Pre-Thanksgiving Thanks.

Good news- I got the weekend of cinnamon rolls, American sitcoms and friendship that I needed. Michelle proved to be a wonderful host and I was thrilled to explore her palmerie, souq and simply relax in her home. Returning to site on Monday afternoon, I felt a renewed sense of comfort and the worries of last week faded into my distant memory. This week proved to be the beginning of what I hope the next six months will feel like in my site - challenging, busy and full of Moroccan companionship. Here is a brief summary and some highlights of the past few days:

- First two meetings with my Moroccan tutor, a fantastic English teacher who shares my cross-cultural interests and is excited to get involved with clubs and teaching at the Dar Chebab (youth center). He is patient with my inability to roll an "r" and knows more about phonetics and English than I do. He is currently working on his PhD focusing on the Western stereotypes of the East specifically in Sheikh Desert Romance Literature.

- Finally set a schedule with my supervisor for work at the Dar Chebab and will begin teaching roughly 15 hours in the upcoming week with additional hours at the Dar Taliba (the equivalent of a girls' boarding school), Aerobics at my host families' Tae Kwon Do studio and additional clubs beginning in the next month. Can't wait to get in front of the class!

- Tracking down the Darija word for "nutmeg," finding the correct stall at souq and being totally confused by the shell that my nutmeg came in. Still trying to figure out how to transfer this sort of nutmeg into what I can use for homemade Chai tea and loving the challenge.

- Fantastic fish dinner with my landlords' family including you tube videos and conversation in French regarding politics and the implications of Obama's re-election. We also discussed the possibility of an adult English class at the Dar Chebab, which I am anxious to get moving.

- Gift of homemade butter from the owner of the market, packaged especially for me!

- Getting lost in conversation with my host mom - five hours later realizing that I needed to move on to my next appointment and feeling generally disappointed that I had to leave.

- Skype sessions with baby Zoe, dad and Chanda - it's wonderful to have family and decent Internet.

- Being asked by a Moroccan friend to teach her how to read music. Hell yes!

Everyday this week I have returned home feeling exhausted but satisfied with my day. I feel incredibly blessed to share the lives of my Moroccan friends and know that good things are in store. I am right where I am meant to be. What an appropriate time for Thanksgiving!

*Big sigh of gratitude*

The Best Laid Schemes o' Mice and Women

Wednesday Plans (as seen in tiny notebook): Pay water bill, go to Dar Chebab, meet with supervisor, kaskrut with supervisor's family, meet with tutor and set a schedule for tutoring times, organize time to visit English classes at local high school, visit family in town for Wednesday fish dinner, start working on Peace Corps paperwork (site locator form, etc), yoga or walk.

Actual Wednesday events: Woke up at 5:30 am and couldn't fall back asleep. Yoga! Spent two hours at the money gram office waiting with twenty Moroccan men to pay my water bill. Starving. Ran into super nice (and tiny) man who works at local commune and agreed to have lunch with his family. Met family, watched Moroccan coverage of American Presidential election, chatted with kids. Man left (to apparently have lunch with other people?) and I had mutton and bread with his wife. Call from tutor, he is out of town and will return my call and meet with me on Thursday.

Regroup, Thursday is the new Wednesday.

Thursday Plans (again, as seen in tiny notebook): Go to Dar Chebab, meet with supervisor, kaskrut with supervisor's family, meet with tutor and set a schedule for tutoring times, organize time to visit English classes at local high school, visit family in town for Thursday kaskrut, start working on Peace Corps paperwork (site locator form, etc), yoga or walk.

Actual Thursday events: Morning yoga (!), go to Dar Chebab (closed), go to supervisor's house for morning kaskrut with family. Supervisor is nowhere to be found, instead find the house full of unknown women and children. Eat bread, drink tea, repeat while possibly being invited to a wedding (?), take my leave and return home. Return to Dar Chebab in the afternoon - no supervisor, some of my keys don't work and confusion reigns. Call from Bouchra (high school girl) and we hold an evening tutoring session on how to write a song and make plans to work on parody of "The One that Got Away" together. Evening kaskrut with her wonderful family. Return home, feeling pretty fantastic. No call from tutor.

Regroup, still working towards these goals, but most likely not happening this week...is it nearly the weekend after all.

Friday Plans (still in tiny notebook): Go to Dar Chebab, meet with supervisor, meet with tutor and set a schedule for tutoring times, organize time to visit English classes at local high school, visit host family for couscous lunch, start working on Peace Corps paperwork (site locator form, etc), yoga or walk.

