I am a blogging slacker. I have come to terms with it and I think you all should too. Believe me- not writing pains me just as much, in fact most likely infinitely more, than not reading about my Moroccan escapades pains you. The good news is it has been an action-packed five weeks. The lack of “bloggage” is not at all indicative of a lack of blog-worthy events. In fact, just the opposite is true. Somewhere in between the Mediterranean-hopping, midterm-cramming, and deep cultural contemplations, blogging got shoved to the backburner. But I am back in the game as they say! My head is spinning with musings at such speeds that my fingers can’t type fast enough! So here we go. I will do my best to sum up the most noteworthy moments of this last Moroccan month without writing an epic. Wish me luck!

Madrid
Si, si…I am well aware that Madrid is in fact not in Morocco and I am supposed to be recapping my Moroccan experiences here. However, my trans-Mediterranean jaunt has been one of the highlights of my trip and this blog entry is not complete without it!

If I had to sum up the weekend in one word it would be “connection.” If I could use three I would also say ‘tapas’ and ‘sangria’…but let’s stick to the first. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, my trip to Madrid showed me the value, stamina and outright fun of human connection.

I traveled with my friends Natalie and Kayla, both international students like me at Al Akhawayn. One of Ramadan’s many assets is that its end entails a five day weekend and a prime opportunity for cheap transcontinental travel! Though I half-lamented not being in Morocco for the Aid feast which brings the holy month to a close, I was nonetheless thrilled at the chance to jet off to Spain. I was looking forward to a little dose of Europe, not to mention a respite from multilingual communication. My Arabic and French skills, although far from proficient, are a hot commodity in Morocco and at times boost my popularity as a travel buddy. My Spanish vocab on the other hand, consisting of ‘taco’, ‘burrito’ and ‘hot tamale’, gave me an excuse to sit back and let someone else do the talking!

Before we set off, Natalie worked up the nerve to call her father’s former Spanish exchange student, now a successful middle-aged oil advertising executive living in Madrid. Somewhere back in the mid 1970s a high-school Spanish boy from Madrid named José decided to complete his senior year of high school in a small Wisconsin town. Meanwhile, an all-American Midwestern family decided to open their home to an international student. Hence- José meets Bob. Some thirty years later Bob will send his oldest daughter Natalie off to Morocco. Natalie will find a cheap flight to Madrid. Bob will remember how much he liked José and tell his daughter to call him. José in turn will remember how Bob taught him English, played soccer with him, and during that year in small-town Wisconsin became like a big brother. And, because of an international connection forged between two adolescent boys three decades ago, José will pick Natalie and her friends up from the airport, leave them the keys to his apartment for the weekend, buy them groceries, and call up his twenty-something year old neighbors to show the girls around Madrid. The connection web begins…

We met Miguel and Alex after they came home from playing football- not the beer-belly macho American variety mind you but the all-consuming phenomenon that is sweeping the rest of the world save the U.S. “What time do you usually go to bed?” They asked us. “Are you okay staying out until 5 or 6 a.m.?” I laughed. What kind of crazy night-owl insomniacs stay out until 5 a.m.!? Well, as it turns out, just about every Madridian between the ages of 14 and 45!

For “dinner” we ate plates of tapas at 11p.m. My friend Becca, a Knoxville native like myself who is studying in Madrid, met us for dinner and brought her friend Megan along. I will not name names but I daresay that the next in a series of connections began to form that evening. Let’s just say that this chance meeting between our Spanish guides and our friends may have inspired an international romance or two. Or, if nothing else, they gained some new Spanish friends to show them around the city.

Later that weekend, Natalie called Rachel, an old high school friend who now lives in Madrid. After a semester abroad in Madrid two years ago, Rachel did what most of us would only dream of doing. She stayed. She fell in love with the city, presumably the language as well, and had the courage to up and transfer her credits, her clothes, and essentially her life to this foreign city. Although she only had a couple years of textbook Spanish under her belt then, Rachel now speaks like a native, lisp and all! The only thing that betrays her nationality is her blond hair. I was impressed by her sense of adventure and sense of self. She really proved to me that we can write our own stories and to a certain degree make life unfold as we wish it to.

