On Jins, Moroccan Names, and the Threat of Evacuation

It's fair to say that during Community Based Training (CBT), I have no life of my own. I wake up at 7:45am Monday though Saturday, head to the Dar Chebab (youth center) at 8:30, have language class until 12 or 12:30, head home for lunch until I need to be back at the Dar Chebab at 2:00, at which point I either have another language class or a cultural lesson, then teach kids at the Dar Chebab from about 4-6pm, head home for dinner, study, and sleep. Without fail. Until I get sworn in as a full-fledged, official, scared-shitless volunteer on March 27th, this will continue to be my life. And even after that, I can't necessarily say things will go back to being "normal." Whatever that even means.

One of the most entertaining cultural session we've had up until this point, however, has been on Moroccan superstitions and jins. Jins can more or less be translated into 'genie', although in American culture genie often comes attached to a connotation of lamps and bottles and a big blue cloud of Robin Williams voice. In Morocco (actually, it's out of the Quran to be more precise), jins were the first inhabitants of Earth. The world is occupied by humans, jins, and angels, and like humans, jins can be good, bad, or neutral. As far as superstitions go, it is incredibly interesting to be an outsider in a culture and hear the superstitions that are believed and sometimes followed. Please read the list below with an open mind, as Moroccan culture is not yours to judge, nor is it mine to judge. Remember, American's have crazy superstitions too (break a mirror and get 7 years bad luck, don't walk under a ladder, knock on wood, black cats on Halloween, etc). While I plan on having much more extensive conversations on jins over the course of my time in Morocco, here is what I've gathered so far on jins as well as superstitions in Morocco (because, as my trainer stated, "Today we'll learn about superstitions and jins. Jins are not superstitions. Jins are real."):

• Jins: 
• You cannot pour water direction from the hot water tap down the drain, you must mix at least a drop of cold water with it, because the jins live in the drains. If you run straight hot water down the drain, you run the risk of the jin coming up and possessing your body. 
• Moroccans use salt in everything. Lots of salt. This was explained finally when we discussed jins, as jins cannot consume salt. Therefore, if you salt your food, the jins will not sit with you at your meal, and the salt will keep you safe from their presence. 
• It is believed that jins have the legs of a goat, but the rest of their body is a mystery and can be any of a variety of combinations. 
• If someone is laying on the floor and you step over them, they'll never grow. 
• If your right hand itches, it is a sign that in some form, money will be coming to you soon. Alternatively, if your left hand itches, you will be losing money somehow in the near future. The list of other left/right superstitions is quite extensive...
• If you hit a girl with a broomstick, she'll never get married. 
• At a wedding, if you drink from the same cup as the bride, or eat from the same plate, you will also get married soon (similar to throwing the bouquet at an American wedding). 

As for Moroccan names, many Peace Corps Volunteers find they are given a "Moroccan name" at some point during their service. This could be for a number of reasons. Maybe you just remind someone of a daughter or friend with a certain name. Maybe your real name has sounds in it that are not common in Darija and difficult to pronounce. Or, in my case, maybe a 3 year old doesn't quite understand the difference in American names and Moroccan names and said the closest sounding Moroccan name he could think of and pronounce. I write this blog currently under the new identity of Malika (not a bad name to be fair, since it translates to 'Queen' in Darija). So far, 3 of the 5 of us in my CBT have been given Moroccan names, although I still hold the pride that the most adorable 3 year old out there gave me mine, even if he has since switched to calling me Monika (this kid is going to be super confused by the time I leave Bouderhem). 

