Bislaama al maghrib!

This past semester has just flown by, and I’m now writing my last blog entry from home in Belgium. Study abroad in Morocco was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my college life, and now that it’s over I can’t help but connect with a certain passage in Mark Twain’s The Innocents Abroad (slightly amended):
"We are at home again. We are exhausted. The sun has roasted us, almost.
We have full comfort in one reflection, however. Our experiences in [Morocco] have taught us that in time this fatigue will be forgotten; the heat will be forgotten…and then, all that will be left will be pleasant memories of [Morocco], memories which someday will become all beautiful when the last annoyance that incumbers them shall have faded out of our minds never again to return." (438)
Yes, there were times that I just didn’t want to be in Morocco…standing in a crowded train on the way back from Asilah, with my nose in some Moroccan man’s armpit, not allowed to strip down to my tank top because of those silly cultural expectations; walking down the street in conservative clothing, and still being verbally harassed by any man between the ages of 13 and 83…but just like Twain reminds me, I will soon forget those experiences or my mind will transform them into funny party stories, and Morocco will become what I can ironically call, my Mecca.
I have been attempting to give you all an idea of what these past few months have entailed for me, but I know that it’s rather futile to try and make you understand every part of my experience. There’s only so much I can show with pictures and blog entries, and it’s the small things that I can’t convey…like walking through the crowded medina, giving a beggar loose change, and sharing a meal with my adopted Moroccan family. The other students who were on the trip with me have added so much to the experience (it was Matt that pointed out page 438 of Twain) and it just wouldn’t have been the same without some amazing travel partners. I know they "get it" when talking about Morocco experiences, and we couldn't help but feel like we were leaving a place we could call home, as soon as the plane took off from Rabat-Sale airport. I’ve done a fair amount of traveling in the past 21 years, but there’s just something different about Morocco. Maybe it’s the fact that I was able to connect with the country and the people throughout a longer period of time, or maybe I’m just becoming more perceptive; whatever it is, I’m thankful for the opportunity that I had to step outside (way outside) my comfort zone and experience something that was so uniquely different.
Now that I’ve returned home, I marvel at the sensation of warm water coming from the sink faucet, I feel the need to wear a scarf everywhere I go, and my “salaam aleikum’s” are met with awkward stares (especially from the military guards on base). It will take some getting used to life in Belgium and the U.S., and returning to Chapman will certainly be a shock, but I plan on returning to Morocco hopefully after I graduate, with a research award (insh’allah) so I'm trying not to miss it too much.
As for now…I’m working on some potential post-grad stuff, spending time with my family (yoga with my mom, swimming with my dad), waiting impatiently for Rob and Tara to come visit, and hanging out with friends as they filter through on their way back home from study abroad adventures. And I'll most likely take a few trips into the Moroccan quarter in Brussels.
Thanks for reading my blogs, or at least pretending to, and I hope you all have an amazing summer!

Moroccan Blackout

Every once in awhile I’ll forget that I’m in Morocco but then something will happen and I’ll snap back to reality. Last evening was one of those times. Lea and I were sitting in an internet café checking our email when all of a sudden the power went out. Instead of everyone freaking out and frantically trying to figure out what happened, people just kind of sat there for a bit. The guy next to me muttered “al-maghrib…” (Morocco…) and the owner of the internet café started playing music on his cell phone. I looked outside to see whether we were the only ones without power or not, but as it turns out, all of Al Hoceima was without power. Besides the dark skyline, you wouldn’t have known there was anything amiss. In the US, you would most likely hear something similar to this:
“Do you have power? I’m out of power. Our electricity is GONE.”
“Yeah, I don’t have power either! What do you think we should do?”
“I say we call the power company. Yeah! Let’s call the power company, right now.”
“I’ll call them too. Do you know if the other side of town has power? I wonder if they have power. I think I’ll call Joe to see if he has power. I bet he has power.”
…And so on. There sure is something to be said about that American tendency to want to discover the root of the problem. My response was typical.
We walked back to our hotel and stared down from our balcony at the rest of Al Hoceima going about their business as usual. The taxis were running. The men were headed to the hammam. People were selling hash. Life was normal.
Finally after about an hour and a half of no electricity, the lights came back on. There was no unanimous cheer or clapping to be heard, like I had been expecting. I saw an old man look up in mild interest, say “humph”, and shrug his shoulders when he saw a few street lights turn on. At the barber shop across the street, the barber went back to shaving the man who was still sitting in the chair waiting patiently.
Newsflash: you’re in Morocco, Jeannie.

