5,49 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: WS
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Two Women, Two Immigrants, Two Worlds Collide— A True Story of Faith and Freedom from Human Trafficking
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 440
Ähnliche
Our Journey to El Dorado
Two Women, Two Immigrants, Two Worlds Collide— A True Story of Faith and Freedom from Human Trafficking
M.F. Renée
Copyright
Copyright © 2021 by M.F. Renée
All rights reserved. Published by The Cultural Story-Weaver.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, contact The Cultural Story-Weaver at www.culturalstoryweaver.com.
ISBN 978-1-7367253-5-1
Table of Contents
Arabic Tears
For Those on the Frontlines
Part 1: Her Dream
Morocco Roots
1. My Morocco
2. Her Morocco
3. A Way Out
The Crossing
4. A Faustian Bargain
5. The Strawberry Fields
6. Drink! Don’t Feel!
7. Mafia Terror
All For This?
Part 2: Her Rescue
8. Knock at the Door
Overwhelming Love
9. How Could I Say No?
10. You Speak My Language?
11. First Birthday Party
12. Freedom to Choose
13. Her Culture of Honor and Shame
14. Beauty From Ashes
Part 3: Her Story
15. The Translation Bridge
16. The Telling
Today, I Would Rather
17. The Treasure Box
18. My Reflections
19. The Three Roads of Immigration
20. Broken Women in the House
21. The Strawberry Fields are Calling
What Would You Do?
22. Dare to Trust Again
Part 4: Her Pain
23. The Lump and the Hearts
24. What is it?
25. Forgiveness and Sovereignty
26. The Tattered Tissue
27. Sartan!
28. Exposed and Afraid
29. The Sentence and Translation Ethics
30. A Trip to Morocco
31. Dear Habiba
32. I’m Tired
33. Lament for Habiba
34. I'm Jealous!
35. A Sweet Reunion
36. Staring Cancer in the Face
Part 5: Her Life
37. Something to Hold Onto
38. Her Family is Starving
39. French Fries and Ice Cream
Mint Tea
40. Tajine, Beets, and a Tea Party
Mondays
41. Her Fate in Blurred Images
42. Flamenco and the Backwards Warrior
43. Wait For Me!
44. Menopause, Orange Juice, Gray Hair, and Bald Heads
45. Mommy, What’s a Safe House?
Broken Pieces of Your Story
46. The El Dorado Revelation
47. Tell Them!
48. Our El Dorado
Part 6: The Sad Reality and How to Make a Difference
49. A Person or a Project?
50. The Sad Reality of the Strawberry Fields of Spain
51. The Sad Reality of Sex Trafficking in Spain
52. Now That You Know, Go Make a Difference!
Jesus Loved Prostitutes
The Starfish Parable
Dedication
Tomy beloved Habiba and all the women and girls around the globe who carry the same story—the same story of brokenness, trauma, and pain. To all the women and girls around the world who are still secretly enslaved. You are not forgotten. We will find you. We will rescue you. Stay strong while we tell your story, while we plead with people to help, while we scream loudly from the mountaintops the truth and sad reality of what happens in the darkness behind closed doors. I will be your voice—the voice of the “Silent Ones.” Most importantly, I dedicate this book to God, “the Author and Finisher of our faith”—our story, our journey to El Dorado. I trust Him to write the last chapters and the end of this story.
THE PEOPLE IN THIS BOOK HAVE GIVEN ME PERMISSION TO TELL THEIR STORY. NAMES AND LOCATIONS HAVE BEEN CHANGED FOR EVERYONE'S SECURITY.
Contents
. Chapter
Arabic Tears
Those on the Front Lines
Part One
Morocco Roots
1.
My Morocco
2.
Her Morocco
3.
A Way Out
The Crossing
4.
A Faustian Bargain
5.
The Strawberry Fields
6.
Drink, Don’t Feel
7.
Mafia Terror
All For This?
Part Two
8.
Knock at the Door
Overwhelming Love
9.
How Could I Say No?
10.
You Speak My Language
11.
First Birthday Party
12.
Freedom to Choose
13.
Her Culture of Honor and Shame
14.
Beauty from Ashes
Part Three
15.
The Translation Bridge
16.
The Telling
Today, I Would Rather
17.
The Treasure Box
18.
My Reflections
19.
The Three Roads of Immigration
20.
Broken Women in the House
21.
The Strawberry Fields are Calling
What Would You Do?
22.
Dare to Trust Again
Part Four—Her Pain
23.
Lumps and Hearts
24.
What is it?
25.
Forgiveness and Sovereignty
26.
The Tattered Tissue
27.
Sartan!
28.
Exposed and Afraid
29.
The Sentence and Translation Ethics
30.
A Trip to Morocco
31.
Dear Habiba
32.
I'm Tired
I Miss You
33.
Lament for Habiba
34.
I'm Jealous!
35.
A Sweet Reunion
36.
Staring Cancer in the Face
Part Five—Her Life
37.
Something to Hold On To
38.
Her Family is Starving
39.
French Fries and Ice Cream
Mint Tea
40.
Tagine, Beets, and a Tea Party
Mondays
41.
Her Fate in Blurred Images
42.
