It seems like a certain mark of success to be able to say that my closest friends here in Morocco are mostly Moroccan locals, not American PCVs. I spend significantly more time with Moroccans than Americans and I feel about as well integrated into my community as I could hope.

But on the other hand, it’s kind of a sad fact that I don’t have great connections to the people around me who grew up with the same native language and culture as I did. Even given the similarities between us, there’s a wide gap that seems impossible to cross. I’ve tried, but with my time here coming to a close, I don’t feel like I’ll ever have much success.

I miss my old Americans, the PCVs from my group, who somehow seemed to care more about other people and share a higher level of commitment and interest.

As a side note, today I heard one PCV say to another, “That cat was his [another PCV's] closest friend in Morocco that wasn’t an American.” I mean, my cat used to be like my little sister, so that’s one thing… but why do so many PCVs have to make distinctions that implicitly put down Moroccans? What’s the point of the addition of “that wasn’t an American”? With certain people, it seems to be a pathological sort of habit. It’s almost like they can’t not say something negative about the locals.

Take a minute to imagine that your childhood went a little like this…

You start out your life with your parents speaking only English to you, and to anyone for that matter. Because that’s the only language they know. They never really went to school.

You get a decent start on English, learning from your parents, extended family, and household visitors, and even the occasional English language cartoon that pops up on the television. The rest of the cartoons and programs you see on the TV are in a mix of other languages that you only ever hear coming out of the box, so you probably don’t grasp them too well, but just maybe you pick up a thing or two.

By the time you can communicate as clearly in English as another kid, around four or five years of age, you start going to preschool (if your parents can afford it). All the sudden you start learning not one, or two, but THREE new languages on top of English. The teacher starts to talk to you and direct you in Spanish, while you study French AND Italian. Spanish is what the powerful ethnic group in your country speaks, so you better learn it. French is what the government and newspapers work in, while Italian is the language of business, commerce, economics, and higher education. If you want to get anywhere in your life, you have to become a real polyglot.

So your parents can only communicate to you in English, but your teacher runs you through the loops on French and Italian lessons while all of her non-lesson-specific communication is in Spanish.

And that continues from the time you’re four or five until you end your schooling, which could be anywhere from the age of 12 and up. If you actually do go to university, you’d better get a strong grip on all of those languages…

The reality seems to be, though, that the majority of people who have to tackle that many languages from the very beginning of their schooling end up not being really stellar at a single one of them. And here I suppose I can really only talk about my personal observations in my corner of rural Morocco.

One example really stands out to me. Hanging out one day with the nursing staff at the clinic in my market town, I watched as five Moroccans stood over an official form trying to decide the correct way to express a sentence in Modern Standard Arabic. It looked like a fairly routine form. I’m not sure if they were looking for a certain word or a bit of grammar, but I think it was a word.

To be sure English speakers often find themselves struggling for the right way to express something. But in America we don’t really have the issue of struggling to express ourselves in a second language, which just happens to be the official language of the country. (Native Spanish speakers might have issues, but English isn’t an officially sanctioned national language, just the de facto one.)

Anyway, I just think it’s fascinating. And it’s so far from the average white American’s experience, this tangle of languages. So many Americans huff and puff about the intrusion and inclusion of Spanish… when the study and use of multiple languages are simply facts in the lives of so many other people around the world.

I thought to myself, in the beginning, how awesome it is for kids to be studying so many languages! Only a lucky few in America ever study another language before their teenage years. What a great help it must be…

I’ve had a surprising number of Moroccans describe the situation as more of a handicap, though. They’re the ones who pointed out to me that the multidirectional bombardment can really stunt one’s ability in any single second language.

My example above is quite similar to the reality that I see here with my host family in Morocco. I just changed the languages around. Here, many children speak Tashlheit (Tamazight/Berber) with their families. That is their mother tongue. Their teachers often speak to them in Moroccan Arabic, a dialect quite far removed from the Modern Standard Arabic that is Morocco’s official national language, the language of the government and newspapers. French is the language of business, medical topics, and higher education.