Chaouen to Al Hoceima

The Rough Guide to Morocco states that “there are very few journeys in Morocco as spectacular as that from Chefchaouen to Al Hoceima. The road precisely—and perversely—follows the backbone of the Western Rif, the highest peaks in the north of the country.” If there was ever any need to refer to a road as being “perverse,” then this was most definitely the correct time to do so. My research led me to Al Hoceima because of a mass grave that was discovered in 2007, and this is the only reason I boarded the bus at 0615 and braved 6 hours of twisting and turning roads past the marijuana plantations and snow-topped peaks. I was popping motion sickness medicine like it was candy and even offered some to several of my fellow bus-haters, but they politely refused, as their heads were already in plastic bags. Sure the views were great, but I would have been fine with maybe an hour of this so called “spectacular” drive. There’s something unnerving about the phrase “insh’allah” (if God wills it), when you ask the driver if you’ll be arriving soon and he responds with “insh’allah”. Not really what I want to hear when I’m gripping my armrest so tight, my knuckles are white…
However, the best part was when all of a sudden we emerged from in between two peaks and the solid blue Mediterranean Sea was right in front of us. When Lea, John, and I arrived in town, we sought out a hotel where we could drop off our bags before grabbing lunch—I have another bone to pick with Rough Guide: That supposedly “reliable hot water” at our hotel and “clean rooms”? Yeah. Nowhere to be found. We grabbed some delicious kefta (ground spiced meat) sandwiches and walked down to the beach to eat them, where we ended up spending the rest of our afternoon, passed out in the sun from this morning’s drive. The beach is just a small 500 yard stretch of sand, but because it’s not peak tourist season it’s surprisingly empty (though there were a few more people today because it’s Morocco’s Labor Day). The ferry boarding dock is to our left, and there are some cliffs bordering the coast to the right (perfect for diving into the water!). It’s tempting to hop over to Spain for some sangria and tapas, but I’m not so sure the study abroad people would be too happy about that. Besides all our laziness over here, we’re all working pretty hard on our ISPs, and planning on returning to Chef on Tuesday to finish writing them. Wish us luck!
Note to the Moroccan transportation authority: painting a solid white line down the middle of a six-foot wide stretch of concrete does not constitute a two-lane road.

The beginning of ISP

Well ISP has officially started and I haven’t exactly hit the ground running yet. My parents and Nina showed up on Thursday evening, and I couldn’t have been happier to see them. It was getting to the point of the program where I needed a small taste of home and seeing my family definitely provided that for me. With impeccable timing, some of the Italian side of my family was passing through Casablanca on Friday, and they took the train up in the morning so we could all tour Rabat together. We had a great lunch, complete with couscous and tajine (it was couscous Friday after all…) that we finished up with some traditional Moroccan tea. My goal was to give Nonna and the Italians a small taste of Morocco for the short amount of time they were here, and I hope they were able to understand why I love this country so much! Taking them through the souk in the medina was my favorite part of the day because too often I’ve walked through there in a hurry to get to class or meet up with friends, without noticing the intricate details. The crowded streets, lined with stands of brightly colored fruits and vegetables, can seem overwhelming at first, but I’ve become a professional people dodger over the past few months. There’s always so much commotion…the old lady yelling at the fish man for trying to rip her off…the two young boys throwing down their bags to wrestle…the orange vendor attempting to have a philosophical discussion with me in darija…all of these quotidian activities seemed novel at first, but after time went on, I unfortunately became more immune to them. Having family come visit, made me realize just how incredible it is that I’m actually living and studying here in Northern Africa!
I’m meeting up with my parents tomorrow in Fes, where we’ll go on to Ifrane for a couple days. It’s supposedly a nice lake area with some good hiking, so I’m looking forward to some pretty fun adventures with the fam. Then it’s back to reality with more ISP interviews…

