I am a Muslim but I am not...

Mohamed is a teacher in Tazarine. He is well-educated, articulate and incredibly devoted to his students. Mohamed got married last Spring and his wife is five months pregnant. They live in a small apartment and I often sit with them for tea, for lavish vegetarian meals and to catch up on Turkish soap operas. They are a young couple in North Africa hoping for a bright future for their growing child. Mohamed is not an extremist.

Aicha is a housewife and mother. She attends my aerobics classes, loves her children dearly and is one of the funniest people I've met in Morocco. Despite the language barrier, she waits patiently as I stumble over my explanations and I can hear her sarcasm through the misunderstandings. Aicha has threatened to tie me up and not let me return to the U.S. - in the nicest way possible. Aicha never misses a single prayer, but has never hinted at my conversion to Islam. Aicha is not a fundamentalist. 

Boushra is a senior in high school, hoping to pass her exams and study English in Rabat next year. She listens to Green Day and the Killers, loves Adam Lambert and would fit in better as a punk child in the 1980's than as a veiled teenager in Tazarine. She writes, reads and lives in other worlds - hoping to study her way into a different path than her mother. Boushra's father has abandoned the family for another life in Europe, but her mother continues to support her four children in their education. Boushra is not a terrorist.

During a recent cultural session in Rabat young educated Moroccans were asked to complete this sentence, "I am a Muslim but I am not..." The responses were honest, heart-breaking and predictable. To the West, Muslims are viewed as a single entity of fundamentalists and radicals. Despite our own religious diversity, we fail to see that the same nuances exist in a major world religion. It appears that our open culture has its' limits: "Nearly half of Americans would be uncomfortable with a woman wearing a burqa, a mosque being built in their neighborhood or Muslim men praying at the airport. Forty-one percent would be uncomfortable if a teacher at the elementary school in their community were Muslim(1)." Land of the selectively free.

I've recently become addicted to the TV series "Homeland" which follows a CIA agent specializing in the Middle East and a recently returned POW turned national hero. The drama is exciting, but it is the show's portrayal of Islam that interests me the most. At times the religion is treated with respect, at other moments it feels like Islam is the primary villain in the series. A female veiled Muslim CIA agent was introduced in the third season - her opening shot was one of suspicion, judgement and hatred from the camera. After the 'second 9/11' the acting head of the CIA tells her "You wearing that thing on your head (hijab) is one big 'fuck you' to the people who would have been your co-workers." From the perspective of her co-workers, she is guilty until proven innocent.

For more, check out this article: http://www.salon.com/2013/11/05/homeland_has_a_muslim_problem/.

Perhaps unfairly, I expect more from religious Americans. Growing up in a conservative Christian area, I like to think that all the friendly families would be open-minded about Muslims moving into the neighborhood. Surely discrimination and bigotry are trumped by a good dose of Church, right? Sadly I've found that some of the most religious people I know are also the most narrow-minded about U.S. Muslims. Instead of seeing what we share in common, they are focused on what divides us. Interestingly, "Nearly two-thirds of US Muslims, 63 percent, say there is no inherent tension between being devout and living in a modern society. A nearly identical proportion of American Christians, 64 percent, feel that way(2)." US Muslims are some of the most progressive in the world, in fact, I would probably find some of their acceptable 'behaviors' to be shocking after living in Morocco.

The religious and cultural tensions between Muslims and non-Muslims, the Middle East and the West aren't disappearing quickly. Technology continues to make the world smaller, but that doesn't mean our hearts and minds follow. I have my list of grievances against Islam, but Moroccans struggle with their faith and country as well. The outside world stereotypes them as terrorists, fundamentalists, Islamists and fanatics instead of mothers, artists, revolutionaries, and dreamers. Over the last two years, I've asked Moroccans to see me as a person and not just as an American, an outsider. It's my hope that we extend the same courtesy.

1) http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2011/09/06/poll-many-americans-uncomfortable-with-muslims/

2) http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2013/0501/How-US-Muslims-are-different-Pew-poll-sheds-light-on-global-contrasts

Wonderful Christmastime

The Christmas music started somewhere in Mid-November, right around the first time it dipped below 70 degrees. Fall in the desert lasts for roughly two weeks, so I quickly turned over my wardrobe and anticipated a solid four months of Fall/Winter/Spring before the heat reemerges. Pulling on my Santa socks while listening to Elvis crone 'Blue Christmas,' homesickness crept in. 

Battling the elements during a Michigan winter

During the holidays, nothing compares to blasting Amy Grant while baking Christmas cookies and getting a little too drunk off egg nog with the family. I have images of my Grand Rapids home decked in cranberry red, forest green and glittering silver while snow twinkles down from the sky. Brushing my car off to run a few last minute errands and coming uncomfortably close to skidding into the ditch. Candlelight services and Christmas carols that never grow old, even while the congregations age. Putting on my snowflake headband and passing out the gifts underneath the tree because in my family I am the perpetual youngest sibling. Most importantly breathing in the love and togetherness of family and friends, despite the conflicts or immature fights which linger on.

Old-fashioned family fun

I didn't think seriously about returning home this holiday season; just five months before my service in Morocco is complete, I wanted to use the time to show my family where I've been spending all my time. Mom visited less than a month ago and both Chanda and Olivier will be visiting for Christmas and New Years, so my actual holiday loneliness is non-existent. Yet, my pining for home remains. In reality, my yearning for an old-fashioned, fun-filled Griswald family Christmas is nothing more than an beautiful illusion. With my home on the market, mom across the state, dad in Minnesota, sister in Europe, 'sister from another mother' touring South East Asia (all carting along their respective partners), Christmas would pale in comparison to my memories. I'm not missing this old-fashioned family Christmas, it simply doesn't exist this year. 

Christmas in Morocco 2012, no internal heating but lots of love!

Christmas in Zambia 2009, swimming and presents!

So what's a girl to do? First of all, avoid songs like "Winter Wonderland" and "Let it Snow" which seem ironic in the desert and focus instead on the Beach Boys holiday hits. Move "I'll be home for Christmas" off the playlist immediately - every version - it's waiting for you to break down and eat the entire pie in one sitting. Purchase your own Santa hat, hang up your single string of bells, stuff your homemade stocking with candy canes and watch Love Actually on repeat. Finally, get your hands dirty with the best homemade versions of pumpkin soup, ginger molasses cookies and chai tea that you can manage. Nothing says the holidays like baking up a storm, not to mention it heats the house for several hours! Smile and remember that the holidays are filled with nostalgia, melancholy and wonder no matter the continent, that family is never that far away and that next year you will have another chance to celebrate again. 

Hard not to miss these faces and headbands

A First Look: Site Development

Every Peace Corps site starts somewhere: an empty youth center, an enthused supervisor and a hesitant community. Years of conversations over tea, lunch invitations, and endless stares from the locals will hopefully produce a willing host family and a group of supporters ready to engage with the unknown: a random American who will live among them for two years. This American will accidentally eat with their left hand, confuse words and awkwardly struggle towards being a part of the community life. The American will also dance at weddings, hold newborn babies and do their best to enrich the lives of the youth. It's a sacrifice, not just on the part of the volunteer, but on the part of the community. They open themselves up to the outside world and all the strangeness and conflict that comes with advantages.

Yesterday, my site-mate and I became a part of this delicate and exciting process. Biking three hours to a town nestled between Tazarine and Zagora, we discovered a unspoiled village of 5,000 people. A paved road has opened in the area in the last five years, but even with this advancement, foreigners are rarely seen. Melanie and I peddled our bikes past dilapidated kasbahs, groups of women brilliantly dressed in shades of crimson all the while children called after us in broken French for pens or money. After asking various members of the community, we were led to the youth center. Devouring snickers and water, we waited patiently for the man with the keys.

Taghbalt has remained without a volunteer for several years. There have been previous visits to this town by Peace Corps staff and volunteers, however it's always been determined that the level of poverty is too high. Finding a suitable host family is a struggle and support for the work of the volunteer is lacking. After meeting with the 'supervisor' (the president of a local association who merely holds the keys to the to the youth center), we felt discouraged. Apparently the youth center is being used solely for women's literacy classes and the supervisor doubted that the volunteer would have space to work or even interested children. The fatigue of the morning bike ride and frustration with the supervisor started to set in. Let's have some tea.

