Who said Derija was useless?

Before I came to Morocco, my various Arabic teachers and Arab friends warned me against the uselessness of learning Moroccan Arabic, or Derija. It was the least known the dialects, and Moroccans (as they said) had perverted the language so badly that it more closely resembled French than its Arab roots. Therefore, I was warned against attempting to learn the language, and as usual, I did not heed said warning. During my first sojourn in Morocco, I decided to add to my class load and take private lessons in Derija. I was already taking 3 hours a day of classical Arabic, but I had quickly learned that my friends were remotely correct – the Moroccan dialect was so perverted that speaking classical Arabic was almost useless.

I mean, honestly, useless. I would have been better off learning French.

Derija is a combination of Arabic, French, Spanish and random pieces from the Berber languages. Ever since the founding of Morocco, it has had a closer relationship with its European partners than its Arab ones. Constant Northern conquest (as opposed to conquest in the Eastern direction) has tied numerous words in Derija and Spanish together, and after the French occupation of Morocco, it’s almost silly to think that French would NOT permeate the langauge. Therefore, my knowledge of standard Arabic quickly rendered me a fish out of water, and I realized that despite the warnings, Derija was quite useful, in Morocco at least.

Plus, it turns out that my original effort was not for loss because I did end up returning to the-country-of-the-useless-dialect. I entered my Fulbright with a foundation in Derija so that after a few months of classes, I was perfectly conversational. I could do my interviews in Derija and I could have perfectly normal conversations with most anyone. So, I thought, ‘take that pessimists! see? this language is useful!’ again, in Morocco.

During my trip to Cairo, I could barely stammer out a few words in Standard Arabic, and evidently my Moroccan accent is now so thick that it was still impossible to understand me. I kept wandering around attached to my friend, who is fluent in Arabic, feeling rather silly and realizing that maybe, I should focus on Standard again, and maybe the pessimists were right.

However, during a recent trip to Europe, I realized that I’ve been missing the point of it all. I wandered into a shop looking for a cheap memory card reader, and while I was asking for this object (in very pitiful spanish, I might add) I noticed that the owner turned and spoke to his employee in Derija. Relived that my attempts at Spanish could now be put aside, I switched easily and comfortably into this seemingly ‘useless’ language. The shop owner, without even blinking, continued to talk to me, only really needing to inform me that they didn’t have what I was looking for. Afterwards, he expressed his surprise and joy at my switch to his mother tongue. In that moment, I had extended a friendly ‘hand’ to him, and although it wasn’t some monumental occasion, I realized that this was the point of learning Derija: to communicate.

Sometimes I think we place a large emphasis on the acquisition of language and less on the acquisition of communication. The point of communicating is just that, and when we stop attempting because we fear it might be ‘useless’ then I am afraid the concept of language in general is useless. Plus, I’ve learned that language, culture and respect all go hand in hand. Yes, maybe there is a finite number of people that I can talk to using Moroccan Arabic, but that is a group of people that I can talk to now that I was not able to before. Plus, as I have noticed, Moroccans are all over the world, and who knows when my useless Derija could get me out of a jam – or at least, out of a high price.

Wait, so where do I buy….?

In an effort to keep up readership of my blog, I have been thinking for days on what to write about. I’m trying not to fall into my old habit of write-every-month, but I realized that my general insight comes from something interesting that happens, which then inspires me to write about it. Granted, little things happen all the time, but blog-style interactions are fewer and farther between. However, today, when I was trying to alleviate my new pumpkin seed fix, I realized that merely shopping in Morocco is a bit of an ordeal. Actually, that’s a lie, it takes the stars aligning, a heart felt rain dance, and an act of God to get what you’re looking for sometimes, and that’s if you’re lucky.

Now, I am not referring to the type of shopping that a lot of foreigners in this country do. There are numerous western style stores that sell everything you could need. Comptoir sells appliances and electronics, Marjane is a regular Super Wal-Mart, Acima is a Kroger-type grocery store, and Kitea is a regular Ikea knock-0ff. So, if you want to spend your time in the Ville Nouvelle hopping from cab to cab, then it is quite easy to find what you’re looking for in this country. I, however, continusouly choose what seems to be the ‘harder’ way of doing things.