Senioritis as a junior

Sorry for the lack of communication lately…ISP (independent study project), which is basically a mini-thesis, is just around the corner and the stress is palpable. We’re kind of at a weird phase in our program; everyone has caught the contagious disease called “senioritis” (apparently it does exist after high school), we’re supposed to be finishing up the preliminary research for our ISPs and figuring out our travel plans, and we’re all kind of missing home a bit. I don’t presume to speak for everyone on the program, but that seems to be the general feeling among people I’ve talked to. My parents and younger sister are coming to visit next week (yay!!), so that will probably tide me over in the family department until the end of the program, but unfortunately the ISP and “senioritis” issues are things I’m just going to have to ride out.
My ISP will be focusing on the human rights violations that occurred during the reign of Hassan II (1961-1999)—more specifically, the implementation of communal reparation programs throughout the country. This is important for many reasons; one of the most important ones being that this is the first case of communal reparations in the Muslim world. I’m lucky to be here during such a ground-breaking time, and everyone keeps telling me that I should have no problem finding people willing to work with me. Let’s hope they’re right, because I’m still looking for an ISP advisor!
We move out of our houses next Sunday and then we’re on our own for three weeks to travel around the country at our leisure (ha.) while scrambling around to do field work and write a pretty important paper. We receive a daily stipend to cover our transportation, housing, and food; from what I’ve seen throughout a semester of traveling around Morocco, it won’t be hard to survive on the amount they give us. I don’t think I’ll be staying at any 5-star hotels, but you can get a decent hotel for ~$10/night, no problem. As for the food… I bought lunch for 3 dirham yesterday (about 35 cents), so I think I’ll be ok. Going back to the high cost of living in Southern California is going to be one heck of a shock, that’s for sure.
I’m not too upset about moving out in a week…my family’s been nice, but because they house students all the time, I feel like I’m in a boarding house more so often than not. It’s worked out well though because my friend’s family has adopted me and I’ve started eating couscous at their house on Fridays and hanging out with her younger sisters…I’ve got the family atmosphere when I want it, but then I can always retire to the calmness of my bedroom whenever I need to. Best of both worlds. Also, I’ve discovered the movie part of the souk…any movie you could possibly want, for less than a dollar. Granted, these aren’t the most legit movie copies, but when you need a small taste of America, it’s reassuring to know that it’s there. Watched Twilight this evening and I think I might cave and read the books now (Uncle Rich—I watched Reservoir Dogs!).
Think that’s all for now, but I’ll try to update with more frequency from now on. You can hold me to that.

Pictures from Village Stay

long overdue...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2087741&id=35805018&l=1902cfa035

