Slipping Through the Cracks

I tried envisioning these students in a mainstream public school. I could see the detentions and suspensions. I could easily understand all of their trips to the director's office. I could see their "lack of motivation," and oh, of course their "lack of attention." I could see teachers getting fed up with them and understand how they'd slowly, but surely, fall behind until they could no longer keep up at all. And then I could see them dropping out, getting expelled and in a nutshell... fall through the cracks.

I began my volunteer position at an alternative high school yesterday. Students range from ages 14-17 and all have somehow slipped through the cracks of the educational system. Many have been expelled from school after school after school. Others have managed to somehow avoid school for several years.

We began the morning with a "check-in" and students rated their mood from 1 to 10 and then shared a "brag" and a "drag." One girl shared that her "drag" was that she had been arrested yesterday and now was facing conditional charges. I tried to not let the disbelief show on my face.

Throughout the day the students were given regular smoke breaks and fuck no longer had any meaning. It was a common word in their vocabulary. Conversations involving drug use were quite common and one student showed up high.

I worked with several students one-on-one on various academic assignments. All of them were behind "age-appropriate" material. They needed constant prodding and reminding to stay on task.

While working there I was amazed by the efforts of the teacher and social worker to connect with these students and to meet them exactly where they were at. It was beautiful.

My heart broke knowing that these students had fallen through the cracks. Every one of them had been too difficult, or too lazy or not motivated enough or had too many problems for someone to deal with. They were just too much.

And my heart breaks for these "too" children. These children who don't have many-- if any-- advocates. These children who have experienced way too much life to fall into the "children" category, yet are way too young to be "adults."

I loved a poster I saw on their classroom wall:
Every person you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.

Ah, what truth. I feel a little dizzy thinking about the individual battles each of them is fighting.

The Parts of Me That I Try to Hide

About a month ago, Lucas and I attended some friends' wedding in Ottawa. It was a beautiful ceremony and the reception was loads of fun.

During a wedding ceremony, my favourite part is definitely the marriage vows-- provided the couple wrote them themselves. The sacredness during those minutes is so real, so tangible, you can almost feel it in the air.

One of the lines in the bride's vows said something like, "I vow to fight to continually show you the parts of my character that I have worked so hard to hide." That line stuck in my head and the reality of it brought so many scenarios through my mind-- over and over again.

We grow up learning to mask our weaknesses. We learn to withdraw from the group if we need a break; we leave the room if we can't have the conversation at that moment; we change the channel when a show upsets us. We change, we move, we leave. We escape. And so, I can go through most of my life with most of my friends believing that I am truly a patient and forgiving person. They don't know how long and arduous the forgiveness process may have been or how many tears were shed over an issue. I can give most people the idea that I'm pretty put together and stable emotionally... you know, levelheaded and composed. Yet, they don't see how many hours I've spent journaling about the issue, how much quiet time I needed and how long I had process with others.

But married life strips me of those escape routes. Quite quickly. Retreating into "my space" has become increasingly difficult-- if not impossible. I am forced to deal with character traits that are unfavourable and have let myself slip into a complacent lifestyle, because well, most people never even know how impatient and over-sensitive I can be.


The parts of me that I want to hide are the parts of me that I need to see more clearly. These are the areas of my life that need to be brought out of darkness and have more light shed on them, not less. The parts of me that I try to hide are the parts that I need help admitting are actually issues. They're the ones that I cringe and feel shame when people find out they're my issues, but they're the ones where I get to experience the grace of Christ that much more.

Lucas does, quite frequently, bring out the best and the worst in me. He sees the tired, cranky, selfish, prideful, hyper-sensitive and resentful Viviana more than anyone else. Yet his continual love for me is a living picture of the gospel. His patience and kindness remind me that I cannot work to hide parts of me; it will never work-- they will always show. Instead, I must get down on my hands and knees, roll up my sleeves and get to work weeding out these areas.

Five Months

It's been five months since I left Morocco.

I must admit that I hit the ground running after my time there. I immediately was thrown into the craziness surrounding wedding planning, then the actual madness of two weddings, then the stress surrounding home shopping and then the house closing and then the first days of work. These last months have been spent on adjusting to married life, Canadian life and post-university life. And so, Morocco has been left on the back burner. I simply didn't have time to let the implications of my departure settle. I was too excited to see Lucas again to really let the loss of friendship and cultural immersion really hit me. But now, as memories begin to resurface amidst the extreme quietness of my life, I am faced with the undeniable fact that I miss Morocco.

I had forgotten how cold Rabat had been in January and February. If I close my eyes, I can re-live the nerves and jitters I felt right before meeting my host family and the frustrations surrounding language learning. I still laugh at the intense culture shock experienced in the public baths (hammams) and those precious moments when I was able to love Moroccan children. I'm still fighting the extra pounds I gained thanks to the enormous appetite I found in Morocco and the delicious food that was constantly before me. And then my heart is burdened by the real pain I witnessed.

Glancing through my blog seems to press the "rewind" button. I feel that I could be there again, just by simply imagining and remembering it. And yet, these blogs were in no way comprehensive. How could I possibly express how dear of a friend Oumaima became to me? All of our sleepovers and pancake-making parties? How could I convey the loss of knowing that I'll never live there again? But having all these posts to click through, months after having left, is such a blessing. Moments that would probably have faded are immortalized in writing.

My ears perk up when I hear Arabic. There's a convenience store by my house and so far, all the men who work there speak Arabic. I learned they're from Iraq. I watched GirlRising last night and one of the girls is from Egypt. Though her story was heart-breaking, my heart swelled inside of me as I picked up several words from the authentic Egyptian dialogue.

I miss Morocco and the experiences I had while I was there. I desire to live outside of my own familiar cultures again. I cannot wait to consistently be surrounded by those different than I, that I may see my own culture and values through their lenses. I try to hold on to the small, precious lessons I learned from four months in that beautiful, beautiful country... Morocco.

The Restlessness of Inactivity

In our culture of drive-throughs, calendar apps and the need to develop outstanding resumes, periods of inactivity are dreaded-- perhaps feared? Ant it is in the middle of this culture, where I have been thrust into seemingly endless inactivity. My hear drops when asked what I do. I hate the "occupation" discussion. Simply put, I feel small and insignificant.

