Striking a Balance

Polychronism: "The ability to work happily with many things happening at one time, in a non-linear and emotional way that allows you to change pans at a moments notice without distress or worry over missing deadlines." (worldwidewords.org)


 Secondary definition (as defined by me): Running around like a chicken with your head cut off only to look back at the clock 4 hours later and realize that you have done... Absolutely. Nothing.  
Even before I write this blog post the thought process in my head goes something like this: 
"I think I need some music to write. Maybe I should come up with some food ideas for tonight's iftar. But first I need to look up recipes. No, maybe just inspirational pictures. Why am I not in cooking school? Omg, stop thinking about food. It's Ramadan! Speaking of which shouldn't you be like, spiritually feeding yourself or something? Go pray or pick up a holy book. Oh s***, I have that workshop on Islam that I'm supposed to be working on! I should really look at my calendar to see what night I need to schedule that for... Oh and while I'm looking at my calendar, I'll count out how many days I have left before Blake comes to visit. I can't wait for him to be here. Maybe I should come up with potential travel itineraries. Oh and I should post that to Pinterest on my traveling board. Man, there are so many zween Pinterest ideas... but honestly who on earth has 40 million Popsicle sticks just lying around their house to do that DIY project with anyway?"
This is exactly why I didn't thrive at Cisco. I suck at staying the present because my head is most often in the future. It's also potentially precisely why I think I can thrive in Peace Corps... especially in Morocco. It's difficult not to be a polychronic person when the society totally lends itself to this lifestyle. 
Part of Peace Corps is learning about yourself as a person. Even though this may not be the reason why you joined in the first place, you end up spending a lot of time in your head. And you end up learning a lot about yourself as a person. What makes you happiest, what makes you want to run back home, etc. For myself, I have learned thus far that I am happy when I am busy and even happier when I have tangible results to show for my work. It doesn't matter what that work is, maybe it's just a tick mark on a checklist saying that I did my laundry today (still need to do that) or that I lesson planned for tomorrow. Or even still, when I finish a lesson and I see all of my students glowing/sweating (my work out classes are no joke, folks) from their hard work. Either way, I have a lot of inspiration, a lot of creativity and the attention span of a chipmunk. 
The beauty of working for Peace Corps is that no one seems to mind my-rodent like attention span. For all of the troubles that serving in Morocco has presented me with, when it comes to my creative abilities and my want to foster them, all the world (read: Morocco) is my oyster. The majority of Moroccan people are wildly imaginative, quick to see the end result and completely lacking in time management/ goal setting. Sometimes when my family here asks me what I did today, I spill the whole truth: I imagined a lot, but I barely got any of it down. And their response? "That's great! We are so proud of you." I have never felt so supported in being completely and utterly slow.
And yet, I think that as much as I fit into this slow lackadaisical world, I still have enough drive in me to question why I am not seeing any results. I still feel frustrated when I don't see the dream thriving. But I think honestly that is the beauty of Peace Corps in Morocco. Everything takes longer. It's ok that it takes longer. It's just about finding that perfect balance and taking the end dream of the people in our communities to work it down into bite size goals. I think that Morocco and I might end up learning that lesson together. 


Spoiler alert! 
First Dream to Accomplish? Making El Jadida more environmentally sustainable! 
Method ? Roof gardens using compost from the exorbitant amount of waste in my site. Stay tuned for all my garbage diving activities! 

The Hardest Job you will ever Love.

Early this morning I was praying on the phone with Blake when I asked God to help me listen to the small inner voice inside me. It came up organically, unplanned, and completely, desperately true. The old adage that God answers those who ask has never seemed more applicable. 

I went on from that prayer to start my day. Today was my first day teaching English to the children at the SOS orphanage where I live. And as off as this may sound, the orphans here are more well off than most children in Morocco let alone the whole of Africa. Decked out in clothing that is not ripped and faded by the sun, and living in apartments that rival nice houses in the United States, these kids have a pretty amazing life laid out for them. The SOS orphanage is run by UNICEF and the children are brought up and educated at a first class level. Most of the children speak French fluently (that is also actually the language of preference even inside their homes) and Arabic and English, as I found out today. 