Roughin' It

I’ve had a few days to reflect on my experiences from village stay and I hope that I will be to convey at least a third of what I experienced last week. Nothing that the other students in the program and I had been briefed on before we left could have prepared us for the new life we were encouraged to adopt once arriving in the village; that one week taught me so much about myself that I’m sure I would have never discovered otherwise. This adventure was one that took me way past the usual and launched me headfirst into foreign territory.
Saturday morning, we loaded our duffel bags into the bus and started along our route that took us south to Casablanca then directly east to the “city” of Bejaad. We drove along a small one-lane road until our bus could go no further; it was at this point that we loaded our bags into a van that looked like it had barely survived World War II, and we began walking the rest of the few miles to the village. Our attempts to absorb the beauty of the scenery surrounding us were futile…waves of plush green hills dotted with bursts of red, orange, yellow, blue, and purple flowers. I have never seen so many wildflowers in my life, and this was easily one of the most gorgeous places I have ever been. I quickly snapped out of this little reverie when we came in to sight of the village and the huge group of men (our “fathers”) gathered at the mosque waiting to greet us. I was introduced to my village dad, Mohammed, and we walked down the dirt road to what I would later be calling “home”.
Describing my house will be difficult as it was unlike anything I had ever stepped foot in before—seeing the pictures will give you a better idea, but I will do my best to find the right words to give you a general idea. All of the houses are arranged in “compounds” and scattered throughout the country-side, with families usually living in the same compound, in connecting compounds, or within a very short walking distance from one another. Relying on others is a way of life in rural Morocco and no matter how independent someone appears, there’s no such thing as “independent living” in a village. Keep in mind, when I say tea, I really mean sugar with a little bit of water to aid consumption and a few tea leaves sprinkled in for color. But I digress.
Back to the description of my house: it was built with mud and straw (pisé) and at one time, concrete was generously slathered on the ground to make the floor but that has now started to give way to the dirt; when you walked into the compound, the donkey and cow were on your right, behind them was the sheep pen, to your left was a storage hut, and in front of you was the living area, which entailed a “kitchen” (fire pit, ice box with no ice, and small metal table), a multipurpose room, and a salon/bedroom/nursery/dining room. While there was a roof over all of these rooms, it was a very open air place as you had to step outside to go from room to room. Animals were commonplace throughout the living areas, and many times I’d look up from my book or journal writing to find a chicken attacking bread crumbs by my foot or a kitten escaping the dog and curling up near my foot.
Besides my father Mohammed, the other people living in my house were: Fatna, my grandmother; Fatima, my mother; Abdulatif, my 9 year old brother; Sumiya, my 4 year old sister; Hessna, my 2 year old sister; and a 4 week old baby whose name I could never understand. The family dynamics were unlike any I’d ever experienced before, and this society was still operating under the former Family Code, which stated that upon marriage, the wife became the property (read: slave) of her in-laws. This might sound kind of funny until you’re face-to-face with a woman who isn’t allowed to eat at the table with her husband and children, who sits by herself on the dirt floor in the corner and eats the scraps of those at the table, who is ordered around by everyone, including her 9 year old son, and who is treated about the same as the family’s livestock.
The paternalistic society was very frustrating to me, and besides what I just mentioned, one of the more aggravating things was that Mohammed adamantly believes that his son’s education is more important than his daughters’. He loves his daughters, this much is evident, but he doesn’t see them as “valuable”, dare I say, as Abdulatif. When he asked about my family, he was concerned to hear that I only had two sisters and no brothers. He looked up to the sky and said a few things, which I understood to be “God bless your father, the poor man with no sons.”
While meals with my Moroccan rural family were obviously very different from meals with my family back home, certain moments reminded me just how similar we all are. After dinner, the family sat around and talked together (minus Fatima who was cleaning up), and while I’m not sure what they were talking about (a couple times I think I heard “crazy American girl”) the scene looked a lot like dinners at my house when we all just sit around and talk. The actual meals were quite varied during my stay; breakfast was always tea and flatbread (made fresh that morning), and lunch and dinner depended on what was available. The day I arrived, they had just killed a chicken, so that was used for three days for lunch and dinner…I even got chicken liver and heart as a snack one day. Yum. When there was no more chicken left, we ate bread and olive oil, and sometimes fresh butter. You can tell the family appreciated every little bit of food they had, and nothing was ever wasted.
As for the language barrier…it was immense. Not only did these families not speak French, but they also didn’t speak fus’ha (Modern Standard Arabic), and the darija they spoke was very accented and different from the darija I’m used to hearing in Rabat. Nonverbal communication was the way to go, but even that got confusing at times (their motion for “come here” looked like they were petting a dog). No matter what I did or said, they seemed to think that repeating complex sentences to me would magically grant me the ability to respond in flawless darija (they seemed disappointed that I was not fluent after day one…).
The first night I slept there, the grandmother woke up every hour, shined the flashlight in my eyes to see if I was sleeping, and would pile more blankets on me to show her concern to the fact that I was awake (which I most certainly was, after she temporarily blinded me with the flashlight). I woke up the next morning with ten blankets piled on me.
During the week, we were put to work by planting olive trees, helping to build their community center, participating in a talk with the village men, and learning to weave. The rest of the time was spent with our families, doing chores (I’m now a pro at shelling peas), playing with little kids, and catching up on reading (currently I’m reading Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad…you can bet you’ll be getting quotes). We even got a game of Frisbee going…though they wouldn’t let me play after I accidently threw it into the mosque.
This post is a lot longer than I thought it would be, so I think I’ll wrap this up before you stop reading. This was both a relaxing trip and a stressful trip…on one hand we had no obligations, no email, no cell phones, and no outside communication; however, on the other hand it was stressful because I was trying to communicate with my family, process the social situation, and absorb all that I could. Overall it was an amazing experience and it has definitely given me a lot to think about…