THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO

by Wafa Faith Hallam

  My goal was to create a perfect environment not only for us, but also, and primarily, for Mom. I threw myself into this task, meticulously decorating each room. I bought dozens of roses and tulips from a nearby flower farm every week and scattered them in beautiful arrangements throughout the house. In addition to Mom’s live-in maid, we hired a cook and a young man who could perform various tasks—driver, gardener, server, and handyman.

  As we settled in, we also extended warm invitations to our multiple cousins and friends, some of whom we hadn’t seen in two decades. Many came to visit and welcomed our return “home.” The only person we did not reach out to was our father.

  I had not seen my father in seven years, and even then our encounter had lasted half a day. Actually, in the thirty-two years since my parents’ divorce, I had visited him perhaps three times in all and always briefly. Throughout those years, I continued to send him a monthly stipend and paid for his pilgrimage to Mecca. But overall, I inquired only rarely about him despite his constant nagging for more attention and financial support. I can’t explain precisely why I had so little desire to be close to him, only that I still resented him and felt guilty for not doing more.

  The one sure thing was that, in his presence, or on the phone with him, I was never free to be myself. All my life, I had felt compelled to pretend and lie to him simply because it was more expeditious. He had not a clue who I was or what my life was like. On the rare occasions we met, it was impossible to catch up since our communication was constrained by my poor Arabic and his deteriorated French. After years of absence, our conversations were limited to my platitudes and his inevitable religious questioning.

  “You do pray, don’t you? How do you cope with fasting during Ramadan? It must be difficult in America, isn’t it? You’re raising your daughter as a good Muslim, right?” and so on, all of which I brazenly assented to or promptly evaded.

  So when, most unexpectedly, my father called one night to ask that we take him in to live with us, we were caught by surprise. According to him, he was being mistreated by his wife and adopted daughter and demanded to leave. Needless to say, the mere thought of his visit literally made my mother wince when she heard of it—not that it was ever likely that my sister and I would ever envision such a thing. By every measure save social convention, we were strangers to him, having lived a vast ocean apart for decades.

  After a full investigation of his latest grievance and discussions with our relatives, it turned out he was the one who had made life miserable for his family. My mother’s old depiction of him had been validated. He was still the Grinch of old, and ever as mean-spirited, his searing and demeaning verbal abuse often directed at his twenty-four-year-old daughter.

  He had adopted her, immediately after birth in 1980, some eight years after his divorce, because his wife was barren and wished for a baby. I never really knew the exact circumstances of her adoption, only that her biological mother had died in childbirth and, following Sharia Law, my father gave her a different last name from his, which caused the child a great deal of emotional pain during her growing years. Orphans in Morocco are often viewed in a disparaging way, seen as nothing more than “bastards.”

  Nonetheless, she had found a home, family love, and caring, especially from her adoptive mother and her side of the family, and she had been schooled. Unfortunately, my father had never failed to remind her of her origins when his unpleasant streak kicked in. I can only presume his cruelty was caused by his unhappiness or customary bitterness. Both daughter and wife had suffered silently then but were far too respectful to shun him or shut him up.

  His wife had continued to attend the special recital nights at the Sufi shrine founded by her ancestors, even as he had long severed his affiliation with the Tariqa, contending that he did not need a spiritual leader to connect with God. Unemployed for most of the past thirty years, he was mostly friendless and without known hobbies or interests besides religion, his daily routine mainly consisting of five extended daily prayers, followed by readings of the Koran, and, in the evening, TV watching.

  He repeatedly complained about his children’s abandonment of him, comparing it to his brother Hassan’s very close relationship with his own children, who, despite the fact they also lived overseas in France and Canada, stayed in close touch with their father. Apparently his new family was not enough. His religious ardor did not seem to help him find inner peace and contentment in any lasting way. And his judgmental, negative mind set had not changed much despite his faith and authoritative command of Islamic scripture, from which he quoted at every opportunity. And yet one of the most central concepts of Islam is that of daily praise and gratefulness to God, no matter how difficult our human circumstances.