Actual Friday events: Rainy morning and an unpleasant reminder that it's been three months since the assault. Tears. Life-giving phone call with fellow volunteer and virtual hug. Tears. Downloaded NPR podcasts while wishing that my family was around. Felt alone and exhausted. A few more phone calls and realized it was time to let myself have a break. Bought a bus ticket to N'Kob, ate with Moroccan friends, packed my bags.

Weekend plans: Rest and rejuvenation with a fellow volunteer. Read a book, watch a movie, eat popcorn, feel loved.

The plans might seem totally useless, but they give me some sort of structure in an otherwise structure less existence. Unlike in the States, I make a list of things to do knowing full well that at best 1/3 of these will be accomplished. I often find that by stepping outside of my house, I get swept up in events and occasions that are much greater than what I had "planned." Other times, I realize that my emotional and mental health have an agenda of their own. Morocco challenges me daily to open my hands and simply let life happen, for better or worse. This weekend that means planning to let myself mourn, relax and hopefully come back to site on Monday ready for another week of my "plans" while acknowledging the daily struggles and triumphs of life in Tazarine. 

Ridin' Solo

I am not a solitary person. Growing up, I was the girl who wanted to do everything with friends or family - shopping, eating, studying, watching TV,  playing outside, traveling, etc. Simple errands were more fun with Sabrina, swimming was better with Anna and no TRL show was successful without Christy by my side. As I've gotten older, I've been forced to do these activities as an individual. Not necessarily because I wanted to, but because I consistently put myself in situations where I had to sink or swim - solo. Semesters abroad and eventually living abroad taught me that I needed to spend more time alone in order to balance the overwhelming nature of conforming to a new culture. This has always been my greatest challenge - being a natural extrovert who has chosen to live in isolating circumstances. 

I remember my first Peace Corps interview - so excited to start on the path to this lifelong dream, but also aware that it would be my greatest challenge yet. Every time recruiters asked for my greatest fear regarding service, I knew it was isolation and loneliness. A few weeks into my return to Morocco and a week after my site mate's departure, I struggle with the combination of boredom, isolation and feeling disconnected from the world I live in. There are times when I feel on top of the world; having lunch with my community, connecting with the local shopkeeper, having tea with my landlord's extended family or even small personal challenges of finishing literature or connecting with a friend in the States. There are other times when I want nothing more than to get in a car, drive to the nearest big city and freaking having a beer and a cheeseburger with Americans. These feelings normally occur on the exact same day, or certainly within the same week. In a given day, I can praise God while I watch the sunrise and curse my restlessness during the sunset. It's not the same intense fluctuation as during training or my first month in site, but it's a child-sized roller coaster on certain days.

The interesting part about service is not that I am actually alone. When I choose it, I can be surrounded by my community all day long (or even all night long, if it suits my mood). My host family frequently asks if I am lonely, and I know that I am considered to be part of multiple families around town. Being with them makes me feel connected, loved and comfortable. It also makes me feel tired, inept with language and empty. I feel at ease in their presence, but also desire the comfort of my own home, dress and choice in food.

I am slowly learning to balance my own familiar need of connectedness with my newer desire for introverted self reflection. At this point, I take several hours a day to read literature, do devotions, sing, talk with family or friends and cook while also visiting members of my community during the afternoon or lunch hour. My hope is that as I begin to teach and gain energy from being passionate about my students' education, I will have additional energy to be involved in the lives' of the community members. Soon I won't have to read for three hours a day, but will be content with only a an hour of "me" time. 

At this point, I am doing my best to be patient with myself and my own transition into site and daily life in Morocco. I try to be kind when I don't have the energy for a Moroccan wedding, but also say "yes" to as many invitations as possible. It's a slow learning process, but I can feel myself growing stronger as the days pass me by. I grow accustomed to sitting and doing seemingly "nothing" for hours on end with Moroccans, to  cherish my rooftops sunsets and to be cheered with a successful trip to the patisserie. For the first time in Morocco, I feel content.

The Big Holiday, My First Eid al-Adha

After a few weeks of travel to both Marrakesh and Ouarzazate, I finally found myself back home in Tazarine. Since returning to country was a challenge, I feared that returning to my site would hold more of the same. I was pleasantly surprised when returning to Tazarine actually felt like returning home. Not the kind of home where everything is easy, there is a hot shower and a box of mac and cheese waiting for you (at least not yet), but a type of home nonetheless. After a few days of settling into apartment and finding a sense of rhythm, I began to make my visitation rounds to my friends and family in the community. This was great timing since I returned home just in time for the biggest holiday of the year known as Eid al-Adha or Eid al-Kabir (literally the Greater Holiday, as compared to the smaller holiday commemorating the end of Ramadan). 

