Fellows' Reflections: Neely Egan

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I have two weeks left in my fellowship. Two weeks?! Of course, everyone was right when they said time will fly, because it does really feel like I arrived in Tunisia two weeks ago. But then I’m wonderfully overwhelmed by how much has happened in my time here.

First things first, my job. Teaching has been a beautifully difficult experience for me. I have the pleasure of teaching preschoolers and middle schoolers – so basically the age groups known for being sometimes… strenuous. In all honesty, I never knew my patience, of which I pride myself on having a lot, could be pushed as much as it was with my students.

However, coupled with that realization, I never knew how much joy my classes could bring me. There are few words that can explain what happens in your heart when a child speaks a full English sentence by themselves for the first time. There are few words that can explain the kind of smile that come across your face when a three-year-old runs and gives you a big hug and a flower. There are few words that can explain the pride that flows when a student writes an essay with ZERO grammatical mistakes. Though I won’t be pursuing teaching after this year, I will cherish forever what this year and my classes have taught me.

Secondly, Tunisia – what a fabulous home I have found here. For almost every experience and relationship I have had here, I am grateful. Even those moments that did not go my way, I hope that I have come out of them with a greater sense of resilience. All in all, I wouldn’t be able to say any bad words about this place. The country is beautiful and full of adventure, while the people are kind and jovial. Though I studied International Politics in college, and though I was sure that I wanted to move to the MENA region, there was always a part of me that did not know if I could do it. Thankfully, the MENAR Fellowship, ClubAnglais, and Tunisia have allowed me the chance to prove to myself that I can do it. In fact, even though my contract ends in two weeks, you’ll be able to find me here in Tunisia for the foreseeable future!

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Fellows' Reflections: Emma Schneck

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I write this now approaching the 9-month-mark of my fellowship here in Morocco. It’s been difficult to comprehend how the time has passed so quickly, and it's strange realizing I only have a few months left in the country. Even though I’ve now been living in Morocco for quite some time, I haven’t run out of new things to learn about or discover. Between new projects at work, darija lessons, and the reawakening of life in Casablanca, there’s constantly something new to encounter.

A recent highlight of mine was celebrating Ramadan here in Morocco. I fasted the entirety of Ramadan, which brought on a new set of challenges and experiences. Though I don’t consider myself religious, I chose to fast as a way to support my Moroccan roommate and be able to better experience the cultural traditions of Ramadan. While much of “outside” life was closed due to COVID-related curfews and government restrictions, Ramadan festivities made our daily routines special from home. From rushing to prepare the table for iftar with a combination of traditional and wildly un-Moroccan foods (who knew that sushi and msemen, a Moroccan-style flatbread, could ever belong on the same table?) to quietly taking in the sunset from our balcony while waiting for the call to prayer, Ramadan was full of particularly memorable moments.

Ramadan ended with Eid al-Fitr, and I had the opportunity to visit my roommate’s hometown for a traditional Eid with her parents. We travelled to Taza, a beautiful small city nestled in the Atlas Mountains, and I was immediately struck by how relaxed and cozy the region felt. Seeing the streets full of people laughing and enjoying their holiday was really comforting, and definitely a contrast to the bustle of Casablanca.

At my roommate’s childhood home, I helped her mom cook tagine, set up the table with cookies and sweets, and prepared mint tea. We broke our fast with the largest assortment of almond sweets I had ever seen, and spent the day leisurely meandering between cafés. That morning, my roommate and her family surprised me with my “first Ramadan present” – a beautiful traditional djellaba.

I often joke that I’ve found my own little Moroccan family here, but there is a lot of truth behind that phrase. I am so fortunate to have found people so welcoming and supportive here in Morocco, and I owe a lot of my experiences here to their hospitality. I’m really thankful to be able to continue learning about Morocco – whether it be through language, food, or celebrations like Ramadan. As life in Morocco keeps changing alongside COVID restrictions, I can’t wait to see what the next few months hold in store.

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Fellows' Reflections: Emma Schneck

At the beginning of February, I had the opportunity to venture out of Casablanca and work remotely from Essaouira, a small seaside town on Morocco’s Atlantic coast. After nearly 5 months in Morocco, it was the first time I left Casa for more than a day, and I was eager to experience more of the country I now consider a second home.

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In the seaside town of Essaouira, the normally-bustling blue-trimmed medina was calm and quiet. Fishermen gave their leftover catch of the day to curious street cats while shopkeepers displayed their colorful selections of djellabas outside of their shops. As I walked through the medina, I peered my head into random shops, looking for an interesting way to kill the afternoon. One of the many silver shops nestled in the alleyway caught my eye, so I ventured in, looking for a conversation and hopefully a new treasure.

The young shopkeeper was eager to show me around his shop of treasures, and welcome me with the unmistakable hospitality of a Moroccan. “You’re like me,” he told me, “We have kind eyes. You can tell who you can trust by looking at them.” He showed me how he made his silver Berber charms, and what each of the intricate symbols meant. We conversed a little in Arabic and French, and he told me about his family back home in the Southern desert oasis of Mhamid. In normal times, he works as a tour guide showing guests his home village while his family was in the jewelry business. Because of the pandemic, he permanently moved to Essaouira to sell jewelry and hadn’t been home in months. He asked about my studies, and what brought me here to Morocco during this time. We ended up sitting and chatting for a while over a cup of tea long after I bought one of his necklaces. We both took our time chatting--the pace of the medina was so slow that these moments of connection were rarities to be cherished.