Everything changed over our three cups of tea. Suddenly we had not just one member of our Tazarine community with us, but four! We were joined by our supervisor at the Tazarine Dar Chebab, an English teacher in a nearby community and an English teacher working in Tazarine but originally from Taghbalt. To improve matters, this English teacher brought three other teachers in the community for support. Talk about your game changer! Over the next three hours we heard conversations ranging from the creation of an association for the Dar Chebab, work possibilities for the new volunteer and even our Tazarine supervisor gushing about our good work. It was the kind of meeting Peace Corps volunteers dream of: our counterparts convincing other communities that the sacrifice is significant, that our work is worthwhile.

The day ended with not one, but two lunches. At a certain point, it no longer mattered that Melanie and I were present. Our counterparts had the energy and were passionate about working with the youth all over the region. One of the rarely stated goals of Peace Corps is to put ourselves out of business. To make our work sustainable in communities and pass on our skills to the local people instead of depending on a foreigner. Yesterday in Taghbalt, I saw the fruits of our labors. We are rapidly putting ourselves out of business in Tazarine, and I couldn't be happier. 

And I am a Material Girl.

Living in a Material World.

As I made my excuses for leaving early, I realized that I was only sprinting to the door because of my level of discomfort. During a lunch with one of my closest friends in town, she had asked to borrow my internet modem, usb stick, book, guitar, and bike. On top of this, a request for money to build a kitchen sink was requested from both myself and a previous volunteer. Remembering the letters, emails and in-person requests for various items she had sent to both my parents, other volunteers and even parents of other volunteers in recent weeks, I was deflated and frustrated. Do you like me or my resources?

And I am a Material Girl.

Nothing is new about this: I've been asked for my ipod, computer, clothes, hair, money, camera, shoes, water bottle, purse, refrigerator, and pen a million times. Sometimes by kids on the road, "give me a pen!" or "give me a dirham (moroccan currency);" sometimes by people attending my classes, "that ipod is nice, give it to me;" sometimes by friends, "I like your scarf, give it to me when you leave." A teenage girl in Marrakesh even asked for my ice cream cone - that was offensive on a whole new level. I seriously needed that ice cream cone on that day, if only she knew! Despite my current status as a poorly dressed volunteer, something about me screams 'opportunity' to the people around me.

Living in a Material World.

An association of well-meaning French women came to Tazarine last Spring, passing out free pens and notebooks while they traveled. Without being overly critical of their motivations, it's incredibly easy to throw money at people. It's what the developed world has done for years in the form of aid, sponsored children and money in the communion basket. Try to get those same people to mentor a child, and well, "I don't have time for that."

And I am a Material Girl.

One of the ongoing challenges of any Peace Corps volunteer (or any Westerner living in the developing world) is to demonstrate that we are here to work and develop relationships, not as a walking piggy bank. When I first arrived, my supervisor informed me that my legacy would be to get a photocopy machine at the youth center. My rebellious nature immediately and internally countered with a "hell no." I was determined that my legacy would live inside the hearts and minds of the Tazarine people, not as a piece of technology. Is this stubborn and short-sighted? Quite possibly. Could the youth center use a photocopy machine? It sure could, but it would mostly be used by the supervisor as a sign of his great achievements. There are also ten computers in this center that the children weren't allowed to use until this year, so baby steps with technology.

Living in a Material World.

I've grown accustomed to the friendship styles in Tazarine; while it may frustrate me, I acknowledge that gifts and the free exchange of personal goods is part of the game. I bring posters of Adam Lambert from America and she helps me sort out issues with my landlord. My reaction to the kitchen sink request was unusual - it's practical since her mother has severe back issues from using a bucket on the ground for 45 years; yet her recent involvement of my family members has turned me sour. It's okay to bother me with these things, but don't spread the guilt.

And I am a Material Girl.

Maybe that is the rub. Ignoring the nagging guilt has become a habit for me but it becomes real again when family members inquire about it. I've learned to rationalize my wealth; I use my computers and ipods for work, I am accustomed to having a larger wardrobe for different seasons, I need two of everything in case one breaks. There are days when I give freely, and there are days when I am tired of being asked. I don't want my friendship to come with ropes attached. I don't want to be reminded of the massive difference between us.

Living in a Material World.

This is why we flood countries with goods instead of smiling faces and helping hands. Why we have a picture of the sponsored Ugandan girl on our fridge instead of meeting her. Why we give money to the church and stay away from the volunteer center. When we step outside our front door, we realize that we can't justify everything in our living room and bank account. The reality of the have and have-nots can be soul-crushing. Her mom has back pain and just wants a kitchen sink - my Christmas list is comparatively shameful.

And I am a Material Girl.

Buses, Trains and Taxi-mobiles : Vignettes from the Road

A life of transit. This period in Peace Corps can be defined strictly as the passing of time in a bus; staring out the window as you reflect on the previous day and prepare for what lies in front of you. Autumn has been a season lacking in cider, but surprisingly full of new cities, new beds, new cafes, new surroundings, and new passengers. The reaction of family and friends is the same, "you travel so much!" In reality I commute between workshops, medical appointments, trainings, events and festivals. Home becomes 'home base' and holds more of my clothes than my memories. Road cuisine is lacking: a blur of egg sandwiches, ramen noodles, peanut butter and cereal interspersed with take away pizza. Mundane as it may be, here are stories from this weekend's thirty hour rush from Rabat to Tazarine.

Story One: Man Love (Rabat to Marrakesh, 4 1/2 hours)

I rolled over to check my clock, 5:45 am, not quite the full night of sleep I envisioned after 14 hours of travel and a draining and emotional day in Rabat. The first train to Rabat departed, time to get a move. Packing my bag with the supermarket goods of the first world, a terabyte flashdrive I would lug to the desert and the minimal clothing I sported on my three day trip, I quietly left my room and headed to see the damage at the train station. Less than a week prior to l'3id lKbir or 'The big holiday,' this trip would be akin to unplanned travels a few days before Christmas: expensive and packed. After a quick breakfast of eggs, bread and coffee across from the train station, I hopped on the 7:45 am train and was lucky enough to snag a seat in a compartment just 30 minutes into the trip.

This compartment was the perfect combination of ages and sexes to ensure that cultural norms were observed. Jellaba-wearing middle-aged men sat next to women bedazzled in short sleeves and bright colors, I felt right at home. An hour before we arrived in Marrakesh, the compartment emptied. Hoping this meant leg room and no surprises, I relaxed into the window seat and shut my eyes. When I awoke fifteen minutes later, the compartment was occupied by half a soccer team, aka, seven Moroccan men in their early twenties sporting gelled hair and soccer jerseys. The odds were not in my favor. Tensing up for the ride, I readjusted and double-checked my choice of clothing; thank goodness I had chosen the baggy shirt and long pants...better not to be noticed. In the States, a single woman's presence may encourage good behavior and perhaps gentle jousting over who can win her affections; in Morocco, we are gazelles for the lions to play with.

Through the shadow of my sunglasses, I inconspicuously examined the two young men seated across from me. In typical Arab fashion, their proximity to each other was borderline suffocating. 'Mourad' was increasingly shoved into the window as 'Mohamed' threw his arm around him and mindlessly played with bits of the curtain rod. With their noses lightly grazing and Mourad gently caressing Mohamed's chest, their entanglement can only be described as post-coital. Physical affection between men is normal in the Arab world, but as the scene unfolded my level of claustrophobia increased. Are we there yet?

Unbeknownst to me, another man had entered the scene and immediately demanded my attention. Waving his arms about, he mimed that I must take off my sunglasses and headphones. Foolishly hoping that he had important information to convey, I reluctantly relinquished my privacy. 

Man: "Hello, do you speak English?"

Kyla: "Yes"

M: "Do you speak French?"

K: "Yes"

M: "Where are you from?" (still in English)

K: "The States, where are you from?" (in Darija)

M: Question ignored, "Americans are friendly"

K: "Oh good."

