November 6

November 6
7:36 am
A bit of a sinus infection going on, so I am overjoyed to have brought Advil Cold and Sinus with me. The chore today will be to make small talk and learn Arabic while trying not to feel sick.

“Do you believe in God, Andrei?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But that’s a favorite question of mine. An upside-down question, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I asked people if they believed in life, they’d never understand what I meant. It’s a bad question. It can mean so much that it really means nothing. So I ask them if they believe in God. And if they say they do — then, I know they don’t believe in life.”
“Why?”
“Because, you see, God — whatever anyone chooses to call God — is one’s highest conception of the highest possible. And whoever places his highest conception above his own possibility thinks very little of himself and his own life. It’s a rare gift, you know, to feel reverence for your own life and to want the best, the greatest, the highest possible, here, now, for your very own. To imagine a heaven and then not to dream of it, but to demand it.”
“You’re a strange girl.”
“You see, you and I, we believe in life. But you want to fight for it, to kill for it, even to die — for life.
I only want to live it.”
We the Living, 117

2:08pm
Life as a foreigner in this village is a bit ridiculous.
Around 1:00, I returned from our mini-excursion to Meseha, where the other half of the SIT students are living. I got out of the blue van and told Nawal, our program assistant, that I had to go to the bathroom, and to tell them men not to follow me. “I’m going to my poop tree. Tell them it’s okay that I’m walking alone.” I started off down the dry creek bed.
On the way, I passed Emily and her sister, who had been guarding her while she relieved herself in the bushes. Emily and I had a quick conversation about a recurring conversation within her family regarding marriage and wives. It was starting to make her uncomfortable (Moroccans are always trying to offer camels or other livestock in exchange for our hands) so she was off to ask Nawal for help. I bid Emily and her sister goodbye, and I looked past her to my poop tree and the hill that overlooked it. Of course the hill is full of all the men in Emily’s family, sitting there, looking in my direction, and in the direction of my tree. Dammit.
I start walking, and Emily’s insane — and precious, don’t get me wrong — grandmother walks out of the house and sees me walking down the creek bed alone. She probably had no idea what I was doing — the Americans didn’t walk anywhere alone in this village, especially the women. Maybe she thought I had lost my way, or she wanted to invite me to her home for athé b’na’na’, or simply wanted to be loud.... I don’t know. Whatever the reason, the woman starts yelling and flailing her arms wildly, trying to get me to acknowledge her. I refuse to look at her, my eyes glued to my precious poop tree. I use peripheral vision to glance at the men, who are curiously observing this scene, and I note that their vantage point is even more perfect for viewing my tree than I had originally thought. Dammit again. And grandma is now running along the top of the hill, flailing her arms even more wildly, yelling even louder: a streak of orange and yellow sweeping along the top of the hill, arms flapping like a bird’s wings, screaming in an old lady voice, “Salaam, lebes? ... lebes? Athé b’ na’na’...... lebes....” And on it goes. “Don’t you dare follow me,” I think.
I found another larger tree that would suffice as a poop tree for the time being. It wasn’t my favorite tree, but it would work. Unless I stood up and tried not to conceal anything, then men and crazy grandma wouldn’t be able to see me.
I finally found success and achieved a few minutes of peace underneath the branches of a gnarled tree. Grandma gave up and went back inside, leaving the men on the hillside. When I walked back home, they still hadn’t moved... just turned their heads to watch me walk up the hill towards my house.