"Nothing. I don't do anything."

Yup. Small and insignificant.

And in the middle of this smallness and this insignificance, I've learned to wrestle through some mighty identity issues. Stripped of typical terms like "student" and "leader in...", I've struggled to pin down what I think I am and who I am... knowing that ultimately, I am not what I do, but functionally, that's all I've known. No, I am not meaningful because of my university coursework. No, I am not important because of my connections.

My jobs as front desk volunteer, visitor at an elderly home and a friend to a young five year old are not what give me meaning.

My dignity is (and must!) be deeply rooted in Jesus and Jesus alone. My ministry loving the elderly or my young friend is meaningful because of the God I serve. My ministry serving Lucas-- however mundane it may feel day in, and day out-- is powerful because of the God who brought us together.

Yes, I still stammer and feel flustered when asked what I do, but the true fact of the matter is that question is not my definer. Who I serve and what I love is a much more telling question. 

Dry Bones

I feel as though I am on a journey.
A long one.
Through the Valley of Dry Bones.

I feel the heat and notice as it drains the energy from my body. I look around and notice that the terrain on my left is so... the same... as the terrain on my right. I can't quite see the end of this Valley and the way up seems much too steep to climb up. Oh yeah, and the dry bones. That's all I see. The dry bones; they serve as the reminder of something that was living... alive... breathing and feeling... a long time ago. The bones that look so useless, so helpless and so wasted.

I step into the biblical pages of Ezekiel 37 and I can almost hear God ask, "Son of Man, can these bones live?"

Can they? My heart longs to  leap up with faith and claim that, yes, yes they can. But my eyes re-focus on the bones around me and I'm filled with discouragement. But clearly, telling God that no, they cannot live feels... wrong. So I sigh... only you know, O Sovereign LORD.

This season of long waiting for my visa has arrived. I have begun the fourth week and the dreariness has hit me-- full force. The minutes drag into hours which eventually drag into days and nothing feels urgent, because well, I can always do it tomorrow. I struggle to get out of bed, to shower, to change into different clothes. I keep my eyes wearily on the clock, hoping that Lucas will come home soon. And I lie awake while Lucas sleeps beside me, knowing that I can't possibly be tired at 10:00 when I crawled out of bed that morning at 9 am.

I'm struggling to trust God's timing, God's providence and God's goodness. I get hit with waves of strong emotions. I feel wasted, empty and useless. I get caught up in regrets, wishing that I had somehow figured out the visa process sooner. Wishing that if only I had tried harder, then maybe the visa would be here by now. Instead, I shrink away from the horrific reality of knowing that the completed visa application is sitting in my bedroom, waiting to be sent off.

Oh, I know the things that would make this better. I could go for a run, go outside and get some fresh air. I could listen to some sermons, read interesting books and pick up all kinds of fancy hobbies. Yet, I can't seem to find the motivation to do any of those. Its not in me anymore.

My heart yearns for Ezekiel's vision to come true in my life. I want to see these bones come to life-- a vast army. I want to experience and feel God's power beckoning me to life, to purpose, to meaning. And so I cling to hope in the Sovereign LORD.  Surely he who brought me to this valley will sustain me through it.

Not Much To Do...

Today marks the third week I've spent at home since camp ended. I've been able to read, work out, rest, doze off, enjoy cooking and catch up on things around the house. I've certainly enjoyed the flexibility and the freedom to get to things "tomorrow" when they didn't get done "today."

But I've also become anxious to do things. I want to interact with people and leave the house and well, you know... do things.

This week I spent quite a bit of time looking up some volunteer organizations and seeing if any positions sounded like something I'd be interested in. I'm hoping to start seeing some things come together next week.

But for now, I am trying to rest and wait in this season. I'm trying to figure out what exactly God wants me to learn as I have very little to do. I want to enjoy it and see how he will prepare me for what ever ministry he wants me to get involved with.

Hi, its me again!

It's been a long time since I've ventured on to this blog. Every week that has gone by has made me more and more hesitant to log back on.

At first, I was too busy adjusting from my time in Morocco. Then, I was too busy with wedding planning. Next, I was too busy actually getting married and then honeymooning and then house shopping and then working and, and, and...

But the last three months have been monumental.

I've gotten married, graduated from university and moved to Canada.

The changes have been enormous and I feel like I scarcely have enough time to think about them-- much less process them.

But now, I have a long year ahead of me. A year of waiting on Citizenship and Immigration Canada. A year of adjusting to life here. A year of navigating the life of a newlywed. Yes, I have many things to look forward to and will definitely need to hop on here more often to try and make sure I'm processing and reflecting frequently enough.

So, here I am.

I'm back :]

Surprises

I'm not sure that I knew what to expect coming to Morocco. I didn't have all of these preconceived notions... at least not that I could pinpoint. However, the following is a small list that I kept running throughout the semester. I would jot down things that would strike me as "odd" or "interesting" or moments where I'd say, "Huh. I wasn't expecting Morocco to..." I wanted to keep a running list because I knew that at the end of the semester, many of these things would feel normal. And now, on my last night here... what truth that is. It seems FUNNY to me that most of these things caught me off guard at one point. 

Ah, cultures...

