My Sister, The Caring Despot

On the way to a scheduled evening activity with my students, I insisted that my older sister tags along. Being in charge of foreign students in Morocco, I imagine, is just as intense as herding cats. They really keep me on my toes. We are on such a tight schedule that there is nary a spare moment to visit family. My sister lives in Oujda and it just so happened that she was in Marrakech visiting her daughter. My family is scattered all around the country and it’s challenging to visit everyone while on a time constraint. Not only was I going to see her, but this was also a unique opportunity for her to catch a glimpse of what it is that I do for a living.

There are inherent power dynamics within Moroccan family structure. Seniority and authority tend to go hand-in-hand. The bigger the age gap, the more authority the older sibling commands. My sister is the second oldest, and that came with what I perceived as perks and privileges. She was inducted into the rank and file of the disciplinarian for as long as I can remember. I was often indignant about how I had to take my marching orders from her or any older sibling for that matter. Those were the rules and I just had to abide by them. I realized very early on that trying to rebel against the family “establishment” amounted to an exercise in futility.

My earliest memory of my sister was that of her carrying me on her back in a hammock style wrap. She was already at an age where she could serve as my mother’s sidekick. I also retain a very faint memory of the day she was getting married. I wasn’t told that she would be moving to a different city. It was only when I noticed her frequent absence that I was able to connect the dots. In my family, Kids were almost never included in any adult discussions, not even ones leading to life altering events like marriage or pregnancy. The latter is nothing short of profane; possibly the most uncomfortable topic one could bring up in a family gathering. Some people seem to think that the topic of pregnancy infringes upon intimacy and trespasses into bedroom territory. Others consider it borderline debauchery. It’s quite clear how far removed is my parents’ generation from what I dub “the Instagram generation”. The mere attempt to juxtapose these two generations is absolutely mind boggling.

My students were enamored by how candidly happy I was to have my sister among us. They commented that it was cute and charming how I had my arm around her shoulders as I introduced her to the group. My sister is pretty short in stature. However, thinking back about how much power and influence she had conjures up images of Napoleon Bonaparte and his ruthlessness. She was tough as nails, and her orders were non-negotiable. My parents’ toughness paled in contrast to hers.

My students were in stitches listening to me embellish everything I said. I purposely framed my stories in a way that made them sound like they were straight out of the cotton filed; Stories of master and slave; Stories of superior and subordinate. I fondly reminisced about the oppressive old days not to embarrass her, but rather give her a chance to claim her bragging rights as one the family’s big wigs. I told my students about how restless I would get when she would visit the family home in Casablanca. I dreaded nothing more than her visits for they gave me insurmountable anxiety. Those were the days where I knew I had to be on my best behavior. She checked my homework, watched my every move, and always seemed to pick more on me despite the fact that I was a good student. Just like everyone else, she couldn’t reconcile me being a stellar student with how I managed to get into so many street fights. Her clout was so intrusive that she, sometimes, decided my outfit and especially my footwear. She wouldn’t allow me to wear sneakers knowing that I was most certainly going to take a detour after school and go play football in the streets. She basically has the unfettered prerogative to breath down my neck and watch me like a hawk. Personal space is a notion that was completely foreign to me and my other younger siblings. I am sure all Moroccans with a much older siblings can relate to that. When my sister was around, my mother was completely hands off as far as looking after her brood was concerned . My mother trusted that her “deputy” could hold the fort.

All in jest, I went on and on detailing to my students how despotic my sister use to be. I recalled that past with a happy flutter of the heart. These were no traumatic recollections by any means. I have since learned to appreciate the blessings of having an older sister who often stepped into a role of a mom. When I internalize this, I can’t help but feel that she was robbed of the opportunity to be an older sibling…just a sibling…no more than that.

I revealed to my students how contrite I have felt resenting my sister for keeping me on a short leach. The older I get, the more indebted I felt towards her and her tremendous sacrifices. She was thrusted into a position where she had to wear too many hats. Not only was she a sister but also a mom, a mentor, and a fervent protector. With a lump in my throat, I revealed to my students that she was never afforded a formal education beyond elementary school. Keeping young girls out of school is an indictment to the collective ethos of a society that saw nothing wrong with that status quo. It is nothing short of abuse and transgression. Although, sometimes, transgression is committed with no harbored malice, and with the best of intentions in mind. I often find myself nodding in agreement with the old adage positing that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I would switch back and forth between my sister and the students interpreting what was being said. I interpreted everything except the part about the educational disparity in our family. That’s where I sheepishly demurred. That part always throws me in a sad pensive mood. I worried that reminding her of being yanked out of school would peel an old wound that has yet or may never scab over.

Being an older female sibling in those days was likely to be a curse. I am finally aware that being an older sibling is lousy deal. It’s about getting short changed. It’s about growing beyond your years. It’s about having extra duties piled on you. It’s about being overtasked. There ain’t none of that power, influence, clout, perks, or privilege that I once falsely perceived. Had my sister been given a choice, she would have undoubtedly chosen to carry a schoolbag instead of carrying me and my younger siblings.