Tashlheit includes a fair amount of Moroccan Arabic vocabulary, simply conjugated and adjusted to the Berber language, but it is its own separate language. Moroccan Arabic includes a higher percentage of Modern Standard Arabic vocabulary, but the grammar is very different. MS Arabic is a tricky beast for anyone to learn. French is its own language, of course, very different from any of the others in vocabulary and grammar and just about any other aspect.

The past few days I’ve been trying to get my first grade host brother to study with me. Both of his parents are illiterate, so they can’t help with his exercises. His aunt knows how to read, but even though she lives at the house, she’s not around a whole lot. I enjoy studying with him. Partially because it helps me brush up on my Arabic, but also because it seems so important to a kid’s learning to have someone show interest and encouragement. I’ve seen other families in town, or in other places in Morocco, where the parents are literate and help their students review. What a difference it must make. I feel like I have at least a touch of new understanding for the obstacles people have to overcome to be the first educated generation in their families…

Tonight was the first time I noticed my little host brother Anwar actually saying my name right. He still said it in his cute little boy voice, but he can officially pronounce “Hind” now. No more “Lahan!” and no more “Hin!” Now just plain old “Hind!”

He made up for this development by saying repeatedly, “Foof, Hind, foof!” Meaning: “Shoof, Hind, shoof!” Translation: “Look, Hind, look!” Talk about cute.

Advice from Fauve:

1. Put holes in the bottles (to attach them to the cardboard) BEFORE you paint them.

Say to yourself:

Peace Corps is NOT “two years out of my life.”

Peace Corps IS “my life for two years.”

PCVs who stay focused on the idea that their Peace Corps service is just a step between one thing and another, like college and a “real” job, tend to find themselves counting down the days until their COS date. It seems like most of the ones I encounter who cling to this mindset fail to get the most out of this amazing opportunity to experience a different life. Their attitude inhibits their happiness and their chances for fulfillment. While they complain about not getting much for their “sacrifice” of two years out of their lives, their negativity blocks them from everything they could gain.

Like people always say, you get out of anything what you put into it.

I know I’m lucky in my home and my community. But I also know that at least half of my happiness, if not more, is a direct result of my attitude. And I’m tired of listening to other PCVs complain about things that they could fix with a bit of effort.

Think about why you are where you are.

What do you want to get out of the opportunity to be where you are?

Once you have your goals, work for them. You know, a little elbow grease.

Keep in mind that wherever you are, whether America or some tiny place abroad, you will face challenges and you will find opportunities. Hopefully you’re willing to face those challenges, learn from them, and seize the opportunities in front of you. Even work at creating some opportunities while you’re at it. I find that opportunities for work, cultural experiences, or any number of random things spring up just about every time I walk out my front door. Sometimes that’s all it takes, getting out and talking to people with an open mind and a positive attitude.

I’ve learned time and again here, as I seem to forget after each time that I learn it, that what seems like I’ll never ever Ever in a million years be able to do, the first time I try it, I can usually end up doing pretty well if I give it time and practice. Maybe a simple lesson that I should have learned a while ago, but better late than never, yak?

My banjo lessons are a perfect example of this. I can’t count how many lessons my teacher has introduced a new bit of music or a new technique that made me think, “I’ll never be able to get my fingers to move like THAT! And that fast? No way, José!” But with time, and the bit of practice that I manage to convince myself to do, I manage to get things down. I’ve come from not being able to strum the strings to save my life to playing decently for a tarumit who never touched a stringed instrument before.

Today this lesson finally seemed to click for me. I just might have learned it for good, I think, I hope. As my teacher taught me the opening lines to the song Agass (Izenzaren Igout Abdel-Hadi), I realized my hand is just a little too short to run from C# up to E without accidently hitting C on the way. That simply won’t do, he pointed out. Rather than think, “How in the world am I going to work this one out?” I told myself that with a little work at home, I’ll land this trick like I’ve landed so many others over my two years and change of studying the Berber banjo. And I know I will. Avoiding the sense of frustration didn’t take any effort, which is quite a development for me.

