Part of the Family

Unbelievably, I have already been in Morocco for three and a half months. I know it seemed like I dropped off the face of the planet for the first three of those months. I would like to fill everyone in a little bit on what I’ve been up to! I will address other aspects of my training soon, but I want to paint a picture in this post about what it was like for me to live with a Moroccan host family.

On January 23, 103 new volunteers gathered in the lobby of Hotel Oscar in Rabat and boarded three buses to begin our journeys outside of the capital. Along with five other volunteers, I was assigned to a small town of about 4,000 people fewer than 15 miles outside of Fez. We had only heard horror stories about Ain Cheggag before we arrived on that cold, rainy afternoon. My initial fears were that it would be a boring, dirty, close-minded small town, but we were all in for a surprise.

I spent the next two and half months living on the edge of town with the most incredible host family I could have dreamed of. Never in my life aside my from family did any group of people make me feel more at home and welcome than did my host family. I will forever be grateful for them for their understanding and patience with me, as I tried to adapt to life in Morocco: the food, how to interact, where to buy things, who to trust, and who to avoid. Their one-on-one Darija lessons were the most helpful language sessions of my life. Perhaps most unexpectedly, I watched them live their lives as faithful Muslims and came to understand their religion in a way in which I never dreamed.

Me and the groom, Samir, and Hmed.

My host mother, Aicha, inspired me beyond words with the way she humbly raised five sons and a daughter alone after her husband passed away almost 20 years ago. Despite her lack of formal education, she stands out as one of the wisest people I have ever met in my life. My brother, Hmed (26), and I formed an immediate bond. He is my best Moroccan friend, and honestly the best Darija teacher (with amazing English) in the country. My two youngest host brothers, Jamal and Jawad (19), are twins, and Aicha and the neighbors would often joke that there were now two sets of twins in the family when they would see me and Hmed. I was so lucky to be living with the family this winter/spring, because Samir (25) got married on March 1, so I was able to experience the preparation and execution of a beautiful Moroccan wedding. We spent a lot of time together before his wedding and shared so many laughs. He showed me an entirely different side of the Moroccan military. Tarek (23) is the best Darija rapper Ain Cheggag has ever seen. I know he has great things ahead in his future. He also owns the coolest barber shop in town and was the first person, other than myself, to cut my hair since 2008! It’s a shame that Wahiba (21) lives ten hours away with her husband and little daughter, Miriam, because we got along great when she was in Ain Cheggag for the wedding. I can tell the family isn’t complete when she’s not around. And the twins – we had so much fun laughing at each other when we had no idea what we were saying to each other. They made fun of me for my ugly boots and dirty clothes. They definitely thought I was the weirdest person who ever came into their house, but they would help me out with all of my random requests and clarify any confusion I had about the family or the neighborhood.

The whole neighborhood is involved in the wedding!

Along with my family, the neighborhood comprised more than a dozen families that all cared for, respected, watched out for, bickered with, and, above all, cooked for each other! I never fully comprehended the idea of community until I lived in my small corner of Ain Cheggag. Every family opened their homes to me – a complete stranger – and taught me how to live in Morocco. Sometimes I wished for a little anonymity, but nothing helped put a smile on my face on a hard day more than the greetings from parents sitting on their stoops and the squeals of the little kids running full speed at me to kiss my cheeks four times each and grab me with muddy hands. The respected and appreciated me immensely, yet at the same time treated me like a two-year-old. They taught me to appreciate the people around me and to be satisfied with what I have. It hit me hard to know that the amount of belongings I was able to pack into two suitcases to bring with me for two years in Morocco is far more than many people own here. I am forever grateful for the lessons these people – many of whom I don’t even know their names – taught me on a daily basis. 

The thought of having a host family for many months was perhaps what had me the most worried before leaving for Peace Corps, but now I realize it may end up being the most enriching part of my service as a volunteer. Their respect for my way of life and their passion to show me theirs made a lasting mark on me, and I hope to be able to live more like them in the future. 

Covered in Cookies

“Smahali, wesh katarf ila kayn si dar f la-kra?”

Excuse me, do you know of a house for rent?

