Life and Death in Morocco

Recently I returned to my site to attend the funeral of my old landlord. He was approximately late 50s or early 60s. Habitual smoker. We were neighbours and I saw him everyday. He was like a father to me; telling me what to do and not to do, warning me of walking alone at night, helping me with my butagaz, praising my language and reassuring me that I was adjusting and becoming Moroccan. His close relationship with my host mom also strengthened ties between us. He would often visit her while I was there. We were a close-knit family.
I received a text message first from my former tutor and my landlord’s son that he was in the hospital. We were about to leave for Rabat for our COS conference and Omar and I vowed to visit him if (God forbid) my landlord was still there when I got back. We never got the chance.

He passed away on the way home from the hospital in Ouarzazate. He had been there for 6 days and was released (whatever that means here: additional testing needed, expensive costs for the room and care, fatalistic view towards life and God, etc.) I used to wake up to his persistent coughing every morning. It was horrible. It made my chest hurt. I used to tell him that I hear him coughing and that he needed to stop smoking. He knew. He was addicted.

Unfortunately, the time I spent in my site I was looking forward to and planning my next departure. I was lonely and bored. I had found a number of work contacts and other associations down in my souk town, approximately 45 km away. My village is small, isolated, and was difficult for me to adjust to. First off, I am a foreigner and do not own fields (to attend to daily & harvest), I am a woman (and was not exactly welcome at the association,) and there is no internet connection that far into the mountains. I was cut off and needed work. I visited a number of times with friends and family (hence I gained a solid 20 lbs) where we drank sweet mint tea, ate homemade bread and olive oil, and gossiped. Few, if any of the people in town spoke English, my tutor was in my souk town, and the association was satisfied without me involved. My language was stagnant and I was teetering on an isolation-induced depression. I had a hard time sprinkled with a few bright patches that first year.

I found my saving grace at the Café Atlas in Boumalne on March 24, 2010. Saying my usual hellos to a group of acquaintances, a young man named Omar working at the cafe noticed me. His hazel eyes lit up when he heard me speaking Tashelheit. He asked me if we could speak English together. Wouldn’t I like to come sit and have some coffee? Unfortunately for him, a number of like-minded individuals had presented similar offers to me in the past and had ruined this genuine invitation for me. I had heard it all before! An exchange of languages: English for Berber and then inevitably an invitation back to his place or mine, or hey! Let’s just get married! I was wary of him but was curious. His English was good and when he looked at me, he looked through me. I was caught.

We arranged to meet the following Friday when I would be in town next (already planning ahead!). I blew him off. Due to some external forces (namely a mischievous girl from my village who lied to the family and hitchhiked a ride down to Boumalne with me and then preceded to turn herself into a sad puppy and followed me about my day while I ran errands to the bank, post office, and marche,) I left town early and missed our scheduled time to meet. I felt bad but really had my hands tied with Ms. Crazy Hormones Let’s Strut Up and Down Boumalne So I Can Have Every Creepo Goggling Me. I knew where to find him and made up my mind to come back as soon as I was back in town. I even made a list of English words we could discuss. This new personality left a lasting impression.

The next time we met, we hit it off. He was fascinated with me and me with him. We quickly became great friends and I was introduced to his family (all of them). The relationship we had enabled me to get to know and understand Amazigh culture and life. He was my guide and teacher. I came out of my sadness into a happier, healthier life and was me again.

Back in my site, I felt as if I hadn’t ever left. Things had not changed (I am beginning to notice this recurrent theme: I leave and come into my own, a metamorphosis if you will, and find those left behind are the same, neither good nor bad just an observance..). Just this time, everyone was in mourning. When I entered into the living room and was passing to each woman, saying my condolences it wasn’t until I had her hand in mine that I noticed whose it was. She had disappeared into a cloud of white blankets, shawls, and head wraps. She was smaller than I remembered. This was my landlord’s wife. I immediately broke down and started crying. This poor, little woman with a truckload of kids, poor hearing and bad respiratory problems was now widowed. Sitting beside her was Aisha, my landlord’s sister. Memories came flooding back to me then. I remembered all the times I had come by the house. My landlord was either there or just around the corner. The tears came swiftly and I am neither graceful nor clean when I cry. My big eyes swell up, my nose starts running and I try to stifle big sobs that escape through from time to time. I sat down next to the women where they consoled me. They told me that God wanted Lahou and it was his time to go. They said again and again that I was family and I was a daughter to Lahou. Every time a new family member came into the room my eyes started welling up, the memories came flooding back again and this new heart of mine, full of empathy, gushes forth inside my chest (just try watching the news with me sometime…)