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I am in the very privileged position of being one of the few foreigners here in Morocco at this time. It can be weird and uncomfortable at times, and there is little guidance as to how to navigate the situation here in the country. Mostly though, my fortunate position has given me the opportunity to have conversations that I might not have otherwise. As the only guest in near-empty riads (small hotels), one of the most rewarding experiences has been sitting over a pot of overly-sugared tea and talking with hosts about the current situation and life moving forward.

For better or for worse, life in Morocco largely revolves around tourism, and the pandemic has really overhauled many Moroccans’ way of life. The shops and salespeople, drivers, and riad owners that made their livings off of the millions of guests that Morocco welcomes each year have all had to adapt to the empty medina streets and lack of business with little to no government support or assistance. Despite a year of incredible uncertainty, most of the people I’ve spoken to are remarkably optimistic, both about their personal lives and the future of Morocco’s tourism economy.

In times where things feel stuck, it's inspiring to see the ways that people instinctively look to adapt, especially in the tourism industry. I see this drive not only in the riad owners or craftspeople that I’ve met here, but also in my coworkers at Experience Morocco. Since the beginning of the pandemic, everyone here at EM immediately began imagining new ways to adapt the company to every closure, restriction, and lockdown that the pandemic has thrown our way. It feels nice to be a part of that effort, even if it’s hard to see any concrete results at the present moment. While things here might be pretty quiet for now, these instances of resilience make me hopeful for Morocco’s next chapter moving forward.

 
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Fellows' Reflections: Alex Petri

I arrived in Amman somewhat late. A series of setbacks, including the COVID pandemic, put me here in mid-January rather than November. Before that it was supposed to be September. Before September it was August. I am glad to finally be here!

Strangely, I felt no initial discomfort upon arriving, and I don’t know what to make of that. It surprised me. A voice in the back of my head tells me I should have felt more discomfort than I did. Until August, I lived in Washington, DC. From August until my arrival, I was in rural Illinois staying with my dad in a town of less than one hundred people. No ISPs (internet service providers) had service for his address, so I commuted to my mom’s apartment the next town over to telework for the Collateral Repair Project (CRP), where I started my fellowship remotely in October. I would catch my supervisor and other colleagues as they wrapped up their day in Jordan, beginning mine in the cold and bleak Midwestern winter. All three very different places to have called home in the span of one year. I do not take for granted the sunshine in Amman. It has given me quite a lot of new energy!

And so I have been thinking (but only occasionally). With my arrival, I must remind myself that I arrived in Jordan for a reason.

What was that reason? Sometimes it is difficult to remember why you set out to do something. I can hardly remember what I ate for supper last night most of the time. And so I ask myself, am I in Jordan for the right reasons? How do I know those reasons are right? Anxieties abound! I am thankful to have many new friends who are willing to have these conversations with me. I am thankful that many Jordanians are so kind and open and welcoming.

I am here to see the ways I can make an impact on the community around me. I’m very aware that having my position means a Jordanian does not have it. Because of that, I don’t expect myself to operate as if this was just another job in the US. I have to be dynamic.

Until next time.

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Fellows' Reflections: Neely Egan

I can hardly believe that six months have already passed in my fellowship in Tunisia. Time has moved so strangely – it feels like I’ve been here forever, but at the same time it doesn’t feel like any time has passed. Adding to this confusion is the difficulty that comes when I try to put my time here into words, because few people at home can picture anything that I’m talking about.

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There is one exception – for our last school break, two coworkers and I went on a major road trip all across the south of Tunisia. We covered miles upon miles and ended up seeing it all. It was an amazing trip for many reasons. First of all, it was my first time outside of the greater Tunis region. On our drive across the country I was completely struck by how diverse the geography can be in such a small country. Throughout our drive we went from beach town to olive groves to desert to mountains to oases. At home in Florida, I could drive 8 hours and still be on a beach, so I found even the drive incredible.

Secondly, I camped in the desert, rode a camel, and got to see the set of Luke Skywalker’s home planet: Tatooine. If you know me at all, you know that all three of these truly touristic activities would make me jump for joy. I love camping, but camping in the desert was something entirely different. This may seem funny to say, but you’ve never experienced true silence until you’re in the middle of the desert … unless you’re riding a camel, and then they can make funny noises. I certainly wobbled when I was on that hump, but I got to cross it off my bucket list! I also embraced my inner nerd when I saw the Star Wars set. It felt so funny to see something so familiar in the middle of the desert. Even though I was actually farther from home than I am in Tunis, while I was on that set, I was, for a moment, back on my family room couch watching George Lucas’ movies with my family, which leads nicely to the last reason I loved this trip.

My trip was something that my friends and family back home could experience (somewhat) with me. I wish that all of my favorite people from home could come visit me here in Tunisia, but of course that is a bit hard this year, given travel restrictions. So, I’ve just had to bring Tunisia to them instead, which funnily enough came most easily through George Lucas and camels. For them, these moments of true tourism were easier to picture than normal life like my day-to-day interactions with my homeni (Tunisian for “neighborhood friends”). So for now, I’ll stay in my galaxy far, far away and try to convince people to move here, instead of New York or Washington, DC.

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Fellows' Reflections: Emma Schneck

“Don’t have any expectations.”

If there was one piece of advice that stuck with me after my series of Zoom onboarding calls for my MENAR fellowship, it was this one. I had been checking in with my managers for the umpteenth time, going over the situation at Experience Morocco, and trying to figure out our next steps going forward. Quite understandably, I was anxious to know the ins and outs of life in Casablanca, and had about a million questions for my Moroccan coworkers. The most important answer I received--however--was one I wasn’t anticipating:

“Just let Morocco happen.”