I asked my Moroccan trainer today about using my Moroccan name in a more permanent format, and the implications of doing so. I know other volunteers who introduce themselves to the kids at the Dar Chebab as their Moroccan names, but it is obviously a little strange to take the step to introducing yourself as a different name. I was also a little hesitant simply because my name translated into 'queen' and I didn't want to show up overconfident and cocky and introduce myself as the queen. On the other hand, I liked the idea of giving myself a little bit more anonymity to my students and being able to separate my work and personal life a little bit (and make it so you can't really find me on Facebook...). As my teacher explained to me though, by speaking Darija and introducing myself by a Moroccan name, I introduce myself as a member of the community, having integrated and accepted their culture, rather than being an American foreigner, seen as an outsider. By accepting Malika, I am accepting my new home and culture, and reaching out to my community to be accepted as one of them. By the end of the day today, our entire Dar Chebab knew me as Malika, so I guess step one is a go. 

The other really interesting part of being here in Morocco at this time in life is the insane politics always going on around us. I remember finding out that I was going to be in either Morocco or Jordan, and calling my mom wondering why I never thought to ask for this region before. It is by far the most exciting place in the world right now, with so many changes happening so fast. Unfortunantly, that doesn't always lead to good things. Between Libya, Syria, Egypt, and Mali, I'm definantly in a unique situation getting the chance to live in this region right now. 

Our CBT family

My CBT group has a fairly unique makeup as well in comparison to other training groups. It's made up of: me, the youngest of the total of 95 of us in our entire training staj, Richard, who is 23 from Colorado, Andrew, about to turn 40 from Minnesota, and Barb and Art, who are a retired married couple in their early 60's from Connecticut. Between the 5 of us we bring in some very different viewpoints, covering a few different generations, and essentially covering the viewpoints of the entire geography of the United States, minus the deep south. The last 3 days straight we have managed to end up in some sort of deep political discussion about American politics throughout the world and domestically. It has really added a new level to this experience here in Morocco. I'm finding the more time I spent away from my culture and running from my country, the more I connect myself to it and learn to understand it in ways I never could while I was back in the states. 

But back to the point of evacuation here. Richard and I were discussing one day on a bus ride from Fez to Seffrou what we thought was the potential of being evacuated out of Morocco by the Peace Corps while we are here. For this to happen, some event would have to take place to make Peace Corps feel like it was in the best interest of our safety to no longer remain in Morocco. We would be brought together and flown out to a big fancy hotel in either Paris or Turkey for up to a month while they decide if it's safe to return to Morocco, and sent back to the states or off to other Peace Corps assignments if it remains unsafe. After 9/11, all volunteers were evacuated out of Morocco, and we currently have 2 trainee's in our staj who re-enrolled after recently being evacuated after 10 months in country in Mali when fighting broke out there. 

In my own opinion, I think we have a 50/50 shot during our time here to be either evacuated, or at least consolidated as a precaution at some point during our service here. It's tough to predict though. Morocco is a fairly peaceful country stuck in the middle of an unstable region. However, there are still factions of Al Qaeda within Morocco, despite the Moroccan governments intense efforts to smother them. And with U.S. forces heading into Mali now as well, it adds a new possibility. Ultimately though, it's impossible to know. If anything, it will be an abrupt and traumatic change if evacuation does happen, and I debate on if I think I would join Peace Corps again after going through that process. I really don't know. But I do know that, as much as I joke about it, I still hold that I'm pretty sure I would find out that something happened in Morocco from my parents back home calling to make sure I'm safe after they saw something on the news before I'd find out I was being evacuated. Food for thought I suppose. 

Signing out, 

Malika

An Open Letter To My Mom

Dear Mom,

No matter what culture I experience, I’ve always found one thing universal: The love a mother has for their child. Although it may not seem that children are valued as much as in American culture in some places, I think it’s only just expressed differently. It may not always be apparent, going day to day with a seemingly cold relationship, little interaction or affection. Or maybe it will be apparent, in the laughing, the dinnertime conversation, or the assistance with homework. But no matter what, when in need, a mother is always there for their child, whether American, Kenyan, Moroccan, or any other culture.

