The Delete and Spacebar keys no longer work on my laptop’s keypad, nor does the Tab key or Down Arrow. Stop. My mailbox was full of letters from family and friends, my absolute favorite. Stop. My host brothers devoured the gift I brought them back from Ouarzazate – a kids’ magazine written in Arabic. The four boys crowded around the colorful stories and pictures, often relaying the articles to me in Tashelheit. One story was about a giraffe who wanted to buy spots to improve his coat. They really enjoyed it. Stop.
There have been all of these ups and downs along the way.
One day I said hello to a woman from my village. I was surprised to see her in our nearby “souk town”, and I thought it unusual to see her at a café, where Moroccan women don’t often frequent. She told my girlfriend and I that she was on the way to the hospital. She had been pregnant, but the baby had died. It had taken her a few days to get the necessary paperwork – the baby still inside of her – and she was now on her way to the hospital to have the fetus removed. She was frank and nonchalant about it. Stop.
After teaching English one afternoon, one of my students, who is roughly my age, showed me her notebook. In awkward, yet accurate script, she had written “My Family” using the English alphabet. This is an accomplishment worth posting, and I commend her. She has never studied in school before. Her younger brother is currently earning his degree in Rabat, but she hadn’t been offered the same opportunity. He's studying physics and mathematics. She cooks meals, gathers crops from the fields and weaves rugs.
Many women share her same position: My neighbor moved 600 km from her family at the age 13 to be married; she had her first child at age 14. Another – a bright, sharp young woman – was allowed to continue her studies through High School, but soon she will turn 19. Her family has arranged for her to marry before this summer ends. They have engaged her to a soldier living on the coast, an 8-hour drive from her family. She has met him once. They’ve never kissed. She’s refusing to go through with this marriage, but I’m not confident that she has much say in the matter.
Stop.
A married woman is an incredible cook, a graceful hostess, a resourceful mother, and a defender of the sanctity of the home. She is a real asset to her family, filling many important roles. Stop.
Sometimes I find it difficult to clearly distinguish between an “up” and a “down.”
We gathered dandelion greens from the fields, which are brimming with green these days. Spring water runs down to the valley, providing for trees with almonds, walnuts, peaches, quinces, and apples. Corn, wheat, beans, carrots, turnips, and tomatoes are planted. Truffles and herbs are brought in from the mountains where the deer and the antelope play. Stop. Back up. Where the sheep and goats graze. Stop.
The dandelion greens were for soup. Delicious but bitter. Stop.
I saw a woman throw a mug at her daughter. The girl dodged it, but it lead to a fight in the other room. Everyone overheard. The daughter returned to the salon sobbing, nursing her arm that was red and swollen. Her mother, clearly panicked, was massaging and checking the injury, a result of their argument and the woman’s temper.
That night I worried. I slept near the girl and heard her cry through the night. Her arm was going to be fine. The swelling had gone down. There wasn’t even sign of a bruise. But what worried me most was what caused her mother to get so upset. The woman had asked her daughter to do something – tend to her younger siblings, clear the table, I don’t know – and the girl responded with “ur righ.” “Ur righ” in Tashelheit means “I don’t want to.” “Ur righ?!” the woman responded to her daughter with distaste, “Ur righ?!” and the mug went flying.
Stop. Now go on...
Most days, the women here gossip, dream, laugh, and are smart here as they are where I grew up. I have been relieved to find that they resemble the women who I respect and admire from home. I don’t want to neglect that point. But that deeply-seated reaction to “ur righ” will not soon leave me.
My own power of choice is dear to me and I acknowledge that my goal here –admittedly and purposefully – is to enact change of a positive kind. That has a lot to do with creating opportunities for Choice. But how do we go about that when choice could forever alter a trusted and tried family and cultural dynamic? How do we insist on choice when there are people who will be hurt in the process? Or a woman who may finally be able to recognize opportunity, but who will never be able to take it for its advantages? How do we offer the bait of choice to someone who has so much to lose from our safe seat on the other side? Don't stop. Keep going.
The day before yesterday, I had the most incredible day. I went out into the mountains with Zahara. She’s 13-years-old, and promises to be not only my new best friend, but my safe haven in many ways. First off, she seems to like me unconditionally, and secondly, she can skip and scale these mountains with more grace and ease than Trisha Brown at BAM. Thirdly, a whole afternoon will have gone by before I remember that we don’t speak the same language - because we do. It’s just that we have different words for things.
So anyway, we went out on a great trek the other day. We made it out to the quiet part of the mountains where you can’t see anything but other mountains and each other. We came upon a nomad there, named Khadija. She prepared us tea over the fire, and we ate her bread, cooked over heated rocks. She taught us how to tie up the goat hide – the one with the goat’s milk wrapped up inside – and as she processed the milk, Zahara and I visited with the baby goats. There were nine of them. Even though my hands smelled weird afterward, it was fun holding them.
We drank the goat’s milk with Lalla Loohoo, who had come over from the next little cave over. Lalla had skin like leather, and wasn’t able to see out of one eye. The milk was super sour, but I’d drink it again any day. Khadija said it was difficult living out there, but she only did it for about 15 days at a time, then she went back to living in the house with her family. This is how she lived out every season but winter.
I can’t wait until Zahara and I have our next adventure. I like the rocky terrain of the mountainside. Full stop.