My students waltzed into class and I promptly proceeded to make a fool of myself as I slowly said "Hello. My name is Miss Bridget. I am 23 years old. I am from California which is in the United States of America." With dumbfounded faces, my students looked back at me and then one spoke up and said quite gracefully, "Ok. Cool. My name is Amen. So why are you here?" I was more than a little floored. Not to mention a tad scared because I was just beginning to realize that my whole lesson plan for today was shot. As I quickly learned, each one of these 10-12 year olds already spoke English quite well and as they also demonstrated to me, were completely and utterly uninterested in learning any more. They never once lifted their pens or opened their notebooks. Within an hour, the lesson that was originally intended to last 2 1/2 hours was over. 

I returned to my apartment and began working on my lesson for my English class at the Dar Chebab(D.C) later that evening. As I was planning, the thought crossed my mind that my students at my D.C are so much farther behind in their English skills and yet they really seemed to want to be there. That thought was such a pre-cursor to the rest of the day.

After my meeting with Croissant Rouge (the Moroccan version of Red Cross), I went to my D.C just a little earlier than normal so that I could set up for today's lesson. But much to my surprise, I walked in to a theater full of kids and teenagers waiting eagerly for me. As I approached the board, they all stood up and kissed me on the cheek and tripped over each other in their eagerness to ask me "HOW ARE YOU??? ARE YOU FINE???" Once I had assured them that I was in fact, quite well we reviewed our ABC's and moved on to our lesson on clothing vocabulary. I had cut out pieces of paper in the shapes of pants, shirts, dresses, etc. and I taped them to the board and wrote their English names on the top. The students had to pronounce the names and then once they got them, I eventually erased the names and they had to remember what each one was. Then each person had to come up and describe what they were wearing. 

As I watched each child, each teenager walk/run eagerly up to the front of the theater, I looked out at the rest of the students and saw the majority of them hastily writing down everything that I had said or bursting out of their seats to shout the names of their class mates clothing. It warmed my heart to see how eager they were to learn. 

At the end of the lesson, I was packing up my things when I turned around and noticed that no one was leaving. "Are we done for today, teacher?" one of the older ones asked. "Yes" I replied, glancing down at my phones clock and taking note of their crumbling faces. "But remember we have ballet tomorrow!" I said. And just like that, their faces were lifted into smiles. Two girls took my hands and soon I was being led out of the D.C and down the road into their neighborhood. It's significant to mention here that this is also the same neighborhood where I was assaulted and mugged. This is the place that my students come from. The poorest of the poor districts in El Jadida. The majority of my students live in concrete houses, wear the same clothes every day, and had to be sponsored by the D.C because they couldn't afford their own notebooks and pens. 

As I walked through that neighborhood with a swarm of children around me, I felt my heart growing lighter. We arrived at my families house and they each began to kiss me goodbye. I was just about to turn to go upstairs when I felt a tug on my shirt. I looked down and saw an unfamiliar face. It was the new boy in class named Ameen. He had been rather silent all day but was certainly nice enough. And now his lower lip was trembling as he tried to put on a strong face for me. He said in Arabic, "Miss Bridget, where do I go now? I followed the other kids home because I thought you were tutoring them and I want to learn more. But my Dad is walking me home from the Dar Chebab and I'm lost now." My friend pointed vaguely up the street that we had come home from and Ameen wiped away his tears and bravely set off on his own. Which is precisely the moment that I noticed that he had a profound limp to his gait. I set off after him and asked what was wrong. He told me that he had broken his foot earlier in the week but his family didn't have enough money to pay for it to be fixed. 

Which means that this precious little boy, this wonderful God sent child, WALKED from his house to the D.C to learn English with me, participated in all of the activities, and then walked me home only in his eagerness to learn more with a broken foot. 

I have never in my life been so deeply moved by a child. Or by God's profound grace. Here, embodied in Ameen and in the faces of all my other students was my prayer answered. I have only ever been here to give and receive more light. These children, these teenagers on the brinks of starting their own independent lives - these are the people that I serve. These are the people that WANT me to be here; that value education and a better life and actively pursue both. How do you NOT respond to that?