Flamenco and the Backwards Warrior
43.
Wait For Me!
44.
Menopause, Orange Juice, Gray Hair, and Bald Heads
45.
Mommy, What’s a Safe House?
Broken Pieces of Your Story
46.
The El Dorado Revelation
47.
Tell Them!
48.
Our Journey to El Dorado
Part Six—The Sad Reality and How to Make a Difference
49.
A Person or a Project?
50.
The Sad Reality of the Strawberry Fields in Spain
51.
The Sad Reality of Sex Trafficking in Spain
52.
Now That You Know—Make a Difference!
Jesus Loved Prostitutes
The Starfish Parable
53. Chapter 53
About M.F. Renée
Also By M.F. Renée
Connect with M.F. Renée
Bibliography
“Jesus left the ninety-nine to go and rescue the one.”
Luke 15:4—The Bible NIV
Arabic Tears
Withthatonephone call, the threads of our lives intertwined—forever.
“We heard you speak Arabic. Can you help us with some translation? We have a new Moroccan girl who can’t speak a word of Spanish.”
“Yes, I love Arabic.”
I’d heard about these women, the work—the difficult, heart-breaking work. I’d also heard the statistics in Spain—some of the highest in Europe. Alarming . . .
I wasn’t sure what I was getting into. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to walk through the door that day.
It didn’t take me long to love you—a broken, hurting woman who had left everything—your parents, your son, your land, your culture, your language, your life . . . your broken life in North Africa. Like all the other women sitting next to you in the boat that day, you crossed the Mediterranean to pick strawberries in the fields of Spain.
It was no El Dorado.
Sitting in that room, you begin to tell your story—in Arabic, the language I love.
Arabic. The onslaught of your pain, your trauma, your grief slam me in the face.
Arabic. It stings. I feel sick to my stomach.
Arabic. You speak so fast, sob so loudly. At times, I can hardly understand you.
Arabic. I don’t want to ask you to repeat. I don’t want you to say it again. I don’t want to hear it again.
Arabic . . . But there’s no one else. I am the only one in the room who can hear and understand your story, your words, your pain.
Arabic . . . a blessing, a burden.
Arabic . . . a language I love, a language I hate.
I try to listen, but your pain hits me hard. Tears stream down my face. I reach across the table and take your hand. I lean over and hold you.
You weep. I weep. I have never seen so many tears. I stroke my finger across your cheeks to wipe them away. I hand you a tissue. I hold one too.
The emotion is raw—yours, mine.
Arabic . . . I listen carefully to your words, absorb your pain, your sorrow, your story.
Strawberries, promises, darkness, streets, alcohol, drugs, men, money, Mafia, secrets, torture, death . . .
I swallow hard. I breathe deeply. I turn to the other two women sitting at the table with us.
And I speak.
Arabic.
English.
Spanish.
Your sacred story travels around the table. I hear the trauma once, twice, three times—in three different languages. My head spins. My mind is foggy.
I weep. I hold your hand.
When I walk out the door that day, I carry your story with me. It’s a story that is more than I can handle, more than I can hear, more than I can bear, more than I can carry.
The pain and grief are heavy. I can hardly breathe.
I beat my fists against the steering wheel, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“God, I didn’t ask you for this! I don’t want to do this anymore! I don’t want to use my Arabic like this! Find someone else!”
But there’s no one else. Arabic. I’m the only one who understands your story.
Arabic . . . it feels used and abused . . . just like you, my sister.
I cry Arabic tears.
Those on the Front Lines
Isat alone in my car. It was April 2020, just after the COVID-19 pandemic had invaded the world. Spain was still in a period of total confinement. I had already been in lockdown with my husband and four sons for almost forty days. It felt like Noah’s Ark; however, the rain was still pouring, and the waters were not receding.
It was only the second time I had been out of the house, the second time I had driven my car in over a month. It felt strange. I could finally breathe. I went to the pharmacy to pick up medicine for my son. After removing my face mask and washing my hands thoroughly with antiseptic gel, I sat in my car to escape and read for a while. No one at the house needed me.
I had just downloaded a new book onto my phone, “Half the Sky” by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. The subtitle intrigued me: “Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide.” By the time I got to the dedication page, I was already in tears. After a message to the authors’ children, these words jumped off the page and straight into my heart.
“And for all those on the front lines around the globe, saving the world, one woman at a time.”{1}
Choked up, tears welled up in my eyes and slowly trickled down my cheeks.
The authors wrote this book for me—FOR ME. In 2009, when they published and dedicated their writing, they already had me in mind. They didn’t know me, and they still don’t. But, there I was, in 2020, in Spain, on the front lines. I didn’t choose this battle. I didn’t expect this. I wasn’t trained for this war. I was just thrown onto the battlefield with no boot camp or military armor.
My only weapons—love, prayer, and a mind and a mouthful of Arabic.
As I read those words, I thought about the many others I know personally who stand courageously on the front lines with me. I thought about Karen* and Andrea,* the two directors I work with. They regularly lunge head on, smack into the middle of danger—into the dark and evil streets—to rescue helpless girls. Although typically accompanied by undercover police agents, they risk their lives and the lives of their families to find and free women held captive in slavery.