1. Daily Bread
   I guess I wasn't expecting to eat bread with every meal. But I eat some kind of bread at breakfast, generally have bread with lunch, and 90% of the time have bread with dinner!
2. Common dish, everything
   My host family always serves dinner in a big serving dish. And we just eat from it. I have really enjoyed the communal feel every time we eat meals.
3. So coldI was super surprised to feel how cold it was at the beginning of the semester. I did not think that I'd need to sleep with three blankets, leggings, pj pants, a sweatshirt and a hat. But I did. I guess winter in Morocco with no central heating feels like... well... winter.
4. Not rude to say you don't like somethingBecause so many things have been similar to Colombia, this one caught me off guard. In Colombia, you most certainly do not say you don't like something. But apparently, here... its totally acceptable.
5. ALL the meals!
   I was a bit unprepared for the sheer quantity of food. I think that's a fair statement to make. I consistently have to say "shbaat. I'm full." All the time.
6. Sharing cups My host family gives me a cup at dinner, but other than that, they just have one cup on the table that they just all drink out of. I went out for lunch with some friends once and we asked for water and they brought out a pitcher and three cups... but there were six of us. We were just expected to share our cups.
7. Street cats
   I'm used to see stray dogs on the streets in Colombia. But not here. Dogs are not as common. Instead, there is a surprising amount of stray cats found... everywhere.
8.  Matching tracksuits = fashion statementThis may be one of my favorites. Moroccans wear matching tracksuits and it seems to be some sort of a fashion statement. The pants and jackets with the colored stripe down the side... I ended up getting one and I felt SO Moroccan :)
9. Olives... I'll live without them.I have never seen so many people eat so many olives at one time. At any restaurant you go to, you will be served olives on a dish. Sort of like chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant. Except this happens at any meal... any restaurant. Oh wow. I thought that maybe I'd acquire a taste for them while being here. But no, I still don't like them.
10. "Alo?"Moroccans answer the telephone like Colombians do!! Love it :)
11. Women get into soccer games for free.Craziness. That's what I call this. Is there really such a low interest level that its FREE for women to go? Definitely took advantage of this one.
12. Ringtones go on and on and on and on.For some reason it feels like Moroccans like to keep their phones on loud and don't like to answer them right away. Just for kicks. Make sure everyone on the bus knows that they're receiving a phone call.
13. SO generous.What a generous culture! Wow. I've been astounded by the gift-giving nature of the people here. They love to give and give... what generosity!

 

Bridal Shower

Today I went to a lovely Moroccan bridal hammam.

I suppose you could call it a literal bridal shower. My sweet friend Oumaima organized it and my friends from my study abroad program came. We went to the traditional Moroccan hammams (read this post to get a more detailed description). Apparently, the celebration of traditional Moroccan weddings begin the day before with the bride and her female friends and family going to the hammam and making sure her skin is soft and beautiful before her wedding day.

Unfortunately, my wedding is still a little more than a month away, so this hammam visit won't serve that purpose, but it was lovely spending time with friends celebrating here.

I received lovely gifts and it was fun sharing the joy and excitement of this upcoming stage with my friends here :)

Hello, My Name is Mejda.

If any of you have ever taken a foreign language, it's quite likely that you have received a new name. Maybe if you were learning Spanish you became "Pablo" or "Maria." During my first semester of Arabic, I was "Farah."

Here, in Morocco... I am Mejda.

During the first couple of days, my host family sat down and told me that I needed a Moroccan name. So they took turns throwing names out there to see which one the whole family liked. Finally, my host sister suggested "Mejda" and everyone oohed and aahed. I had been named. I was told that it meant "glorious." I could handle that.

So from then on out, I've been known as Mejda at home and at the big house. Turns out, however, that another team member was also named Mejda. So, I became Mejda Wahed (one) and she became Mejda Djudsh (two).

Sometimes I hesitate when I'm I ring the doorbell and am asked, "Shkoon?" Right. I'm Mejda. Say Mejda. But other than that, I've learned to respond to the name. I've even used it with some of the kids we volunteer with so that they can use an easier name. Viviana is a bit difficult, I've learned.

However, one of our teachers here is horrified that many of us have received Moroccan names. He's mortified. How could we have been stripped of our identities and simply have another one slapped on over us?

I've never felt stripped of any of my identity. But its made me think. Is it simply a matter of convenience? Is it another form of cultural immersion? Is it something else?

How bout you? Have you ever been given another name while learning a language?

Three Weeks

I leave three weeks from today.

I feel absolutely no incentive to blog about anything. What's there to talk about? I feel like whatever there is to say, has been said... which clearly is erroneous. Yet, I still lack any and all incentive to sit and blog about Morocco.

I cannot believe that my time here is over. Four months really isn't a long time at all. And yet, I'm ready for home. I'm ready for the next stage. I'm ready to see Lucas and not have to say goodbye again. I'm excited about beginning a new stage of life where things finally aren't so clearly temporary.

And yet, this time has been beautiful. I have loved it.

I may be on and off for a while... going to go soak up my last three weeks!

On Communication

The ten days I spent with my brother gave me a new perspective on language and communication. So far, I've spent three months focusing on learning Arabic. I've tried to find the right words and the right phrases to get the right meaning across. I want to be able to speak Arabic so that I can communicate with the locals.

Yet in ten days I watched my brother talk himself out of three traffic tickets, bargain with hotel owners, barter with Berber tradesmen, have full conversations with my host parents (who speak no English or Spanish), talk with mechanics (twice!) to get our car fixed and get deals at the car rental place.

He often asked me to tell someone something, yet my first reaction was often, "I don't know how to say that." He'd say, walk over to them, and in a mix of Spanish, English and gestures, he'd get the point across. I was thoroughly impressed by his determination to talk about things that were difficult, complex and fun. He didn't care that he could barely say "thank you" in Arabic (though he did learn that one by the end of the trip).

This whole experience simply made me reflect.

I've placed such an emphasis on language. And well, to be fair, that's what my program is about. And my long-term goals involved speaking Arabic, not just communicating with Moroccans today. But still, I was able to re-realize that language and communication are not the same thing.

They are definitely not the same thing.

Language often facilitates communication, but communication does not depend on language. We can smile or wave and never speak a word. We can say many, many words, yet through our body language convey the exact opposite of what we mean. We can get caught up on focusing on how to say certain things, that we forget that we can say many things without every having a common language.

Hope

Simply doing something good isn't always good enough.

Yesterday we all headed over to a children's hospital in Rabat. We were told that we'd be handing out diapers, candy and some medications. I was pretty excited, because I haven't been involved with this kind of volunteer work since being in Morocco. I was eager to see what a hospital in Morocco might be like and I was just excited to be able to interact with the kids some and hopefully transmit some love and joy to them.

However, when we got there, it seemed like no one knew what was going on. Or what we should be doing. We stood in the hallway for a while and a nurse (I think?!) had us open our bags of diapers and ushered us into rooms to start handing out some diapers. I was carrying a candy bag, so eventually I was simply told to go into the rooms.