One more lesson that I’m thankful to have learned on this adventure…

Old Ijjou stopped me on my way to my host family’s house today. She told me to sit with her since we hadn’t chatted in a long time, so I found a spot next to her on her doorstep and listened for a while. It’s always enjoyable to listen to her colorful language, or rather, to watch her colorful hand motions as I can’t understand her old fashioned Tashlheit very well. The motions she makes with her hands to emphasize her points are typically quite clear, however.

Today’s lesson was, as usual, about how I need to skr zamaninu, do/make my time by getting married and having kids before it’s too late. But she added a few extra points today to drive home her message. I can’t understand a lot of what she says, but a few points I got no problem.

1. A girl who doesn’t tskr zaman-ns, do her time, get married and have kids, tga zund tafunast, ends up like a cow (here she made a dopey sort of face and made some indescribable noises to imitate a cow-girl).

2. If a girl gets to be as old as her (Ijjou is, the story goes, about 105 years old, and I’d just about believe it), and doesn’t have kids, no one will be around to take care of her. She won’t have work or food or a place to stay.

Around this point in the lesson, Ijjou’s daughter-in-law entered the conversation briefly. The old woman exclaimed to her quite forcefully, “ar-t saqraH, ar-t saqraH” — “I’m teaching her, I’m teaching her!” The daughter-in-law moved on with her work and we continued with our lesson.

3. Finally, the key point she made, was the difference between the “love” of a man and the love of one’s children. She said, “A man will leave you (verb unclear, but that’s the gist). He’s only interested in your knees and your vagina.” Here, she didn’t say knees or vagina, but she patted herself while saying “this and this.” In the local context and language, “knees” would mean work and “vagina” would mean, well, sex. “But your kids,” she said, “they love you for this,” and patted her chest. They won’t abandon you because they love you for your heart and who you are — their mother.

After she shared these bits of wisdom with me, she followed up with a hearty “wakhay babak!” (Basically, “you better watch out, your dad is gonna get you!”, said most often to little kids who aren’t doing as they should.) She repeated several times, even raising her cane from under her feet and wagging it over my head, telling me she’d beat me if I didn’t skr zamaninu.

As for a bit of analysis on her main points… I’m not exactly sure what she meant by Point #1. Maybe that a girl (as an unmarried woman of any age is called her) who doesn’t have kids will be a bit aimless in life?

Point #2 is pretty darn likely to come true here in rural Morocco. Women in the rural areas depend quite a lot on their relatives. That’s not to say there aren’t any opportunities for them without the help of male relatives, and what opportunities there are are increasing slowly but surely. Life can be hard here for anyone, male or female, who doesn’t have others in their life.

I don’t have a lot to say on Point #3. It could be true anywhere, for anyone, I suppose. I thought it was interesting that she included in today’s lesson.

For me, I imagine I’ll see how Point #1 plays out. Thankfully I believe I have more ahead of me than a cow-like existence, even without children or a man. That being said, I’ll still enjoy the next lesson old Ijjou wants to give me.

Quite frequently when I was at school in Chapel Hill I would hear the raging rants of “the Pit Preacher” and other evangelical Christians who set up in the center of campus. Their aim seemed to be to shame people into “renouncing their sinful ways” and taking up a sincere belief in the divinity of Jesus Christ. Unfortunately their methods weren’t very friendly, and I’d say the vast majority of those passing by could reasonably take offense at the proselytizers’ all-encompassing denunciations.

Besides these outgoing religion-pushers, there is a fairly high percentage of the population throughout my native state of North Carolina who make a point to speak forcefully in favor of the superiority of their religious beliefs over all others. Many people seek to actively enforce their beliefs over the greater population. A great example is taking place right now, as religious conservatives are attempting to push through the North Carolina General Assembly an amendment to the state constitution that would ban same-sex marriages, even though there is already a quite capable state law to that effect.

I am not a Christian. I’m not completely an atheist, at the moment, but I certainly don’t conform to the ideas of any organized religion. And I must say, who I am, my identity and just the nature of me, Marjorie, would make plenty of diehard religionists rail against my “sinfulness.”