I thought about Jessica* and Paola,* the psychologists I work with. They sit for hours with these broken and traumatized women—listening to them, caring for them, loving them as they share their stories. They hope that somehow they can guide them towards hope, healing, and redemption in their journey. I thought about Maria* and Chris,* the persistent lawyers who fight for the human rights of these women—seeking justice and help for the oppressed. I thought about Beatrice* and her team in the south of Spain, rescuing exploited migrant women from the agricultural fields. They, too, stand on the front lines, “saving the world, one woman at a time.”
That’s all we can do—stand, pray, and journey alongside one woman at a time.
Two unlikely women were about to cross paths—a tall, fair-complected, light-haired woman from the deep Midwest of America and a petite, dark-skinned brunette from the desert mountains of Morocco. We were both on a journey . . . a journey to a better life . . . a journey to El Dorado. We were both searching . . . searching for deeper meaning and purpose.
If the only reason our family came to Spain was for me to meet this one woman, then it was all worth it.
“Jesus left the 99 to go and rescue the one” (Luke 15:4). The ONE is worth it all to Him. The ONE is dearly loved by Him.
Here I am, today, on the front lines of the battle in Spain, walking alongside ONE woman. This woman’s name means “Beloved” in Arabic. This woman’s name is Habiba.*
*Names are changed to protect the identity of the individuals.
Part One
Her Dream
Morocco Roots
Morocco—ourhomeland,ourfamily, our culture, our language, our life.
Morocco—the land we left behind.
Morocco—the place we still call home.
Morocco—the country to which we can never return.
My Morocco
Wearea“globe-trotting” family—always on the move, always packing our suitcases. Travel is in our DNA. We have hauled our children across the world to live on three continents, raising our four boys across borders, across languages, across cultures.
Sometimes we forget who we are or where we are.
Two of our children were born in the U.S., and two were born in France. They like to argue about which of them is eligible to run for President of the United States—only the two born on American soil. In our years of marriage, we have spent little time in the United States. Most of our life has been overseas in France, Morocco, and Spain. Two of our sons went to boarding schools in Germany and Senegal and universities in England and Germany. I guess you could say that the world is our home.
Although born in different countries, we all carry two passports—American and French. Our four children also bear the label of “Third Culture Kid” (TCK), a term coined by David Pollock and Ruth Van Reken to mean “a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture. The TCK frequently builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership in any.”
Loss, goodbyes, disconnect, confusion, transition, loneliness, suitcases, moves, travel . . . that describes our family of nomads.
In all of our early global travels, Morocco wasn’t on our horizon. I don’t even remember hearing about the country before I moved to France at nineteen to study abroad. Given that Morocco is a former French colony, crossing paths with Moroccans on French soil was quite common.
After graduating from university, I spent a year teaching English in a high school in the south of France on a Fulbright Teaching Fellowship. One of my fellow English teachers, from Tunisia, invited me and another colleague to visit his country and his family during our spring break. We gladly accepted his invitation to explore his homeland.
I fell in love with everything about North Africa—the crystal turquoise Mediterranean Sea, the bright blue and white handmade pottery, the rich ethnic spices, the warm and friendly locals, the daily doses of sunshine, the busy outdoor markets, and the cheap prices that were always open to the art of negotiation. And the Arabic language . . . I loved the way it sang in my ears and danced in my heart.
I decided then that one day I would go back to that land—the land of North Africa.
When I met my French husband, Vincent, during my first year in France, I discovered that he also had a fascination with foreign lands, people, languages, and cultures. Many of his university friends were from Algeria, the Ivory Coast, La Réunion, Morocco, La Martinique. No doubt, we were made for each other, and travel would become a significant part of our shared life story.
While living in Paris a few years later, I taught French to immigrant women at our local church. Every Tuesday morning, we met together for sweet mint tea, homemade treats, fun and games, and free French lessons. It was the highlight of their week and mine. Women from predominantly North Africa and the Middle East—Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Iran, Lebanon—gathered. We were friends who quickly became family to one other.
We were all foreigners, all immigrants, all people from another land. We were all separated from our family, our friends, our cultures, our languages, our worlds—the ones we had always known. Our babies nursed side by side, our toddlers crawled on the floor and played together. We shared stories. We shared pain. We shared laughter. We shared tears.
Living in the international business quarter of Paris, La Défense, my husband and I quickly discovered that over eighty percent of the people living among us in the high-rise apartments were from North Africa. Everywhere we turned, we saw dark-skinned hands decorated with rust-colored henna, inhaled the pleasant odors of stewed tagines and couscous in the hallways, crossed paths in the elevator with veiled women, heard the scrambled dancing of Arabic all around us, purchased homemade specialities at the local grocery store downstairs, and watched our children play soccer in the courtyard with the immigrant children.
North Africa. We were surrounded by it, and we loved it. Our kids did too.
Many of our oldest son’s preschool friends were from Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria. When Timothée went to their homes to play after school, he didn’t realize that he was playing with the “outcasts” of French society. For our son, these immigrants were his friends. That’s all he knew. That’s all he needed to know. Another son, Robert, went to the neighborhood nursery where he shared toys and sippy cups with those from North Africa—another world.
