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