On An Enriching Vacation With A Minor Deportation

I trudged down a desert highway with my two bags full of dirty clothes and quickly melting Israeli chocolate. I guess I shouldn’t have left my sunscreen behind. In the distance I saw what might be a bus stop, and I was on a mission to find Israeli bus 961. Only then could I get up north to Beit Shean in Galilee, and hopefully – hopefully - make it across the border back to the Jordanian side.

How did I get here?

I suppose we have to rewind 2 weeks.

*

For the first week of May I had been sent to Amman, Jordan for Fulrbight’s annual Enrichment Seminar for the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region. There were 2 conferences – one in Rabat (the capital of Morocco) and one in Amman (the capital of Jordan) to give researchers a broader understanding of the region we live in, and thereby enrich our research experiences. I was one of the lucky Moroccan researchers chosen to go to Amman. Naturally, I decided to further my enrichment by adding about 2 weeks to my stay and traveling around the region. Adventures ensue.


ADVENTURE IN AMMAN: Realizing Moroccan Specificity

We began with three days of conferencing – presenting research and listening to presentations, guest speakers, the US Ambassador to Jordan, discussion groups, eating lots of food and drinking lots of coffee. It became apparent pretty quickly that Morocco is somewhat of an outlying case in the region. Should North Africa really be lumped in with the Middle East? We’re not exactly Arab; our dialect Arabic is unintelligible to everyone else in the region; we don’t have the oil or the “holy history” of the rest of the region. Basically, we’re MENA oddballs.

On the other hand, what other region would we belong to? Europe? Certainly not. Africa? No.

MENA it is, then.


ADVENTURE IN THE PROMISED LAND: Where’s The Milk and Honey?

On the last day of the conference we took an excursion. First to Mount Nebo, from which Moses surveyed the Promised Land and where he was last seen. It looked like a barren desert to me, but I’m sure at one point it was flowing with milk and honey. Or maybe it was a simple matter of perspective...not quite as barren as the desert the Israelites had been wandering in for 40 years.

From Party in the Promised Land

Next was a trip to the Baptism Site. Of Jesus, that is, in Bethany Beyond the Jordan. But the Jordan River has now dried into more of a gently trickling creek, and is no longer connected to the pool in which Jesus is said to be baptized. But the site is preserved, with an ancient church, a plaque from King Hussein, and a tasteful mosaic commemorating the Pope's visit to the site.

From Party in the Promised Land

From Party in the Promised Land

We finished the excursion with a sunset swim at the Dead Sea, and suddenly all seemed right with the world.

From Party in the Promised Land

To top it all off, we were given toolish hats and tote bags that say “Fulbright” on them in English and Arabic. Sweet.

From Party in the Promised Land

ADVENTURE IN PETRA: Discovering a Lost City

For my next adventure I hopped on a bus with my dear friends and colleagues CAITLYN and SAM to the lost city of Petra for a couple days. It’s beyond me how an entire city can just get lost lost, but I now believe that Jordanian Bedouins are without a doubt the best secret keepers in the world.

It’s a city, probably built in the 6th century BC, carved (yes, carved) into the caverns and canyons of the natural rocky desert terrain. Somehow it was lost – that’s right, lost for hundreds of years before its “rediscovery” by a Swiss explorer in the early 19th century. Unbelievable.

It is by far the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m not sure anything could possibly top it. Words do nothing for it, so I'll post a couple pictures here, and you can satiate your curiosity by clicking the link to my photo album, "Party in the Promised Land"

From Party in the Promised Land

On day 1 of Petra, Caitlyn and Sam and I hiked all around, seeing the main sites, herding goats, and climbing on things we probably shouldn't climb on.

From Party in the Promised Land

From Party in the Promised Land

From Party in the Promised Land

On day 2 of Petra I was having some knee problems, so I sent my friends on a hike and ended up spending the day hanging out with 8-12 year-old Bedouin boys. They got tired of trying to sell postcards to tourists and decided to talk to that weird white girl who speaks Arabic instead. Story of my life.