Christians and Muslims alike, of the zealous sort, would take issue with me. But who wouldn’t they take issue with, honestly? Even themselves if they weren’t blinded by their own sense of righteousness… Anyway, that’s not what this blog post is for, so I’ll try to contain my own ranting.

What I’ve been musing about lately is the similarities between religious pressure in my American tamazirt and here in my Moroccan tamazirt. In both homes I’d say I’ve experienced fairly similar religious pressure, or as some might say, religious harassment.

Most Peace Corps Volunteers here complain at least to some extent about the religious harassment we receive. To be sure, it can reach very uncomfortable levels of pressure. As I’ve mentioned in recent posts, I’m very thankful to be in a situation in which I don’t get too much pressure. My host mother, the member of my host family who matters the most to me, has never given me the slightest pressure. Other members of the family have given me some, but I brush their comments aside. Their infrequent comments are just like water off a duck’s back. People in my village who don’t know me or don’t know me well will make comments from time to time, but someone else usually sticks up for me and tells them to leave me alone. Again, water sliding off oily feathers.

People who aren’t from my tamazirt can be another thing entirely. Every once in a while there will be someone I’ve never seen before who takes it upon themselves to be forceful beyond the bounds of propriety, at least in my book. Those would-be-converters who have no respect for another’s personal beliefs are the ones who make me the angriest, no matter the place or the religion to be imposed. But when the religion offers brownie points to those who convert non-believers, and the religion plays such a visible role, officially, in the lives of more than 99% of the population, I’d say more people are inclined to be pushy.

Other religion peddlers I’ve come across don’t make me angry at all, because I believe they sincerely wish only the best for me. The best in their experience and in their world knowledge is the religion they have lived within all their lives. The best example of this sort of pressure is my host grandmother, my host mother’s mother. She’s a wonderful old lady. I care about her and I believe she genuinely cares about me. When she recently said that I should fast during Ramadan this year, as I have in the two years before, I tried to let her down easy. She insisted that fasting was the hard part, so since I’ve got that down I should just start praying and then the way to paradise would open up to me. Even though she was persistent, she never explicitly put down the religion of my parents, as some zealots who lack any sort of respect will do. She just spoke out of wanting my success and happiness.

Some PCVs would hear the story of my host grandmother and rail on about their own disgust at all religious pressure, as it’s all harassment to them. Definitely the vast majority of it counts as harassment, but personally I try to give each instance its own analysis.

And then I always think about the religious harassment I’ve gotten back in America. Knowing that a large number of my fellow citizens there, in all their supposed worldly knowledge and open-mindedness, are actively trying to impose their beliefs on me and others through legal restrictions on our lives, in areas that would truly have no affect on them anyway, makes me a bit angrier than the sorts of harassment that I encounter here in Morocco.

This morning I was headed out of town, walking out my door just at the right time to catch the bus if it wasn’t running early. I didn’t have any plans that were too pressing, but transportation has been so off lately that a missed chance can mean sitting at the road for another hour. As I opened the front door I found my old man neighbor standing outside… and apparently he felt like talking. I couldn’t very well pass up the chance to hang out with him, so I found my bus-timing thrown off. All for the better, though, as I’ve learned here in my village.

My dear old neighbor was in a fine mood this morning. Before I knew it he was off telling me all about his trials and tribulations with the id bu pijou, the men who drive pick-up trucks around to buy prickly pears off of people. This time of year most people in my village and in the surrounding countryside take their donkeys out into the fields and hills to gather prickly pears, what they call taknarit, to sell. For a large crate of the fruits they’ll get maybe 30 dirhams, or about $4.00.

As we were standing together one truck drove by and my neighbor just gave the man a wave. He started off talking about where the man was driving to, wondering if he’d fill up down the street or not. Another truck drove by, with another rolling wave, and this one really set old Baba Ahmed off.