I know sometimes (alright, honestly, most of the time) my aspirations and choices in life make you want to have a panic attack. In some ways, I’m sure you might have wished I would have simply graduated college and gotten a normal job and not decided to run rampant on the world. But I know at the end of every day, when I burrow under my 4 blankets and sleeping bag and can still see my breath, that you are proud of me. I know you and Dad both go to work each day with the latest of my updates to share with your friends.

But remember this as well: The first thing I did my first night with my Moroccan host family was to show them the pictures of my family back home. Without you and Dad to show me what hard work meant, to show me what the world has to offer, and to show me that my own potential never stops, I could never have had a chance to give you stories to tell. Never do I have a day that I do not at some point think, “Man… I wish mom were here to see this” or “Damn, what would dad think right now?” Whether you realize it or not, you travel with me through each and every one of my adventures, and I make sure to never lose sight of who made those adventures possible.

I remember, Mom, when you first went back to school to get your degree. You took a leap of faith and followed your dreams. While my 4^th grade self may not have really understood what was going on at the time, I’m so proud of you for what you’ve done. You taught me that it was never too late to do what you want to do with your life, and, if you work hard enough, anything is possible. You raised me to know that I could be whoever I wanted to be, and through thick or thin, you would stand by me. Even through my lowest lows and my greatest achievements, you were my rock. You were who I called at the end of the day. You were who I wanted to tell my stories too, and you were who I was most afraid to disappoint when I messed up.

The more I travel and the further I get from home, the more I realize how strong your love for me is. On those days when I had no motivation to do my Peace Corps application, and you kept nagging me about it, those were the days when you put your fears on the backburner so I could follow my dreams. I can’t begin to guess the number of times in the last month that you’ve wished me back home. The stress and worry you face everyday are because you loved me so much that you trusted me to follow my dreams. And in my times of doubt, you were the one that told me I could do it.

I can’t image being the mother of independent, pain-in-the-ass, obnoxious me. I would have a heart attack if I had to wait each day for the latest email or update that I’m alright. But you do it. Because you love me. Because of that, I do everything I can to make sure you always know that I’m okay. And when I’m maybe not okay, I still tell you I am, because just being able to tell you that will make me okay.

I love you so much, and you have given me everything in life.

Monika

How a McChicken Made Me Realize I'm In Morocco

The longer I’m here, the more I keep waiting for the ‘Ah-ha!’ moment. You know the moments. Those moments when you suddenly realize what you’ve always wanted is happening, or when you realize you’re doing something awesome, or with incredible people. Sometimes those moments hit, but honestly, sometimes you only think they’re coming, but they never hit. Today, my ‘ah-ha, I’m in Morocco’ moment came at the most unexpected moment; While I sat in McDonalds, of all places.

It’s an incredible surreal feeling to sit in a McDonalds in a foreign country. I have been told by many people that it is their habit to make sure they go to McDonalds every time they travel somewhere new, since it’s always just a little bit different depending on what country you’re in, and I have to say, this is now my new habit as well. So how did I decide that McDonalds was the best choice of all of the restaurants in Fes to have dinner at, you ask? Simple: We were incredibly lost, we had been walking for a couple hours by that point, we were hungry, and thought it was funny that we found McDonalds. Done and done.

To start, the McDonalds here is an upscale restaurant for Moroccans to go to. Converting the amount of Dirhams I paid for my McChicken, fries and drink, it was almost exactly the same amount as I’d pay in Dollars in America. Controlling for inflation and simple exchange rates though, that’s nowhere near the same price. I bought a half kilo of mandarin oranges and two candy bars today for a grand total of 8 Dirhams, my hotel room in Fes for one night was 82 Dirhams, and my McChicken, fries, and drink cost me 52 Dirhams. You see now the difference. I will also add that it was by far the fanciest McDonalds I’ve seen in my life.

