By Sahar Elhallak
Eighteenth Annual Solas Awards Silver Winner in the Love Story category
In September 2010, while living in Northern California, I received an email from my credit card company suggesting I use my points for a travel destination as they were about to expire. I’ve always had a passion for traveling, but with my husband being self-employed and having four children, I was uncertain if we could manage to travel anywhere.
At 39, I had been married for twenty-three years, but the arranged marriage had been marked by unhappiness and misery. However, cultural norms in my background demanded that I remain in the marriage. I felt trapped, as I had no other place to turn to. My parents had firmly stated that visiting them without my husband was not an option, and divorce was completely off the table. I stayed in that marriage for the children’s sake and because I lacked an alternative place to go. I had never experienced independence before. Divorce remained an unattainable option for me. In my culture, only the husband had the authority to initiate a divorce. This process was remarkably straightforward—a few words spoken, and a marriage could be dissolved without the need for legal proceedings.
The email from my credit card company caught my interest, and I pondered whether going on a trip together as a couple, just the husband and I without the children, could breathe new life into our struggling marriage.
I proceeded to explore the available destinations based on my accumulated points. I thought it might be a pleasant surprise for my husband if I arranged a trip to a location we hadn’t visited before. Our previous travels had taken us to France and the UK during our journey to our home country, Lebanon.
Until today, I still don’t understand how my points were approved and my debit card was charged, especially considering that there wasn’t sufficient money in the bank to cover the difference after the points were deducted.
When my husband arrived home that evening, I excitedly announced our upcoming trip to Morocco—just the two of us, I told him. Unsurprisingly, as I was well aware of his introverted nature and his addiction to playing PlayStation, he asked,
“Why Morocco?”
I had chosen Morocco due to the vibrant colors depicted in the promotional pictures and because it aligned with the points I had accumulated. Additionally, I presumed Morocco held similarities to my home country, particularly in terms of language, assuming they spoke Arabic like me. My decision to why I choose Morocco was also influenced by my current practice of wearing Islamic attire. I believed that I would blend in seamlessly due to my attire in Morocco.
The trip wasn’t scheduled until January, which meant we had a minimum of three months before it. Throughout this period, my then-husband made things difficult for me, constantly discussing how we shouldn’t go without the children, especially given our financial circumstances at the time. However, I had already sorted everything out. I had arranged for one of my brothers, who resides in Atlanta, to spend the week we planned to be in Morocco with the children. Moreover, considering that the two eldest among our children were adults, and the twins were already twelve, I felt confident they would be fine.
Just a week before the trip, my husband suddenly proclaimed that we shouldn’t proceed with the journey due to financial constraints and the fact that this trip was not going to solve anything. I had already taken care of all the arrangements – the hotel, the Hammam, the souk visit – everything was paid for. Besides, I had already accumulated enough excitement not to back out. I insisted that if he chose not to accompany me, I would proceed with the trip alone, without him. It’s important to note that I had never been allowed to travel solo before, as it was prohibited within my husband and family’s religious practice. According to these beliefs, a female couldn’t travel without a “Mahram,” a male companion. He threatened to involve my family, intending to inform them that I was about to sin by traveling alone without a “Mahram.”
My brother became involved, leading to the entire family discussing my audacity to consider traveling alone. I stood firm and decided to proceed regardless of their thoughts or words. I wasn’t willing to let go of this fully funded opportunity to slip through my fingers. The allure of Morocco, as seen through the captivating images from my research, was too enticing to ignore. Moreover, my part-time position at a high-end kitchen supply store allowed me to engage with customers who had already visited Morocco, and they were gracious enough to share their firsthand experiences with me. Despite facing challenges, I was determined to go on this trip, with or without my husband.
On the night of the journey, I packed my things and kept my passport under my pillow, holding it tightly, fearing my husband might sabotage the trip. I was ready to go on my own, even if it meant breaking rules and traditions. I was prepared to rebel against expectations and venture alone on this important journey that led to my liberation and freedom.
I asked my adult son to drive me to the airport, and he told me to be cautious and take care of myself. He wasn’t pleased about me traveling alone, but he couldn’t express it openly. It felt unusual, as the roles should have been reversed—I, as the mother, should have been the one offering advice rather than my son expressing concern and offering guidance.
Upon my arrival in Morocco, hotel staff and airline personnel were asking about the presence of a “Mr.” who was supposed to be accompanying me according to the reservation. I told them I was alone on my trip and that he couldn’t come because he was sick.
In Marrakech, guilt consumed me, leading me to stay secluded in my hotel room. I relied on room service for meals, although I was discontent with the food options due to my vegetarian diet; nearly everything on the menu contained meat or chicken. I survived on all the chocolate I had purchased from duty-free during my layover in Frankfurt.
