Reflections on 3 weeks of work

Anyway, 3 months later and “shwiya” better Arabic, the program is slowly coming to a close. We reconvened last Thursday to turn in papers and begin presentations/defenses on each of our topics: 45 – 60 minutes per person multiplied by 27 students makes… a long time sitting once again at the markez. However, I’ve been fairly impressed with the research projects and it’s just generally interesting to hear about what everyone’s been up to the past few weeks. Some of course have done more work than others, some have been more successful than others, but it’s a beautiful thing to give everyone that space to talk and show their best, when throughout this semester its often been only the loud voices that are heard, among 27 students. My presentation went this morning, and I was definitely surprised with how “on” I felt – maybe becuase I started with singing one of the songs I’ve learned in choir – but I felt like this topic in particular, I can speak with authority about. Immigration is an issue relatively new enough in academia, and on which I’ve done just enough work, so that in some ways I feel like I can do fairly significant work and consider all sides to an immensely complex issue.

There were days over the past 3 weeks when I could barely explain to my roommate, let alone write in my blog or journal, truly what I had experienced and learned while volunteering at Comité d’Entraide Internationale… hearing raw stories of young women so recently in the desert that their scars from the journey had not yet healed, or mediating between Nigerians and Congolese so much I began to forget which words belonged to which language and trying so hard to serve them equally and discredit accusations of discrimination or preference. Sitting next to a young mother, whose husband could be anywhere from the outskirts of Morocco to working in Spain, for all she knew and at this point, cared, and searching for the words to tell her that – on our fault – we had missed her number and now there was no food left to give. “There’s nothing I can do” is the most radically humiliating statement, when you know well that you have a beautiful house to go home to, food in the cupboards, and a bright future laid in front of your eyes. No begging, no pity in your neighbors’ eyes, no concern over if the reason people won’t talk to you is that you’re dark-skinned, poor, if its been weeks since your last shower, if they think you’re a menace to the society, or any other misconceptions about immigrants.

Not that the immigrants are angels either – there’s violence, greed, closed mindedness – but its impossible for me to make the friends that I have, seen the one-room apts that I have (and it’s no joke – ONE room and that’s it), or heard the desperation in voices of once proud people, without growing a sympathetic ear. And I certainly don’t mean to reduce their situation to one deserving empty compassion. I am not a sensationalist, I don’t mean to make a mockery of their situation by using it to invoke superficial sympathies nor to make anyone feel good in contrast about “America.” But what is happening with the immigrants in Morocco is an issue of hard rights, compassion or no compassion. No one, not Moroccans, not non-Moroccans, deserve to live in hiding, from day to day with no hope of ever finding stability again, as the immigrants do. Every international “safeguard” has failed them, the government has failed them, and the ngo’s are on their way to that end. So quoi faire? It’s a complex situation, and I only hope that my paper illuminates and treats all sides of the issue fairly. Papers for profs are easy. Something like this, with potential real effects (if my advisor helps me publish in US or Morocco) has a real kind of vulnerability. It makes you think twice as hard while choosing a title, among other things.