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.