I have this theory that every Moroccan is hard wired valuable information upon their birth. This information, sometimes inaccessible to foreigners, includes how to tell a good tajine from a bad one and where the gypsy buses stop. Whenever I ask my Moroccan friends to describe where they get this wealth of knowledge, they always shrug and say, ‘Well, isn’t it obvious?’ This answer just frustrated me because I hated going to Acima or Marjane to get my necessities, but no one could seem to tell me where all the Moroccans shopped.

Then, finally, one day, I just shut-up and watched.

In the Fez Medina and my Moroccan neighborhood in Marrakesh, the fruit and vegetable market is fairly obvious. It’s hard to miss the crates of tomatoes and the carts of banans as you’re walking down the street. This was my first foray into Moroccan shopping. You see, unlike most of us Westerner’s with too little time, ‘one-stop shopping’ is a fairly foreign concept to most of the Moroccans I know. Each type of necessity warrents its own store. Therefore, I have a fruit guy. A couple carts down from him is my vegetable guy. They loved that I speak Arabic, and they’re always patient while I try to learn the names of my usual purchases. Down a few doors them is my non-parishables guy, otherwise known as a Hanout. In old parts of the (American) South, I’ve actually seen these stores still in existence, but by-in-large, Kroger has replaced the traditional grocer in Atlanta. At my Hanout, I buy all packaged goods as well as flour, grains, sugar, honey, spices by the kilo or the gram. Some of the newer Hanouts even have refigerators so that I can buy fresh milk, cold water, and various Coca Cola products.

After I finally found my Hanout and my fruit and vegetable guys, I had to learn where to buy everything else. Let me emphasize that every type of good has its own store so plastic house hold items (such as dish racks) aren’t sold at the same store as electronic items (such as ovens or blenders). Red meat butchers do not sell chicken, and dried fruit is also sold in a special store. Snacks are sold at different places then all of these, which was my newest revelation when I went on a search for roasted pumpkin seeds.

It’s funny because I look back to a few months ago, and I was constantly asking, ‘Wait, so where I do buy this’ and ‘where do I buy that.’ It took a while for me to realize that I just had to look around. I am so used to big signs and one-stop-shopping that it never occured to me that the small store right in front of my eyes could have exactly what I need. I was so caught up in downloading this hard-wired information that I rarely opened my eyes. That is what I love about Morocco. This is what I hope to take away from this year. There is such an importance placed on pausing and paying attention. Information is right in front of you if you’re willing to step outside of your normal bubble and just see it.

Sphynix-y and come back?

So I don’t usually write two posts back-to-back, as I just make you endure one ridiculously long entry; however, I felt that the tone of these two were just too different to allow them to be combined. Now, although I want to emphasize that modern Egypt is so much more than pyramids and hieroglyphics, I can’t talk about my trip to Cairo without talking about my crazy morning at the pyramids of Giza.

The reason I call it a crazy morning is because after living in an Arab country for almost a year, you would think that my friends and I would have learned that trying to do something within a time limit is almost impossible. Something is bound to go wrong, and anything that would normally take 5 minutes somewhere else will take about 2 hours when dealing with ‘Arab-time.’ However, we were in Cairo solely for a Fulbright conference, which meant that like it or not, we were on a very strict time schedule.

So, me and four other girls woke up one morning, piled in a cab, and headed off to the infamous Giza site. None of us had a guide book (it didn’t seem worth it for only 5 days in the city) and none of us had any idea what were going to find when we got there. Me and my Americanness excepted signs and guides or at the very least a cohesive map of one of the seven wonders of the world.

Ha, wrong assumption number one.

Wrong assumption number two was actually made by all of us. We assumbed that The Sphinx was large and situated away from the pyramids.

Wrong assumption number three was that the ticket office would inform us if the other sites (museums, descending into the pyramid, etc.) needed a separate ticket.

