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An American Student in Rabat
I love what I do—working with students in the U.S. and all over the world, training working journalists in emerging democracies and post-conflict societies. I love it for the friends you make, the energy you get back (usually in response to the energy you give out), the smiles, the tears, the frustrations, the arguments about impossible deadlines or the impossibility of getting someone from the government or some other official to talk. And I love it because every once in a while I get to see how I've changed someone's life for the better. This has been such a week. Last fall, while I was still teaching at the University of Central Florida, I told a group of students that I would be spending the following semester in Morocco and that, perhaps, if any of them were interested, they could come and "assist" me for a week or so. Everyone was incredibly excited, but most of them didn't even have a passport... and excitement is one thing while follow through is another. And of course there are always the financial realities. I was encouraged, though, when one of the students told me she had gone so far as to apply for her very first passport. I felt that even if that was as far as she went, at least I was making a minuscule difference (but a difference nonetheless) in the estimated 15 - 20 percent of Americans that have passports. I was shocked several months later when I was already on the ground here in Rabat when another UCF student IM'd me and said that this student, Amanda, had in fact booked her ticket. Wow. As an educator I now felt I was reaching the pinnacle of my career, for now an American student would be able to experience a Muslim, largely Arab, country in the Middle East/North Africa region. A country which continues to be on the State Dept.'s advisory list, in which there was a terrorist bombing in Casablanca just two years ago and which saw several of its citizens responsible for the deadly Madrid train bombing exactly one year ago. What an incredible opportunity, I thought, for Amanda, for myself, for my Moroccan students and for all the people back in the U.S. that would be touched in some way by Amanda's stories when she returned home. The week leading up to Amanda's arrival were filled with a youthful kind of anticipation on my part but also a sense of pride that I had instilled such trust and inspiration in a young student (and her family) that she felt inclined to come and visit me in Morocco. It was an intense feeling. The Friday of her arrival came and I intermittently sat and paced impatiently in my apartment waiting for her to come down my little street in the Kasbah, likely with Aziz, the NDI driver, in tow with her bags. I kept waiting and waiting. My impatience grew. Finally, I went out onto the terrace, heard some voices and looked down. There was Amanda -- glam shades, a head of long blond hair, grinning from ear to ear with Aziz trying to manuever the big red suitcase along the cobble-stoned paths of the Kasbah. I flew downstairs, flung open the door and gave Amanda a huge hug. It really was good to see her. She has this wonderful energy about her -- maybe it's just youthfulness and innocence but either way her energy is wonderfully contagious. We spent the weekend getting Amanda acclimated; one evening I had some of my Moroccan students over (actually one Egyptian, one Syrian and one Moroccan) -- I loved watching the interaction between these kids and listening to them talk about everything from journalism to sex -- no holds barred! I later told Amanda that I felt that most of my own education had been gained in the streets and towns of Europe and the Middle East and from the people I met through my years of traveling and living abroad and not from my seven years of university education. She soon realized why. Amanda speaks only English (and a smattering of Spanish) but is apparently extremely adept at using her hands in addition to finding other ways of communicating. She told me that on the one and a half hour journey from the Casablanca airport to Rabat she and Aziz apparently had been laughing most of the way. Aziz speaks about 5 words of English. She told me she was a bit apprehensive on her arrival not sure how she was going to communicate with people and of course was also simply a bit nervous about being here in Morocco -- her first trip outside the U.S. Some of her friends back home were surprised to learn that her parents "allowed" her to come; many simply thought it was dangerous. By day three, Amanda was getting into the groove, or at the very least feeling a bit more comfortable. I'd sent her off to the bank on her own and while she got lost (which I think was actually due to my poor directions!) she never complained and just saw it all as one big adventure, always gushing about the people she'd met along the way, those who'd tried to help her despite a rather looming language barrier. She was constantly amazed at the friendliness and the patience of the Moroccans and the fact she and they were somehow able to communicate. I was the one that was often left feeling a bit like the mother hen, worried about her oh-so-blond hair and her friendly approach with strangers - she waved at