I had the phrase perfected. I already had mumbled it to every corner store owner in Errachidia that week, and now, in my desperation, was beginning to throw it toward anyone who dared give me a second glance or seemed unoccupied at the moment: the group of men chatting in front of the hanut; the young man watching his grandfather smash a brick into a oblivion with an aging hammer; the woman carrying her olive oil and fresh laundry; and the children in the middle of a war in which a mushy, dirty sphere was the sole object of their attention.

I stood patiently for a moment behind the customer making small talk with a woman and her husband – the owners of this pressing shop. I hadn’t a moment to waste. Unaware of the rudeness of my action, the phrase cut the man short, and suddenly everyone within earshot saluted to attention.

Who is this foreigner? Why is he here? Should I respond in French or Arabic? Darija is for us.

The couple sent hesitant glances back and forth, and the man set his iron aside. The steaming jellaba on the ironing board would have to wait.

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing around here,” he eventually murmured, seemingly exasperated by his consideration.

Despite this firm statement, I saw in his eyes that he hadn’t yet consulted his full mental rolodex, so I lingered. I glanced sideways to see the customer ushering me out with his intense glare.

“Actually, there’s a man who smokes cigarettes all day two corners up from here. His name is Brambabil.” The silence was broken with the owner’s statement. With my mind racing to understand the desert Darija I had been abruptly thrown into just days before, my face clearly showed resignation that I could not possibly remember that name after picking my way across broken cement tiles for two blocks as the sun lashed my skin outside – apparently unconstrained by any atmospheric barrier my body had become accustomed to in the U.S.

A moment later I was in heat holding on to the tiny square of paper with too many Arabic Bs scribbled on its surface. After a week of searching, my golden ticket had just been handed to me by the kind shop owner.

Two blocks later: a leathery man on a broken lawn chair. An ashtray. “Brambabil!”

He looked around as if maybe I were talking to someone sitting beside him he had noticed, and upon verifying that he was indeed alone, as he had probably been all morning, he pointed down a narrow alley and garbled something about a blue Mercedes whose tail light I could see behind a tangle of flowers fifty yards down the curving passageway. A quick thanks, and I scurried off.

Just like Charlie, I handed my ticket the man oddly sitting alone in the back seat of his once luxurious means of transportation. I understood that he could not read the name written on my paper and referred me to his daughter unnoticed and silhouetted in the doorway of his home. Her French was flawless as far as I could tell, but it did little to aid me in my search. The motion of her hand alerted me that I must proceed two doors to my left.

Finally, my knock on Brambabil’s door pierced the hot air of the alley.

“Shkun!?,” I heard from within.

No one you know.

My unsatisfying answer led to an inquisitive crack in the door and reassurance that I had again missed my target. However, before I had a chance to step off the tiled stoop back onto the dirt path, the door opened further, and the woman within identified herself as Brambabil’s wife but stated that he was not home. Two young boys inquisitively peered at me through from behind the woman’s dress.

After explaining my role as a Peace Corps volunteer at the local youth center, I saw two small coins fall into the hand of one of the boys’, and he took off toward the main street. By the time he returned with the coins still in his hand a few minutes later, a group of small children had begun to congregate around my feet – each one tugging on my clothes and inquiring incomprehensibly. The woman emerged from the house with a yellow chair that somehow made its way from a post-war American kitchen to this scorched corner of the Sahara. I was ordered to sit, and a silver tray of hot tea and cookies was thrust onto my lap.

As she made her way to try her luck at contacting her husband, the children swarmed me. Suddenly I was aware of the prying eyes laid upon me from every house lining the alley. It was probably not every day that an American sat on a house chair in the middle of the road drinking tea and giving cookies to ravenous children. Little girls giggled as they snapped cell phone pictures of me, and two little boys shouted names of every vegetable they could think of to see if I know them and eat them. Twenty minutes or more passed before the woman – mother, aunt, neighbor of the raucous crowd – returned to pull children from me and refill my glass of tea. She assured me to wait just a while longer.

Moments later, a small, white hatchback rattled across the rocks and broken tile and came to a stop directly in between my comical resting place and the threshold of the home.

“Brambabil?”

He warily shook my hand and asked what I was doing here, pretending to be unaware of the reason he was summoned. He gestured toward the next door down the street and frowned. If only someone weren’t renting the house, it would be mine.