To save you the trouble of google/wikipedia, Eid al-Adha is celebrated by Muslims worldwide to honor the willingness of the prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) to sacrifice his young first-born son, Ismail (Ishmael) as an act of submission to God's command and his son's acceptance to being sacrificed, before God intervened to provide Abraham with a ram to sacrifice instead. The holidays is exactly two months and ten days after the end of Ramadan and the overlap/conflict with Christianity is relatively obvious. In Morocco, the day begins with new clothes for the kids and watching the King slaughter his sheep on TV. Unfortunately, I spent the morning with a family whose TV was not working so I actually missed this epic event. Youtube couldn't help me out with this one, but if you want to sheep slaughtered, there are some lovely videos for you to choose from!

The butcher has his way with the sheep

Getting back on track, after the King slaughters his sheep, the rest of the country is free to do the same. This may be done by the local butcher, a neighbor or your dad. Whoever feels the urge, I suppose? I learned that my supervisor at the local youth center slaughtered every sheep on his block - props. Well, I missed the initial slitting of the throat since I was having my 8th cup of tea and 13th cookie of the morning with a neighbor, but I returned just in time to see the sheep thrashing around in its' own blood. Soon it was hoisted from the closest tree, its' legs were broken and it was skinned. Next the belly was slit, the insides were separated and the butcher even blew air through the intestines. Hungry yet? The city vegetarian in me could have done without the slitting of throat and the breaking of the legs, BUT the girls who loves biology really got into seeing the anatomy and watching air and poop travel through the entire system. It was both totally crazy and awesome. Not to mention that my community got a kick out of watching me be fascinated/horrified with this process since I don't exactly hide my emotions well.

Me, a neighbor of the family and two sheep heads.

After the slaughter, my site mate and I started a day of extreme visitation, Moroccan style. We spent time with her host family's cousins, the supervisor of the dar chebab (youth center), my landlord's extended family, a student at the high school and enjoyed a few other stops along the way. Olivia ate endless amounts of barbecued sheep (cooked on a small indoor grill) while I had LOADS of cake, cookies and tea. My body pretty much wanted to die at the end of the day, but I didn't have to eat liver wrapped in fat- win some, lose some.

This actually felt grosser than it looks, guu!

Ironically, I ended up getting ridiculously sick that same evening. I am guessing it was something lingering in my system, but the day of eating nothing but sugar surely didn't help. Despite my impending physical downward spiral, I had a sense of feeling connected to my community and had successfully participated in the biggest holiday of the year without throwing up or fainting. And yes, that is considered a success in the Peace Corps.

The Unexpected Journey Home

...It didn't start as well as I hoped. No amount of wine, sleeping wills and boring British films could put me to sleep on the plane. I spent the vast majority of my time shivering and staring into space which made a seven hour flight last a lifetime. Descending into Chicago, tears of relief streamed down my face. Home was close and my mother was closer. It was nearly eleven pm by the time I was greeted by Starbucks and my mom in the airport lobby (luckily trail mix, pita chips and Twizzlers were waiting in the car for me as well). Deflated, I slumped into my car seat and settled in for the last part of the trip.

A new pattern arose from the exhaustion: twelves hours of sleep plus an afternoon nap, periods of chatter followed by aimless staring into space, general culture shock and feeling overwhelmed by the phone and communication. I avoided phone calls from dear friends, couldn't focus on watching TV and wasn't even listening to music. My brain was overloaded and it rejected any form of distraction. Friends and family tip-toed around me, unsure of what to do with the introverted, quiet form of myself. Truthfully, I didn't know what to do with myself either.

Post-surgery Kyla

Over the next two weeks, I began to speak more frequently, listen to the concerns of others, and the crying tapered off. Surgery came and went and eventually I had purged myself of the fatigue and bad memories which haunted my night. There was no exact cure for the trauma, but the combination of a safe environment, incredibly supportive family and friends and time allowed for me to begin the healing process.