Each room had anywhere between two and six beds. A child generally lay or sit in bed with a parent or guardian sitting next to them. Many of them were sleeping, but I tried to interact with the few who were awake. I asked the parents about the the children's names and tried to have small conversations. But I felt completely unprepared and extremely inadequate... how to find the words to express hope or joy? How? How could I even expect to bring hope when I was ignorant of diagnoses, treatments, home lives and health histories? I soon felt overwhelmed.

One room I walked into brought tears to my eyes. I struggled to blink them away when I walked out. A mom watched her sick two year old. Her eyes seemed void of any hope and they were brimming with tears. I gently touched her shoulder and the tears spilled over.

Across from this sad mother was a father. His hands desperately held his son's hands. His son lay on the hospital bed, oxygen tubes helped him breathe. His small face was bruised, cut and swollen. Though he could have been asleep, my gut instinct was that he lay there unconscious.

And I felt silly offering them candy.

"Bgreeti? Do you want some?"

I wanted to reach up and grasp a slice of hope, a breath of fresh air. I wanted to offer them a hopeful diagnosis, a positive prognosis, resources in order to afford the treatment. A way out of the hospital.

Yet, I felt my tongue stick to the top of my mouth. I tried to blame it on the language barrier, but I'm not sure words would have come in English or in Spanish.

So I resorted to, "Bgreeti?"

The Last Hurrah

"The best trips are the ones where everything goes wrong," my brother said, a smile creeping across his face.

I just had to laugh. Wasn't that the truth? My brain began to go through the things that had gone wrong on our 10 day trip. A forgotten passport. A delayed flight. A care rental denied. Stopped by the police... three times. Ripped off by some Amazigh men. Getting lost for 12 hours. Leaking oil tank. Pushing back hiking a day. Being unprepared to summit the highest mountain in North Africa. Most painful descent from the mountain. Walking for 12 hours. Flat tire. Leaking oil tank... again. Eye infection. Day-late car return.

Phew. Whatta week!

Sometimes, words aren't enough. Sometimes, stories can't even begin to capture the experience. I'd try to explain my spring break and the amazing week I spent with my brother, but I'm sure that my words would certainly fall short. There were too many "you had to be there moments."

But in 10 short days we spent a night in the desert in Amazigh tents, explored ancient kasbahs, drove through the Atlas Mountains, climbed Mount Toubkal, spent time in Rabat and simply spent time together.

It's been five years since Rodrigo and I have been in the same place for more than a week together. Last time we were together, we enjoyed three short days and the time before... a little more than twenty-four hours. So ten days was a luxury.

And did we ever cherish it. We laughed and cried. We were silly and had intense discussions. We argued and giggled. We took pictures and recorded "commentaries."

Knowing that next time I see him will be at my wedding is a crazy thought. We knew that this trip was providing some sort of closure to a stage of friendship in our lives. Though we'd still visit and still see each other off and on... it'd be different. We both knew it.

It was our last hurrah.

 To see more pictures, you can go here.

Desert Trip

I woke up at 5:08 am. Of course I would need to pee at 5:08 am. My brother had asked me to wake him if I needed to go to the bathroom, so I woke him up, we put our shoes on and stepped out of our Amazigh tent.

I gasped. It was a full moon. It was yellow-orange and it was setting. We walked to the outhouse and then just stood outside our tent, watching the yellow-orange moon set over the sand dunes. It was absolutely amazing. As it dipped behind the dunes, we were in darkness. I looked up and the stars were amazing. However, it wasn't long before the first peak of light from the sun rising could be seen behind us.

We decided to head back to bed and wake up 30 minutes later to catch the sunrise.

Ah, what a day in the desert.

My brother and I arrived in the desert on Monday afternoon. We enjoyed some tea in the big Amazigh ten and then headed off on a 1.5 hour dromedary ride. They had told us it would be three hours. Let's just say, we were really pleased that it was half that time. Riding a dromedary was not comfortable and I did begin to feel just a little bit queasy by the end.

We got back to our campsite just in time to head over to the dunes and enjoy the sunset. And what a sunset it was. We soon found ourselves chasing the sun over the dunes until finally we simply rested on the top of one and enjoyed watching the sun drop below the horizon.

We enjoyed a typical cous cous dinner and oranges for dessert and then headed to bed around 10:30.

It was a short excursion, but what a day!!

I'll post pictures once we download them to our computers :D 

Bartering Goods

"Do you have a souvenir for me? A hat? An English book?"

I racked my brain for what I could possibly have to exchange with this Amazigh trader. I was trying to buy a carpet. But it was a little too expensive. So he was offering an exchange of goods. My brother had just purchased some things and paid using dirhams, a used pink t-shirt and some sunglasses.

I did have a copy of Catcher in the Rye in my book bag. Byron had lent it to me to read and I wasn't quite done with it yet. I asked him what he would do with a book.

"Read it, of course!"

Duh. Of course. I should assume that this Amazigh man would read classic English novels.

Eh, why not? I'd get Byron another copy of Catcher in the Rye.

"Deal."

His face broke into a huge smile and we shook hands.

Did we just barter goods with a Saharan trader? Yup. Yes, we did. 

Today we're heading out into the desert with his family. He seemed disgusted that we were headed to Merzouga, the tourism destination for those seeking desert treks. He instead urged us to go with his family. So we'll be joining his nomadic family on a three-hour camel ride into the desert where we'll see the sun set, sleep in Berber tens and share in their meals and enjoy their music. Then we'll head to sleep under the inky blackness of the the Sahara desert and awake to the majestic sunrise. A wonderful breakfast and then another camel ride back.

Well, here goes :)

Protests

I simply felt my feet moving. Quickly. They were getting me away from there. For a split second, I wondered if my heart still pumped blood, because all I could feel was fear. 

“Viviana! Stop! You can’t run. They’ll think you’re one of them,” Oumaima’s voice broke through my thoughts. 

But her words weren’t comforting. I didn’t really see any alternative. Were we supposed to stay in the middle of all the protestors and calmly walk the other way as policemen charged us, swinging their batons furiously? Every time they charged, the crowds broke into a frantic sprint in any direction, away from the weapons. 

And she was asking me to walk?

“Okay. Tell me again. Why are the protesting? And why are the policemen hitting them?” I grabbed her arm and tried to steady my step.

