My work here has changed dramatically these past two years. With the number of good work contacts, language improvement, new or reoccurring opportunities and different venues, I've been able to do lots of different projects and programs. Within these past few months, I've been talking to women about their health, covering topics like breast cancer, STIs, common complaints concerning headaches and backaches, menstrual cycles, and hygiene.
I am almost embarrassed to have doubted and questioned not only my ability but the value of talking to women. A few bad experiences at the beginning of my service set me back in developing and pursuing work with women's groups. I had unfortunately tried my hand in women's health classes at a bad venue, at a bad time, and with a bad accent.
Now, with my confidence at an all-time high, I might think twice about doing a condom demonstration, but depending on how my audience is responding to my pictures and content of conversation, I'll don one on. We all know now how to check the expiration date, how to open it properly, what it looks like and how it is supposed to be used. I am trying to empower women by telling them that their health comes first. They are to give themselves time every day to exercise, stretch, massage sore muscles, and bathe. They are in charge of not only their health but the health of the household especially their children. They establish the rules. If one of the rules is that in order to watch TV after lunch you have to brush your teeth, all the better to start these habits early.
Recently, I worked at a small festival in Agdez, just south of Ouarzazate. Part of the activities put together by an association there included a trash pick up, mural paintings, 10K race, eyesight screenings and fittings, and a team of doctors to give free consultations and address women's health. Guess who called in absent?
My previous work with this association involved me speaking to groups of women out in smaller douars (villages) about previously-stated health topics. These talks were successful in dispelling myths, providing easy solutions for common problems and bringing awareness about the importance of women's health. The association appreciated my work and somehow construed my meager but important position as an educator to that of a doctor.
"Can you check women for breast cancer?" asked the association's president on Saturday, the day the doctors called in absent. "Yes, yes. This is important. They will come to you and you can do this,"
"I am not a doctor! I talk to women about breast cancer, how to check. We can talk about women's health."
"Ok, ok," He responded, absently nodding his head. Did he understand what I just said?!
One of the many reoccurring themes I feel most PCVs find in a country where English is not the first, second, or third language learned: problems communicating. This is perhaps why the first two ladies who came into the small office in the back of the Dar Chabab (think Boys' and Girls' Club but gov't run,) started pulling up their long house dresses as soon as we closed the door.
"Whoa, whoa! Blati schwiya. Shuf, Ur gigh tadbibt" (Wait a little-hold on- Look, I am not a doctor.) I'm sure word spread quickly about doctors being available for free consultations but the follow-up that they canceled did not. Guess who's caught in the middle? I was neither dressed nor had the place set up like a make-shift doctor's office or examination room. I was a foreigner, sitting on one side of a desk, patiently waiting their arrival, and they were desperate, I soon found out.
I was placed in a difficult and heart-breaking situation.
We talked about how to conduct self-exams for breast cancer. We talked about birth control. We addressed rashes and headaches. We talked about menopause. Despite my protests and obvious discomfort, some women insisted that I check out a lump in their breast, in their armpit, or one women's abdomen that was swollen like a bowling ball, bisected by a huge vertical scar and caused her bouts of pain and sleepless nights.
My conscience screamed at me, "
What are you doing?!You are not a doctor. You don't know anything!"
My reasoning responded, "I told them I wasn't. What am I supposed to do? I didn't tell them to lift up their shirts. These women are scared. These women are desperate."
"You are reinforcing this impersonation by checking when they insist. Because you are talking about these things, you are in a position of authority of knowledge..."
"If I feel something or not, my advice has been the same: Go to the clinic and get checked by the doctors,"
They've been fighting back and forth since I got here in Morocco. You should be in my head when they go at it over a stray puppy. I almost got a bloody nose.
I was dizzy with emotions but had no time to sort through them. I was elated to be able to talk to so many women and address their specific questions. I could give these small groups, sometimes just one, two, or at most three women, the attention they possibly have never been given, concerning their health. I also felt helpless. These women deserved gynecological screenings, professional breast exams and mammograms, their questions addressed by professionals, (and yet, even the I cringe, hearing the advice and treatment given to women who have found lumps, medicine prescribed or given without discretion or direction, the apathetic mindset and mannerism they take with their patients). Like I said, it was this raging internal conflict and I tried my best to do no harm. I tried to dispel as much correct information that these women would remember as possible. The high school girls who were assisting in the activities and with my health presentations would address some of these questions on their own, able to reassure or give women the correct advice directly. It worked out well. They were able to reinforce the information, repeating my directions or translating into Arabic (another setback of mine,).
After I had seen the last group of women, I walked out to join the rest of the volunteers. Intercepted quickly, I was soon surrounded by young high school girls. They adored me. They asked me lots of questions about my experience in Peace Corps, my life in America, some about health. It was my own personal press conference and fan club. My ego grew as I soon realized that none of the other volunteers were being swallowed whole. Surrounded by these sweet girls who found me unbelievable and admirable, my slight ethical heart attack I had experienced earlier subsided.
What is my role here? What is my job? What are my limitations and what is within my abilities?
Donating a few days to help out a friend's festival in his site and I get an ego-boost that will last a couple of weeks. I guess I am surprised that more people aren't hooked on volunteering, mentoring, or donating. It seems as though, the longer you're in it, the stronger the karma, the bigger its rewards. I just need more time. more resources. and a scrutable financial advisor tied to big pockets. I am foolhardily reassured that things will work out and with time, I'll be able to provide more and give these self-sacrificing women the attention they need. "Give time for time," is an old Berber saying.
If only I could find the patience.