Yes, at times serving in Morocco can be physically and mentally challenging. But days like these - people like these are what makes every day, every moment of this service worth it. 

Personal Truths

I have noticed over the past several months that I have created a habit of enduring a difficult experience and then never writing it down. Call it writers block if you will but I think I have come to understand it as a coping mechanism. A way of pushing down the hardship so as not to give it any extra credence; a way to convince myself that things aren't that bad.
Things are that bad. And this coping mechanism that manifests itself in the form of writers block has got to stop.
This afternoon, I was walking back from my Dar Chebab (house of youth) with a friend of mine (Tiffany) when I noticed a young man standing by the gates. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of me so I pulled my purse a little closer and walked a little faster. In return, he quickened his step and soon was tailing us from not too far behind. A pit formed in my stomach and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I told Tiffany I was uncomfortable and we crossed the street. He squared us and then eventually crossed over to our side to tail us again. We finally pulled over next to a crowd of women in front of the hospital and he eventually went away. My shoulders simultaneously dropped with what I intended to be a breath of relief but actually came out as a cry of frustration.
To you as the reader, perhaps this seems like an extreme reaction to being followed. But if you had lived in my city, my seemingly Garden-of-Eve-like city - if you had existed as a woman in my city, maybe then you would have understood the pit in my stomach. But if you need some justification, then know that the truth is that two weeks ago, I was assaulted in a nearby neighborhood. A week before that I was mugged. Last month I was told that I couldn't rent a house here because I am marrying an Filipino man. In that same week I also had a conversation with a Moroccan counterpart who was pretty cool until he admitted that he felt like "Hitler hadn't finished his job." During training, I had eggs and rocks thrown at me. My crazy Language and Cultural facilitator told me that if I didn't wear hijab it was permissible for me to be raped. 
 I don't feel safe walking around by myself, even in daylight because both the mugging and the assault were performed in the afternoon with many people around. I don't trust men anymore. If it were not for Blake back home, I feel like I would have lost all respect for the male gender. My vision of Islam has dwindled down to the mere hope that some of the Americans back home have got it right and the rest of the world just can't seem practice it correctly. And I myself have adopted the submissive practices of most Moroccan women that I have encountered. I move from one indoor space to the next. I wear hijab sometimes not as a spiritual reminder, but for fear that I will be attacked if I don't. I get that this isn't fun to read but that is the POINT.
Morocco is a pretty zween (awesome, beautiful) country at first glance. Compared to Ghana (where I last worked) it would seem that Morocco is much better off. At least there is readily available electricity here, let alone internet and TV in almost every house. At least there is a somewhat functioning government, thriving public schools, systems in place for the betterment of society. But to be perfectly honest, I would give up all of that to be safe. In Ghana, I was perfectly safe walking around in tank tops and skirts. In the Muslim cities, the brothers followed the deen and kept their eyes low. I never felt threatened. Furthermore, I knew that my work mattered. I knew I was making a difference in my students lives, in my patients lives, the peoples lives. I walked away from my experience with something learned; a renewed love for people.
And I feel like that is what is keeping me here. I came into the Peace Corps with a love for the people and I don't want to return to the U.S with that light having been even slightly diminished. Maybe this is just a rough time. Or maybe the lesson is that I can't always help in the way that I wanted - that some societies just have to figure it out on their own. But either way, I have to at least get back to a point where I feel safe. I think writing it down is the first step, almost like an admission.
So I admit these things to you, to do with them what you will. Regardless of where this goes, at least my personal truths are now out from my heart and down on paper.

Problems and Solutions

      Yesterday afternoon I stood on the beach of my new home town, El Jadida and looked out across the ocean with my sister Jalila. After standing in silence for several minutes, she suddenly spoke up and said, “Morocco is beautiful, but this country has many many problems.” I asked her to elaborate and she began speaking as though someone had just ripped the tape off of her mouth and she only had so long to say what she needed to say. She began listing the problems:

1.)There is no opportunity for skilled work in Morocco. You can only get a job if you know someone in a higher position.

