Lessons Learned, Ifrane and the end of my journey

I am awestricken to be writing this, but this will be my last blog post. I will be leaving Morocco to return to America in only one week's time. I cannot believe how quickly 126 days (just over 4 months) has passed. I have made innumerable friends here, both American and Moroccan. I have attained a passable level in Modern Standard Arabic, which essentially means I can speak the Arabic version of Latin. I have learned more than I ever thought I would learn about the Arab and Islamic world and culture. But more than anything, I have learned a lot about myself and my own values.

My last adventure here in Morocco was a weekend trip to the mountainous town of Ifrane, which is about a one hour trip by taxi from Meknes. Our group of 4 cadets and one British English professor at Al-Akhawayn University was surprised to find the cleanliness and all-around European style of Ifrane's infrastructure. All of the buildings had the same brick-red roofs like something you might find in America's north-east. Taken as a whole, Ifrane looked like a ski resort reminiscent of my winters spent in Colorado's Rocky Mountains. Al-Akhawayn University was sprawling and pristine, the exact opposite of Moulay Ismail University in Meknes. In the past, USAFA had sent its cadets to Al-Akhawayn for Arabic semester abroad, but we all agreed that we wouldn't trade our earthy experiences living in the heart of Meknes for the posh life of an Al-Akhawayn student.

Compared to the dynamic nature of American culture, Morocco has always been very stagnant and steeped in tradition. Women wear the same styles of kuftans and jalabas that their great great great grandmothers wore. Moroccan wedding celebrations last all week and the final party continues all through the night, just as it did centuries before. The same topics are taboo just as they were 100 years ago. Moroccans prefer not to talk about unpleasant things, and so many negative or inappropriate words that we have in American English simply to not exist in Moroccan Arabic. Moroccans in general prefer to foster good social skills over anything else. Moroccans are a very emotional people whose emotions will change on a dime if they feel like the social situation is not going their way. And more than anything, they are kind and hospitable almost to a fault. There is no end to the acts of kindness a Moroccan will do for their friends and family members, or often even for a complete stranger. Morocco is a convoluted and perplexing beast, but it certainly is a pleasant place to live, at least for a short while.

The differences between Morocco and America could not possibly be more stark. Many of these major differences and moments of culture shock I have attempted to chronicle in previous blog posts, but they are innumerable and all-encompassing. But as a result of my discovery of these numerous differences, I have reaffirmed and solidified my own patriotism for America. I learned a lot regarding the Moroccan military, which exists to serve the King and will stand loyal only to him in the event of a national crisis. I am so proud and honored to have the opportunity to serve in the American military--a military that serves the American people. What cause could be more worthy than to serve the American people and to protect the existence of the only country on the planet that was founded to defend the freedom of the people? And this fact could not be made more evident than when I see how virtually every Moroccan youth I have met in these 4 months has only the dream to travel to and live in America. And I get to not only be a citizen of this great country, but I also get to defend it as a uniformed member of the Armed Forces. Blessings upon blessings.

I also learned a lot about gender relations here in Morocco and the way women's roles are viewed. And in this case, I do not want to say I am so blessed to have been given the rights I have in America as a woman, because I believe these rights are inalienable and should be granted just by being born into this world. So instead, I will say I am glad to live in a country that has not unjustly taken these inborn rights away from me as a human being, and not just as a woman. I believe I have become more of a staunch feminist than before I arrived in Morocco, but only in the sense that I believe in true equality between the sexes. I believe if men are compelled to sign up for the draft, women should be too. After all, America is all of our country to protect, and that isn't just the duty of men for we all benefit from America's continued existence.

Now it is true that I have dealt with quite a few frustrations regarding every aspect of Moroccan culture. However, I will acknowledge that every part of the world has its own culture, and that culture often suits the people who live within it. But I do believe it is invaluable to learn about the myriad cultures of our fellow man, since that is how we attain the wisdom to know what is truly the best path for our own lives and for our posterity. And so out of these frustrations with Moroccan culture I have grown even closer and more fond of the American way of life. The American way of life is definitely what is best for me, although it may not be for many Moroccans and other Arabs. Therefore, I will not say that one way of life is better than another. Rather, every culture is valuable in and of itself and we must respect all cultures and traditions. There is no better way of doing this then to walk in our neighbors' shoes.


