On Vacation
When Life Throws You Lemons Make Limeade
Dearest Reader,
I had no plans to go to Morocco this year, and yet somehow I ended up there in mid-April. I was supposed to be in umrah. In fact, I had spent months planning the perfect trip for my dad, stepmom and I to make the mini pilgrimage and then tour Istanbul for a few days together as a family. It’s rare that we ever do family trips (due to finances) and this was going to be their first time in Mecca and Medina. I was eager to witness their awe when they first glimpsed the Kabah. I wanted us to climb Jabal Noor and spend hours in the courtyard of the Prophet’s mosque reading Quran and reflecting on the enormity of the sacred land together as a family.
But the evil empire’s illegal war messed everything up. My parents chickened out and the airline would neither cancel nor give us a refund. So I was forced to change plans: Morocco was the final destination.
We went with no grand plans, just a chance to flee the U.S and visit with family (my stepmom is Moroccan) and friends. After several flights, a train, and a few taxi rides we arrived first to Tetuoan (near Tangier) where we stayed at a hotel with a private beach, and spent our days running through the city and eating fried fish near the beach.
Then, we made our way to the capital, Rabat, where each day was centered around the main meal (lunch) eaten with family. Each morning, I was awakened by the adhan called by several different mu'azzin from neighboring masajid. Unlike my usual drudgery to wake up for fajr, I woke up to pray with a smile on my face. I felt this pulsating energy as I washed and readied myself for prayer. That energy enticed me to stay awake and finish a novel I’d been dying to finish (Dream Count by Chimamande Ngozi Adiche). I breezed through the 400 page book in five days. The rest of the time was spent getting lost in the medina, visiting a modern art museum, or attending jummah at one of the oldest mosques in Rabat (if not the country). I loved sitting at cafes in the marina, watching old and young gather to drink tea from ancient looking metal pots, and engaging in thoughtful taaruf with my step-grandparents.
Although this was my fifth trip to Morocco, it was the first time I felt like I really observed the culture. It was the first time, I was able to sit with my thoughts and absorb everything around me. I wasn’t just a tourist zooming off to this site or that, I was a fellow Moroccan riding on the tram and bumping into strangers in the supermarket.
One of my reflections/realizations is that the Moroccan people are kind and generous. I remember seeing one man run onto the train completely out of breath and another man— a stranger— handed him his water bottle to drink. I was struck by the warm gesture.
I also realized that Moroccans have a beautiful fusion of old and new. Some people donned traditional jalabas while others sported more modern fashion. I saw girls in short skirts freely talking to boys (and laughed when I saw what looked like a couple give an intimate, yet innocent fist bump instead of a kiss).
There was an ease that hung in the air. A sort of calm, carefree attitude that Moroccans possess which Americans certainly do not. After a few days, I became enmeshed with it. I forgot about my troubles back home: The illegal war. The exam results I was waiting for, the writing fellowship I had applied to, and even the numbing loneliness that I left behind in my apartment back home. For just over a week, I felt free.
But even before I boarded the last plane home, the realities of real life hit me beginning with a cataclysmic fight via text with a long time friend. When I arrived in Dallas (to visit family) I got triggered by family finances and family friction. A few weeks later, I found out I failed an important exam (which I needed to maintain status at my job) and got rejected to the coveted writing fellowship I had spent months dreaming about. (They actually didn’t even have the courtesy of writing a formal rejection email. Just a “here are the six fellows we selected,” and I wasn’t one of them.)
Needless to say, I spent a few days rotting in bed. The tears came the most when I prayed. There’s something about standing before Allah and facing the fact that He (SWT) has not answered my prayers that always causes a storm full of tears. Mostly, I was disappointed.
I was disappointed that the hours spent in taraweh during Ramadan, and the duas I made during tahajjud, or any other moment over the last five months did not lead me to success. It did not lead me to the paths I needed to be on. God did not give me what I wanted. And although I wasn’t filled with anger, I found myself drowning in despair.
Depression grabbed me by the throat and squeezed all the hope out of me.
Friends came over one by one. Some sent flowers. People called and texted. Everyone tried to lift my spirits. And it did help. A little.
On one of the days when I couldn’t get out of bed, I pushed myself to attend a halaqa in SF. The halaqa was a tafsir of surah Al-Balad, The City. The conversation was centered around doing good works for the community and using our resources and wealth for the good of society. I particularly felt myself gushing over ayah 11 “If only they had attempted the challenging path ˹of goodness instead˺!”
The khatib asked the audience if we realized what challenging path we were taking to achieve goodness. He made us ponder on the fact that this life primes us to battle things— ourselves, corruption, greed, shaytan entities and people— to reach the ultimate goal of paradise. That ayah made me wonder what was my particular “challenging path” that would result in my reward in the hereafter? Was it the difficulties I was facing with my career (both my lawyer and writer ones)? Was it the challenges I faced with my family? Or with my singleness? What was the ultimate challenge that would lead me on a path to goodness?
I’m still processing my disappointment from the past few weeks. Some days are easier than others. Each day is filled with tiny joys that I latch onto, or try to at least. I tell myself I’ve been through harder moments, darker days where the sun seemed galaxies away. And to reassure me that all will be well soon, I’ve encountered little reprieves. I believe these little moments of goodness are signs from Allah that He’s looking out for my best interests. These signs (which I don’t have the time or energy to explain here) are helping me to stay focused. The other thing that keeps me afloat is this hadith1:
Ibn Abbas reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Know that whatever happens to you could never miss you, and whatever misses you could never reach you.”
Whenever I re-read that hadith I know that those things that missed me were never for me. It’s my job to process and move forward from the hardships. With hardship comes ease, and if this season is another basket filled with lemons or limes, I’ll make it sweet.
Here’s to praying for better days soon.
Love,
Nailah
P.S Don’t forget to like, comment, and re-share! Thank you.
Source: al-Mu’jam al-Kabīr 11/123
Grade: Sahih (authentic) according to Al-Arna’ut
I only visited once for two days but I love Morocco. The pace of life and friendliness. I'm sorry for your setbacks and insha'Allah there is better for you in the near future.
Relatable. Hang in there.