PeaceWorks Spring 2020 by PeaceWorks Morocco

PeaceWorks

peace corps morocco

spring 2020

s ol b m y S ‫رمز‬

pictured: Staj 100

pictured: Staj 101

Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah: How many times have we heard this phrase? After how many meals was it sighed with satisfaction? After how many moments of good news did we hear it declared as a matter of fact and of faith that it was meant to be good? After how many brushes with hardship and down times was it expressed in gratitude for how one was able to come through? Or reconciliation with the fact that our world is as it is but what we are is enough to see us through to the better that is meant to be. Alhamdulillah. The period to the run-on sentence of experience. The acknowledgment that in the unceasing flow of our lives, we need not just flow with the current. In between the reactions of sadness, of fear, of longing, and of nostalgia, there can be the intentional action of giving thanks. Alhamdulillah. Thanks be to God. A statement of gratitude that was heard and uttered countless times through the course of the lives we left. Though for what and to what we might be grateful may differ; the tears, the smiles, and the voice messages left in improving Darija emphasize that there are people and experiences that sparked gratitude in us. For precious mindful moments, we can give thanks for the times of learning. Thanks for the hardships overcome. Thanks for the joy shared. Thanks to admin who supported us, counterparts who aided us, and communities that welcomed us. And thanks to the fellow volunteers of staj 100 and staj 101. For your work and resolve and all that you shared. May you all be well and in the course of our near and far future, remember that which sparked thanks.

note from PeaceWorks Editorial Board

Until March 17, 2020, I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco. I came to Morocco with many hopes. I came with a desire to serve and to learn. Some of these hopes and desires leave with me unfulfilled. Today, unplanned and unrequested, I close my service. I grieve the loss of time with my community. I grieve the plans not completed. I grieve the sudden goodbye. I celebrate the work I have done and tried to do. I celebrate lessons learned. I am grateful for the help given to me. I am grateful for friendship. I celebrate challenges overcome, today not the least of them. I have honored my commitment to serve. Today, I grieve deeply and celebrate gratefully. I open my myself to sharing the beauty and the pain of this experience. I thank my fellow PCVs and Staff. Today I close my service.

writing by ISAAC BAUER

Spring 2020 With great gratitude, I introduce the spring edition of PeaceWorks, titled Symbols. Through the course of service, certain people; places; and ideas became inexorably linked with meaning and memory. They superseded surface level sensations and become markers that structured the world around us. In a moment like ours where the foundations of life are upended; symbols take on ever more importance. They become joyful reminders and motivators in the best of times. And firm ground to stand on in the worst. During the moments of fatigue that inevitably arose while learning to live by new rules, a recipe from home or a precious snack smuggled in from abroad became more than just food. They became a symbol of comfortable familiarity. One often needed to reset and reinvigorate ourselves as we reengaged with the new. And just as symbols brought awareness back to familiar ways of being, so too did they become the supports on which we built new understanding. In our new view, a cup of hot mint tea became more than cavities in a cup. It became emblematic of hospitality and an invitation to engage. Sitting with a host father as he sharpened knives before Eid l-Kbir became more than a source of mild anxiety. It became an effort to intimately partake in a tradition that is much discussed but rarely engaged with firsthand. A friendship became more than just a welcome break from the loneliness we sometimes felt and will feel. It became confirmation that even with profound differences in culture and outlook, people can find common purpose and comradery. And perhaps this seasonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s issue can be more than simply another edition. Before our evacuation, that would have certainly been enough. But at this moment, it seems like the magazine can be something more. It can be a forum for connection and appreciation for how others began to understand and find meaning in the world around them. And an invitation to continue to do the same. Inchallah.

