Losing Myself

What is there to say? So much has happened in our four weeks here and my mind is racing with stories to tell, yet my fingers refuse to cooperate. Walking into Uganda and this semester overseas, I thought my greatest challenge would be getting along with all my classmates, but I have been shocked to find it is instead with myself.

The past two weeks have highlighted a lifelong battle of self-acceptance. Struggling internally as a war wages on, refusing to end, my self-esteem has disintegrated to mere nothingness. Feeling worthless, my spirit has been barraged by an attack of degrading remarks, calling into question my skills, abilities and gifts. Longing for an escape to run once again through forests and over rivers, knowing that among nature I am not judged. Feeling unattractive and out of place, I have just wanted to curl up in a sweatshirt and sweats and hide away until I feel comfortable and confident once again. No longer able to stand being within my own skin, I have considered such dramatic measures as anorexia, but know all too well that as tempting as this seemingly quick fix is, it is really just an entirely new problem masquerading as a plausible solution.

Confused by what has brought about this renewed disturbing thought I have blamed all the formal factors, willing myself to logically think through it all and be content and happy once again with who God has made me and who I am right now. Unfortunately it was less than successful and soon it captivated all my thoughts.

Recognizing the growing strength of the problem and becoming fearful of myself I began to cry out for help, but it all seemed to fall on deaf ears. The ringing silence of my friends seemed only to confirm the words my heart and mind were already believing. Feeling more alone and forgotten than ever, I wrestled with what to do next. Just praying didn’t seem to be working.

Wednesday night came and with it our weekly small group time, needless to say, I was anything but engaged. I had done the reading, but couldn’t recall a single point. Instead I sat numb, questioning whether or not I should share with the group what was going on. Discussing the principles of turning the other check and living as a “slave” to Christ I became repelled by the notions (ones once I had previously held to). Based on recent experiences the concepts held entirely new meanings.

Entering into our time of large group discussion I had no desire to be present. Sitting silently in my chair with legs pulled up and eyes down cast I tried to disappear. However, the course of conversation began to turn and the topic of oppression surfaced. Timidly raising my hand others first spoke and then I was called upon. (Not desiring to diminish in any way those who live in severe oppression, I use the word with caution). As mentioned several weeks (ok, months) ago, during a period of my time in Morocco I felt completely trapped, oppressed by a culture and social order I did not understand. Retraining myself to live and act differently, I sought to irradiate from my behavior those patterns which made me distinctly me. Learning to walk down the street undaunted by the catcalls and advances, I plastered on an iron face looking straight ahead, never at, but always through people, avoiding eye contact with all males lest a momentary acknowledgement be taken as an invitation. Laughing and smiling became limited in public and numerous locations deemed ‘man cafes’ became completely off limits. Going anywhere on my own, and even in groups of girls, meant a constant stream of attention, feeling the eyes of those I past linger upon me until I was out of sight and then there were the times I was followed.

Yet after a while it all becomes common place, a part of living in a Middle Eastern Country. What bothered me most though were the guys who drove my stopping just feet in front of where I was walking, rolling down the window and propositioning me for sex, even in broad daylight. In quiet subjection I walked on refusing to acknowledge them at all. Unpacking this all brought up a whole new range of feelings and questions, and then came the final offense.

I don’t know how else to say it and I am a bit fearful of people’s reactions (which is why it has taken me this long to tell people), but I was attacked, violated one Sunday afternoon on the streets of Morocco. Needing a break from my paper and being cooped up inside I decided to take a short quiet stroll thorough the neighborhood to spend some time with God and clear my head. 

Walking out the door just after 4pm, I was hit by the brilliance of the afternoon sun. Peacefully I began walking ignoring the almost immediate advances of a French-speaking gentleman. Annoyed but determined I continued undaunted. Winding my way in and out of my area I made my way back towards the apartment and was preparing to cross the street, when he appeared again blocking my intended path. Persistently he tried again spouting off every language he knew and thought I might possibly speak. Exasperated I finally spoke, “No François!” Undaunted by this admission he proceeded to follow me. Longing for safety, but unwilling to show him where I lived, I attempted to lose him. Winding around a series of streets that became more unfamiliar with every step he tracked me, finally cornering me after a wrong turn led me down a dead end road. Seizing his opportunity he lunged forward and grabbed me. Pushing him away and yelling at him he backed off and I thought the nightmare was over. 