It seemed a bit counterintuitive at first. How could I not have any expectations for moving halfway across the world, especially to a place I had envisioned for so long? Thinking about it a bit more, I started to resonate with the opportunity of starting in a new country with a completely blank slate, and just letting things come as they may. So, I listened to my manager’s advice, put an end to my frantic apartment Zillowing, and did an absurdly minimal level of preparation for one of the biggest moves of my life.

There were a few things that immediately stood out to me during my first few weeks in Casablanca. Firstly, how drastically different Darija (Moroccan spoken Arabic) is from Modern Standard Arabic, and how quickly and fluidly Casablancis speak. In a typical Moroccan conversation, bits of Darija, French, and English weave themselves effortlessly together, creating a beautiful linguistic nightmare for any foreigner listening in. As impossible as it seemed for me to comprehend everything at first, I soon realized that if I just sat back, took time, and listened, I understood much more than I originally thought.

One of the main lessons I’ve had so far in Morocco has been adjusting to the different speed of life here. As a new friend playfully scolded me on our walk home one night, “Why are you walking so fast? You’re in Africa!”

Learning to take things slowly has allowed me to truly experience the spontaneous moments that make my time in Casa worth it. From hand making belaweats (a savory Moroccan pastry), to introducing my roommate to the delicacy of raw sugar cookie dough and late night Christmas cookie baking sessions, my favorite moments in Casablanca have been ones that I never would have expected. Since arriving in Morocco a little over 2 months ago, I’ve helped a friend film a music video, enjoyed rooftop picnics at sunset, and even ventured to one of North Africa’s largest electronics markets (all before our 9pm curfew, of course).

There is no guidebook on how to start a new life in a foreign country during a global pandemic. There isn’t much you can plan for, so having no expectations might just be the only way to stay sane when life changes every week. For now, I’ve found Casa’s unexpected moments the most rewarding and exciting, and I am looking forward to seeing what else Morocco has in store.

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Meet the 2020 Class of MENAR Fellows!

The Middle East and North Africa Regional Fellowship Program (MENAR) is pleased to introduce the organization’s seventh class of fellows.

The Middle East and North Africa Regional (MENAR) Fellowship Program was founded in 2011 with the objective of offering one-year post-graduation fellowships to top graduates of American colleges at leading organizations across the Middle East and North Africa region. Since then, 29 fellows have had the opportunity to work and live in Egypt, Jordan, Morocco, Tunisia, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates.

The MENAR Fellowship Program facilitates intercultural exchange by coordinating fellowships for recent American college graduates with both businesses and non-profit organizations in the Middle East. The MENAR Fellowship Program screens partner organizations; provides the organizations with a guarantee of excellence from fellows; allows fellows to access a range of opportunities through a single application process; and supports fellows and partners through the intricacies of international placements.

This year’s fellowship cohort is restricted in size due to the complexities of the COVID pandemic. Three fellows will begin in Fall 2020, and may work remotely at the start of their fellowship if necessitated by international travel restrictions. Ongoing measures are being taken to guarantee fellows’ safety.

Fellows will spend a year working with diverse partner organizations in the non-profit, for-profit, and educational sectors and located across the Middle East and North Africa region. They will share their experiences on MENAR’s website throughout the year.

The 2020-2021 class of MENAR fellows are:

Neely Egan
Education: University of Virginia
Placement: ClubAnglais – Tunis, Tunisia

Alex Petri
Education: Washington University in St. Louis
Placement: Collateral Repair Project – Amman, Jordan

Emma Schneck
Education: Trinity College
Placement: Experience Morocco – Casablanca, Morocco

Fellows' Reflections: Hannah Rosenwinkel

Upon moving to Amman eight months ago, I knew I wanted to start blogging, journaling, or documenting my experience in some way. I’ve never been great at journaling — growing up, I would constantly get notebooks where I would start writing down my thoughts and then forget or get bored about a week after. Despite previous failed attempts, I started bullet journaling (writing down what I did each day in bullet-point format) the week after my move to Amman.

A few months after my arrival, I was reminded that MENAR has a partnership with Reach the World (RTW), a global education non-profit organization that seeks to make the benefits of travel and study abroad accessible to K-12 classrooms in the United States. With this opportunity, I could share my journey living in Jordan and inspire students to be curious about the world. This opportunity immediately sparked my interest; I could continue documenting my experience, hone my writing skills and share my stories. I applied to RTW and was accepted as a Volunteer Traveler last August. And, to my pleasant surprise, the classroom I was matched with was a middle-school classroom in my home state of Minnesota!

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As a RTW Volunteer Traveler, I had a few requirements: take as many pictures as possible for blog post content, keep up with my weekly blog post submissions, and schedule a few video calls with my matched classroom. My blogs ranged in topic from the geography of Jordan to Jordanian birthday celebrations. After my posts were published, the classroom teacher, Tanya, read the blogs and created quizzes for the students to complete at home. The students loved this! Our video calls were a RTW volunteer highlight for me. At one point, the students created a fictional Ancient Egyptian Museum as part of a history project. During our video call, they asked about my trip to Dahab, a small coastal city on the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt. I shared about my experience scuba diving in Dahab and many students decided to locate their museum in Dahab! The combination of blog posts and video calls provided a great opportunity for students to learn and ask questions, and established a personal connection to the Middle East.