As I sat there with two fellow Peace Corps Trainee’s, we discussed the differences between a Moroccan McDonalds and an American McDonalds, as well as simply the differences between an American meal and a Moroccan Meal. For one, it blew our minds that the Moroccan McDonalds was two floors, with a balcony seating and patio seating, while an American McDonalds obviously is not that. We realized as we looked around that going to McDonalds is a big deal here. It costs a lot of money, it’s a different kind of cuisine, and it’s something special. It was undoubtedly a special treat for us as well to get a little ‘taste’ of home. Our stomachs were suddenly quite confused as to why we suddenly weren’t inhaling an absurd amount of sugar and a stupid amount of bread with our meal. Dear stomach: I miss salt.

I mentioned earlier that people like to make sure they hit McDonalds everywhere they go so they get a ‘cultural experience.’ I understood it today as I saw a McFondue on the menu. No, I’m not making this up. I swear. The longer I am here in Morocco, the more I understand the true influence that France’s colonization has on Morocco, although I have not yet had enough language experience to truly understand the past of my new home. My friend Richard and I have a running joke that we are going to get tattoos on us in Arabic that says ‘We’re not French.’ The official language of Morocco is Darija, yet most official documents are still printed in French anyways. It’s an interesting thing to experience, since official documents are in French, school classes are taught in French, and any white person is spoken to in French (even if we insist of Darija). For the older generation of Moroccans, who do not understand French (and shouldn’t have to technically, since French is not an official language), receiving important documents in a language they do not understand is a painful reminder of their country’s past.

Let’s get back to the point though. What’s the most American thing out there? McDonalds. At the end of a difficult week of sorely missing home, McDonalds seems like the perfect solution of culture shock and homesickness. Of all things that have happened to me up till this point, it really did surprise me that it was McDonalds that would supply me with the ‘ah-ha’ moment I had been waiting for. It was the very surreal feeling to be the only American’s sitting in a McDonalds in North Africa, eating exactly the same food I’ve ordered back home many times, but feeling like I was spending a night on the town while I did so. Seeing Moroccan culture and an American icon mashed into a single entity is exactly what it took to have it all hit me.

My friends and I walked away from that meal laughing incredibly hard at the complete absurdity of our situation. We had spent all day traveling, we had taken a taxi to one location, and didn’t have enough language to explain where our hotel was to the return voyage taxi driver, ended up walking for 2 hours whilst very lost, stumbled upon a McDonalds, and ate our meals while an entire restaurant of Moroccans stared at us. Believe me when I continue to say everyday is an adventure here. 

What is Culture Shock in a technological age?

Admit it or not, our world is becoming more homogenous. The invention of the internet was essentially the beginning of the end for any sort of individualism, whether on a personal level, or a cultural level. There are critics out there who claim the invention of Facebook and the worldwide spread of internet access have minimized, if not eliminated, the idea of culture shock when traveling, and this is a bad thing. I’ll admit it, being able to access my email or my Facebook from 5000 miles away is a really nice feature. Peace Corps was founded in 1961, and those first volunteers are much braver than I’ll ever be. They were the one’s willing to step up and move across the world for two years, with no ability to communicate back home but snail mail. It’s a different age today. But is the internet really the cause of the loss or diminishment of culture shock?

I got home from the Dar Chebab yesterday to find my host sister watching Tom and Jerry on Nickelodeon, followed by Over The Hedge (in English, with Arabic subtitles). When I walked in today, Nickelodeon was on again, this time airing Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire (again, in English, with Arabic subtitles). I think this is the first clue that the internet is not to blame entirely for the loss of culture shock. I’m willing to admit, I got really excited when I saw those on, and eagerly sat down to watch with her. It was great to get a little taste of home like that.  When my host dad got home, he changed the channel to the news (in Arabic this time, obviously). The first commercial that came on, though, was one of those ‘text this number to get this ringtone’ thing, advertising Adele ringtones. The next was a “Gangam Style” ringtone.