I have filled many different roles here in Morocco. I have been a student, a teacher, a friend, an "intriguing" foreigner, an American, an ex-pat, a celebrity, an idiot, and sometimes even a mushaghib (troublemaker) in class. I have felt and experienced the full range of human emotions since I have arrived in this country, ranging from euphoric happiness to the depths of heartbreak and betrayal. I have been disappointed, mildly amused, and I have laughed to the point of my body going into convulsions. I have become extremely fond of my little group of fellow cadets here in Meknes and I almost feel like Morocco is a second home to me. I have met people from all over the world and have been part of a very close-knit group of ex-pats living in a city that isn't used to seeing foreigners at all. But the most important hat I have worn here in Morocco is one I hope to wear for the rest of my life- and that is the role of student. I want to always be learning, always to be developing who I am as a person. I love Morocco, but I know that my heart will always beat with the dynamic spirit of an American. And with this American heart, I will always seek new perspectives and new experiences. I am proud to be a woman, I am grateful to be an Airman, and I am blessed to be an American.

Maa salama, Maghrib.

حظ سعيد اصدقاء, للمرة الاخيرة

Administrative building of Al-Akhawayn University, Ifrane. 

I'll miss these crazy fools. Couldn't have asked for a better group.

My Stupid Decisions, and Why I Don't Regret Them [sequel to Casa Blanca]; Rabat Oct 24-26

My heart leaped into my mouth. I felt the adrenaline course through my body like a thousand knives slicing my veins to shreds. I thought surely we would collide with the car in front of us and go toppling end over end across the highway. "This is it," I thought. "Finally my impulsiveness has gotten the better of me." I thought I had made my last stupid decision.

He just laughed as he turned the wheel with ease at the last possible second to avoid the car in front of us. He found my fear hilarious and I suppose somewhat charming. And so I knew he would continue to drive 160+ kph on that beach highway narrowly avoiding collisions with every "slow" car he passed, since it entertained him to see my reactions. This is what I had gotten myself into that weekend in Rabat, and I loved it.

I suppose this post serves as a sequel to the post about Casa Blanca from 2 months ago. In my post about Casa Blanca, I mentioned meeting a cadet from the Meknes Military Academy on the train. Well, as it turns out, I kept in contact with that cadet since we had so much in common, both being cadets at our respective countries' military academies. I will call him Kamal (another very common Moroccan name) for the sake of this post. Kamal and I talked on social media for many weeks after our first meeting on the train, comparing lives at our respective military academies and helping each other with our languages. Kamal was majoring in English at the army academy, so our friendship grew easily and naturally. 

I met Kamal for the first time in person on the same day as I saw Mohamed for the last time (from the "The Murky Waters of Human Relations"). And so naturally I was wary of spending time with Moroccan men. However, Kamal surprised me. We had so much in common and it became very clear to me that Kamal was a fundamentally good person with good intentions. I found it interesting that even though our countries were so different, it seemed as though cadets were the same breed of person world-wide. Kamal expressed a strong reluctance at the thought of returning to his academy every weekend on Sunday night. He always stressed about his uniform and looked forward to sleeping in and not shaving his face on the weekends. He showed me pictures of him working basic training as our equivalent of a flight commander over the summer. I saw perfect SAMI beds in his pictures and him yelling at the basics. The only difference was, at his academy there were only male cadets. So he found it fascinating that I was a female cadet at my Air Force Academy and we never ran out of things to talk about online or in person.

Kamal lived in Rabat, the capital city of Morocco, but studied in Meknes were the army academy was. He had hinted in passing several times that I should come visit Rabat one weekend, and he would be my tour guide. At first, the idea seemed insane to me. Why would I want to travel by myself to a city I had never been to before to spend time with a Moroccan cadet I barely knew? But after a few more weeks of friendship, I was really warming up to the idea. Kamal told me all the ways that Rabat was so much better than Meknes, and that I really needed to visit. So as my curiosity to see Morocco's capital city grew as a reflection of my growing fondness for Kamal, I decided I would take Kamal up on his offer. The only problem was getting my trip approved through 4 levels of the chain of command. I could imagine the conversation: "Sir, I want to travel by myself with a Moroccan cadet to Rabat.... Yes, without the other boys in my program... No, I would stay alone in a hotel room... " etc. 

