Dramatrekking: A Homecoming of Sorts

As I gazed out of the airplane window, the first thing I noticed in my groggy post-nap haze was the color below: beige. It then made sense why that color has always instinctively been in my mind’s eye whenever I think of Morocco—I've only ever been in the country after the rainy season when the land is dry. But after sixteen years, I hoped more than a color would seem familiar in this country, a place I feel more connected to than Israel, the supposed homeland of all Jews.

I spent over twenty hours in cars, airports, and planes before reaching Rabat. I came here for many reasons, the main one being my desire and need to re-learn French. But I came to Morocco specifically because of my family’s connections here. Before I was born my dad spent 2+ years there studying Arabic, in the Peace Corps in Morocco, teaching English, and conducting research for his PhD dissertation. My mom, dad, and I spent the summers when I was three and four years old in an apartment in Rabat when my dad was on a Fulbright research grant and led a group of teachers on a faculty development program. Despite my young age, I have vivid memories from those summers—playing catch with a beach ball in the hall with our maid and learning how to make bread with her; dancing at lavish wedding parties; complaining of the heat and demanding a Fanta Florida (my parents’ impressions also help me remember that one); a summer camp where I was in a play that involved wearing many hats; using my hands to eat the amazing cuisine; and one of my earliest memories—falling asleep at a stranger’s house who was baby sitting me after my parents went out to a July 4th party then waking up before they got back and freaking out because I thought they had abandoned me. Of course all was forgiven since my mom brought me an M&M cookie.

But other than a weeklong trip when I was seven, I hadn’t been back until now. For years my family discussed the idea of sending me to Casablanca to work on my French and stay with our friend Fati, a former Bentley College student who became close to our family when my dad ran their office of International Programs. But the majority of my dad’s friends are actually in Rabat, and as luck would have it, his new job (for the past twoish years) with AMIDEAST is perfect for setting me up with a tutor. Spurred by the need to know French when I take a class on translating plays in the fall as part of my graduate coursework in dramaturgy at the A.R.T./MXAT Institute for Advanced Theatre Training at Harvard, I realized June was the only time between the end of my internship at the A.R.T and the start of classes on July 6th. So I flew over on June 2nd, and will stay in Rabat with the Chtatou family until July 2nd. In the past few days there has been so much that I’ve wanted to write about—the way people drive here, my host family, the role of women, and above all, my frustrations and difficulties with the language. Unlike my previous attempt to chronicle my theatre experiences in London, expect more frequent postings here. Hopefully I can continue to write here when I go to Moscow for three months next spring, during my travels the summer afterward, and who knows what else.

But before I begin to reflect on my time here, it really is essential for any friend or reader to understand just how connected I feel to this place. I may be a foreigner, but there is a nostalgia I feel towards Morocco that is unlike any other I’ve experienced. Perhaps it is because I was so young when we first came here. Perhaps it’s because my dad has always said, “yalla” and “ajee” (let’s go, come on!). Perhaps it’s because my favorite dishes are Moroccan, made on special occasions at home. Or perhaps it’s because so much of the décor in our house is Moroccan. Either way, this trip has been long overdue. As our family friend Fatima Harrak said in an email to me, “Welcome back home, Sara!” It’s an odd sensation when I can barely speak the language, but the people from my past have made it into a homecoming nonetheless.

Three years old, with our maid Embaraka. It's common for most middle-class families to have maids in Morocco, and I remember having a lot of fun with her.