Rebecca Macey
I interrupted the afternoon chores upon my arrival at my host family’s home. Four women crouched on stools, chatted and considered me, this foreigner, an unescorted woman of childbearing age. In attempts to redirect the gossip rumblings, I spat out conventional introductory Arabic phrases. Bewilderment befell the three women, but the fourth woman’s body chuckled at the garble trembling from my lips. She poised her body on a stool and her fingers deftly knitted. A scarf framed the strong, dark features of her face. Her coal-black, lined eyes softened, and sympathy wrinkled the corners of her mouth as “GR. Mahgrib” reverberated from her throat to her tongue. An apt pupil, I followed the teacher’s corrections, earning a nod of approval. At the dusk call to prayer, Najima did not follow the other women down well-worn paths to famished families. She remained with us that evening. I naively viewed myself as a community member, but the Moroccan villagers accepted me as a permanent guest. The Peace Corps requires volunteers to live with a host family to accelerate integration. This warm and hospitable family cooked my meals, washed my clothing, and toted me from house to house to meet relatives. They fed me tea, bread, even lupin—goat milk boiled with semolina—ignoring my pallid complexion and frequent bouts to the bathroom. Refusing to eat, especially for a guest, was unmentionable. Complaints of illness only fueled their desires to nourish. My frustrations fumed. Their friendly gestures were misinterpreted as commandments of gluttony and sloth. My repetitions of gratitude transformed into pleas to stop. I wore a veil of cultural (in)sensitivity over a desperate humanitarian heart. Most villagers overlooked it or mistook it for ignorance. They called me poor thing. I was supposed to be a Community Development Agent, but it was only a Peace Corps designation; it did not have meaning in this Moroccan village. I was an independent woman on a mission to find my worth. I felt trapped and useless. Najima sensed my aggravation. A commanding voice would call me over to sit beside her, and she would sweetly jest to bring forth a smile. I would search for her, my Moroccan anti-anxiety drug, at community events. A hand and a quiet whisper would guide me to a corner of the room where my heavy head would fall upon her shoulder as the events unfolded into the late hours of the night.
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