Because I grew up in the rural Atlas Mountains of Morocco, where there were no TVs to popularize enticing images of the West, I had no idea that there was anything to celebrate on February 14th until I was almost twenty.
I still remember my first Valentine’s Day: the bitter cold; the freezing rain that started early in the morning, lashing me as I slipped through the metal gate into the courtyard of school for the blind; the smell of brittle tree bark mingling with body odors; and the voices, flirtatious and eager.
They were all dressed in red, I learned from one of our teachers, who started berating us as soon as he entered the classroom. He said we’d let the West corrupt us. He called us filthy infidels.
Even if I’d known about the dress code, I couldn’t have worn red that day. I didn’t have any red clothes. I didn’t even have the money to buy them. I’d signed a five-year contract with the clothes that I was wearing, the only blouse and skirt I owned.
This made no difference to the teacher. He yelled at me right along with the rest. For him, there were no distinctions.
Before I proceed, I should make one thing clear: while the school was, on paper, an educational institution, there was only one requirement for entry, and it had nothing to do with academic competence. As long as an ophthalmologist confirmed that your eyes were not working, you were welcome to attend.
This one-size-fits-all approach is not unique to Morocco. It is standard across the world.
I’d never enjoyed being treated as if I were interchangeable with my classmates, many of whom had severe developmental disabilities, and the morning of February 14th was no exception. From the teacher’s rant, I gathered that this foreign holiday had something to do with love, but sex and dating were the last things on my mind. I was homeless. My family had abandoned me. I was fighting to survive. School was my only way forward. I had no patience for distractions.
I bit my tongue during his lecture, but that afternoon, on my way to lunch, I passed an empty classroom and overheard intimate noises—panting, moaning, giggling, gasping—coming from inside. This pushed me over the edge.
You might imagine that the happy couple in that classroom chose that public setting for their tryst because, being blind, they thought they were concealed.
You would be wrong.
Let me tell you a bit about the students at that school.
Let me tell you about the two girls who liked to remove their pads whenever they were on their periods and throw them at bystanders. Once, they got kicked out of class for getting the desks and chairs bloody.
Let me tell you about the guy who thought a jinn was following him everywhere and helping him to navigate the sighted world. His seeing-eye jinn even helped him draw elaborate murals on the walls.
Let me tell you about the girl who drooled all day long, showing no signs of attentiveness except during lunchtime, when she would steal food off my plate with surprising agility.
Let me tell you about the guy who would jump up and down all day, flapping his arms as if he were a rutting turkey.
Let me tell you about the girl who believed that she was an imam and would interrupt class every five minutes to sing the call to prayer.
Let me tell you about the guys who would run through the halls every afternoon, singing and screaming at the tops of their lungs.
Finally, let me tell you about the girl who, whenever she wasn’t passed out cold because of her medication, would initiate sex with anyone who crossed her path. She never had any difficulty finding willing partners, not on the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year, and certainly not on Valentine’s Day.
“Don’t you get it?” I shouted at the group of girls whom I found giggling together in the cafeteria. “You’re embarrassing! Why do you care about wearing red, anyway? We can’t even see!”
I told them that the guys were taking advantage of them, and they were letting it happen.
I told them that if they got pregnant, they would get expelled from school.
I told them that they were ruining their lives.
My outburst did not go over well. That Valentine’s Day marked the beginning of a bitter feud between me and nearly every other student at that school, a feud that persisted even after my graduation. I managed to distinguish myself from my classmates, but at the end of the day, we were still classmates. We still had the same teachers. We still got the same homework. We were still treated as if we were, in every way, the same.
Looking back, I no longer blame my classmates for behaving as they did. Not the ones who were mentally compromised, anyway. They couldn’t help themselves. I also do not blame the teacher who treated me just like the rest. I don’t think he could’ve helped himself, either. That’s what happens when hundreds of people with radically different needs are all thrown together, all in one place, all under one label, and treated as if they were all the same. It becomes very difficult for anyone to draw clear distinctions. It becomes very difficult for anyone in such a system to get the support that they need.
I blame the institutions. I blame the people who manage the institutions. I blame the people who fund the institutions. I blame the decision-makers who concluded, somehow, that all blind people are the same. I blame the people who fetishize the ideal of “inclusivity,” as if it could never be weaponized. I’ve seen it weaponized. I’ve seen it used to damage people. I’ve weathered some of that damage myself. Luckily, I’ve come through stronger. Not everyone has.
Some of those girls got pregnant. Some of those girls got kicked out of school. Some of those girls ended up in violent and abusive marriages. Some of those girls are still locked up in their families’ homes. But at least they got to know that they were wearing something red before that happened. At least they got to have a happy Valentine’s Day.
I almost never agreed with the teacher who called us infidels, but I thought he was right about one thing: there was no need for a holiday that amounted to no more than having sex in public and wearing red clothes. Maybe, if I’d been introduced to Valentine’s Day in a different way, I would’ve formed a different opinion. Maybe, if I’d seen my fellow students forming stable, loving, mutually supportive relationships, I would’ve been jealous instead of contemptuous. But that school was not a place where anyone could form stable, loving, mutually supportive relationships. Half the students could barely add two plus two, much less make sense of foreign concepts like Valentine’s Day.
Even today, I still don’t see the need for such a holiday, though I’m happily married and no longer surrounded by base pantomimes of romance. When displays of affection are relegated to just one day of the year, it seems to me, they become mechanical and obligatory, more like checking a box than expressing a heartfelt emotion. When you truly love someone, you share your love spontaneously, without relying on a greeting card to do the talking for you, hopefully more than once a year. You don’t worry if a certain day goes by without a ceremonial exchange of chocolate, flowers, or balloons. Love means investing in something that will last for a lifetime, not just for one day.
Besides, even if you do want to celebrate St. Valentine by having sex in public, there are plenty of other days to do it, most with better weather.
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