Now my old neighbors’ Tashlheit is really hard for me to understand. Both of them go on and on and I’m lucky if I catch half of what they say. This story was no different. I think I understood what I did in the end just because he talked for so long! If I sat with them more I’d learn a lot, though. Anyway, the deal was this bu pijou stopped by one morning to see if Baba Ahmed had some taknarit to sell. I think he had one crate, while my old lady neighbor was out gathering some more. Whatever the case, Baba Ahmed said he’d sell a crate to the man for 700 riyals, or 35 dirhams, or about $4.20. The man replied that that was just a bit much. The discussion turned to the quality of the fruit, to which the man agreed they were indeed pretty nice prickly pears. After a bit Baba Ahmed said, “You know what, I’ll sell them to you right now for 600 riyals,” or 30 dirhams, or about $4.00. Still the man hesitated and said no. To which Baba Ahmed said, “I gathered these nice pears and brought them all the way home. Here I am saying I’d sell them to you for 600, when if I had come to you at the road (a 15-minute walk away) I’d have sold them to you for 800. So go ahead and give me 600, and I’ll sell them to you here and now.” Who knows why, but the man still wouldn’t do it even though the price was about average. Round and round about they went, according to my old man neighbor. Somehow the bu pijou moved on without the crate of pears. I can’t say as I understood everything very well, but after listening to dear Baba Ahmed for about 10 minutes, I think that’s the gist of what happened.

Our conversation, or rather his monologue, went on for probably 15 minutes all told. A few times I started to say, “I… I… I should go…” But I could never get to the full, “I need to go to Wednesday today.” I just didn’t have the heart. It was great to have a chance to hang out with him rather than just pass on by as I normally do when he’s sitting on the front step. And it was without a doubt worth it. When I finally got it out that I was going somewhere, he gave me his usual “God help you” and let me move on. I got to thinking, maybe sometime this week I should just go sit with him. Maybe tomorrow morning, that would be nice.

As I walked out of the edge of town and passed the school, I noticed a man way up ahead of me walking towards the road. The gait was familiar, though he wasn’t wearing his usual beige with an orangish-brown covering. The white and blue threw me off, but I was pretty sure it was him… and I thought I really didn’t feel up to chatting today. I slowed down to change our meeting point to somewhere closer to the road, which was still a solid ten minutes away from where I was. The thing is, the guy is one of the nicest people in town. He likes to talk a lot, though, and I wasn’t feeling up to it. But if I slowed down to stretch out the time between us, I’d surely miss the bus. Finally I told myself to buck up and move along. Here I was semi-dreading the socializing that I’d have to do…

But as I got closer and he turned to look back my way, still far off, I suddenly realized I was smiling. It was the same involuntary smile that I find on my face rather often, when I think I feel exactly the opposite. I’ll be in a funk, not feeling up to talking to people (just like I experience back in America sometimes, but then with socializing in English), not at all excited about coming up to someone, but as soon as the interaction is upon me I’m smiling and sincerely happy to be chatting.

Not only was I, apparently, honestly happy to meet up with the Hajj, but the involuntary smile made me even happier. There’s just something about that sort of subconscious comfort and enjoyment that highlights just how much this place feels like home.

I get the same feeling sometimes when I head over to my host family’s house every once in a while. In my mind I think I don’t wanna see anyone, I just want to go to bed so I can wake up in a new day that might be better, but I go over to visit because it’s been too long since my last visit. The guilt finally pulls me over to their place. The amazing thing, though, is that the moment I hear my host mother’s steps coming toward the door, or I hear little Anwar’s “shoon, shoon?” (because he can’t quite get out the “shkoon?” to ask who’s knocking), I feel myself lighting up in a smile. By the time they finally open the door I’m holding back a big grin and I don’t know where the earlier hesitation has vanished to.

So this morning when I came upon the Hajj we settled in to our usual pleasantries. He’s a good conversationalist, usually talking my ear off about something with a few questions thrown in here and there. He especially enjoys talking about religion (in an open-minded, not-the-least-bit-pressuring sort of way) and learning new English phrases about God. Today I attempted to teach him “We thank God” (nshkrr-rbbi in his language). He got “We God” down pretty well, next time he’ll have it for sure.

