Much Needed Update

Greetings, loved ones!

First and foremost, I apologize profusely for my less than stellar commitment to this rather vacant blog.  These past six weeks in Morocco have flown by, blessed me with a myriad of crazy/beautiful/intriguing encounters, and kept me occupied to such a level that consistent updates required a certain inertia I haven’t been able to harness until now.  Sure, the primary impediment has been pure laziness, but there’s just something about living here that encourages an adherence to spontaneity and a rejection of planning.  Oftentimes when I’ve mentally scheduled downtime in my room to devote an hour or so to blogging, I’ve been whirled into some sort of midnight adventure with my host sister in the medina or enveloped in a discussion with one of the many guests that frequent my house.  I do hope you can forgive me.

Before I delve into This Moroccan Life, I’d like to update y’all briefly about my plans for Egypt this fall.  If you’ve insulated yourself from all things politics (shame on you, if you have!), then you should know that Egypt is currently enmeshed in a complex political upheaval.  Mohammed Morsi, Egypt’s first democratically elected president, was recently ousted by a popular uprising with the vehement support of the Egyptian military (probably the most interesting, confusing military unit to have ever existed in the world. Ever.).  Some are praising these events as a necessary and profound democratic outburst that has eradicated an increasingly authoritarian leadership, while others are branding the situation as wholly undemocratic and a reversal of the political liberalization the 2011 revolution aimed to realize.  I fall somewhere in the middle, half in awe of the seemingly endless power concentrated in the Egyptian people who have, within two brief years, beautifully congregated to effect their dissatisfaction into the tangible reality of ousting their questionable leadership figures, half in frustration with the unpredictable, unreliable enigma that is Egyptian politics.  The frustration is selfish at its root, for most of the animosity I feel stems from the fact that the situation in Egypt might prove too dangerous for study abroad at the American University in Cairo this fall.  As of now, I am applying to an intensive Arabic program in Jordan rather begrudgingly just to be safe.  I’m naturally suspect of language programs owned by American companies. I chose to study independently at a university in Cairo because I don’t see the point in being insulated in a little Westernized bubble with an institutionalized schedule imposed on me in a foreign country. Every time I see the hoards of American students part of language programs meandering around in Rabat, I can’t help but roll my eyes and praise the heavens I never have to do that.  Later this month I’ll have to come to an official conclusion, potentially appeal to the Wellesley safety board for institutional approval for travel to Egypt, and make the risk to devote myself to a country that could easily slip into a far more treacherous situation than we are witnessing now.  As mentioned in the previous post, Egypt is my dream.  The events unraveling now have had a (very) negative visceral effect on me, manifesting in a sort of manic addiction to reading news updates on the country and a (very) melodramatic sob story I’ll bemoan in my (very) broken Arabic to any Moroccan who will listen.  Yet, with the tragic news that over fifty pro-Morsi supporters were killed in what seems to be a military massacre is not favorable and speaks of a deeper divide amongst Egyptians than I had originally thought.  Of course, I plan on placing my safety first and would never opt for Egypt if I thought even for a minute I might not be safe.  My primary concern is with the Egyptians, that they succeed in obtaining the political freedom and clarity they so ardently deserve.  If I can’t study there this fall, I’ll find a way to get there next summer, or after I graduate, or whenever it is that I can go.  I’ve given up on so many important things in my life, but I refuse to give up on Egypt.

 So, Morocco.  I live with the most glorious host family:

-Mother (Rabia).  50 something, persistently smiling, persistently encouraging me to eat.  Her husband died of cancer in 2000, since then she’s made her home into a locus of wanderers.  She hosts students and volunteers from all over the world year round and claims second-mother status to a collection of young Moroccan boys who frequent the house for advice, love, and food.  The first time I met her, an endlessly warm smile emerged on her face as she embraced me in an all-encompassing hug that conveyed an immediate sense of welcoming in her home.  She doesn’t speak a lick of English, which, lucky for me, allows plentiful opportunity to practice my Arabic.  Every morning we have our coffee and bread together and navigate through a cautious yet lively discussion about anything and everything. 