It was bleak enough that I almost gave up on the idea. I spoke with the trip cadet-in-charge, who did not disguise his disdain for the proposition. He told me I shouldn't even send up a trip request for something like that. I had all but decided against the idea, until I realized that the only reason people thought this was a bad idea was because I was a woman travelling without the group. If any one of the boys had wanted to travel alone, no one would have batted an eyelash. And even though I understood that my trip CIC only had my safety in mind when he said the trip wasn't a good idea, I knew I had at least to try to get the trip approved. The thought of spending the weekend with my now-best friend here in Morocco and breaking away from the Academy group for a while was just too tempting to ignore. So I spent a whole day sending emails and making phone calls to different levels of my chain of command, until I ended up calling the defense attache here in Morocco. 

I did a lot of convincing and explaining and reassuring to different authorities here in Morocco and stateside. But if there's one part of my personality that can always be relied upon, it's that I never give up when I know I want something. I can be quite ridiculous when I want something badly enough. But the more difficult the situation became, and the more it seemed like I should just throw in the towel and go with the academy boys where ever they wanted to go for the 10th straight weekend, the more determined I became to get my way. And finally, after hours of communication, I got my trip approved. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt like I had accomplished some great feat, even though it was just a tourist trip to Rabat. I just couldn't bear the thought of not being able to do something that I knew a male cadet would be allowed to do. And I don't regret my decision to go on that trip for one second.

And so it was because of my bulldog-like stubbornness that I ended up in that Toyota Corolla going 160 kph on a Rabat highway. We were blasting Moroccan and American pop tunes and chatting incessantly in a variety of languages. We were quickly developing a language hybrid between the three languages we shared (English, FusHa, and Moroccan darija), and had inside jokes that no one would ever hope to understand but us.  I found myself feeling like some early 2000's tween sensation in a travel-abroad chick flick. And everything was like that the whole weekend--RomCom perfect. 

Kamal and I drove all over Rabat that weekend, stopping for him to show me interesting tourist destinations and his favorite places to eat and walk on the beach. Kamal's mom called him several times, checking to make sure I was enjoying myself and that he was acting like a gentleman. I got overly excited when I understood an entire conversation between Kamal and his mom in darija over the phone. I got to meet Kamal's younger brother and it was very clear that the two of them were the best of friends. Kamal's brother drove on his motorbike to meet Kamal and I at a restaurant for dinner Saturday night. I told Kamal about my "Moroccan Bucket List" item of wanting to ride one of the motorbikes that I always saw racing around Moroccan streets. Luckily for me, Kamal was willing to oblige me. I laughed hysterically on the back of the motorbike as we drove the long way back to my hotel. I swear Kamal did everything he could to scare the jeepers out of me on that motorbike ride and I had a death grip around him the whole time. 

These are the types of experiences that make me feel so incredibly blessed and lucky to live the life I live. I know that what I did might seem stupid and impractical to a lot of people reading this, but I think that's how the best (and worst) experiences come about in life. I didn't travel 5000 miles away from the safety of mommy USAFA to be as safe and secure as possible--I came here seeking experiences like the experience I had in Rabat. I also believe I've made a friendship with a member of an allied military force that could potentially prove to be invaluable some time in the future. Many people do not know that Morocco was actually the first foreign country to recognize the United States of America as a sovereign nation after the Revolutionary War with Great Britain. And I am happy I get to be a part of this long military alliance. 

If there's any message I want to get across to the readers of this post it is this: don't ever give up when you know you want something. Don't let anyone tell you it's impossible or too dangerous, if it's something you know you want to do. You never know what experiences you could be missing out on if you only ever do "what makes sense." If I always followed what was easiest and safest, my life would not be nearly as rich as it has become. That isn't to say that my stubbornness won't ever bite me in the behind--it very well might. But there are somethings that are more important and more valuable than comfort and ease of life. And it's never too late to start. Time to start checking off some "bucket list" items, friends. Risks and struggles alike, it will be worth it.

بسلامة اصدقاء

Beach in Rabat

An old ship that was turned into a restaurant that is docked to the harbor.

Best part of the trip.

At the mausoleum of Hassan 

ان شاء الله; Akchour and Chefchauen Sept 26-28

If I had been uncertain about this destination before we began the hike, I certainly wasn't now. Sometimes when Moroccans tell you something is worth seeing or beautiful, you have to check your sources for bias. Often times Moroccans merchants will tell you they have just what you're looking for, and end up showing you the exact opposite. The most egregious of these claims came from telling a Moroccan we wanted a gym, and instead being taken to a rug store. And so naturally, as John, Sage, Brandon and I all jumped in the taxi to, "one of the most beautiful waterfalls in Morocco," I was questioning whether or not we might end up at nothing more than a puddle. Now, standing on the rocks overlooking the crystal clear blue lake and looking up at the majestic waterfall before me, I didn't need anymore convincing.

