A brief description of Fadoua's huge confusing family: many babies, kind and accepting aunts, smiling mustached uncles, little cousins continuously pulling me onto the dance floor, sister who took care of me when Fadoua was busy getting make-upped herself, brothers dressed in jeans and t-shirts, really sweet grandmother, amazingly good dancer mother, grandfather who slaps anyone who says the word z'bda (butter) in his hearing (no one knows why, but I said the word twice [the first time I met him, Fadoua told me to say it...] and received The Slap), and of course, my awesome friend Fadoua, writer, poet, and just beautiful person. I LOVE her family. Everyone was unbelievably welcoming, smiling at me, dancing with me, begging me to take their pictures. Her cousins were wonderful--the five of us (Fadoua, her sister, me, her two cousins)--danced in circles and laughed at my inability to perfect the shoulder move the hip move etc etc. Her uncle danced with me and then left, somewhat disgusted by my lack of skill. Later, I found myself dancing with him and his wife, who was trying to teach me to dance better. However, I did manage to impress them with my circling hips and bending knees--a swaying squat that brought me almost to the floor and back up. "Nice!" That move happened to impress many of the guests. My signature. I was proud. So proud, in fact, that I told Najia, our belly-dancing teacher.
Cookies and tea. Water for parched throats. I danced and held my bladder for hours. Pink green blue gold red colored kaftans. Fadoua had lent me a beautiful black kaftan which I wore with proud. I wore my jeans and a black tank top underneath. But it's difficult to go to the bathroom in those things. Especially with a squat (hence the holding my bladder).
The bride, Fadoua's meilleure amie, was beautiful. She wore three different outfits. The groom, Fadoua's oncle prefere, wore two.

But I have yet to begin at the beginning, before the dancing.
I greeted the women with cheek kisses and donned Fadoua's beautiful kaftan. Lunch (even though I had already eaten with my host family). A very awkward episode of urination in a kaftan in a squat toilet. No desire to repeat the experience. Getting "slapped" by Fadoua's grandfather for saying z'bda (at Fadoua's evil suggestion) upon meeting him. And then we began the procession through the crowded streets of the medina to the house of gifts for the future bride and groom. When we arrived, the trumpets started blasting and the drums rhythmically beat ou a steady romp. Fadoua handed me an enormous candle, and everyone started dancing. I felt awkward, and so my dance mainly consisted of waving the candle around in the air and slowly shifting from side to side. Gradually, the engagement party crowd filed out. Fadoua and I were left in the back, with the candles, right in front of the musicians, who were enthusiastically trumpeting and drumming with all their might, announcing our presence to the medina.

Our procession was musical magical loud surprising painful (because the shoes Fadoua lent me were killing my feet) fun photographed stressful (because as luck would have it, the candle bearers are supposed to be at the FRONT of the procession) just WONDERFUL. Fadoua whispered (shouted) urgently to me that we were needed at the front. She took my arm and tugged. Together we forced our way through. It was a battle. At one point, another woman from the party smiled at me so so sweetly. So I took her hand, and she followed Fadoua and me. She was beautiful, and I canoot forget her smile, so accepting, making me feel welcome amongst this party of Moroccans. And I, a lone white girl in a traditional kaftan, heading the procession of an engagement party of Moroccans. What an experience! All the Moroccans we passed (who were not part of our party) started curiously at me. Fadoua told me they all thought I was the bride, for what else would I, blatantly NOT Moroccan, be doing there? Tourists snapped photographs, but when they saw me, their fingers hesitated in astonishment. Perhaps I am too self-involved, but I admit, the attention amused me. And I did stand out all too conspicuously. Even a kaftan couldn't hide the fact that I wasn't a relation.

When the procession, laden down with gifts, finally made it to the house (another one--I lost track of ownership), the REAL dancing (aforementioned) began. At one point I slumped in a chair, utterly exhausted, but cookies soon revived me, and I was dancing once again--with Fadoua, Fadoua's cousins sister mother aunts uncles, the bride's family...

During the dancing, the bride and groom were usually sitting together, posing for photographs, or absent (to change clothes). Occasionally they got up and danced. When they did so, the rest of the party surrounded them, chanting and wishing them luck (I think...the chants were [obviously] in Arabic).

Dancing from around 430-1030. Everyone was amazing at moving their bodies--even the very old women were sexy in their swaying motions. Even the little five-year-olds showed more skill than me.
And the cookies were delicious.
I took many pictures and Fadoua's cousins were fascinated by my camera. One of them kept taking it and snapping photographs. Finally I took it back with a "Saaaafi."
At last, after all that dancing, it was dinner time. Two courses: chicken and then meat. I sat in between the bride and Fadoua. Apples and clementines (the usual) for dessert. I called my host family to ask if it was okay to sleep over, and they agreed immediately.
After dinner, everyone started filtering out, until only I, Fadoua, her two younger cousins, a very young cousin, her sister, her two brothers, her mother, her grandmother, her aunt and uncle, and various others were left. We danced again, briefly, because her cousins miraculously still had energy and I didn't have the energy to say no. Her cousins looked at me, before I finally lay down to sleep, and they said, "ntii zouina bzaaf bzaaf." You are very very beautiful. I have never felt more flattered and more welcomed in a different house different family different culture. I am so grateful to Fadoua for allowing me this glimpse into her wonderful family. I am so grateful for my experience, for the people I met, for the laughter and smiles, for the dancing and the feast, for being in Morocco and seeing a new way to celebrate love and marriage. That engagement party was one of the best experiences of my life. The only American, non-Arabic speaker there, helplessly out of my league in terms of dancing (with the exception of that one move of course), and I felt extraordinarily comfortable and at ease among strangers, who, after five minutes, even though I didn't really converse with them, were no longer strangers at all.

