{post-doomsday}

I had a different post on cue to publish weeks ago, filled with wonderful photos of a village stay and the beautiful blue city of Chefchaouen I visited in October. But in light of the election results, it didn't feel authentic to share an account of my peaceful week sheepherding and watching sunsets over olive groves -- at least, not until I wrote this post. I didn't want to give the impression that I am blissfully ignorant of the chaos and division wildly growing in the States.

I didn't prepare myself for a Trump presidency; this much is true. I had recognized the possibility, but readily lulled myself into a false sense of security, confident that the rest of my country would come together or come to their senses and pick the sane, safer choice. Which, ultimately the majority did, according to Hillary Clinton's 2.5 million (and growing) popular vote lead. The system screwed her over.

The night of the election, I drifted in and out of a nightmare. My body was still recovering from an awful bout of food poisoning. Each time I woke to the frantic buzzing of the J-Squad Facebook message, I checked the updated results. They were heading in the wrong direction. It was too close. My confidence was fading. The last time I looked at my phone before finally going to sleep, Trump was only a few electoral votes away from the 270 mark. Still unwilling to accept defeat, I thought, "Hill will pull through. She has to," and proceeded to whisper a prayer into my pillow. Three very short hours later, I woke to the call for morning prayer. I immediately checked my phone and went into what was probably a state of shock. I sprang from my bed seconds later, a feat for my weak body, to confront my host parents, who had assured my of Hillary's impending triumph the night before.

"Maman, Baba, Trump a gagné. He is the next president of the United States."

My host-mother looked at me with sympathetic brown eyes. "Je suis très désolée. Judith m'a dit ce matin." She continued to tell me that Judith, her first host-daughter from 5 years ago, whom I recently met on her latest return visit to Morocco, also wanted me to know she was very sorry for me and my country.

I stood staring at them for another minute, perhaps waiting for them to tell me it was all a sick joke. Instead, Maman offered me permanent residency. The reality of the situation had not yet sunk in, yet I was having a visceral reaction. I felt unwell. I retreated to my bedroom and closed the door, head resting in my hands, my elbows making red circles as they pressed into my shaking knees.

~     ~     ~

Instead of reading before bed, I now sign petitions. Every 15-20 minutes I scan through updates and articles sent to my e-mail. It's hard to find reliable news. If there's anything I've learned studying journalism in Morocco (read: a country with no free press), it's that the media can be very influential (and this government knows it). News outlets have the power to sway the results of an election, not necessarily with blatantly biased reporting, but by strategically choosing which topics they are going to cover and using coded terminology when discussing particular candidates. I am of the mind that the media, more than anything, is to blame for the outcome of this year's election.

Post-election day, I've been forced to analyze and dissect my identity in unhealthy ways. I've worked hard these past few years to accept and view myself as a multifaceted, yet whole person. This is a setback. Now, I am constantly thinking about the ways I could and quite possibly will be further 'oppressed' in the next four years. I question the safety of my friends and family. I've internally debated which of our rights will be stripped away first, only to have these thoughts confirmed in the latest headlines. I am smacked in the face with each new realization, but I don't think the absurdity of Donald Trump and three red branches of government will hit me full force until I am back in the U.S. come January. Inauguration time.

I am scared. I am angry. But fear and anger can be powerful motivators when paired with a just cause. I want to dedicate my time and energy to protecting myself and those I love. I feel like an "armchair activist" right now, but I know there's only so much I can do while I'm an ocean away. I'm trying. First and foremost, I am exercising self-care. I'm signing petitions and sharing what I've found to be accurate, reliable articles on social media. However, when the hate crimes, white privilege, and echo chamber overwhelm my newsfeed, I shut it down and continue the work elsewhere. I'm applying for various summer internships in D.C., Boston, New York, and Chicago, all working on protecting and advocating for reproductive autonomy and the rights of marginalized peoples. I feel that this is my best way to mobilize.

I intend to do my part, because I want to live in a country that I am proud of. So I implore you, accept the call to action and do your part too. 

{c'est la vie}

The other day, my friend Deborah said after lunch, "You can't eat and digest at the same time. You first need to swallow, and then give your body the time it needs to break down the food." 

We were talking about our adjustment to Morocco, and her metaphor quickly resonated with me. We’re in school for 10+ hours each day, have another 2-4 hours of homework, and the rest of our minutes are spent with our host families or sleeping. I watched two snails race each other yesterday with my host sister, just to break up my Saturday dedicated to chipping away at my endless list of things to do. There’s been little time for exploring or regular self-reflection, though I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in these past six weeks. 