Three days went by, and unfortunately, I missed our scheduled hammam and souk bookings. Finally, on the third day, I mustered the courage to explore the old medina. It turned out to be an enjoyable experience, and I was thrilled by the multitude of beautiful items I encountered at the souk. Among my purchases was a purple prayer rug, and I was proud of the bargaining skills I utilized while haggling, employing my modest Arabic proficiency. I also acquired a silver teapot and various other small souvenirs. The surge of excitement I experienced fueled me with a rush of adrenaline and courage to approach the receptionist and inquire about activities I could engage in the following day.
The receptionist recommended either riding an ATV or a camel, and I chose the camel ride. She informed me to be in the lobby at 3:00 pm the following day, a driver would come to pick me up. The plan was to head to the Palmeries, the oasis of Marrakech, for the camel ride experience.
The following day, my excitement carried over from the previous day, and I had managed to make friends at the hotel due to my distinct Arabic accent. People were delighted to converse with me and hear me speak. I decided to spend some time on the hotel terrace, savoring a cup of coffee before my camel-riding excursion. As the driver arrived, they called my room, but unfortunately, I wasn’t there. Eventually, they managed to reach me and informed me that the driver was waiting outside the hotel. Although it wasn’t yet 3:00 p.m., the driver seemed annoyed by the wait, which puzzled me.
In the tourist minivan, there were already other tourists, and I was the final person to be picked up. Among them was a German couple, two friends from Switzerland, and a male individual seated beside the driver, conversing in Darija, the Moroccan dialect that I found challenging to speak. He appeared to be a friend or colleague of the driver. Once I introduced myself and mentioned that I was traveling alone, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, seemingly intrigued and curious about my situation. That’s when I noticed his emerald green eyes beneath his expressive eyebrows. I thought to myself, “He’s the first attractive man I’ve come across since arriving in Marrakech.”
We reached the location where the camels were stationed, and the driver guided me to the reception area, offering a charming smile. I didn’t read too much into it at the time. It became clear that I would be the sole rider on the camel, as the other tourists had chosen the ATV ride. The man dressed in a blue Saharan Djellaba and a coordinated turban, hiding most of his face except his eyes, accompanied me. To protect against the dust, I also had to wear a blue turban. The ride was fun and scary at the same time. Camel riding is an elevated and rhythmic experience. My companion was entertaining me with old Egyptian tunes. Initially, I felt hesitant to fully enjoy the moment due to lingering guilt, but eventually, I surrendered to the experience. I found myself singing along as the camel’s gentle swaying moved me from side to side.
Music and singing were prohibited at home, and I used to listen to classical music without my husband’s knowledge. Therefore, fully embracing this singing adventure was an unusual experience for me.
The time came to return to our hotel, and the driver awaited us by the minivan, extending a warm welcome and assisting us to get inside. He attempted to hold my hand to aid me in getting into the van, but fear surged through me, causing me to retract my hand. I settled into the same seat I had occupied during the journey to the destination, located in the back seat of the minivan.
One by one, the other tourists were dropped off, and I remained the last passenger in the minivan. I later discovered that the driver had intentionally arranged it this way. He motioned for me to join him in the front seat, and without hesitation, I shifted to the passenger side. With the sun beginning to set, I still had my sunglasses on. As I settled into the front seat, the driver gently reached over to remove my sunglasses, stating that it was becoming dark and I didn’t require them. His sudden movement startled me. When he looked into my eyes, he inquired about the sadness he perceived in them. “Smile, you’re in Morocco now,” he said. I introduced myself, making sure to mention that I was married—though I refrained from adding “happily” since that wasn’t the case. I also mentioned having four children. His gaze landed on my wedding ring, prompting him to ask about the whereabouts of my husband, given my marital status. Once again, I resorted to lying, explaining that he was unwell. Our shared culture and religious beliefs made it uncommon for a married woman to travel alone. He was charming, and our conversation revolved around my accent and background. He inquired about my shopping and extended an offer to accompany me to the Souk to assist with haggling. I found myself agreeing, and we made plans to meet the next day for our trip to the Souk. It was all unfamiliar territory for me, and even now, I can’t pinpoint where the courage to agree came from.
The next day turned out to be delightful as we explored the Souk together. During our time there, I unexpectedly found myself opening up to him about the unhappy aspects of my marriage and the challenges I faced raising religiously strict children in America. He proved to be an attentive listener. I observed him eating his meat dish with his hands. Everything about him felt foreign—the rhythm of his accent, his nomadic bronze skin, and his captivating green eyes. I couldn’t help
but gaze and find myself drawn to his presence.
The day was full of shopping, delicious meals, and indulgent snacks in and around Jemaa El Fna. I made a purchase of a white Djellaba adorned with purple embroidery, my preferred color. Toward the end of the day, he casually asked me if I would be interested in visiting his apartment. I naively agreed, not anticipating anything specific. In my thoughts, I pondered whether locals lived in elaborate residences similar to the Riads I had come across, adorned with stunning Moroccan designs. His “apartment” turned out to be a 10×10 room with a full-size bed pushed to the side, accompanied by a large screen TV and a radio featuring a double tape player—an object I hadn’t encountered in a while. In one corner of the room stood a small closet that served as the bathroom. This cramped space consisted of a hollowed area in the floor near a dripping faucet that filled a worn-out black bucket. The absence of a kitchen was evident; instead, a small gas tank with a burner head served as the cooking space.