M: "Do you live in Fes or Rabat?"

K: "Neither, I live near Ouarzazate"

M: "Oh, Ouarzazate, Tamazirt (Berber language)"

All the men in the compartment mumble 'Tamazirt' multiple times, proving knowledge of their first language.

M: "The train is late, we will arrive late to Marrakesh"

K: "Yes, thank you, I know" 

M: "You are most welcome to Morocco" Now you may return to your business since I have proven my English skills and interrupted you for no reason. Random man exits compartment.

I may sound harsh, but the extent to which personal space and privacy are ruthlessly invaded still surprises me. After the man's departure, my headphones immediately return. Without turning my music on, I listen to the inevitable conversation. The young men, unable to speak English and unsure of my linguistic abilities, throw around 'buzz words' which they know I understand. The game has begun. For the final stretch of the trip certain words are spoken more clearly than others; "Obama," "Syria," and "Ouarzazate" to name a few. Why? Because I am alone, because they are bored and because they can. An otherwise harmless group of young men remind me why I own an ipod. Thirty minutes to Marrakesh.

Story Two: Riding in Buses with Boys (Marrakesh to Ouarzazate, 5 hours)
Stumbling off the train a free woman, I went in search of food and a toilet (some things don't change). Devouring a snickers bar powered me through the expected frustration that both the CTM and Supratours bus companies tickets to Ouarzazate were sold out for the next five days. A helpful bus driver guided me to the 'local' bus station (aka souk or market) and gave me a friendly wave as I exited. Big smile. One omelette with bread and a few olives later, I walked over to terminal 22 where a bus would presumably be leaving the station at 2:30 pm. Terminal 22 held a number of surprises including a French man who politely introduced himself; in my 'Morocco' mindset it was initially difficult to smile, stand near to him, or stop wondering what our fellow passengers were thinking about but thirty minutes into the wait I rediscovered the Western woman in me and could interact like a human being again. Host mom always told me not to talk with strange boys in public.

Morocco is better served as a communal dish; the details which amuse me are made infinitely better when I can share it with someone else. The souk bus station is a dirty mash-up of men sleeping under buses, sheep hoarded into moving vehicles, guys in plastic sandals yelling the names of cities and honking buses vying for the next passenger. Quite a feast, but not for the faint of stomach. Around 3:15 pm the bus finally arrived; we fought to get our luggage underneath as the bus randomly reversed and accelerated at a moment's notice, nearly running over a few of the weary passengers. Moroccans shoved to get in the front door - par for the course during holiday travel. Spotting two seats, we rejoiced in our good luck until I discovered the massive bag of vomit which had exploded underneath the window seat, making its' leg room unusable, not to mention a little rank.

I must have pulled the short straw. With my knees glued to my chest, the bus started to drive towards the exit. As we slowly rolled towards the road, vendors and beggars meandered on and off the bus to sell their goods, ask for donations and recite the Qua'ran. The man with no arms and minimal teeth won the award for the saddest story, although the crying teenager put on a good show as well. As we say in Morocco, may God make it easy for them.

Cruising out of Marrakesh by 4 pm, my foreign friend dozed off while I searched around for a comfortable position, preparing for a five hour trip through the vomit-inducing route known as the Tishka pass. I've honestly never made it through this trip without a fellow passenger becoming ill. There is a common belief  in Morocco that drinking milk and eating yogurt will help with an upset stomach. Prior to travel you observe men chugging 1/2 liters and small children sipping their dannon, knowing full well the dairy fairy will make another appearance during the trip. Following the boy scouts' motto, 'always be prepared,' I carry an extra plastic bag, a scarf to cover my face and a change of clothes ready for the worst case scenario. A vomit-laden floor was a small price to pay for an otherwise uneventful ride over the Tishka.

Story 3: Malnourished Man Hips (Ouarzazate to Tazarine, 4 hours)
Another night of insomnia. Waking after six hours, I decided to take my breakfast and be on my way. Aching and exhausted I hailed a petit taxi and made polite conversation about the upcoming holiday with the driver. As we pulled into the 'grand taxi' station, I gave him a good ole fashioned God blessing and went on my way. The Grand Taxi stand in Ouarzazate has stolen the better part of my soul; there are days when I have spent over four hours waiting for the taxi to fill up. Like most transport spots in Morocco it is full of beggars, leering men, flies and direct sunlight. This time I get lucky, in under 45 minutes our taxi is full and we zoom off towards my final destination. While the upcoming holiday makes travel busy, it also means that buses and taxis have enough passengers. Shorter waiting times makes for a happy Kyla, even if a little shoving is involved.

Once inside the taxi, the six male passengers immediately inquire about my nationality and language. As the obedient and pleasant foreigner, I respond and make a few quick jokes. Their lighthearted questioning only last for a few minutes before they turn up the radio recitation of the Qua'ran and delve into discussions about the increasing prices of food and fuel. Grand Taxis are often the most expensive form of transport since they carry the smallest number of passengers. Unfortunately they can also be the least comfortable depending on your fellow travelers. If are you unlucky enough to have the 'bitch' seat in the front row, the driver will be ramming the stick into your butt every few minutes as he switches gears. Awkward for everyone involved. The backseat often makes my legs fall asleep or my knees throb depending on the leg room, especially when I have to sit forward in the vehicle to allow for the hips of the more robust passengers. A false sense of intimacy is produced after a 50 year-old's massive breasts are pressed up against you for the better part of a day. Are you my mother?

Counter-intuitively, I love a grand taxi full of young men. Those malnourished boy hips provide the perfect space in the backseat. No need to contend with big jellaba momma's child-bearing, 'I eat to feel joy' hips when teenage boys are in the mix. In addition, the passengers are typically attentive to the behavior of everyone in the vehicle. It's less likely that a man will try and get 'fresh' with me when there are so many witnesses.

Rolling through Agdz, the halfway point of my journey, I asked the driver to stop for a few minutes. "Do you need medicine?!" I politely explained that I had to drop off a package to a co-worker, which the driver interpreted as nonsense. Regardless of his comprehension of Darija (he was clearly speaking Tamazirt and unfortunately my grasp of this fourth language is fuzzy), the tiny old man stopped the vehicle and told me to hurry. During travel, Moroccans frequently run their errands as well as the errands of family, friends and random men on the street. It's not abnormal for a bus driver to stop on the side of the road to purchase apples or a few bags of flour. Taxi drivers typically have a few packages or letters to exchange as they speed in and out of towns. In the desert where transport is infrequent, Moroccans use every opportunity to get things where they need to go.

After an uneventful final leg of my journey, I stumbled into my apartment less than four days after leaving it. Nothing has changed during the brief passing of time, just a little extra dust on the floor. Quickly unpacking and stripping off my layers, I prepare a quick bowl of cereal and collapse into bed. Happy to be back to home base, aware that I will pack up and leave again in 48 hours. So goes this season of transit.

Anything Could Happen

After three months of summer happenings, I voyaged back to my desert home this weekend. Last year's return was wrought with cockroaches, heat and emotional upheavals and I feared the worst as I unlocked my front door. Instead of opening a world of trouble, I was greeted by little more than a sandbar to sweep up from summer storms and a few funky smells. Having been mentally prepared for the worst, I happily collapsed into the pleasant reality of my own bed, preserved care package cookies and forgotten DVDs from the 2012 London Olympics. Gabby winning the gymnastics all-around gold still brought me to tears - I love a good story (even when I know the ending). 

Not quite ready to fully reengage in site, but no longer in summer mentality, I've spent an inordinate amount of time purchasing music, looking into grad schools and reassessing the changes over the past few months. One of the reasons Peace Corps is simultaneously challenging and rewarding is that if taken seriously, you are constantly faced with your own self-doubt and weaknesses. This allows for massive personal growth in a short period of time; it also means that you appear completely insane to the outside observer, and sometimes even to yourself. I'll admit that I still talk to the flies while I kill them and sometimes dance around my house at 1 am - and I have no problem with that.

