Author Archives: ccraighead

No, in the end, all the matters is that we are all just trying to communicate, with whatever tools we have available. And some time or another, the message will get across. Or maybe it won’t. But even if it doesn’t, something else will. And that is something. That is teaching English in Morocco.

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Today is Labor Day! ta-dah! and what is happening on Labor Day? Throughout all of the major cities of Morocco, labor protests! which have closed off most of the main streets of said cities. It is really rather fun, especially receiving half a dozen warnings from various government agencies telling us Americans abroad to *please* stay out of it, for gods sake.

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Anyways, this is all to say that second entry on teaching English is yet to come, I have not forgotten it, and I have a dozen other stories that I should be telling, but have not (and if I am honest with myself and my readers, probably won’t, because I am too busy living them!).

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So this blog will be a bit of a revelation to my audience, a little secret that I have kept brewing on the back burner in all of my notes home. I have been teaching English two nights a week in the adjoining city of Sale, across the river from Rabat. I wanted to save this story for when I would have something substantial to say for it, and now I realize I have far too many things to say. It has been one of the most rewarding and unique experiences for me here in Morocco, and has provided me with an understanding of life here in a way that I know I could not have otherwise have accomplished.

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For some inexplicable reason, Google insists that I want to conduct all of my searches off of their Italian site. I could understand if they insisted upon either France or Morocco, but really, Itally? Where on earth did they get … Continue reading →

Street harassment in Morocco is one of the hardest things to get used to. At all times of the day I will have boys and men calling out to me, trying to get my attention. Sometimes (during the day) it is fairly civil, more of a way of acknowledging a young woman as she passes by. During the night, however, it can turn really rather nasty. This is a story of how I coped with some of the more unpleasant night-time cat calls.

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My dear blogging audience, I will now spend an entire entry on personal hygiene here in Morocco with my host family. While I sometimes feel that a daily shower is possibly a shower too many on occasion, I have for the most part been accustomed my post tween-age life to regular bathing. My only exceptions are the few extended backpacking and camping trips, during which I usually make liberal use of existent bodies of fresh water (read: lakes and rivers).

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I have just recently (as of yesterday) returned from three-night excursion to rural Morocco. Our class of thirteen students stayed in the village of Boujaad, about four hours south of Rabat. It is located in a region that is particularly well-known for sending migrants abroad, both legally and illegally. Unfortunately, due to an impressive language barrier, we as students of Migration and Transnational identity could glean very little information from our welcoming and gracious hosts. However, as students of Morocco, we an encountered an unfathomably wealth of information that may not all fully register until much later in our academic and personal lives.

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I am beginning to have a rhythm in my life here in Morocco. I have finished my weeklong orientation with my peers, and now I am settled quite happily in with my host family. I have three sisters and two brothers, with their ages ranging from eleven to the mid thirties. The life in this household is lively and active; people come and go at regular intervals, and always there is tea and hchobs, the local homemade bread.

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It was at that point I realized that I had indeed just witnessed a family reunion of sorts. And it was the first time I experienced the depth and mobility of community support here. I understood then as well why there were so many people in the lobby, though not many of them seemed to be seeking medical help. They were there to support their loved ones. I can’t help but feel happy for being here.

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