After four months of submitting weekly RTW blog posts, my time as a Volunteer Traveler has come to a close. Not only was blog creation a great way to document my experience in Jordan and the broader Middle East, but I was also able to share these posts with students who may or may not have the opportunity to travel, study abroad, or work abroad in the future. Some of the blogs were about basic topics such as food or transportation, but it was the posts about simple aspects of life that sparked deeper questions about Jordanian culture, history, who I share my meals with, and who I travel with. The blogs provided the opportunity to do much more than bullet-journal my daily tasks; they were an opportunity to share my experiences and begin simple conversations that gave way to deeper discussions.

I hope that my RTW partnership with a Minnesota classroom cultivated their sense of curiosity about the world, and helped build positive awareness of the Middle East among young Americans. I look forward to seeing future MENAR Fellows share their journeys through Reach the World!

Fellows' Reflections: Jessica Murphy

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Avenue Habib Bourgiba, the primary pedestrian street in downtown Tunis, was packed with children and adults of all ages. Strings of Tunisian flags, with their distinctive bright red color, had been strung between light poles and strewn throughout the crowd. People cried and cheered and danced as they held their own personal flags. Others wore a chechiya, a traditional hat, beaming with pride for their country. Cars honked, music blared, and streetlights glimmered. At one point, I heard a cry from above; looking up, I noticed a man crouching among the branches of a tree, cheering and dancing to the beat. Strangers kissed each other on the cheek, offering blessings for their families and friends. Tunisia had just elected President Kaïs Saïed and had taken to the streets to celebrate. The hope in the air was palpable.

I stumbled upon this celebration accidentally; though I knew it was the day of the election and eagerly anticipated the results, I had no idea they would be received with such fanfare. It was only October and it was the second of three elections I would witness within my first few months in Tunis. In the weeks leading up to the election, I had participated in and witnessed countless conversations with colleagues, friends, and strangers about their opinions and predictions. Coming from a country where electoral politics are reminiscent of a competitive sport, I am accustomed to discussing politics in public spaces. To me, and, seemingly, to others around me, these interactions felt natural, even normal. I had to remind myself that Tunisia’s democracy is still fairly young. Of the country’s sixty-plus years of independence, less than ten have passed since the 2011 revolution that ousted the country’s former dictator. The newest version of the constitution was enshrined in 2014; this past election cycle fell on the constitution’s five-year benchmark. As my friends and I pushed our way through the crowd at this impromptu, city-wide results party, it dawned on me that we were witnessing history.

Since arriving in Tunis this past August, I’ve noticed other visible signs of democracy. The weekend before the election, while driving into Tunis from a nearby town, I saw young volunteers passing out campaign flyers for various candidates at traffic stops along the highway. It was raining, and traffic was at a standstill, so by the time our car passed the intersection we had accumulated a handful of promotional material. As I struggled to read aloud campaign promises, trying to decipher the Arabic text, I realized that the men and women standing in the rain, shoving paper after paper through car windows, were children or teenagers at the time of the revolution. In their lifetime, the country had changed so much, and — as people often remind me — it is still in the process of changing.

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At l’École Canadienne de Tunis, I work at the secondary school, and as an English teacher I often have the opportunity to decide on topics of conversation. As a self-proclaimed political enthusiast, I often encourage students to share their own opinions and perspectives on current events — particularly because last trimester was replete with election after election. Mixed English levels notwithstanding (it is most students' third language, after Arabic and French) we had some fascinating discussions. In one class, a student proclaimed that the revolution was bad for Tunisia, and that Ben Ali was better than any of the candidates this year. In response, another student disagreed; many of the consequences of the Ben Ali regime were hidden, she said, primarily impacting marginalized groups. In more advanced classes, we read articles profiling each of the candidates, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of each platform.

I feel lucky to have exchanged thoughts and opinions with a wide range of people outside of the classroom as well, each person with his or her own particular perspective. One Tunisian friend told me she decided not to vote, claiming that both candidates were equally dangerous or potentially harmful for the future of the country. A coworker, fearing Saïed’s alleged conservatism, told me he opted for the other finalist, former businessman and media mogul Nabil Karoui. My neighbor at the time, convinced that Saïed’s lack of experience in politics was an asset, chose to vote for the former constitutional law professor and even volunteer for his campaign.

The morning after the election, the optimistic spirit from the previous evening remained, even as municipal employees gradually scratched off the campaign posters located at the designated spot in each neighborhood. The city buzzed with nervous energy as voters walked around with ink-covered forefingers, marking that they had participated in the election (ostensibly to prevent voter fraud). Some were gleeful, thrilled by the election results, while others were somber, worried about the future of the country. Regardless of individual opinion, there were murmurs of hope and uncertainty, and I am glad to have shared this moment of anticipation for the future of Tunisia.

Fellows' Reflections: Kirsten Mullin

“Let’s go to Malaysia when this year is done,'' my roommate and MENAR co-fellow Angela said to me one late night in our apartment.

“Why Malaysia?”

“It’s about as far away from Tunisia as you can get!”

Angela, our other roommate, and I had this conversation while we were drowning in advertisements searching for a new apartment. About a week before, I was wheezing so intensely at work that I could feel my chest vibrating. I left work in a hurry and went to the nearest English-speaking doctor I could find. When I finally got there, she told me in no uncertain terms that I had to move out of my apartment, because the recently discovered mold growth was having a serious impact on my health.

The apartment search was not going well, and a strained relationship with our landlord added another layer of stress. During the three weeks of our apartment search, I was sleeping on a couch in our common room to limit exposure to the mold in my own room, while going to viewings after work and dealing with the normal daily stress of living in a foreign country.