  Hence, after an initial moment of uneasy, guilt-laden discussion, weighing his request, my sister and I did not debate the issue for too long: His presence was neither desired nor welcomed. The subject was dropped and never again brought up.

  Winters in Morocco are short and spring arrives early; 2004 had begun on a groundswell of hope and optimism. A home facing the sea had been a long-held dream of mine. Ours was so close to the ocean that, during high tide, the surf reached all the way to the back gate, threatening the small grassy backyard.

  Nightly, from the comfort of my bed, through the large glass windows, I was treated to a spectacular dance of breakers pecking and crashing against the black cliff in sudden eruptions of sparkling froth. With only the moon and stars lighting the gigantic sprays of bubbly spume, the display of aqueous fireworks looked like an ever-changing white celestial lace. I could have watched all night had I not been lulled to sleep by the endless roar and rumble of the Atlantic. I woke up only briefly at dawn, to close the shades for a late slumber.

  “Don’t you love it, Mom?” I asked at breakfast. “I can’t get over the beauty and awe-inspiring presence of the ocean so near.”

  “I find it rather scary myself… all that noise!” Mom answered with a sheepish grin.

  I laughed out loud at her expression and cuddled her in my arms. I so wished for her to find happiness at last.

  Morocco had never felt so good. We were all elated with our picturesque setting; the luminous house with the sun streaming in from sunrise to sunset, the army of seagulls standing at midday like miniature guards, facing the same way, saluting the sun on the rock-strewn, moonlike scape.

  Not even the full hysterectomy I had in January, less than a month after my arrival, could dampen my new buoyancy. The fibroid had become so big, and caused so much bleeding, it interfered with my daily life. I could no longer wait; it was already too large to expect it to shrink on its own.

  I was cut open and my entire uterus and ovaries taken out, and even though I no longer had health insurance, the entire cost of the operation, with two brilliant young surgeons and three nights in a private room in a brand new clinic, came to fifteen hundred dollars. Finally, finally, with the irksome growth removed, I was confident; the bad times were behind.

  To be sure, Mom was still disabled and mostly confined to bed, requesting assistance merely to stand or walk. Her scalp lesions had not yet healed even though she had had her hair shaven to facilitate their treatment. Doctors and physical therapists were now paying her regular visits at home, and, occasionally, I drove her to a hospital or laboratory for further testing. She was still complaining of pain, insomnia, and other ailments, though the overall circumstances of her care had vastly improved and only required her to be more fully engaged in her own recovery. But every so often, she appeared happier and willing to be less passive. At such times, all of us encouraged and cheered her up as if she were a baby taking her first steps.

  On March 4, I wrote an email to my friends in America in which I rejoiced:

  Mom is finally showing signs of improvement. She was prescribed Prednisone at 60 mg a day, and the results are pretty amazing. We’re keeping our fingers crossed that she doesn’t have any side effects, like edema, bone loss, or mania. We’re watc
hing, cheering, and praying all at once…

  Adding,

  Life in Morocco is delicious. Every day I delight, not only in the sumptuous sunsets over the Atlantic and the crisp sunny days, but also in being taken care of by no less than three house staff. That’s such a luxury still for me, I feel like royalty, and I’m not sure it’s for real yet…

  32

  The River and the Sea

  “Noooo!” The inhuman howl ripped through my thoughts like a cyclone across a barren plain, a sound utterly surreal. It felt like a piece of my own liver had been savagely bitten off and was being chewed up. My entire being was screaming in agony, even as merely a whimper came out of my throat.

  “When did it happen?” I asked, though I was incapable of hearing the answer. “We’re on our way… Thank you…” The phone dropped out of my shaky hand. I struggled to keep my eyes on the road. My daughter, sitting in the passenger seat next to me, began weeping silently.

  We had resisted, we had fought, and then we stood defeated. Thence we surrendered in the vilest of nightmares to Death, the ultimate victor.

