We fought the enemy, and we gave birth to those raising the enemy.
I can never say it out loud, but god every time I look at each of my own grandkids, I can see the enemy!
They speak better French than the French, only adding sprinkles of Darija whenever they need to address me. They wear skirts and suits, and I wear my old-fashioned Ngab and Jellaba.
They use forks to eat Rfissa, and I am the only one who can still cook Rfissa. I call them “wlidati”, and they call me “Mami”.
What does Mami even mean? Is it French, English, or Arab? Or is it just like us, none and all at the same time?
I wonder why wouldn’t they call me “Mima” just like real Moroccans addressed their mothers during the good old days?
It would be a minor word switch for them, but it would mean the world to me.
Who am I? Who’s the Moroccan and who’s the intruder? Is neither of us Moroccan or are we both Moroccan?
We’re both facing an identity crisis. Mine is lonely, theirs is unconscious.
My grandkids cause me a lot of silent overthinking, but anyways, I should probably just forget about it and go make them some ftour, the only moment they get to visit me all year long.