During the past few days I've been examining my Peace Corps experience, my career trajectory and my weaknesses through the lens of the Myers-Briggs' personality analysis. There was nothing in the results that was particularly ground-breaking but something about seeing my strengths and weaknesses in writing made them easier to accept. I know that I am relationship-focused, prefer the big picture to details, crave creativity  in all parts of my life and abhor routine, but I still find myself striving to grow in the areas where I am weak instead of embracing the strengths. Stubborn and determined, I live alone despite the knowledge that I will never flourish in this atmosphere. I attempt to run 1/2 marathons, even though doing the same workout multiple times per week makes me crazy rebellious. I conform to the confines of a conservative religious society, even though my soul feels trapped every time I walk out my front door.

In some ways, I admire the resolve to pull this 'responsible rabbit' from the hat - to pretend that I will become a suit-wearing, office-loving, detail-oriented person if only I try hard enough. But why the desire to be different than what I naturally am? Deep down, I wonder if I sometimes place more value on being an accountant or lawyer rather than the morals which define my life and the people that I serve. Why do I perceive successful standardized testing to be superior to bringing light and love to friends and family? Why do I feel like the strengths that I've been blessed with are less worthy than the strengths of a Type A personality? Market value? American values? Too much time spent studying the thoughts of old white men? 

If I completed my service tomorrow, it would be worthwhile because I have realized where I'm willing to make sacrifices and where I need to be true to myself. I'm not a 27 year old who wants to continue to live alone in the Arab world, drink tea and have a secretive private life (at least not for more than the next eight months). I may never finish the boring classic novels that someone else deemed as important literature. I will not make couscous in a proper way because I think it's overcooked and bland. I will never stop adding to my wall decorations or think there is enough color in a room. I am a young woman who wants to live out loud. I will make my adventures bigger and brighter than before, and I won't do it alone. Where will I be next September? Spain? Thailand? New York? Anything could happen, anyone could happen and the possibilities are endless. My strength is seeing the excitement in the unknown, bringing laughter to the adventure and sparkling along the way. I love a good story.

SOS (Someone Help Me)

When I looked ahead to the month of August, I envisioned a challenge. The previous August contained the bulk of Ramadan, my best friend's termination of service, my assault and eventual medivac. Not exactly memories of rainbows and teddy bears. Aware that I needed a 'safe' space in Morocco to spend the month, I signed up to work at the El Jadida SOS Children's Village. 

SOS Children's Villages is an international organization present in 132 countries which focuses on long-term, family-based care for children who can't stay with their biological families. In El Jadida, there are roughly 100 children placed in 12 homes complete with a mother, siblings, and more western amenities than a typical volunteer enjoys. Arriving with a plethora of emotional, mental and often physical setbacks, the children benefit from counseling and additional support throughout their life. 

In order to provide alternate programming during the summer, Peace Corps volunteers work at various villages throughout the country. It's a chance to gain additional experience, work in a well-funded facility (we have paper?!) and collaborate with other volunteers in a comfortable environment. The draw of a beautiful beach town and mild temperatures during the heat of the summer isn't terrible either...

Given the number of holidays and unofficial breaks present in the month of August, the work has been relatively light. We have benefited from several days at the beach, a few trips to the local dive 'Le Tit' and even attending the first ever El Jadida Grand Prix - race cars and adrenaline in Morocco! The city comes complete with its' share of harassment, but it's still a leap ahead of sweating it out in the desert sun. 

Our typical schedule includes several hours of activities or classes with children ages 3-14, with additional evening activities or films throughout the week. The program is manageable, however the needs of the children can be overwhelming at times. After two hours of morning classes we have been scratched, clung to, hit, kicked and broken up more than a handful of fights. It's exhausting to continually tell children how bad they are, to take away privileges and deal with the physicality of their conflicts. 

Volunteers are in a tough spot. Corporal punishment is used frequently at the village and it's not uncommon for us to see or hear the children being hit for their misbehavior. Since the kids are accustomed to physical punishment, they rarely react to our verbal reprimands. We stand in classes where groups of ten children overtake us, feeling powerless in a sea of tiny miscreants. 

Constantly attempting to entertain the kids into good behavior, we put together 'The Olympics' for a celebratory activity. After crafting countless games, a scoreboard and medals, we were sure to have a successful day, right? The morning passed without any serious incidents, but it was the afternoon that challenged our will to live. Picture chaos - utter chaos. Twenty kids running with sharp objects, overturning water buckets, babies wandering into the paths of racing teenagers and the worst cooperation imaginable. During the three-legged race, partners would shove each other onto the pavement while literally attached at the knee. Moroccan teamwork at its' finest. After four rounds of attempted activities, the Moroccan staff shamed the kids and sent them home. 

We returned to our apartment still holding the water balloons, unearned medals and prizes. Deflated and frustrated, we analyzed our plans to figure out what we could have done differently. Eventually concluding that we had planned well, come energized and given it our best, we sat together. Too often at the village, with children in our towns and in Morocco, this is the way the day ends. Two steps forward, one step backward. We sit together and hope that one kid felt loved, that a kind word was appreciated and that the single step forward makes a difference. 

As Free as My Hair

There are days in my desert town where I long to wear a short skirt, put on mascara and drink a beer in public. Now, unless I want to be perceived as a prostitute, that's never going to be my reality in Tazarine. Volunteers spend so much time thinking of the material items we miss that at times our simplistic lifestyle feels more like a prison than a choice. We list the food and technology that would make our lives better, daydreaming about things in the pursuit of happiness. If only it were so simple.

Vienna and Berlin provided all the Western-made satisfaction that a girl could ever hope for. Food, drink and freedom galore! We spent days shopping, going to the movies and relaxing with friends. With a new haircut, facial and Chanda's wardrobe, I felt prettier than I have in months. Better yet, I could start everyday with an intense bike ride and run through my favorite city park. All this to the beat of David Guetta while floating by in my tank top and shorts. This is the life I miss.

When you've been through an intense trauma or loss, the brain often shuts out large parts of the experience in order to protect itself. Faces, dates and details may be lost forever, or at least until you are safe enough to deal with the event. At times I feel like my brain longs for the material world as a safety measure. If the mirage of stuff is taken away then I am left with the realization that the loss has little to do with not being able to wear my favorite wedges. My craving for cookies n cream ice cream is a sign that I miss vegging with Christy, oatmeal stouts remind me of endless happy evenings with family at Founder's Brewing and that perfect dress is full of memories of the person who I intended to wear it for. No number of cocktails on the beach can make up for the distance, although it's always worth a shot.

Back in Morocco, life continues where I left it. The hair is up (although the bangs look great), the legs are covered and Ramadan keeps the weekends dry. Thankful for three consecutive weeks of family and friends, new and old, the material cravings haven't yet kicked in.

Leah and I brilliantly decided to ease the transition with some hiking and sight-seeing in Chefchaouen, an idyllic mountain backpacking town in the North. Sharing our experiences with fellow travelers has been the perfection reintroduction to Peace Corps life and a solid reminder of why we stay here, despite the sacrifices. Yesterday's adventure included a spectacular four hour hike and diving into stunning waterfalls - I wouldn't trade it for anything, right?

So the next time I complain about missing my jewelry or dramatically burst into tears at the distance between myself and some decent futo maki, keep in mind that I just miss you. Me, you and a world of possibilities. As international male model, Hansel, would say, "It's so simple."

Battling the chaos within.

Indecision and uncertainty have surrounded the last several weeks. While I adore the spontaneity of life, occasionally I long for plans that stick and days that are straightforward. Waking up in a new emotional state every day has its' drawbacks; not quite sure where my heart will be I have to adapt a level of patience for myself that I am unaccustomed to. I miss 'handling' 14 hour days and changes with grace, instead of the distinct possibility that I may be too tapped out to roll with today's punches. It's not in my personality to say no, choose solitude or rest; however, my body has given me no alternatives. I take care of others and dislike the humbling experience where the tables are turned. It's hard to admit failure, heartbreak and exhaustion when you are accustomed to the security and control of your own two feet. Cher put it best, "I felt impotent and out of control, which I really hate."