We spent this weekend in Rabat (the political capital of Morocco). We started the weekend with a lecture on womens rights at the Center for Crosscultural Learning. We toured Chellah, (Rabat's first settlement) and Hassan Tower (masoleum of Mohammed V). The first day we were stuck inside part of the day due to heavy rains.

We have a week and a half left in Fes. This week students will continue with their classes and prepare for final individual study project presentations.

Lamia

Our last week in Fes is getting off to a busy start - trying to take everything in before we depart for the north next week. On Monday, we had an interesting lecture on the history and evolution of Moroccan literature. We also had our last day volunteering at Ahli. The students led several activities with a musical theme including musical chairs, dance freeze tag and "follow my moves, " a type of follow-the-leader game. This morning we participated in some medina restoration - still getting our hands dirty! Tomorrow we will finish our medina restoration projects and the students will finish their darija lessons. We look forward to a lecture on Moroccan politics as well as a henna party with Andalusian music on Thursday.

Salam Aliakum from Chefchaouen,

The direct translation of Chefchaouen is see mountains. This town is absolutely beautiful and so are the Rif mountains. We are enjoying days with bright sunshine and evenings perfect for star gazing. The students have had free days to relax and check out the area. Tomorrow we are heading into the mountains for a hike. Friday we are off to Tangier.

Bisalma,

Lamia

It is misty/ foggy outside. We are driving through the Moroccan country side. At one point it was so foggy that we could only see a few feet ahead of us. Passing cars seemed to appear out of thin air. We are on our way to Chefchaouen, home of blue washed walls and the famous sweaters that Alexis wants so much to buy.

Last night I had a lump in my throat and could not go to sleep because of it. I did not realize how attached to my host family I am. This morning before I left my host mom brought me a kinder bueno (my fav candy) and a pomagranite for the road. I did not think that it would be so hard to leave; I wanted to cry.

Yesterday my host sister and I went to Fez Jideed to buy gifts and later to the monster super market whose lair lies on the outskirts of Fez to buy dessert supplies. We exausted ourselves trying to find the perfect Jllaba and then were reenergized by super market chocolate and the idea of making the perfect chocolately dessert that night.

At dinner we spent 2 hours creating the most amazing Moroccan pizza. I watched and learned as my host sister kneaded the thick crust and sauteed the onions. I learned how to make the egg and cheese topping and when the time came, I ate 1/2 of one of the three amazing pizzas that we made. Finally we finished off dinner with a chocolate icecream/mouse dessert that was topped with caramel so dark it looked like dark chocolate.

I am going to miss my host mom. I am going to miss my host dad. They called me their daughter and took care of me when I was sick. My host dad taught me arabic at dinner. I watched late night movies with my host mom and my host dad would bashfully bring me blankets and warn me not to go barefoot because of the cold. I miss my 4 year old host brother; dance moves, butterfly kisses, and his asking my host mom if he could marry me. I miss my host sister, her passion for cooking anything from cinnamon sugar pasta to my favorite moroccan pizzas. And I miss Fez: Arabic lessons, pottery ISP, taxi rides that were an adventure in themselves, ancient medina, hidden couryards... everything

So, Goodbye Love, Goodbye.

Much love,
Kempie

This spirit is best illustrated in the case of my host mother. My host mother is an amazing woman. She is the mother of four children. She is a devoted wife and a devote Muslim who wears the head scarf when going out. She called me her American daughter and she cared for me as her own when I was sick. I would watch late night movies with her and practice my Arabic, feeling a rush of warmth every time she told me how great I was doing. And she has made an incredible difference in the lives of over 500 women. My host mother is the head of a sewing school in Fez, a traditional city where it would be unusual for a relatively wealthy devout Muslim mother to work, let alone head a business. In her school, my host mother teaches Moroccan women ages 15 and up sewing and craft skills that they can use to support their families and most importantly, themselves. Most of these women never finished high school. My host mother supports them and takes up their cases with the local government. She even opened a shop where her graduates could sell their creations. I have seen the boutique. It is beautiful and it brought tears to my eyes because it represents the realization of my host mother’s dreams.

My host mother inspired me. The difference that she made in those women’s lives inspired me. It is the same thing that I saw as I traveled around Morocco, from the Sahara to the High Atlas and I want to thank you all so much for all of your prayers and support that made those experiences possible. Thank you, sincerely and from the bottom of my heart. I am so excited to go to India and apply what I learned in Morocco about truly living life and being a service to others.

Sincerely,

Ellie Ezzell

P.S. Morockers Forever!