  Glum stares followed us through the grim walls of the hospital. Mom was lying still on her hospice bed, pale and serene, just as we had left her the night before. All the tubes had been removed. Strangely, her head lesions had all but vanished. Hanan, her eyes red, stood up when we appeared. Sophia and I approached Mom on either side of the bed, and each took a hand. They were soft and cold. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. Sophia caressed her face.

  “Mommy,” I whispered. “You’re at peace now.”

  How does one deal with bereavement? How can it be put into words? When thoughts fail, bodily perceptions endure, and my flesh, heart, entrails, every inch of me was dissolving into wrenching, mind-numbing, engulfing revulsion, even as the loss had not yet registered in my mind. From her face and demeanor, I knew Sophia was coping with a wretchedness her young heart was never prepared for. I turned to Hanan.

  “How did it happen?” I murmured.

  “She just stopped breathing, no struggle,” she assured me. And that simple statement I received with a measure of gratitude.

  Mom had been back in the hospital for less than a week. Ten days earlier, on Friday, March 5, the day after I wrote my friends describing our new idyllic and hopeful existence, she began complaining of a severe leg pain. I called the doctor and left him a message. This was the start of the weekend and we were not overly surprised that he did not call back. Late on Saturday afternoon, the physical therapist came for his scheduled appointment.

  He spent a lot of time trying to alleviate her pain, massaging and exercising her limbs. Hot compresses were applied, and lots of pain killers administered, none with lasting results. For the next couple of days, Mom did not sleep at all. On Monday, my sister and I had a business appointment in Casablanca and on the way there called her doctor again. This time he returned our call.

  “She’s been in agony since Friday, and it’s been getting worse, Doctor. Could you please find the time to visit her today?” beseeched Nezha while I was driving.

  “Tell him that her foot is getting blue and very cold,” I interjected.

  “Also, her foot’s turned blue and cold…” she began. “What… what do you mean?” Her tone had changed, and her sudden distress hit me like a punch in my solar plexus.

  “To the hospital? Right away? Yes… okay…” She hung up.

  “What’s going on? What did he say?” I urged.

  “He got very alarmed when he heard her foot was cold and changed color. He said it was very serious. He’s calling Professor Lakhal, a vascular surgeon, right now. He wants Mom to see him immediately.”

  “Why? He didn’t even examine her…” I cried in full panic mode.

  “The cold foot, that’s terrible… that’s an indication, probably an obstruction in an artery, something called an ischemia, I think,” she went on. “We have to take her to Sheikh Zayed hospital. That’s where this surgeon is. It’s extremely urgent, he insisted.”

  “Oh God, I can’t believe this has been going on since Friday. He didn’t even call us back over the weekend.”

  “There’s no point in blaming anyone,” said Nezha. “Mom has been in pain for so long it was impossible to tell whether this was any different.” Adding, “All we can do is hurry back and drive her to the hospital.”

  The surgeon was unreachable that Monday, and a lot of damage had already occurred before an endovascular procedure was attempted in Sheikh Zayed Hospital the following day. It did not go well, and the prognosis was disturbing. The next day, Mom was transferred to Avicenna Hospital, the largest and best equipped facility in Rabat.

  When she reached the operating room, and while her attending surgical team was still considering their options, her heart stopped before they restarted it and got it going again. She was in no position to undergo a lengthy, complicated procedure. Her surgeons were now talking of a leg amputation above the knee, but, first, all their efforts had to be focused on saving her life.

  All hell broke loose in my family. Call it instinct, or presage—we were guided to act and spread the ill-omened news to our loved ones with urgency. Our mother had been hospitalized multiple times in the past, and as recently as the prior summer in Sheikh Zayed, often with dramatic, life-threatening ailments, yet never with the same foreboding. We called our brothers in America, our uncles and cousins in Morocco. We sought support but also guidance and assistance.

  My sister was convinced that, given a choice, Mom would rather die than accept the amputation of her leg, although this was hardly a matter of choice. Many patients who undergo a major leg amputation often do not survive the complications that follow their bedridden state. Mom had already been confined to bed for more than a year, and her health was severely compromised; an amputation would surely lead to her demise.