Dominick Tanoh

Executive Editor

illustration by AMAL HAJJAMI

spring 2020 | symbols

PeaceWorks is an online publication delving into the creative minds of Peace Corps Morocco. The publication is driven by the passion of the volunteers’ work and the Moroccans who stand beside them. Features focus on the diverse talent among the many creative industries of our volunteers, past and present.

connect & contribute email peaceworks.morocco@gmail.com facebook peaceworks-morocco instagram @peaceworksmorocco PeaceWorks team Executive Editor Production Editor Art & Photography Editor Literary Editors Social & Web Editor

Dominick Tanoh Idan Ben Yakir Jacqueline DesLauriers Max Blaisdell & Anna Sardar Sydney Leiher

original cover art Dylan Thompson artistic contributors Natalia Browne | Adriana Curto | Jacqueline DesLauriers |

literary contributors Isaac Bauer | Max Blaisdell | Adriana Curto | Jamie Fico | 66

background photo by JACQUELINE DESLAURIERS foreground photo by COREY HAYS 7

illustration by TORI SPIVEY 9

all the way back home to me Winter was long, but the earth is green again I ran for longer than I wanted to today Longer than my legs felt like they could Winter was long, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be green again

writing by MOLLY WEBER

photo by S.R. photo by ALEXANDER SPROULE-FENDEL

photo by ASHBY MCCOY

The Black Fabric Our feet drag together up the dusty hill to your house, holding the seemingly bottomless bags of vegetables and fresh meat that will feed our guests tomorrow. Over the past year, you have taught me how to choose the vegetables that lay in scattered piles besides the vendor’s bare, earthy feet. “In the afternoon, the price of these will be lower, trust me,” you whispered as we continue on towards your usual butcher, choosing which chicken he will proceed to grab with two hands and put to death before our eyes. As we turn our backs away from the cluster of tents set up every Saturday, I know you will go back in a few hours for those juicy, sweet tomatoes you have been eyeing, and carry them up the hill a satisfactory dirham or two cheaper. The sun is crisp and radiant, like the sweat beads gleaming beside our tucked away hair. My dark strands are hidden by a blue, faded Yankees hat and yours underneath a pale pink scarf pinned into place. Saturdays are for the market. As we round the corner to your shady front door and enter to the word bismillah, we each shed our top layer of clothing. The sound of our footsteps excites your daughter, as she pops her head out from the neighboring room’s curtain and asks if you bought her that new pack of sparkly pens she had been eyeballing for the past two Saturdays. You persistently tell her to finish dressing for school, then turn on the gas flame to heat water for some mint tea. As we sit in the dark room, cooling ourselves from the mid-morning sun, you hand me something. You hand me a loosely folded garment of black fabric from your closet and tell me it is the first time you have ever given me something. I am perplexed, but I offer my hands out in acceptance. My mind flummoxes, thinking of all the ways you have given to me through the immaterial. I wish I could tell you the things I recall. I recall:

photos (left to right) by ELIZABETH MABONGA  RACHAEL DINIEGA

I recall: Your hands softly yet expertly kneading dough to provide the day's portion of bread. You bringing me into your house to show your children there’s a world larger than the little village by the sea you once lived in as a young girl. Your open mind as you place gisriyas (large plates) of couscous in front of my friends and family you can’t communicate with, who braced chaotic buses and airplanes to see me. Your knees bent on a prayer rug and your mouth that utters the words of submission to a being much larger than us. Your own high dreams to reach; the loopy, Arabic letters of your name you have just composed and have shown to me with a smile on your young face. You, a woman who will comfortably quarrel with the vegetable vendor about a rise in the price of tomatoes this week. You will not let any man make you feel powerless. You, a soul that craves female energy, joining in to the voices of one-hundred other women around us singing along to traditional chaabi music, sending a fellow community member off into marriage. For these things, these offerings are much stronger than any cloth between your fingertips. The sun wakes me early Sunday morning and my feet bound along the quiet, dusty road that connects my house with yours. My knuckles vibrate from knocking on your metal door. I am wearing the long black shirt you gave me. “Sbah al khir”, you say, with a smile that speaks of your pride. You see me in what once adorned yourself, that black piece of fabric, lightly embroidered around the neckline and sleeves. “Dkhli binti, let's get to work. Our American guests are coming today and of course they need to eat couscous.”

writing by ADRIANA CURTO

photos by ADRIANA CURTO 15

illustration by ANA VASAN

illustration by KYLIE SILVESTRI

First months were surviving, Grinding feet, plastered smiles, Quiet, cold house, Sitting. Ramadan was budding, Long-sought students, Sweaty, plucking strings, Fading hunger, concrete routines, Loving. Summer was hanging on, Once leaving, now grasping for reasons to stay, The other side tempting, embracing, normal, The road here steaming, houses ovens, Heat never quite retreating, Sun arriving too early, Waiting.

