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A cloud of dust swirled around the tour bus as it lurched to a stop. Coughing, I stepped out into the street amidst a sea of turbaned heads. Swept up in the rush of the anonymous mass, I was carried along like a single snowflake lost in the roar of an avalanche. As the churning crowd dissipated and individuals were swallowed up by darkened alleys, mysterious doorways, and shops thick with hashish smoke and the cloying aroma of incense, I found myself lost. Turning to retrace my steps, I stumbled, and nearly fell on top of her. She was perhaps ten years old, but her eyes spoke of years far beyond that. Her gaze pinned me to the street and I stared back, unable to look away. A mop of unkempt jet-black hair tangled with bits of leaves and grass framed her face, giving her a wild untamed appearance. Her clothes were soiled and ragged and her cheeks smudged with dirt. Obviously she slept outdoors and I wondered if she had a home or a family. She was sitting, sprawled sideways, on a simple wooden trolley. Her legs were twisted, bent into misshapen sticks, with the skin drawn taught over shriveled muscles, giving them the look of withered leaves. They would never support her weight and being unable to walk, she used her hands to push herself along the ground in her makeshift wagon. She held out a tiny unwashed hand to me demanding a Dirham, the local currency. This was Morocco, my new assignment, and it would be my home for the next year and a half. I reported to the U.S. Naval Communications Station, near the town of Sidi Yahia, a week ago and along with the other recent arrivals spent the first few days attending an indoctrination class to acquaint us with the life styles and customs of the Moroccans. It covered the basics, things like local history, what not to do in public, and what might be considered offensive by our hosts even though we saw nothing wrong with our actions. The class was informative, but fell short in a significant way. This was my first trip outside of the United States. From my studies in school, I thought that I was informed about the world and in particular about poverty, but I was innocent in the ways of the world. From reading the newspaper, I know that many people's lives are different from what I am accustomed to, but this little girl was someone I was unprepared for, and how she got there is my story. In the Atlas Mountain region of eastern Morocco, on the edge of the Sahara Dessert, live nomadic tribes called Berbers. They exist by trading goods such as handmade woolen carpets, tapestries, and beautiful leather bags and jackets. They also raise sheep and goats and the younger children help out by tending to the flock. At the end of each summer, much like our cattle drives of the 1800s, the animals are herded across the countryside to be sold at the souk, a marketplace, where all the Berbers come to trade, tell stories of the past year, and encourage young men to take wives. It is an exciting time filled with festivity and celebration, but also a time of sorrow, for soon they will conclude their business and return to the mountains for another year leaving friends and family behind. They live, as they have for a thousand years, in communal families. Birth control is unheard of and impractical; besides, having many children is beneficial, because they can help with the work. For a time, there is harmony. The work load is balanced by the group population, and the amount of food available to feed them. Then life changes, another baby is born, but now there is not enough food to go around. A solution is needed. After discussing their options, an agreement is reached and the child's legs are broken, crippling it for life. It is not cruel, but it is necessary. The child's fate is set and now it's responsibility to the family is to beg for money in the streets. Crippled children are more effective at soliciting money from strangers than children who are simply unwashed. I reached into my pocket and fumbling, grabbed several coins which I placed in the youngster's hand. Her fingers snapped shut like a trap, and the coins were quickly tucked into her dress and out of sight, keeping them safe from prying eyes. She had gotten what she wanted from me and now I was of no further use, so without a nod or a sound of thanks, she pushed her trolley around me and set off down the street searching for another rich tourist. I can still hear the trolley's rusty wheels squeaking as she vanished into the crowd. I am not sure how long I stood there, but I recall thinking that I could always go back to, "Little America", as we called the base, our refuge from these appalling conditions. A place where a comfortable room, hot showers, three meals a day, and a regular paycheck, were things that I took for granted, things that this girl would probably never know. I looked at my life and began to realize that many people in the world are not as fortunate as me. Here, now, in this country, I am in the minority. It touched me deeply to know that sometimes, you must do what is necessary and this little girl has forever changed the way I perceive the world.
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