Far from giving up he walked a few feet up and stood, waiting, watching. Scanning the area for help the streets were eerily empty. Refusing to succumb to this power struggle, I pressed on ahead. Stalking my movements from the opposite side of the street, he cut in front of me again. Stepping closer to me with every chance he could, I would yell and he would back off. Still stuck on the dead end road I felt paralyzed. Waving down a passing teen on an ATV I pleaded for help, less than sympathic he drove off only adding to the delight on my attacker’s face who witnessed the entire scene from across the street. Persevering I moved on, keenly aware of his proximity to me I frantically surveyed the streets for help. Finally running across a couple I stopped and begged for help. Unable to communicate, I gestured to the street and the man when to investigate. Seeing nothing he returned and I raced home, knowing that even if he were to loop back around I was still on the most direct road back to my apartment. Arriving home I was finally safe.

Finishing yet another telling of the story I felt ashamed all over again. Illogically blaming myself for the events which had transpired.  

Julia, our leader, then asked me a question that I was unprepared for, “How has that impacted your view of yourself?”

Instantly all the pieces fell together and I understood. Through all of these encounters my spirit had begun to see itself through their eyes: powerless, worthless, and object, sub standard, insignificant, unimportant, invisible. Buying into the lies, my self-value had been slowly torn to shreds leaving me grasping for the confidence and peace I once knew.

Sharing this all I felt as though I had shrunk and in concluding all I wanted to do was run away, to go downstairs and wash dishes. The moment we dismissed, I was gone. Seeking refuge in the kitchen Julia found me and all the words I had been struggling over came flowing out before me.

In addition to my experiences in Morocco, I felt the sting of being ignored in Qatar, which at first was a welcome change, but than soon shifted to only reinforce my status as a single female in a man’s world. In Uganda it is the prevalent view of women as inferior.

Living in countries both in the Middle East and Africa where women are undervalued and underappreciated has definitely worn on me. In Morocco I was objectified, in Qatar I was ignored, and here I am purely inferior. I don't know how the women in these countries can live, let alone thrive. I think what punctuated this last weekend more than any other wasn't purely the fact that I was pushed down, but that the white male on our team was exalted practically to that of a god. If a decision had to be made the woman's opinion wasn't enough, it was only finalized if the Man gave his approval. To my friend's credit, it wasn't his fault, but rather that of our assistant who took us out to stay with his family. However, it still served as a stark illustration of the dichotomy in the society between men and women. But, it is just the culture, right?

I would have to say this is one of the most challenging seasons I have found myself in for quite some time. I know that God is greater than it all, but walking through the storm is still rough.

Coming forward and sharing with my group was incredibly difficult, but very helpful, as it has allowed me to see how all these events play off one another. Finally processing it all has given me the ability to move forward.

The past two days have been better. Thursday was especially refreshing as I was able to regain a piece of me through coffee with a friend and later shopping with some others. Today is better, but not good. I know that this is going to be a process, but I feel that the worst is over. Reflecting on it all, new lessons arrive daily. This morning on the ‘bus’ ride (okay it was a Matatu – taxi) to school, I realized I needed to struggle with this on my own, to feel the loneliness and live in it for a moment. Independent as I may be, my relationship with God, family and friends is absolutely essential to my mental and emotional health.

As I sit and write this all out, I can only begin to imagine what sort of things I will hear back, so let me try to head some off before they come.
- I am safe, being careful and exercising caution. The incident that occurred in Morocco could just as easily have happened on a street in Seattle or even Kirkland. Please don’t write hate mail or call the organization I was with, there was no way of preventing what occurred. Please know that I am fine and praise God that what I encountered wasn’t worse (it surely could have been). Unfortunately I am not the first person to have this happen to, nor will I be the last.

- Please don’t ask me to come home, it isn’t going to happen until its time, and it isn’t time yet.

- Also I have not allowed one negative experience to taint my view of the Moroccan people, so please don’t let it damage yours. Morocco is still a land of mysterious enchantment where spices, colors, languages, and cultures collide. The people are incredibly loving and welcoming, hospitable in every way. Overall my time in Morocco and overseas has been wonderful, but as with all of life, you have to take the bad with the good. One day, perhaps in the not so distant future, I will return to Morocco.