From Party in the Promised Land

ADVENTURE IN TEL AVIV: Beaches, Bars and Shopping Malls

At the conference I particularly bonded with the Fulbrighters from Israel. They were also oddballs, for obvious reasons. I decided that I could add to my enrichment by going to Israel and hanging out with them for several days. Why not? So I got on a bus and headed for the northern border crossing. My plan was to start up north, spend a day in Tel Aviv, then head on down to Jerusalem, then finaly back to Amman. Plans soon changed, as they tend to do in this part of the world.

I fell in love with Tel Aviv. I stayed with Morgan, one of the Fulbrighters, and had a blast with her. I’m not sure what impressed me most – The beach? Western coffee shops? Girls wearing skirts and tank tops? People jogging at night? Bars? Recycling bins? The mall? A religious obedience to traffic signals? It felt like a little slice of heaven in the Middle East.

Granted, this is all very superficial, and I can’t really overlook the problems I have with a religious state and the national and international political and sociological problems that go with it. But from a vacationer’s standpoint, superficial glory is ok.

I got sucked into Tel Aviv and ended up staying a little longer. But when it comes down to it, I can do whatever I want. I’m on vacation.


ADVENTURE IN JERUSALEM: Jungle Boogie in Jesusland

Eventually I made it down to Jerusalem, where I stayed with yet another Fulrighter named Amalia. I spent my first day there wandering around the old city: Dome of the Rock, Holy Sepulchre, Wailing Wall, etc. More incredible history under my feet.

One thing that has really struck me about this region is the acknowledgment of religious diversity. That’s not to say that the religions peacefully coexist (obviously) but there are churches and mosques and synagogues everywhere – in Israel and Jordan, at least. Coming from Morocco, where the existence of Christians isn’t even acknowledged, it was a shock to see churches and crosses everywhere I turned.

I came at an interesting time, as it was “Jerusalem Day” – an extremely controversial celebration of when Israel “took back” Jerusalem. But a party is a party, and a concert is a concert. I went with Amalia and her friends to a massive concert in a park. Much to my surprise, Kool and the Gang was playing. That’s right. Kool and the Gang. Jungle Boogie...Celebrate...Get Down On It...

Surreal.

The next day was another day of sight seeing in the old city. Crosses still amazed me. I couldn't stop photographing them.

From Party in the Promised Land

ADVENTURE IN NOWHERELAND: Neither Here Nor There

Finally the time came for my return to Jordan. I was going to spend my last several days just hanging out with JULIA, a friend from Wheaton who is currently living and studying in Amman. I had entered Israel from the northern border, and planned to return through the middle one. It’s almost a straight shot from Jerusalem to Amman, and would take only about an hour by car without the security and formalities of border crossing. But that, of course, would be too easy and would give me very little to blog about.

I exited Israel and boarded the bus to the other side to go through Jordanian security. I had been told that going into Israel was the hardest part, but going the other direction should be a breeze. Lies.

A Jordanian security official boarded the bus and promptly told me that I couldn’t enter Jordan from that crossing. He said that by entering Israel I canceled my Jordanian visa. I’d have to get a new one and re-enter the country from the same border I had come through – up north.

This meant that I would have to return to Israel, find my way to the northern border, get into Jordan, then find my way back southward to Amman. Lame.

He made me get off the bus and wait there, somewhere in the nothingness between Israel and Jordan. He had my passport. I just waited. Finally a bus full of Americans came by to take me back to the Israeli side, where I had to go through the Israeli security again. They gave me one of those dreaded security stickers that says I’m dangerous, probably because I’ve spent time in Muslim countries. The border police took me aside for a chat. It all turned out well enough, because I’m so sweet and kept my cool. We ended up chatting about my Amazon Kindle. I talked to them about the pros and cons of reading on an electronic book, and eventually they passed me through into Israel. Again.

Once back on the Israeli side I had to figure out how to get to the northern border. Of course all the taxi drivers knew I was stranded and wanted to charge me about 10 times more than I could afford to take me up north. I had to do some creative problem solving. I found out the bus number from some of the Israeli border police. The next step was getting to the bus, since it’s illegal to walk the 2km from the border to the highway. I’d get shot. I found a tour bus driver who took pity on me, and allowed me to hitch a ride to the highway. He dropped me off and I had to walk until I hit the bus station.

*

And now we’re back where we started. I’m sweating, burning, hauling luggage down a desert highway, with my eyes on the box in the distance that might, just might, turn into a bus stop for Bus 961 which would take me up to Beit Shean, a town 6km from the Jordanian border.

