Witnessing History in the Making

By Kera Bartlett ‘09

Lines of hundreds of portapotties could be seen in all directions, along with little green and blue huts with white roofs standing at attention. First aid and security tents were being erected on the grass and the distant sirens of a motorcade could be heard across the Mall. The wind that whipped around the Washington Monument was devastatingly cold, leaving my face frozen and a static overtone on the home video I was recording. It was three days before the Inauguration and I stood directly under the giant white obelisk looking towards the Capital dome in the distance, trying to imagine the million people that would soon fill the space. I walked around and looked back at the Lincoln Memorial and the reflecting pool, imagining this space being filled with hundreds of thousands of people for the free public kick-off concert the next day and the overflow for Inauguration a few days after. But for now, it was quiet and all I could do was pray it wasn’t this cold for the big day. 

The next afternoon I went through the first of many security lines to attend the kick-off concert at the Lincoln Memorial, broadcast live on HBO for the world to see. It seemed all of Hollywood had turned out for the event as entertainers young and old did their part to celebrate America and its new beginning with President-Elect Obama. I was quickly caught up with the energy of the crowd and jumped and sang along to U2, Bruce Springsteen, Garth Brooks and Stevie Wonder as the Jumbotron caught a candid shot of Barack Obama dancing in his chair next to his family. After the concert, my friend and I moved up to the VIP section against the flow of people, passing newsmakers like Senator John Kerry, Madeline Albright and Steven Chu as we made our way to the stage. Jack Black was making funny faces at the bald eagle that had been featured in the ceremonies as its handler and the nearby crowd laughed. But what we were really looking for didn’t come for about ten minutes. Barack Obama walked back on stage through a sea of black overcoats herding his entourage back to the motorcade. Being only 30 feet from the next President of the United States was thrilling and a once in a lifetime experience. I left feeling energized and ‘hopeful’ for the events of the historic days ahead.

Having already secured one of the coveted “golden tickets” for the Inauguration (mine was literally yellow but didn’t come in a chocolate bar), I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to begin my journey from Georgetown to the Capitol for the main event. I must have had a guardian angel that morning, because I made it there in record time despite the large crowds already forming in the subway stations. After securing some food and much needed hand warmers I put back on all my layers on and returned to the early morning cold.

The gates didn’t open until 8 a.m., so I had plenty of time to stand in line and watch it grow behind me as thousands of people poured out of Union Station by the minute. Vendors and journalists walked the lines as we stood shivering, watching the sunrise over the capitol dome. Once we made it through security and into our section, my new group of friends and I strategized to predict the best view once the section became filled with people, as it inevitably would. Having found a small knoll under a tree and having nothing else to do, I plopped onto the dusty grass, curled into a ball and tried to conserve heat. I was just one person, huddled under a tree with the realization pumping through me that everything was changing, and that amazingly enough, I was there. I felt small yet huge. Three hours to go.

After watching the sections slowly fill in from my low vantage point and feeling the warmth from the emerging sun, I stood up as the jumbotron screens blinked on. At first they showed only the empty stadium seating of the capitol steps, but the choirs soon began, filling the cold atmosphere with the music of the future. The arrival of many familiar politicians began to fill the screens speaking of their experiences and excitement to the growing crowd. My group looked at each other with shock when Joe Lieberman was loudly booed, but Colin Powell was cheered. We wondered aloud if Senator Lieberman was booed, what reception would President Bush get? Luckily for him, “Hail to the Chief” blared over the speaker system during his arrival, drowning out any discernable reaction from the crowd. As Senator Dianne Feinstein finished the introductions with, “You may now be seated” a ripple of laugher was heard through the millions standing in mall, huddled together for warmth. 

Over one million people had traveled hundreds and sometimes thousands of miles, endured hours of below freezing temperatures, to see a man recite a few timeless sentences. Granted, this didn’t go entirely according to plan, prompting sympathy from the crowd as the President to be and Chief Justice fumbled over the pledge. It reminded me of a nervous priest presiding over his first marriage ceremony, with the groom equally eager to get on with it. But soon after, President Obama returned to his calm and collected baseline and prepared to deliver the speech of his career.