  By the middle of the week, there was a sense of events slipping away from us. I called on Mom’s older brothers, Brahim and Abderrahim. They were rich and powerful men; they could get the best specialists to take on their sister’s case and help save her. And indeed, a few phone calls from them, and soon an army of eminent professors and specialists examined her and offered their expertise. Uncle Abderrahim came to visit her in Avicenna the next day, visibly upset to hear of his little sister’s bleak prospects.

  She had been placed in intensive care and remained mostly unconscious. The few times she regained consciousness, she’d asked for her children and brothers. Uncle Abderrahim had reported that when she saw him, she looked into his eyes, attempted a feeble smile, and muttered something. Both my sister and I knew how much his visit meant to her. She had such adoration for him, his presence felt like a gift, even as her life was hanging by a thread.

  In the intensive care unit, it had become blatantly clear that the longer she was unconscious, the less likely that even the best medical team in the world could do much for her. Her attending physicians had pretty much given up; it was only a matter of time. As her ischemia progressed, so had arterial thrombosis. A stroke or heart failure was not far behind.

  All we had left was hope that she would awaken from her near comatose state and undergo the amputation of her gangrened leg, thus saving her life. In my prayers, I implored God to help ease her pain in ways He alone knew.

  Her heart stopped beating on March 15, 2004. She was only sixty-five.

  Perhaps God had pity on her and spared her any additional misery.

  From that moment on, my sister and I went into a deep stupor, relinquishing all decision making. Aunt Touria, Uncle Brahim’s first wife, took charge, with the help of her youngest son, Cousin Nabil, who expertly handled all the legal formalities. Then she called on Uncle Abderrahim to bankroll everything from the hospital costs to a huge, fully catered funeral. Finally she asked Fatima, Uncle Mohamed’s widow, to make her large villa available for the traditional, three-day-and-night gathering marking the beginning of a forty-day mourning period.

  All we had to
do was be there and greet family and friends, plus a few dignitaries who showed up to pay their respect to Uncle Abderrahim. Over three hundred people attended the funeral, some of whom we had not seen for twenty-five to thirty years. The single most conspicuous absences were those of Uncle Brahim and my father. My uncle was traveling in India, and his second wife, who was alerted, had not deemed it reasonable to interrupt his trip since he could not be there for his little sister’s interment anyway. As to my father, he was eighty-four and in weak health, and to endure a day-long bus trip from Tetouan was too much for him to bear. In truth, his absence was a relief.

  As for Nezha and me, the only request we made was that the burial be postponed until our brothers could arrive from the States. Under Islamic law the dead must be buried within twenty-four hours. Hence Nabil had to arrange for the body to stay in the hospital morgue overnight to gain an extra day. Larbi flew in the following day with Margie and Jaad, his wife and son; they landed a few hours before the burial. Abdu, who lived in Orlando, was delayed overnight because of a snowstorm that interfered with airline traffic and prevented his transfer to JFK airport. He never had a chance to say a last goodbye.

  Behind me the religious chants grew louder, the men’s voices completely drowning the women’s. I entered the small, quiet chamber with apprehension. The sun filtered through the window shades lending a hallowed aura to the place. Her body had been laid on a mat in the middle of the room directly on the floor. An unworldly glow floated over her figure. Her head and entire body were fully draped in an immaculate white cloth. Only her face was showing, framed by the tight scarf covering her short hair. The shroud was reminiscent of the white garments Muslim women wear during the pilgrimage to Mecca.

  Two experienced women, although not professional undertakers, had been hired by Aunt Touria to wash her body and hair with only soap. She was rinsed a few times until the water run clear. Then, her body was dried carefully and her arms crossed right over left. My mother’s un-embalmed corpse was finally shrouded in a white cotton sheet to be buried immediately in a modest wooden coffin without jewelry or items of value. A strong, fragrant scent of rose water and B’khur—an ancient and pricey incense made of agar wood and highly valued in Morocco—emanated from her and infused the air in the enclosed space.