Imlil, Morocco
Dec '23

Imlil is a mountain town in Morocco. I was there to explore the mythically famous Atlas Mountains last fall.

The morning of that day, I was walking around in Marrakesh – a lovely colorful town with a brilliant night market (much better than boring, Europeanized Casablanca) – looking a bit lost when a local man said hello to me. He seemed middle class, so my nervous system, conditioned to trust others of a similar economic class, immediately relaxed. I bonded with him on having experienced divorce – I'm not sure how we got to that in a quick street conversation, but it is indeed an innate tendency I have to penetrate swiftly and softly when I see an opening towards discussing pain, grief and trauma. He guided me to a cab and got me Moroccan rates for a ride to Imlil. In that cab ride was a jolly old Moroccan man. He could have easily inspired a caricature in a Hollywood movie about Morocco. Hell, I have not seen Casablanca but I can easily imagine a character like him as an inn keeper in the movie. He was an inn keeper in Imlil. His broken English contained healthy smatterings of "no problem" in a soft, smiling voice. I was particularly excited about having snagged a night without using Airbnb – I might have bargained a bit too. As someone who grew up with challenges in expressing what I need, bargaining feels like a small victory. As long as I do just enough to not feel like a sucker in the future, when I find myself reading articles that warn tourists about locals overcharging them, which feels okay to me if the local is dark skinned and the tourist is lighter skinned but somehow not okay if the local is dark skinned and the tourist is a reasonably well-to-do tech, upper-caste dark skinned man with a Green Card. Too much bargaining and I feel like an oppressor, which is not fun.

I reached the inn. The view from the inn was stunning. And it was quiet. So quiet that you could hear the mountains breathe.

I was sitting there at the rooftop deck chatting with my new friend when his grandson came over. A cherubic little boy with rosy mountain cheeks. Without a trigger warning, the old man bent down grabbed the boys cheeks pulled him towards himself, locked his mouth on the boys mouth and sucked his tongue – this description is not intended to be graphic but is my best attempt at literally, objectively describing what I witnessed without labeling it as a "kiss". I was alarmed. If I was an Indian working housewife in the 90s, I'd have just turned my face away and repressed what I saw, dusted it off as "harmless". "Such stuff happens". I was still alarmed enough to not be able to say anything in the moment. A few moments later – I don't know how long exactly – the elusive nature of time makes itself very evident to me in such situations – I asked him "you put your mouth on your grandson's mouth, what was that?"

He said smilingly – "Oh, that's 'shva'. It's nice, life giving. 'shva'. No problem"

"Do you do that with everyone or just kids? Your son or wife?"

"Yes yes, everyone does it here. 'shva'. Very nice, very nice"

Later, I saw him greet his son and his wife. No mouths touched each other. Especially evident was the absence of energetic warmth with his wife.

Later, I asked a few Moroccans I had met from the cities – asking them of this ritual 'shva' from the Atlas Mountains – none of the folks had heard of it.

In Imlil, I didn't see any other older men performing shva on the little boys running around.

What is it that I see but choose to not see? Where can I sense the subtlety of my perception closing up? What happens to my perceptive sensitivity when I see a homeless human on the street? What are the moments where I notice my memory hazing up? Where I go – "wait, did I really say that?" "did I really do that? I don't recall...". Where my protectors decide that my being isn't ready to witness the horrors. The horrors inherent in this human existence. Sensitive humans connecting intimately every moment while being often oblivious to the true depth of the intimacy of those moments.

In denial of the intimacy. In denial of the pain.