She explained that they were unemployed. They had gone to university, received their diplomas and now… it had been two, three, five or even ten years, yet they didn’t have jobs. The government would create new employment opportunities, but unless you knew someone who knew someone, you never even knew about the opportunity. The whole situation stank of nepotism.

Oh, and the policemen were trying to get them away from the palace of justice and the media centers. They would yell and run towards people with cameras and cell phones out. 

And so I closed my eyes, trying to imagine that hopelessness of joblessness for years on end. As I opened my eyes, I didn’t have to look far to see what it drove them to do. The crowds roared, “We want human rights. We want jobs.” The police countered by running toward the crowds, swinging their batons. Most of the people got away, but a few injured ones lay scattered on the streets and sidewalks. 

Here and there a scream would pierce the air and a small group would gather around the next fallen protestor. 

Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll be one of them if I can’t get a job once I graduate…” she mused.

Time

And time keeps on passing. I see it with each pill case I throw out and each new one I put in my bag. I see it with every date I cross off on my Bible reading plan. I see it in my emptier toothpaste tube, in my smaller bar of soap and in my fewer bobby pins. I turn more pages to get to where we're at in my Arabic book and I need my winter jacket less and less often.

Oh, the subtle ways we see time pass us by.

And yet, I still find myself wanting to measure it. As if I could keep time under control so that I won't look at the date one day, and suddenly say, "Oh my goodness. March 20?!"

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my time here is already more than half-way over. I did only come for four months.

The next couple of weeks are going to fly! My brother flies in on Friday for ten days. We'll be traveling around Morocco and then ending our time in Rabat. By then, it'll already be April!! I'll be gone every weekend of April, which makes the weeks go by even faster. Before I know it, it'll soon be May.

Nope. Measuring time doesn't slow it down one bit.

Spanish!

Last Friday we went to the International University of Rabat, which is actually in Sale. But whatever. Its an upscale university here, where students pay about $7,000 USD a year to be there. As a Moroccan you can attend a public university for all for years and pay less than $100 USD.

We went as part of our Gender Issues class and we came prepared with interview questions. Our teacher encouraged us to ask "inappropriate" questions and to really ask about things that were "taboo." So we jumped in with both feet. We found ourselves asking questions related to virginity, sexual education, homosexuality, religion and stereotypes. We all had a fabulous time getting to know these Moroccan students and then just getting a glimpse into their minds and how they think.

Afterwards, they gave us a tour of their campus and we were all pretty stunned by how nice their facilities were. Their dorm rooms reminded me of dorms back in the US... except that we didn't have bathrooms and sinks in our rooms.

As we walked around, I ended up talking with Kenza. She's a freshman from Tangier (in Northern Morocco). She was educated in a Spanish school throughout high school, so soon we were chatting away in Spanish. She was clearly more comfortable in Spanish than in English and it was so wonderful to be able to communicate with ease in a language that actually felt like a common language. Usually, when I converse with Moroccans, one of us is exerting a lot of effort to keep up in a conversation that is carried out in a language that isn't our own.

Not in this conversation.

Several times I had to remind myself that I wasn't in Colombia, as I heard her flawless Spanish and looked at her physical features. She could easily fit in Bogota... no one would look at her twice if she were walking down the streets in Colombia.

I was hit with a really strong sense of nostalgia and homesickness. I miss home. I miss communicating easily.

I loved being in Morocco, speaking to a Morocco, in Spanish. And there was nothing strange about it.

Places and names have been changed for her safety.

She stumbled into a police station; black eyes adorning her face and cuts made from shards of glass ran up and down her arms.  After three hours of laying face down in the swamps outside of Casablanca, mud covered her face. Her clothes were torn and she knew she was half-naked.

Fatima is that horror-story rape victim.

The police ushered her in, barely listened to her story and handed her some toilet paper so she could take care of the blood on her arms. She was then put in one of the cells where they keep prostitutes they arrest off of the streets until her parents could come pick her up.

After her parents arrived, they immediately took her to the doctors where she was examined and her wounds taken care of. Medical tests confirmed both vaginal and anal rape. She's just two months away from finishing her degree and her friends expect no sympathy or understanding from her university.

Surely the events of the previous sixty hours kept replaying through her mind. The nightmare she couldn't awake from.

Cat-calling was common. And she always hated it. Fatima's friends always warned her to not be so hot-headed in her replies to men on the streets. This time, as she walked away from the bus stop, the two men in the car followed her. When she reached the corner, they stopped the car; one jumped out, grabbed her by the hair and shoved her into their car.

Her parents began to worry when she hadn't shown up-- four hours after her usual arrival time. They went straight to the police, but were told no one would begin searching for her until forty-eight hours had been up. Turns out, she was only missing forty-eight hours before she managed to escape and find a police station herself.

The men took Fatima to an abandoned house on the outskirts of Casablanca, where they abused her for two days. Its a miracle she survived. On the second night, one of them went to the bathroom while the other looked for something in the car. She seized her chance and headed straight to the swampy fields.

But back in that house, she left her wallet. Her national identification card. Her university ID and her home address.

And now, as she recovers at home, her friends urge her to find a woman's support group. To speak up. To share her story. But she fears. She fears for her sisters. She fears for her mother. She fears for herself.

I heard this story first-hand from one of her friends. Nausea overwhelmed me and I couldn't get the story out of my head... out of my heart. 

Maybe that's the point. 

Maybe I'm not supposed to. 

I tried thinking of the "point" to writing a blog post about her... she'll still be living in a city where she feels unsafe, the men who raped her will still be free, and women everywhere-- not just in Morocco-- will certainly continue to live in fear for themselves and their daughters. 

Maybe, sometimes, there doesn't have to be a point. 

Maybe, sometimes, we can see pain, but never fix it. 

Maybe, sometimes, all you can do is try to be a voice.

Nun-chucks and Sweat

We gasped.
I laughed. Mostly because I thought it was hilarious. But also because I had no idea why my host uncle, Abdenbi, had just pulled nun-chucks out his jacket.

I asked him why he had those with him on our morning of walking through the forests.

"You never know who (or what) you'll find in the forest," he replied. And yes, he was serious. He swung them around to make a point. I'm not sure if Brynn, Nina and I were assured that we were safer with him now that he had the nun-chucks, but regardless we laughed along.