North Africa. We didn’t know it then, but their world, their land, their culture would one day become ours.
In 2001, a company invited us to visit Morocco. Vincent was a finance and business consultant, and there was a job opening in his field. We grabbed the opportunity to travel and explore. Leaving the two boys we had at that time, ages five and three, with Vincent’s parents in the village, we couldn’t wait to fly across the Mediterranean Sea to discover this unknown country.
We fell in love. We fell in love with everything—the land, the people, the culture, the language, and the food. Everything. By the time we arrived back at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris two weeks later, we had already made up our minds. Morocco would be our next home.
In 2003, with only our two oldest boys in tow, ages seven and five, we moved to Morocco. It quickly became our home. The people, the neighbors, adopted us. Vincent worked for an American company selling electric transformer maintenance. I taught English to parents at the boys’ school, as well as French and health to illiterate women in the local community center of our small, rural seaside town.
Vincent and I both studied Arabic intensively during our first two years in Morocco. Hearing the local Moroccan dialect, Darija, still makes my heart leap for joy. Savoring a bowl of chicken couscous, a plateful of s’fa moudafouna, a beef, prune, and grilled almond tagine, cornes de gazelle, and sweet mint tea . . . just thinking about these Moroccan delicacies still makes my mouth water.
“Bledi,” I often say in Arabic, “My country.”
When native speakers hear me speak Arabic, they know by my accent and my vocabulary where I’ve been, where I’m from.
“You’re Moroccan,” they always say.
Morocco is my country, my children’s country, our family’s country, our country.
We dreamed of one day retiring in Morocco, purchasing a small, simple home in the south, near the water. We wanted to live there forever. It was our home, our land. . . until one day.
Morocco was stolen from us.
In 2010, our company asked us to leave the land we love. We packed our bags, loaded up our van, and said our teary goodbyes to friends who had become like family. We knew it was time to go, and there would be no turning back, no coming back, no return. With broken hearts, our family crossed the border of Morocco into another land . . . Spain.
We didn’t stay long in Spain, only landing there a few weeks before driving on to France. The further we drove north, the further away we traveled from the land we loved—Morocco. As we looked back over the Mediterranean, its beauty, its welcome, slowly faded . . . until it disappeared completely into the horizon.
Our hearts continued to long, continued to yearn, for that land, for those people. While living in France, working among immigrants and refugees from North Africa and the Middle East, we found a reprieve when we stumbled upon a hanoute—a Moroccan grocery store, when we strolled through the Arab market, when a Moroccan neighbor invited us to his home for tea and couscous, when our children brought their Moroccan friends home from school, when we ate at a favorite Moroccan restaurant, when we heard Arabic music blasting on the local radio, and when we spoke Arabic with our immigrant friends.
But the deep longing remained. Longing for Morocco, longing for home.
France would also not be our home forever. In 2017, another land began to call us, to woo us. It took us by surprise. We didn’t understand why . . . why this new land? Was there something waiting for us there?
Spain.
The location was a surprise, but the move wasn’t. We were nomads, after all, always loading up our camels, always on the move. Our family seemed to dance to a seven-year cadence. Seven years in Morocco, seven years in France. Perhaps things were getting too monotonous and familiar. Perhaps it was time for a change. Strangely, our family seemed to thrive on the thrill of transition and upheaval.
There was a new and exciting open door for us in Spain. Our organization was starting a project among immigrants and refugees. Multiple times a day, “dreamers” were arriving by boatload along the Mediterranean coastline. Men, women, and children who were looking, hoping for a better life. Just like us, they were people on the move—the diaspora—imagining a life that would be better on the other side of the border.
Unfortunately, our last two moves—from Morocco and France—had been painful, challenging, and unexpected. We were weary and wounded. At times, we considered throwing in the towel, wondering if perhaps our days of living abroad were over. Deep down inside, we longed for a better life—a land flowing with milk and honey, a place to settle and rest. Perhaps, like those dreamers, we were searching for El Dorado and didn’t even realize it.
Our family loves Spain. During the past decades, it became our favorite vacation spot. While living in Morocco for seven years, we would often take the boat up north. We called it a “cruise,” even though the ride across the Strait of Gibraltar from Tangiers to Algeciras lasted only forty-five minutes. It was long enough to get seasick on especially stormy days.
Likewise, while living in France, whenever the boys had school vacation, Spain always topped our list of destinations. Living in the south of France, we were only a few hours’ drive from the border, and we didn’t hesitate to cross.
Spain. We loved everything about the country—the climate, the language, the food, the people, the culture. The moment we crossed the border from Morocco or France, we knew we had arrived in Spain. Everything was different—the air, the colors, the fragrance. Our family couldn’t wait to move there.
After a long wait, much patience, and a lot of preparation, we boarded the plane on June 1, 2019. Looking out across the Atlantic Ocean towards Spain, we expected warm weather, never-ending sunshine, a relaxed way of life, friendly people, fun language learning, and amazing paella. We got all that.
Immediately, our new life in Spain captivated our family. Compared to the stress and exhaustion of our last season in France, it felt like El Dorado—this ideal “dream” land, this better life.