Why did you come just to tell me no?

“Please come inside. Marhaba,” he said.

Wonderful, there must be another option he is planning to show me.

More tea was poured along with a shockingly orange beverage which tasted unsurprisingly like the thin plastic bottle within which it had been stored. His children climbed on us as he pulled an old laptop from a faded side bag. The first picture to display was just a mistake in my mind. A group of ten Moroccans singing at a festival in the desert had nothing to do with my episode of House Hunters International, right? Right. The pictures and stories went on until I had consumed a half liter of the electric liquid. I then politely listened to his quick attempt to convert me to Islam before pointing to the clock and announcing that I must be on my way, declining the family’s invitation for lunch. Another day.

I brushed the crumbed left by the children onto the bright red carpet and kissed the kids twice on their cheeks. I hopped into Bramabil’s car, certainly not refusing a free ride back to my host family’s house. We exchanged phone numbers on the way and passed by his shop in order for me to see where I could find him most days.

A friendly handshake, and I stepped back into the sun. Still homeless, but suddenly very at home. 

Going on seven.

*Please note that I wrote this blog entry on January 22. I promise to start updating more frequently. Internet access is spotty, but my schedule is starting to normalize slightly, so I can get access. Everything is great after five weeks in Morocco, but here is more about my first week!:

I'm not sure if I've ever had such a whirlwind of a week before. Seven days ago I departed for the biggest challenge and adventure of my life. I said goodbye to my parents and my brother in a small train station with lots of tears and laughter and began the first leg of my journey. Sitting in a small hotel room in the Rabat, the capital of Morocco, it's almost inconceivable that that moment was in the recent past.

After watching the rolling hills of my beautiful home state pass away, the train pulled into downtown Philadelphia. The journey was quick, as a fellow Peace Corps invitee and I chatted the entire trip about our expectations, fears, and pasts. Amazing Thai and Indian food were my last meals in the US. I know I'll be craving curry soon! Monday was a significant day, because I officially became a Peace Corps Trainee when I registered for my first day of training. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Peace Corps designations, I will technically be a Peace Corps Trainee (PCT) until I am sworn in on April 4, 2014, as a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). Peace Corps makes it very clear to us that we are not yet volunteers and could still not be chosen for service if we do not perform adequately during the pre-service training. Monday was overwhelming, because we had a tight schedule of ice breakers, lots of introductions, and plenty of logistical information required to get a group of 104 people (and all of their luggage from Philadelphia to Rabat. Seeing the rest of the group in one room for the first time was both frightening and exhilarating. It was the first time we laid eyes upon each other, but we all knew that we were about the embark on something that only the person next to us and across from us would really understand. We will be each other's best friends. And that is certainly the truth. I have never bonded with such a large, diverse group so quickly and so seamlessly. I can assure you all the Peace Corps does an incredible and diligent job in every aspect of picking people to invite for training. Everyone is bright, quirky, interesting, unique, and versatile. I've talked to almost everyone at this point, and I know we're all going to work well together in Morocco.

Tuesday was a logisitcal nightmare that somehow worked out fine! After a quick trip to karaoke and an early night to get up to finish packing,the group split into three to board buses to JFK International Airport in New York City. The hotel staff was flawless in getting all of our checked luggage quickly onto the buses, and our carry-on luggage filled the aisles and seats of the bus. Somehow I got one of the few empty seats on the bus next to me and leaned on a pile of luggage for that leg of the trip. Rain and mist obscured my last memories of the US, but it was still to see the grey silhouette of the World Trade Center sticking into the clouds in the distance as we barreled past Manhattan. I felt a lot of peace in those moments thinking about the pain inflicted on my country by an evil group of people and truly hope that my service will in some way open at least a few minds and hearts to people of different religious and cultural backgrounds. That bus ride was when what I was about to do deeply hit me. I had little time to dwell in those thoughts, as I had volunteered to carry half of my buses passports from Philadelphia to NYC to avoid people losing them, and believe me that I was terrified of losing 15 peoples' passports. Within moments of the buses pulling up to the curb, suitcases were piled high, and dozens of us were running around trying to find our luggage. My smaller suitcase was not where it should have been, which caused a moment of panic (similar to when I left my carry-on on the train in Philadelphia and had to make a mad dash to get back downstairs and retrieve it!). After more than an hour of waiting at the counter for the Royal Air Maroc staff to arrive, we began to check in. As per usual, a relief to have a surname that starts A-b-a. I was with the first group of seven through security and got to mingle with others for four hours at the gate until we boarded the plane for Morocco. Being on that place was surreal. We filled about half of the plane, and you can imagine the energy!