The speech conveyed the harsh realities of the burdens he and the country faced, but maintained the hope that as Americans, no task was too great. Several moments stuck out, and I often caught myself not breathing as I listened to his words. In my little section of the crowd, his inclusion of “non-believers” in his survey of American religious diversity prompted soft cheers at being so publicly acknowledged. I see secularism as one of the rarely referenced last barriers in American politics, which given the not one but two benedictions at the Inaugural event, has a long way to go before being accepted in the mainstream.

Amid a flashing of cell phone cameras, the deed had been done, and a new President began presiding over the United States of America. Soon after, we watched as President Bush flew over the crowd in a helicopter, prompting gestures from many that remained in the Mall. I pushed against the flow of people to stand in the middle of the Mall for pictures, wanting to capture the moment, the ‘feeling’ and the enormity of what I had just shared with so many other Americans. I watched two national guardswomen, in full uniform, fall into a bear hug as one exclaimed, “We have a new boss… One that really understands us.”

Anticipating the bottleneck at every metro station for miles, I milled around the grounds and surveyed the vendors carrying a cup of much needed hot tea. When I finally did make it home, my housemates were watching the parade on the news when a newscaster made a comment that struck me. With over one million people, all crammed into a freezing outdoor place, there were no arrests or incidents of unrest. There were no protesters. There were no injuries reported, no security threats that caused alarm to the crowd. It reminded me of the feeling I had when I left Invesco Field after Barack Obama’s DNC speech. There was no pushing, no anxiousness, just calm at knowing that we were all experiencing history. Again I hoped that this calm, this feeling of being a part of something so much bigger than any one of us, would continue to be inspired by the President as he faced the immense task of putting this country back on track.

I flew back to Occidental the next morning. The plane ride headed west was clearly full of people who had come into Washington for the Inauguration. As we all passed out from shear exhaustion for the first three hours of the flight in our Obama t-shirts and beanie hats, I’m sure we all had the same sense of hopeful anticipation flowing through us. As my row woke up an hour before we were set to land, we smiled at each other and shared pictures and stories of our experiences, relishing this common bond we felt from a moment of historical significance. When we dispersed through the airport, Obama t-shirts going every which direction, it was bittersweet to know that my experience had ended, and yet somewhere within me, I knew, that it has only just begun.

 

This is the view looking back at the Washington Monument during the concert on Sunday. Hundreds of Thousands of people showed up to this free showcase, which was broadcast on HBO.

Here

This is a scene during the Inauguration when we were all watching the President, with the Capitol dome in the background. I alternated between watching the screen and using binoculars to watch up-close from my vantage point.

Here I am, cold and tired but happy, looking back at the mall after the Inauguration.

After the ceremony, this was the Capitol Dome where it had all happened.

A view of the Green Ball in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington.

The amazing Google party the night after the Inauguration.

 

 

Kera Bartlett is a senior Diplomacy and World Affairs Major. She can be reached at kbartlett@oxy.edu.

Countown to Change: The Cambridge Reaction

By Kevin Adler ‘07

 

 

“Are you an American?” spat a pint-sized Cantabrian, with marked disdain in the final word.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

I took a moment to ponder where this was going. My new acquaintance had already decided.

“I hate Americans,” he repulsed.

November 2007

At precisely thirty seconds till 4 a.m., a countdown began in the Cambridge Union.

Thirty! Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! The setting was unabashedly patriotic. Flags draped over mahogany banisters. Red, white, and blue streamers crisscrossed the debating chamber, host to countless luminary and disrepute alike over one hundred-fifty-plus years of history.

Twenty-two! Twenty-one! Twenty! The excitement was palpable. The cavernous room buzzed. Friends from the far-reaches of the globe bounced up and down together, counting each second off with heaving bodies and breathless gasps.

Fifteen! Fourteen! Thirteen! Five-hundred bleary eyes met on the projector screen. A three-toned map of the States appeared, with a preponderance of blue and a contiguous bloc of red and grey – disappearing touches of grey.

Twelve! Eleven! The map gave way to the shadowed outline of students’ upper halves as we overtook the bottom third of the screen.

Ten! We moved closer; heads grew larger, shoulders jostled and torsos appeared.