So, those three assumptions combined created the most interesting and hilarious morning of my Cairo trip.

You see, we entered the site at what appeared to be the largest pyramid and a fairly small sphinx. Now, please note that our cab driver fueled our confusion by saying that The Sphinx was at the end of the site away from the entrance. He, however, did not inform us that there are two entrances. So, our assumption that The Sphinx was far away caused us to disregard this smaller figure and proceed up the hill towards the pyramids.

As we started to walk up the hill, we noticed a very long line. Instantly, we thought of the time and hurried to situate ourselves among the hoards of tourists waiting to get a chance to walk down into the famous tomb. After twenty minutes of waiting, we finally made it to the front. This site required yet another ticket, which could only be purchased at a specific gate located at the other entrance to the site. No amount of bargining or pleading would make the gentlemen at the door let us in. No ticket. No entrance.

Slightly dejected, we decided that we should use our remaining time trying to get out to see The Sphnix instead of waiting in that silly line again. But by this time, we knew that walking on human legs wouldn’t get us there and back in 30 minutes.

So, we decided to go on horseback.

The next ten minutes of our morning was spent trying to make the stable hands understand that all we wanted to do was go The Sphinx and come back. One of my friends speaks excellent Arabic, so it seemed that there was no way he could be confused by our desire. But still, he looked at us with wonder and constantly said ‘You want Sphynix-y and come back?’ After that 10 minutes of assuring him that this was truly what we wanted, he simply shrugged and situated three of us in a carriage and two of us on horses.

And with that, we took off galloping towards the pyramids and away from our entrance containing a ’small’ sphinx. As we rounded the side of the pyramid, our stable hand guides stopped to allow us time to take pictures. By now it was clear that he really didn’t get our time predicament and we hurriedly told him that we only wanted to see The Sphinx. We had no time for taking other pictures. Confused, he agreed, muttered ‘Sphynix-y and come back?’ and took off in the direction we came.

Realizing that he was taking us that ’smaller’ sphynix we decided to just give up. Our time was up and we had to head back to the hotel. Our guide however, didn’t seem to understand our dejection. He merely pointed to the sphynix and said, ‘See? Sphnix-y!’ We descended from our horses, thankful to be on solid ground again, paid the man, and walked off. ‘Oh well,’ we thought, ‘at least we got to see the pyramids.’ We would see the Sphynix another time.

Well, if you can’t tell by now, that was The Sphnix. The sad thing about it is that we didn’t realize this until we got back to the hotel and recounted our exploits to our fellow Fulbrighters. It’s turns out that our seemingly haphazard horseback riding through the desert actually was to The Sphynix-y and back.

Cairo dirty dirty beautiful

Before I start my post, I must give credit where credit is due – my title is not my own. I borrowed it from a friend’s facebook album detailing our recent Egyptian adventure, and although I usually find a lot of entertainment in creating my own titles, I thought his was too perfect to pass up. So, I must thank fellow Fulbright, Sam, for his witty words.

Now, onto my 5 days in the most beautiful dirty city I’ve seen.

Most people (including myself until a few years ago) call to mind pyramids, Cleopatra, and Pharaohs when Egypt is mentioned. Part of me wants to blame my elementary school history education. We always studied history in a chronological order, which means that we spent way too much time on ancient societies so that at the end of the year, the modern world was reduced to a handout or a quick mention. But, I know that this is over-simplifying the issue, and I fear that many of my cousins, who are teachers themselves, would be quick reprimand me on that point. So, I blame numerous sources for our skewed view of Egypt – education in general, the media, and our general desire to live in the seemingly uncomplicated past, when queens were beautiful and adventures were the norm of society.

Well, let me tell you, Modern Egypt, I think, is even better. But this is coming from a girl who loves the city of Atlanta because of its traffic, its urban sprawl, and its constant motion. I am excited in cities where part of me is uncomfortable, and I receive energy from the knowledge that I can never truly know every building or every section. Then there’s always something to discover and there is never a moment when life is boring.