Running on approximately three hours of sleep and dazed from five hours of jetlag, we pulled our luggage from the claim and crammed into a number of other buses for the hour and a half ride to Rabat from Casablanca International Airport. The hotel was way beyond what I had expected. We even have warm showers. The past few days have been the most overwhelming of course. It has been an unending, blurred timeline of shots, icebreakers, Arabic classes, thunderstorms, medical interviews, delicious food (yes, it's almost all vegan so far!), dehydration, Roman ruins, laughter with new friends, storytelling, filling out forms, and I could go on. Perhaps the most interesting information at this point for everyone is that I know more about my near future! I will be leaving Rabat on Thursday morning to take a two hour trip to a small town called Ain Cheggag (population 2,000ish). It is approximately 30-45 minutes south of Fes. I will be in Ain Chegag until the beginning of April doing intense language and cultural training and living with a Moroccan host family. Five other Peace Corps Trainees will be with me, and we will work as a team to create lessons, meet local leaders, work with the youth (typically ages 10-30 in Morocco...basically youth is any unmarried person). A current volunteer I met Friday who did his Community Based Training (CBT) in Ain Cheggag described it as "The Dark Days of CBT." I will not elaborate further on the dreadful stories he told me, but please think of me in the next few weeks! :)

As I imagine will be the case for the next fews weeks, I have so much to say and so little time to write. I promise to keep detailed notes of my experiences to post later even when I don't have Internet access. Masalaama.  

Lucky Number (20)13

Souqs and Spice saw its inaugural post in early January 2013, so it is only fitting to update the blog with some of the highlights of its first year. Although the blog's primary focus in 2013 was to outline my Peace Corps application process, there were innumerable other things going on in my life of which I'd like to take note. Many people think of 13 as an unlucky number, but I'll forever look at (20)13 as my luckiest of numbers. It was truly a year in which I conquered challenges I never thought possible, grew profoundly, and deepened friendships.

Montreal

Somewhat out of order, the first and most influential of the highlights of 2013 was that...I RAN A MARATHON! And not to brag, but I did a darn good job of it! The reason that I'm starting the year out with this is that it truly shaped the course of the rest of the year for me. I entered 2013 with the goal of completing the Pittsburgh Half Marathon in May, but I knew in the back of my mind that I wasn't going to be able to stop there. Before the beginning of last year, the most I had run in my life was about six miles a handful of painful times. I had convinced myself to not aim for more, excusing myself due to weak knees. February arrived along with an intense training plan, and I stuck to it each and every day - swapping social engagements when necessary for DC Front Runners, waking up before the sun rose, stepping out the door into sweltering heat and frigid gusts, and pushing through the pains and struggles of an untrained body and mind.

After missing the first inauguration of Barack Obama, I was thrilled to be able to witness the president's second inaugural address from the slopes of the Capitol lawn. Despite numb feet and a protester screaming about the end of days from a tree nearby, I made it through the long morning to witness our president renew his commitment to our country. Regardless of political views, it was an extremely powerful moment to see the entire federal government march out of the Capitol dome with a crowd of nearly a million cheering behind me. Obama's speech was moving and brave, and Richard Blanco's inaugural poem spoke to the unity and individualism of the United States and its people.

Inauguration

Months later, I snuck out of the office on a humid, rainy August afternoon with Geoff to the other end of the National Mall to see Obama speak again. This time, the occasion was even more grandiose - a celebration on the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington. It was an honor to stand in front of the Washington Monument, sheathed in metal, with thousands of pilgrims from all over the country who had come to experience the legacy of the day 50 years ago when a man spoke of his dream.