Nine! We moved closer; hands were raised. Fists pumped. Change was…

Eight! Eight years. Eight years of heavy inquisitions for Americans abroad, all too often disparagingly phrased a la diminutive Cambridge students or Daily Mirror (U.K.) headlines: “How can 59,054,087 people be so DUMB?”

Seven! What if you did not vote for Bush?

Six! …but you do not think half of your countrymen are “DUMB”?

Five! What if you disagree with the policies of the current government?

Four! …but love the country and what it stands for nonetheless?

Three! As an American abroad, you become a cultural ambassador. You serve as a key source of information for U.S. values, policies and intentions. Your responsibility is even greater with an unpopular president. Regardless of which candidate received your vote, each American overseas unwittingly signs up for an international treaty of a different sort simply by being an American overseas. Think of it as AFTA – Answer for the Administration.

Two! If you have been an American abroad over the past eight years, you probably are a life member of AFTA: my own membership dues were paid during grand taxis rides in Morocco and hillside barbecues in Sarajevo, over spaetzle and wurst in Bavaria and pints in England.

One! But on that Tuesday night in November, the chants were for the next U.S. president.

Yes… McCain graciously conceded.

We Can. And Obama began:

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our Founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

The election of our 44^th President was celebrated late into that very good British night. Five-hundred bleary eyes welled-up with tears. And we all embraced.

November 2008

Obama, Oxy, The Global Poverty Act and DWA 201

The Global Poverty Act (S. 2433) was a bill sponsored by Senator Barack Obama. It passed the House and in the Senate garnered 30 co-sponsors. Despite being reported out of the Foreign Relations Committee (chaired at the time by future Vice President Biden), Senate Republicans put a ‘hold’ on the bill that blocked a Senate vote during 2008. Nonetheless, the bill gives a clear blueprint regarding Obama’s positions on international economic development and working with international organizations, positions he will presumably pursue during his presidency.

Obama’s election coincided with drafting the final exam for my DWA 201/International Organizations class. Students in this class had, in part, been covering approaches to economic development pioneered by international organizations such as UNDP (human rights-based approaches to development, etc). The imprint of such unorthodox approaches and an emphasis on cooperation with international organizations is clear in the broad contours as well as in many of the details of Obama’s The Global Poverty Act. Hence it was natural in one of our final exam questions to combine reference to The Global Poverty Act with our course materials’ focus on alternative modes of global economic development. The four memos Oxy Worldwide is publishing here are from students in this class; each respond to the following prompt on the final exam:

As sponsor of The Global Poverty Act when he was in the Senate, President-elect Obama will presumably support similar principles once he assumes office. Simulate that you are an aide to President Obama. You know that the Global Poverty Act was not adopted while Obama was in the Senate. Write a memo-style brief to President Obama and his economic advisers in which you do two things:

·        Suggest and justify changes in the substance of The Global Poverty Act before President Obama sends a revised version of the bill to Congress.

·        Suggest how this bill, assuming the revisions you suggest, can best be justified to Congress and the American people as in their interest.

The text of the final version of Obama’s The Global Poverty Act can be found here:

·        http://www.govtrack.us/congress/bill.xpd?bill=s110-2433

·        http://www.opencongress.org/bill/110-s2433/show

The in-depth and insightful memos you’ll find from Kristin Beck, Kyle Owens, Rebekah Stewart, and Elizabeth Titus-Yokum are a wonderful introduction to the possibilities Occidental students bring to the world — whether they are now in the Oval Office or still in courses such as DWA 201!

Click here to read the memos: final20version1

Cheers,

Associate Professor Anthony Chase

Chair, Department of Diplomacy & World Affairs

Occidental College

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revolutionary Roots: Coffee Cooperatives in Nicaragua

By Claire O’Connell ‘10

In June 2008, I traveled to Nicaragua with my brother, Shane O’Connell, after receiving a Richter Scholars Grant to travel  and spend the summer researching, interviewing and documenting the lives of small coffee farmers. This radio documentary is the final product of our research, and it explores the difficulties of coffee farmers and their cooperatives in post-revolution Nicaragua.

