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!