My Daily Moroccan Life, Part 6.

The other day, I heard old men singing outside my window and simply thought, “ah yes, this is normal.” Did it matter that the music was extremely sad? Did it matter that the old men were under a pop-up tent in the middle of the street? Nope, everything seems normal at this point. Everything!! Turns out it was a funeral, happening at 10pm on a Monday. And the old men weren’t singing, but were instead reciting Quran verses, which is tradition at Muslim funerals. Sad, but also weird that a dead man was so close to my bedroom window! I didn’t smell anything, in case you were wondering.

I was 15 minutes later than I said I would be when coming home from my #sundaynightfrenchfilm because I walked Mira home first and in that 15 minutes, my host mother called a woman who works at Amideast asking about me, and THEN called me. When she first called me, I accidentally clicked the wrong button and hung up, and as I was calling her back, she called me again and I finally told her that I would be a little late. Then Otmane texted me asking where I was. I felt bad, but mostly annoyed because I had said the Darija equivalent of “I will be home AROUND __” earlier, and I was only 15 minutes later than the time I had stated. But, during my angry jog from Mira’s neighborhood to my own, I realized that my host family just cares about me and worry about my safety as a young woman in the streets past 6pm, which is entirely rational. When I got home, I apologized a lot and then my host sister said that my host mom always calls when she is a tiny bit late, too. Since then, I have made very clear schedules for my week so they know when to expect me and now I call if I’m going to be even one minute late because they know that it’s harder to be a woman in this country (in every country) than it is to be a man.

There is a man who walks through the streets of my neighborhood singing Muslim songs in a beautiful voice and petting stray cats. He is homeless and about 60 years old, but he is so nice and the whole neighborhood loves him. As my host mom described him, he is “sick but kind.” I often see people giving him food and saying hello, even though he can’t continue the conversation very well.

Last week, I spent a full 12 hours with my closest Moroccan friend Khoula. We walked about 12 miles, trying to find the best views in Rabat. We even went to the rooftop cafe of a super fancy hotel, took photos, and then ran out before they made us order something. Then, I ate with her entire family at her grandmother’s house. I really love her family because they are always so welcoming to me, and their grandma really wants me to live with her and also convert to Islam so she is always pushing those ideas. I don’t mind, though. I can’t see myself converting, but I do have a lot of respect for Islam at this point in my studies abroad. She wants me to convert so that I, too, can have Paradise when I die.

Last week, I went to Jazz Au Chellah as a program activity and it was the most whitewashed, emotionless Jazz that I have ever heard. First of all, the crowd consisted entirely of French people, which was really bizarre. Sometimes, I go to a French film or an event like a Jazz concert and wonder where the hell all these white people have been hiding, because they are not walking down the streets, in parks, or even to the Yves Rocher downtown. Super weird. Anyways, the first two jazz groups were so boring and lackluster that my language partner and her friend left after about 30 minutes. I’m glad that I didn’t leave with them, though, because the final performance that I saw before heading home was a Moroccan guy playing a special, possibly Moroccan drumset. He was banging out one perfect rhythm with one hand and one rhythm with the other, and I swear he did not make a single error. It was so fast and interesting, and told a story unlike the preceding two hours of pain that I had endured.

Jeremy’s language partner walked me and Leah home after, and he is a young Moroccan man with a full beard so for the first time since arriving in Morocco, we did not get catcalled once. We passed 2 man-cafes, and not a word. It was absolute magic. Even if we are walking with Otmane and Jeremy, we get catcalled, but the beard made a difference, I think.

Last week, we YES Abroad kids had to teach English at Amideast for 4 hours, and I was with the 8 and 9-year olds. This was a much more fun experience than I thought it would be because I had forgotten that kids all over the world are silly and cute and want praise and love. It was a sweet reminder that no matter how far you get from home, some things never change. Anyways, they were really fascinated with me because I don’t look like their Moroccan hijabi teacher, and they touched by hair when they thought I wasn’t looking and yelled “Teacher Madeleine!” every time they wanted to show me their work. There was one chubby boy [let’s call him Reda] who talked to me for the entirety of his break, and he told me about the futbal teams that he likes. He kept switching between Darija, French, and English, and it was honestly the sweetest conversation I’ve had. He was so genuine and innocent. The experience reminded me of teaching the preschool kids at my church and babysitting, so I felt really at home.

I liked teaching English so much that I volunteered to do it every weekend, so every Saturday I will be teaching Reda’s class in the morning and an even younger class in the afternoon. I taught the younger class for the first time yesterday -- ages 5-7 -- and it was a different experience because these kids knew no almost no English (beginner babies!). I had to, for instance, point to a chair and say, “chaise, kursi, CHAIR.” It was a helpful way for me to study my French and Darija vocab, while also teaching them.