a Couple Emails from Recent Times to Update on My Status:
December 6th.
i left fes two days ago. strange because i closed the intensive arabic and family-life chapter of my moroccan journey and have begun my slow, weaving trip back home-- up through the rif mountains along the mediterranean coast, next week to see the arab influence in spain, and finally, in 10 days, back over the pond to ill go. [I no longer feel like i am in morocco, at least not the morocco as morocco has come to mean to me (family, arabic, etc)]
but what does it all mean, and what is life, thought, complexity, or simplicity. why do i think in dualities and why cant i control my mind or my typing or anything for that matter? time rolls, time chills, and i let it ebb and flow. while the moon pulls the oceans, something pulls my clock. probably the mechanical insides, some would say, but isnt that just a human scientific explanantion for the much greater existence of one of the most baffling ideas that dominate our existence: time.
i am in chefchaouen right now. the city of blue. check it out. online or something maybe. it literally is all blue. painted that way by jews in the mid 1900s although before that it had always been green (islam). but this place was where jews and muslims together fleed from spain in the 1400s, and yet, christians were not allowed, ever, until very very recently. why? what is religion? what am i doing in this place?
life is beautiful.
thats what it all really comes down to.
sunsets here are simply incredible. i cannot get over it. cannot snap out of it.
December 10th
brief check in from algerciras in spain. arrived an hour or two ago after sailing (or rathering motoring) swiftly (or not) across the straits of gibralter, in a mere few hours. and yes, its only about 20 km from tangier to here but our ferry was massive, completely empty (probably about 4, perhaps 5 passengers other than us), and departed from the maghreb no less that 2 hours late. exited the ferry station here and were not harassed to jump into greatly overpriced taxis(coughmoroccocough). but our ferry ran so late we missed the train and all other transport to cordoba for the day, and will therefore stay in Hotel Marrakesh, run by an arabic speaking joker from tangier, for the night. departing early morning for cordoba, and will pack in what we can over the next two days, Mezquita and all.
there is so much to say and simply no time, and clearly thats nothing new... but i am picking up a few useful spanish phrases and finding the romance languages (french, too) fascinating despite all prior neglect of them as such... monsieur cody´s few additions to my scattered brain left years ago upon arrival in xian and i focused so much on darija in morocco that only today did i come to my senses and begin memorizing a few phrases in all sorts of languages. i was nervous about leaving morocco and still have not processed that i have indeed left, as i am still speaking arabic in this portside neighborhood on the mediterranean. soon enough, it will hit me im sure, and then i will revert back to memory and film, esp that of tangier fading away as we pulled out of port. meanwhile the excitement of the andalus has taken light and i am anxiously awaiting or journey northwards into the history of millenial (? by this i mean the time around the turn of the first century ad) morocco!
though tania aebi (sailed round the world a few years back) warned me about the threats of steamer channels across these straits, the death bowl of wind that is the atlantic, and some good old mediterranean pollution, i have my mind set on sailing back through these straits someday, hopefully in a 26 footer (or something of the likes), sail flying high.
Now.
Someone really did not want us to get to Cordoba. Yesterday´s early morning train ride was delightful and comfortable and beautiful, and then we missed the stop at Cordoba so went all the way to Madrid. And then all the way back. After missing a whole day of precious time, we are finally here. Spain is incredible, excuse the bad adjective.
The mezquita mosque was built at the height of Muslim rule in the Andalus in the 900s ad and is indescribable. In 1600 a church was built plop in the middle of the thing, so Mass was going on as I explored this most fabled and exotic Islamic masterwork. Cannot move on without mentioning the hundreds of red and white striped arches, though I have not yet been able to quite understand the likeness of them to date palms (Lonely Planet told me that hallucinogens would to the trick, but I think I'm alright, thanks). Eventually rose from sickness this morning (when i pondered some bedsprings), and caught a marvelous sunset from across the river tonight after checking out a statue of Maimonides--who is from Cordoba and then lived in Fes-- and the best preserved synagogue in all of Spain this afternoon.
I am thriving on my last few days on this side of the Atlantic. What else will I catch, see, think, do? Who knows. How wonderful!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Fly
My mind is going to explode. How do i get this all down on paper? How can i write feelings, record, emotions. My fingers try to fly, and in so doing stumble over themselves, pinky over thumb, half the speed of normal in all their angst. The angst of my mind. Life is beautiful, oh so beautiful! I want to scream it from mountains, from valleys and rivers and oceans and medinas and kasbahs and life! Life from life from, oh, my life! God? Who God, he God, she God, transcience, but its all so clear! I am flying flying flying flyingd lfinyinh flginye, fsdlkgjtsoifgjoir
Dig it! Dig this life, kid, dig! I can think. Can I think? How can i think? How can my mind process this. What is this? Who knows, who cares? How do i exist? Check it out, check out life. Dig dig dig man dig. Dig woman dig. Where did I come from? How were humans created? When did we begin to be able to speak? When write? How does this key board work? Look! When I hit a ´b´, a b shows up. Always. What is that process. Dig dig dig. A fever has got me and I cannot shake it. Where ever I am, whenever I am, I can still dig. When I run out of my energy, you ask? Well, I lie in bed, and dig the bedsprings. What metal are they made of? How are they shaped to maximum effiency? What is it like to sleep on a bed of straw? Why and when and where and what and and and
If I were dropped in the middle of empty space and time, say a jungle at the beginning of human existence, what would I know about how to make the world like it is now? Nothing! Metals and alloys, copper ages, technology? Automobiles? Teach me, learn, me, ask! Curiousity killed the cat, but no no no curiousity can´t kill me!
Dig it! Dig this life, kid, dig! I can think. Can I think? How can i think? How can my mind process this. What is this? Who knows, who cares? How do i exist? Check it out, check out life. Dig dig dig man dig. Dig woman dig. Where did I come from? How were humans created? When did we begin to be able to speak? When write? How does this key board work? Look! When I hit a ´b´, a b shows up. Always. What is that process. Dig dig dig. A fever has got me and I cannot shake it. Where ever I am, whenever I am, I can still dig. When I run out of my energy, you ask? Well, I lie in bed, and dig the bedsprings. What metal are they made of? How are they shaped to maximum effiency? What is it like to sleep on a bed of straw? Why and when and where and what and and and
If I were dropped in the middle of empty space and time, say a jungle at the beginning of human existence, what would I know about how to make the world like it is now? Nothing! Metals and alloys, copper ages, technology? Automobiles? Teach me, learn, me, ask! Curiousity killed the cat, but no no no curiousity can´t kill me!
A Month in Blog-Form
"Well, you know you make me wanna' (Shout) Kick my heels up and (Shout) Throw my hands up and (Shout) Throw my head back and (Shout) Come on now..." The soft rise and roll of the Middle Atlas blessed my eyes for miles on end. Brown and green hills spotted with shephards and sheep; autumn New England leaves in Switzerl-- Ifrane, that is: reds and yellows and pure bliss; forlorn tourist stands off-road attented by withering sun-swept men, jellaba-cloaked and tired. Nothing 'dramatic'. No sunset, no palmeries, no camels, no gorges, snake-charmers, or snow-capped peaks. No green mediterranean water, no "Rick's cafe", no awe-some kasbahs. Around a bend, and the first glimpse of white, sandstone, mud-straw buildings. SHOUT. The music pulsed and I pulsed with it. Alive, eyes drawn, heart pounding. Over a month ago, and yet my heart pulses again with mere recollection as I type. Return to Fes.
***
My Morocco is not a mystery, an exotic dream, Africa, an illusion. My Morocco is dusty. My Morocco is religious, medina streets (which may or may not be trash-spotted), traditional, boys in streets, cafes, talking to me while I pass by and pretend to be deaf. My Morocco is mint tea (the "unique" national drink that was, in fact, introduced by the British not so long ago) and fresh-squeezed orange juice, harira and tagines and coucous (ksk-ksu) fridays and shibekia. My Morocco is not flawless. My Morocco is the ElAamouri family, Bab Ziat, where prayer rugs come out five times daily as I ponder religion in my life and theirs. My Morocco is people fighting to survive, people surviving quite nicely, thank you, and the vast spectrum in between. My Morocco is darija and, to be frank, not french.
***
Nighttime, and I lie sprawled out in the saloon, blanket half over my legs, half over Ahmed's. Stuffed from fries, lemon chicken, and peach-lemon smoothie. Darija homework in my lap, English homework in his. Al Jazeera blabbers away.
--"She are going...?"
--"No, she is going."
--"Why?"
Words, "THE CORPORATION", flash on the screen in bold red letters, arabic underneath, and the american flag waves ominously in the backround.
~"shnu hadak brnammaj?" (what is that [tv] program?)
~"ma n3rf, shi haja 3la l'mirikan w Bush" (i don't know, something about america and bush)
~"iyea m3loum, welakin shnu akhor," (yea, of course, but what else)
From commercials back to the interview of an American Jewish lawyer defending the rights of Arabs in the States who have suffered in the wake of 9/11. My host mother and father pull me away from my books for half an hour to talk about jewish-muslim relations world wide and how many jews work side-by-side with arabs in america, morocco, globally. A similar conversation to the one I have nearly every night with them, each with a new dilemma or situation to contemplate. Israel/Palestine? Kosher/Hallal? Armies. Prayer. People.
***
I wander along remote and wind swept dirt roads lined by construction men and sparks, leaving early morning class at SACAL Fes. Across a large street, a beach is being built, apparently. There is no ocean or lake or body-of-water-suitable-for-a-beach in (very very inland)Fes. Strange? The sheep herd that lives on the first floor of the building next to SACAL grazes lazily amongst high-class complexes (moroccan suberbs, kind-of) that rise from the dust around me. I exchange "labas"s with the nike-suited shepherd, my friend. My mind wanders like my feet-- "helent?", no "helemt?" --as I stumble over new vocabulary and get confused with the word "I dreamed". After ten minutes, I arrive at the bus stop, where Moroccans stare at me like I arrived out of a space ship. Every day, the eyes. Foriegners don't take the bus.
***
Back from early morning class exhausted and hungry. Doorbell. "Shkun?" (Who?). Lauren. Wait a few moments. Door swings open suspiciously, revealing an empty hallway. Ahmed, I know you're there! But he isn't there, I realize after a few seconds of waiting stupidly on the doorstep for him to jump out. So I proceed towards the stairs and... "AH!" He jumps out, of course. Every single day. But I still scream, honestly surprised. Upstairs, food is cooking. I greet Fatima and ask permission to wash my clothes. "Only if I can help" she tells me, knowing that I will insist on doing it myself, but wishing to help my incompetant in-her-eyes self so that my clothes will actually end up cleaner than they already are. We run water. I scrub and scrub and then she tries to be sly in re-scrubbing everything that I finish with. Waste of time, you think? Not at all. Soap fights with Fatima and learning new vocabulary about sports-- this is her sport, and she is victorious, always. I stretch afterwards when my back aches while she laughs at me.
Up to the terrace to hang clothes. Other women are always on the terrace, it seems, hanging clothes and chatting. Today, a new woman is there, whom I greet despite her suspicious eyes (first time I encounter anything similar). She edges away from me and soon disappears indoors. She lives on the top, third, floor of our building. I find out that her husband "has a beard", Fatima says, "religious extremist", she says, "despises Americans", she enlightens me. "Has a problem in the head" Fatima tells me later. Interesting. Someone like me does not normally encouter someone like my upstairs neighbor. They do well at avoiding us. I wonder what a further encounter with her would be like? (only other attempts at such were with her husband who ignored me twice when greeted him with an "asalaam aleikum" when our paths crossed on the steps outside the building).
***
Zoom hours forward to nightime, sun has set and call to prayers have sounded. I sit reading homework in the saloon after having spent the afternoon with Fatima; we took a nap in the saloon (you have probably noticed that most of my time is spent here), I helped her begin dinner preparations, we drank tea (with her mint fresh from the north--none of the withered Fes stuff is allowed in the ElAamouri household), she told me a story about corrupt cops and her aunt, and now we relax with blankets around us. She watches the Moroccan cooking channel, I practice my vegetables.
Abderrahim arrives home from medrasa (school) around 6:30 where he teaches biology to high school students six to eight hours a day. Ahmed comes running upstairs soon after, throws his bags down and runs back out to play in the street. A high-ranked high school freshman, he has school 8-12 and 2-6 daily, with rotating subjects, from Quran to English, Science and Mathematics, Art, etc. Othman arrives home from vocational high school around 8pm where he spends his days learning tailor-ship and various handiman skills (his partial deafness is a problem in a country where the handicapped are rarely able to overcome anything other than unnoticeable dissabilities). We eat at 9.
***
I half-run after Fatima as we make our way uphill towards Bou Jeloud. Noone harasses me when I walk in her shadow. She struts proudly, head held high, shoes shined, no-bullshit expression stretched tightly across her face, eyes narrowed head on. If she walked into a brick wall, I´m pretty sure it would crumble to her sides. She would not be caught missing a step. And no, nothing special has happened, this is Fatima outside the home.
We are coming from making jellabas together. I see a camel head hanging from a post and almost step on a man´s chicken. Fatima pulls me to the right just in time. A man leans over his cart stirring a large vat of popping popcorn. I am warped back in time to a street around the corner from Xin Xin Jia Yuan in Xian where I bought near-daily bags of sweatened popcorn from my hunched over chinese popcorn seller three years ago. I am pulled out of nostalgia by the melody of Winds of Change, a song that I learned four years ago at Seeds of Peace, blasting from a little hanut. I have never, ever, heard that song anywhere else and have been futily searching for a copy of it for four years. Memories...
***
I stumble and fall over trying to put my enormous black backpack on and Fatima laughs at me while a tear drops down her face. Once back on my feet, I give her a few last hugs and kisses. She shoves a bucketful of her famous shibekia into my hands, for my mom in Boston, she says. Eight in the morning, Othman and Ahmed have left for school after Othman danced for me one last time, and Ahmed showed me a majic trick revealing a scarf that the family gave me as a going away present. The Fassian air is clear and crisp, the house smells of fresh hubs in the oven, and Abderrahim makes me promise I will be back. I strap my other back over my shoulder and waddle out the door and down the stairs with Fatima. She is crying a little harder now. I cannot remember the last time I cried. Tears drip down my face. As I walk away from the building, Fatima stands in the doorway waving; I am in a storybook. It all feels unreal. Three months. Morocco.