While the topics are almost always fascinating, our daily lectures at the CCCL (Center for Cross-Cultural Learning) require immense mental engagement. Our lecturers range from Islamic scholars advocating for women’s rights to political communications directors working to instill democratic republics in developing nations. We are blessed to engage with such passionate professionals willing to share their time and knowledge with us from their very diverse fields of expertise.

I’m struggling a bit with my assignments, which means more of my time is taken up to do revisions. At my very core, I am an academic. I’ve been trained to think and write a certain way. Most of my college classes have been in the realms of literature, anthropology, sociology, and psychology. Though I’ve thoroughly developed critical thinking skills, which is helpful when generating interview questions and identifying larger societal issues surrounding a story, I have a tendency to immediately analyze. Analysis is not a part of the reporting process. Reporters are supposed to be unbiased at all costs—the job is to simply tell a story by telling the truth. Thus, I’ve also been told to “dumb down” my language, which makes sense, but still requires me to break habits. The point of an article isn’t to show off how deeply I’ve contemplated the information I’ve found with flowery, 10-point vocabulary; it’s to share it with as many people as possible. It needs to be linguistically accessible.

While I really do appreciate all that I’m learning in this “everything I do is wrong” phase, I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for the journalist gig. It’s hard. Especially in Morocco, where there’s no such thing as free press under a corrupt monarchy and most Moroccans think I’m an American spy the minute I start asking questions. I’m already burnt out, and I’m just a student. I can’t imagine doing this full-time only to make around $100 per article. 

Also, did you know it’s an unspoken rule that journalists don’t vote??? Considering I’ve gone through hell and back this past week to send my essentially insignificant ballot back to the U.S., I’ve already broken rule #1. Journalists also avoid activism and participating in acts of protest in general. Unfortunately for me, I happen to have emotions and opinions that I desperately feel a need to share with the world. 

Anyways, take a quick break from my feelings and check out some photos from J-Squad’s southern excursion through the cities of Meknes, Volubulis, Fes, Azrou, Ouarzazate, Merzouga, and Marrakech!

Here's a quick map of Morocco so you can see how much of the country we actually saw. It amazes me how diverse Morroco's terrain is -- we went from coastline to forest to desert to mountains in just 6 days!

Silversmith's shop, Meknes

The silversmith simultaneously unravels the silver string and softly pounds it into the iron plate. There is no predetermined design; he creates from memory.

Volubulis

These are the partially unearthed ruins of the ancient Roman city.

Mural depicting Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt (i.e. my fave)

City of Fes

The old medina of Fes has over 9,600 alleyways. In order to safely navigate through the medina and visit the famed tanneries and souks, tourists must hire a resident guide. 

Weavers' workshop, Fes Medina

Tanneries, Fes Medina

Pottery shop, Fes
Here, the artist is slowly chipping away at the glaze to create the pre-drawn pattern.

Cedar Forest, Azrou

Before making our way to the desert, we caught a morning glimpse of the Barbary macaque.

Sahara Desert, Merzouga

I referred to my camel as Sasha Fierce during the 20 minutes we shared together.

Spent about 40 minutes searching for a sunrise hidden amongst the clouds in the Sahara desert, only to meet a small sand storm. It took about 10 minutes before I was one with the dune. 

Dadès Gorge, Merzouga

Girls Dormitory, Ourzazate

Dormitories like this are scattered throughout more rural areas of southern Morocco to aid young women in their studies. In addition to attending high school or university, these girls can take vocational training courses in subjects such as craftsmanship, business, and computer science.

Jamaa el-Fna, Marrakech

Les Jardins Marjorelle, Marrakech

This past week, I’ve had quite a few deep, insightful conversations with my host mom. We’ve casually covered vote-buying and election rigging in politics (as Morocco just held national elections this past Friday, October 7th), the failures of the public education system (sound familiar?), and the stigma that still exists surrounding inter-ethnic (Berber-Arab) Moroccan marriages.

I listened intently as she told me about the hardest year of her life, when Baba lost his job and she miscarried with twins. I continued to sit in silence as she told me how she worries this may be Oumayma’s last year in private school, as it is no longer affordable and costs as much as the house. She knows how important it is for Morocco to educate their daughters and recalled having to drop out of school herself when her father didn't have the money to purchase her textbooks. Despite the pain deeply saturated in her words, Maman told me this and more with a soft smile on her face. Even the heavy sigh that prefaced the end of our talk couldn’t break it; she simply looked me in the eyes and said, “c’est la vie.”

She’s right. Life throws shit at us all the time. As I spend most of this blog post complaining about things I can control, I only hope to handle life with as much strength, grace, and sensibility as Maman. 