Ok, now back to the theme here…It turns out that Rachel had interned at the very same office that Becca is currently working for in Madrid. The two girls bonded over work gossip about the staff of Hot English, a Madrid-based English language magazine aimed to teach Spaniards English. Perhaps it is a small coincidence that Becca should happen to intern at Rachel’s former post; however, when I thought about all the coincidences and chances and connections spanning continents and decades in just this one weekend, I couldn’t help but be amazed. That I should meet Natalie, that Natalie’s dad should keep up with a long ago friend from Spain, that one of this man’s neighbors should spark a connection with a friend of a friend from Knoxville, and so on and so on….Walt Disney was on to something. We don’t need singing dolls in lederhosen and magical boat rides to tell us that the world is in fact pretty small if you let it be. Human connection is a powerful thing. It can span continents and time. It builds on itself. A friend of a friend of a friend counts for something. In fact, it counts for quite a lot. I think connections make the world worth traveling. The sights are amazing, yes, but it is the people who really make the experience!

That said, I think I will devote just a little space to the actual sites and sounds of the city.
I was surprised by the architecture of Madrid. The post office could easily be mistaken for a palace. The winding pedestrian streets and large plazas invite street performers, which were bountiful on this “Columbus Day” weekend. In Spain, Columbus is somewhat of a national treasure, having “discovered” the Americas for the monarchy in the fifteenth century. In a single day we stumbled upon musicians, salsa dancers and countless human statues who take the saying “stay in character” to heart. These human statues paint their skin gold or silver, which makes for an interesting to and from work commute I imagine. They hold their poses so well that telling the difference between a real statue and one with a pulse requires intense scrutiny. Of course they will move for a coin in the coffer or a photo op if the price is right, but most of their job is to sit still and look lifeless.

We visited the famous Prado Museum where we saw tons of Francisco Goya paintings among others. We pushed our way through the meandering and crowded street market of El Rastro. We lay in the sun on the grass in El Retiro Park. In Morocco, grass is a prized and rare possession and lounging in it is a faux pas. As you can imagine, we were delighted to bask in the Spanish sun! We ate long leisurely meals of paella and sangria! We even ate Indian food…not so easy to come by in Morocco either.

The weekend was what I would consider a vacation. Studying and traveling in Morocco is an experience, an amazing one at that, but not a vacation in my book. My trans-Mediterranean trip was a perfect way to wind-down before gearing up for midterms.

Exporting Racism
I guess I expected some anti-Semitic comments in Morocco. I have heard that “no Jews died in 9/11 because they all knew about.” In fact, some go so far as to claim Israel orchestrated the attacks. I have also heard that Jews always have ulterior motives, not matter how long you’ve known them or how benign they may seem. As you can imagine, this is all news to me!

It is not these anti-Semitic comments and blatant fallacies that surprise me though. What deeply shocks and worries me is the image that Moroccans seem to have of African Americans. Along with blue jeans, Coca-cola and Brad Pitt, I fear that America is exporting racism.

I have had three encounters that have led me to this startling conclusion. One night while I was having dinner with my Moroccan friend in her room, the conversation turned toward American culture and society. My friend is applying for graduate schools in the States and had tons of questions about what to expect. “Is it true,” she asked, “that the black people in America are bad? Because my sister’s friend was raped by black men in America. And, I think they are bad people who do bad things.” She proceeded to tell me about the crime and that she was afraid of black people because of what she had heard. “What do you think Jill?” she asked.

I took a deep breath. I was angry- not at her of course but at my own society. I was angry at a society that is structured so that one group is given a raw deal from the beginning, which stacks the odds against them. I was angry at a media system which thrives on bad news and at an entertainment industry that sells “ghetto” images. It is no wonder that someone half-way around the world who has never set foot in America would think that black Americans are bad. The news tells them that. The movies tell them that. And one account from a trustworthy source, a sister’s friend, can confirm this misconception.

“No.” I told her. “Black Americans are not bad. There are always people who do bad things. White people, Chinese people, Arabs…but the group as a whole is not bad because of those actions.” I wanted to explain more, but how do you encapsulate centuries of emotionally-laden social and economic history in a sound-bite? I regret that I might not have gotten through to her. “Still,” she responded. “I think these black Americans are not good.”

On another occasion, the Arabic word for “race” was written in a story we were studying in class. As our professor usually does with unfamiliar vocabulary, he constructed a sentence using the new word. The sentence was more or less, “Americans don’t like people whose race is black.” Again, I was floored. Here, a very educated man who had even spent time teaching in the U.S. was propagating this idea of undisputed racism in America. “Maybe that was truer in the past,” we told our professor, “but not anymore.”

Lastly, an American friend of mine was talking to a Moroccan student who casually said something along the lines of “Black Americans are pretty lazy, don’t you think?” Needless to say she was shocked, as much by his supposition that she too thought this than by his actual words.