The Sandinista Revolution of the 1970s successfully toppled the Somozan dictatorship and ushered in a socialist Sandinista government in 1980. The newly instated FSLN government redistributed thousands of acres of farmland owned by the 5 percent of the population that controlled Nicaragua’s wealth, handing the land over to the poorer majority of Nicaragua. These newly made small farms were organized into government cooperatives, mostly for farming coffee. The government oversight over these cooperatives was to ensure that no corporate farms capitalized the market. Although ambitious in design, these cooperatives eventually crumbled due to internal conflicts and lack of government support. This revolution was critical to the creation and existence of coffee cooperatives today.

After the coffee crisis of the 1990s, a movement to re-unionize coffee cooperatives gained momentum in Nicaragua. Many communities decided to organize again into their own cooperatives in order to protect their land. The Sandinista revolutionary ideals have been reborn within these cooperatives that are striving to unite, educate and provide for their communities. The Sandinista belief that one is stronger in numbers, united, was essential to the creation of these cooperatives. These coffee cooperatives have unionized to access the fair trade market and are actively changing what it means to be a small farmer in the developing world. Through social programs funded by fair trade’s social premium, farmers and community members are taking the initiative to improve their communities by funding schools, public health services, and roads.

However, as these coffee unions are an extension of the ideologies of the Sandinista revolution, they also carry parallel weaknesses. A lack of transparency and corruption threatens the future of these cooperatives. Through interviews with community members, cooperative members and activists, this radio documentary examines the problems that these coffee unions face.

Listen to the radio documentary here:

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

If the audio player’s not working, try listening to it here: Nicaragua coffee documentary

To download the radio documentary, click here: http://www.box.net/shared/q2iv05kga2

Claire O’Connell ‘10 is a Diplomacy and World Affairs Major. She can be reached at claire.c.oconnell@gmail.com. Shane O’Connell is a Recording Engineer Major at Clive Davis School of Recorded Music in the Tisch School of the Arts at NYU. He can be reached at shane.oconnell@nyu.edu.

Lessons in Diplomacy From Geneva

By Ivelina Georgieva ‘10

I embarked on my Geneva adventure with zeal but I have to admit that I was initially disappointed. The program’s academics lacked structured, my Swiss family turned out to be cold and reserved, and the city? Small and unexciting. For about a month I went to lectures with lukewarm enthusiasm and saw Geneva with quiet disdain for all those Gucci-clad stylish bank executives and diplomats that populate the city. “Where are the normal people?” I would catch myself thinking. The name of the infamous Facebook group “Geneva Ultimate Eurotrash” was acquiring new significance for me. What threw me aback the most was that the Swiss seemed so unapproachable—no benevolent smiles at the shop, no random conversation in the public transport. Everyone seemed to be walking with a purpose, working without respite.

 

Flash-forward two months later during the final week of the program. I am sitting in the spacious living room of my second host family after a particularly cheesy (literally full of cheese) dinner. Washing down the vestiges of the raclette, a traditional Swiss meal, with a glass of cold white wine, I am busily working away on the cyber-legal labyrinth of my independent project “The Geopolitics of Cyber Warfare.” Although Watchlandia is certainly not going to make my post-undergraduate destinations list, I had seen and learned more than I expected to.

Regarding international relations (IR), we had the amazing opportunity of having the whole diplomatic world of Geneva at our disposal. Not only did we have our lectures in organizations such as the UNCTAD, UNHCR, OCHA, ILO, WTO, WIPO, the Red Cross and many other organizations, we could attend a multitude of IR events that were open to the general public, including cocktail parties held by diplomatic clubs, briefings and conferences. For instance, just in the course of two weeks I visited talks by Joschka Fischer and Joseph Stieglitz, went to one panel on sovereign wealth funds and another one on the financial crisis in Webster University, and randomly met and conversed with an ex-captain in the Pakistani Navy, the present chair of a movement for the liberation of Kashmir.