All we can do is pray, إن شاء الله Inshallah, that the world will be kinder in the future. 

{Hawli}

Today was the first day in the past week I have not woken up to the sound of a sheep “baaing” on the roof. In fact, the thousands of sheep on the terraces of many homes in the Medina and throughout Morocco have finally been silenced in preparation for Hawli, or the celebration of Eid as referred to by Moroccans. My host family and I have dubbed the holiday in French, “la fête de mouton,” though I doubt it was much of a party for the 7 million sheep that were sacrificed yesterday…

This short video, made by my friend and classmate Shirley Chan, does a great job of explaining the significance of the ceremony. 

This was our hawli, our ram. I came home from school one day, went up to the terrace to say hello to my host-mother, and saw this guy trying to eat the paint off the wall. Apparently, he had successfully chewed to bits the extension cord used to power the radio.

This is where the magic happens.

My host mother spent all night baking hawla, or an array of small cookies made for Eid. She didn't go to sleep until 6am, only to then wake at 8:30am!

Khobz, or bread, bakes in the ferrane (oven). Regular khobz rests on the bottom shelf, while a special type made for Eid is on top. 

My younger brother, Soulaymane (1.5), helps Maman (Nadia) with the cooking. 

After the kill, the hawli (ram) is skinned and gutted. 

lungs and esophagus

the liver and the heart

Baba (Mohammed) cut up pieces of the liver and lungs, wrapped them in fat, and pushed them onto a kabob.

 the final product (honestly wasn't sure I could eat it after watching the sacrifice and gutting, but it was cooked to perfection and smothered in delicious spices)

It’s hard to believe I’ve already been in Morocco for almost three weeks. Though I am still often overwhelmed by the constant stimulus of being in a foreign country, I am more comfortable with my surroundings each day. Everyone at the CCCL has been so kind and welcoming, regularly checking in with students to make sure we are adjusting at a healthy pace. I am learning my way around the Medina much faster than I expected — I was able to make my way back to my house from the CCCL after following the route with my host-mother just once. The Medina, meaning “the old part of the city” in Darija, is an intricate maze of very historic homes, small shops, and a produce market. While it’s not very big per say, a map of the Medina does not exist, and if it did, it would have to be changed quite often due to the multiple restorations always taking place. 

the CCCL (Center for Cross-Cultural Learning)

Mama Doha, our homestay coordinator, taught students how to make the famed Moroccan dish, couscous. Here's another amazing video shot and edited by Shirley Chan. 

I moved in with my host family on Thursday, September 1st. My host mother’s name is Nadia, my father’s Mohammed. I have three host siblings; Mouad (14), Omaima (10), and Salaymane (1.5). They are all wonderful. I have been speaking French almost exclusively with them all, except for Soulaymane, who has his own special baby language. Every once in a while my host father will ask me a question in his native Berber tongue, Amazigh, patiently waiting for a response as I blink back at him with a blank face. I’m throwing more Darija (Moroccan Arabic) and Fus’ha (classical Arabic) into the conversation as I learn more at school. We are learning the two languages simultaneously in our daily 2-3 hour course. Needless to say, it has been quite confusing and very difficult. 

We’ve also dived right into our journalism courses. We are lucky to have academic director and journalist Anna Jacobs along with renowned international journalist, Aida Alami, whose pieces are often featured in publications like The New York Times and The Washington Post, as our guides. Last week was exhausting. Some days, we were at the CCCL for up to 11 hours learning about the history of journalism in Morocco and its current political climate. We also had our first writing assignment on food, which required us to expand our comfort zones and collect at least 3 interviews. Between the cultural/language barrier and Moroccan suspicion of the media, this was not an easy task. Many interviewees were reluctant or unwilling to provide their names, ages, or any information, despite us telling them we were American students interested in learning and writing about Moroccan cuisine. Additionally, the Moroccan daily schedule is incredibly different from what I'm used to. Many families don’t prepare dinner until after 10pm, meaning us students don’t get to sleep until well after midnight, and have early school mornings Mon-Fri. Although it’s hectic and I’m not sure I’ll ever feel well-rested again, it’s also very exciting and I know it’s all necessary preparation for our ISPJ period, where we will be living, conducting research, and writing all on our own for 5 weeks. 

Is she not the prettiest princess you've ever seen? Her kaftan was made by my host mother, who has three certificates in artisanship. She also crochets, sews, and decorates baskets. 

 After drying out in the sun for a day, the meat was cut up and roasted on kabobs. Next to the kabobs are the brains, roasting over the coals. I did not partake in eating this particular delicacy. 

