My stay with the Berbers in the Toubkal Mountains

My 4 month stay with the Berbers in the village of Imzik, in the Toubkal Mountains, was filled with drama, anger, frustration and pain...but also love and laughter.
They are Muslims. I am not. Yet they welcomed me with incredible generosity and warmth and treated me with almost embarrassing kindness. I say "embarrassing kindness" because I had moments where I flipped out and I'm surprised they didn't throw me out.
On my way home I visited friends and family in Strasbourg and Frysland as well as here in New York. It's a reminder of how short life is, not to sound maudlin but it's a fact. As diseases creep in, with a minimum of notice, suddenly you look around and find near and dear people falling through cracks, fighting for their lives, or deep in hostile paranoia. When you only see the people you love every so often, changes are large and remind you of the time you haven't spent together, as entire important chunks of people's lives pass by while you're occupied elsewhere.
But it's time to go again. That old restlessness is a pang in my solar plexus, my mind is mental mush, and snaps to attention only when far away concerns shout.

I am planning to return to Africa or the Middle East. I think we don't get to choose the places that feel like home...that feeling just might hit you anywhere. I can't figure it out...it makes no sense at all.