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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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.
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