The quality of programming varied greatly. Admittedly, some of our lectures were quite disappointing. Instead of addressing a concrete problem, the speakers would make Q & A presentations of their organization. Other talks, however, were terrific. We met plenty of people with immense field experience and organizational qualifications, people who started their presentations with, “I used to think the UN’s work is nonsense” and then proceeded to explain how they got involved in their work. They would talk at length about the countless bureaucratic levers they need to push everyday to make the UN wheel spin. Most importantly, they addressed why it had to keep spinning. We met the energetic President of the International Peace Bureau, one of the largest civil research and lobbying organizations for peace and disarmament. We also met the President of the South Club, the Southern equivalent of the International Monetary Fund. One of the judges who oversaw the process against Milosevic gave a marvelous two hour presentation on international humanitarian law. I would not exaggerate the tiniest bit if I said that some of the speakers left me enchanted, inspired, breathless and impatient to contribute my share.

Everyone truly appreciated the second aspect of the program—the study trips. These were well-balanced, since normally we had lectures in the morning, while the rest of the day was free for exploration. In Bern, we stayed in a charming hostel downtown. In Paris, we looked out on the Eiffel Tower. In Brussels, our small hotel sat close to the Guinness award-winning bar whose menu included 2,500 beers.

Of course, the trips were not solely to visit organizations and have fun, but also to expose us to the varieties of Francophone culture. To demonstrate our observation and analytical skills, we had to complete two culturally-based projects. Since I did one of mine on Swiss cinema, I managed to meet a number of Swiss directors, actors and producers, which was easy to do because of the size of Switzerland and its movie industry.

Throughout the semester I visited most of urban Switzerland, including Zurich, Lausanne, Fribourg, Bern and Montreux, as well as quite a few villages in the area, whose Beaujolais and alpine landscapes proved irresistible. I swam and sailed in the Geneva Lake. I went to the Museum of Paul Klee, my favorite artist, reducing the list of my life dreams by one. I heard a myriad of variations on French and German, and tried a hundred types of cheese. I visited CERN, saw some fantastic art collections, and made friends with the so-called French buddies and a Lebanese kebab owner (who would occasionally treat me to a free falafel.) I finally understood why Bill Bryson made that joke about Zurich; “How do you call a gathering of a lot of boring people? Zurich.” I learned to love Geneva—especially after Zurich. Life is ultimately about comparative advantages, just like Ricardo’s economics.

But most importantly, I had the luck to live with a host mom and brother who made my world a wonderful place to be. Ils sont simplement les meilleurs. Them and the raclette.

Ivelina Georgieva ‘10 is a junior Diplomacy and World Affairs major and Russian Language and Culture Minor. She can be reached at igeorgieva@oxy.edu

Village Stay in Morocco

By Wynne McAuley ‘09

I sit in my bed in Rabat on Saturday watching my host sister tie her headscarf in preparation of leaving the house. I listen to my host brother watch cartoons and I revel in the delicious smells that waft from the tiny kitchen where lunch stews the morning away.

Yesterday afternoon I arrived here again after 6 days in the tiny rural village of Ouled Khallou with the Sidi Battach tribe. I dropped my bags and, having not showered for the entirety of my stay, practically ran to the Hammam (the public bathhouse). Usually I just sit amongst all the other women, sweat in the steam and soap myself leisurely. This time, however, I paid a woman 25 dirham (less than 4 dollars) to professionally scrub me down. She filled a few buckets with hot water, took the abrasive scrubber that I had bought a few weeks back, and went at me with vigor. She made me take my underwear off and lie down on the tile while she scrubbed with practiced strength everywhere on my body: neck, ankles, butt. It felt incredible and my skin came off in rolls she then washed away with scoops from the bucket. I was then amazingly soft and clean and rested, ready to reflect on the events (both great and terrible) of the past week, having not had even a minute to write in my journal while I was there.

We rolled into the village after a 40 minute drive from the nearest tiny town of Boujad, rumbling down a hilly, rocky dirt road, packed tightly into hot, dusty vans. Tumbling out, we were met with a crowd of village men, the women sitting farther away on a hill. I waited awkwardly until my name was called and then grabbed my bag and went to shake hands with Mohammed, a tiny, dark-skinned and mustached man with a straw hat. I later learned he was my host brother. I followed him on a fairly tiring, sweaty hike up scrubby hills of cactus, through waving fields of poppies and wheatgrass, down dirt paths and past grazing cows and sheep to a low mud house perched on a steep hillside overlooking an incredible valley of rolling hills and, in the far distance, a few snowy peaks.

