Even INDIA didnt prepare me for the scene I stumbled upon this morning. I took Gatsby for a long walk in the neighborhood, stretching further each day the distance we walk comfortably together, even if I am looked at strangely for wearing my workout ensembles, brightly colored sneakers, black leather baseball cap and oversized round, black sunglasses that surely make me seem almost unrecognizable as to whether I am human or part fly. The adopted dog to which we pass who I keep meaning to buy ace bandages and fix up his leg that he cannot walk on, benefitted from a 3 day leftovers feast we saved for him because of the rainy days. The sidewalks are mini earthquakes trembling under my sons stroller wheels in which I lift his entire body in the air upright every time we must cross the street, or a curb that seems crooked. I was trying to memorize my neighborhood, having located today a local dry cleaner, a realtor to look at villas still, and the local University of Mohammed hospital, which is rated quite high. There seems to be a Mom & Pop style home gym center that offers not only weights but Aikado, Boxing and Martial arts of all styles. We watch various childrens soccer games take place in various empty lots throughout the quarters. No child is left unused and you see three year olds playing with teenagers. They even threw the soccer ball towards my son in his stroller at one point. I stocked up on mobile phone cards to which my basic use of Arabic is practiced and I debate which meats and fresh produce I may need to make our meals this week. I remember how the local butcher is saving all his bones for me to give the stray dogs. I want to try my fresh green peppercorn sauce pack I saw at the supermarket the other day and snatched up. It was during my thoughts of dinner that I stopped right in my tracks at the unfolding scene in front of me: a naked middle aged weoman, laying and crying right in the middle of a busy traffic road. A few people surrounding her, most people remained onlookers, including me. I tried to make what was happening. She was crying out loudly, throwing her fists up to the sky, an older man was trying to get her to cover herself. She had only a makeshift ragged piece of clothing that barely covered half her body. I asked someone what was wrong? One person responded, Shes mentally ill... A few women were trying to ask her questions. The disheveled woman blurted things out while lifting herself to sit on the curb. She was unbathed and looked almost drunk, except she wasnt. The crowd scattered away, embarrassed to be seen next to her. I am unsure who was being stared at more at this point: the clearly upset woman who had thrown herself to the street ground, as if ready to die already, or me, the American mosquito resembling mom-in-black. I knew people were staring. I started to look both ways to cross the street when a sweetly-faced older woman grabbed my air and tried to stop me, whispering, elle est malade.......vous etes francaise? I removed my black sunglasses and smiled. No, Je suis Americaine. Theres always that surprised look a Moroccan gives me when they realize I am NOT French actually, but American. I then knew what I had to do. I crossed the street with Gatsby, aware of the staring eyeballs all around me. I saw up close that this woman was holding a note. It was written in French. It was a womans handwriting. Something about getting to her sister somehow. I could tell by the womans French and her face that she was no homeless person. She was at one point, an educated woman, a mother perhaps....before her days as this castaway before everyone. I reached into my waist pocket and gave her two 50 Dirham bills. It was the equivalent of $12. The woman was kissing my hand, thanking me joyfully and a renewed happiness filled her soul. I barely felt I had done anything really. There was a part of me that felt I should have bathed her, taken her in my car to feed her, maybe drive her to that hospital we just past, get her seen by someone. I had no idea what Morocco offers to those who are mentally distressed. Aware that everyone was still watching, I turned away. I was ashamed, strangely, that my offer was only monetary. Being a mother forces your instinct to focus on the safety of your kin always first. But as we walked home through the market lanes, nuzzled between broken sidewalks and orange trees, I couldnt help but feel that in many ways, the woman who could have thrown herself down on the ground to die, could have been me.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 15:37:41 +0000
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