***
My Morocco is not a mystery, an exotic dream, Africa, an illusion. My Morocco is dusty. My Morocco is religious, medina streets (which may or may not be trash-spotted), traditional, boys in streets, cafes, talking to me while I pass by and pretend to be deaf. My Morocco is mint tea (the "unique" national drink that was, in fact, introduced by the British not so long ago) and fresh-squeezed orange juice, harira and tagines and coucous (ksk-ksu) fridays and shibekia. My Morocco is not flawless. My Morocco is the ElAamouri family, Bab Ziat, where prayer rugs come out five times daily as I ponder religion in my life and theirs. My Morocco is people fighting to survive, people surviving quite nicely, thank you, and the vast spectrum in between. My Morocco is darija and, to be frank, not french.
***
Nighttime, and I lie sprawled out in the saloon, blanket half over my legs, half over Ahmed's. Stuffed from fries, lemon chicken, and peach-lemon smoothie. Darija homework in my lap, English homework in his. Al Jazeera blabbers away.
--"She are going...?"
--"No, she is going."
--"Why?"
Words, "THE CORPORATION", flash on the screen in bold red letters, arabic underneath, and the american flag waves ominously in the backround.
~"shnu hadak brnammaj?" (what is that [tv] program?)
~"ma n3rf, shi haja 3la l'mirikan w Bush" (i don't know, something about america and bush)
~"iyea m3loum, welakin shnu akhor," (yea, of course, but what else)
From commercials back to the interview of an American Jewish lawyer defending the rights of Arabs in the States who have suffered in the wake of 9/11. My host mother and father pull me away from my books for half an hour to talk about jewish-muslim relations world wide and how many jews work side-by-side with arabs in america, morocco, globally. A similar conversation to the one I have nearly every night with them, each with a new dilemma or situation to contemplate. Israel/Palestine? Kosher/Hallal? Armies. Prayer. People.
***
I wander along remote and wind swept dirt roads lined by construction men and sparks, leaving early morning class at SACAL Fes. Across a large street, a beach is being built, apparently. There is no ocean or lake or body-of-water-suitable-for-a-beach in (very very inland)Fes. Strange? The sheep herd that lives on the first floor of the building next to SACAL grazes lazily amongst high-class complexes (moroccan suberbs, kind-of) that rise from the dust around me. I exchange "labas"s with the nike-suited shepherd, my friend. My mind wanders like my feet-- "helent?", no "helemt?" --as I stumble over new vocabulary and get confused with the word "I dreamed". After ten minutes, I arrive at the bus stop, where Moroccans stare at me like I arrived out of a space ship. Every day, the eyes. Foriegners don't take the bus.
***
Back from early morning class exhausted and hungry. Doorbell. "Shkun?" (Who?). Lauren. Wait a few moments. Door swings open suspiciously, revealing an empty hallway. Ahmed, I know you're there! But he isn't there, I realize after a few seconds of waiting stupidly on the doorstep for him to jump out. So I proceed towards the stairs and... "AH!" He jumps out, of course. Every single day. But I still scream, honestly surprised. Upstairs, food is cooking. I greet Fatima and ask permission to wash my clothes. "Only if I can help" she tells me, knowing that I will insist on doing it myself, but wishing to help my incompetant in-her-eyes self so that my clothes will actually end up cleaner than they already are. We run water. I scrub and scrub and then she tries to be sly in re-scrubbing everything that I finish with. Waste of time, you think? Not at all. Soap fights with Fatima and learning new vocabulary about sports-- this is her sport, and she is victorious, always. I stretch afterwards when my back aches while she laughs at me.
Up to the terrace to hang clothes. Other women are always on the terrace, it seems, hanging clothes and chatting. Today, a new woman is there, whom I greet despite her suspicious eyes (first time I encounter anything similar). She edges away from me and soon disappears indoors. She lives on the top, third, floor of our building. I find out that her husband "has a beard", Fatima says, "religious extremist", she says, "despises Americans", she enlightens me. "Has a problem in the head" Fatima tells me later. Interesting. Someone like me does not normally encouter someone like my upstairs neighbor. They do well at avoiding us. I wonder what a further encounter with her would be like? (only other attempts at such were with her husband who ignored me twice when greeted him with an "asalaam aleikum" when our paths crossed on the steps outside the building).
***
Zoom hours forward to nightime, sun has set and call to prayers have sounded. I sit reading homework in the saloon after having spent the afternoon with Fatima; we took a nap in the saloon (you have probably noticed that most of my time is spent here), I helped her begin dinner preparations, we drank tea (with her mint fresh from the north--none of the withered Fes stuff is allowed in the ElAamouri household), she told me a story about corrupt cops and her aunt, and now we relax with blankets around us. She watches the Moroccan cooking channel, I practice my vegetables.
Abderrahim arrives home from medrasa (school) around 6:30 where he teaches biology to high school students six to eight hours a day. Ahmed comes running upstairs soon after, throws his bags down and runs back out to play in the street. A high-ranked high school freshman, he has school 8-12 and 2-6 daily, with rotating subjects, from Quran to English, Science and Mathematics, Art, etc. Othman arrives home from vocational high school around 8pm where he spends his days learning tailor-ship and various handiman skills (his partial deafness is a problem in a country where the handicapped are rarely able to overcome anything other than unnoticeable dissabilities). We eat at 9.
***
I half-run after Fatima as we make our way uphill towards Bou Jeloud. Noone harasses me when I walk in her shadow. She struts proudly, head held high, shoes shined, no-bullshit expression stretched tightly across her face, eyes narrowed head on. If she walked into a brick wall, I´m pretty sure it would crumble to her sides. She would not be caught missing a step. And no, nothing special has happened, this is Fatima outside the home.
We are coming from making jellabas together. I see a camel head hanging from a post and almost step on a man´s chicken. Fatima pulls me to the right just in time. A man leans over his cart stirring a large vat of popping popcorn. I am warped back in time to a street around the corner from Xin Xin Jia Yuan in Xian where I bought near-daily bags of sweatened popcorn from my hunched over chinese popcorn seller three years ago. I am pulled out of nostalgia by the melody of Winds of Change, a song that I learned four years ago at Seeds of Peace, blasting from a little hanut. I have never, ever, heard that song anywhere else and have been futily searching for a copy of it for four years. Memories...
***
I stumble and fall over trying to put my enormous black backpack on and Fatima laughs at me while a tear drops down her face. Once back on my feet, I give her a few last hugs and kisses. She shoves a bucketful of her famous shibekia into my hands, for my mom in Boston, she says. Eight in the morning, Othman and Ahmed have left for school after Othman danced for me one last time, and Ahmed showed me a majic trick revealing a scarf that the family gave me as a going away present. The Fassian air is clear and crisp, the house smells of fresh hubs in the oven, and Abderrahim makes me promise I will be back. I strap my other back over my shoulder and waddle out the door and down the stairs with Fatima. She is crying a little harder now. I cannot remember the last time I cried. Tears drip down my face. As I walk away from the building, Fatima stands in the doorway waving; I am in a storybook. It all feels unreal. Three months. Morocco.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
An Ultimate Ramble
My internet cafe has two women in it today, a change of scenery. I am exhausted from early rising the past few days, but otherwise feeling better than I have in months; probably has something to do with the comfort and excitement of the aura in my homestay home. I don't feel articulate right now, especially in wake of the last blog I wrote, but in order to break the burden of that shadow, I am just going to type and see what rambling thoughts come out. Bear with me.
I realized the other day something incredibly disturbing in my thought process: I unconciously rolled my eyes at a Moroccan student I met when she said something about 'peace, love, and happiness'. Illogical and unrealistic, I thought. But what was illogical or unrealistic? I don't remember exactly what she said, but it was too broad to be pointedly incorrect. The goal at places like Seeds of Peace is to work with teenagers to 'develop the minds of leaders of the next generation', not because there is any time advantage in so doing (otherwise, why work with anyone but the current generation?), but because adults are 'close-minded', cut off to the possibilites of change. Am I becoming close minded? Am I now too tired of the realities of life to dream? What do these things mean, peace, love, and happiness? And what are antonyms for these things? What does it mean then to have an enemy?
There must be an enemy. The enemy is universal and timeless. The enemy exists if for no reason other than to unite against and reflect stray fear upon. With the magnificence of imagination and passion we turn micro issues macro. What unit will we lean on to protect us, or moreso, to reassure us?
The oldest unit was the family. Then the tribe. Religion was an umbrella that unified the peoples of vast geographical regions under one "brotherhood" so to speak. Napoleon's nation state enlarged the umbrella, transforming the unit. The identities and psyches of many people whom i have encountered worldwide are embedded with a dedication and love for "country". Nation states by principle do not necessitate shared faith or philosophy. They allow for diversity in the constituency of the unit. Or, at least, they intend to make room for diversity. We are, of course, battling to perfect the unification of races, religions, and ideals in the US, but ultimately, the nation state should supercede these divisions. Or should it? Is this goal legitimate? Is it bad that we group ourselves in units and thus automatically establish borders, divides? No matter how large the umbrella gets, will we ever get to the point where the walls between you and me will fall?
And then, what does this difference between religions and nation-states mean, if one allows for greater central power and diversity, and the other, less central power (when alone religion has no principle governing body) and even less diversity. In particular, what happens when there is no separation of the two, no separation of church and state? Can the principles of both (the religion and the state) be fulfilled if they are not separated? Can there be a true Republic, or democratic nation, when religion is a doctrine of the state? Khomeini's Iran suggests not. I struggle with the subject of Israel. Is Bush's 'christian right' a threat to our own constitution and livelihood?
The greatest philosophers struggled to determine human nature. Was I born a clean slate? Locke or Hobbes? Rousseau? Of the prominent revolutionary enlightenment philosphers that your average American school child is now supposed to learn about, who was correct? In the universal quest to define ourselves-- "Who am I?"-- we cannot help but to first resolve what it inherently means to be human. "Who am I?" means nothing without the context for where I come from or what I am comparing myself to. "Who am I?" as opposed to who are they or who are you? Through such comparison, one much identify differences, and in so doing, we create groups.
When creating groups we experience fear. It is natural, to fear what is different, to fear the unknown. Humans are not born eveil, Hobbes, nor flawless, Rousseau. Humans are born clean. Influenced by their surroundings, their environment. Influenced by their identities. And through identifying oneself, one must also identify others. One must build walls. Without walls, identity is meaningless. Who am I, if not a daughter, a sister, a Bostonian, an athlete, a thinker, an American, a Jew, a traveller, a musician-- each label summarizes qualities, philosophies, realities of me that make me unlike the other people sitting in this room, that make me unlike you. The walls that I have just created, through the simple act of telling you about me, cannot be bad, for without them, I would overflow and unwind into the inconcrete abyss of the world, my mind.
However, this brings up an interesting question: must I try to articulate my identity in words, or am I already defined in the simplicity of my existence? What is the worth of attempts to articulte me, to fabricate a response to "Who am I"? This is universal, after all, the desire to identify oneself through articulation: After all, through articulation of differences we know ourselves, can control ourselves. Humans are ever in need to gain control. To know what you think of me or how I come off. To judge myself and understand myself. An issue of control: can I define myself better than you define yourself (after all, colleges all over the states judged me against my peers in just this way--reading our answers to the prompt "Who am I?", sic--this past fall)? The more we analyze and think we understand, the more we thrive for said control; control over ourselves. Maybe God's greatest wonder, you could say, that as much as we articulate, as much control as we gain, parallel is the magnitude of a growing void, the void representing how much more there is to analyze and control.
A Greek gnosis reads: "Know thyself."
In the Gospels, we find, "the kingdom of heaven is within you."
In Islam, we are taught, "Whoso knoweth himself knoweth his Lord."
The list goes on, if we choose to look. All these prompts encourage us to search for our identities. (Schuon, Understanding Islam)
But perhaps this timeless and humble question, "Who am I?" has laid the pattern for power struggles throughout history. We begin to analyze, and receive in return some control. We yearn for more, and in the process of searching for a greater grasp on our identities, our questions develop and there is more to find. A question. An answer. A void. Another question. A circle? Why are all the most basic human realities so impossibly circular?
This eternal quest to determine "Who am I?" is magnificent in that we will forever be searching for greater and greater control, but just like we cannot define God, we will never define ourselves. Are these two impossibilities the same? We are, in fact, made in the image of God. Aren't we?
On that note, I am sick of French keyboards. My 'a' is a 'q', my 'z' is a 'w', I can no longer remember where the 'x' in America is, and I have to hold down shift to make a period at the end of every sentence. Over.
I realized the other day something incredibly disturbing in my thought process: I unconciously rolled my eyes at a Moroccan student I met when she said something about 'peace, love, and happiness'. Illogical and unrealistic, I thought. But what was illogical or unrealistic? I don't remember exactly what she said, but it was too broad to be pointedly incorrect. The goal at places like Seeds of Peace is to work with teenagers to 'develop the minds of leaders of the next generation', not because there is any time advantage in so doing (otherwise, why work with anyone but the current generation?), but because adults are 'close-minded', cut off to the possibilites of change. Am I becoming close minded? Am I now too tired of the realities of life to dream? What do these things mean, peace, love, and happiness? And what are antonyms for these things? What does it mean then to have an enemy?
There must be an enemy. The enemy is universal and timeless. The enemy exists if for no reason other than to unite against and reflect stray fear upon. With the magnificence of imagination and passion we turn micro issues macro. What unit will we lean on to protect us, or moreso, to reassure us?
The oldest unit was the family. Then the tribe. Religion was an umbrella that unified the peoples of vast geographical regions under one "brotherhood" so to speak. Napoleon's nation state enlarged the umbrella, transforming the unit. The identities and psyches of many people whom i have encountered worldwide are embedded with a dedication and love for "country". Nation states by principle do not necessitate shared faith or philosophy. They allow for diversity in the constituency of the unit. Or, at least, they intend to make room for diversity. We are, of course, battling to perfect the unification of races, religions, and ideals in the US, but ultimately, the nation state should supercede these divisions. Or should it? Is this goal legitimate? Is it bad that we group ourselves in units and thus automatically establish borders, divides? No matter how large the umbrella gets, will we ever get to the point where the walls between you and me will fall?
