During a recent four-month stay in Morocco, I was faced with the challenge of genuinely adapting to a new and drastically different cultural context. The delicate balance of honesty and selectivity, the issue of disclosure and exposure, was never more in question than during my first encounter with my host brother. After asking my name and birthplace, he inquired if I was religious. My immediate response shook me as the words passed through my lips: No, not really.
Before I embarked on my journey to Morocco, friends and family wondered how I would reconcile my Jewish identity with this Muslim society. They wanted to know my strategy for navigating sensitive issues and seemingly inevitable conflicts. I was the least concerned of all; I thought that when the time came, answers would flow. I had faith in the power of cross-cultural exchange to facilitate understanding and dialogue.
Once actually faced with the question of faith, however, my immediate reaction was to hide my Jewish identity.
As time progressed, this suppression became more difficult. Before long, it was Passover and I was faced with a dilemma. It would be impossible to eat with the family in traditional Moroccan style, using bread to scoop food out of the communal tajine (or clay dish), because Jews do not eat leavened breads during Passover.
I had to decide whether to break Passover or finally trust my family with my religious identity. I was terrified that the bonds we had finally formed, despite the communication barriers, would instantly be broken. However, I decided that as people of faith, they would understand the significance of the holiday.
It was time to come out.
I took a deep breath and pulled my host mother, Nezha, into my room. I told her, in my broken Moroccan Arabic, This week is a holiday for my religion. I don t eat bread or pastry. I paused. Ana yehudia. I am Jewish.
I showed her my box of matzo, the unleavened bread traditionally eaten during Passover, which I had hidden in my luggage.
She looked at me. The three words she voiced shocked me as much as my own had, but in a radically different way. Wakha. Meshi mushkill. Ok. No problem.
Then she disappeared into the kitchen to prepare the late afternoon meal. I exhaled.
When she came out, she brought the usual tray, laden with a silver teapot full of sweet mint tea, bread, jam and butter.
She disappeared again and emerged with something special: a small silver tray, with just two shallow bowls of jam and butter. She placed the tray in front of me, and motioned for me to get my matzo.
In Morocco, I was often inspired by the profound faith surrounding me. But nothing was as inspiring as my family s instant and unconditional acceptance of my religious identity.
This summer, I am completing an internship at the Interfaith Youth Core (IFYC) in Chicago, Illinois. The IFYC is an organization working to empower young leaders and bring them together through service work, recognizing that shared values such as service and hospitality are common among all religions. We have diverse conversations at the IFYC. They are not about Palestine, Israel and the true nature of God, but about common action for the common good: making the world a better place – one project, one leader, one story at a time.
I intern alongside two Jews, a Christian and a Muslim. We don t agree on everything, and our meetings can be quite dynamic. But here we are, together, serving at the soup kitchen downstairs. Here we are, together, discussing what it means to be a Christian/Jew/Muslim at age twenty-one.
We are building relationships with each other, so when we engage in challenging conversations, we can walk out of the room together and look forward to our daily lunch hour picnics.
Similarly, in Morocco, though I was initially worried that the bonds with my family would be broken if I were to tell them about my religious identity, it was the relationship we had formed which allowed us to share and observe our respective religions under the same roof.
I waited too long to be honest with my host family. I am ready to engage fully in those difficult conversations for which I used to hold my breath. I am ready to collaborate with my diverse peers to bring a new kind of peace to the world through pluralism.
I won t wait any longer. I am ready now.
Samantha Kirby, a native Californian, is a senior at Northwestern University studying religion and psychology. She recently returned from Morocco, where she studied Arabic and Moroccan culture.
This article is distributed by the Common Ground News Service (CGNews) and can be accessed at www.commongroundnews.org.