The Desert Months

Then rains fell and dates followed, Floods of such frenzy, mountains dripping, Old ones thankful, kids giddy with glee, Back to work, work, work. Homey houses, students upon students, Ideas turned tangible, functioning projects, Content in gutsy habit, heartfelt hellos, Living. Now nights are heating, again, Sun is biting, flies are sprouting, Thing is, I know what’s coming, A familiar climb, a looming peak, Crescendoing to a much-anticipated Ending. Nervously prodding heavy projects, Let’s go! Get moving! Half-planned intentions taping my shoulder, Don’t forget about us! Tick-tocking. Oh, I know what’s coming, And yet also despite Discreet plans, past patterns, I don’t.

writing by JAMIE FICO 18

photos by ELIZABETH MABONGA

embroidery by VIVIANNE SIQUEIROS

photo by VIVIANNE SIQUEIROS

photo by SCOTT MANSFIELD

A Proud History As I squat over a hole Shitting black water and feeling like I am going to die, I think of how many men have died shitting in holes. More than any war probably. More than all the wars? Before any epic battles or charges or sieges or light brigades, Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just a lot of shitting in holes and dying from shitting. Maybe the best went this way. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a fact of life.

writing by ISAAC BAUER 22

Tissint The heat keeps me trapped in my dar I’ve tried keeping the windows ajar No one walks on the street For they’ll burn their feet From the asphalt that’s turning to tar

Eid Sghir

August

Ramadan is finally complete That goat? Nah, that’s just meat Cute little bloke

The sweat makes me stick to my seat The summer is almost complete Al shabab don’t want classes

Will go up in smoke So me and my friends can eat

To the beach go the masses I throw up my hands in defeat

Traveling to Tiznit: My mouth tastes strongly of dust And my face is coated in crust I’ll make it today Keep the drari at bay I’ll point to the ring if I must A row of sardines in the back On personal space: there’s a lack Been on the road for six hours I could use several showers And oh, what I’d do for a snack

writing by SARAH RUPERT 23

photos by SCOTT MANSFIELD

“Do not argue with them, except in a most kindly manner” (Quran 29:46) — A List in Three Parts 1. As you sit in the café your friend, the one that lived in America, tilts his head to the side and says, very honestly, “ We should stop this conversation; I know where I would like to take it.” 2. When you sit in the barber’s chair, like a captive under interrogation, grunting in the affirmative as to not offend the man holding a razor across your neck. 3. When you enter the nicer store to buy the nice toilet paper. The conversation turns to raised voices, the shopkeeper hurling verses over his counter and the amenable nodding heads of men waiting for phone cards. Noticing your face flushing red, he recovers and asks you to take a free coke from the cooler. All is forgiven. You wander to other stores. 4. In a neighbor’s house, sharing broken language and broken cookies. Your student’s grandmother, smiling and cooing, holds your wife’s hand as to make the transition more comfortable. 5. The children of the neighboring neighborhood follow you home; bored, on break, and three to one bicycle. They hold you in conversation for an hour and await your pronouncements on tattoos, pork, and idols. Then, “Just repeat after us; it’s easy. Your Arabic is already good,” they press. 6. Late on a February evening, bringing the anti-itch medicine back. A student you know from ping pong last year says hello to you and says goodbye to his cousin. He walks with you to your destination and back passing his own family’s home, talking all the way about how far from heaven we are. There is a sincere kindness and hope in his eyes. The same look your grandfather had when asking if you all still prayed. 7. When you sit in your familiar first home away from home, tutoring and asking about first impressions, and she says, “I was confused that you had a beard.” 8. As you sit on an upturned crate, sipping tea. The vegetable seller is named Beloved, the same man that gave you your first “laughter” fruit, an artichoke because you knew the name in Arabic, slices of watermelon on the hottest day of summer, oranges from his family’s farm, and the first figs of the season. The same one who puffs his cheeks out to talk about your president and the Chicago Bulls, references the new graffiti under the tarped canopy of his shop. “For what sin was she killed” is scrawled in English on the concrete. It is neater handwriting than your own. He shows you a translation app, apologizing for the broken screen. Now you apologize that you need to work soon, and that you will talk about this soon. You never return to this talk.

