Rendezvous vs. Inshallah

I derive great pleasure from arranging my various commitments. Scheduling a play date kindles anticipation; identifying an efficient course of action leaves me stress free; imagining a future course incites enthusiasm. I enjoy making plans. Most people know this about me. Most Moroccans I’ve met don’t understand this obsession. Plans are the mere fabrications of us mortals. God’s will trumps our best laid plans, even if we only want to go to the post office.*

A Moroccan’s stock response to any plan is inshallah (God willing). No commitment is made; however, depending on the situation, this answer offers varying degrees of certainty.

I’ve started studying Arabic script during my language classes, and I really hope to become proficient. Inshallah.

I’ll visit Morocco after I finish my two years of Peace Corps. Inshallah.

To the untrained ear, it’s difficult to glean sincerity or a vote of confidence from this response, considering the expression is used excessively. Yet excess does not undermine the sentiment; its prevalence speaks to Islam’s deep roots in Moroccan culture. There is an entire lexicon of God phrases, each having it’s own particular time and place. And each idiom is earnest declaration of faith. To God-fearing people, inshallah exudes humility in its offer of deference. 

There’s a training in September we’ve been invited to in Rabat. Will you be able to attend? Inshallah.

Are you going to souk (market) tomorrow? Inshallah.

The response remains vexing. Inshallah is not the equivalent of “I don’t know” or “probably,” which I readily accept as answers. Inshallah usually expresses a sure intent to go, without any true declaration. As someone who values clear communication, it’s frustrating that verbal confirmation remains largely absent in everyday banter.

This lack of planning also means that trying to elicit a specific time is very difficult, which is equally stressful. My host sister is getting married this fall. When asked for the wedding date, everyone said: “After Ramadan, inshallah.” It took several months to finally pin down that the wedding would be in October.

I tried to discuss my anxiety with one of my host brothers. We had spent the evening in a neighboring village, visiting some extended family. As it got later, my host aunt asked if we would be staying the night. The choice was inevitably left to me. Unsure whether the invitation was a gesture or a sincere inquiry, I opted that we should return to Foum Oudi. I didn’t have my toothbrush or pajamas, after all, and there would be ample time for more comfortable slumber parties.  

On the return journey, I pressed my host brother for answers, trying to understand my host aunt’s intent. Did she know that we were coming that evening? No. Should we have told her we were visiting? No, we can just show up. Did she really want us to stay? If we wanted—here, you always offer guests a place to stay. I explained that in America, you don’t just show up—you make a plan. I insisted that Americans can make impromptu visits, but courtesy still requires a quick phone call: “I’m in the neighborhood. I thought I’d stop by.” We give our host the opportunity to say no, while turning away a guest in Morocco would be unthinkable. My host brother was sympathetic: Ah, yes. You love the rendezvous. But here, we just go. I’ll work on just going, I told him. Next time, we’ll stay the night. He nodded, Inshallah.

*It would be unfair to say no planning happens in Morocco. But I’ve found when plans do materialize, the execution puts me in mind of my family trying to leave for vacation. My father plans to be on the road early, 6 a.m. at the latest. Inevitably, we don’t leave on time—one more bill had to be paid, the dog’s insulin needed to be picked up from the pharmacy for the house sitter, no one checked for stakes with the tent. And then we stop to grab a pizza to go since now it’s practically lunchtime. Everyone accounted for, we’re driving away at 11:48 p.m. There’s follow through. Eventually.