2.) A diploma from a Moroccan university means nothing (even to Moroccans).

3.) If a student doesn’t pass their Baccalaureate exam (taken at 15), they can never go to university which means that they have even less of an opportunity to work.

4.)The cost of living here is about two times higher than the average income.

5.) There are too many mouths to feed in a single house so eventually someone from the family must leave to work overseas (usually as a taxi driver, or in a factory) to send money home.

6.)That person may never come home.

7.) Corruption is everywhere and part of everything.

8.) Because there are too many mouths to feed, parents are eager to marry their daughters off. Therefore, people do not get married for love but for monetary gain.

9.) Due to that lack of love, a woman must always fear her husband’s fidelity in the marriage.

10.) There is a lack of health care for the elderly and those with chronic illnesses (like Diabetes, which over 60% of the Moroccan population is afflicted with).

11.) Because of all these problems, Moroccans have developed a blasé attitude towards life; never dreaming of a better existence in Morocco or seeing themselves as part of the change.

      As Jalilia was speaking, I noticed that she was listing all of these as separate issues and I could see how overwhelmed she was by them all. However I on the other hand, felt a bit like a spider who has been removed from her web. When you are living the problems and are faced with them every day, it’s hard to see where one issue begins and ends. But when you are a third party, you can see exactly how all of these issues are inextricably intertwined. It’s like this: Let’s say that you are a young man in Morocco. In your house you have about 10 other people who are somehow related to you. Two of those people are older and ill. If you are lucky enough to have a Dad who is still living, he is working the majority of the time; you rarely see him. If your mom doesn’t work as a seamstress or a cook somewhere else, she is taking care of the 9 other people in the house. Your older siblings end up being the parental figures in your life. They tell you to go to school; it won’t be long before you have to pass the Baccalaureate. Your education revolves around passing the test and any subject that is not part of the exam is stressed as unnecessary. You don’t develop any skills outside of school and meanwhile you begin to resent the test. Finally, you take the test and if you pass, you make it into University (if your parents can help you pay for it). You graduate but there are no jobs for you. There is pressure to get married so you take a wife. Her dowry may sustain you for at least year. Maybe by that time you will find a job. But you don’t, and now she is pregnant. It’s time for you to leave and follow in your fathers footsteps. You go to France, Italy or Spain to work as a taxi driver and return home once every 6 months to see your family. Thus the cycle continues.

       So here is the beauty in being a Peace Corps volunteer: I hear these problems and see the connections and for the first time in my life, I feel like I can actually do something about it. Yes, there are too many issues for one person to tackle all at once. But I can at least make a dent in the cycle. And I have proof of this! I met a young gentleman yesterday who speaks English fluently because of a former Peace Corps volunteer in his site and now he is currently applying to work for the American Embassy in Morocco. The volunteer not only encouraged him to learn English but also helped him dream of something better for himself and now he is making it on his own. At the end of the day, that is what our work is all about; Being the catalyst for change and helping others to realize their own potential. Moroccans are the only ones who can change all of the problems Jalila listed, but if more Moroccan youth can feel empowered about their future, I have every faith that that change will come peacefully and gracefully. Let the work begin! 

Cultural Relativism

      Yesterday afternoon found me spread eagle in pajamas, sweating as though I had just run a marathon and begging my lovely Moroccan mothers and sisters to stop douching me in rose water (a cultural cure-all remedy; Also true for yogurt.) It was 4 in the afternoon and around 105 degrees inside my room. I inhaled the smell of these women’s sweat as they leaned over my face, blessing me with Quranic verses, pleading that I just have ONE BITE of chicken. Much to their chagrin, I told them that the Peace Corps doctor had ordered me to stick to a strict diet of water and bread. The women, content that I was now soaked in rose water and had a Quran on my head, made their way back to the kitchen. I watched them go and made sure they were outside the line of vision before I took of my pajamas, and stifled cries of frustration. It was so hot. And no matter where I went, I knew the heat was not going to let up. Three nights ago, I had collapsed from heat exhaustion and had been on bed rest in between trips to the bathroom for two days. I had tried everything to keep cool; drinking ridiculous amounts of water, sleeping on the roof, keeping a wet washcloth on my neck for the 5 minutes that it lasted but none of the solutions worked. The only time I felt semi-comfortable was when I was in my tank top and shorts… which is to say, when I was alone and indoors.