The source of my inhibition regarding the trip to the waterfall came from the friendly Moroccans showing us the way to the waterfall. We had already been lead on a wild goose chase in the exact opposite direction of the waterfall, taking us to a beautiful natural bridge area. While the natural bridge was incredible and definitely worth seeing, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the fact that we'd been told we were going to a waterfall where we could swim. I have always been a fish in the water and was aching to take a dip at the base of a gorgeous Moroccan waterfall. The language barrier wasn't nearly as steep with the locals anymore, after having 6 weeks of language immersion under our belts, so we knew that these Moroccans understood what we were looking for. After taking pictures of this incredible arch, we asked if the waterfall was anywhere near where we were now, and if it would be possible to get there that day. At first, our guides told us we could get to a small waterfall, but that the big one would take a full day's worth of hiking to reach. Fortunately, the "full day hike" was actually only 2.5 hours. So we all had a great time jumping off the rocks into the lake, knowing we never would have made it to this lake if we didn't understand Moroccan time.

I have a love/hate relationship with the way Moroccans perceive time. If time is money back home in America, then relationships and sleep are money here in Morocco. No one seems to feel any urgency when it comes to starting things on time or getting places on time. They even joke about themselves, telling us they will be back in 5 "Moroccan" minutes if they have no intention of being back on time. And it is this concept of Moroccan time being somehow different than what it says on the clock that has inspired today's Arabic lesson, also known as the title of this blog post.

The nature of the term ان شاء الله (read: In sha Allah) is very interesting to me because it can be used in so many different contexts. Literally meaning "God willing," it is always thrown in during conversation centering around discussion of the future. Nothing is taken for granted, and also nothing is assumed. When my host family asks if I have class the next day and I answer yes, their response is invariably ان شاء الله. When I tell a taxi driver where I'd like to be taken, I receive the same response. Perhaps this concept of Moroccan time centers around their trust that whatever God wants to happen will happen, whether they show up to work on time or not. Moroccans are a naturally happy and content people. Rarely have I ever seen a Moroccan stress over something or show too much concern for getting tasks accomplished at all. Lunch is around 4, dinner is around 9 or 10. One night I was even served dinner just before midnight and at the Moroccan wedding I attended, we received dinner at 0230 in the morning. So literally, ان شاء الله means God willing, but to me it means, "whatever happens, happens."

Now anyone who knows me very well and has read this post up until this point sees the major problem that exists between the Moroccan concept of time, and my own concept of time. "But Hillary," you might be thinking, "You're the definition of Type A. There's no way you haven't pulled out every last strand of your hair dealing with these Type B Moroccans!" And for those of you who don't know me so well, yes, I am very Type A. If I think there's even a chance of getting somewhere late, I get very stressed out. If I'm in charge of getting myself to the airport, I will show up 3+ hours early. Putting my faith in a higher power is not my strong suit. But surprisingly, the Moroccan concept of time doesn't bother me. In fact, I think there's a lot of good that can be done for a Type A person in Morocco.

 I can definitely say that this semester abroad has been the least stressful time of my adult life, and not just because I get to swim in waterfalls on the weekends. If I show up a few minutes late to class, it's okay because class probably won't start for another 10 minutes anyway. I can sleep until 8 o'clock every morning, which makes a lot of sense because sleep is a huge part of learning a new language. Sleep is how your brain is allowed to rest and only focus on forming new connections and solidifying temporary memories into long-term memories. And so while I don't think I'd like to live in Morocco for the rest of my life because the lifestyle just doesn't suit my ambition, I have a lot to gain from being exposed to this culture which is so fundamentally the opposite of American culture. I have learned to focus on building relationships and talking to people out of courtesy and genuine interest. This is something I rarely, if ever, did back at the Academy. Here, it isn't considered a waste of time to have a conversation about how the waiter's day has been going before you order your food. You can ask about their family's health before you pay for a meal. People love to talk and they value friendship over ambition and convenience.