We began speedwalking through the forest and I was soon hushed by Abdenbi. Exercise and talking does not mix, I was told. Later, when I was struggling to keep up to his crazy fast pace, I was told that it was because I didn't stop talking. He asked if it'd hurt me to shut my mouth while exercised.

And so, Abdenbi led the three of us on an hour and a half walk through three different forests and meadows. I wish the word "walk" could adequately convey the amount of physical activity that was going on. I was definitely sweating and, let me tell you, I'm pretty sore this monring.

We ended up at the beach, where Abdenbi proceeded to lead us in arm exercises and stretching. He'd tell us to turn over and count for us as we did pushups, sit ups and stretches. He laughed at us as we moaned and begged for it to stop. Couldn't we just lay on the sand and enjoy the beach?

Eventually we headed back to the big house, stopping occasionally for more exercises. We did 3 sets of dips on the side of the highway, while we waited for traffic to clear. We stop on a sidewalk and did calf-raisers. We found a wall and did leg swings.

And finally, three hours after we left the big house, we turned the corner on to our street. But he didn't just let us walk but. He lined us up and had us race back to the big house. Before entering, he made us do squats and wall-sits.

Phew. Talk about having a personal trainer!!

And so, we arrived, safe and sound. A three hour excercise excursion.

Thank goodness he didn't need to use the nun-chucks.

Eight Things I Bet You Didn't Know...

So, since being here, I've noticed that Moroccans and Colombians have some striking similarities. I've compiled a list... Perhaps you could call it..

8 Ways that Moroccans and Colombians are Similar

1. Walking barefoot = sickness
   Yes, this does seem odd, does it not? But Colombians and Moroccans from the older generations have this notion that if you walk barefoot, you will get sick.
2. Excessive hellos Many of my group members tease Moroccans for how long their greetings are, but I feel like I can't really join in. Of course it takes several minutes to say hello. No, a simple "hello" will not suffice. In Colombia we ask about how the person is doing, how their family is doing, how their dog is doing, what they've been up to, etc. In Morocco, we find three or four ways to ask "How are you?" Labess? Labess.
3. Cheek kisses Oh, the kisses! Kisses all around, ladies and gentlemen! In Colombia we kiss on the right cheek once. Here, we kiss everyone on both cheeks several times. There isn't really a set number. Sometimes just twice, sometimes three times. Sometimes the kisses can go on for a long time. In Colombia women kiss men and women, while men only kiss the women. Here, everyone kisses everyone. Such affection :D
4. Men pee in publicYup. I must say I've seen men peeing on the sides of dirty building walls here too. Sigh. Too bad I couldn't leave that in Colombia.
   
5. Cat-callingNow, I can't decide if there is less cat-calling here, it is less offensive to me or I just understand it less. Maybe its a lot more; the girls who understand French are extremely annoyed and angry by the constant cat-calling on the streets. I usually don't understand anything, so I keep walking. But yes, being a Western-looking woman certainly draws as much attention here as it does in Colombia.
6. A proverb for everything. Moroccans have little sayings and "proverbs" for every situation. I wish I could learn them all. They remind me of home and all the Colombian dichos. I want to be able to recite them and drop them at the perfect moment. I want to capture cultural values in a little sentence and be like, "Ah-ha! I get this cultural value!"
7. Carbs at EVERY SINGLE meal.So here we eat bread at every meal. I would estimate that 90% of my meals have included bread... in some shape or form. My Colombian meals? Yes, bread is common. But if not bread, we'll have rice or potatoes or plantains or yucca or any other starchy kind of food to serve as a filler. Mmm... I miss rice.
8. Food as a way of welcoming guest.I feel that I haven't been "formally" welcomed into a Moroccan home unless I've been offered food of some sort... or mint tea :) And as in Colombia, I cannot refuse it without the host persistently asking me to eat more or take more or have more or please... just have a little more.

Kiddies

I've been volunteering at on organization called Dar Shebeb for three weeks now. Most of the other students in the program teach English or French classes. But Uchenna, Byron and I have a completely different role.

We get to play games for two hours.

Yup. That's our job description. I get to laugh and play and have fun with 7-13 year olds every week. The first two weeks there was a Moroccan helping us with translating game instructions, if need be. But Byron and I enjoyed plunging ahead and trying to get the game across in our Arabic. This last week, there was no such safety-net to fall back on when it was obvious that instructions weren't being conveyed correctly.

We have a couple of staple games that include Ninja, musical chairs and Red Light, Green Light. We play these every week and I love trying to come up with new games every week as well.

This last week I was struck by how funny we must sound. First of all, we speak using mostly Fus-ha, when the kids speak mostly Derija. Secondly, I speak and then think. And third, the words we know are pretty formal for playground kinds of settings.

So, we try to explain that in musical chairs you can't touch the chairs before the "music" (us clapping and shouting) stops. Byron comes up with the exact term for "touch" and I can't think of anything but,  "It is prohibited." Yeah, that's right. They better not touch the chairs.

Through volunteering I've realized that there are some words I really need to learn:

• Stop
• Rules
• You win
• You lose
• You're out
• Can't...
• No pushing!
• Time out
• SILENCE

I love the little kiddies and it might be the highlight of my week. We explain games and then they run up to us and go off in full-speed Derija, expecting us to understand. I usually shrug my shoulders and say, "Mafahimtsh."

Oh, story of my life.

I don't understand.

Weekend Travels

So I saw a thousand palm trees last weekend.
Well, who's counting, anyway?

Five of us jumped on an overnight bus headed to Marrakech and then on toward Ourzazate on Thursday night and wandered around the empty streets of Ourzazate at 7 am Friday morning as we waited for the city to wake up.

Ouarzazate, also known as "The Gateway to the Sahara," is home to North Africa's largest movie studios-- think Hollywood in Morocco. A plethora of famous movies were filmed there, but you can't expect me to remember a string of movies I've never seen; one title I recognized was Gladiator. Basically, however, all those movies with the stereotypical desert? Yup. Ouarzazate.

After breakfast, Darby mischievously asked me if I had my driver's license on me. I nodded and smiled, only imagining what she had up her sleeves.