Heaving, I was ushered inside where I encountered a chorus of welcomes and a veritable dance of cheek kisses – right cheek, left cheek, right, right, right again. It was in a bright room washed with yellow. The sun streamed through a tiny window into a large room where a beautiful patterned rug was finding its beginnings and a few colorful throws and pillows were laid on the floor for sitting. I was told to sit and instantly given a banana-yellow silk kaftan (long flowing robe) and a sparkling lavender headscarf. Feeling utterly ridiculous, I followed the others and sat down to sickeningly sweet tea and fresh bread.

Nobody in the village speaks anything but Moroccan derija, a form of Arabic quite different from Modern Standard Arabic, which is what I have been studying every day since I have been here. Standard Arabic is used in schools and in the news and certain television channels, which is why people in most cities, even if they can’t speak it, at least understand it. Since this tiny village has barely any television and hardly anyone goes to school, this Arabic is lost on them. Communication was extremely difficult. My Arabic was almost useless. Words like ‘why’ and ‘where’ were met with blank stares. Most of the time I was being babbled at and had no idea what they were saying to me at all. However, I was surprised at how much I did know and how much I could communicate. Anything that I write here I learned from this family through Moroccan Arabic, and I am proud of that.

My host family consisted of Matriarch Zahra and Patriarch Hussein. I saw very little of Hussein but he is a wonderful, tiny old man in a long tan robe and a white skull cap, who told me he thought of me as his daughter. Zahra is a Berber woman who had greenish zigzagged tattoos between her eyebrows and on her chin. She was always wrapped in multiple scarves and aprons and robes, and chided her children in a high, chattering voice. She asked me what to do about her toothaches, headaches and stomachaches. I told her I had no idea what the matter was, but gave her all the Ibuprofen I had brought and told her to take one when the pain was really bad.

Zahra and Hussein have six children. Three of them live elsewhere: one in Spain, one in Tangier and one in the nearby town of Boujad. The remaining three are Mohammed, 35, Fatima, 24, and Miriam, 17. Mohammed has a wife Hafida (who I later learned was his cousin, and wasn’t surprised. Almost half the village has the same last name as my family, Fayz). Mohammed and Hafida have four beautiful—if quite unkempt—little girls, Hanan, Njwah, Khadija (a complete troublemaker of 5 whom they call Khadooj and must constantly be reprimanded) and a chubby little baby named Assiya who I insist would win any cute baby contest you put her into. All in all, quite a crowd.

Khadija is the only one who goes to school, a few times a week. Hanan and Njwah, no older than 10, with missing teeth, wild hair and snot running in constant streams down their noses, spend the day in the field with the tiny herd of sheep and goats. Miriam weaves, cleans and takes the donkey to the well down the hill twice a day. I went with her once; It’s a long trek to an extremely deep and almost dry well (droughts have caused serious problems in recent years). She hurts her shoulders often, pulling up bucket after bucket, but wouldn’t let me help because just a few weeks previously an 18 year old girl had fallen into one of the wells and died. Mama Zahra spent a lot of time combing wool from the sheep and spinning it by hand on a large spool into big balls of wool, which they would then use to weave the kind of blankets I slept under each night (I slept on top of a sheepskin, with 5 or so others next to me). Hafida was constantly at work; If not behind the colossal loom weaving the hours away, she would gather wood, sweep and bake bread, all with her baby strapped to her back with a large red cloth.

Fatima was my own personal escort, an extension of my body for the week, so I am not sure what she does when I am not there. She led me by hand everywhere we went, and stood quite nearby as I went to the bathroom in the cactus patch in front of the house. Being in a place where no one really wants to bare one’s butt (those spines really look lethal), let alone without any sort of toilet paper, going to the bathroom was already unpleasant, yet doubly so while a sentry watched me all the while.

When we sat for tea Fatima would lean on me, curled up on my leg, playing with my hair, fixing my scarf. Her face would be inches away from mine. Her breath was rancid; Teeth aren’t brushed here. Her breath will haunt my dreams for a while to come. When we ate, she would rip off pieces of bread and dip them in oil and place them in front of me, all the while insisting, ‘Eat, Wynne, eat!’ while Mohammed would echo, ‘Eat, Wynne, eat well! Dip the bread well into the oil!’ One morning I woke up and she was holding my hand. All sense of privacy and personal space was erased. She was very nice and quite fun, but the attention was not easy to get used to.