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By the end of December, I was ready to go home to New York. The week before my Friday flight home for Christmas, I was working extra hours to accommodate for parent-teacher conferences, battling a mixture of bronchitis and a sinus infection, and was in the process of moving to our new apartment. When Thursday finally came, all I wanted to do was go home, watch a movie, and pack — but I realized I had forgotten to buy Christmas gifts for my family.

All day, I dragged my feet on whether or not I was going to go into the medina to buy presents. Finally, when the bell rang at 3:30 pm to signal the end of my class, I decided to go. Twenty minutes later, I found myself standing at the entrance to the medina, making a mental list of all of the things I needed to buy.

Once inside the medina, I navigated the shop-lined alleyways to go to my favorite shopkeeper, Moncef. When I saw him, he greeted me with an enthusiastic “3sslema binti!” (hello my daughter). For the next twenty minutes, I stood in his shop, surrounded by the beautiful metalwork made by him and his father, and talked about family, adjusting to life in Tunisia, and the upcoming holidays. By the end, I walked out with two handmade metal plates, upon which he had engraved special notes for my family.

On my way out of the medina, with all of my gifts in hand, I ran into one of the former security guards at ECT. During my first few days at the school, he had helped me find taxis, organized rides home with friends, and just generally ensured that I was taken care of. I missed his presence outside the school everyday and was ecstatic to see him.

We talked for a bit, and I learned that he had recently started working as a security guard outside of a popular hotel in Tunis. After a couple of minutes, he invited me to sit down at the hotel’s cafe for a coffee. Then, the boss of the hotel came over with a piping hot coffee, and told me that his daughter goes to ECT. We chatted for a little and when I left, he told me that I am always welcome to come and sit down for a coffee at the hotel.

In the few weeks leading up to holiday break, Tunis did not feel like home for me. I longed for a break, stability, and most importantly, a mold-free living situation. However, leaving the medina on the day before my departure, I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging and contentedness. On my way home, I reflected on all of the small ways that I have been made to feel at home in Tunis — from the old man I say hi to every day on my way to work, to roommates that did not hesitate to move apartments with me.

If there is one thing I’ve learned so far in Tunis, it is this: The path to feeling at home in a new place is not linear, but rather is paved with small, inexplicable moments of belonging. Although I am still grateful for the opportunity to go back to New York for Christmas, I cannot wait to return to my home in Tunis and continue to have those moments.

Fellows' Reflections: Bev Vega

Community and Coding

After being a bit more than three months into my move to Amman, I graduated my first cohort of students from ReBootKamp (RBK) as full stack web developers. RBK is a 16-week intensive coding bootcamp intended to help specifically those from marginalized communities. Our program focuses on coding curriculum, job skills development, and community building. After finishing up with an amazing group of students coming from the West Bank and Gaza, I’ve been left with a lot to reflect on. I believe my main takeaway from this experience so far has been the importance of giving others space and validation. I found that when we fail to occasionally offer others our attention, we lose the ability to build off each other and collectively invent strategies to address problems we face.

There is a valid critique of those in the tech industry failing to prioritize society over finding any solution. Because the curriculum was so focused on learning new technologies, we initially lost sight of how to apply this to our lives and also the implications of what we want to introduce into the world. I observed a “product over people” mentality manifest in our students as they hacked. To solve this problem, I implemented a restorative justice project. We would meet in small groups of six and conduct a talking circle to discuss our thoughts on topics about tech and our lives in general. I reached out to a friend back in Austin, who had worked on projects like this before, about best practices. I also had to do a lot of personal research to ensure that I was respectful and intentional in everything regarding the circles.

The talking circles met once a week. Every student had the chance to participate. Additionally, the members of the groups were reorganized every two weeks to allow students to community-build with everyone on campus. In the circle we were all equal. There were no instructor or student roles. We were simply people. Each week we had the opportunity to discuss different subjects, unpacking our experiences and defining various topics like tolerance, anger, gossip, joy, and stress. We told stories, talked about challenges, and as a community lifted each other up. Over time, we were able to apply our collective strategies to the community. Each circle had instances of laughter, understanding, and empathy for our fellow circle members.

This space was fundamental to our growth as a cohort and campus. Something as simple as providing a space and asking questions allowed for our organization and students to truly lift each other up. There is a lot to be said about the value of making others feel valued. This is exactly what the circles functioned to do. It made us feel heard, and as a community we were encouraged to actively listen. Additionally, this meant that we could all share our truths knowing that someone heard us. Talking circles taught us the importance of space and giving ourselves permission to take up this space. We validated our feelings and ideas through this communication and became much more confident in how we interact within our communities. Going into a coding bootcamp, I expected that my biggest lesson would involve new techniques in software development. However, it turns out that my most cherished lesson was how necessary community-building is in tech if we are to build technologies for a better society.

Fellows' Reflections: Angela Pham

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I met Sayeda while sitting on a bench overlooking the Mediterranean. It was a Tuesday, the last day of my weekly long weekend, and I had spent the morning cleaning and grocery shopping at the nearby farmer’s market. The day was perfect; I had recently started teaching, the summer heat and humidity had subsided, and a cool sea breeze encouraged loungers and working people alike to slow down in the area overlooking Marsa beach, called the corniche. I was eating fresh figs when a woman passing by asked if she could sit on the bench next to me. We quickly started a conversation and she patiently worked with my halting Arabic to communicate. Within thirty minutes, I had a tutor to teach me Tunisian Arabic.