Today's lengthy bike ride in the Prater was the first since my post-Zambian sojourn three years ago. The circumstances feel familiar: chronic fatigue from time in the developing world, badly in need of pad thai and a figurative hole in my heart. The medicine? Consistent sleep, nutritious food, exercise, hugs and the passage of time. As a constant self-examiner I can't resist the temptation to think about how things have changed in the past three years. Are the circumstances so different? Have I learned from my mistakes? Am I going in the direction of my dreams? Have the sacrifices actually been worth it?

Growing up can be a dirty business. Choices are made, people are left behind and dangerous roads are crossed. I will be the first to admit that there are days when I long to be thirteen. When times get hard, I want to curl up on the couch with a soft blanket and have my mother tell me that things will be alright. A typical youngest child, I want someone else to take care of this grime since my hands are filthy enough.

Perhaps I should stop looking at the similarities between my mid-Morocco vacation and post-Zambian rehab summer. There still may be tears, an escapist desire and the uncomfortable feeling that I've been here before, but that doesn't mean they are equal, or that I am unchanged. With familiarity brings strength - I take my medicine even when it's hard to swallow, put one foot in front of the other and remind myself that through these challenges and sacrifices I've discovered my titanium will power. I've been changed for the better and tomorrow's cycle will be that much smoother.

Behold: The Mid-Service Smack-Down.

Mid-service crisis: A period of time between 12-14 months of service in which volunteers thoughtfully examine their challenges and successes from the previous year and the set goals for the final year of service. In other words: volunteers get fed up by frequent calls to the medical staff about ‘diarrhea that just won’t stop,’ abandon their sites and instead go party with friends in big cities where they can wear tank tops and sing loudly in English. After drinking too much, volunteers cry for several days about how much they miss free tortilla chips at Mexican restaurants and that they sometimes barely recognize the person they see in the mirror. No, that’s not the homeless woman down the street; that’s what happens when you don’t pluck your eyebrows for ten months. After several weeks of bitch sessions and eating peanut butter on everything, volunteers realize they actually enjoy Morocco and might be able to look past Ramadan to the good things that lie ahead in the next year. They wash their hair, spend all their money on a trip to the Morocco mall to buy Starbucks and give each other a caffeinated kick into the next stage in their service. But first, everyone to fake Spain!

My mid-service crisis was jump started with my first solo time in Rabat by myself since the assault. My clever subconscious prepared me with cathartic tears well before my arrival, but it wasn't till I woke up alone at the familiar hotel that everything came together. Fresh from the departure of my father and relaxing times in Agadir, it was an unpleasant reality to be truly alone for the first time in nearly a month. The next three weeks challenged my desire to stay in Morocco. My emotions were stable, but not in a positive way. Constant illness, surprising bouts of food poisoning and endless colds kept me once again from physical well-being. Despite the consistent presence of my best friends and the exciting opportunities afforded to us, I couldn't shake the darkness. Overwhelmed with vulnerability and insecurity, I shied away from those closest to me and lashed out irrationally instead of listening patiently to loving criticism. I feared that after everything that had occurred in Morocco, I had become fundamentally different. I didn't recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror and worried that I had lost myself completely.

Luckily irrational fear is just that: irrational. A perfect storm of circumstances and timing put me in that dark place, but that doesn't make it reality. Men can look at me like I am a prostitute, but that doesn't mean that I am. An old woman can tell me that I should convert to Islam and remind me that speaking Darija means nothing, that doesn't invalidate my religion or language skills. I may still need friends to hold my hand when we walk down the street where I was attacked, that doesn't mean I am not an independent and strong woman.

The Chinese character for ‘crisis’ has the double meaning of danger and opportunity. Instead of letting the darkness and danger control me, I am turning my nightmarish experience into a positive tool for healing and prevention. With the support of my friends, I decided to present a training session for the newest group of volunteers on ‘Trauma in the Peace Corps’ loosely entitled ‘When shit gets real.’ I spoke about my assault, causes and symptoms of serious trauma and coping strategies. For me, this presentation was just the beginning. I have been unimpressed with callous response volunteers receive from staff when they express mental health challenges. If you have a broken ankle, you will see the doctor the next day. If you can’t leave your site because you are terrified to travel after a trauma, the response is ‘why do you think you need a counselor’ and may be followed by several uncomfortable conversations and fear of medivac before you are able to speak to a trained professional.

My opportunity is clear and I am finally emotionally prepared to take on the challenge. I hope that through my actions, there will be a safe space for trauma victims and anyone struggling with mental health issues in Morocco. We are often told to be advocates for ourselves, but in some situations volunteers desperately need a helping hand and a kind word. I can live for another year without the free tortilla chips and regular showers ; mid-service crisis be damned, I've got work to do. 

In the Midst of It All

I've stopped counting how many months I've been in Morocco. Somewhere around the year mark, things got so busy that I honestly forgot this was a semi-permanent arrangement. In the midst of my new site mate's arrival, finishing up classes for the year, coordinating Spring Camp and hosting a number of volunteers in my house, I forgot that life continued outside of Tazarine. The weather was good, my work was fulfilling and I felt content. My days ended with a slow swing on my roof hammock - reflecting on the days' events, reading, singing or just watching the sun fade behind the mountains.

Forgetting about life outside of Tazarine is simple. I turn off the computer, walk in the palmerie and pretend this is it. Away from the buzz of technology, I bask in the now. Eating with friends, teaching classes, cooking and strumming on my guitar allows me to remove myself from life in the States. While this may feel like the quintessential Peace Corps experience, it's also a break from reality. Sometimes it feels like a never-ending camping trip; staring at the stars and contemplating 'what it all means.' How long should the camping trip last? What would happen to our relationships, to life outside the vacation paradise, if we never returned? Stopped answering the phone, stopped checking emails, stopped reading the news...life suspended. A two-year pause button.

When I take my finger off pause, life feels complicated. One of my best friends decides that Peace Corps is no longer for her; another phone number deleted. After an amazing weekend getaway with my boyfriend I must instantly switch gears at the Marrakesh bus station. Three men try to cheat me in five minutes before I collapse into a 100 degree bus and wish that I could remove my scarf. The leering eyes resume as I am no longer considered the property of anyone. Visiting another volunteer's family reminds me of my parents and the physical and mental difficulties they will encounter traveling to Morocco. Facebook reminds me of weddings I will miss, birthday presents I didn't send and cards that I haven't quite finished. Both firmly rooted in my Moroccan life and constantly flirting with post-peace corps thoughts, my split self is thoroughly confused. Can someone find that pause button again? 

Surprise! You're Coordinating Spring Camp!

When I envisioned this year's Spring Camp, I saw myself traveling and collaborating with other volunteers or potentially resting in my site while catching up on visitation in my community. In mid-March I was informed that my Dar Chebab (youth center) would not only hold a two week spring camp, but I was essentially coordinating the entire thing with the help of one English teacher in the town. Deep breathe. Thankfully, I felt up to the challenge and quickly put together a rough outline for a Cross-cultural English language camp for forty students. Several meetings later, the camp had begun and everyone turned to me whenever there was a brief pause in activities. Despite the on-going frustrations, long days, cultural misunderstandings and heat we were able to hold a functioning and fun camp for the kids of Tazarine. I'm still recovering, so here are a few  brief takeaways...

1) Minimal planning means impromptu EVERYTHING. Our attempts at planning only got us so far during the first week. Most days we had at least one or two hours to fill on the fly. Reaching back to camp we introduced musical chairs, fruit salad, sharks and minnows, red rover, boom chicka boom, head shoulders knees and toes and so many more. Thank goodness for arm wrestling, ping-pong and dancing for filling in some other gaps. Quintessential Peace Corps - no schedule, no guidance, but fill the next eight hours with learning and magic! 

2) I'm a dreamer, but certain things are unrealistic. As we sat around our evening meetings, volunteers were full of good ideas for competitions, games, activities but no one was willing to take the lead. Everyone wanted to be a part of the camp, but it was difficult to get a solid commitment. The first week I couldn't get a single Moroccan to teach a decent beginner's English class and some of the campers returned the following week still unable to say a simple phrase in English. Le sigh. As the camp continued, I became increasingly direct in my communication. I am a volunteer, not a door mat. Showing up is only half the work: contribute, think and be willing to take a role in this camp. 