You were sixteen. You were given the afternoon off for evangelizing. The chapel speaker, a fiery Presbyterian, had challenged you to think about the eternal consequences of your actions. The school administration, deeming you strong enough in your convictions, bused you all into town and set you loose on the calm Friday residents. You spent most of the afternoon instead watching squirrels on the quad of the state university and thanking God for unplanned outings, especially those that pushed homework back. You were called out of your spring weather stupor by some fervent classmates. They needed your help. They had cornered a graduate assistant. He was a “science-philosophy” type. Your expertise was required. You entered the small circle which had gathered to see if a soul could still be saved that afternoon. After 30 minutes of discussing bacterial flagellum and the Cambrian explosion, he sighed, “I still think what you all are doing is disrespectful.”

How do we share those revelations given to us? Those that come to us sitting under a Bodhi tree, or in the wee hours of the morning, in poems, in caves, in ecstatic dances, in songs. Those that come in â&#x20AC;&#x153;We shall Overcome,â&#x20AC;? in the communal prostrations of our community, in calls and bells, in fasting, in the lighting of candles, and which seem to well up in our minds from the expanse of the sea and fastness of the winter woods. Those ones that come through psilocybin tears, Latin hymns, the unleavened breads, the deep breaths, immersions, pilgrimages, a cup, the sacred movements. Must we carry this numinous rumor so heavily, but share it oh so gently - more gently than we can imagine? Yes, we must.

writing by ISAAC BAUER

photo by ASHBY MCCOY

“Exchanges” The first one, only glances were used and my sister giggling into the crook of her sister's arm, a sharp slap from our mother as I licked meat from the bone. The next, a man in the kasbah I asked for a belt, less than 300 dirham to match my kaftan a gift from my mother given easily, like her hands kneading dough for me and asking for spices, her laugh filling the empty space words left. Yesterday, Mohammad forcing shiba into our hands, “lay khlif,” over and over steaming chicken and celery the mule honking expectantly in the courtyard. There are also the ones we are excluded from, us humans, every morning the larks and the egrets or the thrushes and warblers, a constant chattering from the back of the throat, humming and clicking the same voices as others. And the 8 pm prayer— a vibrating tenor from each minaret, palms down, palms open, the calling between kin and god.

writing by SAMANTHA KREJCIK

illustration by TORI SPIVEY

photo by SCOTT MANSFIELD 30

My Most Recent Greatest Insignificant Fear of All Time is that 12,000 years from now the History Channel will run a special about what humans were like in the second dark age. There will be my bones my skull will spin under incandescent cans to the sound of a British voice speculating about my days in the mud or my life as a dilatant a weak boned paper pushing never calls his mother can’t find courage or employment living off the societal safety net fool; a green screen image of a cinder block wasteland stripmall extravaganzas ‘new virtual imaging technology allows us for the first time to create a facsimile of what the mud man may have looked like.’ My face will be my face the good people will chortle at the primitive man snort jeers at my second coming

writing by GREG SMITH

dead eyed every thought an oily pelican struggling to take wing.

photo by DYLAN THOMPSON

Cycliste (Hamid) Down in sluicing mud and oily puddles is his workshop, Slick are his hands from grease Replacing gears that keep worlds turning, Where, yarbbi, oh where to repose When home is so far away? Wheelbarrow, wheelbarrow by golly Veritable form of mute answer May the weary workman rest down upon ye.

Plombier (Ali) Thick glob of glossy black and gold wrapped like tentacles round his fingers, Held up, evidence from a crime scene Sh3r dyal bnat Culprit of clogged pipes, egadsâ&#x20AC;Ś Oui! Exclamation Point found dumb, dumbfounded, Caught dead like a boy, pants round his ankles Tissues lying in plain sight For mother's eyes to clean up. But the matter is already gone, forgotten, no look of embarrassment on his part, The plumber, calm, like the sweeping eye of history Has seen all manner of gunk and grime, No sight to disturb his blind equanimity.