A week later, I’d had my first language lesson with her and was stopping by to drop off the Vicks VapoRub she had loaned me for my cold. I expected to hand it over and leave, but she of course she asked if I would stay for tea. It was mid-afternoon, and I was about to experience a new layer of Tunisian daily rhythm and hospitality. She ushered me in, sat me on the couch, and rustled in the kitchen. She emerged soon, but empty handed. Maybe I had misunderstood about the tea? She spoke a stream of Arabic, of which I understood perhaps 50%, and I came to understand that I was supposed to lay down and rest a little before tea. She lay down on the couch adjacent to me and then looked up to check if I was laying down. I was leaning against the cushions and she immediately urged me to get horizontal. I slid further down the cushion, only to have her prod me again. Finally I laid down properly, blanket and all, and started drifting off to sleep. The call to prayer woke us both up twenty minutes later, and then she got up, prayed, and said something about tea again. The next thing I knew, she was standing by the door with her purse, looking at me expectantly. What in the world are we doing? I wondered, and followed her out the door.

The Tunisian accent combined with my out-of-practice Arabic brain makes situations like this fairly frequent, but when we ended up in a nearby park with two tea glasses, a thermos of tea, lemon slices, and a Tupperware of cookies, I finally understood what she meant by na3ml jo, which I mentally translated as “make an atmosphere,” in the jneena (something I would normally call hadiqa, or “park”). The surprise picnic with my new language tutor was a sweet experience that epitomized several of the things I fell in love with quickly upon arriving in the suburban beach town of La Marsa, Tunisia.

 
 

Fellows' Reflections: Aman Falol

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Digesting Coffee, (The Best) Cake, and Experiences Made in Amman

Hanging Out with Foreigners

“Look at these pictures from his Hajj! It’s crazy that we can probably travel anywhere in the world except there. Seems unfair.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you would want to go anyways. They’ll force you to dress in up in all black and wear things you don’t want.“

These were comments from Europeans living in Jordan when a local shared pictures from his Hajj experience. I don’t consider them insensitive at all. It just reveals ignorance. Thankfully, ignorance is our beautiful opportunity to learn, grow, challenge yourself, and challenge the people who may be teaching you with honest questions. I’m grateful these two people were intellectually curious and engaged me in sincere discussion afterwards. But, this discussion, like many of mine with immigrants here, reveal we often don’t know the foundations of our own core values or anything about the ones of people we serve.

On a more concerning note, during my time in Amman, I noticed a significant number of Europeans and Americans living in Jordan create isolated communities and economies that distance themselves from average residents. Although they often come on humanitarian missions to offer locals skills, resources, and customs they consider beneficial, they don’t invest time in understanding Arabic, contextual regional histories, cultural inheritance (except food and party customs), Islam, and many other variables integral to a shared understanding of life here. The issue for many is not resources or time. If you ask them directly, many foreigners living here will honestly tell you these variables are of little value to them or their efforts to improve the conditions of the people they are serving.

The Words that Pierce from Conversation Practice

I have spent 3 hours daily outside of work honing my communication skills with excellent private tutors and talking to people in every neighborhood in Amman. As a Muslim man with a decent command of Arabic and one who often gets mistaken as a Jordanian Bedouin until my word choice proves otherwise, my ability to connect with the average person is often quicker, deeper, and easier. Taxi drivers, store workers, tutors, program facilitators, and street vendors don’t shower me with pleasantries, good manners and praises in hopes I return as a customer or offer a generous tip. When I am not surrounded by people from the Americas or Europe, they usually give me their opinions straight (whether I ask for them or not) and criticize me or others as NGO workers in the region.

“You and your kind care about your work so much. But, none of you care about us.”

“Their tongues are broken, we do the same job, I have to train them, and their salary is four times mine. Where is the justice? Can we not take care of ourselves?”

“You think I’m not frustrated? Of course I am. I have a degree in Computer Science. You did not study coding. And, I’m teaching you the local dialect so you can do a data job I pray for and that I could do in my sleep. But, I have kids and I need money, so I teach.”

Most comments and discussions I get from my communication practice is fruitful, constructive, and helpful in my work context. But, every other day, in the middle of a 1-hour conversation, a few words cut deep and force me to reevaluate a new aspect of my actions and presence here. After all the talking and listening, I’ve learned very intimately that both kalima meaning “word” and kalm meaning “wound” share the same linguistic root in Arabic.

A Workplace Where Feedback is Felt

Luckily, my workplace helps heal a lot of those wounds. Over many years, the Collateral Repair Project has cultivated a collaborative environment where local staff, volunteers, and beneficiaries do their best to integrate foreign staff in Amman and at work. The previous fellows and other foreign staff were able to cultivate mutual respect and appreciation through their lived examples. I often hear stories about the impact of respecting invitations, efforts to learn customs and language, requests for advice, listening and respecting feedback, thoughtful disagreement, and how all of this makes them eager to interact with new foreigners at the center. Even when there is a breakdown in communication, it’s met with a patience and eager optimism often missing outside the center. It’s enabled me and my roommate (who’s also a colleague) to go from stuttering with pronunciation of three word sentences to full conversations about ideas in ‘Aamiya and strict usage of it at home after three months. The environment has improved my personal growth and ability to cultivate healthy relationships at work.

Questions and Advice for Those Intending to Travel

If you plan to travel to the Middle East and work or study, ask introspective questions like the following: Why is the region called the Middle East? What is the center point in which the region is middle and east from? Is this geographical point of reference the central point of reference for all important things in your life? Is this center also the point in which all important ideas, practices, and goals revolve around for the people living in the region?

