A Few Words About Morocco
A Graduate Back from the Peace Corps
By Luci Beachdell ’95

Sometimes when you leave home, you know what you’re getting into. Other times, it’s far more than you bargain for. When I left for Peace Corps Morocco, to teach English/Youth Development, I had a few concrete goals. I wanted to learn Arabic and to be a “force for change” in the small community which would, I hoped, welcome me.

I left the United States in August 2001 and returned in April 2003, about 7 months earlier than expected, as the Morocco Peace Corps program was suspended when the US went to war against Iraq. Jordan had been suspended a few months earlier, and Morocco was the last active Arab-Muslim Peace Corps country. The decision to freeze the program and evacuate all the volunteers was a slow process, and not an easy decision. Returning to the States early was both disappointing and sad.

Morocco is an intensely beautiful country, roughly the size of California, with deserts and mountains, palmeries and farms, snow and extreme heat, tiny low-tech villages and teeming hi-tech cities. Once I’d completed my three months of training and sworn in as a volunteer, an overwhelming welcome waited for me in Ouled Berhil, the small town (population 10,000) I was stationed in for the remainder of my time in Morocco.

Berhil is in southern Morocco, about two hours east of the Atlantic by grand taxi (i.e., five other passengers and a driver in a four-door sedan, usually an old stick-shift Mercedes with decals of the Hand of Fatima for protection). From the main road running through my town, I could see the High and the Anti-Atlas mountains, to the north and south respectively. Local economy depends on agriculture (oranges are a major export), and has suffered due to periodic droughts over the past 25 years. Despite this, Berhil is growing, as people move in from outlying villages.

As I settled in, post September 11, 2001, my Americanness was of great interest to my fellow Berhilians. I can’t count how many Moroccans (throughout my 20 months in the country) offered me their sympathies for the September 11 attacks. (And I would like to express, in print, my deepest sympathies for the bombings that occurred recently in Casablanca.)

Morocco was, in all ways, more than I could have ever bargained for. Explaining this now that I’ve returned to the States can be quite a challenge. When asked, I offer lists of the things I did. This list might include learning to wash my laundry by hand. My walks to my favorite grocer in the market every other day for veggies or fruit. Speaking a by-no-means fluent Darija – the Moroccan dialect of Arabic – with most people I met (unless they insisted on French or English). Teaching a variety of levels of English to people ranging from 10 to 40 years old at the Youth Center and the Women’s Center. Collaborating with several high school faculty in order to implement a Cultural Events committee, which now oversees such celebrations as Earth Day and Human Rights Day. Sharing recipes at the Women’s Center for everything from banana bread to samosas.

Most importantly, I made a number of close women friends. From them, I learned how to shake my bum in fine Moroccan style (more or less); henna my hands; use the public baths; make mint tea, couscous, kebabs, and carpets. As people (in my town and across the country) invited me unreservedly into their homes and families, I learned a deeper meaning of welcome.

I came home with a clearer idea of how the world works. An appreciation for Islam, a new language on my tongue. A deep and abiding love for Morocco and her people. A bunch of God phrases built into my atheist vocabulary. The rest is less immediately calculable, but surely there’s more character around here somewhere.

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