Mondays

Mondays by Layken Davey

I love Mondays. I hate Mondays. I look forward to Mondays. I dread Mondays. I feel joy and excitement on Mondays. I feel pain and sadness on Mondays. 

Mondays.

Every Monday, around 11 a.m., I circle the same crowded parking lot, mixed with mud and gravel, for five to ten minutes, searching for an empty space. The lot is nestled in the center of the old town, right next to the majestic Archbishop’s Palace dating back to the 13th century. 

Its elaborate Arabesque arches create the perfect blend of two cultures, a beautiful marriage between two lands that I love—Spain and Morocco.

The storks peck loudly as they construct their enormous nests in the tall, narrow steeples. People come and go to work, to school, crossing town in the early morning hours, while cool water gushes from the plaza’s central fountain. As I step onto the cobblestone streets, I pinch myself. Is this real? Is it a dream? It’s my life. It’s Monday. It’s beautiful.

I listen to the Spanish crowds gathered in the tapas bars along the sidewalks, drinking their strong, black coffee, or sipping a cold cerveza. Small plates of tapas adorn the table. Community gathering, fun, freedom, happiness.

I didn’t come here for tapas and beer. I didn’t come here for fun. No, that’s not why I’ve come. That’s not why I’m here. I walk down the cobblestone streets, breathing deeply, struggling to focus my mind. 

I can’t wait to be with my Moroccan friend today—to speak Arabic, to drink sweet mint tea, to be immersed in her culture that I love. I fear being with my Moroccan friend today—to see her teary eyes again, to hear more stories of pain and trauma, to see her hairless head and weakened frame from the metastasized cancer that now ravages her entire body.

When I walk up to the door, those on the streets—men, women, children—have no idea. I pass by them. They don’t know me. They don’t know what I do. They don’t know where I’m going. They don't know what lies hidden behind that door.

I ring the bell and wait. Upstairs, they push the button to buzz me in. 

I leave the beautiful, fun, free, happy land of Spain, and I enter the dark corridor and turn on the light. I walk up the stairs. I breathe deeply, preparing myself for what lies ahead.

“Please, God, help me. Give me strength, courage, love, joy, and peace.”

I realize I may be the only wave of joy in my friend’s life this week.

Mondays.

The door of the safe house is ajar. I walk through and enter another land—a dark, broken land of women in slavery. Rescued off the streets, their world of pain and suffering still traps them, still haunts them.

Mondays.

I go to listen, to sit, to drink tea, to talk, to pray, to comfort, to encourage, to be present.

She waits for me at the door, dressed and ready to go. I kiss her through my face mask, on both sides of her cheeks, Moroccan style.

“Yala! Let’s go!” I tell her . . . on Monday . . . every Monday.

We go to the same tapas bar for lunch and sit at the same table in the sun. The same server takes our order—orange Fanta, eggs, and french fries are Habiba’s favorites. The safe house psychologist joins us. I translate into Arabic. Every Monday.

We hope that our time together comforts her and helps relieve some of her pain, her trauma. We then go to some of her favorite places—the church across the street, the best ice cream parlor in town, the local market that reminds her of her homeland. Habiba points out that the fresh fruit and vegetables are much cheaper than the local supermarket.

After a full day on our feet, we make our way back to the safe house, passing the Moroccan merchant where Habiba buys her favorite spices and fresh mint for tea.

At the safe house door, I look around us. Still, no one knows who I am. No one knows who she is. No one knows who walked among them today. Hidden, discreet. A woman who once roamed the streets to sell her body to the night, now walks rescued, freed, redeemed.

Does anyone care?

Inside, she takes me into the kitchen, where she makes a pot of hot, sweet, Moroccan tea with her fresh mint. She pours me a glass. She pours herself a glass. We chat in Arabic. She tells me stories. I tell her stories. We laugh, we cry, until it’s time for me to go. I need to pick up my children from school. 

I kiss her goodbye at the door—on both cheeks—Moroccan style.

“B’salaama, my sister. Goodbye, I’ll see you next Monday.”

Mondays.