And then, what does this difference between religions and nation-states mean, if one allows for greater central power and diversity, and the other, less central power (when alone religion has no principle governing body) and even less diversity. In particular, what happens when there is no separation of the two, no separation of church and state? Can the principles of both (the religion and the state) be fulfilled if they are not separated? Can there be a true Republic, or democratic nation, when religion is a doctrine of the state? Khomeini's Iran suggests not. I struggle with the subject of Israel. Is Bush's 'christian right' a threat to our own constitution and livelihood?
The greatest philosophers struggled to determine human nature. Was I born a clean slate? Locke or Hobbes? Rousseau? Of the prominent revolutionary enlightenment philosphers that your average American school child is now supposed to learn about, who was correct? In the universal quest to define ourselves-- "Who am I?"-- we cannot help but to first resolve what it inherently means to be human. "Who am I?" means nothing without the context for where I come from or what I am comparing myself to. "Who am I?" as opposed to who are they or who are you? Through such comparison, one much identify differences, and in so doing, we create groups.
When creating groups we experience fear. It is natural, to fear what is different, to fear the unknown. Humans are not born eveil, Hobbes, nor flawless, Rousseau. Humans are born clean. Influenced by their surroundings, their environment. Influenced by their identities. And through identifying oneself, one must also identify others. One must build walls. Without walls, identity is meaningless. Who am I, if not a daughter, a sister, a Bostonian, an athlete, a thinker, an American, a Jew, a traveller, a musician-- each label summarizes qualities, philosophies, realities of me that make me unlike the other people sitting in this room, that make me unlike you. The walls that I have just created, through the simple act of telling you about me, cannot be bad, for without them, I would overflow and unwind into the inconcrete abyss of the world, my mind.
However, this brings up an interesting question: must I try to articulate my identity in words, or am I already defined in the simplicity of my existence? What is the worth of attempts to articulte me, to fabricate a response to "Who am I"? This is universal, after all, the desire to identify oneself through articulation: After all, through articulation of differences we know ourselves, can control ourselves. Humans are ever in need to gain control. To know what you think of me or how I come off. To judge myself and understand myself. An issue of control: can I define myself better than you define yourself (after all, colleges all over the states judged me against my peers in just this way--reading our answers to the prompt "Who am I?", sic--this past fall)? The more we analyze and think we understand, the more we thrive for said control; control over ourselves. Maybe God's greatest wonder, you could say, that as much as we articulate, as much control as we gain, parallel is the magnitude of a growing void, the void representing how much more there is to analyze and control.
A Greek gnosis reads: "Know thyself."
In the Gospels, we find, "the kingdom of heaven is within you."
In Islam, we are taught, "Whoso knoweth himself knoweth his Lord."
The list goes on, if we choose to look. All these prompts encourage us to search for our identities. (Schuon, Understanding Islam)
But perhaps this timeless and humble question, "Who am I?" has laid the pattern for power struggles throughout history. We begin to analyze, and receive in return some control. We yearn for more, and in the process of searching for a greater grasp on our identities, our questions develop and there is more to find. A question. An answer. A void. Another question. A circle? Why are all the most basic human realities so impossibly circular?
This eternal quest to determine "Who am I?" is magnificent in that we will forever be searching for greater and greater control, but just like we cannot define God, we will never define ourselves. Are these two impossibilities the same? We are, in fact, made in the image of God. Aren't we?
On that note, I am sick of French keyboards. My 'a' is a 'q', my 'z' is a 'w', I can no longer remember where the 'x' in America is, and I have to hold down shift to make a period at the end of every sentence. Over.
Crown Jewel
I regard language to be the crown jewel of a culture, written language the crown jewel of a civilization. Calligraphy is the practice of making language as beautiful to the eye as it is to the ear and the tongue, the combination of the three making the language especially beautiful to the human mind of the individual speaking/hearing/writing/reading it, and an adornment to the human civilization that created it.
Above is an excerpt from an email I recently recieved from my father. It touched me so much that I find it appropriate to share with you (dad I hope you don't mind), along with the following, which was my response to him--minorly edited, but otherwise verbatim-- and a very basic representation of the ideas that have occupied my mind of late. After all, a blog is intended to not only express what I am seeing and doing, but also, where my mind is.
[Context: I was speechless in response to my dad's email, esp the above excerpt]
"I should acknowlede that my inadequacy to articulate myself here stems directly from two circumstances. First is my general lack of proficiency in the english language, which I am henceforth determined to improve during my lifetime. What a fabulous and uncomparably admirable achievement, mastery of the art of articulation and clarity in speech. Sadly, though I could blame my current english deficiency on perhaps the boring nature of vocab quizzes in third grade or tiring nature of studying for SATs, there is no fact more revelaing of my current situation than that I simply have not, for whatever reasons, been bright enough realize how much I take the beauty of language for granted. Second, though I have begun to discover with fascination the importance of language to a civilization, the "crown jewel" as you so precisely and eloquently labeled it, your email came at a time when your beautiful articulation of the meaning of [particularly written] language was notably resonant.
"When doing my exercises for calligraphy class in my homestay family's living room last week, my family gathered around me, and while my host father borrowed my bamboo pen to show off his skills from Qu'ranic school and share with me the refinement of his written language, I noticed my host mother looking on anxiously. The words that bloomed from my host father's hand were spectacular. This culture is indelibly intertwined with a profound respect for calligraphic beauty, comparable in some ways to that of China. I have not before last week consciously recognized such a revealing factor connecting my attraction to the two languages that I have happened to become enthralled by, as their shared reverence for the art of the written word. In arabic, part of this reverence is irrevocably tied to the simple fact that arabic is the language and script of the Qu'ran, while in chinese, the symbolism of beauty in writing has been a significant piece of culture since the creation of the written tradition.
"After my host father spent a significant amount of time instructing and assisting me as i practiced for pages on end the art of the simple dot, that my calligraphy teacher spent four months developing before he was allowed to even attempt a letter (http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/11/calligraphy.html ), he left the room, and i was left with my host mother. I had written out the alphabet at the request of my host father so that he could ensure i knew every letter, even if not how to properly write them in calligraphy. She picked up my slightly skewed alphabet and began to try to pick out letters. The first one she recognized was
naturally "alif", also the first letter of the alphabet, of course. But from there, she tried to guess at a few letters, incorrectly, and it was then that I discovered her illiteracy. My host mother is brilliant. She has been my primary arabic teacher in my home, unequivocally patient and with an incredible sense of humor. She has begun to talk to me more about her life, and the other day gave me a breakdown of the impact of world-wide pollution, focusing on natural dangers in morocco surrounding the desperately low situation of water tables and exuberant gas emissions in all cities, now pushing outwards into the countryside (i would be amazed that i understood any of it, except that she has a way of using her hands and intonations to describe with crystal clarity things that i barely understand in english, never mind arabic). She has had no formal education. And yet, she is more knowledgable than nearly anyone I know, about everything from the intricacies of Pakistani politics, to the details of organizations that work to minimize cultural taboos surrounding people with birth defects (like cleft lips, for example) all over
Africa. Should i be surprised at her inability to read a children's story, never mind a newspaper?
"Since last week upon my discovery of her illiteracy, my host mother and I have worked together every night on learning the Arabic script. She has already memorized all of the letters and is writing them well, so now we are beginning to work on writing and reading words. Her ability to pick up the written language will most likely soon surpass mine, even though i have been working on it for months. I am amazed, and at the same time touched by this incredible opportunity. Her desire to learn and dedication to practice has given me an indescribable insight into the importance and beauty of langauge. She has desperately desired to learn for a long time, but has always been too embarrased and ashamed by her lack of such a "simple skill" that she has not seeked assistance. She describes how excited she is to master this script and be able to read the Qu'ran, which, though she knows by heart, has not had the opportunity to read. She lacks the ability to enjoy this essential part of her heritage, an adornment to the human civilization, her ancestors, that created it. And through her desires, she has begun to convey to me how incrediblly valuable my own language is to my identity, in all its intricacies, both written and spoken."
Above is an excerpt from an email I recently recieved from my father. It touched me so much that I find it appropriate to share with you (dad I hope you don't mind), along with the following, which was my response to him--minorly edited, but otherwise verbatim-- and a very basic representation of the ideas that have occupied my mind of late. After all, a blog is intended to not only express what I am seeing and doing, but also, where my mind is.
[Context: I was speechless in response to my dad's email, esp the above excerpt]
"I should acknowlede that my inadequacy to articulate myself here stems directly from two circumstances. First is my general lack of proficiency in the english language, which I am henceforth determined to improve during my lifetime. What a fabulous and uncomparably admirable achievement, mastery of the art of articulation and clarity in speech. Sadly, though I could blame my current english deficiency on perhaps the boring nature of vocab quizzes in third grade or tiring nature of studying for SATs, there is no fact more revelaing of my current situation than that I simply have not, for whatever reasons, been bright enough realize how much I take the beauty of language for granted. Second, though I have begun to discover with fascination the importance of language to a civilization, the "crown jewel" as you so precisely and eloquently labeled it, your email came at a time when your beautiful articulation of the meaning of [particularly written] language was notably resonant.
"When doing my exercises for calligraphy class in my homestay family's living room last week, my family gathered around me, and while my host father borrowed my bamboo pen to show off his skills from Qu'ranic school and share with me the refinement of his written language, I noticed my host mother looking on anxiously. The words that bloomed from my host father's hand were spectacular. This culture is indelibly intertwined with a profound respect for calligraphic beauty, comparable in some ways to that of China. I have not before last week consciously recognized such a revealing factor connecting my attraction to the two languages that I have happened to become enthralled by, as their shared reverence for the art of the written word. In arabic, part of this reverence is irrevocably tied to the simple fact that arabic is the language and script of the Qu'ran, while in chinese, the symbolism of beauty in writing has been a significant piece of culture since the creation of the written tradition.
"After my host father spent a significant amount of time instructing and assisting me as i practiced for pages on end the art of the simple dot, that my calligraphy teacher spent four months developing before he was allowed to even attempt a letter (http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/11/calligraphy.html ), he left the room, and i was left with my host mother. I had written out the alphabet at the request of my host father so that he could ensure i knew every letter, even if not how to properly write them in calligraphy. She picked up my slightly skewed alphabet and began to try to pick out letters. The first one she recognized was
naturally "alif", also the first letter of the alphabet, of course. But from there, she tried to guess at a few letters, incorrectly, and it was then that I discovered her illiteracy. My host mother is brilliant. She has been my primary arabic teacher in my home, unequivocally patient and with an incredible sense of humor. She has begun to talk to me more about her life, and the other day gave me a breakdown of the impact of world-wide pollution, focusing on natural dangers in morocco surrounding the desperately low situation of water tables and exuberant gas emissions in all cities, now pushing outwards into the countryside (i would be amazed that i understood any of it, except that she has a way of using her hands and intonations to describe with crystal clarity things that i barely understand in english, never mind arabic). She has had no formal education. And yet, she is more knowledgable than nearly anyone I know, about everything from the intricacies of Pakistani politics, to the details of organizations that work to minimize cultural taboos surrounding people with birth defects (like cleft lips, for example) all over
Africa. Should i be surprised at her inability to read a children's story, never mind a newspaper?
"Since last week upon my discovery of her illiteracy, my host mother and I have worked together every night on learning the Arabic script. She has already memorized all of the letters and is writing them well, so now we are beginning to work on writing and reading words. Her ability to pick up the written language will most likely soon surpass mine, even though i have been working on it for months. I am amazed, and at the same time touched by this incredible opportunity. Her desire to learn and dedication to practice has given me an indescribable insight into the importance and beauty of langauge. She has desperately desired to learn for a long time, but has always been too embarrased and ashamed by her lack of such a "simple skill" that she has not seeked assistance. She describes how excited she is to master this script and be able to read the Qu'ran, which, though she knows by heart, has not had the opportunity to read. She lacks the ability to enjoy this essential part of her heritage, an adornment to the human civilization, her ancestors, that created it. And through her desires, she has begun to convey to me how incrediblly valuable my own language is to my identity, in all its intricacies, both written and spoken."
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Home, Sweet Home!!!!! (kind of, of course)
I find myself back home in my dimly lit internet cafe in Fes, the strange American girl in the back right corner, a veritable attraction to the 12 by 12 room containing rough home made computer desks and keyboard trays and many Moroccan boys, everpresent at their perches, two to a computer, always here though faces sometimes change. This blog is a reproduction of the one that I just lost due to a computer freeze, at which point I made eye contact with the 'moul dyal cyber' (king of computers in this little enterprise), who eithed rolled his eyes at me or grinned (he threw his head back in a way that made his facial expression oddly hard to read). He eventually squeezed his way back to my corner and diagnosed after a few minutes that my computer was frozen and I should use another one. Helpful. So I pointed to my open notebook and told him I had just typed everything that was splayed out in front of me, wasn't there anything he could do? He said, 'no problem' and walked away.
So now I sit at the adjacent computer, still in my back right corner. The sun has set and the call to prayer just sounded, and I can hear the boys of the night that contributed to the mass exodus outdoors at sunset to take over alleyways across the medina with games of soccer.
I have been in Fes for a week now, and have avoided computers completely, because I simply have no time. I am currently running an hour late for dinner. However, for a brief update: I miraculously ended up back with my homestay family and could not be happier to be here with them in Fes! I have organized an individualized Arabic program to cram in as much as possible before departure in two weeks and thus far have found it rewarding beyond imagination; I am working with two teachers for many hours daily, Fatima Zohra and Hisham, whom I will elaborate more on later. Other than class and spending extraordinary amounts of time with my host family, I can be found with Lamia, Kempie, Alexis, and Ellie, working on calligraphy, woodcarving, or playing at an orphanage.
At this point, the most useful thing I can think to do is provide for you definitions of the major characters in my Moroccan scene, both old and new, that I have not had a chance thus far to tell you about:
Kempie (kem"pi) n. 3dis (translation: lentils); What is Kempie? Picture a blond haired yound woman in a teal hoody and yoga pants, most likely, camera over shoulder, with a laid back attitude--"everything's natural", I should say-- overlying a sharp mind, that combine in the form of one of my site leaders. She plans a lot, drinks coca cola more, and I'm still trying to grasp a linear understanding of the places in which she has lived (think Indonesia, India, Spain, Micronesia, Morocco of course, etc).
Warning: It may take dire measures to control Kempie's laughter if she hears the word "exciting".