But there was more waiting for us in Spain. There was the unexpected. One day, one phone call, one conversation, one invitation would change me forever.
Once I walked through the door, there was no leaving. Once I saw, once I knew, once I heard, once I felt . . . there was no turning back. I could no longer close my eyes, no longer forget, no longer plug my ears, no longer ignore. I could never remain silent.
Her Morocco
FromthemomentHabiba took her first breath, life was hard. She didn’t stand a chance.
Born and raised in a poor, rural family in the south of Morocco in 1978, Habiba could never climb the ladder out of poverty and into a better life. For most Moroccans, poverty was a state that one must accept. There was no choice.
Unfortunately, Habiba’s family wasn’t the only poor family in Morocco. The statistics were astounding. Even though Morocco had made significant economic progress, half of the rural population still considered themselves poor. There were over four million people who lived on less than $4/day. Three million of those people lived in rural areas.{1}
That captured the perfect picture of Habiba’s family—rural and poor.
When I first met Habiba, I remembered her crying a lot when we asked about her family in Morocco.
Had something happened back in her homeland, something that was too raw and painful to talk about? Or perhaps she simply missed her family, missed her country. We didn’t know what made her cry, what made those many tears fall.
The first time they called me in for translation, we met in the downstairs room of the safe house with the psychologist.
Paola* asked Habiba how she was doing, and her answers were filled with worry and fear about her family.
What was she afraid of? Did she fear for their safety? Their well-being? Did she wonder if they would have enough money to eat? Did she question what their future would hold?
The first day I met Habiba, I asked her if she had any children. When she told me about her son, I asked his age.
She shrugged and said, “I have no idea, maybe twenty.”
When I heard “twenty,” something slammed me hard in the pit of my stomach. My two oldest sons were nineteen and twenty-one. Habiba and I were roughly the same age, and we both had sons in their twenties.
I could be in Habiba’s shoes.
Coming from the Western world, it might be shocking to think that Habiba didn’t know her son’s age. How could you forget when your own child was born? I can still remember the exact date, the exact hour, the exact minute, and the detailed events surrounding the births of my four boys. I could never forget.
Yet, Habiba did not know how old her one and only son was . . . Zacharia.*
In Morocco, it was common for people to not know their age or birthdate, especially those coming from rural, uneducated, and illiterate families. Perhaps the family simply didn’t know the date on which the big event took place, or the family didn’t understand the significance of birthdates and didn’t think to recall the date. Maybe the family didn’t have a means to record the date, through either written or oral form.
For national identity cards, passports, and driver’s licenses, every person in Morocco has their birthdate clearly marked on the document. However, people often randomly choose a date, typically January 1. It’s amazing how many Moroccans are born on the first day of the year.
When Habiba told me she didn’t know her son’s age, I was not surprised. I was only sad.
Habiba’s husband—the father of her son—had died two years after Zacharia’s birth. Based on Habiba’s story, that would have been twenty years ago. Twenty years since her husband died, since she became a disgraced widow, since her son turned two. Twenty years since her level of poverty drastically increased.
Twenty years . . .
When Habiba was born forty-three years ago in that small Moroccan village, who would have known how her story would be written, how her life would unfold? Who would have known that forty-three years later she would live in Spain?
No one knew. No one could have imagined. No one could have seen these parts of her life coming.
Although only separated from Spain by a small body of water, the Strait of Gibraltar, Habiba’s dearly beloved Morocco now seemed long gone. From the city of Gibraltar on clear days, one can look across the sea to see the beautiful, faraway land of Morocco. That may be as close as Habiba would ever get to seeing her country again. She had made her choice to uproot from her homeland two years before, and now she could never go back.
Never.
“How old were you when you got married?” I asked Habiba as she ate her patatas fritas* on the terrace of the tapas bar.
“I have no idea. I don’t know.”
It was hard for me to fathom. How could I ever forget my wedding day? That beautiful celebration is forever etched in my mind. I remember the date, the hour, and the weather. I recall my age and the dress and shoes I wore. I could never forget.
But Habiba did. She could not even recall the age at which she became a bride.
“Were you young—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen?”
“Something like that. I don’t know.”
Whenever we went grocery shopping with Habiba, we noticed she couldn’t count well. It made sense that she couldn’t count the years of her life.
I wanted to ask Habiba about her life in Morocco before coming to Spain. It had been almost one year since I had met her. During our first meetings with the psychologist and the human rights lawyer, I listened to most of her story. However, Habiba shared very little about her life back in Morocco. When the lawyer asked her questions for the file, her answers were vague and distant.
“I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you,” she repeated over and over again through her tears.
It was obviously too painful, too shameful.
Then one day was different. We weren’t sitting in a meeting room with the director and the human rights lawyer. That day, we sat alone—just the two of us—next to a large fountain, under the shade of a tree, in the cool evening breeze.
I had picked up Habiba at 6 pm, knowing it would be cool enough for a short walk and a bite to eat. After a few minutes of strolling down the cobblestone streets in the still blazing Spanish sun, we found a tapas bar, where we stopped to have a drink and an evening snack.
“What was your husband’s name?” I asked Habiba, hesitantly, unsure how sensitive she would be about sharing her past life. There was still a lot of pain there, and I didn’t want to stir the pot.