It was. Hamdulilah. Finally the bus came, and I boarded. It was already full of Israeli soldiers. All with guns. GUNS! On the public bus! It was about an hour and a half ride to Beit Shean, and one of the soldiers said he’d let me know when we got there. He probably got sick of me asking “where are we?” at every stop.

Finally in Beit Shean, I sat down in a restaurant for a sandwich and some water. I made friends with the girl who worked there, and she offered me a ride to the border. I geared myself up for Border Crossing: Round 2. This one went much better.

The Jordanian passport stamper remembered me from when I came through 5 days before. His friend had asked me to marry him. When I got up to the counter he said, “Megan! Megan who lives in Morocco! How was your trip?” I was shocked that he remembered me. I sent my regards to his friend, reaffirmed that I’m still not interested in his proposal, and walked out the door into Jordan...beautiful Jordan.

A British woman and I shared a Taxi back to Amman.


ANOTHER ADVENTURE IN AMMAN: Real Life and R&R

When I got back to Amman I met up with Julia. Since then we have been just...chilling. In cafes, at home, with her friends. It’s been a much needed wind-down before I make my return to Morocco. As much as I love these adventures, it’s real life that really fascinates me. Just living and functioning in Fez or Amman or Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. Or Petra if you're a 10 year-old Bedouin.

I’m very much looking forward to going back to Fez tomorrow. But I can certainly say that in the past 2 weeks I have been successfully enriched.

On the Unintended Consequences of Asserting My Feminist Agenda

We walked into the room and every head turned to stare at us: four 20-something American women, all sweaty from the aerobics class we had just finished, and all soaking wet from the sudden downpour we found ourselves in. We sought refuge in the nearest establishment – a famously de-facto all-male cafe on the edge of the medina. We all took a deep breath and walked into the shelter, already full of – well – Moroccan men. Some had come much earlier to watch the soccer game. Others, much like us, decided they wouldn’t mind some coffee or tea while they waited out the storm.

The difference with us, of course, is that we’re women. According to Moroccan cafe culture, the cafe is strictly male space, not to be trespassed by women. We were clearly unwelcome.

Our efforts to slip in without creating a fuss were far from successful. Finding four chairs in the already crowded cafe was a challenge in itself. To their credit, a couple guys offered us their chairs, but we refused, finally finding four empty ones and carrying them (with the help of the waiter) to our table in the back of the room. We sat down and immediately felt eyes burning into our skulls.

“What are these American girls doing in our manspace?”

But let’s be honest. I derive some sort of sick pleasure from shaking things up a bit in cafe culture. That evening my friend and colleague LAUREN PEATE wonderfully referred to our invasion of manspace as “asserting our feminist agenda.”

Yes, men. A woman stranded in a storm gets just as wet and cold as a man does. I’ll go into the cafe. Because I can.

I frequent several otherwise-all-men-cafes. But each one takes a lot of work to get to the point where I feel comfortable there. It’s day after day of the same thing...

YES, I want black coffee, without sugar.
NO, I don’t have a male escort.
YES, I know the price – I can read the sign (in Arabic) so don’t try to rip me off.
NO, I’m not a tourist.
YES, I will just sit here, drink my coffee, and watch people walk by.
NO, I didn’t come here to make conversation.
YES, I have a phone number.
NO, you can’t have it...

Really I don’t want much, except coffee. And respect.

*

My dad came to visit last month, and he’s a bit of a coffee addict. When he needs his coffee, he needs his coffee, so I ended up sitting in lots of these cafes, which are far more numerous than the female-friendly ones where I generally go to get work done. At one point we went to a cafe near my house in Fez Jdid. Until then I had specifically avoided that cafe and others like it in my neighborhood.

I think one of the reasons I avoided it until then was because I knew that the men in it sit there and watch me every day as I go about my business. Not to sound self-important, but I figured they must talk about me at least from time to time...you know, “Here comes that white girl again...” and that kind of thing. The thought of actually sitting with them was terrifying. A major disadvantage of my improving darija is that I have the misfortune of hearing and understanding what people say about me when I’d much rather remain blissfully ignorant.