What kind of influence does our country have on the world? Do we even realize that along with hamburgers and Coke the world is digesting our polluted past and ongoing racial issues? It is more dangerous, I think, for a Moroccan to be prejudiced against black Americans than for a white American to racist. A white American at least can interact with black Americans. There is a potential there for change of heart, maybe only a small window, but change is nonetheless possible. On the other hand, across the Atlantic, the only interaction Moroccans will likely have with black Americans is through the television, the internet, music and the movies. They can take their conspiracy theories and misconceptions and live in world that confirms them rather than challenges them. I can make my speech about everyone being equal, about the influence of media, etc….but is it enough? I doubt it. I am deeply afraid that America is exporting racism.

Marrakech
This famed city of Morocco lives up to its reputation. It is touristy, slightly overpriced, and incredibly crowded. Yet despite all that, its snake-charmers, posh night clubs, fresh orange juice stands, and intricate medina make the city well worth the nine hour train ride from Meknes. Marrakech is in Southern, Morocco where temperatures even in November are in the 70s.

Djemaa el Fna, the big square at the center of the medina, was our reference point for the weekend. The 220 foot tall minaret of the Al Koutoubia Mosque nearby made it easy to recognize. The square is the largest one in Africa and a UNESCO world heritage site. During the day, the square is crammed with snake charmers, henna artists, performers in jellabas, fruit vendors, spice merchants, and monkey trainers. Wide-eyed tourists in tank tops and shorts meander through the chaos, no doubt paying too much for their Moroccan souvenirs. Of all the cities I’ve visited, Marrakech boasts the most blatant tourists! At night, the square resembles a county fair à la Moroccain. Huge white tents with long picnic tables take over the area. Smoke coats the night sky as kebab-vendors cook fresh meats and tajines for hungry tourists. After dinner one night, we hit up one of the tea stands for tea and dessert that is distinctly marrakechi. I couldn’t tell you the name of it but a tiny sip of that tea will clear up a stuffy nose in an instant. If cinnamon, menthol, wasabi, black tea and sugar got together the outcome might be akin to this tea. I don’t think I am really doing it justice though. The accompanying dessert falls into the love it or hate it category. I, being a rather undiscriminating and very adventurous eater, loved it. Its consistency is less than cake and more than pudding. It is not exactly sweet either but tastes a little bit like gingerbread without all the sugar. It crumbles in the spoon and sort of melts in your mouth.

Our days were mostly spent winding our way through the medina, chit-chatting in Arabic with shopkeepers, and honing our bargaining skills. I must say that my stick-to-it ability has much improved and when the time calls I can bargain with the best of them! My friend Katie cracked me up every time! “How much is this?” she’d ask in Arabic. The shopkeeper would reply and no matter his answer, every single time, Katie’s face would contort in a look of disgust that said “No sir, you are not taking me for a ride.” Then, in a high-pitched mocking yet sing-songy voice she would retort the price, scoff, and motion for us to leave. That is when the shop owner would swoop back in and lower his asking price. I mourn for the unsuspecting tourists whose key chains and t-shirts cost as much as scarves and pottery.

Our hotel was in the middle of the medina with a roof-top terrace overlooking the city. On night we sat up there as the sun set and listened to the call to prayer echoing from dozens of mosques around us. The calls created a melody. It wasn’t in sync but it was lulling in a way. For that minute or so, we all quieted and just listened. I reminded myself of where I was, what a unique experience I was having, and how my life is shaping up to be a pretty remarkable journey.

Cat-calls and Crossing lines
Inevitably, walking around the old city in a group of seven American girls elicited some cat-calling. For the most part it was benign.

“Oh you have beautiful eyes. Want a Moroccan husband?”
“The Spice Girls!” (I must have heard this one a half a dozen times)
“How many camels? How many camels?” (Sorry boys, this girl is not for sale and for an entire camel farm!)
And my favorite- When we would politely decline a marriage proposal or an invitation into a shop in Arabic some wise guys would reply in accented English, “I don’t speak Arabic. I am American!”

A couple of times the banter passed friendly and become unnerving. Walking through the ville nouvelle of Marrakech one night, two different sets of men on motorcycles followed us. They were shouting vulgarities and I felt at once disgusted, indignant, saddened and afraid. Another night we were walking along the beach in a town called Essaouira, which we visited after Marrakech. Two different men trailed behind us, not saying anything but certainly making their presence known. I know that these behaviors and attitudes are not unique to Morocco. I don’t blame Moroccan culture. All over the world women hear these same comments. All over the world women are disrespected. It is not solely because we are American that we drew so much attention, although that is certainly part of it. I don’t know if there is an answer to the issue.

