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