While my dad and I conspicuously sat there – the foreigner and the woman – I got a phone call and everyone in the cafe heard me speaking in darija. As I was leaving, one man commented...

“So, you speak darija?”
“Yeah,” I told him, “I live here.”
To which he responded, “Well we all know you live here. But it’s great that you speak darija. You’re welcome here anytime. You’re very respected in this cafe. Come here to take your breakfast.”

It was an awkward conversation. Welcoming, yes, but also strange. Several times since then I’ve sat at that cafe (without my father as an escort) and have felt incredibly awkward every time. But, of course I play it cool. I have my routine. I go to buy HARCHA or MALAWI – two Moroccan breads that are wonderful for breakfast – then go to the cafe. I always drink the same thing – black coffee, no sugar – and just...sit. I look straight ahead toward the street, but I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on there. Mostly I just think and process. I gather my thoughts and plan out my day. I spend a quiet 20 minutes, then go on with my life. I love it. I also try to pretend that there aren’t people staring at me and wondering what I’m doing in their manspace.

*

The other day I was approached on the street by the same man who had welcomed me to his cafe several weeks before – I call him HASSAN DIYAL QHWA. He was friendly enough. He welcomed me back to Fez after my 5-day absence and he said that next time I came to the cafe he wanted to talk to me about his daughter – an 18-year-old who loves music. He always sees me walking with my guitar, so he thought we should meet. I agreed to meet her. After all, that’s my job, right?

The next morning I met Hassan at the cafe, and he introduced me to his daughter, AFAF. I went home with her to drink tea, and Hassan went back to the cafe. Note, please, that Afaf isn't allowed to sit in the cafe. Afaf and I chatted about music, sports, school, and traveling. I like her. She's spunky. Her dad doesn’t like her to go running by herself, so I told her we can go running together. I have a new running buddy.

Later, after lunch (Moroccan visits generally last all afternoon), Afaf went back to school, but I got to hang out with her parents. Hassan and I had a lovely little chat about how everyone perceives me in the cafe. It was without a doubt one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had. He gave me a play-by-play of the commentary about me:

Look at that foreigner...wait, we’ve seen her before...wait, we see her everyday? Does she live here? She DOES live here! What’s she doing here? She must be a trouble-maker. No, I’m sure she’s a student. She likes music, she’s always carrying that guitar. And clearly she does sports, because sometimes she piles her hair on her head and is sweaty. Look how mean she is! Why is she so mean? No, she’s not mean. Look at how friendly she is to the banana man. She just doesn’t talk to people she doesn’t know...like a Moroccan girl. Wait...what’s she doing in our cafe?!?! What’s she DOING?!?!?! Why is she here? Probably because she wants coffee. But doesn’t she know that women don’t come to men’s cafes? Well, she’s Western, she does what she wants, AFRITA! But look at how she sits when she’s here. She ignores us all. She doesn’t even stare at people on the street. She just thinks. She’s not looking at us, she’s just looking at herself. She sits in the cafe like a Moroccan man. Wait...WHO IS THIS??

In summary, Hassan told me that shwia bi shwia I have been shattering every perception anyone has about me.

This went on for a while, complete with Hassan’s imitation of my demeanor while I sit in the cafe. It was – I have to say – accurate and hilarious, yet a bit disturbing that the tiniest gesture can’t go unnoticed.

And so it seems that by “asserting my feminist agenda” (Peate, 2010) I have opened Pandora’s box. I now get the good, the bad, and the ugly of what the cafe people say about me. But I also have met a wonderful new family in Fez Jdid who treats me like I’m their own.

Well worth it.

On Crosswalks and Catalyzing Change

Most every chronicle of an American’s adventures in the Middle East undoubtedly includes a mention of the traffic situation. Learning to cross the street in Morocco – or any other Arab country, I’m told – is an art form, and one that may save your life. There are crosswalks in which pedestrians have the legal right of way. But they mean nothing.

In the months that I’ve been here Arabic TV stations have aired a series of horribly graphic commercials. They depict gruesome traffic accidents and one even shows the dead bodies of school children hit in a crosswalk. They end with a plea: “We need to change our behavior.”

I don’t drive here, and Mom, you’ll be glad to know I recently turned down an offer for a motorbike. Deep down I REALLY want to be that American girl who rides a motorcycle (certain cause for speculation – my specialty), but the thought of driving on the streets of Fez fills me with such fear it could only end in disaster.