     While on bed rest, I had been watching the women of my house scurry around from dawn till’ dusk, cleaning, cooking, and sweating constantly under their full cover. Every time I passed the kitchen, I felt like I was moving through an oven; it was easily 115 inside that small room. On the second night, I asked if the women would want to go on a short walk with me to get out of the hot house and they responded that “it was too dangerous” for women to walk around at night. But I could certainly go sit on the stoop! I politely declined and walked with another volunteer for a couple blocks. But it wasn’t too far into our walk before we noticed that we were the only women out. And then we felt the rocks at our heels; a signal that we have dealt with before to tell us that, as females, we are not welcome in this place. It was situations like these that had moved me to tears yesterday afternoon. As much as I have been trying to embrace this part of Moroccan culture, I can’t kick the feeling that even the weather here is set to remind women of their place in society; at the bottom.

      There is a theory in Communication Studies called Cultural Relativism. The theory stipulates that the idea of what is right and wrong is completely dependent on social and cultural context. One societies set of morals could be completely different but due to the fact that we have no universal standard of morality, no one can pass judgement on another cultures moral standards. For smaller differences (such as the Turkish toilet), this theory is extremely applicable and useful. It helps me to understand and appreciate Moroccan culture even though it is a totally different way of life than that which I lived in America. But when it comes to the larger issues, the same cannot be said. Since when have I considered myself a second class citizen? Since when have I been scared to walk down the street by myself? Since when have I felt that I must cover my body, not out of piety but out of fear and to the point that I collapse from heat exhaustion? There are some things that are not acceptable regardless of culture and the oppression of women is one of them.

     The Ministry of Youth and Sports in Morocco has recognized the extreme disparity between men and women here and as such has asked that all Peace Corps volunteers devote some of their time to women’s development. Thankfully, we are not starting from the ground up. There are already women’s centers (netti nessewies) in action that are helping women learn to write, read and hone their skills to eventually become small business owners. I plan on helping out in these centers in whatever way I can; most likely by teaching English and sexual health.  But I can’t help but feel that I need a male voice in all of this work. I thank God every night that I am engaged to a man who reminds me daily that I am strong enough to handle this; that I am his equal. But I can’t say the same for the Moroccan women. Perhaps they are told that they are equal but they are still separated. In their work, in their hobbies, and in the possibilities that they dream of for themselves, they are constantly separated and told that respect takes form in hiding them from the evils of men. They still continue to move from one indoor space to another while men roam free wherever they please, whenever they please. And it’s going to take a Moroccan man to stand up and say that this isn’t just “part of the culture”; this is wrong.

     In the mean time though, being a positive example of a different way of life has never proven to be a bad thing.  So that is how I intend to effect change here. I will continue to bake Harja in the evenings with my sisters, but I will also go on walks outside. I will learn to sew but I will also get up and go to work every day. And perhaps most importantly, for every time that a man shames me in public, trust that I will not ignore it. If even just one girl sees that I stand up for myself and it causes her to dream bigger, push farther, act more, then all of this will have been worth it.

                 

Kindergarten in Morocco

     When I was a little girl and first starting kindergarten in the U.S, I used to make my mother wait with me on the playground until the bell rang for class to start. I would make her hold my hand until the very last minute. And when the bell finally did ring, I would bust out my security blanket. I didn’t want to talk to the other kids, I didn’t want to play any dumb games with the teacher lady. I just wanted to go back home with my mom and “play the room” (my English was AWESOME). I felt uncomfortable in this new environment and I would much rather have stuck with what I knew. It wasn’t until I met my first friend that I began to feel comfortable and gradually let go of my mom’s hand. Thus far, my experience in Morocco has been a repeat of the kindergarten experience. At least until last Sunday.