I think my friend Natalie may have inadvertently come up with a cure for unsolicited attention. After lounging in the sand at the beach for a while, we decided to walk back to our hotel in the medina. Natalie apparently caught someone’s eye and as she approached he said, “Oh you have such nice eyes. How many camels?” When she passed him and he saw her from the back, he said in a rather appalled tone of voice, “Oh! You are so sandy!”

We laughed the whole way back. It seems a sandy bottom is enough to deter even the most vociferous of pursuers!

Yom Kippur à la Morocco

When the question of religion arises, I have my light-hearted answer down-pat and ready to go. “I’m Jew-ish,” I say, emphasizing the last syllable and wavering my hand. Heaven forbid anyone get the wrong impression that they are in the presence of a Shabbat-observing, Bat Mitzvahed Talmudic scholar. I don’t mean to downplay my ties to Judaism. I have eaten my fair share of Seder dinners, lit the menorah quite a few times (albeit alongside the Christmas tree), and even attended Hebrew school for a year or two. Yet my “Jewishness” admittedly does not go far beyond the holiday hallmarks of the religion and a general understanding of its theology.

So, when the opportunity to spend Yom Kippur with a Jewish Moroccan couple came my way, I thought it was prime time to assert the first syllable of my identity. For the weekend anyway, I would put the “ish” aside and be a Jew. How many chances will I have to spend the holiest of Jewish holy days in a Moroccan synagogue? This was a chance not only to reconnect with Judaism, but to catch a glimpse of the life of a small, yet culturally and historically rich, community- the Jews of Morocco.

Coincidentally, the holiest of Jewish holy days fell this year within the holiest of Islamic holy months. While I had tried my hand at fasting for Ramadan and surrendered after a mere two days, I would now be giving it another go in the name of atonement for Yom Kippur.

I traveled to Fez with two other American classmates- Danny, who I am convinced knows more about Judaism than your average rabbi, and Sarah, about as religious as I am but equally excited for the experience! On Friday afternoon we met our hosts Danielle and Jacques Mamane. Jacques can trace his ancestry to the Spanish Inquisition in 1492 when his relatives fled from Spain to Morocco. Both Danielle and Jacques grew up in Fez. They are now in their mid-sixties and have two grown daughters living in Paris.

The Mamanes have been Moroccan for centuries, but make a point of distinguishing themselves from Muslim Moroccans. “Our culture is French,” said Jacques. “We speak French and only speak Arabic when we have to.” When the French made Morocco a protectorate in 1912, they gave preferential treatment to the Jews. Now that the number of Jews in Morocco is down from 300,000 in 1948 to only around 7,000 today, due to mass immigration to Israel, I think Jews like the Mamanes feel an even bigger need to guard their community and their unique character.

From the moment Jacques met us at the hotel, I was immediately at ease. Through his broken English, Jacques cracked jokes that only a sweet old man can get away with. “In Morocco,” he said as Sarah and I trailed behind Danny and Jacques, “women are always in the back!” He smiled his at us as we piled into the car to go to his house for dinner.
Danielle greeted us with open arms and two French bisous (kisses) on each of our cheeks. She speaks beautiful English and immediately began questioning us about our lives, families, ambitions…”I am not the CIA,” she kept insisting!

We soon moved out conversation from the couch to the table and sat down with a cup of kosher wine to welcome Yom Kippur and eat our last meal before our day of fasting. Danielle and Jacques, in true grandparent fashion, kept insisting we eat more. “What can I say?” Danielle laughed, “Jewish mothers are the same all over the world.”

Every bite I ate at that table was one to be remembered- from the dozen or so appetizer salads (marinated peppers, baba ganoush, carrots) to the roasted red pepper meat and chicken to the last crumb of chocolate coconut pound cake and cup of mint tea. I later discovered that Danielle is a published chef and has an acclaimed cook book on Sephardic Moroccan cuisine. I do not like to solicit but for your own sake you should definitely order this book- The Scent of Orange Blossoms by Danielle Mamane, Amazon.com. Your taste buds will thank you! The two meals I ate with the Mamanes were the best two I’ve eaten yet in Morocco. Danielle showed us her garden where she grows many of her ingredients.