But I’m a passenger often. I’m pretty picky about my drivers, but taxis are the luck of the draw. Very often riding in someone’s car prompts a discussion about the rule of law, corruption, and civil responsibility. They all think I’m an up-tight American and I think they’re all insane Arabs. Inter-cultural dialogue is a such a beautiful thing.

The truth is, if you follow traffic laws in Morocco you’ll never survive, because everyone else drives like a maniac. It’s like an Olympic wrestler taking on the EFC champ: if he tries to fight clean he won’t stand a chance. In order to get from Point A to Point B you invariably have to concede that a two-lane road can actually accommodate the width of four cars, and you have to tailgate because if someone sees half a car’s length in front of you they’ll cut you off to get 5 meters closer to the red light. Not to mention young men (and old men...and women) feel the need for speed, and in Morocco the concept of the queue (as in waiting your turn for ANYTHING) is entirely foreign and counter-intuitive. The only way to survive on the streets of the Maghreb is to get with the system...the unwritten code that Americans will never understand, but taxi drivers seem to have down to an art.

But still...a little order couldn’t hurt.

Among my acquaintances is a guy named SIMO. He loves to tell me about his narrow escapes from the law. (I’ll admit it before I get scores of comments decrying my hypocrisy...The high school version of myself wasn’t known for following the letter of the law when it came to driving. And I saw every evaded ticket as a testament to my powers of persuasion. But shame on me.) Instead of flashing a smile and charming his way out of a citation, Simo simply halves the amount of the ticket and slips it to the police officer in cash.

“A 400dh ticket? Oh no! I can’t possibly afford that...how about I’ll give you 200dh and we’ll call it a day?” Or in the unfortunate circumstance that he doesn’t have 200dh cash with him... “How about 100dh and 3 cigarettes?”

At least once a week Simo would regale me with tales of his bribery and they would never sit well with me. I’ve heard all the arguments:
-The police don’t get paid very much...they’re EXPECTED to take bribes
-It’s the same as a tip for good service.
-The police double the amount of the real fine so they’d be taking a cut anyway.
-I can’t afford the ticket, and I don’t want them to take my license away.
-Everyone else does it, why not me? You gotta get with the system.

But what it all comes down to is that Simo pays off a police officer time after time after time and has never learned...until about a week ago when he had a big and dangerous accident. Car totaled, two people in the hospital. Idiot.

So what’s my point?

The laws are there. Police need to start enforcing them. And drivers need to start obeying them.

Back to crossing the street...

Last month I was walking with some Moroccan university students. They insisted that we cross the street in the crosswalk (wait...we have those in Morocco???). Their reasoning was a lovely brand of academic idealism, much forgotten in the US:

“Social change begins with individual action.”

Yalla.

On Getting Your Money's Worth

Dear U.S. Taxpayer,

Yes, I know. I seem to have fallen off the face of the planet. But take it as a sign that you’re getting your money’s worth.

Sometimes I think it’s unbelievable that you (yes, you) are paying for me to study Arabic and live in Morocco. But in the past 6 weeks I have been earning every penny (dirham, actually, since I’m paid in Moroccan currency). My language study has been put into overdrive – 20 hours of upper-level Fusha a week. I’ve been almost entirely consumed by schoolwork and I have been putting your money to good use. My head is about as full as it can be right now, juggling 2 languages – one in the school, the other in the street.

But lest this open letter to my creditors become complainy, I have to say that my many hours of studying have been punctuated but all sorts of cultural activities designed to give me some illusion of physical, intellectual and emotional balance: guitar classes, dance classes, dance parties, birthday parties, engagement parties, dinner parties, embassy parties...

I’m sorry that my blogging (and emailing) has fallen by the wayside. Truth be told, I have a lot of thoughts running through my head at the moment. It simply takes time and energy to form those thoughts into words. But it’s a valuable process for me. Until I make words of them, they’re just a jumbled up mess and my life makes no sense. I need to get back to writing. Now that I finished my final exam, I should have more time for processing, formulating and articulating. Stay tuned...more to come in the next couple of days, inshallah.


