What are you supposed to say to that?

The end of the month has arrived, which, among other things, means that Daniel and I got paid.

We decided to celebrate by going out and buying stuff. Stuff like trash cans and large glasses (I question whether Moroccans adequately hydrate based on the average size of glasses here).

Daniel and I were wandering around a store browsing the inventory and asking questions of the boy who was working there in our broken Darija. After a while, some of the other customers picked up on the fact that we were foreigners (not too hard) and that we spoke a little Arabic (a little harder).

In typical friendly Moroccan fashion, a middle-aged man approached us with his wife and started jabbering to us in Arabic. I could understand bits and pieces: he knew an American who knew Arabic and Berber really well and he wondered where we were from. I responded and gave my standard response about how Arabic is hard, but I'm learning little by little (the literal expression shwiya b shwiya is a great set phrase).

I nodded as he continued to talk about his American friends and how they met. I got the gist of it, but I didn't want to interrupt his flow to ask about every third word that I didn't fully understand.

After a minute or so Daniel's comprehension maxed out. So he wandered off. I continued standing there out of respect, continuing the conversation. We gradually exhausted topics like my work and his friends, and so he decided that it would be a good time to talk about himself. I figured that was fair enough. We had already talked about the basics of my existence, so why not move on to the basics of his?

I asked if he was from Meknes and what he did. He said he was from Meknes and that he used to be in the Army.

Then without changing his expression or tone, he told me, "But that was a long time ago. I spent 26 years in an Algerian prison."

Since his expression hadn't changed, I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind conjured up as best as possible what two and a half decades in an Algerian prison would be like. Words failed me. I said, "Ohhhh..." and kind of grimaced, nodding my head in the most sympathetic expression I could muster. The only thing I could think to ask was when he got out. "2003", he said. Hmmm, 26 out of the last 32 years as a military prisoner. I grimaced and nodded again.

I didn't have any clue of what the right thing to say was. No conversation transition seemed appropriate. We just kind of stood there for a while. I nodded my head as he talked about it a bit more, once again emotionless, without a single display of pain or suffering or any sort of appeal for sympathy.

After his narrative drew to a close, I shifted into the long Moroccan goodbye. He said that maybe we would see each other around. I said, "Insha'allah" and I told him that it was a pleasure meeting him.

Then I paid and walked back home.