After dinner Jacques, Danny, Sarah and I went to the synagogue. Danielle stayed home, for reasons which I later discovered. Unless you knew explicitly which street, which color door, and roughly how many paces it is away from the closest landmark, you would never know a synagogue even existed in Fez. The door is purposefully as inconspicuous as possible. Only after entering and climbing the narrow stairs do you see a small Star of David hanging.

At the top of the stairs, Sarah and I entered through a door on the left. We found ourselves in a long narrow section of the tiny sanctuary, partitioned off by a white curtain. About ten other women sat on two long benches, whispering to one another and looking, quite honestly, bored, hot and tired. On the other side of the curtain, two dozen or so older men wearing tallits (prayer shawls) and yarmulkes chanted in prayer. Their voices wove in and out of harmony, responding to the singing recitations of the rabbi. At times though, their voices were simply cacophony, not helped much by the fact that the entire service was in Hebrew. I didn’t recognize any of the melodies, which Danny said was probably due to differences between Sephardic Judaism (Spanish/Middle Eastern) and Ashkenazi Judaism (Eastern European).

Meanwhile, on the other side of the curtain, old ladies gossiped in quiet French. Through the curtain a few pious men turned around to “shhh” the women. Only a couple women had prayer books in their hands and only occasionally looked as though they were following along. Every once in a while the woman stood when they saw the blurred outlines of the men’s figures rising.

The men’s voices never stopped for the two hours of service Friday night and the nearly eight hours on Saturday. “Sometimes,” said Jacques explaining his mysterious disappearances from service, “I just have to go for a long walk. I am like a child. I can’t sit in one place too long!”

In contrast, barley an “Amen” came from the women. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around this dichotomy. Was it inequality? Tradition? Did the women mind that while their men were in prayer they were left so chat in the back of the sanctuary? Danny, the aforementioned Judaism connoisseur, said that in orthodox tradition women are not really required to pray because they are believed to be already spiritually superior to men and closer to God. While I have no problem consenting to women’s superiority (a true product of the “you go girl” era I suppose), I couldn’t quite come to terms with this blatant division of the sexes. I respect the separation of the sexes in synagogue and understand its logic, but why the lack of participation of the women? It made more sense to me now that Danielle stayed at home.

When we got back to the Mamanes on Saturday night, Danielle had another delicious meal waiting for us. After 24 hours of fasting, the already mouthwatering food took on an even deeper delectability. This evening, we were all more relaxed than the one before. Our souls had been cleansed and we had made new connections with one another. The Mamanes treated us like family, inviting us to Shabbat or just for a visit any time we wished. I returned to campus that night with a new family in Fez, a cleansed soul (let’s hope, having spent more hours in synagogue the past two days then the past ten years combined), and a better understanding of such a unique sect of Moroccan society. I had reclaimed a little bit of that first syllable of my religion after all and had a wonderful time in the process!

Battle of the Belly-dance

Though some of you are familiar with this story, having stood by me through me moments of self-doubt vis-à-vis advice-seeking emails, I thought I would now share this ordeal with all of you. Perhaps you, too, can see some wisdom, some humor, and maybe even some overarching life lesson in all of this! The moral of the story- Life’s a dance! Don’t sit it out!

Thursday September 13, 2007
Tonight, I came face to face with one of my worst fears! I went to my first belly-dancing class, which was fun enough given that my hips can only really move about a quarter of an inch and even then they are not synchronized. That's not to mention my “butt”, if you can call it that, which has no jiggle to its name. Anyway, I thought it would be fun to go to class, stand closer to the back and maybe, just maybe, come December I would be a regular Shakira of Morocco. All was well (except of course for the aforementioned anatomical impediments) until at the end of the class all twenty or so girls in the class formed a large circle. Innocent group stretching? Oh no! Time for monkey in the middle. Show off your moves while everyone else's eyes are all on YOU! I panicked! At that moment I realized that what I am afraid in the entire world, more than sharks, lighting and shaky airplanes combined, is dancing in the middle of a circle. I don't know how I have avoided it throughout my twenty years of middle school dances, dorm room dance parties, and weddings, but I have. At that moment, I scrambled for the door but that omniscient little belly-dancing instructor caught me! As I was hastily putting on my socks she beckoned me to the floor. "Non, non," I mustered up with my best and bravest French. "La prochaine fois (the next time)." She relented and as I bolted from the studio of hips and wiggles I asked myself "will there be a next time?" Do I belly-dance in Morocco and risk complete embarrassment in front of girls whose hips and bellies were born for this? Do I dash out of class before the circle of shame? Skip the whole ordeal? I’ve certainly got a lot to ponder…this decision could change my life…or at least the life of my hips!