Cairo is a booming metropolis that is home to 25 million people. The traffic is atrocious, and honestly, whoever built that the beltway around the city couldn’t have believed that it would alleviate any congestion. There is a nice blanket of smog covering the city when a sandstorm doesn’t block the sun, and the heat just seeps into your bones because the air is so heavy with pollution and dust. Trash collects on the side of the street, and even nice neighborhoods are not immune from piles of litter and odorous smells. Cabs refuse to put on the meter and there are so many tourists, students, and diplomats that it’s hard for anyone to believe that this foreigner on the street is any different from the next. And yet, I still loved the city.

Honestly, I loved the traffic and the sheer mayhem. The city would never sleep. There was always something to do and somewhere to go and someone willing to take you there. Despite the growing number of tourists and foreigners that arrive to Cairo every day, Egyptians were always excited to talk to me, and even though my accent is now very apparantly Moroccan, they were still happy to hear more Americans speaking their language. For someone with a growing obsession with architecture, Cairo offered an infinite supply of beauty and wonder. Each building was more beautiful than the next and even the most simple mosque was truly a sanctuary – a peaceful escape from the craziness of the world surrounding.

I can remember the moment that I truly fell in love with the city. Sam, the Fulbrighter with the witty title, and I went walking through the one of the oldest parts of Islamic Cairo – Khan El Khalily. We walked to the top of this watch tower and looked out over the whole of the city. I couldn’t even take it all in. I had to pause at each minaret and towering building just to appreciate them individually. That was the moment that I knew I would always love this dirty city.  Because there would always be something to discover. Because each balcony would create a different view. Because each corner offered a new heaven. Because each moment allowed me to reappreacite this dirty dirty beautiful Cairo.

Back on the bike

So for two months I have not been able to ride my Moroccan motor bike. Most of that was due to my extended trip home, and since then, the battery has been very dead. However, as I was sitting in a taxi the other day watching some kids whip by I remembered that I was, in fact, one of them, and it finally seemed worth it to bring her out again. So, I brushed off the dirt and dust that had accumulated on ole Sunshine, and I pushed her a few grueling blocks to the closest mechanic.

Now, in Fez, the closest mechanic and I did not get along. He had certain ideas about women on bikes (namely that they should not be on them) and he proceeded to remind me of that fact when I went to him for help. My bike was dead, I still very green to Morocco and motorbikes, and it took everything I had not to break down and cry on the side of the road. The fact that my anatomy is different doesn’t prevent me from owning and driving a motorbike, and it shouldn’t prevent me from finding a mechanic. But alas, it did, and after making a fairly large scene, which included yelling at the mechanic that he doesn’t respect me, I proceeded to push my motorbike the 3 kilometers to the New City. There I found a great mechanic, who was always patient and very willing to work with my limited knowledge of motorbikes and arabic.

You know though, after some reflection I realized that this original mechanic, who I so easily wrote off as being sexist, just didn’t understand how to deal with me. I learned that he had never had a female client before, and what I mistook as a lack of desire to talk to me (he spoke to me through some man at the shop) was his attempt at communication. He thought that if he tried to speak to me, I wouldn’t understand. Ever since that experience I have tried to understand where people are coming from without assuming that I always know the answer. I mean, maybe that guy should have tried to have a conversation with me before he wrote it off as impossible, but maybe I should have tried to calmly explain my frustration instead of assuming the worst. Oh well, we all make mistakes, and hopefully, I have learned and I have progressed.

Now, however, I don’t have that problem in the least bit. You see, Marrakesh is the city of women on motorbikes. There is the highest rate of female drivers in this city, and what I love about it is that driving a motorbike does not correspond with the type of woman at all. I have seen women in burkas with gloves and a small eye-slit driving around the city next to a liberal western looking woman in skinny jeans and high heels. Women are almost equal in number on the road, and whereas in Fez, I stood out, in Marrakesh I am one of the pack.

Although this means that I am theoretically less special, it also means that women seem to have more indepedence in Marrakesh. I have seen them on the street in higher numbers, driving cars in higher numbers, and running shops in higher numbers. According to some Moroccans, women in Marrakesh even speak in a more manly way than any other Moroccan woman.