As for eating, we ate bread and oil four times a day. I didn’t eat a single other type of food until the last night I was there, because that was market day, so Hussein had come back with vegetables. I reveled in the taste of those overcooked carrots. Granted, the bread was the best I have ever had. In the mornings we had bread that we would pat down into round, tortilla shapes and grill on a pan over the fire. Thrown directly from the pan into my hands, it was warm and incredible. At roughly 11 a.m. every day we built a fire in the mud oven outside, and threw in the larger loaves. I would sit in the kitchen and help Miriam weave. (She made it look so easy, but it wasn’t). Hafida would bring me a chunk of the bread straight from the fire, still steaming. The freshness of the bread was overwhelming. The oil was olive, and as I sat by the table I could look out the window and see the waving branches of the tree it came from.

In the afternoons I would meet up with the other American kids and we would work on projects like painting, association building, planting olive trees and repairing wells (to prevent accidents like the recent tragedy).

One day we hiked over the hills and through valleys and forests, on no path I could see, to another tiny village where we had lunch (bread and oil. Surprise, surprise). The subsequent question and answer session with the village women, facilitated by my academic director, was magical. We sat crowded on the floor of a tiny room with these beautiful women ranging from tiny, old and wrinkly, to young and sparkling with babies strapped on their backs. They asked us questions and we asked them questions, about life and work and changing times.

In the evenings we would drink tea and I would be stared at by a row of wide-eyed girls. We talked about life in the village and life in America. It was quite a new thing to me to be around people who have never gone to school, cannot read or write and have never  left the village. Fatima had no idea where Spain was (even though her brother lives there), and had no sense of distance. To her, America, Italy, and Rabat were all the same distance away. Besides Italy and Spain, she really did not know about other countries. Those places are only where brothers and sons of people in the village have gone for work.

Mohammed asked me once, ‘How many languages are there in the world, 20?’ Equally interesting was fielding questions like, ‘Do you have looms in America?’ or, ‘Does your mom take the donkey to the market?’ I tried to explain that we don’t bake bread in our houses in America, don’t go to a well, don’t own cows and sheep and donkeys.

I really do wonder what impression of America they got from me. Seeing that Fatima has never even been anywhere with paved roads, I don’t think it was easy for her to imagine it. She wanted to come with me back to America. She told me she baked really good bread, and could make it everyday for my mother. When I asked her why, she said it was because there wasn’t any money in the village, and that is the truth. The drought has ruined everything there, and the dead-end feeling of life seeped into me all the time. How could I make her understand that there are no clay ovens for her to build fires in Barrington, Rhode Island? How do I tell her that my mom does not need someone to wash her clothes? Or that she couldn’t go to America because it’s illegal?

At times I hated how I was in the village for a romantic, rugged experience, how I thought village life was so beautiful and simple and sustainable. I don’t want these types of villages to disappear, but I certainly don’t want to live my life in one, either. So who am I to think it’s sad when they all want to move away in search of money? (Fatima really wanted earrings). The ‘village stay’ was created to give us American students an experience, and to learn. Yet the trip has forced me to consider how much thought was given to what the village would take from our presence, how we disrupted things for a week or for much longer. These people had never, ever conversed with Americans before.

One evening as it was getting dark I brought out some Crayola markers and ripped a few pages from my journal. The little girls wrote a few letters that they had learned in their single year of school, and it was surreal hearing them teach the sounds to their father. Mohammed seemed to enjoy the markers most, meticulously drawing ducks and abstract pictures with dots. He had most of the markers in his hands when his five-year-old daughter asked for red. He said ‘No, wait, wait’ and continued to draw with painstaking concentration.

I left my host family with a few pairs of my woolen socks they had been admiring and a Boston Red Sox t-shirt. I plan to send them a package with some earrings for Fatima, the pictures they took and some cooking utensils.

 

Wynne McAuley is a senior Economics major. She can be reached at wmcauley@oxy.edu.