As we chatted we walked slowly, rather haltingly, toward the road. He even stopped several times when he wanted to emphasize a point. While I was enjoying listening, I found myself looking in the direction of where the bus would come, thinking how nice it would be to actually catch it. A transit van stopped along the road and sat for a while, apparently waiting for us. Finally the driver honked his horn and waved his hands to ask if we were headed to Tiznit. I told the Hajj that I was going to Wednesday, but I knew he was going to Tiznit as he always does. Even then, he waved the driver on his way. Here I was hoping to catch a ride, while this friendly old man passed up on a chance purely to continue his conversation with me.

When we got to the road he even sat next to me under the bus stop shelter rather than pass over to the other side where he could wave down a ride. He asked if I wanted to go sit over there, but I said I’d rather stay on the side for my direction. The conversation dropped off a bit, but we were still chatting by the time a transit van headed in my direction came along. He kept talking as I stood, then asked if I was going to wave my hand to see about a ride. I said I would and he told me to go along. Again, I felt a little bad leaving a good conversation and a kind old man, but I’d reached the point when I needed to take whatever ride I could get. Thankfully I don’t think he took it too hard, either.

This is an awfully long story, probably not too interesting to a lot of people, but I wrote it more for my own memory. What I mean to say to anyone else about all this is how nice it is to take the time to spend with people rather than always be rushing to make appointments or get to business. I imagine I won’t be able to enjoy this luxury back in the States quite as much as I can here. It’s just a different way of life.

And finally I want to remember about how my day ended just as well as it started. Just now as I was walking back into town I saw several people, some I know, others I don’t know. Even the ones I don’t know said hello, which usually, but doesn’t always, happen. The ones I do know were awfully nice and seemed just as happy to see me as I was to see them. One little girl was sitting with a friend when she saw me walking up. She jumped up and walked over to give me a kiss on the cheek. Her friend didn’t come over, but she still said hello with a smile.

As I passed the mosque I saw my old man neighbor sitting with a couple other old men in their little semi-secluded corner, as they do every evening. I never know whether I should wave and say hello to them or respect their distance, so I just say hello anyway. My neighbor used to always give me a slight greeting while motioning that perhaps I shouldn’t look over the wall quite so much. Tonight he gave me a real wave along with the other men. We’ve come a long way, the two of us! Another old man up there laughs every time he sees me as he gives me a hearty greeting. He was there tonight, laughing and waving his raised cane as a hello. I felt a little bad as I rounded the corner and he was still calling out his laughing how are you’s in my direction, but I figured it’d be better to pass on as usual out of respect for their privacy. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mind.

I saw a few more people on the remaining 60-second walk to my house and enjoyed smiles from them too. What a comforting thing… Home feels so good.

Today I found myself chatting with my three main nurses at the central clinic in my market town. My counterpart nurse, who mans the tiny dispensary in my village and with whom I spend the most time, gave me a ride into town after we made the usual Friday visit to the satellite clinic in my village Just Over the Hill. At the central clinic we found both the head nurse, the Nurse Major, and the regular nurse. The Nurse Major is my favorite counterpart of them all–a really nice man who’s just like an uncle.

As we went through the normal pleasantries and hellos, of course the question came up of whether I was fasting or not. I replied that no, I wasn’t, and I’ve only fasted one day so far during this Ramadan. Maybe I’ll do another day soon…

My Nurse Major smiled and said, “A day at the beginning and a day at the end would be nice, plenty!”

My counterpart nurse insisted quite forcely, “There’s freedom in religion, you don’t have to fast.”

And the other nurse, a gruff man who’s grown on me quite a lot since we started to open up to each other, exclaimed, “One day, baraka! Enough!” I get the feeling fasting is a bit hard on him, especially since he normally takes smoking breaks throughout the day at work.

I enjoyed hearing their different bits of advice, each so much like the man’s individual personality.

The conversation made me think, again, about how I’m thankful to live in a place where the vast majority of people respect religious differences and refrain from pressuring others to conform to their own beliefs and customs.