Opening the Door

Whatever you do in your life, know this. The door of my house will always be open to you.
~Ajahn Brahm, on loving kindness

I returned home from IST at three o'clock in the morning after riding in a souk bus for about ten hours. I had two volunteers stay the night with me so that they could get some rest before finishing their travel to their sites, which would have taken another three hours. The two of them awoke to hot tea, omelettes, and fruit. They left, and I was left alone.

As I stood at the doorway and watched them hike up the hill to the main road, I looked around my village. The dried husks from the corn were blowing around in the wind, and the sun had risen but was covered by a string of gray clouds. My freshly shaved head, not used to exposure, tingled. When asked by other volunteers why I shaved it, I would reply, "I was too attached to it. It's a Buddhist thing; you wouldn't understand." and then laugh.

At IST, I was in a group dedicated to discussing maternal health. I was in that group because I wanted to get ideas on how to speak with the women in my village. I was the only male in the group; but rather than give me advice on not being threatening to women, the other volunteers instead told me that I have a unique opportunity to speak with the men.

I began to think about that again, as I stood at the open door of my house. Would the men be receptive to the message? Would I be able to convince them that pre- and post-natal health was important for men, also? I wasn't sure, but I began to feel better knowing that I finally had a goal to reach in my service; it was something for which I could actually see results, instead of the vague notions of the "second" and "third" goals of Peace Corps.

I went back into my house, but I decided to leave the front door open. I went around my house and opened my windows that were covered in spider webs from me being gone for the past week. I opened my back door, and the entire house was filled with air and light. corn husks blew in and through the main foyers. I started with my dishes that I had left unwashed when I left for Marrakech.

I little while later, I heard a knock on my door. Two little girls, Ichram and Selma, stood at my door, looking down at their feet.

"May tramt?" I asked.
"Chips." they said.

I looked back to my kitchen and decided to let them in. I told them that I didn't have chips but that they could have fruit. I sent them to my salon and set out a bowl of fruit, colored pencils, and a large piece of paper and told them to draw while I finished working. Once the dishes were clean, I returned to the parlor, where I found that they had traced their hands multiple times and filled them in. They looked around the room and pointed to another poster that I had been working on. It was my poster of the food pyramid, and so I took the time to teach them about the five food groups and why it was important to eat the fruit I gave them. Their mothers knocked on my door and took them back, but I secretly think they were relieved that I had watched them for that time. It was late afternoon by that time, and it was beginning to get chilly, and so I started to closed my windows again for the night. I watched as the mothers hiked up the hill with their daughters in tow.

It's funny how completely different a village acts towards me once I simply open my door. Before IST, I would usually have my front door closed. People would pass by it and pass by my windows, sometimes greeting me, but most of the time, not. I thought about how much I had just felt like part of the community, to where the mothers didn't get angry, upset, or frightened by the fact that they little daughters stayed at the foreigner's house. Had my door been closed that day, I'm sure the girls wouldn't have knocked.

There were times before IST that I truly worried if I was going to do anything productive; I had made a vow that if by May of 2011 I still felt like I was wasting taxpayer money I would return home. But now, I know that I have been productive. Moroccans trust me with their children. Just that one action lets me know that I have changed their opinion about Americans. I don't think their opinions were negative, but maybe if they hear another Moroccan talk about how bad Americans are, they'll think of me and confront him.

That's how you change the world. That's how you create peace. That's how you keep the door to your heart open to everyone.

P.S.: My camera disk was destroyed by a virus, but I have another one, and will get a picture of the drawing the girls made.