I stayed through the evening and visited with a number of families. It was a nice visit despite the circumstances and I got to play with my girls (Sarah, Mariam, and Milu) at my host family’s house. I miss them a lot. I had some time to reflect and contemplate about my life and the lives around me. People say that this life is short and whether or not you believe in an afterlife, you should never take for granted the friends, family, health, weather, sunsets, stars, laughs, cries, and the list goes on. I guess I am trying to bring things full circle. My landlord's death caused this period of reflection and moment of gratitude. I thought back to my own family and how much they have loved and supported me. I thought back to Omar, my sunshine. I have found someone who despite our difference in cultures, languages, religion, etc., we have found something true, genuine and special within each other. Every day there is something new.

All my good energy and light,
H

My New Voice

[Eminem infamously insults and degrades women in his songs.]

What is happening out there, this great vast world of ours? I feel, despite where I am that I am so secluded, so protected from life, real life, that I lose touch with humanity. Thank Mother Earth they show real news here. The burned bodies, covered in gravel, their legs twisted unnaturally. Is this just my naivety? My initial shocked reaction? Are people here inured to it? Much like our youth to violent video games? I wonder. I still believe a human body, covered in blood, tugs at our heartstrings. It’s someone’s brother or father, sister or mother.
Omar said something the other day I found pleasantly surprising. He said that the world was changing and someday soon, women will hold all of the positions of power. (I certainly hope so.) Does that make me a feminist? Why do I hold such negative connotations with that word? Yet more and more I find the same common thread in our problems… the greed, blatant abandonment of responsibility, corruption… but look at who is holding these powerful positions? Especially in some of our most exploited countries. Men. All men. Violence. War. Especially the violence. I feel as though women are almost incapable of that animalistic, brutal violence (especially towards an unknown enemy! Be it police, who are just doing their jobs, or another country’s citizens…) the exception being of course a women’s maternal instinct to protect her children and by Mother Earth’s sake, I would fight tooth and nail to protect my loved ones. Alas, here is our difference: Women would fight to protect the family. Men seek out violence.

What can I do to help shape the youth of tomorrow to consciously decide not to destroy but seek voice, change, in a peaceful manner? Where is the Ghandi, the Martin Luther King, Jr of today?

Kaytea, one of my closest friends here, told me about a famous speaker who travels across the country speaking to various groups about violence towards women. I can’t remember his name but Kaytea says that he is a devout feminist and calls attention to our media and how it depicts violence towards women. Kaytea also told me that 7 out of 10 Hollywood movies show a woman being attacked/murdered/ raped and in very few cases do the women actually fight back.

I have a number of thoughts running through my head:

Various cultures perception of women as being seducers, sorcerers, powerful controls of the body and mind (especially of men) and therefore it “justifies” the degradation, behavior and 2nd class citizen status of women.

Peace Corps' inability to properly train men and women alike in boundary-setting and self-defense is tragic and upsetting. Too many volunteers have these invasive, harassing experiences (just watch ABC’s recent exposing programs about PC) abroad. We, as Americans, (thinking of myself and a few others,) are afraid to speak out when being violated or offended. We’re too nice. There is a clear difference between being friendly and not knowing how to say stop. What is that deep seated, ingrained guilt that each one of us carries? Our guilt for being gluttonous consumers protected within our borders, ignorant of the real world, the rest of the world. Embarrassed and ashamed of our wars in foreign countries?

I’m disturbed that women haven’t banded together to give voice to these outright repulsive behaviors. When a hip hop figure gets an award, press release, media attention, could a reporter, fellow rapper, strong voice not shame him for calling women “bitches and ho’s” promoting violence towards women and degrading women because they lack the creativity and passion in their work to fill up more space on their shitty albums?

The last time women stood together was for us to demand our right to vote. 1920. Susan B Anthony?

Who are our female role models of today?

I want to yell on the top of the world, my voice raining down on every chauvinist, his ears bleeding. He vows to respect all women, begging me to stop.

This blog may sound a little zealous and erratic. My newfound voice. I don’t hate men. I love (some) men. I am just angered that in the year 2011, women are still degraded. Women are still disrespected and it’s not upsetting more people.