"Let's rent a car!"

And rent a car we did! I laughed my way through process, bewildered by the fact that we could simply walk into an agency and ask to rent a car. I'm still several years away from the standard "25 years of age" to rent a car, but I had a valid driver's license and before long, I had signed a contract and we had rented a car, each of us chipping in $17 USD to cover the two days.

We enjoyed the freedom the car afforded us and we splurged.
"Oh, can you stop here? I want to take a picture."
"Oh, that's pretty. Let's stop."
"Ah! Let's have a picnic there."

Okay. Yup. Sure. Of course we'll stop.

And we finally made it to Skoura, the oasis known for a thousand palm trees. We drove through a beautiful gorge and admired incredible red rock formations; we hiked into a small valley and climbed around old kasbah (castle/fortress) ruins and took lots of pictures. We stopped and walked through the area with the palm trees and enjoyed the view. Funny how I knew that this was the Morocco I knew people had pictured I'd be living in.

We eventually headed toward our hostel about 20 minutes outside of Ouarzazate. It was a beautiful hostel and even had a swimming pool. I was amazed by the strong, strong winds when we arrived. We enjoyed a chill night in the hotel and then had a slow start in the morning. We explored the surrounding area some, wandered through some more kasbah ruins and eventually headed back toward a massive kasbah that has been used in movies such as Gladiator, Lawrence of Arabia, and Babel.

On our way back to Ourzazate, we picked up a hitchhiker and he told us about his travels in Morocco. A Moroccan, totally in love with his country. What a wonderful experience. He assured me that it was safe to hitchhike and I realized that the most dangerous part about picking up this hitchhiker was planting that idea in my head.

We dropped him off in Ourzazate and headed toward Agdz. The road was super windy and I got plenty of practice driving through curvy mountain roads. We stopped to pick up a man by the side of the road who's car was broken down. He was a sweet Berber man and with his really broken English, our French and Arabic we managed to communicate all the way to Agdz. Upon arriving in Agdz, he insisted we come to his house for tea, which we agreed to.

We enjoyed some tea with him and his cousin. These men were Saharan traders. Apparently, they were on their way to Mauritania-- a trip that would take them 30 days by camel. What? Is this real life? They traveled all around Africa and showed us their goods and explained that they trade with cash and with goods. They were true desert dwellers and invited us to spend a night in the desert with them some time.

Maybe someday :)

We headed back to Ouarzazate, had some dinner, killed some time, turned our car in and then headed toward the bus station. Sunday morning rolled around and we arrived in Rabat-- exhausted, but totally satisfied.

Ps- If you'd like to see more pictures, hop on over to Gabby's blog. She took some great pictures :)

To Spain and Back

Last weekend CIEE took us on a trip to northern Morocco. However, we wanted to see Tangier some for ourselves before all of the CIEE scheduling and program set in, so we set out a day early. We found a great hostel in the old medina and did some shopping around. We were able to explore some and then the next day got picked up by CIEE to see various cities in northern Morocco.

Our spectacular hostel

Hercule's Cave

One of our stops that weekend, interestingly enough, was Spain. As American citizens we didn't need to get a visa to come to Morocco. We automatically can come and stay for three months. However, our program is four months long. So, to get around this, we simply took a (very) short trip to Spain. No, we didn't cross the Strait. We stayed on the African continent.

You see, Ceuta is an interesting Spanish city.

We simply drove to the border, got out of the bus, handed over our passports, got them stamped, walked across and suddenly, we were in Spain. We hoped into taxis and I loved that I could communicated with ease. I tried to not to snicker at the unfamiliar accent. We walked around the downtown area and European architecture surrounded us.

We spent less than four hours in this Spanish city, yet we ate pork, spoke Spanish and felt like we were very much inside of Europe. They were even celebrating Carnaval while we were there, so we were able to enjoy a very festive city.

Group of Spaniards dressed as chickens

Part of the parade's procession

It was an odd sensation. We had just finished reading a book called Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits for one of our classes. It tells the story of four Moroccans who are desperate to cross the border into Spain. It is the promise of a better life-- a new life. Though we were able to simply walk into Spain, many Moroccans will never see the city of Ceuta. They can't get the visa necessary to reach Spain.

As we walked across the border, you could see armed guards stationed on the hills surrounding the city; they were definitely there to keep people out.

Yet our privilege, our blue passports, allowed us to walk into Spain and back... for three and a half hours. We spent the evening in Spain so that we wouldn't need to get visas, and so many can't ever visit because they can't get visas.

All in all, it was a cool experience. I enjoyed Ceuta. I loved speaking Spanish and I really enjoyed the city :)

Things I Miss About Speaking the Same Language

1. Initiating conversations comfortably
   I wish I could initiate conversations in any situation with any person without having to rehearse my first sentence over and over again.
2. Finishing my own sentencesMoroccans are super friendly and are so helpful when I'm struggling to communicate. However, once they catch the gist of what I'm trying to say, they finish my sentences for me. I'm excited to be able to finish my own sentences, sometimes.
   
3. Asking meaningful follow-up questionsSometimes, my host family explains something to me and I can understand the big picture. But I struggle immensely to ask meaningful followup questions in order to understand better or have them expand on certain topics.
4. Asking meaningful questions. Period.
   I miss being able to ask people questions that don't start with "Who," "How," "What," and "Where." I want to be able to get to know people's and their hearts not just all the "whats."
5. Feeling more adventurous in wandering around the city.
   I'd be much more willing to hop on a bus and figure out the public transportation if I was certain I knew how to ask for directions to where I wanted to be and I was confident I could understand their response.
6. Explaining games to children. I just want to play games with so many kids, but I can't think of enough games that I know can explain well.
   
7. Teasing people.There have been so many times I could tease my family, but I know that I don't have the necessary vocabulary to do so. So I end up laughing and trying to gesture out some sort of tease, but it never has the same effect. Never. 

While this list is in no way exhaustive, these are just a couple of things I miss about being able to proficiently communicate in the same language. 

