Many volunteers in my training group have been heralding the arrival of our one-year mark in-country this week. A year ago March 21, we stepped off the plane at Mohammed V Airport in Casablanca, Morocco. It might have been California: mild temperatures and a bright sun, palm trees lining the sidewalks. The landscape felt familiar, but little else registered, particularly the language. I had no previous Arabic language study, and I doubted my high school French would get me very far. Thank goodness intensive language learning defined my first two months in-country.
Initial encounters with Moroccans followed a predictable script, as translated:
Are you French? No, I’m American.
What’s your name? Leila.
Is that your name in America? No, but it’s close. My name is Leah.
And you speak Arabic? A little.
Do you pray? No.
Are you Muslim? No.
Are you married? No. I have a son who would like to marry you. Thank you, but no. I’m here to work, not get married.
Where do you work? I volunteer at the Dar Chabab.
At first, I could barely communicate in Darija (Moroccan Arabic) beyond these basic questions. Now I can not only respond to these queries with ease, but I can also plan a program with the Dar Chabab director, tell the story of how my parents met, and reassure my young host brother that humpback whales do not eat people. (We had just watched IMAX’s “Alaska: Spirit of the Wild” on my computer.)
As a youth development volunteer, I’m assigned to work at the Dar Chabab (Youth Center) in my small town. I teach beginning and intermediate English classes, and while lessons are primarily conducted in English, I sometimes rely on Darija for clarification. Not surprisingly, sometimes these attempts fail: I intended to ask students to work with their neighbors (jiran) but instead asked them to work with their frog (jrana).
After nine months in-site, I’m just hitting my stride, due in large part to collaborative projects with Moroccans. I teach a creative writing class as part of an extracurricular English program hosted by the Moroccan Association of Teachers of English. The Association later invited me to present at their next teachers’ workshop, where I addressed strategies for teaching writing in the classroom. Some days I measure success by the three jars of marmalade I made for my neighbor, but that day I reached 55 teachers at my presentation. Two months ago, I introduced the International Youth Foundation’s “Passport to Success” program at the Dar Chabab. My friends Hassan and Jamal now teach the curriculum of 60 life skills lessons. After our first meeting, three girls were concerned they would miss the Sunday sessions—it’s the time they usually help their mothers clean house. I walked them home that evening and held an impromptu meeting with their parents over tea and fresh bread to discuss the program and stress attendance. An hour later, after I had secured parental consent, the conversation turned to me:
Do you like Morocco?
How are your English classes?
Do you ever discipline students?
Have you adjusted to life here?
Is it scary to live alone?
The script has changed. Now I get new questions every day, and there are too many lines to memorize. But I improvise, speaking Darija with greater confidence. As I find my Arabic voice, I discover greater mutual understanding and acceptance.
Published April 24, 2013
(Pending publication in the U.S. Department of State's "eJournal USA." Special thanks to my mama for her supreme editing skills.)
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