Earlier in the summer, I waited in suffocating heat on the steps of the Supreme Court along with my coworkers and hundreds of activists and locals awaiting some of the most life changing decisions to come from the bench in years. Though there were a few moments of confusion as to what the decision meant for real lives, it was quickly apparent from the embraces and tears that something unimaginable a few short years ago had just happened. In an instant, DOMA was dead, and love came a step closer to equal for all Americans.

I was fortunate to be able to travel a number of times in 2013. The difference this year, and perhaps what made all of my trips so special, was that I almost exclusively only visited locations where I had already been before. Therefore, I was able to spend more time with friends and family rather than exploring new destinations. I returned to Pennsylvania numerous times, making myself feel at home in my home state's most populous city for the first time. I looked out onto the Atlantic from the coast of the First State in winter and summer. My shoes hit the pavement for more than 26 miles in our northern neighbor's most beautiful city. I relaxed after my race in an autumn heat wave in my childhood vacation spot in South Carolina. I watched One World Trade Center reach into the sky and tower 1776 feet above Manhattan. I watched the Bellagio fountains dance in the middle of the desert from far above the sand. I sweated in December after running up a mountain to look out over the Hollywood hills. I got to know my sister's new home in North Carolina as we followed the state's second governor's footsteps.

Apart from and complementing the physical training detailed above, the other most significant decision of the year was to live as compassionately as possible, manifested in a vegan lifestyle. I will explore veganism in more depth in an upcoming post, but I could not review 2013 without adding that it was my first full calendar year of living with the commitment and ideals of veganism. Many people simply think of it as an obsession with animals and a love of tofu, but veganism to me represents true compassion in every sense. We make food choices all day every day, and when we constantly stop to think about the source of those food choices, and the possible suffering and injustice attached to them, we can't help but to expand that consideration to all of our everyday choices.

And to think what the world would be like if everyone were to pause and ponder the consequences of each action he or she makes.

What a lucky year 2113 would be.

Christmas Cheer

Snowy Queens neighborhood

The end of the holiday season comes with mixed emotions, as this is quite possibly the last Christmas that I'll experience at home in the United States until 2016. I do hope to be able to return for a visit at least once during my Peace Corps service, but there are no guarantees, and I prefer to prepare myself for a scenario in which I will not step foot on U.S. soil again until after my service is completed. Knowing that I won't have a traditional Christmas experience for the next few years really made me appreciate this year's festivities more than ever. 

Additionally, I made a promise to myself at the beginning of 2013 to lessen my negative impact on the world as much as possible and to be more cognizant of the effects of each of my choices. I'll talk more about this in an upcoming post marking the end of 2013, but I think people who know me well are already aware of the changes I've made - others may only see this manifested in my food choices. I often in the past was far too concerned about the materialistic aspects of Christmas, but I can say with certainty that knowing that everything you'll need for the next two years has to fit into one or two suitcases will quickly put your dependence on material items into perspective. This year I simply wanted to spend as much quality time as possible with my family and friends soaking up the true Christmas spirit. 

NYC Christmas trees
with Giovanna

After finishing work at the National Endowment for Democracy on December 6, I spent four days in New York City with one of my closest friends, Giovanna. New York is one of my favorite cities in the world of course, and it's at its most magical when it's decked out in shimmering green and red lights and "Jingle Bells" can be heard on every corner. I left New York in the midst of a snowstorm bound for sunny SoCal. It was amazing to experience Los Angeles at this time year with one of my other closest friends, Matt. Although palm trees disguised as candy canes were fascinating, I appreciate more than ever spending Christmastime in Pennsylvania, despite the freezing temperatures and being stranded inside by endless snowfall. To continue my mini USA tour, we spent three days in Las Vegas. Sin City does Christmas, like everything else, big! 

I said Venice...I mean, Vegas...
does Christmas big!

I did say that the end of the season comes with mixed emotions though. Everything was perfect, and memories of the past few weeks will undoubtedly continue to give me cheer over the next few years, but I'm also overwhelmed with sadness when I let myself think of moments that I will miss. I'm trying to focus on the present rather than worry about the future, and I still have two weeks to take advantage of before my journey begins. The next two weeks will be centered on packing and preparing. My sister already left yesterday, so the fun times with the whole family have come to an end, sparking this post. 