“Abdelwahed.”*
I smiled at the familiar name—it was common in Morocco.
“How long were you married?”
If she didn’t remember her age for their wedding, perhaps she could tell me how long they were together before he died.
“I don’t know. But, I know that it’s been twenty years since Abdelwahed died.”
Staring at my french fries, I tried to do the calculations quickly in my head as I listened to her story. The tapas bar began to get crowded. The cool evening air was enticing to all the locals.
After further questioning, Habiba continued to walk me through her story. As a young girl, she didn’t want to get married. It was a forced marriage—common in Morocco.
“Did you ever love Abdelwahed? In all your years of marriage?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “He beat me. He beat me a lot. I had to stay home and couldn’t leave the house.”
I reached across the table to touch her hand. My heart was ripping in two.
“I’m so sorry.”
Habiba went on to explain to me that her husband had worked as a trashman. They lived in a small, simple house in a rural area with her sister-in-law. Habiba had wanted to take birth control pills, but her husband didn’t allow it. After a year of marriage, Habiba became pregnant with their only son, Zacharia. Just after Zacharia turned two, Abdelwahed died suddenly.
“How did he die? Was he sick? Did he have an accident?”
“I don’t know. The j’nun—evil spirits—attacked him. He smoked cigarettes, marijuana, and drank a lot.”
Habiba fidgeted in her seat as she recounted the earlier years of her life, then took a sip of water.
Shortly after Abdelwahed died, his family members came to see Habiba at the house.
“Your husband is dead. Now you must leave,” they told her.
Habiba had no choice. She escaped to her parents’ home—faraway—and dropped off her son, not feeling capable of caring for him and working at the same time. She then traveled to a nearby coastal city looking for a job. Searching was hard, and it didn’t last long. Picking up her son a few months later, Habiba returned to the rural area where she had lived with her husband in an isolated area in the countryside.
She described her home. “It wasn’t really a house. It was made of dirt, with no furniture other than a few old mattresses on the floor for sleeping.”
As I listened to Habiba’s story, I realized her experience of Morocco was drastically different from my experience of living in her land. During our seven years in Morocco, our family lived in a nice house by the beach. We owned two vehicles, our boys went to private schools, and we had a local woman who helped us full-time with cooking and cleaning. Our days were filled with dipping our toes in the cool ocean water, basking in the sun's warmth, enjoying the savory local food, and living off the goodness of the land.
Habiba’s Morocco story was different—vastly different. She was born and raised in the deep pit of poverty. From a distance, I had observed the poor, lived among the poor, and helped the poor. Yet, I could never fully understand what it was like to be one of them.
In desperation, Habiba had found what work she could—begging on the streets or making fresh pastries. She sold her fresh m’simmons, b’rir, bataboute, and hersha for two dirhams a piece. In her home, Habiba got up in the early morning hours to mix and knead the dough, wait for it to rise, bake the traditional treats, and then set off walking to the pastry shop to sell them at sunrise. Zacharia was always with her for those early morning deliveries.
Habiba worked other odd jobs, like cleaning houses and cooking for wealthier families. In Morocco, these women are called r’dema and have a lower, almost shameful, status as a servant or slave in her culture. It did not matter to Habiba. She took any job she could find. They had no food to eat. They had nothing.
When I heard that Habiba had cleaned houses and cooked, I suddenly saw the faces and recalled the names of the women who had worked in our home in Morocco for many years—Fatna, Rabia, Amina . . .
Hearing the chattering voices around me woke me up to my new reality. I was now sitting in a tapas bar in Spain. I wasn’t in Morocco. Those days were gone.
I looked across the table at Habiba, who brushed her dark hair off her forehead. She always wore her hair the same way, pulled back in a bun.
“Did you ever consider getting married again?” I asked her while we nibbled on our patatas fritas.
“No one wants to marry a widow with a child,” she murmured, her gaze turned down towards the table. “There’s so much I can’t tell you about my life. We had so many problems. Zacharia was in jail for a while, but the village leader bailed him out.”
She didn’t want to tell me why her son went to jail, and I didn’t pry.
In Morocco, Habiba had no life, no hope, nothing . . . until she heard about the beautiful strawberry fields in Spain. It did not take long for her to imagine her dream job in El Dorado.
“You came here to Spain to feed your family, didn’t you?”
Rather than answer my question, she replied, “Do you know what the first thing I want is? I want a house. I want to build a home.”
Habiba had never had a home of her own. She wanted a house—for her, for her son.
“Zacharia’s House,” she said, looking off in the distance with dreamy eyes.
When Habiba left for Spain, she took her son back to her parents in their village.
“Has it been hard for your parents to take care of Zacharia?”
“I try to send them money regularly to feed him.”
I knew that Habiba’s parents were poor. Living in a rural area, they most likely fell in the half of the Moroccan population who lived on less than $4/day.{1}
“Does your father still work?” I asked Habiba, wanting to know more of my friend’s story.
She was silent and looked away uncomfortably.
“My father can’t work anymore. He’s too old. He was a beggar,” she said quietly. I could hear the shame in her voice.
I reached across the table again and took her hand in mine.