everyone, flashed her ultrabrights as she constantly repeated her first word in French - "Bonjour!" I was mortified - worried that some young man (or old, for that matter) might take her friendliness as unabashed forwardness and steal her away. But like the Mother hen, I too had to just let go and trust... and hope... and pray!! But I clearly wasn't too worried. One day, Amanda and I had gone to the NDI office where I had to do some work before heading off to the college for an appointment. Amanda said she was going to explore the streets of Agdal (the upscale neighborhood where the office is located). She said she'd be back in an hour so we'd have enough time to get to school. I wasn't too worried. At first I was aggravated when she didn't show up at the appointed time. I remember thinking, "silly girl, she's probably got the time all confused;" (she hadn't bothered to change her watch from U.S. time to Morocco time). But as the minutes continued to tick by, the aggravation became combined with worry. In the end, I dismissed the worry while my aggravation became tinged with anticipation and curiousity. Finally, I had to go, so I told the front office to send Amanda to the ISIC when she showed up (which I was sure she would -- it was just a matter of time). I left, hopped a taxi and just hoped for the best. Once I got to ISIC I was chatting with some of the students and had literally just gotten out the first two words of my "Amanda's disappeared" story when, for some reason, I turned around. There she was -- hair disheveled, face pink (and a bit sweaty) and clearly a bit distraught. She came up to me and started telling her story. She had been walking the streets of Agdal when she realized she should probably head back. It was then she realized she had no idea where she was. She told me later she wasn't worried in the least as she trekked down back alleys, a lone blond, purse slung over her shoulder. No, what she was really worried about was how pissed off I'd be because she was going to be late. I guess I'm a lot more predictable than I think! But there she was, a bit flustered, but yet another notch in her belt of adventures -- she was becoming a true traveler! But she still has a lot to learn about geography! One night my colleague Audrey, myself and Amanda went out for a lovely dinner in a Moroccan riad. Audrey was telling us about her long trip back to Canada - that she'd be flying from Casablanca, to London, then to Ulu, Finland, back to London, then to D.C., and on to various points in Canada. Amanda looked horrified. "You can't get a direct flight to Canada?" she asked. Audrey and I started laughing. We laughed and laughed (God, how that cleanses the spirit, to laugh!) so hard that I cried. We explained to Amanda that Audrey had to go to Ulu for a conference, D.C. for meetings etc. She joined us in the laughter. We continued our dinner and our conversation. At one point Amanda asked Audrey if she had a clothes dryer here. The answer was no -- I don't think anyone has a dryer here in Morocco and, quite frankly, I'm glad. It would forever change the landscape of Moroccan roofs, terraces and balconies and the lines of clothes strung across from end to end. Amanda then went on to explain why she missed having a dryer. "My pants just don't fit right, they get all baggy!" Audrey (60-something) and myself (40-something) just looked at each other and laughed. Personally, I explained, I was always thrilled when my pants were baggy -- it made me feel like maybe, finally, I'd lost a couple pounds. Amanda leaves on Monday but I know she'll leave behind a legacy. A part of that legacy will be the many cases of whiplash in men (young and old) as they whipped their heads around to catch sight of this mane of blond hair. Another is the young boys whose hearts she's broken with her friendliness and candor. And she? She will miss her games of soccer with the guys, the patience of the Moroccans, the adventures of traveling and the challenges of communicating. She'll miss her strolls through the medina, hanging out with Moroccans and just learning about herself. And me? In many ways it's like this has been the culmination of my university teaching career, to watch an American student learn that not all Muslims or Arabs are terrorists, that you can communicate if you don't speak the same language, that people around the world are more similar than different and so on and so on. And while perhaps, in some ways, this week has been a highlight in my teaching career, it has also been bittersweet. I have submitted my resignation to the University. I will miss the kids that I've worked with over the past six years but I also feel it's time for new challenges. It's time for me to do as I've been preaching -- to practice the art and craft of journalism and to go back to my roots, so to speak, to do international work, development work and journalism. I've already had my first full page spread in the travel section of the Globe and Mail and I look forward to filing more stories for both print and radio. And of course my Moroccan missives will continue... Hope you're all well.
Hugs, |  |
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Previous Columns
Leaving Morocco
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