I've Got Soul, But I'm Not a Soldier: Coming Full Circle

During the last week of October, I made my way north to Fes, where forty-something Peace Corps Trainees awaited the arrival of eight knowledgeable, experienced.... and quite weathered PCVs who were each to spend a week in a Community Based Training site. I was placed in the small town of Ras Lma with five sprightly, sarcastic, and often quite sassy PCTs. The objective of the week was to discuss the Moroccan educational system and how their role in the Dar Chebab could supplement the schools curriculum and improve retention in students' language learning. Happily, the week didn't solely revolve around teaching strategies, but also involved cultural instruction, PCV life tips, and general best practices, tricks of the trade, words of wisdom, etc.

Throughout the week, I spent two nights with each of the female PCTs in their home-stays. Talk about coming full circle. As I was continuously a new guest, each evening presented a parade of pastries, a tray of tea, and any other culturally appropriate alliterative host-offerings. As the PCTs had only been in country for just over a month, they were still working on their baby Arabic and hadn't communicated far beyond the initial needs and wants of their daily lives. Each PCT, and family for that matter, took advantage of the girl who'd been here for two years and asked the questions they had been wanting to ask, sought the information they needed to fill in gaps, and enjoyed the opportunity to see where the PCT would be language wise in two years' time. Though, after having gone through PST myself and having worked with another CBT in the past, this group is already doing amazing language wise, tbark allah 3lihum!

Throughout the week, at each home I stayed, a few anecdotal gems materialized. I'll be sharing them now.

- On the second night of staying with the first PCT, most of her host family had gone to stay with an aunt in a nearby village, so we were left alone with the grandmother of the house, Fatima. Fatima has this gorgeous, wrinkled, caricature of a face that becomes extraordinarily animated as she tells a story. This particular evening, she began to tell us the story of how she and her husband, who lived and worked in France, met. How she was the second wife. How she had applied for two passports to visit him in France. And how he had died before she ever made it. The manner in which she recited her trials and tribulations of marriage brought out the water works. Not only in her, but in me as well. As we finished browsing old pictures of her as a young woman (she was model material, so beautiful), her husband in France, and his first wife who lived with him there, she proceeded to focus on one picture in particular. She gave us a look, looked back at the first wife's photo, and began to tear it up into tiny pieces. 'Safi' she said. She was finally done playing number two to another woman.

- The second home I stayed in was a wonderful venue of escapism. The host family was simply comprised of two older women and one young girl. A house free from men was sweet respite indeed. We enjoyed quiet relaxation, terrible soap operas, and candid conversation. Each of these women came from a Berber background and spoke the local dialect of Rifia in addition to Darija. As we spoke, I would accidentally let a few words out in my local Berber dialect of Tashelheit, which would make them giggle to no end. The Berber languages are vastly different, but a few words remain the same. A favourite is the frequently used 'no' or in Tash 'oh ho' as it's usually exclaimed with a significant amount of vigor and gesticulation; a much better alternative than the boring and inconsequential 'la' of Arabic.

- My first night in house number three brought on a bit of frustration. It was unfortunate that my first impression of this family had to be a meet and greet with one of the rudest, most arrogant, aggressive men I have ever had the misfortune of meeting in this country. He entered the home and immediately sat, somewhat inappropriately, with the three single woman sitting in the salon. He proceeded to not really question, but rather interrogate me on my religious and political views. As we exhausted some safe, generalized topics, he pushed further and introduced a variety of Fus'ha, or MSA (Modern Standard Arabic), vocabulary I wasn't familiar with. When I communicated that I wasn't comfortable with where the conversation was headed and that I didn't understand the vocabulary he was now using, he berated me with condescending terms about how incompetent I was and how I knew nothing of the world if I couldn't communicate in Fus'ha, but merely Darija. Later that evening he shouted across the table of some 15 people and asked what my name was. I replied with simply, Donniell. He looked at me sternly, repeated it with disgust, then added 'That's a boy's name.' I told him I was a girl. He then asked if I was stupid and seconded that it was a boy's name. I simply said okay. Luckily, after that evening, I didn't encounter him again.

- In the fourth home-stay, which happened to be in the same building as the third, we enjoyed a bit of a lady's night one evening. Racy Arab music videos were on, the women were dancing, and the topic of horny-ness came up in conversation. There were at least 10 women in the room, each rambling like crazy, dancing like fools, and discussing the levels of 'skhoon'-ness or 'hot'-ness there were each at. They happened to then go on and debate the levels of each of the PCTs present as well. It was a hysterical evening, filled with quotes comparing boobs to mini-buta gas tanks, how they wanted implants so their husbands will sleep on them, and how hard they've been trying for children. It was an entertaining evening to say the least.

- On my last day in Ras Lma, the PCTs were planning to have a Halloween event at the Dar Chebab. They worked on five separate stations which included: pin the knife on the sheep (a culturally appropriate take on pin the tail on the donkey), bean bag toss into a pumpkin, bobbing for apples, climbing through a giant (ribbon) spider web and face painting. They did a great job in preparing for the event, but the sheer amount of children surpassed any of our expectations. As over 150 kids showed up, it quickly turned into a free for all, which we barely managed to hold together. It was not expected, but the face painting station - to which myself and only one other PCT were assigned - became quite the hit. We had swarms of children watching us work and begging to be next. After an hour and a half of claustrophobia and intense near-eye-painting focus, we gathered our things in a zombie-like motion. While cleaning up, another one of the PCTs saw the two of us and noted how we appeared to be suffering from PTSD and wished us luck in recovery. It was intense (like boy scouts sleeping for instance, or fun at the circus...).

Overall, I really enjoyed my time up north. It was a good platform in which to reflect upon how far I have come in the past two years. It was like coming home in a way. And though I got completely and utterly sick, both of the cold/flu and gastrointestinal variety, it was totally worth it. I am really looking forward to seeing how the next two years goes for this great group of volunteers.