Tuesday, September 18
Oh the sweet taste of victory! I’m not one to spoil endings but I can’t wait until the end of this entry to say “I conquered the circle!” Well, maybe “conquer” is too strong a word, but in any case I got myself (hips, belly and booty included) into the middle of that dang circle and I danced! It took some clapping, some mighty “woos” of support from my fellow American belly-dancers-in-training (Abdits as I like to say), and a good dose of fearlessness, but I shook it “like a Polaroid picture”. (That was admittedly a slight exaggeration.) However, thanks to all the wise words of encouragement from across the Atlantic and some serious self-reflection, this girl let out her inner Shakira! Bet you didn’t know I had one of those did you? I certainly didn’t. All my 15 seconds of glory at least impressed one fellow Abdit (see above) who said to me after class, “I thought you said your hips didn’t move.” “Oh silly girl,” thought I. “Haven’t you ever heard of modesty?” (PS-I apologize for the abundance of hyperboles and/or white lies in this story.) What is even more exciting is that after class I was able to advise another circle-phobe like my (former) self. I told her about my experience last week, my plea for advice from overseas, my moment of awakening, and even my pre-class Dirty Dancing Havana Nights solo dance party in my room! In the end, it’s all about fun, right? And if I get in killer shape and teach my hips some moves in the process than what an amazing deal is that!?

Ramadan Mubarak Sayeed!
Ramadan is upon us- the month in which the Qur’an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. It is the most important month of the Islamic year. It is also the month in which American exchange students in Morocco furtively slip into the cafeteria for lunch or gulp sips of water behind closed doors. From sunrise to sundown, Muslims cannot eat, drink, smoke, or engage in various other sorts of activities (use your imagination). So, those of us who aren’t participating in sawm (fasting) have a difficult time finding food and an even harder time reconciling our consciences to the fact that we are chowing down while others among us are light-headed, cranky, and counting down the minutes until Ftoor (the breaking of the fast).
The non-Muslims of the international students fall into three camps;

1. The serious fasters- These people are the hard-core “When in Romers.” They wake up at 4am to eat. They swear off water and chewing gum. You can tell who they are by the exhausted looks on their faces around 4pm and then, two hours later, the overjoyed looks on their faces when the voice from the mosque’s loudspeaker announces that the sun is finally down! These international fasters may not subscribe to the religiosity of the month, but they are certainly committed to the cultural experience.
2. The fair-weather fasters- This group, to which I belong, is willing to give this whole fasting thing a try but is a little daunted by the prospect of one month of night-owl noshing. I, for one, lasted the first two days. My roommate and I woke up at 4:30am to eat an oatmeal-like meal and then I didn’t eat again until the 6:30pm Ftoor. We fair-weather fasters have different reasons for our fickleness. For me, it was the fact that on an empty stomach my attention span dropped to about thirty seconds and my energy level while working out rivaled a slug’s. Some may call it cheating, but I plan to fast for at least two days again right before the end of Ramadan and the big feast holiday Eid ul-Fitr. I want to feel like I at least kind of earned the celebration!
3. The No-Way-in Heck Contingent- This group did not try fasting and did not want to try fasting. “This is not my religion/culture/country” is a common argument. While still respectful of the fasters, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, members of this group prefer to stick to their three meals a DAY routine.

Whatever, one’s persuasion, it is hard to deny that we are in the midst of an incredible phenomenon. Fasting is meant to make one empathize with the hungry and poor and also get closer to God. What is more, Ramadan is the quintessential communal event. Families and friends join together every single night to break the fast with mint tea, hard-boiled eggs, chick-pea soup called harira, sugary fried pastries called shubekea, dates, and tons of delicious breads. It is a “carbo-load” as one of my friends remarked, but it is absolutely delicious. My roommate and her friends cook Ftoor together in the dorm kitchen. Groups of students picnic together outside with the “Ftoor to go” that the cafeteria serves. The extremes of lethargy and brain-lapses during the day are wiped away by the sense of community and celebration at night.

Adjusting to Ramadan is certainly not easy, whether one is a serious faster or an adamant eater. Hours of operation change everywhere from the campus store to the gym to restaurants. Eating during the day has a tendency to make one feel illicit or at least indulgent. However, for all its quirks, Ramadan is an amazing experience. It is a month of spirituality, self-control community, and celebration. And I can appreciate that on a full or empty stomach!