-Sister (Sarah).  17, braces-laden, firecracker, ball-breaker extraordinaire.  After about five minutes of knowing each other, Sarah, in her charming English accent, told me, “Julia, you are a crazy, but a good kind of crazy”(Julia being my nomme de plume in Morocco since most people here have difficulty pronouncing my name).  These past six weeks, Sarah and I have mixed our “crazy” personalities together, oftentimes escaping the house at night to maze through the medina, which usually erupts in a game we invented.  Said game involves running down the street screaming; whoever garners the highest number of weird looks from spectators wins.  I’m the clear champion amongst this dynamic duo.  Other times we’ll sit and talk about good ole Life, or, mostly, her myriad of boyfriends who may or may not serve as fictitious figures in her mind.  Nonetheless, Sarah is the truest of gems, a confidante, a friend.

-Brother (Brahim).  24, suave, skinny, Moroccan version of Johnny Bravo.  My first encounters with Brahim were less than savory.  Groomed to the point of exhaustion, he utilizes his computer science degree by lounging around the house and rotating his outfits like Egypt rotates its presidents (sorry, had to make that joke).  I suppose my initial frustration with him stemmed from the stark juxtaposition I observed in the way in which his sisters and mother labor strenuously throughout the house while he labors strenuously on applying gel to his hair.  But actually.  Yet, after several lovely, if not interesting, conversations with him and daily, quality tv time together, he’s proved a rather rad brother to have.  How did I know he really saw me as his sister?  That one awkward time he snapped my bra when I sat next to him on the couch, followed by the entirety of my host family erupting into laughter. 

-Sister (Hajar). 22, quiet and sweet.  Hajar, the antithesis of her younger sister in terms of personality and crazy, is nothing but kind and gracious.  Unfortunately, we have not been able to spend much time together as she’s been staying with relatives to study for the baccalaureate, a series of exams one must pass after high school in order to obtain entrance into Moroccan universities.

-Australian volunteer/housemate (Colleen).  60, quirky, world traveler, mother of four.  I have the fortunate experience of sharing this house with Colleen.  Despite her bright silver hair and tendency of getting into accidents (she fell down our marble staircase a month ago and a rather oblivious man on his motorcycle ran into her this past weekend), she possesses an incredible spirit for adventure and conveys an admirable sense of adaptability towards anything.  “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” is her personal mantra she likes to chant as she delves fearlessly into Moroccan life.  Before her stint with Projects Abroad teaching English in Rabat, she worked in an orphanage in Tanzania.  She’s been away from Australia since March, yet insists she’ll only go home for a brief period before she whirls herself into another four month volunteer expedition, most likely somewhere in South America and, should my vehement convincing succeed, a brief visit to Boston or Texas.  Before coming to Morocco, I blindly hoped no one in my house would speak English, that I’d be the only one living in this house from the West, that I’d be completely plunged into everything Moroccan.  And yet, having Colleen here sharing this experience with me has provided an immense amount of comfort.  Sometimes after an exhausting day of hearing nothing but Darija (the Moroccan dialect of Arabic), nestling with Colleen on the couch over a cup of tea and a peaceful (English) conversation is all I could ever want.

French volunteer (Martene).  61, super French, doctor, half my size and weight.  Martene is one of those people that fulfills and solidifies every single French stereotype you could ever imagine, minus the whole sporting a beret thing.  She’s petite, laughs like this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jx25Tnts1E, fashions only the most suave clothes, and rolls her own cigarettes that she smokes rather incessantly on the roof.  I had the pleasurable experience of sharing a freshly French cigarette or two with her on the roof these past few weeks, and every time the lame 13 year old girl inside me squeals with delight as literal coolness drips from my Parisian tobacco vessel.  She speaks very little English, so we communicate as follows:

-She says what she can in English

-If she can’t communicate effectively, she’ll say it in French

-I respond in English

-If she doesn’t understand, I just say whatever I need to in English with a French accent. 