3) Sometimes, it is healthy to give up. Most of the time when volunteers got stuck, I worked to find something educational to fill the time. After the 67th time this occurred, Melanie and I got a little sick of saving the day. On the final day, we informed the Moroccan staff that we would let them figure out two hours of the afternoon. Absolutely nothing happened during those two hours and I sat back in my chair relaxing. It felt good to let someone else have the responsibility. 

Honestly, two weeks of coordinating Spring Camp showed me how far I have come in the last year. I handled the twelve hour days, never-ending Darija and extreme heat far better than last June and was generally able to enjoy my time. My body/health may not completely agree, but I put camp down as a "great success" in my service. On to the next one!

March Madness

Coming off the success of a colorful wall calendar, a few weeks of solid teaching and the first round of a student public speaking competition at the Dar Chebab, I was on cloud nine. For the first time in Tazarine I was simultaneously secure in my community, consistent in my work and solid in the majority of my relationships. Kicking ass and taking names, but you know, in that balanced and healthy way. Nearing the one year mark of my arrival in Morocco, the horizon looked bright and full of promise.

Completed Wall Magazine, love the colors!

 Energized by my new found "normal" in Tazarine, I zoomed off to volunteer for an Interfaith Dialogue hosted 20 minutes outside of Marrakesh in a town named Tamesloht. A Peace Corps volunteer and her amazing counterpart have been working with a local association to hold this event and despite the obvious complications of interfaith work in any context, they managed to obtain the necessary grants and support.

The subject matter of the event centered on cultural and political reasons for the dialogue, the history of both Jews and Christians in Morocco and discussions on appropriate steps for continued exchanges. Given the diverse groups represented, presentations were given in either French, Darija, Standard Arabic or English and then summarized into French by the "MC" or "Animator" of the event. As one of three volunteers with a working knowledge of French, I spent my time translating for others and soaking up the fascinating intertwining of languages present in Morocco.

The event included a delicious couscous lunch under tents stolen from Medieval Times, delicious cookies and even the killer combination of Brie and walnuts. Bread with potatoes can only seduce the palate for so long and it was good to eat a real meal again. I need a small child to come and cook interesting food for me, any takers? All food set aside, the day was restorative from a spiritual side as well. Caught up in the daily life in Tazarine, it's easy to forget some of my larger goals, projects and hopes for my service. Not too long ago, this included an interfaith dialogue among volunteers - a venue for peer education and support. After losing my amazing counterpart over the summer and the devastating long term effects of the assault a few days after, this project was put on hold. How fitting that I should attend this event just over six months after the summer events that tore it apart.

Truthfully, many of my projects have been sidelined by the events of the summer. As much as I try to put it behind me, there are constant reminders of the pain that I experienced and the security that was stolen. The subject comes up without warning: endless scars that time hasn't yet healed. Physical scars serve as a reminder during my morning yoga, mental scars which keep me from traveling alone in cities, emotional scars that come to the surface during phone calls home, spiritual scars which cause me to disregard disciplines for the fear of what will come from further reflection.

Other projects are ready for me - English Club, Theater, Public Speaking, Health workshops, Music class,  Dance and my interest in interfaith work. Yet, none of these can have my full attention until I put the assault to rest. As part of my ongoing March madness, I finished compiling a list of issues surrounding my assault and possible solutions for Peace Corps. I hate to think of another volunteer facing the same lackluster counseling and minimal follow-up following a similar event and I took it as my responsibility to voice this concern. My return to Morocco had everything to do with the tremendous care of other volunteers, family, friends and my faith; I am blessed with such a support system, but not all volunteers are so lucky. Revisiting the details of that day hurt, but I pray that my voice will be heard and will make a difference. Completing the email summary and the subsequent conversation with my country director allowed me to take another step in my recovery. The scars remain, the tears still come, both are fading, but neither are gone.

As I come out of yet another emotional round of healing, it is time to refocus on a few larger goals of my service, starting with the interfaith dialogue. Nearly a year into my service, I refuse to be held hostage by the events of last summer. I pray for the energy to forge into life-giving projects, the courage to take back my service and the strength to sail confidently against the wind.

My Moroccan Slumber Party

Remember middle school slumber parties? Eating your body weight in junk food, weighing the pros and cons of various crushes and watching the Backstreet Boys perform on the Disney channel. I loved the conversations which stretched into the dawn and the feeling of love and acceptance when you woke up surrounded by your best friends. Truthfully, I've had sleepovers well into 20's and don't plan on giving them up anytime soon. Complications arise when your friends are married, children are running around, or everyone has to work in the morning, but I still cherish every opportunity to look back in time. 

My host father frequently travels to Fes for exams relating to his master's degree. He works full time, but this eight hour commute is necessary if he wants to advance his teaching career. While he is gone, my host mother either has family visit or friends stay over to keep her company. On the most recent occurrence, the host grandma returned home unexpectedly to deal with her cow kicking its' baby in the head. Yes, you read that correctly. Apparently only my host grandmother can "get through" to this cow so it doesn't kill its' newborn kid. As a result, I was invited to spend the night with my host family, something I haven't experienced since my arrival in Tazerine. While I typically cherish my evenings at home, this seemed like a great opportunity to bond with my family after extensive traveling over the past few months. 

I returned home mid-afternoon to gather my supplies and was reluctantly escorted by my host mother's friend (who would also be staying over with the family). Despite my countless attempts to free myself of her company, she insisted. I suspect she was eager to see how the American girl lives and she took advantage of her opportunity. During this brief visit into my home, she took the time to rearrange my entire bathroom and medical supply area as well as give me a lecture about how to properly "hide" my things. The argument of this being "my space" and not for the pleasure of others was lost on her. 

The evening consisted of several rounds of dinner, including waking up the kids to eat the final 11 pm meal. I don't think I will ever understand why Moroccans wait until everyone is exhausted to eat the last bowl of spaghetti for the night, but as they like. As we watched the final Turkish soap opera of the evening, I snuck away to brush my teeth; since I've never seen a Moroccan actually do this, I always end up doing the deed in secret. I quietly settled onto my small mattress and dosed off to the sounds of dubbed television.

The next morning, I woke early and took in my surroundings. Most Moroccan families don't have bedrooms, so everyone sleeps in the same living room. My host mother and her friend were sleeping directly next to me while the kids were cuddled on the other side of the room. I was fatigued after nearly 24 hours of intense language immersion, but calmed by my family. 

During my first few months in Morocco, I did everything I could to limit the amount of time I spent in Moroccans' homes. This was not because I didn't enjoy their company, instead it was due to feeling linguistically exhausted and culturally confused. My sleepover may have been void of braiding each other's hair and talking about boys, but I found a similar feeling of love and acceptance from staying with my Moroccan family. I may not visit as often as they like, eat the meat they put in front of me or cover my head, but I am not treated like an outsider. Already looking forward to my next slumber party.

Winning!

Has anyone ever called Peace Corps service boring? I know that on a given day (or month, thank you Ramadan), volunteers may have nothing better to do than watch Star Trek Deep Space Nine in its' entirety, but for the most part the roller coaster of ups, down and inbetweens keeps you on your toes. After a weekend of sleepless nights, avoiding the front door and ignoring my telephone, I felt sane enough to once again start my work week. 

Tuesday morning began with two hours of tutoring and Arabic script at the local cafe. Studying script simultaneously gets me really excited for a new challenge and makes my brain feel like it is melting. While thrilled to be advancing, an additional layer of confusion has indeed been added to my life. At one point, we discussed the word for horse in English, French, Darija, Arabic and Berber. Do I really need to talk about horses in five different languages? I don't even like them that much (sorry mom). After two hours my tutor looked over and casually remarked "I think that is enough for one day?" Following my caffeine high and solid progress, my mind had finally gone blank. Noises, letters, vowels and sentences no longer made any sense to me. I left the cafe mumbling incoherently but still high from the linguistic aerobics of my morning. 