The Ugliness of Violence

Recently, in the news of the world, there have been mass protests throughout the Middle East and North Africa regions. People have been flooding the streets, men and women alike, chanting, “We Want Change!” lighting vehicles on fire, throwing rocks at various government buildings and officials. Their angry faces and voices represent years upon years of bitter suffering and resentment. Ousting the President of Tunisia was a

reinforcement for the rest of watching world, as news of his corruption and greed broke. For years, Tunisia was touted as a representative for the rest of the Arab and North African areas, putting education at the top of the list, making enrollment in school mandatory until the age of 16. Now all the encomium is tainted, marred by images of Ben Ali’s wife filling her pockets with their constituents money and assets. I retch in the false assumption that the government was a role model to others. With Egypt and Yemen not too far behind, I wonder about the rest of these nations who have been placated with a false sense of democracy. A president who stays in office for over 30 years is not a president, he is a dictator. No wonder these people are enraged, and finally, they have the gumption to demand change.
Another headline that caught my eye, was the stoning of a young couple in Afghanistan. They had been convicted of committing adultery. They were fleeing to Pakistan when they received a message from their village: Come back, no harm will come to you. They returned, believing in the promise. Saving the horrific details, they were both stoned, most of the village had come out to watch or participate. She was still alive when the last stone was thrown, and a Taliban soldier fired three shots into her head.
Unfortunately, I come to draw references from these tragic stories: the ugliness of violence. Watching images of protesters throwing rocks at police, destroying buildings, engulfed by their rage that it no longer matters who is hurt, as long as the satisfactory clamor follows after their rock hits. I am as appalled as I am confused. I never have known such deep seated anger, such wrath to want to hurt and destroy. I look at the couple in Afghanistan, their crime a common story, but their punishment so unusual and barbaric. What makes us commit such violent acts?

Train of Thought

Part I:

Wind rushing by,
is my door closed
all the way
Emergency Action Plan:
Grab Handle Above
with left hand; steadying self
with right hand on the door.
Note: Don’t grab guy sitting
next to me. He looks like
he’d come right with.

Does this taxi have
blankets in the window of
the backseat? Does this driver
spend the night out or local trips only?

Taxi Drivers need toothbrushes too!

Part II:

The wind is getting louder
Roaring in my ears
The smells are getting stronger
Hope my other senses stay in check.

Do authors enjoy reading as much as they enjoy writing?

Unbelievable.
Sheep can eat this
tough and sparse grasses
And turn it into fat
Yet they travel/graze
for distances.
Unbelievable.

Cows.
People.

What do we lack in our bodies
to process these simple calories?
I forgot.
Don’t monkeys and gorillas
eat these grasses too?
Aren’t they like our 3rd cousin
By Gen Etics?
Dinner options.

Free rides are way more fun than
rides you pay for.


What have I got to hide and
who are you to judge?

The clouds taunt the motionless mountains
in a whimsical game of winded dances.

Identity

I felt it today. Taking off the black headscarf, the white piece that women wear under that covers their hairline, my long black shirt that covers my ass. I was taking off an identity and slipping into a new one. I looked at the sloughed clothes on the floor. Who am I? What am I becoming? I hastily threw on a sports bra and underarmor shirt, planning to burn off some cultural steam on a power walk in the desert behind the house.

Identities.

Who have I become? I used to joke with my sisters in high school that depending on the day and my mood I would pick which Spice Girl I wanted to dress like: Sporty or Posh? Now, my Spice Girl garb includes headscarves and full traditional dresses. Foreign-Girl-Wanna-Be-Native-Culturally-Sensitive Spice? Don’t think she made the cut.

I look at myself in the mirror downstairs as I wash my hands after eating lunch with the family. I look like I was wearing a nun’s habit from the shoulders up. I’m sure some of you are just dying laughing, imagining me, even pretending to be associated with the Church and a life of abstinence!

I can’t help but stare though. Is this just going to be another facet to my personality treasure chest? God save us all if my rugby girls were to run in here during a meal. Much less if the lyrics of our social was translated. But that is a part of me too. The grass in my socks, a big bruise on my thigh. When do the others parts get their turn?

I understand that it is all a balance.

I understand that at this point in my life it is necessary to be this other person. Not another person. That’s not fair. It’s still me under it all. I still dance in the kitchen and make sarcastic side comments and faces at the neighborhood children. BUT it can be kind of scary sometimes.

Rugby: A Hooligan’s Game Played by Gentlemen or A Gentlemen’s Game Played by Hooligans?!

I fell in love with rugby after my first real hit. It was my first game. I had never played rugby before in my life. After missing soccer tryouts for the club team my freshman year this beautiful but massive female had called out to me at the rec center in college, “Hey! You wanna play rugby? Anyone can play.” I had three practices before that game.