Sincerely,
Megan Pav

On Life In-Between

Why, yes, I am sitting on the roof of my new apartment in FEZ JDID, drinking sugarless tea and eating a bowl of Rice Krispies. How did I get here? A lot has happened in the past month that’s pulled me off the bloggin’ wagon, but I’m back and it seems we have some catching up to do.

I was able to go back to the Land of the Free for two weeks and spend Christmas with my family. I got a healthy dose of culture shock when I woke up in the morning and a life-sized Joe Scarborough was jumping out at me from my dad’s enormous HDTV. In the same day I witnessed the return of Spandex and the super high, intentionally sloppy ponytail. But the indoor heating was the biggest (and best) shock...especially with the blizzard that covered the D.C. area shortly after I arrived.

It was in many ways a lovely vacation. I got to spend time with my family (a lot of them)...I saw the Steelers win a couple games (too little too late, I guess)...caught up with some dear old friends (among the dearest and oldest I have)...and my sister and I learned the dance to Jai Ho that they do at the end of Slumdog Millionaire (probably the highlight of my trip).

But of course, being back in the States led to the natural comparisons between here and there. I love here and I love there, but for very different reasons. Then certain political events went down in both countries and elsewhere, which highlighted the things that I DISLIKE in both. The whole thing made me feel dreadfully in-between. Not that that’s anything new.

On New Year’s day I left the States again...through Spain...to Tangier...finally back to Fez on the 3rd.

I had set up a new apartment in Fez before I left for Christmas. I wanted everything to be in order when I came back so I didn’t have to worry about moving and all of that when my new class term started. But, lest we forget, this is Morocco. Things didn’t work out like I planned and due to problems with the landlord and the apartment and some neighbors, I decided I needed to find a new place.

I crashed with the Khattabis for a few days (they tried to convince me to stay forever), and stored my things with some other Fulbrights. After seeing a few apartments – some of them disasters – I found a good place for a good price from a good landlord who is also a teacher at the school. And the best thing about my new place: the location.

I’m no longer in the ancient Medina (where I lived with the Khattabis), nor am I in the modern Ville Nouvelle (where I lived 2007-2008). I’ve moved into Fez Jdid, which is situated geographically as well as historically between the other two cities.

The name Fez Jdid means, “New Fez.” It was the new city before the French came and made a newer city. It’s an awkward in-between place of which I know nothing (Yet). It’s kind of perfect.

My next adventure: learning Fez Jdid. YALLA.

On The Fine Line Between War and Running Away

When I was little I couldn’t say my R’s. My mom told me that when we moved to Pennsylvania and I started 1st grade at my new school I’d have to go to speech therapy if I didn’t learn to say that blasted letter ASAP. Mom and I sat in Pizza Hut one rainy afternoon shortly before we moved, and she tried to help me.

“Megan,” she coached, “say ‘RRRRRRRRRR’”
I said, “WWWWWWWWWW!”
“Megan, say ‘Red Robins in the Rain’”
I said, “Wed Wobins in the Wain”
“Megan, say ‘Ratty Rug-Rats on the Roof’”
I said, “Watty Wug-Wats on the Woof”

I was fwustwated. I could hear difference between what my mom said and what I repeated, but I couldn’t figure out how to make the weird sounds she was making. Until one day right before I started 1st grade. By then we had moved to Pennsylvania, and I was playing Barbies in my room. My Barbies must have been saying something to each other, because suddenly I could say my R’s. It really came out of nowhere. I rushed down the stairs to show my mom my new skill:

“Mom! RRRRRRRRRR! Red Robins in the Rain! Ratty Rug-Rats on the Roof!”

I’ll never forget my exuberance when it came out right for the first time. I felt like I had just beat a level of Super Mario Bros. that I had been stuck on for ages.

***

About 13 years later I was working towards a Spanish minor at Wheaton. I decided to spend the summer after my freshman year in Salamanca, Spain to finish my minor. In Salamanca I lived with a family and became quite close with their son, Juan. But he harassed me constantly about my inability to say the hard Spanish J. It’s a sound you make back in your throat...it sounds kind of like you’re snoring. (I’ll transcribe it as kh)

“Megan,” Khuan teased, “Say my name!”
I said, “Hwan”
“Megan, say ‘embakhada’” (embajada – embassy)
I said, “Embahada”
“Megan, say ‘por ekhemplo’ (por ejemplo – for example)
I said, “por ehemplo”

Tragic. I never heard the end of it from my darling Juan. Again, I could hear the difference, I just couldn’t make it. Until a couple months after I left Spain. One day back at Wheaton I was talking to myself in the shower (in Spanish, of course...don’t judge me). Suddenly I could say the J. I got out of the shower, danced around like an idiot, and kept repeating,

“Embakhada! Embakhada! Embakhada!”

