Speaking without words
It’s very easy to make yourself comfortable. And once achieved, comfort can keep you nestled safely, quietly whispering into your ear assurances that things will never change. But one of the beauties of life is that it forces you to change, pushes you out of your comfort zones and throws challenge after challenge, molding you into an adaptable being. But too often, we shy away from change, we face what we must and settle into our little comfortable shells, praying that the next change will be far, far away.
I’ve had many of those moments in Morocco, mostly because of the language barriers between the Moroccans and I. In Morocco, several languages exist; the primary ones being Arabic, Berber and French. And each of these (well, excluding the French) have their language derivatives and are often times intertwined into one dialect. In any one situation, there will be someone who does not understand my English or limited French, and so we share polite smiles and spurt out the few greetings and salutations that we might both understand.
We stayed at Dar Taliba, a girl’s boarding house, in Ouarzazate this week. Some of the girls spoke some English, some speaking without words. We had meals together seated at round tables and shared mouth-watering tagines. It was very easy to sit next to one of my traveling colleagues and share separate conversations from these girls who quite possibly would not understand a word we said and vice versa. And to be honest, I did not want it any other way.
But I walked into the dining room one night, and saw tables with some of my friends, some mixed with the girls of the Dar Taliba. There was however, one table with only Moroccans. My first instinct was to sit at a table where I knew someone, but in a second thought, I realized that I was denying myself the opportunity for a cultural exchange experience—exactly what I came here for! And so before my comfort instinct kicked in, I walked to the table and sat down.
Some of the girls were quite shy and spoke little French or English. But one or two of the seven were able to communicate at least in basic French. There was little actual conversation between us and a lot of communication among them, but strangely I felt like I understood what was going on. I laughed when they laughed, smiled when they smiled, and by the end of dinner I felt like part of the group. They held my hand like they did with each other, leaned on my shoulder and showed me pictures. These girls who I had hardly spoken to had become my friends.