One of my friends attributes this equality to tourism. Due to the large presence of foreigners in the city and the strength of the tourism industry, women can make more money and garner more freedoms. I agree with her, to a point. My question is does the appearance of equality actually indicate equal standards of living? Just because my mechanic instantly knew how to talk to me, does that mean I am seen equal in his eyes? And should the original mechanic be counted as perpetuating inequality just because he has inexperience with the concept?

These are questions I haven’t really found the answers to yet. I don’t think I have the time to address my project as well as the appearance of equality within society, and maybe I am just being jaded right now. Maybe the point is that this all has to start somewhere, and even if that only means a woman in Marrakesh can drive a motorbike, that is something to be happy about. In that moment she can feel powerful and in control of her destination, and in that moment it doesn’t matter the anatomy of the driver, it only matters that you know how to get the hell out of the way. I mean let’s face it, driving in Morocco is crazy no matter who you are.

Oh Atlanta, I hear you calling….

I spent five weeks in the US with my family. It’s funny because over that time there would have been great things to blog about, like seeing a large portion of my family that I haven’t seen in years, like watching two people simultaneously forgive and love each other, like seeing the joy that an infant can bring, or like having to say goodbye. But of course, when life is that interesting, sadly, a blog seems to be last thing on my mind.

Now, however, I’m back in Marrakesh sitting in my apartment listening to the sounds of the Moroccan streets below me. Mostly they are pretty normal sounds only distinct because of the language spoken. The catering company across the street constantly has trucks pull in and out with a new load of chairs and pastries for yet another party somewhere in the city. The community guardians get together to have tea and talk about the latest news unless someone in their building requires assistance. It’s about to be lunch time, so groups of kids are coming home chattering about whatever it is that middle-schoolers talk about–boys, probably. While I sit here in my apartment, and honestly, think of Atlanta. 

It’s funny what going home for 5 weeks can do to you. For me, I became comfortable again. I started to forget the little intricacies of my Moroccan life, and just fell into the defaults of my old one. I mean, I think that’s normal. It’s hard to be dodging traffic on I-75 and simultaneously think about how hard it is to get change for a 200 dirham bill (financially equivalent to about $20) when paying for a cab. Granted, it would essentially be like paying for a stick of gum with a $20. Still, that’s what ATMs give you! People should have change…

I also got use to things like sweet tea, coffee in a to-go cup, and mexican food. I remembered that I could actually speak a language well, and most people around me aren’t automatically trilingual. I also realized that traffic lights and road lines are not just a suggestion, and most people are actually driving Miss Daisy. It’s funny what you notice when you go home. The big stuff doesn’t ever really surprise me. I know how tall the buildings are and how much traffic there is during rush hour on 285. I could never forget that as long as I lived, but the sound of thunder on a warm spring night or the light of the firefly at dusk are things that I re-experience every time I go home.

And now, back across the ocean, I realize the other intricacies that I had so easily forgotten. I am again awed by the sound of the call to prayer as the sun sets over the red city. I am touched by the kindness of a Moroccan stranger and reminded the joy that a simple (sometimes toothless) smile can bring. And I am again enticed by the smell of freshly squeezed orange juice, sold en masse at orange stands for only 50 cents a cup.

To me that’s the beauty of traveling, or the aesthetic of lostness–the ability to re-experience beauty and to continuously feel that excitement for the little things  in life. It’s what gets me through the day when I miss my family and all that coffee in to-go cups.

Being a tourist in Morocco

So, I moved to Marrakesh.

I know my posts lately have been sparse at best, but I suppose life got a little out of control. For one, I didn’t realize that moving myself, my motor, and my cat to basically the other side of the country would be as big of an ordeal as it turned out to be. I know, I know. Foresight is a bitch.

Either way, I am in Marrakesh. 

I have been for a week now. It’s funny because life in Fez had gotten to be equally overwhelming and equally rewarding. I had become a Fessi. I know the streets of the Medina like a Fessi, and I knew exactly where to shop, for everything. 