It was out of our new sense of Moroccan friendliness that we spoke to our guides that day. Because of that relationship we made it to the waterfall. And we will have more amazing adventures like this in the future, ان شاء الله.

I can honestly say I have become a much more friendly person since I've been in Morocco. Meeting new people every day will do that to you. And it gives you a new respect for every random person walking on the street next to you because every one of them has a fascinating story.  And if you want to know that story, all you have to do is take a little Moroccan time to ask.


بسلامة اصدقاء

The natural bridge at Akchour near Chefchauen,  Morocco.

The "big waterfall" at Akchor. A lovely 2.5 hour hike got us here and the water was freezing!

The Murky Waters of Human Relations

Over the past 10 days or so I have tried to get my thoughts together on the topic of friendship here in Morocco. I have wanted to write a blog post for some time regarding this intangible and vague topic, but every day its definition seems to change. I really want to try to capture all of the big areas of culture shock I encounter in this blog for my own point of reference, so I think it's time I have a go at this beast. I hope that my readers observe this as nothing more than a commentary and documentation of my observations regarding Moroccan human relations. I don't find one country's culture "better" than another, just very different. It is always valuable to understand opinions and practices that differ from your own.

Friendship here in Morocco is unrecognizable when compared to friendship in America. In America, friendship can be defined as meeting another person, finding them to be amusing in some positive way, and putting at least minimal effort into spending quality time with them. Really, there aren't many more requirements than that. Since that is what I have always been accustomed to, I was quite shocked when I discovered that friendship here in Morocco is a little more complicated.

My first Friday night here in Morocco I met a Moroccan man who spoke perfect Americanized English; we will call him Mohammed for the sake of this post. Mohammed was 22 like me and we were studying at the same University here in Meknes. He was funny, charming, attractive, intelligent and seemingly very nice. But for my life I could not understand how someone who was born and raised in Morocco could speak perfect American English. He even used curse words at the natural time you might hear any American college student cursing in the midst of a conversation. Naturally, I was intrigued and found myself asking him every question I could think of, trying to understand how someone who was not a native English speaker could speak English so flawlessly. Over the next few weeks, we developed what I perceived as a close friendship.

Now, as you all know, I go to the Air Force Academy. The ratio between guys and girls at my university is about 4:1, so naturally a good proportion of my friends back home are males. Being friends with guys is as natural to me as being friends with other girls. Therefore, I did not think twice about my budding friendship with Mohammed and he seemed so like any other American guy that I thought our friendship came very easily. We even discussed the massive gender gap here in Morocco, and how it seemed that mixed-gender groups were not seen walking in public together.

Once my host family found out I was spending time with a Moroccan male, they immediately began asking to meet him and I met a barrage of questions each night when I would return home. I also found it strange that Mohammed specifically refused to meet my host family, despite their desire to meet him. When I asked him why he had such a strong aversion to my host family, he would only reply with "you just wouldn't understand."

I guess looking back on this period of time and writing out all the warning signs, the conclusion to this story should have been obvious. I'm sure it is blatantly obvious to you as the reader. But when I was in the middle of this, I really did think Mohammed was different from other Moroccan 20-something males that I had met. He spoke perfect English and seemed so American in his attitude towards life, even though I knew he had never lived in America or even in Europe. We got along very well and I found him fascinating to talk to. But the end of this story is sad even in its predictability: Mohammed did not want to be my friend. He had something else in mind and viewed our interactions differently than I had. My host family had anticipated his intentions since they understood the cultural norms. And so I guess even in my dismay at his actions I have still learned a lesson in all of this: people are always going to be a product of their environments. It was naive of me to expect anything other than this. I now know that my close friendship with Mohammed was culturally inappropriate, even if it was completely acceptable by American standards. When single men and women interact, is it expected in Morocco to be either completely business-related or something that could eventually lead to marriage. I understand this now.

Even with his perfect English, Mohammed was still raised to be a Moroccan, just as I have been raised to be an American. In my upbringing, I have always seen men and women to be people all the same. We might have slightly differing body parts, but we are all just people with the same rights and concerns as other people. I don't consider gender when I make a friend. I choose my friends simply because they make my life better. We laugh at inappropriate jokes, we lean on each other when we need support and we are open with each other about what's on our minds. This is how I have been raised: that all men are created equal--and it is understood that "men" means women too. But here in Morocco, gender means quite a bit more. One of the first questions I get when interacting with Moroccan men is "are you engaged?" Which seems like a very awkward question to me, but really they are only trying to make sure they aren't dealing with someone else's "property." The question is asked out of respect, even if it is difficult for me to understand the thought process behind it.