Tajine with lamb accompanied with salades and khobz

I’ve already made so many incredible memories and forged what I hope are lifelong connections with my host family and students at the CCCL. I’m adjusting to life in Morocco quickly. I’ve got all the songs on the kids channel Soulaymane likes to watch memorized. I can now drink the tap water without heading straight to the toilet (not that it’s unsafe, just treated with different chemicals. However, there are moments, especially on days like Hawli, it’s hard not to ask myself, “Is this happening for real?” As I walked through the streets of the Medina today past smoldering sheep heads, feeling the eyes of loitering men watching my every move, I had to stop and process. This is new and strange for me, but this is simply the way things are. I’ll take the time to feel my feelings when I need to, but I’ve found accepting reality is much easier when I don’t isolate myself from the situation. Thankfully, there are also many moments scattered throughout my days that remind me things here are not so different from my life in the United States. Last week, I went shopping for school clothes with Oumayma, my host mother, and her sister in an Old Navy-esque outlet store. At dinner the other night, Soulaymane bopped his head along to Rihanna’s “Work” and Mouad proceeded to know every word to the following Drake song. Before bed last night, Oumayma sang “Let It Go” in French after she recounted every princess story she’d ever heard (a very musical family indeed).

I am safe, I am happy, and I have consumed more lamb in the past 36 hours than I thought was possible. 

عيد مبارك

Eid Mubarak Said!

{week one} Hotel Darna

I am convinced there is nothing more uncomfortably intimate than occupying the middle seat between two strangers on an international, overnight flight. It was a long journey to Morocco; 3 flights, 3 countries, and 3 continents in 24 hours. While waiting for my flight to Rabat in Paris' Charles-de-Gaulle airport, I met quite a few other students studying abroad or interning in Morocco. There are three SIT (School for International Training) programs based in Rabat for the fall semester; "Journalism and New Media," "Migration and Transnational Identity," and "Multiculturalism and Human Rights." I am in the Journalism group, affectionately known as 'J-Squad,' which is made up of 11 young women from the U.S. and Europe. More than half of the students are from or attend college in Minnesota, which is an interesting coincidence. This, along with the fact that the program is all-female (for the first time), makes me feel like I have a bit of Minnesota and Mount Holyoke here with me in Morocco. 

I arrived in Rabat a day earlier than most of the SIT program students. I booked my flight before we were given an exact date and time to fly in. Luckily, there was another student in the Migration program, Caleb, who had done the same thing. We were on the same flight from Paris and shared a taxi from the airport to Hotel Darna, where students would be staying for orientation week. Our taxi driver spoke little to no English, just Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, and a bit of broken French. Whisking through the city streets in a vehicle with no seatbelts and no A/C in the 95 degree heat, I sat exhausted and wide-eyed with immediate culture shock. As we crossed the river from Salé and entered the city of Rabat, I lit up—the picturesque view of the beautiful, fortified coastal city appeared right before my eyes. It was the spitting image of the first photo of Morocco I saw when considering study abroad (included below). Thankfully, between Caleb's study of Arabic and my passable French we were able to engage in casual conversation with the driver, and, more importantly, get ourselves to where we needed to be. 

My first visual impression of Rabat, courtesy of Google images

Views of Rabat's Medina (old part of the city) from the rooftop terrace of Hotel Darna, which rests just outside

Very few families own washing/drying machines; most laundry is done by hand and then hung to dry on the rooftop terraces

Stray cats roam the streets of Rabat, looking for food & lounging in the sun

 To combat jet lag, Caleb and I stayed awake until a reasonable evening hour the day we arrived. We explored the area near the hotel and grabbed dinner on a restaurant terrace. Our 3-course meal featured the famed sweet Moroccan mint tea (above) and chicken tajine. 

View of the Atlantic Ocean

I've been using and relying on my French a lot more than I anticipated. Because Moroccans learn French as a second language, they are patient with my grammar mistakes, and I feel much more comfortable speaking with them than I do with native French speakers. Essentially, they avoid conjugating as much as I do. 

Encompassing all that has happened this past week in one blog post is next to impossible. I've met so many wonderful, interesting people both within the SIT programs and out. As I write this from the top terrace of the Cross-Cultural Center for Learning, I still can't believe I am here. The Atlantic on my left, the entire city of Salé across the river to my right, and Rabat (Medina and all) behind me, I am in disbelief. I have already been challenged in many ways, such as learning to bargain with shopkeepers in basic Darija, completing a "drop-off" exercise in which I had to find my way back to the CCCL alone from a random location in Rabat, and living with my Moroccan host family, who only speak Darija, Fus'ha (Modern Standard Arabic), and some French.

My days this week have been long and full; I am excited for a more relaxed weekend with my host family. More to come next week!