We have around a 47% success rate. 

Besides the aforementioned, Rabia’s sister named Zhor and two sons, Kamal and Ismael, live with us this summer for company and help with house work.  Additionally, it seems about half of Rabat frequents the house just because.  Sometimes I come home from work to find a literal party going on.  Sometimes there are babies and I take care of them, sometimes there are Italian girls and we go to the beach and smoke their rolled cigarettes (I promise I’m not addicted to cigarettes now, but when a European offers you their tobacco, you simply can’t refuse). All in all, it’s a rather full house bordering on hostel.  Initially I found the constant human interaction overwhelming; going to sleep every night emerged as an excruciating task of trying to block out the chitter chatter in the living room, and because slutiness is apparently inherently American, I had the unfortunate effect of mentally scarring one Moroccan young male visitor when he saw me as I decided to walk to my room from the shower in my towel.  I guess he had never seen a woman’s bare legs before or something, and ever  since that fateful moment he cannot look me in the eyes whenever I see him at home.  Yet humans are adaptable, and adapted I am to this crazy house (special shout out to OLIVIA for bringing me ear plugs from Germany).  Plus, our stunning house decorated with stunning Moroccan tile is nestled in the heart of the Rabat medina, so I’m getting a “real” Moroccan experience away from the more Westernized, upper-end neighborhoods in Rabat. On rare occasions I’ll slip into my room during the day and find the house enveloped in an eerie silence.  I don’t like that; I like the laughter and screams and chatter of my big, big Moroccan family. 

Besides home life there’s work.  As mentioned in my previous post, I intern at the Center for Cross Cultural Learning, Rabat’s finest cultural and educational institute that hosts study abroad programs, offers a variety of language course, and provides informative lectures for the public.  My favorite part of working there is working alongside amazing, beautiful, intelligent Moroccans.  The guys are wholly hilarious who indulge themselves by telling the three American interns their dirty, bordering on frightening, Moroccan jokes.  The women are essentially the nicest people I’ve ever met, frequently asking me several times a day how every single person important to me is doing.  In the morning I work at the library, which is housed in a building separate from the main center. I attend to on an online database of the center’s library collection, as well as other tasks such as locating readings online for local professors and scanning things.  In the afternoon I reside in the main center where I work for the Arabic Department, this mainly consists of coming up with outlines/presentations for scheduled study abroad programs, emails, writing reviews of presentation, more emails.  Despite the general laxness of this internship, I am so appreciative for the sense of inclusiveness and efficacy I feel working at this institution.  My Arabic Director refers to me as her colleague, I can curse freely around certain male staff, and my highest of bosses is probably the most bad ass, accomplished, progressive woman I’ve ever met (she actively seeks out female employees, hence the rather disproportionate gender make up of the center).  Plus, I work alongside the loveliest of interns:

Sybil, a senior at Connecticut College, who is the sweetest!  

And this crazy Wellesley bafoon.  I savor every minute at the CCCL.

So, what’s next for this blog?  I promise within the next few days I’ll update on adjusting to Morocco and the wonderful friends I’ve made in the medina.  I’ll write on my trips to Fes, Essaouira, and Oulmes.  And more!  But, before I leave, I present you with a brief list that reflects only a fraction of the crazy, beautiful shenanigans I’ve gotten myself into:

1.    Accidentally walked in on a gender-segregated funeral while carrying a sandwich

2.    Purchased a purple baby chicken in the market and named him Jesus.  Poor guy died, but according to the Bible he should be arising soon

3.    Befriended a professional begger and we now engage in daily hugs

4.    Randomly met the Moroccan Minister of Tourism, Moroccan Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Egyptian Advisor to the Minister of Environmental Affairs within a span of one week

5.    Paid a man in the Fes medina to ride his donkey for an hour

6.    Went to the hammam (Turkish bathhouse) where I was laboriously scrubbed from head to toe (naked) on the tile floor by a (naked) female stranger

7.    Got in a taxi car accident

8.    Tried a “special” form of hookah and had a rather “special” night walk in the souk

9.    Had delicious yogurt in Essaouira that had a profound effect on the mind

10. Danced, danced, danced like a fool at a score of African-themed concerts

Marhaba men Al-Maghrib!  (Hello from Morocco!)

