Dyalna

Photo credit @Erin Deborah Waks

By Erin Deborah Waks

When I was walking through security at Marrakech airport on my last day in Morocco, the officer manning the station took a second look at me when my ‘salaam aleikum’ sounded a tad too authentic. ‘Aleikum assalam,’ he responded, followed by ‘ktkalum al arabiya?’, meaning ‘do you speak Arabic?’

When I followed up with a nod of the head, he responded with the ‘mashallah’ and look of joy I’ve grown accustomed to these last few months. Equal parts smug and proud, I’ve slowly discovered very few foreigners can converse in the language spoken here, Darija, a dialect of Arabic. As such, I’ve gone out of my way to practise, lapping up the praise I’ve received. On two occasions, confused men asked, ‘Maghrebiya?’ trying to decipher how I could possibly be, or at least seem, Moroccan.

Conscious of the queue of people behind me, my security officer quickly asked how I can speak Arabic, and why I’m not staying in his beloved Morocco. I responded with a sad look, telling him - honestly - I’ll return again soon, inshallah.

I’ve grown to love Morocco even more than I thought I would. I’ve made friends here, soaked up the culture, listened to hundreds of calls to prayer. I’ve enjoyed the outstanding food, travelled to so many cities, and seen the famous Moroccan hospitality in action. I’ve made a huge effort to speak their language, to learn for myself but also to show my appreciation for the warm welcome I’ve been given here.

So it’s no surprise my eyes teared up when the security officer replied to me with a smile, and said: ‘inti dyalna’ - ‘you’re one of us.’