Your Presence & Your Absence Both Mean Something

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I write this post as I enjoy a poolside view of La Koutoubia in Marrakech on my honeymoon. It’s all a bit surreal to reflect back on the tumultuous journey that has brought me here to this paradise. I can’t believe that I have fallen in love and married a man with skin the color of this crepe, eyes the color of this pool, and language as foreign as this couscous. How did I get here? I remember the first time I realized he was in love with me. We were standing on top of a hill overlooking the bay bridge, it was his birthday. He was standing behind me with his arms wrapped around my shoulders. He joked and asked what my parents would say if I brought him home to them. I laughed a deep laugh. Deep because it was not even fathomable to me. I told him very directly as I continued to laugh, “No way, my dad would literally kill me, disown me…”  He sighed and pretended to let out a small laugh as he said, “Yeah, my brothers pretty racist too especially towards Muslims…he would go crazy.” Silence sunk in as the sun set and the breeze picked up. We started to walk down towards the city and with a solemn voice he said, “I don’t want this to just become a memory.” My heart slowed to a deep drumming beat, my throat dried, I took a deep breath. I thought to myself, “Oh no, he’s in love with me.” I was scared. Scared not because I had just gotten out of a 3 year relationship and 1 year engagement. Scared because I was Muslim and he was not. Scared because he was white. Scared not only because my family would never accept him but also because I didn’t think I would ever accept. How am I now on a honeymoon with this very man? Read my next post to follow the story!

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