He asked me to put on the new Djellaba, and even now, I can’t fathom why I complied with his request. This was uncharted territory for me, as I had never been intimate with anyone except my husband. Yet, there was an undeniable pull about this nomadic man that I couldn’t ignore. In my mind, I rationalized it as a one-night encounter in a foreign land—something discreet that no one else would ever know about.
He dropped me at my hotel, knowing that my flight was scheduled for the following day. In my thoughts, I couldn’t help but think that I would never cross paths with this man again. I had a husband and a family waiting for me back home. However, there was something about this man that lingered in my thoughts persistently. Was it love or simply lust? As time went on, I came to realize that I had indeed fallen in love. Interestingly, I discovered that he was grappling with the same internal debate, questioning whether his feelings were rooted in love or if it was merely another fleeting encounter with a tourist.
Returning to California, I brought back numerous treasures from Morocco for my family. However, my husband’s anger persisted, and he refused to inquire about my trip. We continued in silence for two days. Finally, he spoke, offering a divorce if that’s what I truly wanted, he said. It was something I had desired for a long time, but he had previously denied me. There was a single condition attached: I would lose custody of the children. To this day, I’m unsure why I consented.
I thought that the divorce process would be lengthy, but unexpectedly, my husband entered the bedroom and came back with my purple scarf. He explained that once he uttered the words “I divorce you” in Arabic, I would no longer be permitted to unveil myself in front of him. He also arranged for my return to my family in southern California as if I were merchandise he was returning. There, I would undergo a three-month period of confinement within the house, during which I wouldn’t be allowed to interact with or see any men. This practice, known as “Al Eida” in Islamic tradition, is implemented after a divorce to ensure that the wife is not pregnant before moving forward in her life with another man.
Throughout the three months, I spent at my parents’ cramped residence, which was also shared with my brother and his family. One of my brothers went as far as to threaten to carry out an honor killing. Meanwhile, only one out of my four brothers agreed to support my move to Morocco and even bought the ticket for me, as I was financially incapable. Part of the divorce settlement stipulated that I relinquish my share of the assets, leaving me with nothing due to the adulterous act I had committed.
I resumed communication with the nomadic driver from Morocco. As our conversations continued, a thought struck me. With uncertainty looming over my future, the idea emerged: Why not embark on a fresh beginning in Morocco? Why not build a life with my driver, a man I found myself deeply enchanted with after just one encounter? As I learned, he shared my sentiments and was unafraid to openly express his feelings for me.
Due to the shame I had already caused, my family was eager to distance themselves from me to stop the gossip in their close-knit community. They welcomed the idea of me moving to Morocco and marrying my driver.
After spending three months in confinement in Southern California, I arrived in Morocco with no acquaintances in the country except for my driver, Sadeek. He was there to greet me at the airport, holding flowers from his mother’s garden. Initially, I moved in with him into a small apartment, and we spent three weeks there before transitioning to a more suitable living space. I had no intention of marrying him, but I was madly in love with him. The type of love that obscures your vision and drives you to act and speak irrationally. My freedom had come at a high cost, and I was determined not to let another man control my life. However, in Morocco, two individuals of the opposite sex couldn’t cohabit without marriage, and my family was also pressuring me to marry him.
I spent nine years living in Morocco, a journey that could fill a book on its own. In the initial three years, I was disconnected from my children and the rest of my family, feeling as though I was in exile. Now, I’m happily married—emphasizing “happily” because I’m joyfully married to Sadeek, and our journey has been incredible. We currently reside in Colorado, sharing our home with our Moroccan cat, Sultan MeowMeow. Despite facing numerous challenges, we’ve triumphed together.
All it took for my happiness was to feel secure, safe, and, most importantly, free to make my own choices—free to enjoy music and travel solo. I’ve ventured to various countries on my own. I recently traveled to Peru for my birthday, something my husband not only accepted but also encouraged. With my life rebuilt, I now teach at the local community college, living according to my own terms and desires. Morocco became the place where I discovered both love and my true self. Who would have imagined that a handful of credit card points and an unwavering determination could bring about such a transformative change?
I have since made peace with my family, and we are living happily ever after. Embracing freedom through foreign love.
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As an immigrant from Lebanon, Sahar Elhallak’s refugee background has profoundly influenced her identity. Writing has served as her refuge since childhood, especially during the war she experienced. She expresses herself in both Arabic and English, chronicling her evolution from a life confined by an arranged marriage to the joyful freedom she now enjoys. She has published an adult coloring book, completed a novel, and has written a book of poems.