Connection, Disconnection, and More Reflections from Morocco
What feels like a long time ago, after returning from my first experience abroad, I wanted to create a dedicated space to share my travels and writing. I had been feeling stuck since coming back to the U.S., and writing about my travels allowed me to stay connected to the discovery of and immersion within new cultures that I had experienced while studying abroad. After a lot of brainstorming, I came up with the name The Candid Connection. It combined my passion for connecting with others through words and travel and desire to stay authentic while doing so. This passion led me to move to Morocco post-graduation, where I had initially envisioned staying for a year or two. Now, nearly five years in, the values of connection and community keep me rooted here.
The question I receive most often is: when are you coming back home? The implication: my time abroad is something I need to get out of my system, and once I’ve done so, I’ll move back home and “settle down”. Buy a nice house in the suburbs, get married, have a baby, adopt a dog. While this lifestyle is a valid and viable choice, it is just not the one for me. I’m not coming back home, I find myself answering constantly. I have found new homes as I’ve traveled, have chosen to live this life that has brought me growth, change, curiosity, joy.
In tandem with the question about coming back home, I now get asked why I’m still in Morocco. After two years teaching English and two years working for a destination management company, I’ve recently switched to freelancing full-time. Although my work is now fully remote, I’ve chosen to stay in Casablanca. In the questions about why I’m still here, I hear: why would you be there when you could be somewhere else? My answer: why would I be somewhere else when I can be here?
When I worked in the travel industry, one of my favorite aspects was that of human connection. I would talk with travelers excited about their upcoming trips and share what makes Morocco such a special destination. Mutually beneficial, these conversations increased travelers’ eagerness to visit, and energized me as I talked about a place I love. The majority of their post-trip feedback focused on the hospitality, warmth, and generosity of the Moroccan people and culture. These reasons, among others, are why I have chosen to stay here.
When I return to the U.S., I’m always surprised by the increasing lack of connection. Self-checkout counters abound, cars line up in drive-thrus, customers place orders online and select the no-contact delivery option. It’s easy, habitual even, to go about my day and not interact with another human. Everything is online, remote, at a distance. The convenience provides a certain allure: you don’t even have to get out of your car! Push a few buttons, and the groceries you need show up at your door! Don’t get me wrong: these options make life easier, especially for people juggling multiple roles, or on those days where it feels like there’s not enough time to get everything done. And yet, coming back from a culture in which life is so different, a sense of loneliness accompanies the convenience.
Morocco is the opposite: a country where many answers cannot be found on Google. Instead, ask the car guard or the owner of the local corner shop for directions. If a store doesn’t have something you need, they’ll direct you to someone else who does. Witness strangers become friends in train compartments, in the backseats of taxis. I’ve come to appreciate how normal it is to strike up a conversation with someone you’ve just met. People call each other khti or khuya, my sister or my brother, even when they’ve just met. There is, above anywhere else I’ve traveled or lived, a priority placed on human connection. Even if I made an active effort to avoid it, I don’t think I could get through my day without talking to someone.
After several years of solo traveling, I’m still wary of strangers approaching me. Often, I ignore people calling out to me when I’m in public. Other times, however, I pause to listen. A pair of photographers stop a friend and me in the park, ask if they can take our photos as part of an ongoing project. In the café where I attend a weekly writing workshop, other customers approach our table to ask what we’re doing. Some of them join our workshop the following week, becoming a part of the creative energy we kindle. A videographer and his assistant with a microphone stop me—with the same friend, in the same park, over a year later—to ask for an interview about Ramadan in Morocco. During Ramadan when the al-maghrib prayer calls from the mosques to break the fast, everybody seems to have something to eat, including people in the street, for whom neighbors have brought a plate of dates and bread.
In a world that feels increasingly divided, the beauty in the smallest of interactions I have here keeps me grounded. I have conversations that make my day with people whom I may never see again; I have formed friendships through chance in-person encounters. In a communal culture that prioritizes connection, I feel as if I am home: why would I be somewhere else when I can be here?