After a brief telephone call with a nearby volunteer, I made the trek to my host family's home. It had been nearly two weeks since we had a meal together and I genuinely missed their smiling faces. While my host mother (who is probably only a few years older than me) baked fried dough with meat and inquired about my love for omelets, we talked about my recent kitchen fire and the exhaustion of constant travel. She speaks rapid fire Darija, but I adore her. Lunch was a blast - my host sister stole part of my omelet and talked quietly to herself while walking over my lap, my host brother decided to eat a whole tomato with salt instead of the actual lunch, and I gabbed on with my host parents. When the time for afternoon aerobics rolled around, I was disappointed to leave. It's still an unusual enough feeling that I cherish those fleeting moments in Morocco.

Aerobics is one of my favorite classes to teach. I teach between 8-10 women in my host family's tae-kwon-do studio three days per week. Initially I was unsure if my routines were too difficult for the women, but they keep coming back and the numbers have been increasing - I must be doing something right! Tuesday's class included a mix of salsa, hip thrusts, belly dancing, carnaval routines, kick-boxing, strength training and yoga. The Pitbull-inspired hip thrusts were a rather new addition to the workout - pretty sure I am going to get "that reputation" in the neighborhood soon. Come take aerobics class with the American stripper! By the end of class, I am drenched in sweat and grinning. I only hope they love it as much as I do.

Shortly after class a friend came over to my apartment to learn guitar, make a music video to Justin Bieber and use my Internet. It happens. We ended the day together with Moroccan pancakes and conversation about what makes a speech effective. Boushra informed me that my personality is "great" and I should be an actress - I must admit that I loved the comment! No matter the challenges here, it's so encouraging when you are given positive feedback. Happy sigh.

Not content to end my day at 8 pm, I proceeded to put together ballin' lesson plans and jam to the Beatles until bed called. Delightful evening conversations rounded out my day perfectly and I settled into bed feeling grateful for Tazarine and the opportunities I have been given to work here. I'm sure the rest of my week will be full of another round of ups, downs and inbetweens, but I like a life that is full of surprises. Only boring people get bored. 

Sleepyhead

My week experienced through "10 signs you may be sleep deprived"

 

1) Inability to Handle Stress - Upon returning to Tazarine this week, it took me 24 hours to go buy eggs and milk. Not because it's particularly far, but because I didn't want to have the standard conversation of "where have you disappeared to" after traveling for three days. Routine activities feel exhausting and new challenges are overwhelming instead of exciting. My inability to handle stress isn't great timing. As a fun experiment this week, I took the Holmes and Rahe Stress Test to gauge my level of stress over the past year. Give my score of 490, I am well above a healthy level and am likely to become ill or have a mental breakdown in the near future. Do they have an additional test where they track your stress levels after being told you will likely have a breakdown soon!?

2) Poor Memory - I started to compose four other blogs this afternoon, unfortunately I can't remember the subject matter or why they were interesting. Over skype, my brother-in-law asked me how the travel home from Spain went but I still can't picture anything between Marrakesh and the desert. How was your day? Good? I think? What did I do again? During my tutoring session, the Arabic term for 'worker's union' took me over 10 hours to recall. I can't remember the last time I got a good night's sleep. Countless forgotten names, dates, places, words, promises - I should be writing this down.

3) Inability to Concentrate - This week's tutoring sessions on the Arab Spring and Moroccan politics should have been my favorite ones yet, but I could hardly pay attention to what my tutor was saying. What was the question again? Listening to Darija and French was a joke, is that a squirrel? I can't focus enough to read, study or practice guitar. Even movies are lost of me: I started and stopped them constantly because I was staring past the screen instead of processing the subject matter. Even my conversational skills in English have rapidly diminished and my father delicately had to tell me "you look exhausted, go to bed."

4) Increased Appetite - I can't do much damage on this front given my desert resources, but pretty sure I would eat an entire bakery if they let me. It helps that I keep burning everything I cook because I get distracted/forget what I am doing (see #2,3,6). I did hide my extensive supply of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I know better than to leave the 1 lb gems lying around at a time like this.

5) Vision Problems - Thankfully I am not allowed to drive and have yet to be named as the head of 'Taz Construction;' however, I walked past several friends on the street without recognizing them and nearly punched a woman in the face during aerobics. A cockroach walked along my bed for minutes before I registered it was an invader. Should my eyes be burning so much? I think I am increasingly developing vampire tendencies, please pull the shades. 

6) Poor Decision-making - I lit my kitchen on fire, burnt bread, destroyed granola, used lighters next to open gas tanks, and chose to spend my time watching both "The Bachelor" and the final Twilight film. I should have a legal guardian appointed immediately.

7) Diminished Motor Skills - Anyone noticed how impossible it is too make the correct sounds? As I started relearning Arabic script, I was shocked by my mouth's inability to reproduce noises I had mastered in the past year, let alone to learn new difficult ones, used in standard Arabic but largely absent in Darija. My stairway conversations in French and Darija have sounded little more than random muttering - I wonder if the other participants walk away as confused as I do? The throat's rebellion continues.

8) Relationship Troubles - Invited for dinner? Invited for tea? Invited for a weekend getaway? Everyone in my community got the same answer this week, "I am tired, another time." Even the most loving families were ignored as I stumbled back into my apartment, desperate for another round of shut eye. Couscous and leben, we are never ever, getting back together.

9) Medical Problems - Nearly passed out/felt like I needed to vomit during this week's women's aerobics classes, been fighting a constant headache for the last three days and continue to feel 'under the weather' and otherwise exhausted. I feel like I aged 50 years overnight but still refuse to stop dancing with older women three days per week. They will understand when I pass out and vomit simultaneously, wouldn't be the first time in Morocco!

10) Mood Swings - Multiple times this week I have flipped from tears of laughter to tears of frustration and loss. These swings are starting to stabilize, leaving me in more of constant state of "duuuuur" rather than an exciting roller coaster pattern. Fleeting moments of "obviously I want to come teach you how to conjugate verbs for the next four months" are replaced with "I'll see you next year, I have to run away to the beach." From brooding over Coldplay and the Civil Wars to dance party/cleaning/nervous shaking to Kesha and Bruno Mars the next, I can't quite decide which mood will stick around for more than 10 minutes.

Overall, I feel like a boring version of Kyla; shying away from challenges, turning my back on relationships and choosing facebook over exploration. I long for a peaceful eight hours of rest and a return to energy and excitement. During the week I pushed through these struggles to teach successful classes, do housework, cook, clean and even start a new project, yet I feel like a shadow of my normal self. Pretending in the hope that this is temporary, going because I can't really stop and praying that tomorrow I will wake up rested - no nightmares, no insomnia, no headache. I want me back. Fingers crossed.

From Regret to Joy-48 hours of Surprises in Marrakesh

As my mother reminded me on the phone Saturday night, hindsight is 20/20. Mine feels painfully crystal clear, perhaps 20/10? Sort of like I gained freakishly good eyesight and can now see everything in a more vibrant color scheme than other humans. What does this hindsight tell me? Put simply, I should have listened to my gut. I had arrived at the airport nearly five hours before my flight and had been twiddling my thumbs for the entire time. As the boarding time grew closer, I felt increasingly off but couldn't put my finger on the reason. I had been watching the airport system, listening to the announcements and even in my fatigued state, was confident that I knew how it worked.

It was only after the boarding time had passed without announcement that I knew something was really off. I wasn't surrounded by other passengers, everything was shutting down and I hadn't heard an announcement for nearly an hour. I kept telling myself not to be paranoid, there is only one terminal, and there is no way I can be missing anything - I was wrong. Had I listened to that gnawing fear, I would have gotten on my flight without delay and arrived in Seville an hour later. Sadly, I was ten minutes too late and the staff was unforgiving. Twenty minutes later, I had my backpack on and was $200 poorer after purchasing a brand new flight. Shock, frustration, anger.

At this point, it was nearly 10 pm and I was faced with getting back to the hotel by myself. I immediately found a taxi and traveled back into the city, anxious to get into bed and communicate the night's events with my family. Returning to the hotel where I had stayed the previous evening, I was shocked to learn that it was full. Considering I was one of three guests the night before, this seemed alarming. No matter, there were several hostels on the same block and surely one would be free. Wrong again. Sunday morning was the world famous Marrakesh marathon and everything was booked. How I long for the ease of apparition (thanks, Leah!)

