On Walls

Physical, metaphorical, and otherwise

مدينة /məˈdēnə/: in classical Arabic (Fus’ha), it literally means city. It has a different connotation when discussed from a historical standpoint. Here, it refers to a distinct city section found in many North African cities. The medina is typically walled, with many narrow and maze-like streets (in which I frequently find myself lost).

I’ve taken up running again as a way to break down my walls, in every sense. I have yet to experience something so freeing as lacing up my bright green Nikes, the scent of saltwater and sunshine, and feeling my body propelled forward by its own strength, especially after two-plus months of illness. My thighs ache, my breath is short, my calves have never looked better, and my brain is getting its very necessary استراحة (break).

I very often find myself, well, beside myself. My eyes glaze over, my fingers entangled, twirling my hair, baklava crumbs in my lap, and my brain; running on at least one café au lait, is trying to simultaneously decipher the couple's’ conversation in the Syrian café, break down my readings on the Jordanian state system, and what am I going to eat for dinner (hint: the answer is tajine. It is almost always tajine). But this is a gross oversimplification. There is A LOT going on.

The fact of the matter is that Morocco can be a difficult place to live, at times — which isn’t to say that there aren’t a plentiful of occasions in which I’ve been extraordinarily happy here. It is just not always easy living within a set of walls. Much like the way I build my own walls when my anxiety creeps up, the Medina can grow just as cold and lonely. And just the way that a cup of coffee and good conversation can break down the metaphoric walls, sometimes that whiff of saltwater and push of adrenaline is enough to feel that I’ve broken out of the physical.