Lamia (lā'mē-ə) n? Picture a half-Moroccan, half-exoticAmerican (born and raised between the southwest and Alaska--would you agree on the use of the word 'exotic'?) who loves her pigtails and can be found in any crowd due to her favorite neon orange Moroccan blouse. Ready to try anything, she has a stomach of steal, and brings her French and knowledge of development--after nine months of masters work in Bangladesh-- to the table as my other site leader; will argue to the death that Moroccan food is so healthy that it will make you live to an average of 95.
Warning: Be prepared for mass ruckus if you engage Lamia in a game of cards.
Alexis (uh-lek-sis) n. Check it out: a philosophizer, choclatizer, calligrapher, artist, thinker, writer, poet, reader, French speaker, she is a native of DC and the person to contact if you know anyone from the chesapeake region (she will please you with her excitement whether she knows them or not). Witty and eager to learn, she has dug her teeth into l'magreb and is pulling out everything she can find, from Lahsen's (on the scarier side) to wedding showers (picture a tall zuin american girl breaking it down on the Moroccan dancefloor).
Warning: Beware if you sing Cat Stevens to Alexis, she will swoon over you for the rest of your life, even if you are a squat, bald, crosseyed Moroccan man (sorry Joey, Hamidou's captured your girl's heart).
Ellie (sal-muh-nel-uh) n. Did someone say Texas? The first female boyscout I have been so profoundly priveleged to meet--upon inquiry she may even make a fire or offer you some twine-- she devours books like no other. Some think she's Moroccan, others Brazilian (though her true roots lie in Mexico), and although she definitely loves a dos-ee-do (sp?) at a good ol' Rodeo, she's found a passion in the pursuit of education about moroccan politics and the Mudawanna (and maybe a scoop of gelato here and there).
Warning: Being the prepared boyscout that she is, Tex may pull her ready-to-go Swiss army knife on you (me) and pretend to be villainous... and then proceed to lie to everyone else about it. Don't trust that sweet facade (she will undoubtedly seem like one of the sweetest people you've ever met).
Fatima Zohra (fah-ti-muh zawr-uh) n. Picture a young, smartly outfitted Moroccan woman with emaculate English and pristine organizational skills who runs SACAl Fez. She generously spends her time with a dimwit (yours truly), brilliantly encouraging me to always work harder, learn faster, and rewarding me occasionally with a "bravo, 3lik" here and there.
Warning: None.
Hisham (hee-sham) n. Ironic and sarcastic young Fassian; tall, slender, and always wearing slacks, a button-up, and shiny shoes. Heads up, he will undoubtedly seem like he is on the attack, only to turn around and congratulate you on your pathetic attempt to speak his language. Doesn't understand that the acoustics of our classroom make his mumbling impossible to understand, though probably all for the better given how much easier I now find talking to anyone else. Knowledgable; proof: explained to my disbelief that the huge sheep heard that I see grazing in the streets of Fes every morning, with shephard in a nike sweatsuit, lives in the basement of the building next to SACAL.
Anti-Warning?: Don't worry if he invites you to dinner, he has a wife and kids and is not creepy (more than I can say of the many men who have proposed to me and every other foriegn woman they see).
Ouadi (wah-dee) n. Fully covered undergrad at university in Fes, my friend and teacher of everything Moroccan, she bears with me through my problemùs speaking darija. Encouraging, beautiful handwriting, quick to help or correct. Pastimes including gazing at the stars, studying, studying, studying and did I mention studying?
Warning: She is dedicated to her studies (who would have guessed) so if you happen to be her ex-British fiance, note that she refuses to stay inside for the rest of her life (if you aren't sure even though she broke of your marriage the other week)
Toufiq (tu-fik) n. Free wheeling, strong and lean driver from our trip south. Imparted friendship and humor despite my absurd complaints that i was sick because of xubs (bread). Gave me oregano to make me feel better and did not complain once about our blaring music, from Marrakesh to Essaouira to Oarzazate to Tinehir to the Todra Gorge to the Saharan sunsets at Merzouga to Midelt to Fes. I gave him a Red Sox key chain when we siad goodbye and he looked confused, rightfully so (who are the Red Sox, why are you giving me a key chain, what is wrong with you, are you crazy), but politely thanked me anyways.
Note: If you have a preposterous amount of luggage and must resort to tieing it to the roof of your car, holler at Toufiq.
I know, I have some work to do before any dictionary accepts these entries, but hey, I tried. Even though 'My Heart Will Go On' is blasting from every corner of my internet cafe and the boys next to me are putting on quite a show with their humming to it, I think I must head back for dinner to relieve my host mom of her worries. Hope all is well in your corner of earth.
lauren
So now I sit at the adjacent computer, still in my back right corner. The sun has set and the call to prayer just sounded, and I can hear the boys of the night that contributed to the mass exodus outdoors at sunset to take over alleyways across the medina with games of soccer.
I have been in Fes for a week now, and have avoided computers completely, because I simply have no time. I am currently running an hour late for dinner. However, for a brief update: I miraculously ended up back with my homestay family and could not be happier to be here with them in Fes! I have organized an individualized Arabic program to cram in as much as possible before departure in two weeks and thus far have found it rewarding beyond imagination; I am working with two teachers for many hours daily, Fatima Zohra and Hisham, whom I will elaborate more on later. Other than class and spending extraordinary amounts of time with my host family, I can be found with Lamia, Kempie, Alexis, and Ellie, working on calligraphy, woodcarving, or playing at an orphanage.
At this point, the most useful thing I can think to do is provide for you definitions of the major characters in my Moroccan scene, both old and new, that I have not had a chance thus far to tell you about:
Kempie (kem"pi) n. 3dis (translation: lentils); What is Kempie? Picture a blond haired yound woman in a teal hoody and yoga pants, most likely, camera over shoulder, with a laid back attitude--"everything's natural", I should say-- overlying a sharp mind, that combine in the form of one of my site leaders. She plans a lot, drinks coca cola more, and I'm still trying to grasp a linear understanding of the places in which she has lived (think Indonesia, India, Spain, Micronesia, Morocco of course, etc).
Warning: It may take dire measures to control Kempie's laughter if she hears the word "exciting".
Lamia (lā'mē-ə) n? Picture a half-Moroccan, half-exoticAmerican (born and raised between the southwest and Alaska--would you agree on the use of the word 'exotic'?) who loves her pigtails and can be found in any crowd due to her favorite neon orange Moroccan blouse. Ready to try anything, she has a stomach of steal, and brings her French and knowledge of development--after nine months of masters work in Bangladesh-- to the table as my other site leader; will argue to the death that Moroccan food is so healthy that it will make you live to an average of 95.
Warning: Be prepared for mass ruckus if you engage Lamia in a game of cards.
Alexis (uh-lek-sis) n. Check it out: a philosophizer, choclatizer, calligrapher, artist, thinker, writer, poet, reader, French speaker, she is a native of DC and the person to contact if you know anyone from the chesapeake region (she will please you with her excitement whether she knows them or not). Witty and eager to learn, she has dug her teeth into l'magreb and is pulling out everything she can find, from Lahsen's (on the scarier side) to wedding showers (picture a tall zuin american girl breaking it down on the Moroccan dancefloor).
Warning: Beware if you sing Cat Stevens to Alexis, she will swoon over you for the rest of your life, even if you are a squat, bald, crosseyed Moroccan man (sorry Joey, Hamidou's captured your girl's heart).
Ellie (sal-muh-nel-uh) n. Did someone say Texas? The first female boyscout I have been so profoundly priveleged to meet--upon inquiry she may even make a fire or offer you some twine-- she devours books like no other. Some think she's Moroccan, others Brazilian (though her true roots lie in Mexico), and although she definitely loves a dos-ee-do (sp?) at a good ol' Rodeo, she's found a passion in the pursuit of education about moroccan politics and the Mudawanna (and maybe a scoop of gelato here and there).
Warning: Being the prepared boyscout that she is, Tex may pull her ready-to-go Swiss army knife on you (me) and pretend to be villainous... and then proceed to lie to everyone else about it. Don't trust that sweet facade (she will undoubtedly seem like one of the sweetest people you've ever met).
Fatima Zohra (fah-ti-muh zawr-uh) n. Picture a young, smartly outfitted Moroccan woman with emaculate English and pristine organizational skills who runs SACAl Fez. She generously spends her time with a dimwit (yours truly), brilliantly encouraging me to always work harder, learn faster, and rewarding me occasionally with a "bravo, 3lik" here and there.
Warning: None.
Hisham (hee-sham) n. Ironic and sarcastic young Fassian; tall, slender, and always wearing slacks, a button-up, and shiny shoes. Heads up, he will undoubtedly seem like he is on the attack, only to turn around and congratulate you on your pathetic attempt to speak his language. Doesn't understand that the acoustics of our classroom make his mumbling impossible to understand, though probably all for the better given how much easier I now find talking to anyone else. Knowledgable; proof: explained to my disbelief that the huge sheep heard that I see grazing in the streets of Fes every morning, with shephard in a nike sweatsuit, lives in the basement of the building next to SACAL.
Anti-Warning?: Don't worry if he invites you to dinner, he has a wife and kids and is not creepy (more than I can say of the many men who have proposed to me and every other foriegn woman they see).
Ouadi (wah-dee) n. Fully covered undergrad at university in Fes, my friend and teacher of everything Moroccan, she bears with me through my problemùs speaking darija. Encouraging, beautiful handwriting, quick to help or correct. Pastimes including gazing at the stars, studying, studying, studying and did I mention studying?
Warning: She is dedicated to her studies (who would have guessed) so if you happen to be her ex-British fiance, note that she refuses to stay inside for the rest of her life (if you aren't sure even though she broke of your marriage the other week)
Toufiq (tu-fik) n. Free wheeling, strong and lean driver from our trip south. Imparted friendship and humor despite my absurd complaints that i was sick because of xubs (bread). Gave me oregano to make me feel better and did not complain once about our blaring music, from Marrakesh to Essaouira to Oarzazate to Tinehir to the Todra Gorge to the Saharan sunsets at Merzouga to Midelt to Fes. I gave him a Red Sox key chain when we siad goodbye and he looked confused, rightfully so (who are the Red Sox, why are you giving me a key chain, what is wrong with you, are you crazy), but politely thanked me anyways.
Note: If you have a preposterous amount of luggage and must resort to tieing it to the roof of your car, holler at Toufiq.
I know, I have some work to do before any dictionary accepts these entries, but hey, I tried. Even though 'My Heart Will Go On' is blasting from every corner of my internet cafe and the boys next to me are putting on quite a show with their humming to it, I think I must head back for dinner to relieve my host mom of her worries. Hope all is well in your corner of earth.
lauren
Friday, November 2, 2007
"The routines of one's life create the illusion of stability" --Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran
I have not had a long-term, consistant routine for about a year: since last Decmber to be exact, since mono diagnosis. The recent past seems translucent and liquid in nature. In fact, vibrant and unusual memories color the past year magnificently, especially since June: from Seeds of Peace to South East Asia and now here I am in Morocco. But as I think back to the bigger picture, everything at once, without recalling specific events-- like conversing with Zalmay Khalilzad (US Ambassador to the UN and big fat evil old fiend), capoeira at sunset, puttering through the Tamanegara rainforest, navigating the streets of Bangkok or Singapore, uncovering the history at Angkor Wat, discovering shibekia, living at Bab Ziat, travelling under and over mountains in the High Atlas, eating at Rashida's, digging into Moroccan Arabic in all its glory-- as I think back over it all without conjuring specific events, I feel displaced, uprooted, incoherent in space and in time.
Perhaps this has something to do with the speed of it all. Life has caught me in a white water current and I am doing all I can to paddle against it (or with it?) to keep myself from capsizing, and maybe ever make some progress in the process. I feel like a Moroccan flying through the Fes medina on a moped, swirving and honking to avoid a collision, wind in my face, thoughts ablur in the motion and noise. The medina, that labyrinth, is endless in all its crooks and crevices. Will I crash or keep on flying? Will I ever stop? Time flies and I have no way to stop it, nor any way to push it on. Beginning to end, middle in between, but as soon as I mention the present it is already the past. The future will be the future until it becomes the now. But that now is now the past. How do I capture ny of it from my moped? Couldn't tell you actually, I'm not allowed to ride a moped, liability issue. Guess I'll have to stick to my swivel chair.
I have not had a long-term, consistant routine for about a year: since last Decmber to be exact, since mono diagnosis. The recent past seems translucent and liquid in nature. In fact, vibrant and unusual memories color the past year magnificently, especially since June: from Seeds of Peace to South East Asia and now here I am in Morocco. But as I think back to the bigger picture, everything at once, without recalling specific events-- like conversing with Zalmay Khalilzad (US Ambassador to the UN and big fat evil old fiend), capoeira at sunset, puttering through the Tamanegara rainforest, navigating the streets of Bangkok or Singapore, uncovering the history at Angkor Wat, discovering shibekia, living at Bab Ziat, travelling under and over mountains in the High Atlas, eating at Rashida's, digging into Moroccan Arabic in all its glory-- as I think back over it all without conjuring specific events, I feel displaced, uprooted, incoherent in space and in time.
Perhaps this has something to do with the speed of it all. Life has caught me in a white water current and I am doing all I can to paddle against it (or with it?) to keep myself from capsizing, and maybe ever make some progress in the process. I feel like a Moroccan flying through the Fes medina on a moped, swirving and honking to avoid a collision, wind in my face, thoughts ablur in the motion and noise. The medina, that labyrinth, is endless in all its crooks and crevices. Will I crash or keep on flying? Will I ever stop? Time flies and I have no way to stop it, nor any way to push it on. Beginning to end, middle in between, but as soon as I mention the present it is already the past. The future will be the future until it becomes the now. But that now is now the past. How do I capture ny of it from my moped? Couldn't tell you actually, I'm not allowed to ride a moped, liability issue. Guess I'll have to stick to my swivel chair.
South south south
Driving through snow-capped mountains to desert, past muddy rivers or clear rivers, take your pick, cacti and date palms, as thunder storms collide with sun sorms, a crystal clear ying yang in the sky; greens and reds or yellosws and dust: but then there was that one village surrounded by every color. Where am I?
Driving to the beats of Dave Matthews and K-Os, to Digable Planets and Morsheeba, throw in some Third Eye Blind and some Cannonball Adderley, merge into Talib and take a sharp right towards the hardest core jazz as each IPod takes a spin, a song or two or three. Our driver is very sick of our music, no doubt, but too polite to say a word, so the Beatles keep on jammin.
