Casablanca-The Help
When we arrived at our house, we were greeted by a very kind man named Hussein. Hussein did not speak French. He was able to say “bonjour, au revoir, bonne nuit, merci, oui and non”. I think that was it. Somehow, despite this language barrier, he and I managed just fine. I eventually learned a few words in Darija (this is the local Arabic dialect), but generally, we just used hand signals and smiles to get by.
Hussein lived in a little room that was at the end of the driveway. It is warm in Morocco, so there is a lot of outdoor space. His room was just big enough for a single bed that looked like it was 100 years old. There was an old metal frame that looked like it would break at any minute. He was delighted because there was an old fridge that he managed to fit into the back corner of the room. He also had a t.v. and a Bunsen burner, which was how he cooked. He had a little metal grate that he put on top of the burner, where he put his pots. I offered to let him use our kitchen, but he refused. He made couscous, stew, anything on this one little burner. I sometimes thought he ate better than I did. LOL
When we arrived, the landlord told us that we were responsible for paying him a monthly salary of 200 dollars and that we needed to feed him. Poor Hussein. I spent the first-month cooking food for him. I probably scared him with my idea of a good meal. He very graciously accepted it every evening. I made sure that he had basics for his fridge, and I was doing my best to live up to the deal we had made with the landlord. After a few weeks of this, the rental agent came by to show me a few things about the house. She was French, but she spoke Darija. I took this opportunity to have a conversation with Hussein. She translated for me, and I asked him all of the things I wasn’t able to otherwise. It turned out that he preferred to cook for himself. He was so kind and was embarrassed to ask for a little money to buy his own food so that he could cook. He was very grateful for all of the meals I had offered him, but at the same time, he preferred to do it by himself. He was embarrassed to ask but looked at me from under his cap to see if it was okay if we gave him 5 extra dollars a week to pay for his food. All of his meals. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for 5 dollars a week. I couldn’t believe it. A dollar a day. Of course, I said yes. This was no problem. On top of this, I would keep him stocked up on the essentials. His fridge was always full. I made sure he had milk. He loved tea and little chocolate puddings. Whenever I shopped for myself, I bought him stuff too. He was so nice and so helpful towards us that I only wanted to help. I figured if he didn’t want it, he could bring it home to his family.
On the day that the rental agent translated for us, I asked about his family. He told me that he had two children. She told me that he had a 17 years old daughter and a 6 years old son. As it was “back to school,” I went to the supermarket and loaded up on school supplies. I bought all kinds of cute things for his son—Spiderman pencils and erasers with cartoon characters on them. I was so proud of myself. I think I bought enough stuff to last the entire year. I came home and presented it to Hussein. He smiled and said thank you and quietly went into his room. I saw him sitting on his bed, looking through the bag. He looked in the bag and gave me a big smile. I was happy to help. The following month, it was getting a bit chilly in Casablanca, so I thought maybe I should buy his kids a coat or something. I went into this reasonably priced store next to the supermarket. I bought a jacket and a polar fleece for his son and his daughter. I bought a jacket and a couple of other items for winter.
Again, I came home and presented him with this stuff, and he graciously took it and said thank you. He came back after the weekend and pulled me aside. On this day, a guy who worked for my husband (Omar) stopped by the house to pick up something to bring to the office. At that moment, Hussein pulled Omar over and asked him to translate for me. He appeared with the bag of clothes and explained something to Omar. Omar’s head was pivoting around, looking at me, then at the bag, then at Hussein, then back at me. Finally, he said, “Hussein wants you to know that he is very grateful for all of these gifts. The only problem is that his son is 16. The jacket is a bit small”. Holy crap!!!!! I felt like such an idiot. Suddenly, all I could think of was the back-to-school stuff I’d bought. Spiderman! Ha, ha, ha. He must have thought I was nuts. The woman who translated for me understood 6 years old, but he was 16. We laughed for a minute, and Hussein was very embarrassed, but I think that I was even more so. I immediately ran to get the receipt and told him if it wasn’t too complicated for him that he could go and exchange it for something else. Oops. Wrong again. Hussein didn’t have a car, and he couldn’t read. So, I went back and did my best to find something suitable for a 16-year-old boy. Who knows if they even used it? I have no idea. I didn’t buy things for his kids from then on, and I stuck to buying food. He would get very excited if I bought big bags of flour and sugar. In Morocco, you can buy 5-kilo bags of any grain. This, for his family, was the biggest help.
We finally figured it out, and in the 2 years that I lived in the house, Hussein and I had a very nice relationship. We couldn’t talk too much, but we had an understanding. It was nice, and I really liked him.
Hussein worked 6 days a week and went home on Saturday nights at 5 o’clock. He was supposed to be back on Sunday evening. He never failed to show up. After a couple of months of this, I told my husband that I thought he should come to the house on Monday mornings. He could come early enough to be there to help us open our garage doors (which were not electric). This was one of his jobs. Garage door opener. It was handy, I assure you. He very happily agreed to this arrangement, and more often than not, we started to tell him to go on Fridays. I didn’t see why he needed to stay for the whole weekend and be away from his family. He was very appreciative, and quite honestly, I liked having the house to ourselves on the weekends. As nice as it is to have help, it sometimes feels intrusive. No matter how discrete these people will be. There is always someone there.