I believe that people come into and out of our lives for a reason. Mohammed had a purpose in my life: he taught me to accept people for what they are. If we can understand the cultures of those around us we can vastly improve our relationships and interactions with other human beings. We can prevent ourselves from becoming upset for expecting something from someone that they just can't give us.

Thanks for reading.

بسلامة أصدقاء

"Islam" means peace; Casablanca Sept 5-7

Believe it or not, the world "Islam" literally means peace. Here in Morocco, whenever you see a loved one or even greet a stranger you say سلام عليكم (salaam alaikum) which literally means "peace be upon you." When you leave, you say بسلامة which means "with safety." Peace and kindness are firmly ingrained into the Muslim culture and certainly here in Morocco. My sponsor family treats me like one of their own, always asking me to come sit and talk with them. Any time I need directions or have a question, any random Moroccan on the streets is more than happy to help me. Occasionally, a random person on the street will completely stop what they're doing and walk me all the way to my desired location. Basically, once a Moroccan discovers that you know their language (or, at least, are attempting to learn it), you become one of them and they would do anything for you. Morocco is essentially one big family.

That being said, the longer I remain in Morocco, the more it saddens me that most Americans don't understand Islam or Muslims. I think that a lot of Americans are afraid of Muslims based on what we see on the news most days. But in reality, 99% of Muslims just want to be your friend, and especially here in Morocco, think it's really cool and exotic to be from America. Many Moroccans I have met here have been enthralled to discuss the differences between America and Morocco and why these differences prevail. Many students my age have expressed great desires to one day become American citizens. To many of them, America is the land of milk and honey. If they could just get to America, their lives would be perfect. Occasionally I feel like something of a movie star: the lauded "American" they have heard about on TV and on the internet but have never imagined meeting in real life. It makes me so happy to share my experiences with them, and confirm their beliefs that America is truly an amazing place. I love Morocco, but in fact every day here has made me even more proud to be an American. To be fluent in a language like English is a blessing, and to be an American citizen is all some of these people have ever dreamed of. While I have always loved my country, I believe my adventures this past weekend have truly redefined what it is to be an American for me.

This past weekend, the boys and I decided to go to Casablanca, yet another coastal Moroccan city and one that is quite famous. We toured the city the first night, always searching for the random hole-in-the-wall eatery with the "best" shawarma. To our dismay, the city was the dirtiest we had ever seen. Heaping piles of trash at every road, we found ourselves wondering why there didn't seem to be any system in place to clean the public areas. It seemed as though none of the Moroccans in Casa cared whether or not trash from the streets blew in and out of their windows. Even more disturbing was the sorry state of the architecture. I am no architect, but if I had to guess I would say the infrastructure remained from one of the many European occupations of Morocco, and had not been preserved since. The city design and building structure was reminiscent of those I'd seen in Vienna some years back, but the decayed state of the walls produced an eerie, movie set-like ambiance. I've posted pictures of this at the end of this post.

The next day, we traveled to the tallest mosque in the world, the mosque of Hassan II. Its minaret is more than 200 meters tall and it is stunning to behold. The mosque is right at the water's edge in Casablanca and children from the surrounding neighborhood would jump off the mosque's walls into the ocean below. It was here that I met one of the kindest most hospitable Moroccans yet, and that is saying a lot! Her name is Jihane and  she was friends with one of the boys in my group from our trip to Morocco last June. She approached us speaking perfect fusHa (MSA) and we definitely appreciated the change away from the confusing Moroccan dialect. She had brought her company's car (she is a wedding planner; a VERY lucrative job in Morocco) to pick us up and drive us to the other side of the city to the largest mall in Morocco, aptly named Morocco Mall. As we walked around the mall, Jihane pulled me aside and said "we are girls, we stay together." And so we separated ourselves from the boys. She insisted on paying for me to ride several rides with her in the mall's mini amusement part and she spoke only fusHa to me and the boys so that we could understand her (fusHa is never spoken in normal arabic daily life, it is only written and spoken during official events and on the news). She was funny, happy, and generous--the perfect Moroccan woman. I enjoyed conversing with her in fusHa which seemed to come so naturally compared to the Moroccan dialect I had been struggling with recently. Funny, I never expected to have the thought, "oh thank God I get to speak MSA! It's so much easier this way!"

