Transition

My neck sways backward as the train slows to a halt, blinking my eyes awake. I hold a book open in my hands, though I dozed off hours ago. I was dreaming. I can't remember about what exactly, but it had something to do with my relationships with my fellow American volunteers. I look out the window and realize this might be my stop. I feel so sleepy though. Maybe I'll just go back to sleep and get off at Casablanca. It will be the same price to take a taxi from there. I'll just go back to sleep and return to my American friends. But, no, I need to stop being lazy. I need to wake up to reality.

I ask someone where we are and discover that it is indeed my stop. I struggle to retrieve my large backpack, almost knocking a passenger over the head. An older lady inches her way onto the train, and I awkwardly try to make my way around her. People stare, wondering who I am traveling to an average Moroccan town. I make no effort to acknowledge strangers. I am not happy with this transition back to reality.

For the past two weeks, Peace Corps invited all 95 volunteers from my training group to stay at a resort. The purpose was to provide more Arabic classes and present ideas to help us continue our work in Morocco's youth centers. However the experience went beyond training. With nearly one-hundred of us divided up into fancy bungalows, and opportunities for all kinds of recreation, I indulged in American culture. I got to know my fellow volunteers more over the two weeks than I did during the original two months of training. I danced. I laughed. My team got third place in Pool Olympics. I sang Karaoke. I went to some bars. I played basketball, soccer, and ultimate frisbee. I bonded with my old friends and discovered new friends. Relationships developed, or fell apart, or took unexpected turns. I let the drama carry me off into America. It was like an entire semester of college packed into two weeks. I had way too much fun living the dream.

I make no effort to interact with anyone as I seek out a taxi that goes to my town. The past two weeks have given me a social hang over, and I am not at all capable of interacting with Moroccans. I binge socialized with Americans at the resort, and now I'm shut down. What's the point of trying so hard to get to know Moroccans, and integrating into my community, if I will only ever scratch the surface of their values, attitudes, and desires? Communicating is a struggle. How will I ever make an intimate connection with a Moroccan?

I mumble the name of my town while floating around the taxi station. Nobody seems interested in helping me find the right taxi. I don't blame them, I probably don't seem so friendly either. Finally, one man helps by calling out loudly the name of my town, and across the street a man whistles to signal that he will be my driver. I drop my large backpack into the trunk, hoping he won't be annoyed by its extra weight. Then I hand him a large bill, feeling bad because he will struggle to make change. The man smiles, and after talking to a store keeper comes back with my change. He talks to me in French and Arabic, exuding enough positive energy to bring me out of my funk. He lives in my town, and knows the other American who works with me in my town. His name is Moustafa.

He talks with me the entire ride back to my town. Gradually, I shake off by anti-social attitude, and engage with Moustafa. At first we talk about Morocco and the places each of us have traveled to. I'm always impressed by Moroccans' passion for travel and sight seeing. They have a tremendous appreciation for beauty, both natural or man-made. He tells me his dream would be to travel around the world by car. He wants to drive and see everything. Later, the conversation morphs into a discussion about languages. We discuss the technical aspects of English and Arabic, and also assess the importance of learning new languages and being able to communicate with foreigners. Finally, the conversation moves onto religion.

Religion is a tough subject to discuss with Moroccans. I've had some really depressing talks about religion with Moroccan friends. So many seem almost unaware that other religions exist, which shocks me. Knowing that they think I will go to hell for not being Muslim makes me sad. Their insistence that I convert to Islam even angers me at times. I don't ignore religious talks though, because they reveal a lot about a person, and reveal a lot about a culture. Sometimes I even come away with a fresh perspective on the importance of religion. Sometimes I am able to provide a fresh perspective on religious tolerance. For the most part though, they are tough conversations to have, as they usually end with someone begging me to convert to Islam.

When Moustafa asks me if I am Muslim I expect the conversation to shrivel into frustration. Instead, he demonstrates how powerful an open mind can be:

“No, I'm Christian,” I can't help but cringe at my lie. The truth would be too complicated.

“Ah, yes, like this,” he does the motion of the cross, “I know your religion. do you know about Islam?”

“Yea. I want to understand Islam. I know the story about Mohammed and I know the 5 pillars. And some other things too,” then I get defensive to try and stop the conversation from going where it's gone so many times before, “but, I only want to understand Islam. I don't want to convert,”

“Of course not. Your parents are not Muslim. It would be strange for you to convert. We all know about God and that's the most important thing. There are Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, Christians, and Muslims in this world, and it is terrible for us to say that one is better than the other. Islam is for me, and I love it, but so many problems come if I tell others they must follow it. Peace is what the world needs. For Peace we need tolerance. You do not need to be Muslim for us to understand and be tolerant of each other.

I am impressed by his response and want to reply appropriately. “That is why I am living in Morocco. So we can understand each other. You have an open mind, Moustafa. You can embrace peace and love. People with closed minds are the ones who cause the problems in our world.”

It feels like a silly comment, and I really want to demonstrate how grateful I am to hear a Moroccan say these things, but my French and Arabic are unable to express my feelings entirely. I feel frustrated for a second, thinking that I need to say something profound to make this exchange meaningful. However, his expression suggests that I don't really have to say anything. He knows I agree, because he knows why I travel and live abroad. If he had the chance he would be doing it too. It is the best way to open the mind and create a global understanding. Since he does not have the opportunities to go abroad he travels within Morocco, and makes an effort to meet foreigners like myself. Even if we can't share this attitude with words, we can feel it. We can feel that we have similar passions. We are both part of the movement to make the world an open and accepting place.

Our bond may not be as intimate as those I had with my American friends at our resort, but that does not mean that it is not as important. In fact, my bond with Moustafa is more important in a certain way, because the connections one can make with those who are different, are the ones that will help humanity grow. It is fun to bond with friends with similar backgrounds, yet it's empowering to connect with those who we have little in common with. Both are necessary.

When we arrive, Moustafa goes out of his way to drops everyone off near their homes.  We exchange phone numbers at my stop, and agree to meet again sometime to chat. His energy has filled me with optimism. The kids have just got out of class and the the streets are swollen with playful smiles. I can't help but smile too. I have a pop in my step. I have been reminded of why I am doing Peace Corps, and am excited about my transition back to Moroccan reality.