Hussein had a sweet deal. He had his little room, and he had his own bathroom, which was downstairs and outside. There was a shower and a Turkish toilet. There was a room off of that part of the house, but I never went down there. I felt like it was his space, and I did not need to go down there.
One of the last times I saw Hussein, just happened to be before Ramadan. I had gone to the store with our cleaning lady, and she helped me pick out food for all of them. I told her to buy everything that they needed for Ramadan. It was a lot. Mostly, the grains, big cans of tomato (to make Herrera soup). There was a full caddy for both of them. I could tell that the cleaner never shopped in the supermarket. That was a place for rich people. Anyway…..Hussein.
As there was so much stuff for Hussein to bring to the house, I told him that I would drive him home. He could put everything in my car, and off we’d go. He was very excited and was looking forward to introducing me to his family. I had no idea how he lived, so I didn’t know what to expect. He seemed so comfortable in our garage that I almost assumed that he was living in a shantytown. When we arrived, I was happy to see that he lived in an apartment building. The building was tucked away behind a long dirt path. We bounced our way down to it, and his building was smack in the middle of a little shop on one side and an unfinished building on the other. Everyone looked and came out to greet him. His daughter came swiftly down to help bring things upstairs. They lived on the 3rd floor, with no elevator. I started grabbing things to bring up, and they wouldn’t let me touch anything. I insisted and took a few light things up as there was no way that I was going to watch everyone huffing and puffing so that I could walk up to the apartment empty-handed. Lots of kids were running around the car. Of course, my car was a bit luxurious, and they probably didn’t see cars like that often in their neighborhood. Just suffice it to say that anyone in this neighborhood who was lucky enough to have a car was probably driving something from the ’70s with pieces missing. That was their luxury. Having a car was already a big deal. Many people in these neighborhoods still use donkey carts to get around. Hussein assured me that the car was safe ( I wasn’t worried), and off we went to meet his family. His wife was happily waiting. She had a smile from ear to ear and was so proud and happy to have me at their home. Hussiens’ son was not there, but his daughter, Hind, was there, and she greeted me in French. Hussein was so proud that she could speak to me. Her French wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely enough to get by. We took our shoes off at the door, and I was given the grand tour. Upon entering, there was a door to the right that led to the kitchen. We passed that and entered into a large room which was divided in two. A hallway in the middle and 2 open rooms on either side. Both sides had a big bench that went around in an L shape, and there was a table. This is usually to divide the women and men. A bit further on, there were 2 bedrooms—one on the left, one on the right. We went into the one on the right. Here, I sat with Hind……………. She asked me many questions. She thanked me many times for all of the help I had given to their family. She told me about her job and how it was difficult to find work in Casablanca. She was so smiley. It was such a big deal for her to have me there. I enjoyed talking to her. She had a beautiful hijab that was very colorful. She looked like a picture of what you’d expect a Moroccan girl to look like. After we’d talked for a bit, we went back into the living room area, and her Mom and Hussein motioned for me to have a seat. At this moment, the mother began to prepare the Moroccan mint tea. They had pulled out their nice silver tea set. The daughter went into the kitchen and came out with two trays. One with bread and another with cookies. Then she went back to bring out one more tray of another kind of cookie. She had made everything. I was very impressed. So, they poured me tea and then pushed all three plates in my direction and motioned to taste. I suddenly noticed that they were all just staring at me. Sitting still, with enormous smiles, hands folded nicely in their laps and waiting for my reaction once I’d had a sip of their tea and a taste of one of the treats. I asked if they’d be joining me, and they said no. They wouldn’t eat in front of me. I was very embarrassed, but I drank my tea and tried all of the different breads and cakes not to insult them. They were all so good. This went on for about 10 minutes. Silence as they watched me eat. It was nuts. Once I’d finished and insisted that I couldn’t eat anymore, Hind took me into the kitchen. There she showed me a counter filled with tray after tray of cookies and other things that she was baking on that day. She told me that she did this every day. The kitchen was so basic. I think there was a counter that had a sink and a small space for working. They also had an oven and a fridge. That was it. With this little space, she was baking up a storm, and I looked at that and thought that this would be an amazing visit on a Moroccan tour. This was the real deal.
I finally had to go, and we all said goodbye. They invited me to come back whenever I wanted. I would’ve loved to have come back. Unfortunately, I was moving, and they didn’t know it. It broke my heart to think that they had no idea that this nice situation that we had together was coming to an end. I felt so guilty. Going to their house that afternoon was one of the nicest experiences that I had in Morocco. It was simple and very, very real. It was a real look-see into the life of a very common family in Morocco.
The daughter and I had exchanged phone numbers the day that I was there. After a few months in Florida, I got in touch with her and asked how everyone was doing. I explained the situation and apologized to Hussein for not being able to say goodby to him. From that day on, we have been sending occasional texts and photos. I do hope that one day I can say hello to them again.
None of them have ever left Casablanca. Just amazing. Another contrast.
