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.