Imsouane Village | Aisha Arif

On the way to Imsouane I wasn’t sure what to expect. Now that the experience is behind me, it hurts to remember, but I pray that I never forget.

It was a remote place, a village farther from the beach village we were living in. We literally had to hike a mountain to reach it. The houses were small and the people came out of their homes to watch us as we passed. We quickly set up the health clinic, but only after being fed by the host family. They had so little, yet still they insisted on all 15 of us having another breakfast before beginning.

People came from long distances to speak with the doctors and we checked glucose and BP levels as they waited in line. They were so thankful, so thankful and so in need of the little that we were doing for them. Amir noticed that the doctors often just prescribed Advil for much of the issues the people were facing. I was forced to recognize the true worth of the bottle of pills we all take for granted. What others have to journey half the day for, I habitually carry around in my purse everywhere I go.

Later, I went with a smaller group to see the few who were so sick they couldn’t make it to the clinic. One woman was lying down unable to get up, her hands trembling with pain. Another man was chronically coughing in his wheelchair, unable to even shoo away the flies that were constantly enveloping him. Their homes were so small and their lives looked so bleak. Their eyes looked tired, so tired of fighting, so tired of being forgotten by those who have so much.

But the kids. The kids are the ones who I keep seeing when I close my eyes. I can’t escape those faces. They were so intrigued by us. I’ve never been around people who were in awe of just my presence. They wanted to talk with us, to play with us, to just sit next to us even. They were so hungry for attention from people who must have seemed so glamorous to them. We taught them how to play London Bridge, or at least some variation of it. We taught them how to play hand games with each other. Their favorite was Duck Duck Goose though, and I can imagine them playing it for years to come.

Somehow I developed an attachment with one of them, or rather she did with me. Quiet, observant, she insisted on standing next to me most of the time. Sometimes I forgot she was even there and left her behind if I quickly had to go to another room. Even when I told her to go play with the others, she refused until I came with her. Holding her warm and slightly sticky hand I talked to her using the little Arabic I knew. She appreciated my little bits of attention and was excited when she was able to show me her sisters and learn a little English. Eventually she had to leave and we said our good-byes. I didn’t think too much of it and gave her a quick hug before turning to the others. Being my small, insufficient self I saw her as just another kid I had played with that day. I didn’t realize the experience had meant much more to her.

About an hour later, after having lunch and talking amongst ourselves, we were ready to head out as well. We walked outside to the van, and there the little girl was in the distance, waiting for me. She gestured to me, and as I walked over I saw there was something in her hand. She had brought a present for me. The ring was a big, sparkly blue one, the kind little girls love to wear. She shyly put it on my finger. Even as I said thank you, I realized that there was no repaying what she had just done for me. This small, impoverished girl had just given me one of the few pieces of jewelry she had. I had nothing to offer her in return. The only thing I could think of was my watch, but I hesitated. I knew that it was too big for her wrist and to be honest I secretly wanted to hold onto the gift Amir had once given me.

Later, on the bus ride back, I realized that it was that moment of hesitation that differentiated people like me and people like her. I, ultimately, thought of myself first. I had given her nothing. A bit of attention, some games perhaps, but essentially nothing. She lovingly taught me the meaning of generosity. Of selflessness. Of kindness. These people have so little, yet they give to you without a hint of hesitation. If you merely compliment something they’re wearing, they take it off and insist you have it. There’s something wrong with our hearts that makes us incapable of acting that way with others. And it’s that moment of hesitation we have, that one pause, that shows God the true state of what’s inside.

I lost in that moment, in the grand scheme of things my heart lost to hers.  We are the ones who have little, and they so much. Constantly blinded by the glitter of this world we fail to see that. But when the veils are stripped away on that Day, this reality will stand clear. InshaAllah I will keep trying though. I can’t get that moment back, but I will send her something from the city. I will try to remember those girls and send them things from time to time. I will try to remember.

Then perhaps one day, I’ll be given another moment to prove myself. And this time, InshaAllah, this time I will not fail.