Random Photos from Morocco...

Summertime in Northern Morocco - One of my random train conversations with the other Moroccans onboard. I'm fluent in body-language, in case they don't understand my Arabic.

Hu'ya mn Hlib! (brother of milk):
During our training sessions a year ago in Tineghir, we learned of a name given to the most sacred of brotherhoods. In some highland mountainside areas of Morocco, it is common for women to share the responsibilities of nursing the young. All those babies who nurse from the same mother, are considered instant family. Even though we were nursed separately, we quickly picked up on this title, as we soon became known as the "Brothers of Milk".

Myself, my host from the city of in Tineghir, and my buddy Lee.

Passing for an Arab!
With a nasty neck beard such as this, it was quite hard for others to discern my true orgins and forwardedly assumed me to be that of a typical Arab roaming the Moroccan lands. This proved to be advantageous at times, but equally dangerous at others. As much as I was not treated in a manner associated with that of a tourist, I was often misguidedly subjected to the Moroccan laws placed on their citizens and at the mercy of the police that thoroughly carried these out. As an American annointed with the vast freedoms of our country, living within the strict guidelines of the Islamic world had its challenges.

Why are we driven to Volunteer?

One of the reasons I came to the Peace Corps is because I felt the impulse to place my concerns on the shelf and help those with more pressing issues than I. With the creation of this Blog Website to chronicle my process, I have had numerous individuals commenting on my website about how they too wish they would have joined the Peace Corps. However, being a Peace Corps Volunteer is just a name given to those who desire to help the less fortunate. Moreover, we are each given an opportunity to help others in need, and it is truly a gift to be placed in a position where you can aid others. So, I would say those that are annointed with this impluse, that there are other ways to show your support.

Now as you might imagine, the world news travels alittle bit slower to me here in this small village of Morocco. And it is a rare opportunity that I reach the internet or therefore have access to an english journal. However, just the other day I found an english newspaper crumbed in the waste-bin of some restaurant. And as I began to read the featured article, my eyes began to unconsciencously flood with the breaking of each sentence. I'm talking, of course, about the recent tragedies happening in Louisiana.

My first reaction was "helplessness", as I sat there with no phone or way to immediately communicate with my friends/family. I became somewhat angry with myself, as I was a prime example of why Americans should be spending more time tending to the problems on their own domestic soil, rather than trying to uproot the international ones. I couldn't help but contemplate my existence, as I sit here in Morocco, placing 2+ years of my life in the poorest parts of a 3rd world country, when my own homeland is being struck with one of its worst natural diasasters since the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.

As I think more about this tragedy, I can't help but recount the words of my childhood friend, who once said to me, "Something that has always puzzled me all my life is why, when I am in special need of help, the good deed is usually done by somebody on whom I have no claim."