Free expression?
I am taking a course called International Communication. Recently, a reoccurring topic of conversation in class has been censorship and media for the purpose of national development. In a rather heated exchange in which our professor was arguing that blogs in Morocco could represent a form of counter-regime, self-published media, one out-spoken classmate of mine replied, “Have you ever tried writing a blog against the King?” Silence. Uncomfortable laughter. Change of topic.

Take from this account what you will. Honestly, I am not quite sure what to make of it myself. The current king is markedly more progressive than his predecessors. Apparently, though, Moroccan media is not quite a free speech forum. However, since this is a blog and I am in Morocco I think I’ll stop here and leave you to draw your own conclusions.

FES

With a backpack of clothes, a guidebook, and four other students, I left campus on Friday geared up for my first real weekend adventure in Morocco. We were headed to Fez, Morocco’s third largest city. Fez is also one of the four imperial cities of Morocco, which have at one time or another served as the capital. I was naïve to my own naiveté about travel, counting on my guidebook (which has admittedly become somewhat of an appendage) and the companionship of three other female students to navigate me through the weekend. Thus, I didn’t realize at the time what a fortune twist of events it was when Anass, a Moroccan student we’d met, flagged us down as we were leaving campus. He too was headed for Fès and offered to share a cab. In the end, Anass proved an indispensable part of the weekend, from finding restaurants and cabs to warding off false tour guides and ensuring our safety.

As the taxi wound down the rugged mountain side to Fez, I saw parts of Morocco that the isolated and well-kempt campus of AUI did not exhibit. Children herded sheep alongside the road. Women wearing long jellabas guided donkeys saddled with goods. Every hundred yards we’d pass by someone sitting in the little shade available alongside the road, selling jars of olive oil or honey. Looking backwards, the earthen houses built into the mountainside popped up like a sand-colored landscape in a children’s pop-up picture book.

One hour and a few heart-attacks later (thanks to the driver’s persistent passing of “slow” cars along hair-pin turns), we arrived in Fez. Because we were first-timers, we opted to stay in a chain hotel in New Fez, or Fez El-Jdid, rather than venture to Fez El-Bali (Old Fez), which offered potentially cheaper, more authentic, and frequently more Spartan accommodations (aka- cold showers and questionable pluming). New Fez is actually somewhat of a misnomer. It was built in the 13th century, and though it is young compared to Fez El-Bali, built in 808, New Fes is equally rich in history.

Saturday morning we headed into the medina, the old-walled city and must-see attraction for Fez tourists. Fez El Bali is considered the largest contiguous car-free urban area in the world. It is also on of UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites.

We entered the medina through the main gate called Bab Bou Jeloud. Immediately my senses were flooded with competing sights, smells, and sounds as I tried to discern which path led through the chaos to the first guide-book attraction. After only a couple minutes into the medina, Anass motioned for us to turn around and follow him back out Bab Bou Jeloud. Anass, a Moroccan male accompanying four American girls, was mistaken for a “faux guide.” Other would-be faux guides were trying to snatch his business! Fez police have recently cracked down on illegal guides but inevitably, if you enter the medina with a guide-book, a camera, or a confused look on your face, you will be accosted by a handful of people more than willing to take you around the medina for the right price.

We reentered the medina, this time with our police-approved official guide Hamido. Hamido grew up within the walls of Fez El-Bali and new the winding labyrinth like the back of his hand. As we wove through the crowded stone alleys we quickly caught on to key Arabic phrases- “balak” (look out) and “andak” (move). The oblivious tourist was likely to get rammed by a donkey, a wheelbarrow, or a man shouldering a heavy load. Though I let my eyes wander from the dangling camel heads to the colorful cloths to the fish for sale to the Nikes hanging on display, I quickly learned to jump aside at a second’s notice.

According to Hamido, 250,000 people live within the walls of the medina. I wondered as we ducked through short door frames and twisted up and down uneven alleys, how many of those 250,000 people had gotten lost on their way home?! Hamido showed us the common ovens where families bring their own dough to cook over the wood. We then stopped by Madrasa Bou Inania, a remarkable theological school built in the 1350’s. Hamido pointed out the feats of Islamic architecture and the elaborate carvings and writing around the madrasa.

We entered the carpenter’s market where engaged couple come to pick out there elaborate decorated thrones for their wedding receptions. Weddings here are a serious business lasting some 10 hours and entailing at least four outfit changes for the newlyweds. The groom’s family must buy the bride a gold belt to wear for the ceremony thus, as Hamido says, the skinnier the bride the better!

