Hchouma or Haram?

“Hchouma!” Why are you not eating what grandma has so kindly prepared just for you? This tagine that she knows you love so much…”Hchouma”!

“Haram!” Why are you throwing your food, when so many people starve in the street? Praise be to Allah. Bread and food are among the blessings for which we must be grateful. And here you are dumping them in the trash? “Haram!”

This was the recurrent discourse I was harped on about when I started with my eating disorders at the age of 10. Why? Why, if both “hchouma” and “haram”, was I doing these “stupidities”? Why, if blessed with this delicious tagine, intentionally prepared for me by my grandmother to celebrate Eid-al-Adha with all our family, was I refusing to eat? How come could I even dare to spoil this holy event? At that time, in my home country of Morocco, dominated by Islam and tradition, refusing to eat was either “haram” or “hchouma”. An attitude that could only be interpreted as a lack of respect towards my family or God.

But nobody could understand that I was perhaps just begging for the attention of my absent parents. Or that I was persuaded that looking like Barbie would make me more respected and loved among my circles - and by this boy that was shrinking my heart.

The fact is that this lack of understanding ended up with an urgent hospitalisation in Spain at the age of 12, with a BMI of only 10. Doctors doubted about my chance of survival. But I did. Because I happened to have the chance to speak with a French psychiatrist who spotted the disaster on time, a Spanish passport, and a family who could pay the treatment. Without that, I will probably be not writing these words today. And I know this is the case of many people today.

In Morocco, as in most Arab and Muslim countries, eating disorders are neither well known nor understood, sometimes perceived as the caprice of a spoiled girl or a divine retribution. From severe reprimand to the miraculous Zamzam water that an Imam poured on my head, my family tried it all.

But nobody understood. Not out of bad intention, but out of lack of awareness, knowledge, professional advice or support, all this combined with an immense feeling of being completely powerless in the face of my self destruction.

After more than 20 years dancing at the edge of death with my anorexia, I am still alive today. I am privileged, I know. I have been blessed by the care and help of doctors and communities of support, without which I will probably be only dust.

My anorexia can be perceived as a curse, a destiny, or a chronic illness. It might have enriched or impoverished me – take it as you want. That does not matter anymore.

But what I do know, is that it has had destructive consequences on my mental and physical health. And not only mine, but also that of my family and carers.

If I am writing this today, it is because I want to break this deadly silence and stigmas surrounding eating disorders and other body image issues among Arab communities. In cultures where despite being a growing problem, they are still “Hchouma” or “Haram”.

Shaking fears, believes and stigmas, while supporting healing and well-being start with education. By hiding our real identities, we are playing to the stigma and labelling mental illness as something that one should be ashamed off.

You don’t have to hid, neither to suffer alone. Hang in there, come along, and break the silence.