      But before I get started on the story, allow me to set the scene for you a bit. Right now I want you to think about your life in America (or wherever else you are). Think about all the daily activities you do and how easily they come to you. Getting up, making breakfast for yourself, driving/ walking/biking yourself to work when you want to, bathing when you want to, etc. All of these activities are habitual and don’t require much thought.  Now, imagine yourself in a new foreign land where no one speaks your language. And on top of this, your new host family has very different customs from your own. Suddenly you have absolutely no privacy, you are expected to eat new types of food and at different times of the day than you normally would. Your sleep schedule is messed up. Wherever you go, a crowd of people follow you; even to the bathroom. They want to bathe you. They want to touch you. They also assume that you cannot perform simple tasks such as doing your own laundry or peeling an orange. And for the first few days, this is bearable, even cute. But after a week or so you begin to feel like a small child. And this is only exacerbated by the fact that you can only say a grand total of five phrases in your new language. You have absolutely no way of expressing yourself to your new family. You rely completely on non-verbal communication. You have, in every sense of the word, become your new society’s baby.

      Welcome to Peace Corps. This has been my experience over the past 7 weeks that I have been gone. Up until now I have been forming strong bonds with the other Americans that are serving here because they are the only ones who understand me, both verbally and culturally. My host family and the majority of the Moroccans in my town still look at me as though I am some kind of interesting zoo animal. And getting used to my host families strange new customs (like eating dinner at 11:30 at night, bathing once a week, not using toilet paper, etc.) had left me somewhat afraid of letting go of my mother’s hand, if you will. So as you can imagine, I had begun to think that it was going to be very difficult to find a friend here. Surprise!

       Issra and I first met in my English class last week. I was teaching the advanced students upstairs in the Dar Chebab, when she walked in and she modestly took a seat in the back of the room. But I noticed her throughout the entire class because while the other kids goofed off (which I don’t blame them for), Issra sat and diligently took notes on everything that I was teaching. At the end of class, she came over and kissed me twice on each cheek. I noticed that she had henna on her hands and I complimented her on the work. She came back the next day and at the end of class approached me again. This time, she took my hands and asked very sweetly if I would please come to her house to get henna on Sunday.

      My immediate reaction to this was a mixture of pure joy and astonishment; someone wanted to be my friend? A Moroccan person who was unaffiliated with Peace Corps wanted to invite me into their home to get henna? I could not have been more thrilled. As you can imagine, I gladly accepted her invitation and merrily went on my way. But as the weekend progressed, I began to become worried over how this was going to go down. What was I going to do once I was there?  My language skills are still not at the point where I can have any kind of meaningful conversation with anyone who doesn’t speak English. Was I really planning on just going over there and repeating “Mizyen” (good) and “Alhamdulilah” (thanks be to God) over and over for 4 hours? What was I thinking when I accepted this invitation?? But I wasn’t about to bail on this lovely girl who had invited me. So I put on my fancy sweat pants and made my way to the Dar Chebab. Issra was already waiting for me by the time I got there and she hugged me warmly in greeting. And sure enough as we began to walk, she began to speak in rapid Darija. I grasped at words and phrases as much as I could but half way to her house I had to stop her in the field and apologize. “Smehali Issra, ma3kantkellmsh Darija mizyen wlla bzef wallaqueen, InshaAllah gadi menbad” (Sorry Issra, I can’t speak Darija well or a lot but God willing, I will in the future). I felt awful for already giving up but right after I confessed my ignorance she tucked my hand under her arm and said in English “No problem. You speak English, I speak Arabic. We teach each other. I have no friends. I am glad you come to my house.” I was shocked to hear this response. Not only because it was in English, but also because of the latter half. “You have no friends?” I clarified. “No, all my friends have moved.” She said sadly. “Issra, you and I can be friends.” I told her. She looked like someone had just told her that her birthday was now an international holiday. And from that moment on, it almost felt like the language barrier was just a small road block.