To end on an extremely positive note, I'd like to share a few of my favorite and most memorable Christmas moments: 

• Passing under the giant wreaths on Union Station as I said farewell to my second home 
• Walking aimlessly in the snow through the Union Square Christmas Market with Giovanna and finding her cornicello necklace
• Finding out that Mexicans are much more efficient at selling Christmas trees than Canadians
• Watching Mexican jumping beans with Matt
• Seeing a neighbor's face light up at the sight of freshly baked gluten-free cookies!
• Playing hide-and-seek in our tiny living room with my nieces and nephew 
• Asking Leanne if she'd like a piece of chocolate!
• Laughing - so much 
• And the best of all, dancing with my sister like crazy people at 10:00 a.m. while getting yelled at by our mom for being so stupid

Souqs and Spice...and everything nice

It has been almost a year since I first posted on Souqs and Spice, which was at that time just a plain blog intended for me to jot down notes during my application process. During the course of the year, I posted intermittently and updated the look of the blog. After finding out that I would be posted to Morocco, I thought long and hard about a title for the blog that would adequately capture my intentions for sharing my experiences with a public audience. "Souqs and Spice" seemed to come naturally, as these two words have deep meaning both for my life and Moroccan culture.

I imagine many of you are wondering first of all what in the world is a souq?! Souqs are traditional open-air commercial bazaars in Morocco and North Africa. They represent the center of public life, providing a place for social interactions, economic exchanges, and entertainment. In order to become a successful volunteer, I will need to integrate myself into the public life of my adopted community. Literally, I will need to be present in the souq to meet potential partners and friends. More figuratively, I need to maintain a souq mentality to avoid holing up in my living quarters to avoid embarrassment or uncertainty. Additionally, having an Arabic word as part of the title of this blog emphasizes the importance of successfully strengthening my language skills and communication abilities to effectively work with my local community.

Spice on the other hand may seem to be more self-explanatory. We all have seen photos of the gorgeous earth-toned cones of spices rising from golden pots in the souqs to be purchased and used generously in Moroccan dishes. I also will be spicing up or at least providing new tastes to my community by maintaining a vegan lifestyle in a cuisine that, like American cuisine, overemphasizes the use of animal-based products. However, I also intended the convey with this word choice that my life in general will be far from bland, and I will literally be like a spice being tossed onto my community. That addition may burn a little at first, but it will end up adding flavor and variation to the dish.

During the next two years, you can expect to read about my quotidian life experiences serving as a U.S. Peace Corps volunteer in Morocco. I plan to detail my training, living situations, and experiences working in a dar chabab -- a government-sponsored public youth center. I hope to also explore my perceptions and share my honest opinions and emotions on topics including Moroccan and American culture, Islam and Christianity, sexual orientation, gender roles, international affairs, veganism, health, and environmentalism. The tenth core expectation of Peace Corps volunteers is to "represent responsibly the people, cultures, values, and traditions of your host country and community to people in the United States both during and following your service." I intend for this blog to do just that, so if these issues are of interest to you, I hope you'll subscribe and follow my journey for the next two years!

Homes sweet homes

Yesterday I came home for the last time before Morocco. Unfortunately, I'm going to be reliving that feeling a number of times in the next few weeks. They say home is where the heart is, and my heart is with the people who mean the most to me. Since these people are scattered around the globe, I'm lucky to have many places where I truly can say I'm at home. This week I'm saying goodbye to DC and innumerable friends, next week I'll say goodbye to New York, the following week to Los Angeles, and next month to Pittsburgh.

The most drastic of these farewells feels like it will be this week with DC. The city has shaped me more than any since my childhood hometown. I arrived with no plan almost five years ago, yet I've managed to build true friendships, a meaningful career, and a new outlook on life. The weekend before last, my friends threw the most amazing party to bid me farewell. At the end of the night when I looked around and saw all of the most special people from the past few years together in one spot, I was overcome by an intense feeling of both sadness that I will be leaving it behind and happiness that so many wonderful people have come into my life and have crossed paths with each other.

Although the thought of not being able to take a relaxing run around the Capitol building and watch the sun set over the Potomac brings tear to my eyes, I am fully confident that in two years I will have found a new home in Morocco.