Thanksgiving in Morocco

Thanksgiving looked a little different this year — okay, a lot different — but somehow it became one of the most memorable ones I’ve ever had.

There was no morning spent chopping vegetables in a familiar kitchen, no parade playing in the background, no rush to get the timing right on four different dishes. There wasn’t even the crisp Maine air that always seems to arrive just in time for the holiday. Instead, I found myself walking through Rabat in mild November weather, heading toward my language school for a Thanksgiving dinner that they had so generously — and enthusiastically — offered to host.

Roots Academy has become one of my anchors here, but that evening they outdid themselves.

I climbed the stairs to the rooftop terrace of my school, where the entire celebration had been set up under the open sky. The “kitchen” was outside too, tucked on one side of the terrace, and when I arrived, the smell of roasting vegetables and spices drifted across the evening air.

Slowly the room filled: friends, teachers, classmates, fellow Fulbrighters, their partners and kids, and even a few people I’d never met before. Strangers who soon didn’t feel like strangers at all. We piled our plates high, passed dishes around like we’d been doing it together for years, and told stories about how we usually spend the holiday.

English, Darija, French drifted around the table; the kind of warm chatter that makes you want to linger. We wrote what we were thankful for on a board — dozens of messages in multiple languages layered over each other. Gratitude in translation. A visual reminder that even far from home, community builds itself.

Celebrating an American holiday in a place where it isn’t part of the calendar somehow stripped away the expectations and left only the good parts: sharing food, sharing space, sharing gratitude. The simplicity of it made it feel more like Thanksgiving than some of the more traditional ones I’ve had.

I found myself looking around the room more than once, taking in the laughter, the mix of languages, the kids weaving between chairs, the teachers making sure everyone had enough to eat. And I felt something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing: that deep, steady sense of being held by community.

Living abroad can be disorienting in ways that sneak up on you — small holidays slip by unnoticed, traditions get left behind, and you don’t realize how much you miss them until something reminds you. This dinner was that reminder. Not of what I was missing, but of what I had found.

By the time we said our goodbyes and stepped back into the cool night, I knew this Thanksgiving would stay with me for a long time. It wasn’t traditional — but it was full of kindness, generosity, and genuine connection.

And honestly?

That feels like the heart of the holiday anyway.