We drove for hours and hours on that "100 km" trip from Marrakesh to Ait Benhadou: from central Morocco south east into the land on the edge of the Dades Valley. Definitely not 100 km. But I loved it. As we drove, I forged memories and connections, music to landscape: oddly or not, the relationship-- between music and memory-- is incomparably foreboding for me. I don't remember nearly as much of the sights from Xi'an to Chengdu three years ago as the Two Points for Honesty that carried me rythmically along on my overnight train. Music may in fact be reflection of self, maybe reflection for self, Mr. Mathers.
We arrived at Ait Benhadou around 4pm. Due to the rain storm, unexpectedly freezing weather (I have been perpetually cold every night since arrival in the south, I am not mentally prepared for such shivering conditions, and am now scared to death to return for Boston winter if I am this cold in October/November in Morocco) and insupressable exhaustion that consumed me, despite a day of doing nothing but sitting on my butt in a car, we went to our hotel and spent the night there. A miniscule town, Ait Benhadou consists of one main road along which I noted a few local supply shops, a hanut, a large lopsided hand-painted sign for a resteraunt offering "Berber dining"(illustrated by a picture of a Mexican-looking old man staring intently at a tagine), and small homes large enough only to partially conceal the literally unbelievable gem that the road runs next to: the Kasbah at Ait Benhadou, dare I say the best preserved and most magnificent kasbah in all of Morocco. For a quick vocab reminder, a kasbah is essentially a fortified palace or castle in North Africa. This past week, our itinerary has entailed exploring the ins and outs of Morocco's "kasbah and oasis country" from Ait Benhadou along the road of 1000 kasbahs to Ouarzazate and Skoura, and from there on to Tinehir and the Todra Gorge (from where I now write to you).
Anyways, back to Ait Benhadou, the morning after arrival we awoke around 6:30 am to throw down a quick Moroccan breakfast of hubs (bread) and jam/butter/honey (identical to my breakfast every morning for the past month and a half) before heading across the main road to the kasbah. Lit up by the rising sun, a breathtaking sight beheld us, and in lieu of descriptions I will try to find a picture to post here soon.
Running out of time, as always.
Lauren
Driving to the beats of Dave Matthews and K-Os, to Digable Planets and Morsheeba, throw in some Third Eye Blind and some Cannonball Adderley, merge into Talib and take a sharp right towards the hardest core jazz as each IPod takes a spin, a song or two or three. Our driver is very sick of our music, no doubt, but too polite to say a word, so the Beatles keep on jammin.
We drove for hours and hours on that "100 km" trip from Marrakesh to Ait Benhadou: from central Morocco south east into the land on the edge of the Dades Valley. Definitely not 100 km. But I loved it. As we drove, I forged memories and connections, music to landscape: oddly or not, the relationship-- between music and memory-- is incomparably foreboding for me. I don't remember nearly as much of the sights from Xi'an to Chengdu three years ago as the Two Points for Honesty that carried me rythmically along on my overnight train. Music may in fact be reflection of self, maybe reflection for self, Mr. Mathers.
We arrived at Ait Benhadou around 4pm. Due to the rain storm, unexpectedly freezing weather (I have been perpetually cold every night since arrival in the south, I am not mentally prepared for such shivering conditions, and am now scared to death to return for Boston winter if I am this cold in October/November in Morocco) and insupressable exhaustion that consumed me, despite a day of doing nothing but sitting on my butt in a car, we went to our hotel and spent the night there. A miniscule town, Ait Benhadou consists of one main road along which I noted a few local supply shops, a hanut, a large lopsided hand-painted sign for a resteraunt offering "Berber dining"(illustrated by a picture of a Mexican-looking old man staring intently at a tagine), and small homes large enough only to partially conceal the literally unbelievable gem that the road runs next to: the Kasbah at Ait Benhadou, dare I say the best preserved and most magnificent kasbah in all of Morocco. For a quick vocab reminder, a kasbah is essentially a fortified palace or castle in North Africa. This past week, our itinerary has entailed exploring the ins and outs of Morocco's "kasbah and oasis country" from Ait Benhadou along the road of 1000 kasbahs to Ouarzazate and Skoura, and from there on to Tinehir and the Todra Gorge (from where I now write to you).
Anyways, back to Ait Benhadou, the morning after arrival we awoke around 6:30 am to throw down a quick Moroccan breakfast of hubs (bread) and jam/butter/honey (identical to my breakfast every morning for the past month and a half) before heading across the main road to the kasbah. Lit up by the rising sun, a breathtaking sight beheld us, and in lieu of descriptions I will try to find a picture to post here soon.
Running out of time, as always.
Lauren
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Circles
Children encourage us to preserve our world for the future and thus we act properly now. We try to stop global warming not because it will be the cause of our deaths during our generation, but because it could perhaps affect more immediately the lives of my son, your daughter, his grandchild, their great-grandchildren. It is an attestment to the nature of living animals, one could say, an attestment to the maturity of the human brain, that we have the forsight to protect the future of our race, most directly through the preservation of our own offspring. Through our offspring, we each have an individual stake in our own future. Continued stake in said future through familial ties is what makes our own actions timeless, forever important and significant, and also, forever repeating in the passing down of knowledge, ways of life, and human nature, generation upon generation.
Nietzsche theorized about eternal return, that is, the propostion that the universe has been recurring, and will continue to recur in a similar form, an infinite number of times. Eternal return must be the nature of our world: without the recurring nature of time, we would be insignificant, left to exist in this time and only this time, and essentially, time would stop: our actions lose weight in light of their static quality. However, as opposed to Nietzsche's propostion that time is constantly hanging, not linear at all but rather constantly in motion, the same events lapping and overlapping, I would offer that time recurs as we develop, our spirits actually forever floating from grandfather to mother to child, actions recurring, with an elusion that we each possess a static, individual, nature: through this static quality, we are encouraged to "do something meaningful" during the short period of each and every single human life.
This idea is elusive. If my actions during this life are continued through the generations following me, and if my actions now are really only a continuation of those of my ancestors, are my actions in the here and now still meaningful or unique? They must be. In fact, I have even more incentive to work hard, set goals, and accomplish those goals. I have more incentive to dream big and see where my dreams take me. I will make my children's lives better and more productive if I push myself, and I am making my ancestors lives worthwhile, all suffering and hard work included, through bringing anything that they either dreamed, or did not have the capacity to dream, into fruition. Heaviness in my life, the essence of what makes my existence worthwhile, lies in my desire to work hard for the future and preserve the past. Lightness lies in the desire to live in the now and enjoy life for what it is. A balance of the two is what gives the past, present, and future an infinite amount of meaning.
In essence, as the circle of life continues, so does Nietzsche's circular time.
Nietzsche theorized about eternal return, that is, the propostion that the universe has been recurring, and will continue to recur in a similar form, an infinite number of times. Eternal return must be the nature of our world: without the recurring nature of time, we would be insignificant, left to exist in this time and only this time, and essentially, time would stop: our actions lose weight in light of their static quality. However, as opposed to Nietzsche's propostion that time is constantly hanging, not linear at all but rather constantly in motion, the same events lapping and overlapping, I would offer that time recurs as we develop, our spirits actually forever floating from grandfather to mother to child, actions recurring, with an elusion that we each possess a static, individual, nature: through this static quality, we are encouraged to "do something meaningful" during the short period of each and every single human life.
This idea is elusive. If my actions during this life are continued through the generations following me, and if my actions now are really only a continuation of those of my ancestors, are my actions in the here and now still meaningful or unique? They must be. In fact, I have even more incentive to work hard, set goals, and accomplish those goals. I have more incentive to dream big and see where my dreams take me. I will make my children's lives better and more productive if I push myself, and I am making my ancestors lives worthwhile, all suffering and hard work included, through bringing anything that they either dreamed, or did not have the capacity to dream, into fruition. Heaviness in my life, the essence of what makes my existence worthwhile, lies in my desire to work hard for the future and preserve the past. Lightness lies in the desire to live in the now and enjoy life for what it is. A balance of the two is what gives the past, present, and future an infinite amount of meaning.
In essence, as the circle of life continues, so does Nietzsche's circular time.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Marrakesh: Swedes and Rashida
What do you think of when you hear 'Sweden'? I think of fire-engine red hair. Bright green eyes. I think eccentric. I think sharp and strict and connected and international and compassionate (as long as I do not say the wrong thing, step the wrong way, send the wrong message). I think multilingual. I think Academia Arabesca. Whatever that means. I think camel dances and dress-up. I think remembering Arabic script by way of crazy hip dips and steps, and sounds that remind me of deranged animals. I think an utterly breath-taking riad, ten percent of an old Moroccan palace. Decorated with gardens, tilework, plasterwork, calligraphy galore. I think bargainer. I think 20 years old--but actually 65--who knew? I think sharp piercing voice. I think Moroccan holler, made by moving one's tongue back and forth impossibly fast and screaming at the top of one's lungs (I hear it calling me to every meal). I think Gita Sellman, my Swedish guide and host and teacher in Marrakesh.
Marrakesh has become everyone in my group's favorite Moroccan city. Except for me--my allegiance stands strong in Fes. But Marrakesh is undoubtably up there on my list. Built for use as the capital of the Almoravid dynasty in the eleventh century AD and subsequently capital of the Almohad and later Saadian dynasties, Marrakesh has reached another golden age in the twenty first century. Rooted by the infamous Djemaa el Fna at dead center of the old medina, it is a city of irrepressable pulsing life, beating drums, packed souks, fresh orange juice stalls, and questionably safety-threatening motorcycles speeding through tiny alleyways (no, mom, my safety is not really threatened).
Highlight of Marrakesh: Rashida.
Story: The second night in Marrakesh I made my way to Djemaa el Fna to try out food from one of scores of stalls serving kebabs, harira, snails, potatoes, aubergine, lots more food, and loads of entertainment. I was warned by Gita that I had to prepare myself for stall workers in white jackets who would harass me to eat at their stalls until I either sat down on their benches or escaped their grip and made my way into the next stall's zone, where the process would promptly begin again. 'Just beware to keep tabs on what exactly ends up on your table, or else you could end up with piles of food and a pretty hefty bill to foot', she reminded me for the third or fourth time as I walked out her door. With this information to direct me, I began my adventure to find the perfect food stall. I found it. The search started out with a clostrophobic walk through the labyrinth of medina alleyways and then labyrinth of stalls, sure enough attracting attention from stall workers, complete strangers, using every method from yelling 'Do you remember me?' to 'Lovely lady!' just to get me to pause for long enough to begin a conversation. Once you stop to talk, you will most likely end up eating at the stall you are in front of. I pushed on. As I worked my way deeper and deeper into the stalls, I had many menus thrown in my face. One caught my eye. Textwise, it was exactly the same as every other menu (and probably, to be honest, foodwise they are no different either... I only say that to be candid, if you ask me otherwise I will have to tell you how much better one stall is--my stall). But on this menu, there was a strange picture. Three strange pictures, to be exact. All the same image: an odd, toad-like face topped by an awkward brown leather hat, man or woman, who could tell? Confused and amused, I made the indeliberate but decisive move of pausing long enough to point to the picture to show my friends. We laughed and moved to keep walking. But, as soon as he saw me point, the stall worker holding the menu yelled, 'look, look!' and pointed dramatically to his stall. Standing on a raised step behind the grill was Rashida, in all her glory, the image on the menu personified, hat included, sporting an ear-to-ear smile and exaggerated thumbs up. Unabashedly entertained, I sat down to enjoy one of the best (and cheapest) meals of my trip this far. I have eaten at Chez Rashida every night in Marrakesh since. If you ever get the chance to visit this marvelously hectic city, go to stall number 42. Best advice you wil ever recieve on this blog, guaranteed.
I just returned to Marrakesh from the gorgeous seaside fisherman's town of Essaouira. After eating some good fish, hanging out on the beach, writing most of the past three blog entries from a perch in the crenelated fortification wall surrounding the city (built by the Portuguese in the 1500s), and trying rest up enough to shake my mono, I feel energized to begin my journey tomorrow south into the Kasbah and Oasis country and then into the Sahara. There, I'll get to ride some camels, inshallah.
Marrakesh has become everyone in my group's favorite Moroccan city. Except for me--my allegiance stands strong in Fes. But Marrakesh is undoubtably up there on my list. Built for use as the capital of the Almoravid dynasty in the eleventh century AD and subsequently capital of the Almohad and later Saadian dynasties, Marrakesh has reached another golden age in the twenty first century. Rooted by the infamous Djemaa el Fna at dead center of the old medina, it is a city of irrepressable pulsing life, beating drums, packed souks, fresh orange juice stalls, and questionably safety-threatening motorcycles speeding through tiny alleyways (no, mom, my safety is not really threatened).
Highlight of Marrakesh: Rashida.
Story: The second night in Marrakesh I made my way to Djemaa el Fna to try out food from one of scores of stalls serving kebabs, harira, snails, potatoes, aubergine, lots more food, and loads of entertainment. I was warned by Gita that I had to prepare myself for stall workers in white jackets who would harass me to eat at their stalls until I either sat down on their benches or escaped their grip and made my way into the next stall's zone, where the process would promptly begin again. 'Just beware to keep tabs on what exactly ends up on your table, or else you could end up with piles of food and a pretty hefty bill to foot', she reminded me for the third or fourth time as I walked out her door. With this information to direct me, I began my adventure to find the perfect food stall. I found it. The search started out with a clostrophobic walk through the labyrinth of medina alleyways and then labyrinth of stalls, sure enough attracting attention from stall workers, complete strangers, using every method from yelling 'Do you remember me?' to 'Lovely lady!' just to get me to pause for long enough to begin a conversation. Once you stop to talk, you will most likely end up eating at the stall you are in front of. I pushed on. As I worked my way deeper and deeper into the stalls, I had many menus thrown in my face. One caught my eye. Textwise, it was exactly the same as every other menu (and probably, to be honest, foodwise they are no different either... I only say that to be candid, if you ask me otherwise I will have to tell you how much better one stall is--my stall). But on this menu, there was a strange picture. Three strange pictures, to be exact. All the same image: an odd, toad-like face topped by an awkward brown leather hat, man or woman, who could tell? Confused and amused, I made the indeliberate but decisive move of pausing long enough to point to the picture to show my friends. We laughed and moved to keep walking. But, as soon as he saw me point, the stall worker holding the menu yelled, 'look, look!' and pointed dramatically to his stall. Standing on a raised step behind the grill was Rashida, in all her glory, the image on the menu personified, hat included, sporting an ear-to-ear smile and exaggerated thumbs up. Unabashedly entertained, I sat down to enjoy one of the best (and cheapest) meals of my trip this far. I have eaten at Chez Rashida every night in Marrakesh since. If you ever get the chance to visit this marvelously hectic city, go to stall number 42. Best advice you wil ever recieve on this blog, guaranteed.