     We arrived at house and she showed me pictures from an old photo album and other pictures that she has taken. As it turns out, she wants to be a photographer “when she grows up” (she is 18). Her older sister Asmaa came home and showed me her work as well. Asmaa currently works in a clothing factory but she aspires to be a fashion designer. She sews dresses at night and Issra takes pictures of the work and then they go to craft fairs whenever they can afford to go. I was moved by their dedication and optimism. Over the next couple of hours we ate, sang, danced and talked. After a little while, a woman named Fatamzara came over to give me henna. They sang blessings over my hands and began asking me all about my engagement. They explained to me what the significance of henna is in a womans engagement in Morocco and told me that it is custom to inscribe the name of the fiancée on the brides palm. And as we discussed this beautiful tradition, a process that brings a future husband and wife closer together, my phone buzzed. Low and behold, it was my future husband. Coincidence? I think not.

      I left Issras house right as the sun was setting and we walked together through the olive groves to the Dar Chebab. It was during that walk that it suddenly occurred to me that I had spent the better half of my afternoon with this girl and that we had shared a real conversation. Once I felt comfortable with her, the words just poured from me as though I had known them all of my life.

      So maybe this experience really is like kindergarten: We start out scared clutching out mother land hands, we let others take care of us first, we trust in the unseen and unknown that our conditions and faculties will improve, and we wait for that first friend to come over.

I think I’m going to keep my security blanket on me a little longer though… J

P.A.C.A

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself sitting with my extended host family eating out of a humongous tagine of cous cous, when my aunt asked me how I felt about going back to America soon. I explained in broken Darija that I will not be returning to the U.S for a very long time and that in about 2 weeks, I will be placed in a different site in Morocco to work for Peace Corps. My family looked at me in confusion for some time and then my other aunt broke the silence by spitting cous cous across the table in her haste to yell, “But you are ALONE??? What will you DO??? ELASH [why]???” It occurred to me in that moment that my host family and the rest of my community for that matter, did not understand what kind of work Peace Corps volunteers do or why we want to be here. In time, I will (isA) be able to answer both of those questions in Darija. But for now, I think it’s equally important for everyone at home to understand how exactly we are spreading peace.

When I was invited to serve for P.C  Morocco back in November, I envisioned working on projects with my community to better their environment and their health. I had the end goal in mind and could clearly see the product of all of our hard work. And then, several months later, I landed in Morocco and quickly realized that it was not going to be as simple as that. There was “SO MUCH WORK to be done”, I thought. I felt overwhelmed by the challenge and intimidated by the language barrier. How on earth was I supposed to get anything done if I couldn’t SPEAK?? And furthermore, how was I supposed to find out what these people wanted from me even after I nailed the language?

Cue, P.A.C.A (Participatory and Community Assessment); the ultimate community organization tool. Tried and tested by over 4,000 volunteers, this method has proven to be the most successful way to get projects off the ground and effect a sustainable change.

“So what the heck is it, Bridget?” you may be excitedly asking (I nerd out when it comes to this kind of thing).

Well. Let me give you a break down, my eager-to-change-the-world-friend!

P.A.C.A is all about garnering rich and meaningful data from your community about what assets they already possess and then working to expand and strengthen those. Working under the heading of Strengths Based Training, volunteers move through a series of steps to improve what is working and potentially do away with what is not working. The steps of this process are as follows:

Step 1: Community Mapping – This is one of the most effective ways to tell a community’s story. It is a geographical reference that speaks to the division of labor, resource centers, and places of importance to the community. The volunteer invites a group of people of different genders, socio-economic backgrounds, and ages and describes the project to them. The group then creates a map of all the places that are important to them (houses of worship, schools, hospitals, government buildings, women’s centers, hang out spots, sports clubs, etc.). Then the group presents and explains their map, their neighborhoods, to the volunteer. A discussion should follow this about why these places are important to them and what they like and dislike about the current resources that are available to them.

Step 2: Daily Schedules – Understanding the normal routines that a person in your community performs is crucial to understanding the culture at large. It also provides insight to gender roles, and the construction of family which may determine when it is possible to host workshops or carry out larger projects. The process of collecting the Daily Schedules is the same as in Community Mapping with one slight difference. The volunteer invites a group of people of different backgrounds and separates them according to gender. The volunteer then asks them to write down a typical schedule for themselves. After this is done, the volunteer asks them to do the same activity but for the opposite gender. Once finished, both groups come together and share their results. A discussion will follow about what they took away from the exercise.

