I cry easily. Movies and goodbyes are the usual suspects; I’ve also cried over fantasy novels and mango sorbet. I can’t be embarrassed about crying in front of people—it’s inevitable. But I can’t comfortably sob in front of people, that moment when grief takes you by the neck, shaking out every tear, every wheezing breath. Sadness leeches the joy from your heart that keeps your mind agile and your hands eager. Even deft navigators of the heart have difficulty breaking that stranglehold. When my face is contorted in that grip of sadness, I assume a brave expression.
Frankly, it’s a terrible face. No one is fooled.
Last Tuesday night, a college friend passed away after sustaining injuries in a skiing accident. Annie was vivacious, radiant. Her intrepid spirit goes unmatched. She was 24. No scrap of sense can be gleaned from such a tragedy. And it aches to know my friends will gather for a memorial service when we all imagined our next reunion to be at Meliora Weekend, or maybe even someone’s wedding.
Thursday morning, I learned that a volunteer, a dear friend, would be returning to the States this week. As volunteers, we are in the best position to empathize and support each other. But even when departing is the best choice a friend can make, it’s never easy to part ways.
It comes in threes: And finally Thursday night, my parents had to put down my dog, Mojo Sam. Mojo has been my best and most loyal pal since the fifth grade. I hope my sister is right about a doggie Heaven full of Cheerios and popcorn.
Travelers abroad usually hit low points during the three, six, and nine months marks. I’m coming up on eight months in country, so I like to think I’m ahead of the curve. There’s only one viable solution to combat these drops in spirit: Engage.
It’s easy to sit in your house, only leaving to buy food from the hanut or teach at the Dar Chabab. I did not initially tell my community because I needed time to process each passing; I needed to attain a certain level of emotional control. I’ve worn a brave face all week, sobbing only in the quiet of my cold apartment. But I did not just stay inside. I taught my classes. I went to my Arabic lessons. I went to my weekly market. I visited my host family.
No one was fooled. I spent three days deflecting questions from my host family and friends before finally sharing my troubles with them. There were hugs from my host mom and sister, as well as my neighbor. Hugs are not commonplace in Morocco, at least not by American standards. This response was a pleasant surprise. My host family told me not to worry and to stop crying. Everyone told me that I should leave my house more (and come visit); now was the time to stop feeling sad, to forget what happened.
I couldn’t help but be affronted; I dislike being told how I should be feeling. And you don’t forget; you process grief, and eventually you move forward. Part of me wondered if it was an issue of translation—maybe forget is the closest common denominator. But another part of me wonders if it’s a cultural difference. Grief is a luxury—the ability to hit pause and take time to sift through the confusion of a tragedy. Maybe there’s no pause button here.
I tried to explain to my friends and family here that not only do I enjoy the time alone, but I also need it. It’s already bizarre that I live by myself as a single woman, so my choice to further seclude myself at times truly perplexes them. Since my solitude did not seem reasonable, I pointed out that my methods—my hobbies that at the best of times fend off boredom and at the worst of times distract me from my troubles—are better suited to the privacy of my home. Reading and writing do not require an audience.
But I’ve also heard that the word “privacy” does not exist in Arabic. I’ve heard that the closest translation is “lonely.” And maybe that’s why everyone in town worries so much. I want to convey that I’m not often lonely, that I thrive on their compassion and generosity. Peace Corps can be a lonely affair, but it doesn’t have to be. I engage with my community everyday; it’s a reminder that I have family here, people to depend on. No, loneliness is not the most challenging predicament for me during a difficult stretch. It’s isolation. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my choice to live as an expatriate—the scrutiny of my community becomes unbearable; the five- or six-hour time difference seems longer. When stress overwhelms me, I recall how far away I am from the home I left behind, and I dwell on how far I am from making Foum Oudi a place I can call home.
Published December 3, 2012
Leah, thank you for your honesty in this piece. I imagine many PCVs have nodded sympathetically while reading about alienation in site and the dissonance between the way we want to handle our sadness and the way Moroccans expect us to handle it.
ReplyDeleteAlso, I just want to say that I cried when a main character died in the Playstation videogame Final Fantasy VII.
Our tears remind us of our own humanity. Ultimately, they can be very reassuring. When we cry, we reassure ourselves that life has not worn us down into demi-feelers or that we have not, like so many other adults, eschewed expression of grief as childish or weak traits.
Some people condition themselves to avoid feeling the deep pain that occasions weeping. They do this, I believe, at the cost of a good part of their humanity.
I trust that you will move through the pain and make the most of a bad situation.