I just returned to Marrakesh from the gorgeous seaside fisherman's town of Essaouira. After eating some good fish, hanging out on the beach, writing most of the past three blog entries from a perch in the crenelated fortification wall surrounding the city (built by the Portuguese in the 1500s), and trying rest up enough to shake my mono, I feel energized to begin my journey tomorrow south into the Kasbah and Oasis country and then into the Sahara. There, I'll get to ride some camels, inshallah.
Peace of Mind
After allowing my body to rest for two days in a warm and comfy 'jit' (Berber guesthome) in Imlil I was ready to make my way through a small portion of the gargantuan Atlas mountain range. Detailed descriptions of the tremendous motley of textures and colors and temperatures and emotions that I experienced would come nowhere near doing the trek justice, so I written the following and will leave most portrayals, especially visual, until I have a chance to show you some of my footage when I get back to the States.
My Grandpa Stu would have particularly loved the High Atlas trek. I found myself wishing he was there with me to tell me more about all of the plants and vegetation that surrounded me.
I am not sure how one would precisely define an epiphany. Dictionary.com says: 'a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.' I have crazy thoughts running through my mind all the time, some that may or may not provide insight into the essential meaning of my life-- or maybe, in a way, they will all eventually provide unique life-changing insight into my life, by altering the way I think or act, or by impacting a decision I will make in the future. But how could I ever pinpoint one thought that led to something bigger? If I could, would you call this an epiphany? And would I be too afraid to tell you that I had had an epiphany for fear that you might laugh at the simplicity of my 'deep' thoughts?
I have meditated a fair amount on this idea of epiphany. And I would like to share with you an epiphany of my own that I had on the second or third night of the trek. I was sitting on the balcony of a jit in Matate. The sun was preparing itself to set over the mountains to the west. Still Ramadan, the delicious smells of boxed harira and tagines on the stove for f'tur wafted up to greet me on the terrace. There was an absurd amount of vibrant yellow corn on the ground next to me. I am still not sure what it was there for, but it was so nice to look at that I have noted it here. We had made our way to the jit just in time to escape into its warmth and protection before an ominous rain cloud caught us on the trail. So, as I sat at sunset, the clear, crisp atmosphere that follows a rough and refreshing rainfall had set in.
I was so happy in that moment.
Long ago I came to the simplistic conclusion that I want to be satisfied and happy with my occupation in life. But I have learned that no matter what, I will always fall into a pattern that will at times be difficult on body and on mind, regardless of what the noble or fascinating or insert-adjective-here job I find may entail. I will need breaks every now and then. A change of scenery, a lightness of mind, if you will, that will accentuate the heavier things--those that embody the root of who I am. That moment in Matate in the High Atlas was such a moment, such a break, such an opportunity to do nothing but sit back and meditate on the serene and crystal simplicity of my life. That moment to put all else into perspective, the miniscule details, into a large and all-encompassing picture: me, Lauren Rhode, within that village, this coutry, our world, the universe. Epiphany?
My Grandpa Stu would have particularly loved the High Atlas trek. I found myself wishing he was there with me to tell me more about all of the plants and vegetation that surrounded me.
I am not sure how one would precisely define an epiphany. Dictionary.com says: 'a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.' I have crazy thoughts running through my mind all the time, some that may or may not provide insight into the essential meaning of my life-- or maybe, in a way, they will all eventually provide unique life-changing insight into my life, by altering the way I think or act, or by impacting a decision I will make in the future. But how could I ever pinpoint one thought that led to something bigger? If I could, would you call this an epiphany? And would I be too afraid to tell you that I had had an epiphany for fear that you might laugh at the simplicity of my 'deep' thoughts?
I have meditated a fair amount on this idea of epiphany. And I would like to share with you an epiphany of my own that I had on the second or third night of the trek. I was sitting on the balcony of a jit in Matate. The sun was preparing itself to set over the mountains to the west. Still Ramadan, the delicious smells of boxed harira and tagines on the stove for f'tur wafted up to greet me on the terrace. There was an absurd amount of vibrant yellow corn on the ground next to me. I am still not sure what it was there for, but it was so nice to look at that I have noted it here. We had made our way to the jit just in time to escape into its warmth and protection before an ominous rain cloud caught us on the trail. So, as I sat at sunset, the clear, crisp atmosphere that follows a rough and refreshing rainfall had set in.
I was so happy in that moment.
Long ago I came to the simplistic conclusion that I want to be satisfied and happy with my occupation in life. But I have learned that no matter what, I will always fall into a pattern that will at times be difficult on body and on mind, regardless of what the noble or fascinating or insert-adjective-here job I find may entail. I will need breaks every now and then. A change of scenery, a lightness of mind, if you will, that will accentuate the heavier things--those that embody the root of who I am. That moment in Matate in the High Atlas was such a moment, such a break, such an opportunity to do nothing but sit back and meditate on the serene and crystal simplicity of my life. That moment to put all else into perspective, the miniscule details, into a large and all-encompassing picture: me, Lauren Rhode, within that village, this coutry, our world, the universe. Epiphany?
Making Up for Elapsed Time
I was planning on making a series of short video clips in order to visually impart to you my experiences over the past few weeks but ran out of time because my faithful digitech crew (just for you digitech), Remy and Pia, had to head off to Egypt, equipment, insight, and all. Alas, I will tell a few short stories in the form of words-- do forgive all lack of literary creativity.
Before leaving Fes, I spent a weekend in Meknes, Morocco's third imperial city that came into its own in the seventeenth century when it was the capital of Moulay Ismail's Alawite dynasty. Since then, it has become a backwater despite a beautiful medina and fabulous old medrasas (Qu'ranic schools) like the Bouanania, a smaller version of the medrasa sharing both architect and moniker in Fez. I was forced to split this weekend between exploring the city and working on my video for my host family: crunchtime.
On the way to Meknes, I bought some delicious bright red rohmans (pomegranates) and stopped at Volubilis and Moulay Idriss. Volubilis, the stunning remains of the furthest western outpost of the Roman Empire from around the fourth century BC, was mind boggling in presentation of everything from tilework to structural foundations to 'laundry machines' that have been preserved mostly underground for over a thousand years. For some reason, I have yet to forget our guide's crude humor and crude laughter when he stood in the old bathroom area and repeated over and over 'ka ka pee pee politique'-- it took me a few minutes to realize that he was telling us that he thinks the Romans discussed politics just as we discuss politics--with one minor exception: they did it over their business while we do it over, say, a cup of coffee. But we're doing it all wrong, according to him.
From Volubilis one has a wonderful view of Moulay Idriss to the east, a small whitewashed town resting in a comfortable niche in the hillsides. Named for Morocco's most revered saint, Idriss, great-grandson of Prophet Mohammed and founder of Morocco's first dynasty, the town is home to the largest annual moussem, or pilgrammage, in late August every year. Although we stayed only for a short visit, I was exposed for the first time to one of the greatest divergences between Moroccan Islam and Islam outside of the Maghreb: the concept of sainthood. Anywhere else, the Moroccan tradition of travelling around to the holy sites of Saints' burial grounds would be considered idolatry, the one and only categorically unforgivable sin in Islam.
My final week with my homestay family flew by. I was stuck between the necessities to both spend as much time with them as possible and to finish my video for them without them knowing why I wasn't spending all of my time in the kitchen making harira or the living room watching Ramadan comedy sketches. Though difficult, I was releaved when they not only seemed to understand some of my very choppy and inarticulate narration but also to enjoy it. I was stressed leaving Fes, wanted more time with my family, and remain unsure of whether I will have the opportunity to stay with them again (a large incoming batch of students at the language center that our families were arranged through will most likely require a spot in my family, given that it is, after all, one of the best).
I am extraordinarily anxious to return to Fes. Luckily, I will get the chance to do so in less than two weeks time.
Before leaving Fes, I spent a weekend in Meknes, Morocco's third imperial city that came into its own in the seventeenth century when it was the capital of Moulay Ismail's Alawite dynasty. Since then, it has become a backwater despite a beautiful medina and fabulous old medrasas (Qu'ranic schools) like the Bouanania, a smaller version of the medrasa sharing both architect and moniker in Fez. I was forced to split this weekend between exploring the city and working on my video for my host family: crunchtime.
On the way to Meknes, I bought some delicious bright red rohmans (pomegranates) and stopped at Volubilis and Moulay Idriss. Volubilis, the stunning remains of the furthest western outpost of the Roman Empire from around the fourth century BC, was mind boggling in presentation of everything from tilework to structural foundations to 'laundry machines' that have been preserved mostly underground for over a thousand years. For some reason, I have yet to forget our guide's crude humor and crude laughter when he stood in the old bathroom area and repeated over and over 'ka ka pee pee politique'-- it took me a few minutes to realize that he was telling us that he thinks the Romans discussed politics just as we discuss politics--with one minor exception: they did it over their business while we do it over, say, a cup of coffee. But we're doing it all wrong, according to him.
From Volubilis one has a wonderful view of Moulay Idriss to the east, a small whitewashed town resting in a comfortable niche in the hillsides. Named for Morocco's most revered saint, Idriss, great-grandson of Prophet Mohammed and founder of Morocco's first dynasty, the town is home to the largest annual moussem, or pilgrammage, in late August every year. Although we stayed only for a short visit, I was exposed for the first time to one of the greatest divergences between Moroccan Islam and Islam outside of the Maghreb: the concept of sainthood. Anywhere else, the Moroccan tradition of travelling around to the holy sites of Saints' burial grounds would be considered idolatry, the one and only categorically unforgivable sin in Islam.
My final week with my homestay family flew by. I was stuck between the necessities to both spend as much time with them as possible and to finish my video for them without them knowing why I wasn't spending all of my time in the kitchen making harira or the living room watching Ramadan comedy sketches. Though difficult, I was releaved when they not only seemed to understand some of my very choppy and inarticulate narration but also to enjoy it. I was stressed leaving Fes, wanted more time with my family, and remain unsure of whether I will have the opportunity to stay with them again (a large incoming batch of students at the language center that our families were arranged through will most likely require a spot in my family, given that it is, after all, one of the best).
I am extraordinarily anxious to return to Fes. Luckily, I will get the chance to do so in less than two weeks time.
Family Time
Note: Long clip, please allow time to load. Also, forgive mispronunciations in arabic (or english, though hopefully there will be slightly fewer of these) and understand that I share this only for the sake of giving you a glimpse of Fes, not in order to display proficiency in filmmaking by any stretch of the imagination.
Frustrations
Time is remarkable. Wonderfully long or dreadfully long. Usually the latter. Nice and fast or too fast. Usually the latter. But no matter what, I can usually put my finger on how time feels to me. Strangely, right now I am not so sure. Has this month been long or short? I have learned so incredibly much and experienced such a vast assortment of new things and taken in a functional amount of a new language, small though that amount may be, but there is so much more to learn and experience. I know I will never have time to see it all, of course, but cannot escape the incessant pressure to look for it and smell for it and listen for it and throw myself out there to find what I can find, and also, to try to find what I may never find. And what is 'it' anyways?
Sometimes, mono takes over and I am stuck in bed for hours-- despite multiple doctors visits I have not been able to shake my nausea and headaches and overwhelming exhaustion-- and so I sit in bed, anxious and apprehensive, dreaming, whether I am asleep or awake, of all of the things that lie just beyond the door. A Sufi woman asked me a few days ago if I was tired. I was exhausted per usual. She told me that before we can accomplish anything spiritually or metaphysically we must allow our bodies, the receptacles for the spirit, to rest. But what if my body never feels the same as it used too? What if I never regain my energy or strength-- whether to accomplish something as big as a spiritual revelation or as small as walking out that door? And how do I draw a line between when to rest and when to push myself on, out that door, into the utterly magnifect world that is sitting here patiently, just waiting for me to get my act together and explore it.
Sometimes, mono takes over and I am stuck in bed for hours-- despite multiple doctors visits I have not been able to shake my nausea and headaches and overwhelming exhaustion-- and so I sit in bed, anxious and apprehensive, dreaming, whether I am asleep or awake, of all of the things that lie just beyond the door. A Sufi woman asked me a few days ago if I was tired. I was exhausted per usual. She told me that before we can accomplish anything spiritually or metaphysically we must allow our bodies, the receptacles for the spirit, to rest. But what if my body never feels the same as it used too? What if I never regain my energy or strength-- whether to accomplish something as big as a spiritual revelation or as small as walking out that door? And how do I draw a line between when to rest and when to push myself on, out that door, into the utterly magnifect world that is sitting here patiently, just waiting for me to get my act together and explore it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Alive
Writing from Imlil, from one of the only computers in a radius of many many miles, at the base of Mt. Toubkal (the highest mountain in north africa). Just completed a stunning four day trek through this area of the high atlas range -- full of gorgeous 6-7 hour a day hikes, mild enough to allow me to take in everything from red rock to tiny villages to snowy peaks to scorching valleys to goats in trees... Don't have much time now, but mom, I am alive and well. Despite slowing the group down for two days due to mono problems and popping my front tooth back into my mouth every few hours (for those of you who are confused, a basketball injury has left me to deal with an interesting dental issue in Africa), I am surprisingly healthy and problem free.
I will be in Imlil working on a small community service initiative for the next two days, but will be in better touch upon arrival in Marrakesh. Hopefully there I will be able to upload my movie onto this interface, but for now, you can check it out at:
http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/10/laurens_video.html#comments
much love,
lauren
I will be in Imlil working on a small community service initiative for the next two days, but will be in better touch upon arrival in Marrakesh. Hopefully there I will be able to upload my movie onto this interface, but for now, you can check it out at:
http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/10/laurens_video.html#comments
much love,
lauren
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Notes on My Philosophy and an Affirmative Coincidence
A few days ago as I walked by goats heads, flopping chickens, and piles of dates and figs galore, I promised myself that I would not allow my mind and body to fall into a regular routine here. For a long time I have connected falling into a regular routine (like the routine I have at home) with missing out on all of the special things around me. Granted, decapitated goat's heads might take a longer time than new fruits, for example, to adjust to. But it is the everyday things-- like the way my host mother laughs at me when I fail miserably at pronouncing the difference between ¨to study¨and ¨bottle, or the smells of her harira that heartily welcome me when I arrive home at night, or the beautiful view of the hills beyond Fez that reveals itself when my taxi driver takes a certain left from the ville nouvelle to head down to Bab Ziat-- that I am afraid I will begin to take for granted.