Ever the patient woman, I had an intense list of things "to do" while in Michigan and proceeded to check items off this list regardless of my gimp leg. I spent my days visiting apple orchards, wine tasting in Traverse City, shopping for gifts and taking an eating/drinking tour of West Michigan. Soon everything felt comfortable, easy and relaxing. I could drive where I wanted, speak English and say "no" whenever I felt like it. In six weeks, I rediscovered my independence and sense of identity. I had missed being me and it was good to be back.

Family and beer!

One of my many "to do" lists

Before I knew it, the transition home turned into a transition back to Morocco. I had barely regained my sense of self before I had to go through the goodbyes and tears that I initially faced just six months prior. The panic of "having so many things I want to do and so many people to see and knowing there is no way I can enjoy everything I want in the next week" set in. I constantly reminded myself that it was my choice to return to Morocco, mostly because the only thing harder than returning would be to not return at all. That sounds convoluted, but I swear it's a thing.

Choosing to return was a renewal of my Peace Corps vows, or more importantly, my vow to myself and the people of Tazarine. I would continue to choose this life everyday in spite of the tears, separation and hardship. I had also made a promise to my fellow volunteers; friends who were depending of my support and presence for the next two years just as I depended on them. I am particularly thankful to Leah, who in response to my expression that I "felt as though I belonged nowhere," responded simply "you belong here."

Celebrating Fall

 Despite my fear of returning to the place where I was assaulted, my longing for a comfortable life in Michigan and the close proximity of family and friends, I got on the plane that Monday evening. After a final Starbucks Chai and two difficult goodbyes, I took my seat and cried during the entire flight from Grand Rapids to Detroit. I closed my eyes again and prayed for relief; I was granted sleep.

Something I miss.

What Happens in August, Stays in August

It's taken me over two months to write this blog entry. It's not because I didn't have access to the Internet or the ability to talk about my experiences - it's because I couldn't stand the thought of spending one more minute dwelling on my distracting, painful and lonely ten days in Rabat. Rest, tears and time have finally given me the energy to delve back into this moment in time. Here goes nothing.

I arrived in Rabat with mixed emotions. A close friend had permanently returned to the U.S., I was drained from reaching the halfway point in Ramadan but I also had spent the last five days with an amazing Moroccan family and felt that my prayer life had grown exponentially during this period of hardship. My right knee had been a source of constant pain since my arrival in Morocco and I looked forward to discovering the culprit and continuing on with my summer of camps, travel and general avoidance of the heat.

Monday morning at the radiologist came and went, Kyla's first MRI! I celebrated my success with a trip to the Rabat American school swimming pool to forget about the lack of food in my stomach. After an invigorating afternoon of swimming, reading and napping, I decided to stroll through the suburbs of Agdal on my way back to the hotel (the best distraction just before I broke fast). Soon I became lost in my thoughts; humming and thanking God for allowing me to be in such a beautiful place. Believe me, these are moments of scarcity in the first few months of Peace Corps, let alone Ramadan. Around 6:30 pm across from the National Library, a young Moroccan man approached me from my left side, grabbing my arm and attempting to steal my purse. We played a violent tug-o-war for nearly twenty seconds before a few cars stopped and good Samaritans chased the assailant away. I dropped my purse, realizing that blood covered my arms, knees and was coming from my chest. I hadn't seen a weapon, I hadn't seen his face, I had simply fought.

The crowd herded me into one family's car where I tried to explain what I needed in a garbled mess of Darija, French and English. Holding napkins to my arms, I tried to control my breathing and speak while tears cascaded down my cheeks. The family spotted a police car on the way to the Peace Corps office and decided that would be the best place for me. I said my thank yous, called Peace Corps in a panic and waited impatiently on the busy street corner for help. The Moroccan police wanted to escort me to the station to file a report, which I firmly declined given that I was still bleeding excessively. We all have our priorities. Pedestrians passed me on the street inquiring if I was okay and assuring me that not all Moroccans were like "this." My actions elicited a mixed response; it was clear the police thought I should have let the assailant take my bag while Moroccan women cheered me on, "you are a strong woman!"

Eventually a Peace Corps staff member collected me from the mayhem. The rest of the night included a failed stop to the local clinic where the doctors and nurses were unavailable to provide care since everyone was breaking fast, a lonely walk back and forth to the tram around 10:30 pm and a difficult conversation with my mother. I collapsed into bed around midnight, exhausted from the trauma and devastation of the last twelve hours.