Now, I must learn about Marrakesh.

A friend of mine came to visit for the weekend, and of course, we toured the Marrakchi Medina. I had to use a map. I had to wonder into shops where I didn’t know the owner and gasp at items that were more expensive and lesser quality than those at my tried-and-tested Fessi places. I had to deal with the ‘welcome to Morocco’s and the ‘where are from’s more than I have to in months. 

I guess, I am a tourist in Marrakech.

In the medina, there is a main square called Djemma El Fna, which is ‘the Morocco that people come to Morocco for’ as one friend put it. There are snake charmers, fortune tellers, woman that do henna, and the best fresh squeezed orange juice you can find for less than a euro. It crawls with this orientalist lure that captivates most travelers and leaves them wondering if it in fact it was all a dream. A dream perfumed with incense and faded with time. It is the world of the ‘Moroccan’ where modernism only comes in the form of a credit card machine at the local tourist shop.

Really, I am a Fessi in Marrakesh.

My cynicism comes from my longing for Fez. I realized that I am looking for my spiritual haven within the snake charmer’s lute. I am looking for the beautiful mosques and religious schools that have been built on centuries of religious learning and spiritualism. I am looking for that Fessi hospitality where you can’t walk through the Medina without being offered tea at least 10 times by various friends.

The people of Marrakesh are different.

They are a fun loving people, where tourism is a livelihood that doesn’t damper their joyous spirits. In fact, it almost invigorates them. They seem to enjoy their own orientalism, and to them, Marrakesh is their dream where the foreigners are the spectacle and even awake, life is a party. 

Either way, welcome to Marrakech.

If the walls could talk….

It goes without saying that I haven’t written in a while. Actually, ‘a while’ is an under statement, as it has been almost two months. My time has been spent general living life and generally neglecting communication. Not to say that writing in my blog isn’t living life, but I have found that in the recent past I have spent more time on the streets of Morocco and less time behind my computer. All-in-all, I believe that I had made the right choice, and as time continued to pass, it seemed that after a month, one more day of not writing really did not matter. However, I do find this blog to be therapeutic and I enjoy the thought of a semi-captive audience to talk about my current passion in life: houses.

Although I have many interesting stories from the past few months to tell you, including my first ski trip to Ifrane, I have a greater desire to tell you about an aspect of my research. I think it’s because I am moving houses and in a month, I will be leaving Fez for Marrakesh, but I am beginning to feel like I should be wrapping things up and coming to some sort of conclusion. However, I have discovered with cultural research that there are no conclusions, maybe a few new ideas, and a lot of new questions, but never any real conclusions. Maybe that’s why I should have stuck to economics, but it’s too late now.

The history of the Fez is layered in the walls of its ‘old city’ – Medina. The 12,000 houses, the 9600 alley ways, and the countless fountains tell the lives of sultans, philosophers, artists, travelers from 1200 years of modern history. It is not the oldest city in Morocco – Moulay Idriss and Sefrou are two that can count themselves as older than Fez – but it is the oldest Imperial city and its Medina stretches across a greater distance than any other in Al-Maghrib. Fez was founded by Moulday Idriss II as a capital for a new empire that would soon stretch across Southern Europe and Northern Africa and would produce the famed Arab Philosopher Ibn Khaldoun, the world traveler Ibn Batouta, among others. Although in the future Fez would be abandoned for Marrakech, Meknes and finally Rabat as the political capitol of the Western Kingdom, it remains the cultural capitol of Morocco. In fact, in 2007 it was chosen as a capitol of Islamic Culture and during Ramadan, works of Islamic Art were shown throughout the city.

What makes Fez so special? What is about this city tucked in the Atlas Mountains that makes all of us stop and pass even a bit of our lives here?