“Your life was hard in Morocco.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for trusting me and telling me your story. I’ll carry it in my heart forever,” I told her with tears in my eyes.
We sat in silence and cried for a few minutes.
I paid the bill for our half-eaten meal, and we headed back to the apartment.
“I’m starting to know you more, Habiba,” I told her, with my arm draped gently around her shoulder. “You’re my friend, and I want to know where you came from.”
“You want to know my story.”
I nodded and told her how much I loved her. I hugged her goodbye as I dropped her off. She entered the large wooden door leading up to the apartment.
No one on the streets of Spain knew who had just been among them. No one knew who she was. No one knew her name.
But I did. Her name was Habiba.
I was finally starting to fill in the missing puzzle pieces of Habiba’s story. With each visit, I saw her life tapestry more clearly. I was beginning to know who she was.
“Yes, Habiba, I want to know your story. I want to tell the world your story,” I whispered to myself as I made my way back to my car.
*patatas fritas—french fries
A Way Out
Bornintopoverty.Trapped. Stuck. No way out.
Until . . . one day, Habiba heard about the strawberries . . . the strawberries in the fields of Spain.
Could it be her El Dorado? A way out of poverty? An open door to escape the devastating life into which she had been born?
I wonder what went through Habiba’s mind when she first heard about the opportunity to pick strawberries in the fields of Spain. Did it sound like a dream come true, a long-awaited chance to buy that house she had always dreamed of?
There was no upfront investment, no cost to make the journey. It was an all-inclusive, all-paid trip to paradise. Upon her return from Spain to Morocco, they would require Habiba to pay back the cost of her passport, visa, and boat tickets. She did not know how much money she would make or how much she would have to pay back. Would she have any money left for her family?
Habiba didn’t know. She didn’t think about these things. She didn’t ask questions.
Habiba wasn’t the only one making the “dream trip” to El Dorado. There were others, other young women like her, chasing their dreams . . . their dreams of the other side, a better life, a brighter future. Perhaps it was possible to not have to live day-to-day, wondering if there would be enough food on their plates. Perhaps it was possible to have more than enough.
Yes, I wonder what went through Habiba’s mind when she first heard about the strawberry fields of Spain.
Did she imagine what it would feel like to say goodbye to her parents and to her only son? Did she question if she would one day see them again or if it would be a final adieu? Did she imagine what it would feel like to board the boat and sail away from her homeland? Did she question if she would one day be able to return to the place of her birth? Did she imagine what it would feel like to leave her country, her culture, her religion, her language? Did she question if she would one day be able to find her roots again?
Did she count the costs?
I don’t think so. I think she heard about a chance to feed her family, an opportunity to provide for their needs. I think she thought her choice would lead to a better life, a brighter tomorrow for her and for her family.
I don’t think she thought beyond the present moment. I don’t think she considered what could happen. I don’t think she asked herself, “What if . . . ?” I don’t think she pondered these things. I don’t think she took time to reflect. I don’t think she waited before deciding.
I think she said, “Yes!” without hesitation.
I can’t imagine saying “yes.” I can’t imagine being so poor, so desperate, so hungry that I would be willing, be able to turn my back and walk away from it all. I struggled to hear her story and understand her decision.
Other girls, other women, were also talking about the strawberry fields of Spain. The El Dorado of their dreams was about to come true, if they would only say, “yes.”
Habiba said “yes” that day.
I wonder what her parents and her son thought when she came home to tell them that she was leaving for Spain. Were they dreaming too, imagining a better life, a brighter future for their family? Were they hoping that Habiba would be their savior, the answer to their desires for more than enough?
Perhaps they put pressure on her to go, encouraging her to go to El Dorado and make money to send back to them for food and clothing. Perhaps they pushed her to get on that boat.
Or did they?
Perhaps they pleaded with her not to leave, begged her to stay, and feared what could happen on the other side of the sea.
Or did they?
With paperwork in hand—passport, visa, and a boat ticket—it was time to say goodbye. It was time to say goodbye to her family, time to say goodbye to Morocco.
How could she walk away? How could she? I listened, but my heart and body ached. I tried to imagine myself in her shoes. I couldn’t.
It was May 16, 2019, the first day of Ramadan—the thirty-day fast for Muslims around the world.
Habiba did not know what the other side of the sea looked like. She’d only seen pictures of Spain and parts of Europe on television.
It was another world, a foreign land, different from anything she had ever known.
Did she cry when she said goodbye to her parents, when she kissed her only child for the last time? Was there a knot in the pit of her stomach? Was her heart pounding?
Habiba told me she planned to leave for only six months. In her mind, it was a brief trip to Europe. She imagined carrying a stack of euro bills back home with her. Her earnings—although small in Spain—would go a long way in Morocco.
Her family would no longer be poor, no longer live in shame, no longer be trapped in misery. She would save them, rescue them. She would be the answer to their many prayers and pleas for help.
Habiba was the chosen one to go, the only one who could go, the open door to their better life and brighter future. Habiba would provide a way out. Habiba was on her way to El Dorado.
The Crossing
It’s time to say goodbye.
Goodbye to those we love.
It’s time to depart from our families.
Our families who have loved us.