The rest of the week was unrelenting. As the shock wore off, I came to realize that the assailant had a plastic knife and razor blade which he used to try and cut my bag off, cutting my arms and chest in the process. My physical pain was constant. Ramadan fasting was no longer a possibility since I had to consume a steady amount of pain medication to fight off the inflammation. Bathing and basic care out of the question. I struggled to get out of bed but couldn't sleep due to anxiety and nightmares. My days were spent in a daze at the Peace Corps office or police station giving statements, trying to identify my assailant and having my wounds cleaned. I felt like a zombie; never fully awake or asleep, just stuck in a never-ending nightmare.

The week unfolded with more bad news - Thursday afternoon I learned that I had a torn meniscus in my right knee and needed surgery. I was the victim of a small and public sexual assault Friday evening while trying to relax with another volunteer. By the weekend, I was past the point of no return. I had gone from a daze to full-blown anger and anxiety. I stopped consistently eating and sleeping. Most days were spent on the phone with my parents and friends, simply crying. Did you know that you can dehydrate yourself when you cry that much? I felt trapped, alone and completely helpless like the walls of my hotel room were collapsing in on me. It was a period of intense darkness and I needed someone to pull me out.

Through a series of teary eyed conversations, the staff and I agreed that I needed family, support and home.  Less than ten days after the initial assault, I was on a plane back home to Michigan. Dazed and confused, I had 45 days to have knee surgery, therapy and recover before returning to Morocco. I closed my eyes on the trans-Atlantic flight, knowing that I would wake up somewhere safe.

Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel

Last Thursday afternoon, I sat across from one of my best friends "B" while she poured out her deepest fears and struggles regarding her faith. Studying the Bible had once again lead into a discussion regarding the spiritual drought surrounding our first few months of service and the loneliness associated with forced separation from our religious communities and support networks. My friend had been searching for signs and guidance from God, but she felt that He had been silent in her recent struggles. Where is God when you are alone and scared in a foreign country? Why does He hide His face when you need Him the most? Pushing aside my own feelings of inadequacy and helplessness, I prayed over my friend and begged God for the right words to say. After an hour of hugs and tears, we emerged with red noses (tissues are expensive, napkins are a cheaper although harsher alternative) and feeling a slight sense of catharsis. We may be lost, but we aren't alone.

Feeling like God had already started to answer our prayers, we set out to a new Moroccan friend's home to break Ramadan fast with her family. "B" and "N" had barely met, but we soon learned that they had once lived just a few miles apart in the US. As the conversation progressed, we learned that their significant others ran in the same circles, they had attended the same place of worship, they shared mutual friends and their wedding anniversary dates were identical. They had so much in common, it's likely they had passed each other on the street numerous times. "N" was an answer to our prayers. Within a few short hours, "B" went from feeling disconnected in Morocco to discussing her favorite places to eat in California with her new Moroccan sister. The similarities were astounding and tears welled in our eyes: this was more than a coincidence, this was clearly the work of God.

Unfortunately, this glimpse of heaven on earth was interrupted by a week of turmoil. I fully believe that God only gives you as much as you can handle, but I found myself wishing that He had a little less faith in my strength. Adding to the stress of fasting during Ramadan and trying to work on various projects, it became clear that Peace Corps was no longer the place for "B." While I am not at liberty to describe the entire ordeal, please know that we went through an emotional and mental ringer. Four trying days after our blessed meal with "N,' I found myself collapsed on a bed and begging her family to let me stay at their home. I was sucked dry. Drained. All I could do was hope for mercy and a place to temporarily rest my head. "N" and her family graciously welcomed me to their home when I had no other place to turn.

I quickly learned that this was more than an act of hospitality. "N" had been unfairly deported from the US over three years ago. She had been humiliated and disgraced; treated like an animal and separated from her husband who is gainfully employed in the States. For the past few years, she has been working in Canada and jumping through the never-ending hoops of immigration. Her husband is only able to visit two days per month and they haven't spent a single holiday, birthday or anniversary together in nearly four years. This intelligent, giving and energetic young Muslim woman has been forced to create a new life across a seemingly meaningless human border.

Despite her gross mistreatment at the hands of the American government, her family opened their home to two American girls who symbolize a painful period in their daughter's life. They have shared their food, their beds, their religion and their lives with us, asking for nothing in return. I will never forget their generosity and kindness and pray that I can give back in a meaningful way.

In some ways, I feel like a helpless volunteer with no connections in congress or friends in immigration who can expedite her hardship paperwork. Yet I know that every time you bang on a door, it becomes more difficult for people to ignore your cry. My Moroccan sister has been banging on door after door for over three years and today I am adding my voice.