Tomorrows in Morocco

There are two types of people in this world: the ones who take tomorrow for granted, and the ones who say « inshallah ».

Loosely translated to “if god wills it”, this saying places tomorrow in God's hands. In Arabic-speaking countries like Morocco, it punctuates every sentence that contains a plan for the future. "It expresses the belief that nothing happens unless God wills it, and that his will supersedes all human will."

Yes, at first, I found it disturbing to hear.

- I'll call you tomorrow, inshallah.

- You'll have the car ready on Friday? Yes, inshallah.

- When will he be back? Mmh... Sunday inshallah.

It conflicted my mind every time, and if my frustration had a voice it would sound like "What do you mean, inshallah? I want to be sure!"

But the truth is, we're never sure.

Tomorrow is another day and we have no control over it.

As human beings we plan, organize and try to imagine the future when we have no certainty it will unfold as planned. By placing plans for the future in the hands of God, I was reminded of uncertainty - and the discomfort that comes with it.

At the end of December, wanting to extend our stay under the sun and escape France's cold for another month, we started looking for a flat with my future roommate.

It was an adventure in many ways; first, in Imsouane there is no Airbnb or Craigslist that would list all the available apartments, so you have to go to every corner store and ask directly if they know someone, who knows a guy, whose father rents a flat. Then, you'll find yourself a real estate agent: understand a guy that walks around the neighborhood with a set of keys and shows you places you don't even know who the landlord is, who only speaks Berber, not Arabic, not French, and will finally stand by and watch as you negotiate the final price, solely nodding his head "yes" or "mmh too expensive".

After finally shaking hands on the price for our desired apartment, we went to see Brahim at his store - no, he was not in the story, but suddenly he became the keys-keeper.

"We'll arrive on January 3rd, you'll be here and have the keys?

Yes, inshallah.

But... The apartment will be ready for us to move in, right?

Yes, inshallah you'll move in."

I froze. We had no contract, no paper, just names and phone numbers and the address of Brahim's store. What if something went wrong? What if Brahim's gone when we arrive, what if the apartment is occupied by another person, what if they tell us another price, what if...?

Just by punctuating his sentences with inshallah, he was craving my way into the discomfort of not planning. Not knowing. It doesn't mean he won't do what's necessary for us to move in, for it to happen, but it means the final decision isn't up to him. That tomorrow isn't up to us.

So what is left to do?

Trust.

Have faith.

And imagine for a second:

What if everything goes right?

And what if it's better than what you could ever envision?

Full story short, we came back to Imsouane and Brahim was there, with the keys and even a bunch of free supplies for the apartment. We stayed there the whole month, and I learned to appreciate and bathe in the faith “inshallah” conveys.

The only thing we have is now, and it’s the only thing I hold true lately.

Why is it so uncomfortable not being able to forecast, predict, plan?

Why are we so scared of not knowing?

No amount of planning will change the outcome.

I’ve experienced that you never know when death is gonna knock on your door – but neither when joy will.

When happiness will.

It could be today, right here, in this little moment you were just about to overlook, in this old lady’s eyes, in a fisherman’s smile, in a friend asking for a kiss, in a dog following you home, in learning how to run backward on the beach or holding your surfboard against the wind.

Right here.

Joy.

When you free yourself from tomorrow’s expectations, today seems bigger. There is space, today, for anything to happen. Without the assurance that you’ll have another day with this person you’ve met, that you’ll come back to this place, that you’ll have this opportunity again, you’re free to be fully here, now.

This little fishermen's town was the perfect place

to take my time

and let time do its job.

Seagulls flying above the ocean, boats leaving the harbor to go fishing, the salty wind caressing my hair, motorcycles engines roaring up the hill, dogs barking at night, donkeys, sheep and even camels strolling down the street, the sun gently tanning my skin, the smell of bread and tagine spices, a taste of mint tea on the lips, smiles shared in the water and souls laughing until the end of the night.

What if that was it? What if that was all I could ask for, this collection of moments I can recall at night before falling asleep, trusting that tomorrow will come?

"What if we could trust life like we trust the breath? What if we could take in all the nourishment of the moment and then let it go fully, trusting that more nourishment will come?” - Deborah Adele

Wherever you are, be there.

Tomorrow isn't guaranteed, but trust that the end of a chapter is always the beginning of another one.

À demain inch’allah.