I think the answer to this question is that Fez has something for every person, and that is what has appealed to people for 1200 years. For the farmer in the Atlas Mountains, Fez offers a place of rest and trade. A place to make a living and a metropolis with enough goods to supply his entire family. For the orientalist, Fez offers a city stuck somewhere in the Middle Ages. Tanneries that still use traditional pigeon feces to die leather and tile factories that haven’t changed in 10 generations. For the religious scholar, Fez is the ultimate penacle of study. An opportunity to learn in the halls of the Qaraouyyine, where countless religious leaders (including Popes) have spent hours analyzing Islamic scripture. For the wanderer, Fez offers a welcoming community. The inner courtyard houses and the smiling Morocco mom ushering you in for couscous allow a break from worrying about the next step in life that we all must take.

Fez has a culture of refuge and protection. The famed Al-Qaraouyyine mosque and university were built in a district given that name for the people seeking refuge from a district sharing that same moniker in what is now Tunis. Al-Andalous is another area of the Medina where Muslims, fleeing persecution in Spain, found a home once again behind the Medina’s walls. The Mellah is the Jewish Quarter – an area under the explicit protection of the king where the vast society of Moroccan Jews could live peacefully beside their Muslim brothers. Now, those people are no longer around, and a majority of their descents have gone to other cities looking for better jobs, better schools, and better opportunities (a subject which I will discuss later). However, a welcoming and hospitable culture still grips the traditional Fessis that remain in the city.

If these walls could talk, they would surely tell you of the city’s impressive history. They would weave a tale tall enough to shame even the story tellers of the Marrakchi Djemma El-Fna, complete with victorious sultans, medieval artists, and confused foreigners. But in my opinion, before all of that, the first thing that these walls would say is, “Welcome.”

The Big Holiday

Yesterday passed the Eid Al-Kabir, lit. Big Holiday, for the entire Arab world. The holiday comes two months after Ramadan ends, and it symbolizes the sacrifice that Ambraham was going to make for God. The story is mostly the same in the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions except for the son to be sacrificed. The Jews and Christians say it was Isaac while the Muslims say it was Ishmael. Either way, the story is meant to emphasize the obdience of Abraham, and the holiday emphasizes the need for all to follow in his footsteps. However, as with all religious holidays and practice, the primary meaning and the execution of it are all very different.

In order to follow in the footsteps of Abraham, every Muslim family is supposed to sacrifice a sheep on the Eid. The day is similar to the Christian Christmas in the sense that the entire country comes to a stop–presents are given and money is spent where it has not been earned. The week leading up to the Eid, it became clear that Moroccans were getting more and more stressed about this very large holiday. Eid-begging is very common, and most people started off with “please give me money so that my family can buy a sheep.” Normal street-side vendors, who usually sell off-brand clothing and random house goods, had an overabundance of kinves and cleaning tools. Marjane (the hyper market) had set up a large tent to sell sheep, and they were even going to give away 100 sheep on the Eid. (The tradition is that a family that is weathy enough should buy two sheep and give one to another less fortunate family, but I did not hear of a single person doing that.)

If you can’t tell my tone is a little cynical about the holiday. Although I understand the importance in the Muslim tradition, it is hard for me to get behind anything that sanctifies the mass-killing of any animal. Furthermore, it only emphasizes which families are wealthy and which ones are not. My parking attendant had a goat in the back of his little truck, and all I could think was, “He must not have enough money for a sheep.” I actually felt bad for him. Normally, I try not to think in terms of wealth because then I feel overly responsible due to my converted income, but it is hard not to when such importance and pride is placed on the owning of a sheep.

My landlord invited me over to his house to watch the sacrifice and partake in the internal organs of their sheep.We watched the sheep meet it’s maker, and we laughed along with the family as the skinning process took place. Laughter was about the only emotion we could stomach between the river of blood and frying organs. We stomached it all not really because we agreed in it, but because we love our landlords and we wanted to respect their holiday.

There is something poetic about the concept that everyone that believes what you do is doing the same thing on the same day as you. It is as if action transcends locality and all people are one even if for only a short time and only with the words bismillah, in the name of God. In that moment all are equal, and the brother in the Nation of Islam, the royal Saudi Family, and Atlas Berber village are together as one. This is the beauty of Islam, the interconnectedness of it. There is something sacred in the unity, and even though I don’t always understand the impetus behind organized religion, I can respect any faith that strives for such connection and brotherhood.