I have been thinking a lot about this promise to myself. And I have decided that it is time for me to finally learn a lesson that you probably haven't needed to come to Morocco to learn. I came here to live life. Part of living life is inherently adapting to a schedule, whether you are a nomad or a homebody. If I didn't fall into a rythm here i would be avoiding the essence of what I came here to do: to live like a local to whatever extent possible. The trick is to be able to allow myself to fall into a routine and still appreciate the little things (of course I have always told myself this, but I have never actually lived by it). It may sound naive, but it's at least a little less so than my promise to myself. Whether it be harira in my host mother's kitchen in Fez, Morocco or matzoh ball soup a la Chudi kitchen in Brookline, MA, I think I have finally learned to relax, observe, participate, and enjoy.
The world is here around me. And it is my job to reach out and grab it. I had a dream the other night: I was chilling in a swivel chair in the middle of an infinite library and I could turn in any direction and pull sights, sounds, smells, feelings, textures, tastes, people, places, etc off of enormous cedar shelves (probably cedar because it is the most populous tree in Morocco). I pulled off everything that I wanted, and often got things that I could never have imagined. Then the dream ended. And here I am. I happen to be sitting in a swivel chair in a small internet cafe with impossible French keyboards in Africa. Coincidence?
bislama (with peace),
lauren
I have been thinking a lot about this promise to myself. And I have decided that it is time for me to finally learn a lesson that you probably haven't needed to come to Morocco to learn. I came here to live life. Part of living life is inherently adapting to a schedule, whether you are a nomad or a homebody. If I didn't fall into a rythm here i would be avoiding the essence of what I came here to do: to live like a local to whatever extent possible. The trick is to be able to allow myself to fall into a routine and still appreciate the little things (of course I have always told myself this, but I have never actually lived by it). It may sound naive, but it's at least a little less so than my promise to myself. Whether it be harira in my host mother's kitchen in Fez, Morocco or matzoh ball soup a la Chudi kitchen in Brookline, MA, I think I have finally learned to relax, observe, participate, and enjoy.
The world is here around me. And it is my job to reach out and grab it. I had a dream the other night: I was chilling in a swivel chair in the middle of an infinite library and I could turn in any direction and pull sights, sounds, smells, feelings, textures, tastes, people, places, etc off of enormous cedar shelves (probably cedar because it is the most populous tree in Morocco). I pulled off everything that I wanted, and often got things that I could never have imagined. Then the dream ended. And here I am. I happen to be sitting in a swivel chair in a small internet cafe with impossible French keyboards in Africa. Coincidence?
bislama (with peace),
lauren
Friday, September 28, 2007
Asilah
We are currently on our first weekend excursion in Asilah. A city that has had a sporadic Spanish influence beginning during the years of the Roman empire when Asilah-ans were exported to Spain and Iberians moved here in their place, and most recently during the Spanish colonization of Asilah in the early 1900s (during which most of the current architecture was designed, leaving the city with a motley group of Spanish and Mediteranean complex's), the city is a beach hot-spot during the summersm though looked more like a beautiful but uninhabited ghost town when we arrived this morning. As I wandered around the medina though, I discovered an incredible hospitality that I have not encountered anywhere else.
Morocco is a country where family life and simple greetings can take forever with complete strangers, out of a respect that is infused within every individual. This afternoon I was alone walking down a desolate narrow alley when I made eye contact with an old woman (maybe 60 years old, although hard to tell given that people age quite differently here). She was wearing a loose maroon jilaba, hood on, revealing only a long, dark thin face, woody fingers, and black leather sandals. When we made eye contact, she smiled a great smile. So, naturally, I said, äsalaam aliekum. Her eyes brightened as she stopped in front of me and replied gently, ¨wa aliekum salaam¨. She reached out for my hand and kissed both of my cheeks. We proceeded to exchange Moroccan ¨how are you¨s back and forth seven times. She asked me how my family was, and I asked about hers. Then, she invited me to her home for f'tor (break fast). I wished that I did not have group obligations. I explained that I could not make it tonight. She pointed to her home to my right and and told me to knock on the door if I changed my mind or ever needed somewhere to sit down and have a cup of mint tea. With that, she kissed me again and disappeared inside.
There are some things that make being a woman here a difficult (esp an American woman) because it can be dangerous to wander alone and I have problems with being couped up. But then there are times like this that I could not be more grateful to be female.
lauren
Morocco is a country where family life and simple greetings can take forever with complete strangers, out of a respect that is infused within every individual. This afternoon I was alone walking down a desolate narrow alley when I made eye contact with an old woman (maybe 60 years old, although hard to tell given that people age quite differently here). She was wearing a loose maroon jilaba, hood on, revealing only a long, dark thin face, woody fingers, and black leather sandals. When we made eye contact, she smiled a great smile. So, naturally, I said, äsalaam aliekum. Her eyes brightened as she stopped in front of me and replied gently, ¨wa aliekum salaam¨. She reached out for my hand and kissed both of my cheeks. We proceeded to exchange Moroccan ¨how are you¨s back and forth seven times. She asked me how my family was, and I asked about hers. Then, she invited me to her home for f'tor (break fast). I wished that I did not have group obligations. I explained that I could not make it tonight. She pointed to her home to my right and and told me to knock on the door if I changed my mind or ever needed somewhere to sit down and have a cup of mint tea. With that, she kissed me again and disappeared inside.
There are some things that make being a woman here a difficult (esp an American woman) because it can be dangerous to wander alone and I have problems with being couped up. But then there are times like this that I could not be more grateful to be female.
lauren
Fez in all it's glory
As for a Fassian update:
Our darija classes are continuing sporadically enough and act as a good enforcement to the development of my [poor] accent and the basics of Moroccan greetings. As for the real heart of my development in this language, my home-stay continues to provide a fabulous learning environment.
Yesterday we had our first morning of medina restoration, which turned out to be a great few hours. For a brief explanation: there are approx. 14,000 houses in Fes's old medina and there has been an epidemic over the past few decades (although I'm sure it is longer lasting than that) of house collapses. In 1981 Fez was labeled a UNESCO World Heritage Site and subsequently a few initiatives were started to strengthen the foundations and structures of weaker buildingsm but a major turning point in this effort was the collapse of a house in 2003 (the last collapse to date, according to one of the workers we talked to) that caught government attention. This collapse drew funding for a detailed survey of every building in the medina sorting them into categories by degree of danger. 2,000 houses were recognized for their life-threatening structural problems, and now all of these homes are in the process of being either reinforced or rebuilt. We are working on two such homes built sometime within the psat 1,000 years (check out global-lab.org for pictures).
I spent the morning laying bricks and sawing cedar ceiling panels. I also expereicend one of the weirdest moments of my trip so far--when one of the workers pulled me away from brick laying and, with few other workers, tried to convince me to climb a palm tree using a makeshift piece of twine in order to cut off some of its leaves that were hanging through an upstairs window of the building we were working on. We stood there beneath the shade of the palm for twenty minutes before I finally convinced the group of men that although I might try climbing a palm in the States where my doctor is located, it would be too much of a problem if I fell, God forbid, and broke my skull here, because my doc is not in Africa right now.
Our darija classes are continuing sporadically enough and act as a good enforcement to the development of my [poor] accent and the basics of Moroccan greetings. As for the real heart of my development in this language, my home-stay continues to provide a fabulous learning environment.
Yesterday we had our first morning of medina restoration, which turned out to be a great few hours. For a brief explanation: there are approx. 14,000 houses in Fes's old medina and there has been an epidemic over the past few decades (although I'm sure it is longer lasting than that) of house collapses. In 1981 Fez was labeled a UNESCO World Heritage Site and subsequently a few initiatives were started to strengthen the foundations and structures of weaker buildingsm but a major turning point in this effort was the collapse of a house in 2003 (the last collapse to date, according to one of the workers we talked to) that caught government attention. This collapse drew funding for a detailed survey of every building in the medina sorting them into categories by degree of danger. 2,000 houses were recognized for their life-threatening structural problems, and now all of these homes are in the process of being either reinforced or rebuilt. We are working on two such homes built sometime within the psat 1,000 years (check out global-lab.org for pictures).
I spent the morning laying bricks and sawing cedar ceiling panels. I also expereicend one of the weirdest moments of my trip so far--when one of the workers pulled me away from brick laying and, with few other workers, tried to convince me to climb a palm tree using a makeshift piece of twine in order to cut off some of its leaves that were hanging through an upstairs window of the building we were working on. We stood there beneath the shade of the palm for twenty minutes before I finally convinced the group of men that although I might try climbing a palm in the States where my doctor is located, it would be too much of a problem if I fell, God forbid, and broke my skull here, because my doc is not in Africa right now.
Here's to Ramadan
As I flipped through the Frommer's Guide to Morocco in a bookstore before my departure from the States, I found some excellent summaries of Idrissid rule and suggestions for quality budget hotels. Then I saw the following bolded comment (and I paraphrase): DO NOT TRAVEL IN MOROCCO DURING RAMADAN. I put down Frommer's and bought the Lonely Planet (which is great by the way). We are so lucky to be here during Ramadan. Frommer's lost my business because it is written for an audience planning a short Moroccan vacation. Its cautionary comment makes sense for those coming for a brief stay: resteraunts are closed (and beware if you eat on the streets-- you will be eyed by unhappy, hungry Moroccans, or worse)m operating hours of every business are significantly decreased and often subject to change by people who are too tired to workm some Moroccans are more on edge from the fast, etc.
But what an unbelievably incredible experience for those of us who get to witness one of the five pillars of Islam from near beginning to end-- and in a Muslim host family no less. From 4am s'hor, to witnessing mass exodus's to local mosques, to delicious speciualty foods, to learning more about Islam as a whole, Ramadan brings with it a totally unique perspective into the world of a religion that guides the lives of 99 percent of this country's population. The preparations for f'tor (break-fast at 6:30ish pm) occupy a woman's entire existence. I sat in my kitchen for six hours the other day with my host mother making shibekia- a carmelized Moroccan sweet special for Ramadan- a true bonding experience. Speaking of which, this this the first time after growing up in a liberal American home that I have felt completely comfortable, even happy, hanging around the kitchen with a group of women. I enjoy the chattering company and humor that accompanies such an experience here. I much prefer this to the wallowing hunger that consumes the men as they lie around bored all day.
To Alex (for those of you who read only my blog, check out a cool article on Ramadan in Morocco at http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/09/ramadan_reflections.html#more): cheers to setting me up for Ramadan in Morocco. Surely the nature of Ramadan interferes with the daily schedule of the rest of the year, and often creates scheduling problems. But in the most laid back and wonderful sort of way. Thank you.
lauren
But what an unbelievably incredible experience for those of us who get to witness one of the five pillars of Islam from near beginning to end-- and in a Muslim host family no less. From 4am s'hor, to witnessing mass exodus's to local mosques, to delicious speciualty foods, to learning more about Islam as a whole, Ramadan brings with it a totally unique perspective into the world of a religion that guides the lives of 99 percent of this country's population. The preparations for f'tor (break-fast at 6:30ish pm) occupy a woman's entire existence. I sat in my kitchen for six hours the other day with my host mother making shibekia- a carmelized Moroccan sweet special for Ramadan- a true bonding experience. Speaking of which, this this the first time after growing up in a liberal American home that I have felt completely comfortable, even happy, hanging around the kitchen with a group of women. I enjoy the chattering company and humor that accompanies such an experience here. I much prefer this to the wallowing hunger that consumes the men as they lie around bored all day.
To Alex (for those of you who read only my blog, check out a cool article on Ramadan in Morocco at http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/09/ramadan_reflections.html#more): cheers to setting me up for Ramadan in Morocco. Surely the nature of Ramadan interferes with the daily schedule of the rest of the year, and often creates scheduling problems. But in the most laid back and wonderful sort of way. Thank you.
lauren
Monday, September 24, 2007
Never have I been more anxious to hear the words ¨allah hu akbar¨ (God is great). On Satyrday night, the sunset call to prayer signified that I could eat with my Muslim host family. I broke the Yom Kippur fast. They broke the Ramadan fast.
I am confronting the eternal struggle between the photographer and the subject: the moments that I most want to capture are often the most inappropriate moments. The smells that dominate this country- musky, fruity, pungent, fragrant, sour, smoky, salty, spicy, putrid, burning, delicious, divine- are impossible to transport. I have no problem opting to record with my memory and live in the present rather than hide behind my camera. But surely it will not be so simple when I begin to edit my film in the future. Without the most beatiful and meaningful moments on tape, how will I convey my experience to you?
Fes is an astonishing city. The old medina where i live is mostly the same as it was when it was built in the 800s BC. It stands in dire contrast to the ville nouvelle (new french city) where I study darija. Still, mules occupy the streets of the ville nouvelle and advanced nikon cameras can be purchased on every other corner of the old medina.
If you enter the old medina at Bab Ziat and walk along thedirt and stone road, past a small hanut sellling everything from Tide to khubs, take your second right, walk down the hill past a small local mosque, smell spices and delicious tajines emanating from every door and window, and turn to your left after the big pile of manuer on your right, you will find the home of Fatima, Abderrahim, Otman(17), and Ahmed (14) Elaamouri in the second floor apartment of the sandstone building in front of you. Nothing on the facade stands out. Rather, it blends in with similar tan and white colors that surround you from every direction. Walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I dare you. Most likely, a speaker to your right will ring out in a high, raspy voice, ¨skun?¨ (who?). Say your name. Within 30 seconds, the door in front of you will swing open to reveal an empty hallway. Step inside... ¨Rarrrrrr!!!¨, Ahmed will jump out as he roars. You will undoubtedly scream. You have given him a good laugh. Once his joke is done, he will smile, grab your hand, and drag you upstairs with a huge smile on his face. One of the most hospitable families in the world will greet you on the second floor. Abderrahim will immediately begin to train you in the sounds of darija, and will stick with you no matter how incapable you are: ka, ke, ko, ku, qa, qe, qo, qu, 3a, 3e; 3o, 3u, etc, while Fatima lays out a feast before you and Otman smiles from his perch in front of the TV. Welcome to my host family.