Step 3: Seasonal Calendar – Much akin to the Daily Schedules, discovering the seasons and holidays that your community observes is important because it helps the volunteer know what times of the year would be best for what projects. For instance, if you want to host weekly workshops for women on resume building, the summer would not be a good time because A.) It’s too hot outside and everyone stays indoors all day and B.) The kids are home from school and it is the women’s responsibility to take care of the children. Women would not be able to attend the workshop in the summer so perhaps hosting another activity would be a better idea. When collecting this data, the volunteer will invite a group of people to fill in a 12 month calendar with personally significant events. This should not only be limited to holidays but also to times of economic stress (like when the rain season begins) and when/if migration occurs because of weather. People will come together afterwards and share their results.

Step 4: Formal Interviews – While there is certainly much to be said for informal interviews, holding formal interviews allows the volunteer to meet with community members who are interested in helping with a project and ask them deeper questions that they may be too intimidated to say in a large group. This is also the time to ask the community members what changes they would like to see in their neighborhood.

Step 5: Community Poster – Using all of the information gleaned from the four previous steps, the volunteer will meet with community members to present the findings and discuss the problem and potential solutions. At this point, the volunteer can ask for ideas as to how to strengthen what assets already exist and come up with a list of potential to-do’s in the community. One of these to-dos can lead to a larger project.

So there you have it, my friend! This is, in a nutshell, what Peace Corps volunteers do. We listen to the communities that we serve and we attempt to be the catalyst for change. By living in the culture, speaking the language and creating relationships with the people whom we serve, we become ingrained in the society. And as such, the peoples struggles become the volunteers struggles and the two work together to create a lasting change in the society.

So to answer my troubled aunts’ question, I’m not yet sure what my community will ask of me. But I have every intention to use P.A.C.A to find out. If I can just affect one person’s life by gathering this data, the labor will have been well worth it.

And just think… You can use P.A.C.A too! 

Peace Corps Moments

You know you are having a Peace Corps moment when…

•  You are doubled over laughing at your inability to communicate/ function in your new home.
• You realize that you have become the child and that society must first take care of you before you can take care of them.
• You are re-learning everything; even how to perform simple tasks.
• You create bonds with complete strangers in a matter of minutes. 
• You realize that personal space/ property does not exist in your new home.
• You learn to love the lack of privacy.
• You break down behind closed doors because of all the racist and sexist comments that you hear and the disparities that you see.
• You embrace your new role as the community zoo animal (Come watch the American eat!!!! It’s hilarious!)
• You find yourself getting emotional over everything - even the fact that they killed the chicken on your roof (How could you kill sahabti djaja [my chicken friend]???!!!!).
• You wish that you had the language skills to express your gratitude/concern/frustration/joy/ desires to the community members.
• You realize that actions speak louder than words.
• Random children run up to you to kiss you in the streets.
• You don’t ask about what you are eating.
• You poo yourself.
• You find yourself dreaming in a new language.
• You think that shoving 7 people into a Prius size car is completely normal.
• You pray throughout the entire duration of a wild taxi ride while asking the driver to please pick a lane.
• You appreciate America more than ever.
• You realize how far America has to go.
• You become incredibly aware of your skin color, gender, and socio-economic status.
• You find yourself explaining that contrary to popular opinion, not all Americans enjoy eating McDonalds, drive fast cars, have an endless supply of money, are white, Christian, or support George W.
• You see the differences, but you also see the similarities.
• Every phone call, email, text from home makes your day.
• You learn to laugh more often than cry.
• You realize that the revolution is about and enacted through… love 

One of the main goals of Peace Corps is to create a better understanding on the part of the people served for Americans. So in an attempt to fulfill this goal, I will be keeping this blog for the next 26 months to document the highs and lows of my time here as a volunteer in Morocco. It is my hope and dream that by writing down these meaningful moments, these glimpses into my life here, that Americans and people all over the world can come on this journey with me and perhaps come to a better understanding of what it is to be Moroccan. So read along! Experience the hilarity, frustration, and joy with me and think about what you can do in your own community to make the world a better place.

Let’s get started!

-B