It’s time to leave everything behind.
Everything we’ve ever known.
It’s time to board the boat.
The boat that carries us faraway.
It’s time to cross over the sea.
The sea that will forever separate us.
It’s time to imagine our new life.
The new life that we’ve always wanted.
It’s time to leave poverty behind.
The poverty that has forever defined us.
It’s time to look toward the future.
The future that will be as bright as the sun.
It’s time to chase our dreams.
Our dreams that live in our hearts.
It’s time to meet new friends.
New friends in foreign lands.
It’s time to start our new work.
New work that now awaits us.
It’s time to make some money.
Money that will provide for us.
It’s time to pick strawberries.
Strawberries that will nourish us.
It’s time for the crossing.
The crossing that will change us.
Yes, it’s time for the crossing.
Yes, it’s time for the crossing.
Note to Reader: Throughout the telling of Habiba's story, I have included my own personal reflections. Poetry was often the only way I could process the sadness and brokenness of what I was experiencing as I journeyed alongside her.
A Faustian Bargain
DidHabibaseebeyond today? Could she see beyond today? Could she see she was making a Faustian Bargain?
“A deal in which one focuses on present gain without considering the long-term consequences.”{1}
I had never heard of a Faustian Bargain until I read Enrique’s Journey: The Story of a Boy’s Dangerous Odyssey to Reunite With His Mother by Sonia Nazario. The book tells the journey of a young immigrant boy from Honduras, determined, at all costs, to find his mother who had abandoned him years before to follow her dream of El Dorado, just beyond the border.
In the opening remarks, Ted Conover described this book as “an empathetic glimpse into the Faustian Bargain made by immigrants who leave family behind for a bet on the rewards of life in the north.”{2}
“What’s a Faustian Bargain?” I thought to myself.
Curious, I began searching for the meaning and was intrigued by what I discovered. It comes from the medieval legend of Faust, who was said to have made a deal with the devil. In exchange for unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures, he exchanged his very soul.
At first, I thought that described Habiba. But was it in exchange for world pleasures, or was it in exchange for survival?
What exactly convinced her to sacrifice everything, to leave everything—her son, her parents, her country? What drove her across the Mediterranean Sea to Spain? What did Habiba see beyond the water, that shiny dream she was chasing?
What was she running after that could be worth abandoning everything—everything she believed, everything she valued, everything she cherished, everything she loved? What did she long for that was more important than her family, her country, her culture, her religion, her dignity, her self-respect, her values, her person, and her identity?
Those were the questions I kept asking myself as I listened to more and more of her story. I couldn’t grasp what could drive a woman to do this. I kept wondering, kept asking, kept searching, but I had no answers.
A Faustian Bargain, is that what happened to Habiba? Is that what happened to all the dreamers out there?
When Habiba first heard of the opportunity to leave Morocco to pick strawberries in the fields of Spain, did she consider the long-term consequences of her decision? Did she think about how it might affect her son and her parents? Was she aware of the potential legal ramifications of being an illegal immigrant in Europe? Did she think about the hard physical labor, what it would be like to bend over in the strawberry fields all day under the blazing summer Spanish sun? Did she think about the dangers, the risks she might face in this new land?
Could she see beyond her family’s immediate need to eat, her family’s poverty that stared her in the face day after day? Could she see beyond the few euros that she would make picking strawberries for six months?
A Faustian Bargain—“A deal in which one focuses on present gain without considering the long-term consequences.”
As I read those words again and again, it suddenly made sense. For months, I had been struggling to understand, struggling to see how Habiba could have left, how she could have walked away from everything. When I understood the Faustian Bargain, it matched her story perfectly. On one hand, it brought me relief to understand. On the other hand , it uncovered more confusion and more sadness in my heart. There was obviously something greater, something deeper that propelled Habiba forward—forward into the dark abyss.
As I searched for more meaning, I soon realized that Habiba’s focus on the present, not on the future, was cultural. For Habiba, this perspective and way of life were innate. When you live in poverty, you live day to day. It is hard to plan for tomorrow, or next week, or next month. You don’t know if you will survive today. You don’t know if you will have enough food to sustain you . . . today. You don’t plan, or project, or look forward. You just live in the present. You live today.
I can remember, during our years in Morocco, having conversations with our local friends about the future. Up on the hilltop, near the neighborhood where our family lived, there was an old rundown shantytown. The small houses were made of grey cement bricks with silver tin roofs. Each house had a small courtyard where the chickens ran wildly. They were simple homes, usually comprising a small living room, a separate bedroom, and a little kitchen. We called these clusters of homes douars in Moroccan Arabic.
Our neighborhood was in full-blown development, and the government and construction companies were bulldozing down all the douars. They were making room for more fancy houses, for more people with money.
Many of our Moroccan friends had lived in their douar for years, for decades. For many, it had been home for generations. We knew the bulldozer was coming for our friends and their homes. They knew it was coming. Every time we went to their home to visit and have a glass of hot mint tea, we always asked what their plans were.
“Where will you go when the government official shows up at your door and tells you to leave? Where will you live? What will you do with all your belongings? How will you build a new home? How will you pay for a new place to live? How can you begin saving money now before they kick you out of your house?”