After a long, arduous journey including several pit stops in Spain, the relinquishment of my soul and several hundred dollars to pay for my luggage on a less than generous airline (coughcough Vueling), and a twelve hour layover in Madrid where I was offered marijuana by a Spanish-speaking Russian man (don’t worry, I politely declined the invitation), I arrived in Morocco.  This summer, I’m interning at the Center for Cross Cultural Learning, an educational institute in Rabat that offers a variety of programs, services, and events that collectively seek to promote cross-cultural engagement and immersion.  Besides work, I live with a lovely Moroccan family in the heart of the Old Medina, an illustrious maze of ancient streets and stunning homes that beautifully preserves classic Moroccan architecture despite a long and icky c-word by the French (for those of you who don’t know what the c word is, it’s colonization.  I plan on devoting a blog post to North African and Middle Eastern colonization in the future, but, until then, just know it’s the incomprehensible demon that keeps me awake at night).  After this summer, I’ll head to Cairo, Egypt where I plan to study Arabic at the Arabic Language Institute at the American University in Cairo.  Egypt has been my dream for the past couple of years, and now it’s quite close to emerging as a tangible reality.  Wild, absolutely fucking wild.  But, alas, it’s only June.  I’ve been in Rabat for just over a week; Morocco, that nebulous and stunning North African gem, deserves the spotlight for the next couple of months on this blog.

For those of you who know me well, you know my deep interest in all things Arabic began in high school and has continued to flourish throughout college.  Once upon a time in an ICU hospital room during a medical internship my senior year of high school, I heard Arabic for the first time.  That afternoon, in a sort of dubious entrancement, I spent hours listening to Arabic on flimsy YouTube videos.  Later that year, while walking outside in the midst of a thick, thick Houston summer where the humidity becomes your persistently sweaty and suffocating companion, goose bumps trickled down my arm at the thought of traveling to the Arab region.

Studying Arabic and the Arab world has given my tongue and heart the ride of a lifetime, but a true education necessitates a thorough, visceral experience outside the confines of a classroom.  And my oh my have I been beautifully educated within the past week and a half.  What a precious, excruciatingly difficult, marvelously astounding experience it is to have arrived two Sundays ago at the Casablanca airport where I was immediately engulfed in Arabic, to wake up and go to sleep to the sound of my host family speaking their Moroccan dialect, to work in a library surrounded by books and books and books of Arabic, to cluelessly maneuver my way through streets where strangers boom with a language that, until now, I’ve only seen in a textbook and heard from my Arabic professor at Wellesley.  Having never left North America before this, the experience can culminate in unnerving moments of overwhelming paranoia.  Sometimes I have to plop myself down and have a good cry to release the immensity that is this place.  Not to fret, though, loved ones!  This ain’t easy, but Jillian Seymour doesn’t do easy.  Easy is for Jillian at 67; easy is for Jillian retired with two divorces under her belt and a timeshare in Orlando.

This blog is for my loved ones and for myself.  I will share with you the adventures, the people, and the love I encounter in this beautiful region.  American media too often portrays the Arab world as violent and terrorized, while Western historical discourse has molded for its consumers a feminized, eroticized, and demoralized Orient.  Born and indoctrinated in Texas and fully addicted to Diet Coke (or Coca Cola Light as it’s termed on this side of the Atlantic), I cannot pretend to be insulated from these Westernized inclinations, but I can say with the utmost sincerity that these places require a reconsideration, a closer look.  Through this blog, I hope your perceptions will change along with mine, and that you’ll feel a little (or a lot) of the love that already envelops me here in Al-Maghrib. 

Yours,

Jillian