I had gotten the ball from our scrum-half and had made it maybe three steps before I had gotten hit. It felt like I ran into a truck. Or a train. In reality, I had been pulverized (and maybe a little embarrassed) by a mean looking chick with a black mouthguard who might have had some sexual frustrations growing up in life. I could tell by the crowd’s reaction that I had gotten knocked pretty solid. She was a hungry beast. And I was dinner. After picking myself out of her teeth and recovering my 5 senses that had been beaten through my digestive track, I realized something: I am alive. And I feel good.

That started my love affair.

Once you realize that you can take a hit and give one right back, the game becomes mesmerizing. The rules are a little complicated at first, but with some time, they start to set in. I am here to give you the basics so that you understand what is going on when you watch that fake accent, beefcake pussy, Matt Damon, in Invictus, or more importantly, when you catch a game on ESPN or hopefully, when you go out for your first practice.

There are 15 people on the field for either side. These 15 people are divided up into 2 main groups called the Forwards and the Backs. The Forwards are numbered 1-8. These people typically tend to be your bigger, more solid players. In recreational or club teams you can identify these players because they typically are a little more overweight or slower but once you reach a professional level, these kids are all huge. Numbers 1 and 3 are props, number 2 is the hooker. These three make your “front row” during scrums (to be explained soon). Numbers 4 and 5 are locks and make up your “second row”, #s 6 and 7 are flankers and number 8 is your “8-man.”

These 8 refrigerators bind together to create a scrum, used during games to restart the ball when an offense has been committed by either team. Typically this act is what people remember and refer to when they ask me about rugby and if we actually “butt heads.” This is an intricate system to make a compact unit that binds together and moves together when the restart is called. The front rows’ heads go into the armpit space that is created by the other team when they bind in the same manner. (Ask for an actual demonstration by any rugby player, at any bar, and they will be more than glad to show you, hell, even buy you a beer for being interested.) The ball is rolled down the center of the front rows and the two hookers fight for possession of the ball by kicking it backwards through the legs of their own teammates. They control it until it finally reaches the 8-man.

At this point the scrum-half, easily identified by their smaller stature, quick hands, and the number 9 on their jersey, picks up the ball and distributes it to the Backs.

The backs consist of numbers 9-15. These charmers are typically light on their feet, have good hands, and create interlacing patterns, streaming up the field. Number 10 is the flyhalf and usually calls plays for the rest of the group. Next at #11 is inside center, followed by outside center at #12, numbers 13 and 14 are wings and work on opposite sides of the field. Last but certainly not least, is the fullback.

Games are usually 90 minutes long, 45 minute halves with a ten minute half-time. Games are played on the “pitch,” or field, and the rugby ball is kicked through the uprights, (these look like skinny football posts). Points are scored by placing the ball on the ground in what could be described as the end zone or in-goal area. This is known as a “try” and worth 5 points. After a try is scored, the team is allowed a kick through the uprights, 30 m out directly from the point the ball was touched down. This is worth two points and can be extremely difficult if the ball was touched in either far side. At any point, either team can kick for 3 points through the uprights.

Rules of the game: the ball must be passed backwards or laterally, never forward. Therefore, if the ball is accidentally hit forward (i.e. imagine a fumble or just bad pass) the play stops and a “knock-on,” is called by the referee. Following this, there is a scrum. If the ball happens to go out of bounds, out of “touch,” then a line-out is called. During a line out, the hooker is responsible for throwing the ball down the center of two lines, consisting of teammates of either players. Each line has groups of players, groups usually consist of three people, the front and back persons lifting the middle player into the air. They try to catch the thrown ball and get it back to their team. Once a player is tackled to the ground, they must release the ball. If the player holds onto the ball, the play is stopped and that team is penalized. The penalty results in possession and field gain by the other team. The offending team must give 15m space to the opposing team. Once a player is tackled and releases the ball (hopefully to their teammates) a ruck is formed. This happens quickly and frequently in games. The two players that were the tackled and tackler are out of the play and try to reenter soon after. Teammates following in pursuit push each other, trying to gain ownership of the ball. They are not allowed to pick up the ball (hands in!-rule) until they have completely cleared space over the ball (“so a bird could shit on it,”). Teams must push straight on. They cannot simply dodge people and run around a ruck to pick up a ball.

