Ramadan Challenge Day 14: On Poverty

I sat in my darkened house and watched as the clouds shifted position in the sky. It was evening, but the sun wasn't gone completely yet, so I still had a few minutes before the call to prayer in order to break fast. I heard flocks birds in the fig trees near my house, their voices rose through the air like a symphony. I watched as children walked down the path next to my house to my neighbor's house; the women kept their faces to the ground, but the children pressed their faces against my window to peek into the foreigner's house. At first, I found it incredibly annoying; I still do, but I'm used to that, now. Curiosity tends to beat out civility, regardless of what culture one finds oneself.

For approximately the past two weeks, I have always waited until about fifteen minutes before the call to prayer to begin cooking. Usually, I would cook a box of mac & cheese, or a box of jambalaya mix sent from home. But now, I have learned to expect something else. Every night, one of my neighbor's has taken it upon himself to provide food for me during Ramadan. Every night, he arrives at my doorstep and repeatedly calls out my Moroccan name,

"Yunz... Yunz... Hey Yunz... Yunz, Yunz, Yunz... Hey Yunz... Hey Yunz."

Typically, I'm at the door by the time he calls out my name for the tenth time. He presents to me a tray with soup, stuffed bread, and sometimes a sweet bread or dates. The term they use for this is called "sadaka", which means alms giving.

It's a strange concept, because I never really considered myself to be the one in the community in need of charity. I came here from America, where even the poorest and most destitute of citizens has access to government programs and would be considered middle class anywhere in the developing world. I make money that is equivalent to middle class here. I'm in the newest house in the community. I have a blender. I have all of these things, and yet, when it comes down to it, there are some in the community who feel I am in need of charity. I went to my landlord's house the other day to break fast with the entire community. One of the people of the village came over to me as I sat by myself

"This is my cousin, and this is my brother, and this is my brother's wife's sister."
"Wow," I replied, "So the entire village is like one big extended family."
"That's right." He said, "Are you sad? Do you miss your family?"
"I miss my family," I replied, "But I'm not that sad."
"But you are?" He asked.
"A little."

It's funny, I guess. In America, when asked who is rich, we usually respond with famous people, sports players, or CEOs. Sometimes, people will say they are rich because they have family, but in America, that reply tends to come from the type of person who only sees their family for holidays. But here, it is different. Sure, people can want things, but they don't let those things define whether or not they are rich or poor. It isn't so much about having some things, but rather being something to someone.

I don't want to make this a post about how pure and honest the Moroccan people are. Moroccans are just like us; there are good and bad ones, there are good and bad habits here, too. It's just that the extent to which my community places the value of family seems jarring to what my culture has led so many of us to believe.

Of course, I believe that both cultures are sides of the same coin. Regardless of whether or not one views having things or people in one's life that defines one's richness, they are both placing the ability to define self worth in reference to external objects. I know my family isn't with me physically, but I can communicate with them online. Even if that weren't the case, I have all of my senses; I am able to watch that sunset, I am able to hear those birds, I am able to feel the wind in this valley, smell and taste the food given to me. My worth is not dependent on who takes care of my or what things I have. My worth is inherent because I exist. We are all inherently worthy.

But there is still a nice feeling when I open that door and see my neighbor with a smile as he hands me the tray of soup and stuffed bread. It makes me feel rich.