The next morning after travelling by train to the nearby city Mohammadia, Jihane picked us up from the train station took us to her studio where she had gotten us breakfast. She then drove us to a gorgeous beach near the studio where we set up camp to spend the day there. She returned to the beach a while later with drinks and meals for all of us, including a delicious potato tagine (Moroccan cuisine). We all played soccer and volleyball with some locals on the beach and had a great time in the fabulous sunny beach weather. After a very short 5 hours on the beach, it was time to catch the train home. It was very difficult for us to pull ourselves away from such a fantastic day, but we had to get back to our regular lives.

On the train, all I wanted to do was sleep. I had been in the sun for so many hours and all my energy was drained. So initially, I was very irritated when Sage insisted on striking up a conversation with our fellow passengers in our train compartment. However, it was in that compartment that I learned the most important lesson from this week. At first, the man next to Sage asked how long until the train stopped in Fez. The strange thing was that while he was clearly of Muslim descent, he was speaking perfect English to us with a British accent. He told us he was a businessman from England and was only in Morocco for about a month on a business trip. He spoke no arabic, so he wasn't able to ask anyone how to get to his destination. He told us his family was from Pakistan, but he had grown up in London and therefore only spoke English. We spoke with him for quite some time, before 2 Moroccan men in military uniforms entered the compartment. Sage asked them in arabic "are you in the military?" and they responded excitedly in broken English, wanting to practice English since they rarely were able to do so. Another Moroccan woman was also in the 6-person compartment with all of us and she spoke only Moroccan dialect. Between the 6 of us, we had enough translators to have a nice conversation the whole 3-hour ride back to Meknes.

The experience was enthralling and eye-opening. We soon discovered that the Pakistani man was Muslim and that he wanted to learn arabic so that he could read the original words of the Qur'an. He was elated when he discovered that we spoke arabic. It was at this point, while discussing the worldview of Islam, that the Pakistani man said this post's namesake. "It doesn't make any sense why Islam has gotten such a bad reputation due to all of these acts of violence from extremists," he said. "Don't the terrorists know that 'Islam' means peace? That's the Islam I know."

We were just two American students studying Arabic, two Moroccan military academy cadets, one old Moroccan woman, and a Pakistani man from England who only spoke English. But we all made connections that day, and I think in that simple meeting we figured out the key to peace. Peace is knowledge, peace is understanding. Peace is respect and most of all, peace is relationships. We can all learn something from someone different than us. And the more we know the more we can empathize. When we were about to disembark from the train, the Pakistani man told us how grateful he was that we got into his compartment. He told us he loved how friendly Americans were and he was so glad we were able to integrate the whole cabin together, since we spoke both languages. He made friends that day because of us. He learned something new that day because of us, and we learned new things because of him. I am so proud to say that I made America look good to 3 different countries in just a few hours. Whenever they hear the word "America" from now on, those 4 people will think about us and how we communicated effectively with them that day and showed interest in their lives and in their cultures. Those are not people who would ever want to hurt America because to them, Americans are their friends. They will tell others about their American friends. This is how peace starts, folks.

I challenge everyone who reads this to spread peace. Visit another country and learn about the culture. You learn more from listening than from speaking. Learn another language, and even if you aren't fluent, try speaking the language anyways. Learn how to ask questions in your new language, even if you don't completely understand the answer. People will appreciate that you tried.

بسلامة اصديقاء

نفس اللون Aug 29-31

It means "same color" and at first, it confused the hell out of me. Sage was saying this to us as we were painted by the Moroccan natives in the small beach town called Assila; and at first I thought I had mentally translated what he was saying incorrectly. Sage prefers to speak in arabic at all times, as he is the most motivated of all of us to speak as little English as possible during our 4 month immersion. So most of the time, I just tune out his broken arabic sentences because they just confuse me. But this time, he really had something to say.

The boys and I had decided a few days back to go to Assila because it was known for its beautiful beaches. We are college kids after all, we figured we should enjoy the beautiful August weather while it persisted. So we hopped on the train after classes on Friday for the 4 hour ride to Assila. We arrived sometime past 10 pm and spent the next hour or so randomly strolling around the city, convinced that we could find our apartment without asking for directions. Eventually we found a taxi driver who knew the place, and we piled into a "grand taxi" and headed into an especially seedy part of town. I wondered what we had gotten ourselves into when we entered the decaying neighborhood, with entire vacant lots full of trash and hardly a soul in sight (Moroccans usually are nocturnal, so to see no one around at 11 pm is very rare). When we got to our apartment I was encouraged by its cleanliness and appealing interior design, it seemed like I might survive this trip after all.