Sharif (Ahmed) When the eyes fade grey And smiles bare bared gums Old age laughs me in the face Trump oooh, bad man Rajl khayb, iyeh haqiqi His portrait hangs high Above the salon table, place of honor, Reserved most eves for kings and thieves, Sporting black mustache and dark sunglasses Moroccan Burt Reynolds, I wish to query, But oh, who would even get my references, anymore? I love you Ahmed, Though your knife-hand now trembles, Go for the jugular, I say unintelligible, You miss the mark, The sheep at your feet shudders and wrathfully kicks, As if croaking out, a mocking final breath "Not dead yet," Testament to struggle that never fades black-blue, Life even in twilight hours, Twitches and groans.

writing by MAX BLAISDELL 33

Funkyjay

This bicycle. The one I bought with no

intention of learning how to ride. The thorn in my side as I walked it home. The nudge that told me I was subconsciously setting myself up to get hurt and Medically Separate myself because I am Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) and PCMO is me (argue with your face). This bicycle that reminded me of my dramatic, childhood non-trauma: after my second bruised knee falling off a bicycle at age six, I swore off bicycles entirely and told myself that anywhere I needed to get with a bicycle was a place not worth going. How I ended up buying a bicycle in Morocco is something I’m still trying to figure out. I know I’m smart because I cried the first time the midwife smacked my butt after I was born, I didn’t need her doing that again. I breastfed like a champ, with the tonguetie my mother still doesn’t know I have, because food is life and I didn’t want my mother yanking me away from my drink of choice. And when I had that brain-fart and drank a bottle of kerosene as a toddler? I was smart enough to put a big smile on my face so everyone could calm down…a little. Again, how I ended up self-sabotaging by buying a bicycle in a city eight hours away from PCMO must have been a decision made from the dust clouding my brain in this semi-desert town. However, this bicycle is slowly becoming my side-kick. She is a reminder that it’s never too late to learn new skills and unlearn old fears. I learnt how to ride exactly one week and a day after my thirty-third birthday. I went to try to learn either to prove to my sitemate that I couldn’t (so I could put the bicycle away and leave it to accumulate dust for my two years of service), or to bruise my knee and Medically Separate myself from Peace Corps (because I am PCMO!). These were the only two options. When I found myself riding, unsupported, after less than twenty minutes I was truly perplexed. My entire body was betraying me by staying on the bicycle, and, worst of all, I loved it. I enjoyed riding even if I couldn’t ride in a straight line or stop the bicycle without praying to the gods of my ancestors to slow my wheels down. I rode my bicycle home that day, two days later, and I’ve been riding in the mornings so I can get comfortable with sharing the road. Apparently, riding is my thing now and I love it! Here we are, my bicycle and I. I call her FunkyJay and she calls me PleaseDontGetUsKilledToday. She is a reminder that I’m doing just fine and, even when I’m not, at least I know how to ride a bicycle and can go wherever I want.

writing by ELIZABETH MABONGA 34

illustration by NATALIA BROWNE 35

photos by JACQUELINE DESLAURIERS (left) ERIN PREJEAN (middle, right)

Oh, Morocco You put me at the mercy of the world In a swirl of things I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know The pieces of my heart held out in my hands For all to see I feel raw Soft and exposed The blur and brittleness of my existence Pushing me to the edge Anger and disappointment Sadness teetering at the precipice of no return A hardened shell A bitter voice full of mirth and sour But then I sludge back, just a little And like the snap of a rubber band I find myself drowning in it Kindness bursting from every orifice Of a bus Or a salon full of women Or the shallow, kid-filled waves of the ocean The smell of tea and oil thick in the air Like the feeling in my heart That I am lucky after all And suddenly the call to prayer begins to echo across the valley Minarets saying hello to each other as the sun sinks Babies giggle and run in the street The heat of the day breaks And my stomach sinks from my body as if to tell me No, your head may leave This new place This place that sometimes stretches you paper thin But your soul

At least a bit of it May just be here to stay

writing by ELIZABETH SPENCER 38

illustration by YASEMIN SIMSEK

photo by ADRIANA CURTO

Tamanar There is no rush here, In this quaint place. People walk slowly, without haste, Because they wish to be stopped By neighbors and friends, by family, And catch up, to pass along peace, Well wishes and good spirits. The only reminder of time, The low and solemn bellow Of Call to Prayer Gently ushering the people along; To mosque, to home, to souq, To tajines with neighbors, To babies and husbands and mothers. Never alone, never forgotten here. Community means something Different to everyone, Everywhere. Community means everything here.

writing by KATE PARISI

Submit your writing, art, photography, and more at peaceworks.morocco@gmail.com

photo by ASHBY MCCOY