as I convert to Islam, of course). She then brought her admittedly very attractive son out and pointed to him asking me, “Is good, no?” in English. Little did she know, her son had teased me in the kitchen and tried to talk with me as I followed the girls out to the balcony. As we were leaving he asked me, “Do you have a facebook?” Seriously? Even in Morocco guys are using facebook to express their interest. What is this world coming to, I say.

When it finally came time to eat, everyone got their own small loaf of bread, and large plates of chicken and beef were placed in the center of the table, and the women just went at them. I joined in, but they still decided that I needed a plate and utensils. Older women I didn’t even know then proceeded to throw pieces of chicken onto my plate and tell me to “Mange!” whenever they caught me between bites.

Drifting off at 2:30 am, I knew I was going to be tired the next day…but the experience was well worth it.