We had heard about horse carts as a means for transportation from previous semester abroad students and we knew we wanted to give it a try. So after a few hours wandering around the صوق ("sook" means market) we flagged down a very skinny very tan horse cart driver. The horse cart was simply one gaunt looking horse strapped to a large flat wooden platform on wheels. Hesitant, I hopped onto one side of the platform and hung onto the edge for dear life. The horse took off at a speed that surprised all of us, given that its load was 7 fully grown adults. The ride was incredibly bumpy, given that Moroccan road really aren't paved. Several times I felt like I was millimeters away from falling off the cart, but I had no idea what was to come. About 20 minutes into the trip we leave the city where our apartment was and get on what appears to be a highway.

There we were, 7 people sitting on a platform with no seat belts or anything to hold onto other than the platform itself and each other, right next to speeding semi trucks. I don't know if I was ever as scared in my entire life as when we saw an 18 wheeler speeding up to us with another horse cart to our left on the road. We effectively had no escape route. Thankfully, the truck and the horse cart moved at just the right moment so that we all had space on the road and the truck blew by us and I pretty much wet my pants.

Our driver began singing in spanish (Assila uses spanish just as frequently as arabic) and John brought out his speakers and began playing popular arabic and spanish tunes from his phone. We began all singing loudly and yelling at all the cars and fellow horse carts that passed us. One group on a horse cart next to us spoke english and we yelled at them "why are we doing this?? We are such idiots! We're going to die!" and we all laughed. It was extremely scary, but somehow exhilarating at the same time and I don't regret the decision one bit.

That near-death situation definitely paid off once we got to the beach. As our horse cart neared the edge of the cliff, we could see how beautiful paradise beach really was. Perfect blue ocean, soft sand, and not much crowding at all. The beach was lined with little shady areas with beach chairs that you could rent for the equivalent of about $3, which we did. Strangely, we saw a bunch of Moroccans had painted themselves with green clay. We thought it might be some sort of natural sun screen, as we saw these green people walking around with just as much consistency as the people with natural skin pigmentation. I enjoyed the role of "mom" for a while while I waited with the stuff under the shade. I read my book for a while and fell asleep, warm and content watching the green Moroccans play beach soccer.

I awoke to Sage and Wasim's return. Wasim asked if I wanted to go exploring with them along the beach towards a grouping of rocks that looked like it might be fun to climb. After we had conquered the rocks along the shore, we came to a small cove that was overflowing with these strange green Moroccans. They were all centered around a large rock covered in green clay. Some Moroccans were busily collecting clay along the cliff and others were mixing the clay with water from the ocean. Still others were painting themselves with this clay mixture and helping to paint their friends. Tentatively, we approached one group of Moroccans and attempted to propose the obvious question to them in broken Moroccan dialect, "Why are you doing this?" They responded by saying something about the clay being a natural benefit for the skin. Without warning, one Moroccan girl grabbed my hand and pulled me into the swarm of moroccans centered around the clay rock. Before I knew what was going on, I felt the hands of 5 Moroccans painting me with this green clay. I began to laugh as I saw Wasim and Sage in a similar situation, with undoubtedly the same shocked expression on their faces as was on mine.

It was at this moment that Sage made his mysterious comment. "نفس اللون" (pronounced "nufs al-loun") is such a simple concept but reaches far deeper than expected. Sage realized the lesson first, but we were all learning. Even though the language barrier was steep and even though our backgrounds were as different as night and day, by painting each other with this mud we were doing more than just changing the color of our skin. We were sharing an experience with these Moroccans that was so fundamentally part of their culture, part of their way of life. I don't know of any place in the US were a bunch of people would come exfoliate your skin without you paying a hefty price. We didn't ask them to do this for us, and they expected nothing in return. They just wanted our friendship, and to share a moment with us, something that was valuable in and of itself. So while we all laughed when Sage said this, the comment stuck with me and that is why I have named this post in honor of the green mud that made my skin soft, and my heart soft as well.

That's Assila for you, folks.