***
I am confronting the eternal struggle between the photographer and the subject: the moments that I most want to capture are often the most inappropriate moments. The smells that dominate this country- musky, fruity, pungent, fragrant, sour, smoky, salty, spicy, putrid, burning, delicious, divine- are impossible to transport. I have no problem opting to record with my memory and live in the present rather than hide behind my camera. But surely it will not be so simple when I begin to edit my film in the future. Without the most beatiful and meaningful moments on tape, how will I convey my experience to you?
***
Fes is an astonishing city. The old medina where i live is mostly the same as it was when it was built in the 800s BC. It stands in dire contrast to the ville nouvelle (new french city) where I study darija. Still, mules occupy the streets of the ville nouvelle and advanced nikon cameras can be purchased on every other corner of the old medina.
***
If you enter the old medina at Bab Ziat and walk along thedirt and stone road, past a small hanut sellling everything from Tide to khubs, take your second right, walk down the hill past a small local mosque, smell spices and delicious tajines emanating from every door and window, and turn to your left after the big pile of manuer on your right, you will find the home of Fatima, Abderrahim, Otman(17), and Ahmed (14) Elaamouri in the second floor apartment of the sandstone building in front of you. Nothing on the facade stands out. Rather, it blends in with similar tan and white colors that surround you from every direction. Walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I dare you. Most likely, a speaker to your right will ring out in a high, raspy voice, ¨skun?¨ (who?). Say your name. Within 30 seconds, the door in front of you will swing open to reveal an empty hallway. Step inside... ¨Rarrrrrr!!!¨, Ahmed will jump out as he roars. You will undoubtedly scream. You have given him a good laugh. Once his joke is done, he will smile, grab your hand, and drag you upstairs with a huge smile on his face. One of the most hospitable families in the world will greet you on the second floor. Abderrahim will immediately begin to train you in the sounds of darija, and will stick with you no matter how incapable you are: ka, ke, ko, ku, qa, qe, qo, qu, 3a, 3e; 3o, 3u, etc, while Fatima lays out a feast before you and Otman smiles from his perch in front of the TV. Welcome to my host family.
***
For the past two days, I have woken up with my family for s'hor at 4 am (dinner before the call to prayer at 4:35ishthat begins the day's fast). We all grogily pile into the kitchen, lazily smiling, and I have to try harder than ever to pay attention when I am spoken to. My darija isn't so good at 4am. Luckily for me, neither is anyone else's, and they have for the most part resorted to short commands like ¨kuli kuli¨-eat, eat (for Xi'aners, I still have not escaped the good old ¨chi le, chi le!¨, and here too they try to convince me that I need to fatten up). Once we have eaten our fill we line up at the sink and each down three cups of water as my host mom watches over our shoulders to make sure we don't skimp out on our full helpings. Once done, I return to my beautifully tiled room and lie in bed awake until I hear ällah hu akbar¨. Then I fall back into a deep and wonderful sleep.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Casa, city of dreams
We arrived safely to Casablanca yesterday morning. I am in an internet cafe that supposedly closed one minute ago, so in the interest of saving thinking-time, I will quickly copy an entry from my journal last night:
"Ecstatic. The kind of ecstatic of finally living a dream, so anticipated and exotic that it filled my imagination for months on end. We are here. Casablanca is our first of many peepholes into Moroccan life. Soon after pulling away from the airport, impressions and gut reactions--those so important but often overlooked or washed out--soaked into me. Smells, sights, sounds. Solid.
Ramadan rests like a heavy winter quilt over the outskirts of Casablanca as we drive northeast from the airport towards the Moroccan commercial capital. The muggy air engulfs me boldly, nailing me to my seat in the back of the minibus (which on the outsight reads in cute yellow writing, "We love Morocco"). Eyes peeled wide, looking and listening and absorbing the firsts: the first [used-to-be] white stucco building (for which the city was named: Casa Branca by the Portuguese in the 1500s and later changed to Casablanca by the Spaniards) in slighly desolate condition; the first whif of roadside construction, burning rubber and hot hot African heat; the first sounds of fluent darija, a rythmic dialect highlighted by the occasional staccato 3yn; the first old woman, dark-skinned with deepset eyes, hijab revealing only a few straggling gray hairs and a long cloth dress that strikes me as hot. Very hot. The excited chatter of my American crew provides a background as I sit behind an automobile window looking outwards from my tiny perch.
As we approach the city, the deserted atmosphere of the outskirts is replaced with the bustling about of errands to be run and preparations to be made for the night's feast. Broken down stucco homes are replaced by delicately tiled high rises, and despite the occasional watermelon-toting donkey cart, small farms are replaced by corporate buildings and silence is filled with honking horns, putting cars, and busy people.
I understand from some readng the context for my observations. Built as it stands now within the past century (in dire contrast to the rest of Morocco), and mostly by the French at that, Casablanca represents the hopes and dreams of capitalism Moroccan-style. Who will come here and make it big? Who wlil be able to flaunt newfound riches for the metropolis to see? And who, much more often, will find themselves left dirham-less: living in vast and sprawling city slums, unemployed, unfed, unsanitary, and without any chance at an even sup-par future. And who might even turn to fundamentalist Islam as their only hope--this is where it all begins, for Moroccan extremists at least (for more, google Casa bombings).
But now, here I am in the city centre, watching the tides of traditional Morocco colide with Westernization at its peak. And I could not be happier to be here, where I am now. No other place or moment would so suffice my desires. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. Ecstatic."
Apparently I still have a few more minutes even though the cafe now supposedly closed 26 minutes ago, so a quick update on my first full day in Morocco: This morning we went to see the Hassan II mosque. Finished in 1993 after only six years of construction from start to finish, the mosaue now stands as the third largest in the world, and one of the only mosques in Morocco that is open to non-Muslims. I will try to upload pictures later, but needless to say, it was absolutely fantastic. Dad, you may be interested to know that in the hamman (bathing room) in the basement of the mosque, I learned that although the pillars are made to look like they are made of marble, they are actually a composite of limestone, clay, and eggyolk, a substance believed to absorb moisture from the room and preserve the true color of the brass chandeliers. I think that you should look into it. Wouldn't it be cool to use eggyolk in the walls of Client X's home?
After the mosque we ate a quick lunch of bread and cheese sandwiches in privacy at the hotel (it's not too appropriate to eat in front of fasters and no resteraunts are open), and then headed out to the Jewish Museum in Oasis, one upper class Casablancan suburb. The only museum of any kind in the city and the only Jewish museum in the Muslim world, the small building was home to a wonderful picture gallery and many artifacts from Jewish communities throughout Morocco. Particularly interesting was a "Megillah Hitler" which looked like it replaced Haman's name with Hitlers and although I couldn't see the rest, must of been a story of Jewish escape and survival. Although my French isn't wonderful, the French captions seemed to say that the writer was soon after exectued and somehow the work ended up in the hands of a Casablancan Jew.
We left the museum about two hours ago and wandered through a fish market on the oceanfront, stepping over shark heads and fish guts. Men preparing for the night's break-fast shopped around and we wandered through taking in the strong smells. And sights.
My darija is beginning to establish itself in my mind, and I can't wait to begin language classes later this week. Hopefully I will get some exsposure to fusa'a (Modern Standard Arabic) too, but I'm happy with whatever I take in. Will leave Casa for Fez tomorrow. So excited to meet my home-stay family.
if there are any spelling/grammatical errors here i apologize, now the cafe is waiting for me to leave to close
lauren
"Ecstatic. The kind of ecstatic of finally living a dream, so anticipated and exotic that it filled my imagination for months on end. We are here. Casablanca is our first of many peepholes into Moroccan life. Soon after pulling away from the airport, impressions and gut reactions--those so important but often overlooked or washed out--soaked into me. Smells, sights, sounds. Solid.
Ramadan rests like a heavy winter quilt over the outskirts of Casablanca as we drive northeast from the airport towards the Moroccan commercial capital. The muggy air engulfs me boldly, nailing me to my seat in the back of the minibus (which on the outsight reads in cute yellow writing, "We love Morocco"). Eyes peeled wide, looking and listening and absorbing the firsts: the first [used-to-be] white stucco building (for which the city was named: Casa Branca by the Portuguese in the 1500s and later changed to Casablanca by the Spaniards) in slighly desolate condition; the first whif of roadside construction, burning rubber and hot hot African heat; the first sounds of fluent darija, a rythmic dialect highlighted by the occasional staccato 3yn; the first old woman, dark-skinned with deepset eyes, hijab revealing only a few straggling gray hairs and a long cloth dress that strikes me as hot. Very hot. The excited chatter of my American crew provides a background as I sit behind an automobile window looking outwards from my tiny perch.
As we approach the city, the deserted atmosphere of the outskirts is replaced with the bustling about of errands to be run and preparations to be made for the night's feast. Broken down stucco homes are replaced by delicately tiled high rises, and despite the occasional watermelon-toting donkey cart, small farms are replaced by corporate buildings and silence is filled with honking horns, putting cars, and busy people.
I understand from some readng the context for my observations. Built as it stands now within the past century (in dire contrast to the rest of Morocco), and mostly by the French at that, Casablanca represents the hopes and dreams of capitalism Moroccan-style. Who will come here and make it big? Who wlil be able to flaunt newfound riches for the metropolis to see? And who, much more often, will find themselves left dirham-less: living in vast and sprawling city slums, unemployed, unfed, unsanitary, and without any chance at an even sup-par future. And who might even turn to fundamentalist Islam as their only hope--this is where it all begins, for Moroccan extremists at least (for more, google Casa bombings).
But now, here I am in the city centre, watching the tides of traditional Morocco colide with Westernization at its peak. And I could not be happier to be here, where I am now. No other place or moment would so suffice my desires. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. Ecstatic."
Apparently I still have a few more minutes even though the cafe now supposedly closed 26 minutes ago, so a quick update on my first full day in Morocco: This morning we went to see the Hassan II mosque. Finished in 1993 after only six years of construction from start to finish, the mosaue now stands as the third largest in the world, and one of the only mosques in Morocco that is open to non-Muslims. I will try to upload pictures later, but needless to say, it was absolutely fantastic. Dad, you may be interested to know that in the hamman (bathing room) in the basement of the mosque, I learned that although the pillars are made to look like they are made of marble, they are actually a composite of limestone, clay, and eggyolk, a substance believed to absorb moisture from the room and preserve the true color of the brass chandeliers. I think that you should look into it. Wouldn't it be cool to use eggyolk in the walls of Client X's home?
After the mosque we ate a quick lunch of bread and cheese sandwiches in privacy at the hotel (it's not too appropriate to eat in front of fasters and no resteraunts are open), and then headed out to the Jewish Museum in Oasis, one upper class Casablancan suburb. The only museum of any kind in the city and the only Jewish museum in the Muslim world, the small building was home to a wonderful picture gallery and many artifacts from Jewish communities throughout Morocco. Particularly interesting was a "Megillah Hitler" which looked like it replaced Haman's name with Hitlers and although I couldn't see the rest, must of been a story of Jewish escape and survival. Although my French isn't wonderful, the French captions seemed to say that the writer was soon after exectued and somehow the work ended up in the hands of a Casablancan Jew.
We left the museum about two hours ago and wandered through a fish market on the oceanfront, stepping over shark heads and fish guts. Men preparing for the night's break-fast shopped around and we wandered through taking in the strong smells. And sights.
My darija is beginning to establish itself in my mind, and I can't wait to begin language classes later this week. Hopefully I will get some exsposure to fusa'a (Modern Standard Arabic) too, but I'm happy with whatever I take in. Will leave Casa for Fez tomorrow. So excited to meet my home-stay family.
if there are any spelling/grammatical errors here i apologize, now the cafe is waiting for me to leave to close
lauren
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Explanation of Intent
"The camel driver has his plans and the camel has his."--Anonymous, Moroccan Proverb
I am shipping off tomorrow for a semester of life in Morocco. I will travel through an organization called Global LAB (see global-lab.org). My original idea was to take some time to gather my thoughts and relax my body after a wonderful but long journey through Brookline High School, and in the process, pick up some Arabic. The consequece of that idea is quickly developing into an unpredictable and unforseeable venture into the smells, sights, and sounds of a country impacted by fascinating contradictions, not the least of which is the fusion of African, Middle Eastern, and European influences. Who knows if I will actually pick up any Arabic, or even darija (moroccan arabic)... after all, as the Moroccans themselves apparently say, the camel is in charge of the plans. I'm just the driver.
I will attempt to keep some small record of the coming semester on this weblog. My originally ingenious (though now possibly less practical, due to unknown computer access) plan of updating this blog with video clips of my journey in the spirit of David Wang, co-China traveler, may or may not come to fruition. Mom and Dad, you can check this url. Everyone else, if you're willing to deal with my long windedness, feel free to do the same.
Time to go pack up my 2 pairs of pants, 5 pairs of underwear, and whatever else my challengingly short packing list requires of me.
lauren
I am shipping off tomorrow for a semester of life in Morocco. I will travel through an organization called Global LAB (see global-lab.org). My original idea was to take some time to gather my thoughts and relax my body after a wonderful but long journey through Brookline High School, and in the process, pick up some Arabic. The consequece of that idea is quickly developing into an unpredictable and unforseeable venture into the smells, sights, and sounds of a country impacted by fascinating contradictions, not the least of which is the fusion of African, Middle Eastern, and European influences. Who knows if I will actually pick up any Arabic, or even darija (moroccan arabic)... after all, as the Moroccans themselves apparently say, the camel is in charge of the plans. I'm just the driver.
I will attempt to keep some small record of the coming semester on this weblog. My originally ingenious (though now possibly less practical, due to unknown computer access) plan of updating this blog with video clips of my journey in the spirit of David Wang, co-China traveler, may or may not come to fruition. Mom and Dad, you can check this url. Everyone else, if you're willing to deal with my long windedness, feel free to do the same.
Time to go pack up my 2 pairs of pants, 5 pairs of underwear, and whatever else my challengingly short packing list requires of me.
lauren
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)