Questions like these should inspire you to explore the intellectual foundations of your own values and the values and customs of natives. Improving these understandings will be the difference between mutually beneficial impact and better engagement or you just taking up space. Furthermore, even though programs like MENAR focus on professional development, I advise you to cultivate growing expertise in a skill and the ability to train others in it. This is especially important in sectors where resources are scarce. It will justify the need for your presence, create stronger institutional health, and ensure the work is about shared goals and purpose (and not about you).

Fellows' Reflections: Laura Robinson

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My boss was skeptical about my plan to get to Chefchaouen – a small town painted entirely blue about 7 hours from my home-base of Casablanca. It was a trip that would require a total of five transfers between various taxis, buses and trains. “I’m sure your Arabic will help a lot!” she said – a running joke in my office considering that I showed up to Morocco for the first time in August knowing a grand total of zero words of Moroccan Arabic. I set out for Chefchaouen, hoping to get by with French and hand gestures, but expecting a fair amount of trouble communicating. What I hadn’t anticipated was to find such profound kindness from complete strangers all piled together in an SUV for a 3 hour road trip.

A 75-year-old man wearing a traditional Moroccan djellaba sitting two seats away wasn’t a predictable person to bond about American and English pop culture with, but as soon as I sat down, he asked me if I spoke English and if I had ever heard of Charlie Chaplin. He then queued up a video on his phone, passed it up to the front of the car, and proudly played a Charlie Chaplin skit for all eight of us in the car to watch. He showed me photos of his grandchildren and told me that he loves to play them songs by his favorite American singer, Cat Stevens. I told him that I had named my old car “Car Stevens” as a pun on the folksy singer’s name – it was a joke that understandably none of my friends back home found funny, but my new Senior Moroccan road-trip buddy responded with a belly laugh (sometimes it takes moving across the world to find the right audience for a joke).

The man sitting between us only spoke Darija, and the three of us continued to trade stories for the whole ride as the older man translated everything that I said to Darija for him, and translated his responses back into English or French for me. As we left the taxi, they even offered to walk me to the next stop to make sure I didn’t have any trouble finding the right station for the next leg of the trip.

While not much about the past four months or life in Morocco as a whole has been consistent – the one thing that has been an absolute constant is the welcoming nature and willingness to help that I’ve experienced from friends and strangers alike across Morocco. Whether it’s been strangers in a taxi going out of their way to help me even with no language in common, or my coworkers teaching me a “Darija word of the day” and welcoming me into their homes – the warmth I’ve felt in my transition to life in Morocco has been immensely fulfilling and makes me beyond excited for the 8 months still to come.

 
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Fellows' Reflections: Asha Athman

After arriving in Jordan at the end of July, I didn’t anticipate getting into the groove of life in Amman so quickly. I was fortunate to have strong support at Collateral Repair Project when I arrived and this smooth transition enabled me to enjoy working on personal projects outside of work. I am passionate about art and soon after arriving in Amman began preparing to participate in a month-long art residency at Darat al Funun, a dynamic art foundation in Jordan.

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Darat al Funun is a well-known art institution in Amman that features modern art and cultural exhibitions mainly produced by artists from Jordan and the Arab world year-round. The Lab of Darat al Funun was started by the foundation to support the work of emerging artists. In 2019, the Lab is undergoing several residency and exhibition programs distributed into “Phases.” The residency I participated in was part of Phase II, which focused on diaspora narratives, raw materials, and conceptions of home.

During September, I worked by day and produced art by night on a busy, but rewarding schedule. The residency included communal cooking nights, movie screenings, reading circles, and excursions in Amman that related to its central themes and the projects of its participants. The program allowed me to become closer friends with many young artists in and outside Amman.

I was able to complete a collage project I began working on in the United States during this program. The project was an initiative to explore my Somali heritage in a creative way. I digitally brought together pictures, old documents, music, and videos that reflect Somali history and culture in the 20th and 21st centuries. I grew up in the Somali American diaspora and this project brought me closer to home in a number of senses while I was adjusting to life in Jordan.

The final exhibition for the projects produced in the Lab Phase II Residency program was held at the beginning of October. It was incredible to show my work alongside other participants in the Residency and share this experience with my friends and coworkers in Amman. The start of my fellowship in Jordan was a whirlwind, but after the exhibition I had the opportunity to reflect on all I had accomplished in and outside of work during these two first months.

I look forward to continuing working on this project and am currently working on a digital and print publication that matches the style and content of the pieces produced for the Darat residency.

Fellows' Reflections: Hannah Rosenwinkel

My Journey from the Midwest to the Middle East

Whether I’m meeting new friends at a local coffee shop, chatting with coworkers, or even trying trying to resolve a credit card issue over the phone, a question I’m commonly asked is “how did you end up in Jordan?” Expats in Jordan all have a different answer to this question, but given my previous work experience and geographic upbringing (Minnesota), it always seems like people are even more curious to hear my answer.

In college I studied both Global Studies (focus on the Middle East) and Supply Chain & Operations Management at the University of Minnesota (U of M), Twin Cities. During my time in school, I had the opportunity to study abroad in Amman, Jordan for a semester, where I fell in love with the people, culture and the region, and promised myself that I would return again one day to work and live. After debating whether to return to Amman immediately post-graduation or experience what it’s like to work at a large corporation, I decided to take a job in supply chain transportation at a large agriculture cooperative in Minnesota. I loved my experience there and learned more than I ever thought I would about transportation, but I knew that I still wanted to return to Amman sooner than later.

