FORUMS AND LETTERS

Editor,

Lou Christine, who coordinates operations for the VIP Club of San Miguel, has recently undergone major heart surgery in San Antonio, Texas. We are hoping that Lou will be back with us sometime in February and we wish him all good karma in his medical struggle.

As always, new VIP cards can be purchased at La Conexion or Border Crossings. We are asking all Club members to be patient during that time period when your questions and comments cannot be immediately answered. Thank you for your kind indulgence.

David Bossman

Ode to Mouima

My mother was one of those people who, because of the time of their births, traversed through many generations, from a feudal patriarchal society to modern times with cinema, jet travels, and new social customs. My mother never went to school and never learned to read and write but that never stopped her from communicating with strangers, from a lychee fruit vendor in Toronto’s Chinatown to fashion models at a photo shoot she crashed while visiting a famous manor, again in Toronto. She was delighted by the new, even the daring, and her sense of humor and her talent for mimicking made her our favorite comedian, even for my dad who was rather austere. She could make the old man laugh while he was trying to concentrate on his prayers and delighted in pointing out the “shameless” behavior of some actresses on TV or the gossip around town. No wonder, she was one the first women of her generation to discard the veil and allowed my sisters to follow fashion, she did recommend putting a caftan on around the house dur
ing that first miniskirt craze but in her own way she embraced the new, the challenging and the different.

She teased my rather conservative dad by inviting him to dance at a dinner in a hotel they were staying at somewhere in Europe. The idea of my mom and dad dancing in their caftan and djelaba amidst Europeans in their tuxedos and long gowns was even more hilarious when told by mom while she was trying to imitate people waltzing. Again in Canada she was so charmed by a group of elderly people, in their whites, playing croquet that she tried to entice my father to join the group.

My mother was the best cook in the world, of course, at least when it came to Moroccan cuisine. She knew everyone’s favorite dish and, when having houseguests, she started on lunch right after breakfast was over. She never understood the concept of portions even for family meals and “little tastes” went to the neighbors almost daily.

Mouima, as we all called her, had her share of suffering: the drama of losing her eldest son when he was only 36, then her husband after 70 years of common life. The transition to being a widow was hard but her love of life made her embrace her new autonomy and freedom of movement. I would call home and not get an answer for days and then I would have to track her movements to find out that she had decided to go visit someone in Fez or Marrakech, or had just tagged along with a sister on a trip somewhere.

Her stroke last month and the resulting paralysis and loss of speech were something she wouldn’t accept. The doctors managed to stabilize her but no one could give her back her zest for life and the will to live. She let herself go peacefully, at home, surrounded by children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

All who have known her are overwhelmed with sadness by her passing but at the same time relieved that her confinement didn’t last long.

I am sharing these thoughts with all our friends who have never met her and who expressed sympathy for the loss our family has suffered, for our neighbor who came to our house, here in San Miguel, to read kaddish, for our cook Dolores who went and lit a candle at her neighborhood church, for our Canadian friend who went to pray for her on Sunday, for our New York friend who sent us a wonderful and symbolic photo of a “stairway to heaven,” a windy mountain road in China.

Ali Zerriffi