“When The Lights go Out”

I wrote this a few weeks after it happened. It turned out to be a turning point in my integration. Its raw right now and not doctored to the best of my writing abilities but it makes me smile when I read it. Enjoy!

                   When the lights go out I hear silence.  I jump as though some one just creep ed up on me from behind and the hairs on my neck stand up. Even when it is known that the lights will go out beforehand I’m startled. My family will ask after, are you afraid? Under familiar circumstances no! Back home, stateside, I have memorized every nook and crany of my house right down to the number of steps it takes to go to the kitchen to find a flash light. Here, in a rural village, in a strange house panic s brewing inside me. The chanting of the Koran from the mosque near bye stops abruptly. My village is accustomed to darkness. Only ten years ago did they get electricity and a paved road. And here  I have lived my entire life with these amenities and I am afraid? Coincidentally it usually happens when I’m in the middle of doing something work related. Where in the heck is my hand crank flashlight that I packed exactly for this moment? Then I hear ”Rihab, Rihab Ador ksud. Mani tllit?” (Rihab, Rihab don’t be afraid. Where are you?) Some how I find my way to the door stepping on all the shoes lined up against the wall, tripping over a plastic stool. I reach the door but I can’t find the handle. I pat the door down as anyone would for what seemed like five minutes and it creaks open. I’m startled again. Right in front of my blue door stands my 16 year old host sister Fadma with a flashlight from her cell phone directed straight into my face like the police do in the states. She says “yla” (lets go). We walk hand in hand down four uneven stairs the middle to wider than the first. Then we squeeze through a door half our sizes that leads to the kitchen. Standing there is my host mother trying to light a wet candle that is the size of a nub. When light finally emerges we walk into the next room. I realized that I had brought a book along and as we sat I finally came to terms that reading was out of the question. My father who was normally sitting very close to the television was sitting next to his wife. On my left was my host brother Brahim and on my right was host sister Mina. My grandfather was sitting up in a bed on crooked in the corner of the room with my grandmother by his side. The room was soon illuminated by a dim light from a lantern my mom played with for a few minutes with a cloth. As faces lit up so did conversation.  It started simple after we talked about how long the lights may be out this time then dove into plans for next months wedding for Fadma. Parents gushing over their child soon to leave. Stories of earlier times and a deep barrel laughter escapes from my laughter. Soon were all erupting with giggles and I still only understood half of why. I think it was something I said earlier. Smiles on our faces. I tried to do what I did at home in times like these yet my jokes were understood through broken pieces of fragmented Tashelheet. My grandmother starts a new story after she gently brings her hands together and claps and whiles a wildly pitched song. Everyone smiles, even my ill grandfather who hears little smiles. Mina joins in her eyes sparkling. I clap. After a while I sit back against the wall and just absorb. In that moment of reflection a thought came up. I was receiving a taste of my village from 10 years past. This is normal. With out all the connections of modern communications. I felt like I was their with my family all those years ago doing exactly what we were doing in this very moment. No TV, no lights. Just tilas. Darkness. Without these wires and such something even more importantly sprang from this experience. What was it? Maybe for the first time my pseudo family was sitting with each other and enjoying each other. Everyone wasn’t lost in their own world where time, lights mattered while forgetting  about their closest relationships, each others lives. Cross cultural exchanges were happening. The pressure was off of me and I felt it. My language was starting to flow. Nothing mattered to me in this moment. I had no pressing matters, my books were put down and my incessant planning dried up. The only important to me was being in the presence of my family as I described the action procedure for darkness stateside. An invisible clock beeped. I heard a call. Without power the muezzin was forced to make the call to prayer from the front of the mosque. One by one members of my family went to pray in the darkness of the next room. After everyone was done my sister brought in dinner. We collected around the small table and ate the tajine with warm bread finished just as the sun set. The flow of laughter came back as the first joke came back. Then stories, jokes and anecdotes came. We finished and began to head out. The dishes were left Fadma and brought me back to my room. She asked me again, “Are you afraid?” I responded no. Before yes, I said, but now no. Fadma didn’t realize on how many levels I was actually addressing. It wasn’t until around four in the morning when the light in my room turned on that I felt fear. I accidentally turned it on when I had made my way to the door the night before. My usually pitch black room was lit  and awoke me from a sound sleep. I got up and turned off the light then hurried back to my warm pad on the floor. It was an usual cold June night. As I lay there trying to fall back asleep I started to ponder…life is so much better when the lights go out! 

Cribs version of my host family.