As of today, it’s been about five months since I moved to Amman to work for Bayt.com, the largest job website in the Middle East. At Bayt, I work in B2B e-commerce marketing, which is extremely different from my previous work in supply chain transportation. The work that I do ranges from implementing user experience design improvements on our employer website and sending email marketing campaigns to documenting processes and coding HTML. Even though this job is extremely different from my previous position in supply chain, I’m thankful for the skills I’ve learned at Bayt and in the marketing department.

So, to answer the question of how I ended up in Jordan, my answer is a combination of professional and personal reasons. Professionally, I wanted an international work experience that would combine my passions for business and the Middle East. I knew I wanted to get this experience as soon as I could in my career. Personally, I wanted to move to a place where I knew I could find community. Since I spent time in Amman during college, I was naturally drawn to Jordan.

Five months in, Amman is feeling like home. I have made local friends along with many expats, brushed up on my Arabic, joined a gym and found a yoga studio I love. I have been fortunate to have taken a few trips outside of the Jordan the past few months. On the last day of my most recent trip to Dubai, where I met up with a Minnesotan friend on a work trip, she asked her co-workers and I if we were ready to go home yet. For her co-workers, their home was obviously Minnesota. For me, the home I was returning to was Amman. In that moment, the thought that “Amman is home” was a realization and affirmation that I made the right decision moving from the Midwest to the Middle East.

I’m still working on my answer to “how did you end up in Jordan,” but for now, I feel blessed that I ended up here in Amman and can call it my home.

Fellows' Reflections: Lisa MacKenzie

After eight flights and three weeks in the States, I am back to my home in Amman. I’ve used the word “home” to describe four different places in the past month. Home is now my mother’s new apartment south of San Francisco. During the two weeks I visited, she was busy with work. I spent the days alone swimming, running, and eating absurd amounts of berries, asparagus, and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream (food items that are out of my price range in Amman). Last week, “home” was a cabin in Phippsburg, Maine with my father, step-mother, and dog. There was no running water, ticks and mosquitoes, an outhouse, and a shower bucket with water pressure worse than Amman showers. Home is also Underhill, Vermont, where I was raised. I spent less than a day passing through Underhill on this most recent trip, and I likely haven’t spent more than a week there in the past few years. Childhood friends have moved away, and we no longer own my childhood home. The fourth place I referred to as home in the past month is my shared apartment in Amman. It is surprising how attachment to place and people develops in 14 months. Even before the year as a MENAR fellow started, I did not plan on coming to Jordan and leaving exactly one year later. I am privileged and grateful to have such mobility and to consider these places home.

After my MENAR position with Bayt.com ended a few months ago, I began a summer position as a residential director to students on a U.S. State Department funded scholarship in Amman. The summer brought changes in my social life and schedule. Sometimes I woke up to run at six and sit in on student classes at nine. Other mornings I slept in to nearly noon after handling a host family or health issue late into the night. Having participated in similar State Department funded Arabic study programs as a high school and undergraduate student, it was special to continue involvement in this community. Without previous opportunities to live in Oman and Jordan on scholarships to study Arabic, I would not have applied to or received the MENAR fellowship, and I would not still be in this place I consider home.

The summer position has wrapped up, and I am entering another period of transition. While next steps are unclear, I will stay in Amman. I need a job. I will say goodbye to a close friend and two and a half roommates (one is a dog). I still need to continue paying off college loans, and despite being here for over a year, I still need to do simple things like buy a flat sheet that actually fits my bed. Amman really does feel like home, though. So much so that on this most recent to-and-from the States, I brought my comforter and pillow from my former childhood home. These items have traveled with me to and from Maine countless time, to California during my mother’s move, back to Maine and Vermont last week, and now to my bed in Amman. I’ve “nested.”

 
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Fellows' Reflections: Hannah Byrd

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A young boy on a bicycle rode alongside our car. “There are more that way!” he shouted through the open window, gesturing across the street. He lives in the Erriadh neighborhood in Djerba, a small island off the coast of Tunisia. This neighborhood was selected as the location of Djerbahood, an open air museum established in June 2014. Over one hundred artists representing thirty nationalities painted murals on walls throughout the neighborhood. The result is delightful. Diverse styles and cultures swirl over white and brick walls, greeting visitors at every turn.

I thought about what it meant for that young boy to grow up with these beautiful paintings decorating his world. In our brief interaction, I saw how he appointed himself as a guide. I imagined much of his summer break spent riding around on his bike under the intense Mediterranean sun, interacting with strangers from all over the world who have come to see his neighborhood.

I visited Djerba at the end of my fellowship year in Tunisia. After saying goodbye to my students at ClubAnglais, I piled in a car early on a Monday morning at the end of June with three of my closest friends in Tunisia. On the long car ride there, I alternated between sleeping and monitoring the playlist, trying to enjoy this time with my friends and ignoring my impending departure.

Djerbahood, however, demanded my attention and reflection. This neighborhood is a living testament to the beauty of cross-cultural exchange. Artistic styles from around the world each tell a different story, yet enrich the overall message of the project. When people from different backgrounds come together and share experiences and customs, a similar phenomenon happens: our perspective and empathy grows. Fortunately, cross-cultural exchange is not limited to living abroad, although it is a fantastic way to experience it. It happens in coffee shops, classrooms, over lunch: anywhere people from different backgrounds gather and share their stories. The simple act of listening and seeking to understand can create profound change.

Now that I am back in the United States, I hope to follow the example of the boy on the bike. I want to be hospitable and welcoming to newcomers and embrace encounters with those different from me. We have a lot to learn from one another, if we just take a moment to engage.

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