At the final hostel, I was offered a bed on the roof or in the lobby. At this point, I really didn't care. After an hour of conversation with the owners and my family, I settled into my tiny mattress behind the reception desk. This is not where I had expected to sleep and I just wanted to shut everything off and make it all go away. Cruel reality and boisterous guests kept me awake for the majority of the night, but I still managed to get a few bad dreams into the mix.

Left to my own accord, I may have stayed in a private room and felt bad for myself the following day. As I had no room of my own, I merely got dressed and started talking with the nephew of the hotel owner. From my lobby room, I witnessed the bartering techniques of deaf Moroccans and the hospitality of the owner's family. Over breakfast and tea, I was complimented on my Darija and enjoyed the company of the owner's English-speaking nephews. Instead of wallowing in regret and self-pity, I thanked God for this family who let me sleep on the floor and fed me the next morning. It's good to be reminded of why I love this country, even when my heart is in Seville.

Sunday morning, waiting for the cleaning staff to work on my room, I met three British men on a week holiday in Morocco. While they were only in town for the afternoon, we spent the time exploring the mosque El-Fna, witnessing the end of the marathon and wandering through the Medina. I found the men to be engaging, intelligent and most importantly, interested in daily life in Morocco. During our hours together, I was able to share the things I love most about this country as well as the routine difficulties of being a woman in the Arab world. Spending the afternoon in their presence, I was reminded of my love for education and cultural exchange - I feel high as a kite when I get to explain the intricacies of a culture to others.

After subsisting on nothing but peanuts, Chebekia, oranges and coffee throughout the day, I strolled into the Medina for a Moroccan meal among the tourists. Almost immediately after being seated, I was joined by a family practitioner from North Wales and roughly ten Swedish women who had just completed the marathon. They had all arrived in Morocco within the last 24 hours and were enthusiastic about the prospect of a few days in the country. Once again, I shared my work and my love of the country while offering them tips to enjoy their stay. After a day of culture-induced adrenaline, I collapsed into bed physically exhausted but emotionally and mentally elated.

Today I am once again preparing to travel to the airport and try to board a plane. While the past 48 hours in Marrakesh were not in my plan, I know that I stayed for a reason. Sharing my experience with passing tourists, the good and the bad, allows me to process my time through a different lens. I leave Morocco a little bit poorer, humbled, and dirty, but with the knowledge that my last ten months has been well spent. Tonight's arrival in Spain will be all the sweeter. Inshallah.

I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore.

Dave had missed his flight. Making my way from Charles de Gaule airport to our apartment, I wasn't thrilled about the solo hour long metro trip at 5 o'clock Friday or the obligatory return trip at 5 am the following morning. The metro was packed, I carried a large bag and it was first my time being truly alone in a big city since the incident last August. Sweaty and exhausted, I stumbled into my temporary home where I was shown the surroundings, given the key and complemented on my French by the apartment owner. Jacky was polite, kind and most importantly, didn't invite me over for dinner or express his sadness that I would be "all alone" for the next twelve hours. Deep breath, I am not in Morocco anymore.

Shortly after I had settled in, I wandered over to the local grocery store where I spent nearly thirty minutes taking in the array of cheese, wine, beer, frozen foods, ice cream, cereal and almond milk which was all available for purchase from the friendly market owner. After a friendly and easy exchange in French, I made myself a simple and comforting sandwich full of items not found in Tazarine. Sliced bread! Hummus! Tzatiziki! Baby tomatoes! Spinach! Wine! Well, not on the sandwich, but still important. My body tensed as I heard a neighbor walk by, ready for the imminent knock on the door and intrusion into my solitude. Another deep breath, I am not in Morocco anymore.

Following a hot shower (!!!) and a TV marathon, I fell asleep for a few short hours before waking unexpectedly at 3 am. Was it stress? Was it excitement? Was it hunger? For whatever reason, my body was done sleeping and ready to get back on the metro to the airport. Later that morning on the steps of Sacre Coeur, delighting in a second breakfast of croissants, quiche and mulled wine with Dave, I realized that my shoulders were starting to relax. It wasn't until that moment when I discovered my actual level of stress in Morocco.

As much as I love my town, my work, and my community, I feel a never-ending sense of duty, obligation and discomfort. My life is full of "shoulds." I 'should' stay in site over the weekend, I 'should' go have lunch with this family I've been avoiding, I 'should' finally start classes at the Dar Taliba, I 'should' study more Tashelheit, I 'should' do this, that, and everything. I expect myself to be a completely balanced wonder woman at all times: learning three languages without fatigue, visiting families I have nothing in common with on a daily basis, and competently teaching English grammar, theater, dance and music which I have never been trained in. Metric's lyrics play over in my head, "Is it ever gonna be enough?"

On this last weekend of January, with no cell phone and no connection to work, I took a deep breath and decided to simply soak in the beauty and wonder of Paris. Tazarine was waiting, work was waiting, the "should" feeling was waiting, but this week was free. Another glass of mulled wine and ten days with a fantastic man? Don't mind if I do!

Christmas in the Olive Groves

Christmas is my favorite time of year - period. I love the carols, decorations, parties, food, snow and celebratory atmosphere. I start listening to my 27 hour Christmas playlist in mid-November and will hear nothing but Amy Grant until the New Year. Driving through a winter storm on the way to a Christmas party is my ideal Saturday night: the friends, warmth and love on the other side of the drive make it worth the effort. Despite my freezing fingers and toes, I always feel internally warm during the holiday season.

This year it was slightly more difficult to get into the spirit of things. I frequently played my Christmas playlist, but it rarely felt appropriate. I watched "Love Actually" and "Elf" which made me cry more than get me in the mood. I even taught Christmas traditions to my classes, but I still felt far away. Spending Christmas in the desert is simply not normal for me. I found the last week in site particularly difficult; the combination of being far from home, general fatigue from work and anticipation of an extended vacation made every day feel long. As much as I love my Moroccan home, I was ready for a break.

After a long weekend of classes, cleaning and saying my goodbyes, I collapsed on the CTM on the morning of December 23. Arriving early in Ouarzazate, I spent the day singing Christmas carols and reminiscing about Christmas past with Susan and Emily. Wearing winter coats and gloves in the kitchen, we powered our way through delicious Christmas treats and tried our best to remember the lyrics. After a short night of sleep, we dragged ourselves onto a morning bus to Beni Mellal.

Morning yoga

Roughly eight hours later we arrived in the center of Morocco where Leah (our host) and Elizabeth met us with a bag of Christmas cookies and cheer. We jumped in a taxi to Leah's site, a few km outside of the city, and prepared for Christmas eve. The apartment smelled like ginger, molasses and love. Leah and Elizabeth had spent the better part of the day baking and preparing for our arrival, including decorating the apartment and hanging up stockings. After mulled wine and cookies we snuggled into our beds. Despite my headache (exhaustion, stress, lack of normal nutrition), I was grateful to be among friends.

Christmas morning we rolled out of bed, devouring countless date balls and cookies before morning yoga. Upon Leah's return from class we made pancakes and poured on epic amounts of the real maple syrup so rarely found in Morocco. We opened stockings, took pictures and eventually went on a walk around Leah's site. Despite being far from home, I felt loved and happy with my Moroccan family.

All snuggled in for stockings

On our final day in Leah's site (Boxing Day), we were invited to visit the olive groves of Leah's host uncle. After a morning kaskrut (snack/tea time) of freshly baked bread, freshly pressed oil and honey, we wandered through the groves. After three months in the south, seeing mountains, grass and animals was enough of a treat! We learned how to shake out the olives from the trees, explored the countryside and surrounding groves before finishing off with lunch. As we exited their home, Leah's family offered us each a liter of olive oil - such an amazing gift - not to mention the tastiest oil in the world!

At the Olive press

Host uncle's olive groves and bee hives

We finished our day with a trip to the olive press. After a final night of relaxation, we said our goodbyes. There was no snow, minimal decorations and no one else in the city celebrated the holiday; however, I celebrated a unique and magical Christmas with my fellow volunteers and lovely Moroccans. So grateful.