Let’s keep in mind here that I’m currently in a village with a population we guess to be maybe 500 people, on a good day, up in the Atlas Mountains, in the middle of Morocco. It’d be one thing if I was in the capitol getting all of this, but even here, in the middle of nowhere, American culture has infiltrated everyday life. I could go a month without touching a computer or Facebook, and still my level of culture shock would be much lower than even 10 years ago. But how does the internet and Facebook play into this picture? My host sister has already asked if I have Facebook, and what my last name is so she can friend me. Over half of the world’s internet users have an account on the site. Obviously it plays a role here. Traveling has a new dimension to it these days, with my ability to now stay in touch with people I met in foreign lands, plus be able to move away from America for two years and still talk to my parents on a daily basis.

I think having the ability to communicate back home constantly hasn’t necessarily made it easier to be gone for so long, but instead it has just really changed what it looks like to be a Peace Corps Volunteer nowadays. 50 years ago, the first volunteers started in a country without any contact back home but unreliable mail systems. Their culture shock and loneliness was immediate and obvious. There were no familiar faces to fall back on, and they were forced to become independent fast, really fast. The internet has delayed that process and made it easy to hide when someone is struggling to adapt. Sometimes the volunteer themselves don’t even realize for awhile how much trouble they’re having, and it makes for a very different kind of struggle and loneliness than PCV’s coped with 50 years ago.

Instead of being hyperaware of how alone you are, and having nobody to fall back on like the first PCV’s were, today’s volunteers often seem to fall back on an illusion of support. Now, in no way do I mean this to say that all of you back home aren’t supporting me. You are, and I love you to the moon and back for it. What I mean by this is that you aren’t actually here with me, moving from one day to the next along side of me. While it often feels like there are so many people to turn to, the fact is, and I’m still in a village in the mountains of Morocco, learning to survive from one day to the next. The advice many current volunteers have given me is to make sure to fall back on my friends here in Morocco when I’m having a rough day, rather than calling back home. The other PCV’s here are going to be a better support and know what I’m going through, rather than making me feel even more disconnected after talking to someone so far away that really doesn’t know what’s going on here. If you rely on people back home, it can often mask the loneliness or struggles, when really, they aren’t the people who are actually available in the moment. I think the initial ability to stay in touch to people back home via the internet simply delays the feeling of loneliness that is necessary to work through in order to be a successful volunteer. But is this loneliness the same as culture shock? I would argue no.

Not to sound arrogant, but whether we like it or not, American culture is invading the world. Even the parts of our culture that we as American’s don’t enjoy, the rest of the world seems to eat up. If its dubbed as ‘American,’ that’s often enough for it to become the latest trend somewhere. Because of this fact, I would argue culture shock is affecting traveling American’s less and less, although travelers visiting America still face it head on. American culture can really be found anywhere you go, and we as travelers can choose to look at this as the loss of a ‘cultural experience,’ or the chance to really see how the world is evolving. Culture shock is really what you make it to be. Internet or not, Tom and Jerry or not, I will always still find things here that challenge me from day to day and show me a very different way of life.  

The biggest differences that cause culture shock now (and the main reason why I say visitors to America still face a heavy dose of culture shock), is interpersonal relations. The fact that in Morocco, men and women simply don’t interact, and certainly don’t have any physical contact, has been a really tough thing to adjust to. My training group has taken to behind closed doors hugs, since guys and girls can’t hug each other anywhere with Moroccan eye’s watching. But with the ability to get online or watch Harry Potter at the end of the day, I really only face the challenge of different personal relations here. On the other hand, picture a Moroccan coming to visit America. Not only do they need to face the intense change in personal interactions, there are no pieces of Moroccan culture floating around in America to be surprised by at the end of a rough day.

I think ultimately, however you spin it, culture shock and international travel are just simply changing. The world itself is changing, and we really have no other choices but simply to adapt. If I want to experience a new culture, it’s really up to me to put the effort in, and I think, to a point, that was just as true 50 years ago. Technology is changing on us, for better or for worse. Humans are still human though, and culture is what we make it to be.