Rugby is a fast game played with skill and quick decisions. I admire the game because there are almost no time-outs. Players must adapt and change their strategies constantly on the field. For example, during a scrum, if our loose-head prop is being beaten every time and is our weak point, a simple solution might be to switch the props or suggest getting his/her head under the other player and driving through the other player’s chest. Let her feel it! If the other team has a kicking game (they like to kick a lot to gain field), then we might suggest our fullback play deeper and more defensively.

There are sometimes as many as three captains on the field: Forward, Back, and Team. The forward captain makes changes and keeps up the morale of the scrummies, while the back captain may suggest different plays and keep up with the performance of the backs. Usually the team captain is addressed solely by the referee if there are any offenses by the team (“Captain, make sure your girls keep their hands out of the rucks!”) and therefore, they are responsible for the team as a whole. Like with most sports, women’s rugby is somewhat slower but played with more finesse and fluidity. Men’s rugby is faster, harder, and transitions are almost constant.

Rugby gets better with time. You will always have a rugby family, anywhere in the world. The best thing about rugby is the camaraderie between teammates, the beer that flows after games, and the fact that some player might have wanted to kill you earlier that day, they are now buying you a shot at the bar. Everything is left on the field. You play hard and then celebrate (win or lose) with your opposition, singing a few songs and sharing a few beers. All of my college roommates were rugby players. I went on to coach high school girls’ and play club after college and continue to love the game from either side of the pitch.

I do not mean to refer to myself so much when I explain that it takes a special person to play rugby. But I have found these things to be true about almost all rugby players, simply think of James Carcilli, who played in college also. These people need to be pretty physical, have some wits about them, and honestly, be a little crazy.

Google the “Haka”, performed by the sexy New Zealand AllBlacks, or if you want to see one of the greatest players, check out Jonah Lomu. He is delicious and incredible. USARugby is a great website to check out if you want to find a team in your area (stateside). If you have any questions or want to play sometime, just shoot me an email kirlinh@colorado.edu. Cheers!

Vacation Tales: A Linguistic Comedy

Recently, my parents came to visit me here in Morocco. This story would be best if you had met my parents. Just imagine your typical set of parents. Sweet, good natured and proud of their Peace Corps daughter. They still fight in the car over the directions, occasionally order the same meal despite a huge menu, and my dad tells well, dad jokes. My mom just rolls her eyes and I laugh.

I tried best to prepare them for all that could be expected: indigestion, conservative garb, alarm clock style calls to prayer, traffic, and vendor harassment. They are fairly well traveled having vacationed in Peru, Costa Rica, and Germany, among others. This was still a first for them, coming to Africa. I tried my best to plan a smooth trip. I knew that they would be bothered that they would not be able understand any of the languages here (gold star America!).

I tried my best, starting early, to teach them some basic Tashelheit. Words and greetings that they would hear repeatedly like “Salaam walakum, labas, thenna,” and “nchallah,” among a few others. They accents reminded me of mine in the beginning. They did pretty well remembering and tried out the greetings every morning during breakfast.

When we visited my boyfriend’s family, their first real “home stay” in Morocco, my parents were desperate for additional vocabulary. “How do I say, ‘Good Morning!’ or ‘Delicious!’?” They asked. So, easily after that, during any meal, my parents would praise my boyfriend’s mom, telling her that the food was “IHla bzzf!” (very good,) or “Yetfut!” (delicious.)

We had a great time in Morocco. I couldn’t have asked for better weather, suitable hotels, or just for things to work out as nicely as they did. Randomly, I believe the recent change in seasons might have out my boyfriend and I on a bit of a sneezing frenzy. It seemed that every morning one of us was reaching for some Tempo. On our way from Errachidia to Azrou, Omar, my boyfriend, had a sneezing fit and tried to stifle the last one, creating a bit of a nose fart. I started to make fun of him. My dad, charming in on the fun, tried to bless him. Insteading of saying, “RHumkullah!” as we had just learned the day before, he got confused and said, “Yetfut!”

“Dad, that means delicious,” I said, my lips breaking into the biggest preemptive outburst of laughter. “Oh my god!” and we all died laughing in the car. My mom, driving, tears streaming down her face because she was laughing so hard. We imagined scenarios where my dad would respond to a random sneeze in a cafe or on the street, “Yetfut!”

The man has the best intentions and tried really hard to remember phrases. I think maybe his German “Gezundheit” might have somehow messed him up. Oh well. Next time that guy in the taxi sneezes all over the seat in front of you, bless him with a “Yetfut!” and offer a tissue.

I love language. High five.