As a little girl, I always looked forward to Valentine’s Day. My mom always had a way of making the day special, by taking me out for a treat or giving me a present filled with hearts and candy. My dad would send huge stuffed animals and then as the years went on, he started sending me bouquets of coffee beans. Even in college, my mom would make sure to send me valentines. But I never realized how much I loved this day until I was thousands of miles away from home, in the middle of the desert, in a place where a day devoted to love was unheard of.
Celebrating Valentine’s Day in Morocco was, in the only word that makes sense, “hashuma” (shameful). Our Western world of dating and showing public love and affection was not accepted.
To be honest, when my first February 14th came around while I was living in Morocco, the last thing on my mind was about receiving any valentines. Instead, thoughts of the language and trying to figure out this new and entirely different culture filled my head. My Western persona only returned to me while I was at the post office, on Valentine’s Day morning.
After standing in line for more than an hour, trying to get the post master’s attention to see if I had received any letters or mail from back home, he finally handed me a padded envelope. The return address marked Long Beach, Washington, so I knew my mom had sent me something special. I signed for the package and started to walk back to the taxi stand to catch a ride home. I didn’t open the package right away, but instead I embraced it, trying to make the experience last as long as possible. It wasn’t a big envelope, just something normal, but it meant the world to me.
A taxi came and I crammed into the back with three other people. (A taxi holds about 6 people, not including the driver.) I couldn’t wait any longer and slowly ripped open the top, keeping it close to me so that no one could see its contents. I found a letter waiting for me, from my mom. I opened it in plain view of my fellow taxi riders, knowing that anything written on it could not be read by anyone in the cab. The letter read, “Something special for my Aurie, on Valentine’s Day.”
I was so excited and started to pull out what was in the package when all of a sudden I felt a huge burst of red wash over me. I knew what was inside and I immediately stuffed it back into where it came from. Still red, I quietly laughed to myself and prayed to God that no one saw what was inside. Needless to say, my mom didn’t let the fact that I was living in an Islamic country ruin my Valentine’s Day.
Once I got home, I sat on the floor and re-opened my package again. There, laid out in front of me, was a Victoria’s Secret bag, with a pink bra and underwear inside. My laughter turned a little to sadness, thinking of my parents so far away, but knowing I would see them soon eventually.
Since I’ve returned home, I have completely embraced my Western love for Valentine’s Day, no longer scared that someone might think of me as being shameful. But, I don’t think that person ever went away while I was in Morocco either, because you better believe it, I wore that pink bra under my Moroccan clothing the very next day.
