Sarah WallockWhile studying abroad in Morocco, my gluten allergy contributed to an evening of spontaneous pantomime and endless laughter upon joining my homestay family for my first dinner. My homestay dad, Khalil, was asking/miming/attempting to communicate: “Okay, I see here,” pointing to my homestay form, “that you’re allergic to meat?” Laughing, I replied, “No, I am allergic to wheat… like bread, khobz.” The meat, no wheat, game went on for quite some time as we tried to converse in combinations of broken English, Arabic, and French. Saida, my homestay mom, called her granddaughter in Casablanca to translate. She quickly cleared up the meat/wheat situation- phew! After an awkward and funny first few hours, my homestay sister and I gifted our new family my map of California and her Hawaiian chocolate. Throughout the night, in addition to Arabic BBC, we watched National Geographic Abu Dhabi and Turkish dubbed soap operas. Later I came to find that Saida loves her daily dose of Turkish soap operas. Everyday she would snuggle up next to the TV, ooh-ing and ahh-ing as the dramas unfolded.
“How did I get to a family’s home in the old medina of Rabat, Morocco, where we are watching Arabic BBC?” I sat thinking. Earlier that morning, 26 other awe-struck American students and I headed from Casablanca to Rabat, where we would be living and studying for the next month. After concluding a school-day filled an hour-long lecture on how to avoid bowel problems in Morocco, another hour-long lecture on how to properly eat with three fingers (your thumb, pointer finger and middle finger), and how to politely ask people to stop feeding you (a four-step call-and-response style process in Arabic), I finally met my homestay family. Saida approached me with bisous (the French word for kisses I would soon learn) on each cheek and a big smile. I could immediately feel her warmth. As we walked through the alleyways of the medina, I thought about how I would navigate my way around this maze for the next month without internet, a map, or English instructions. It turned out to be a lot of pointing, guessing, and indeed, lots of getting lost. That ten-minute walk was animated by scurrying well-dressed international businessmen in suits, giggling women wearing hijabs, begging handicapped blind men, Western-looking students, and local shopkeepers. They all held the same amount of confidence navigating the same slim streets, although they came from all different walks of life. I was captivated by the diversity and energy of the old medina.
Rabat is a photographer’s dream. At every corner I felt transported into a different world. It was invigorating. After stopping to chat with over ten neighbors on the way, we arrived at our beautiful home. My American homestay sister and I were welcomed into Saida’s colorful home with Moroccan mint tea, six varieties of cookies, four types of jams, and cake. My homestay sister, my homestay mom, another woman, and I stared at each other in silence for minutes.
Dinner was another game of charades. I was distracted by the squawking parakeets in the center of the house. To fill the heavy silence, I silently mimed, in a very animated way, the story of how I had a parakeet that I loved dearly as a kid, but that one day flew away. The silence was broken by the laughter and amusement of my host parents. Everyone was instantly much more relaxed. They brought out a photo of a past homestay student holding the severed head of a freshly dead cow. My face lit up with surprise and excitement, “I want to do that!” I responded. With one shukran (thank you in Arabic) later, we were granted permission to stop eating, not the call-and-response scenario I had been briefed on, and we headed to family’s living room (which was also my bedroom). Saida sprayed the room with milk and honey cologne after she converted the couches into beds.
When I awoke the following morning, my homestay dad added me on Facebook and asked me if I was interested in marrying his 30 year-old son. “Welcome to Morocco!”