A session of Moroccan thanksgivings

I know that I am a week late (and hence, probably 7 dollars short) but my Mom crossed an ocean to visit me, which means that the blog writing had to take a hiatus. I fully plan to detail her trip in a series of posts (because let’s face it, one long post is fairly daunting) but I intend to start from the very beginning: our Thanksgiving.

In my family, Thanksgiving has always been the really big holiday. It was the holiday where everyone gathered to eat food and generally comment on the growth and the progression of the grandkids, nieces, nephews, etc. The trials and tribulations of the past year would be rehashed, and yet somehow everything always ended in a laugh (maybe it was the beer, I don’t know…) There would always be the awkward first few days when I couldn’t remember half of the faces, but yet somehow everyone knew not only my name but also my entire life story. Then, there was that year when I finally got to sit at the big kids table, and I truly felt like a grown-up. (Yes, I know 18 definitely calls to mind the idea of an adult, but I was excited.) Granted, my family lives all over of the United States, so this very large reunion didn’t happen every year, but this is what I always think of when we say “Thanksgiving.”

This year, of course, I would be spending my holiday in Morocco. Therefore, when we combined Lufthansa’s fabulous one-day sale and Ryan Air’s always cheap tickets, we discovered that my Mom could fly to Morocco for less than $1,000 during this illustrious holiday. Granted, it wasn’t my entire family, but at least a small part of home could cross the Atlantic ocean.

She got here the night before Thanksgiving, so I’m sure a majority of her day was a blur of Jet Lag and way too many faces, but for me, it was one of the best Thanksgivings that I’ve ever had. The various American communities that I am part of in Fez decided to put on their version of Thanksgiving, which means that my mother and I partook in three different turkey-oriented festivities. The first was a potluck, where my mother was a huge hit, mostly because she brought the American staples: Jiffy cornbread mix and cranberries; both of which are impossible to reproduce in our Moroccan kitchens. The second was fancier set-menu kind of deal, where we enjoyed Quince and Apple pie and quite a lot of wine. The third was a small feast cooked entirely by a friend of mine on the following day (again my Mother was a hit because she brought the Stove Top.)

Although all three thanksgivings were fabulous and were perfect examples of people getting together to eat, drink, and enjoy in each other’s company, I am going to steal a story from the final Thanksgiving because it’s just too entertaining to pass up.

Here in Morocco, if you want meat of any sort, it is still quite normal to go to your local butcher and have it killed in front of you, especially when it comes to poultry. The concept of buying a back of frozen Purdue chicken breasts still escapes the majority of the population, except of course for the upper class. Either way, if you think about it, this is one of the most organic ways to eat an animal because it has a very open and healthy life until that final moment. Anyway, my friend (who cooked the entire thanksgiving by herself) bought a live turkey a few days before the event, in a typical Moroccan fashion. She lives on the top floor of an 8-story apartment, so she just kept the turkey on the roof, and the butcher would come by the day she needed. Until then, he had pretty free reign on the roof of this building, where he even had a little turkey pen.

Now, I have always wondered if  animals bred for consumption are aware when they are about to meet their maker, and this turkey gave me the answer. On the eve of Thanksgiving, he climbed on the ledge of this apartment building. The only other landing, besides the ground 8 stories away, was at least 150 m across the street and probably a 5 story drop down. He climbed down when my friend noticed his actions and went back into his turkey pen. The next morning, he had finished contemplating his options. Death was near and maybe those big wings could make the distance. Therefore, as my friend climbed onto the roof he climbed back onto the ledge. He took one final look at his would-be predator and set to flight.

Upon landing safely on the other ledge, said turkey finally grasped his freedom. In another bold move he flew to another nearby landing placing him and his captor even further away. My friend stood there and watched from the balcony until her Thanksgiving dinner was well out of sight.

Granted, another turkey was not so lucky because we will had a fabulous turkey dinner that night, but at least one very large bird had one thing to be thankful for this season: freedom.