I pull up to the Agdal train station and the attendant tells me the lot is full. I wait in the car for another car to leave. I pull into a too-small space. A passerby motions which way I should go as I drive back-and-forth to nudge into the opening. I ignore him. Frustrated.

Leaving the car, I dodge through the parked cars holding my daughter’s sweating hand. We step over trash and overgrown grass. The ammonia smell of urine burns my nose. I grip her hand tighter, afraid she may slip lose. We sit in a café.

What time did he say he was coming?

We pick a table outside to avoid the smoke. Something smells putrid. We order French fries and soda and wait. After eating, there is nothing left but the putrid smell. We wind our way back through the parking lot and wait in the car. Sweating. Smelling. The beggars surround us again. The same ones we refused earlier. An African approaches us and says “I am a student here.” I reply “And I am a woman waiting at a train station.” He says nothing more.

We walk on, again, over the long grass that crowds a urine soaked tree in the over-crowded lot. Bottles. Trash. I put my small girl in the back seat. She is sweaty and quiet. I hand her water and search for something on the radio. A boy, perhaps 12 years old, approaches. I tell him to go away. He walks on without argument.

What time did he say he would be arriving?

The boy stands not far off from us. He is wearing a sweater over a long shirt and long pants. He clothes are too big for his frame. I cannot see how thin he is. His face is smeared with dirt and his clothes are made of dust. Sweating. His eyes meet mine. Frustrated, I don’t look away. Moments pass. Hours pass. We are still looking at each other. What does he see? Certainly my eyes, but the context is not here. Not this sweating, stinking, train station parking lot. Not the roving packs of African students. Not this need that is overwhelming me. A light smile floats onto his face. I imagine pink circles and fading rainbows surround me by the way he looks at me. He approaches the car with the same silly out-of-place smile on his face. He smiles. I keep my face the same. More hours pass. “Seer.” I say (means, “Go” or “Get!”)
“Seer?” He repeats?
“Seer.” With a nudge of his shoulders he moves on. I notice he pulls a coke bottle from the front of his trousers, removes the cap, takes a sniff, and returns it to its place. I realize, I could have had him. Had his life. Thrown him into the car and done whatever I wanted with or to him. His life is nothing. In this sweating, stinking, parking lot, I am outnumbered by need. He, however, is beyond it. Unaffected.

This haunts me.

I am reading “For Bread Alone
” by Mohammad Chourkri. When I read the back cover, I was worried it would make me too depressed. From the back cover:

“Driven by famine from their home in the Rif, Mohamed’s family walks to Tangier in search of a better life. But things are no better there. Eight of Mohamed’s siblings die of malnutrition and neglect, and one is killed by his father in a fit of rage.”

I am not depressed. I am something yet unnamed. I see the eyes of the boy in the Agdal train station parking lot.