On Celebrations

So I was surprised by several things today:

1. How much these Moroccan ladies can eat. Oh my goodness! "Viviana, just one banana!" No, I could not eat "just" one more banana after having eaten chicken and beef and (of course!) bread only three hours after I had eaten lunch. One more banana would make me pop. I was certain of it. 
2. How these Moroccan women can shake those hips!! Colombian women can certainly move their hips, flowing perfectly with the music. But Moroccan women? The quick drums and the ultra-fast rhythms made for some incredibly fast hip movements. I was simply amazed. When it was my turn to try, I wasn't even sure how to move in that way. What was I trying to move to? There was no way I could move to the speed of those drums.
3. There is always room for one more woman on the couch. Oh, yes there is. I'm not sure how many women fit on the divans, but there always seemed to be room to squeeze one more on. I  thought I'd feel less squished when one would stand up to dance, but alas, no, somehow, we were constantly squished on the couches. 
4. I was told I might be cold. I might be cold... so I should wear leggings and a tank top and two sweaters under my caftan in case I was cold in the house with dozens upon dozens of dancing women in it. Maybe. At one point I was wondering if I should brave the bathroom with the light that didn't work to try and take off one of the sweaters. 

So I went to a typical Moroccan subha today, celebrating the birth of a beautiful baby girl. Subha comes from the number seven; the celebration generally is held seven days after the baby's birth. We arrived around 3:30, though the celebration had been going on for at least an hour by then. At least 40 women were in the two living rooms; many sat on the divans lining the walls, a few danced in the open space. I was pulled into the "dance floor" a couple of times and the Moroccans loved seeing this white girl try to move her hips.

"Just move your HIPS," they'd tell me. Yes, I know what my hips are. I just don't have the same kind of control over mine like you do over yours. I can see their confusion, though. I'm positive my hips weren't moving when they told me to move them, so it made sense for them to conclude that I didn't know what my hips were.

After a while they took us downstairs to eat. Oumaima told me to get ready to eat a lot of food. I breathed in sharply; lunch couldn't have been more than four hours ago. I still had plenty of tajine and bread in my stomach. But more bread was brought out and then a huge silver platter of chicken was served. I ate sparingly, but still found myself quite full. She leaned over and told me that more food was coming. The chicken was cleared and a silver platter of beef was brought out. I ate a bit, but didn't think I should out of fear of the food coma. But then an entire platter of fruits was brought out. I was urged to eat more. I had two small slices of pineapple, then scolded for not eating more fruit. I found a small strawberry and ate that. Oumaima's aunt asked my why I didn't eat just one more banana. Ma'am, one more banana would be the death of me.

We returned upstairs for more dancing, more food (yes, cookies and tea, of course) and more laughing.

Wowza. What a way to celebrate new life!

Enjoy some pictures:

Culture Shock

I had my first "culture-shock" moment yesterday.

No, not the kind of culture shock that makes me want to leave Morocco. Not even the kind of culture shock that makes me miss home intensely. It was the kind of situation where no matter how long I was in it, I couldn't quite get used to it. It was that kind of culture shock.

I went to a hammam with a sweet Moroccan friend, Oumaima. A hammam, is a public bathhouse. I knew that they were very popular here in Morocco and that it was imperative that I visit one while I was here. But I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

I guess it doesn't matter. I don't think any amount of information would have totally prepared me for the nakedness and the beautiful lack of shame displayed in the hammam. Women bathed without any thought of covering themselves, and I kept thinking I'd get used to it, until my eyes shifted from the ceiling or a wall to a person. And then I realized I still wasn't used to it.

Oumaima was wonderful and talked me through the elaborate bathing steps.

I was shocked by all of the dead skin that came off of me. Spaghetti, she called it. She curiously asked me, "What do you do with your dead skin in America?" Honestly? "I don't do anything with it," I replied. Her mouth dropped and I just laughed.

I couldn't imagine how soft my skin would be if I went to the hammam every week, as was customary for many Moroccan women.

Afterwards, Oumaima made sure I was fully wrapped up and warm so that the change of temperatures wouldn't mess with me (I guess Colombians would get along just fine here). We headed back to her house, napped on the divans (like couches) a bit and then had a wonderful cous cous lunch.

After all, it was Cous Cous Friday.

On Language

It's the last day of derija classes. I guess it's about time I delve into the specifics of the Arab language... it might help explain the language barrier some and hopefully proves to be interesting at the very least :) 

I've been asked a couple of times why I'm taking Moroccan Colloquial Arabic if I took Arabic in school... wouldn't I just pick it up by living there?

Well, yes, I suppose I could eventually just "pick it up," but Moroccan Colloquial Arabic (also known as derija) is a language in and of itself. Yes, it is a form of Arabic, but it is different enough that some native Arabic speakers from other regions (the Gulf, for example) may not understand derija. Derija is a dialect blending French, Arabic and some Spanish. I was told Spanish was part of the blend, but I haven't been fond of how few Spanish words I see.

I've been taking Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) for the last five semesters. Problem is, no one speaks MSA to each other in the Arab world. You can't learn MSA, or fusha, through immersion. Each country or region has its on colloquial dialect. The news is presented in MSA and some other official programs such as National Geographic is also in MSA. MSA is taught in school, so little kids don't understand it and because it isn't used on a daily basis, many aren't comfortably speaking it back and forth. However, most people could understand it if need be.

Though it isn't a perfect analogy, imagine someone walked up to you and spoke Shakespearean English to you. You'd probably understand it. However, you probably wouldn't be as comfortable reproducing it and speaking it back to them. I think a similar thing happens with MSA and many Arabic speakers. Some, however, are really good at MSA and enjoy it, though most of those with whom I've interacted, aren't shy in expressing their distaste for MSA.

Derija feels like a language of quickness. Short vowels found in MSA are often replaced with sukuuns, essentially smashing three or four consonant sounds together. For example the verb "to write" in MSA is "ka-ta-ba," but in derija it becomes "k-t-b." Nope, I'm not kidding. Negating verbs is done by adding an "m" to the beginning and an "shh" to the end. This becomes tricky when stringing together many, many, many consonants.

I have loved taking the intensive crash course, but I must say that I am relieved to no longer have five hours a day of this language. It is exhausting.

I have stumbled through conversations, laughed my way through situations and managed to make do so far. Hopefully, derija becomes a bit easier after a while :)