My roommate thought I was a little loca. I was. Again, I felt giddy, like I was Mario, and I finally made it to the castle.

***

And then came Arabic. I’ve had a couple little hurdles on the way, since Arabic has some letters that aren’t even close to resembling sounds we have in English. There’s one letter described by my textbook as “a sheep sound.” SHNU??? What does that even mean???? It’s called the 3ain. (Yes. When we transliterate Arabic sometimes we use numbers. 3=The sound a sheep makes.) But after time I learned to make the new sounds.

Except for one thing. And this time it’s even worse.

Arabic has 2 letters that we’d call H. The “Ha” and the “ha.” I’m not sure which one’s which, but for now H will be the one that looks like jim and h will be the one that looks like a curly cue. As far as I’m concerned, they’re KIF-KIF (exactly the same). Moroccans look at me like I’m an idiot because I can’t tell the difference between Harb (war) and harb (to flee). Ummm. Kif-Kif?

The other day I was graded on a dictation assignment. Dictation is like death, only it’s worse because it lasts forever and my hand and brain get tired. When my teacher graded it, he asked why I missed so many words.

“Because I don’t know them,” I said.
“But usually you're able to spell things right, even if you don’t know them.”
“But these words have H’s in them.”
“You mean you can’t hear the difference between H and h?
“Uh...no”
“Listen...Hayat (life)...hua (he)...”
“Nope...Kif-Kif.”

We spent the next 20 minutes doing dictation with words that have Ha’s and ha’s in them. Apparently Ha comes from deeper in the chest and ha comes from the mouth. Whatever that means. It seems to me that anything you say comes out of your mouth. The worst is that I don’t even know which one I’m saying. Sometimes I say one, and sometimes the other. It’s really a 50/50 chance that I’ll be right...or wrong.

After an extremely frustrating (yet comical) class I am finally able (I think) to hear the difference between the two of them. That’s step one. Maybe one day, inshallah, I’ll be able to differentiate in my speech. Until then, Mario is getting his butt kicked by those doggone flying turtles.

On Moroccan Weddings and 19th Century Western Literature

On Monday night I went to a wedding with the Khattabis. As Marmee says in Little Women (the movie): “Nothing provokes speculation more than the sight of a woman enjoying herself.”

Sometimes I feel like I just can’t win. I try to be good and do everything right so as not to bring heaps of shame on the Khattabi household when they take me out in public. Yet somehow at every joyous occasion I step out of line and do something that invites the speculation of the masses.

There’s entirely too much to worry about at an event where women sit around the circumference of the room, taking notes as they watch the younguns shake their groove things. They always have their matchmaking antennae up. It’s like a Jane Austen novel on crack (or at least massive amounts of mint tea). I find that a lot of people are trying to fit me into one of two categories: eligible or MASKHOTA (naughty, promiscuous, of ill repute).

If I talk to boys, I’m being too forward. If I don’t talk to boys, I’m being rude and distrustful of respected family friends. If I joke around with the brothers I get told HSHUMA (shame on you). If I don’t joke around with the brothers they’re certain something’s wrong with me. If I don’t dance, I’m an ill-humored Darcy. If I dance like a Moroccan, I’m critiqued on my form. If I dance like an American, I’m ridiculous.

Eventually there comes a point where I just give up. If I’m going to be the object of ridicule to matter what I do, I might as well enjoy myself. I embrace my inner American goofball. I dance and laugh. I drag the brothers onto the dance floor, all the while flatly denying any allegation that I’m planning on marrying one of them. I bust out the most absurd dance moves I can muster. And I become the star of neighborhood gossip for at least a week.

On the bright side, I'm hoping that my out-of-the-box personality will help to fend away some would-be suitors and/or their families. After all, the assumption around here is that a single woman in possession of an American passport must be in want of a husband.