Next, we visited the tannery where animal skins are dyed for purses, clothing, and belts. As we entered the tannery we were each handed a bundle of fresh mint to hold to our noses to block the pungent odor of animal skins in the process of drying and dyeing. We climbed to the roof of the tannery which overlooked enormous vats of natural dyes and leather drying in the air.

For lunch, Hamido led us to, quite literally, a hole in the wall. Inside the doorway, I stepped into a gorgeous tiled Moroccan salon. Couches surrounded the tables and we indulged in a three course meal of salads followed by couscous, tajines (meats cooked in clay pots), and pastilla (a delicious pastry sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and stuffed with chicken and raisins) and finally fresh fruit.

Our bellies full and our hearts content, we continued to our next stop- a Berber weaving shop. Here, we were treated to mint tea, a loom demonstration, and an elaborate showing of at least twenty hand-made rugs and blankets. “Go ahead. Take you sandals off and walk on it! It is like a massage for the feet!” encouraged the shop owner. Each woven piece was unique with symbol of the Berber tribe in the middle and the family’s symbol adorning the outer pattern. All the vibrant blues, pinks and yellows come from natural dyes of like saphron and indigo, etc. After the ceremonial display, we each got a reduced “sister price” for the Berber blankets we purchased. It has proved a welcome addition to my beige and barren dorm room!

Then, Hamido led us through a tiny passage and, remarkably, we emerged into a high-ceilinged cloth shop where the men were hard at work on their giant looms as well. We each donned one of the four-styles of turbans for a picture and continued on through the maze.

After an action-packed, noisy and exhilarating six hours in the medina, Hamido led us outside of the medina walls where the environment immediately shifted from chaos to calm. I was no longer in imminent danger of a being run over by a donkey or mistakenly walking into a hanging camel head at the butchers! I felt as though I had just stepped out of another world- labyrinth of history and culture, a self-contained walled community where traditions and modernity blend seamlessly together.

Ahlan Wa Sahlan
Bienvenue
Welcome to Morocco!

The Journey – Aug 23-24
A direct flight from JFK airport to Rabat, Morocco takes approximately seven hours. A series of delayed flights, consequent route changes, and a mini tour of the EU’s airports cost me some thirty odd hours and my two pieces of luggage, over which I had belabored for literally days! However, despite my lack of sleep, food, and knowledge of Spanish, which led to tears at the Air Iberia ticket counter in Madrid, I couldn’t help but feel exhilarated as my plane finally touched down at midnight in Fez, Morocco! I may not have had my clothes, my sanity, or an intact circadian rhythm, but ready or not this was it. Spending a semester at Al Akhawayn University in Iftane, Morocco was no longer a nice plan on paper or a pipe-dream fed by Lonely Planet guide books.

As the blue university 12-seater van sped away from the airport down dark streets, I gazed out the window at the orange sun over shapes that could only mountains. The beat of the driver’s Arabic music rang in my ears. I was utterly exhausted and down my two bags, yes, but still I was thrilled to be in the moment, heading down the road to a new experience.

The Welcome- the first few days
I know I am in Morocco, but the cookie-cutter red roofed chalet-style buildings of Al Akhawayn keep tricking me into believing I am in Switzerland. I half-expect yodeling to erupt at any moment. The campus is beautiful, though I admit I am still getting lost among the nearly-identical buildings. My dorm room is much bigger than those I’ve lived in in the past, and I have a decent view of the trees and Middle Atlas “mountains” (more akin to large hills really) from my window. I keep getting a kick out of the internet- Google pops up in Arabic and the cursor goes from right to left. My roommate, Amal, is from Casablanca. She is friendly, talkative, willing to converse in French and Arabic even though her English is flawless, and she watches Oprah! I think I might be a little too excited about the latter quality!

We spent the first few days in International Student Orientation. Our sessions amounted to a barrage of dos/do nots concerning culture, travel, safety, health, classes etc. Dress code was a hot topic. During my packing blitz back home, I ruled out the idea of even brining sleeveless shirts. I’m going by the philosophy that erring on the conservative side is preferable to the alternative. Reputations here seem to be pretty important. For instance, we’ve been warned that spending one too many nights at the local bar can be detrimental to one’s image. Islam forbids alcohol, although non-Muslims can indulge. Some of the Moroccan students, however, seem to have no problem wearing halters and mini-skirts. I’ve been told this is strictly on-campus attire and these girls know the limits for clothing while in town or at home.

I am trying to retain as much of these dos and don’t as possible but I know that experience will be the best teacher. I am prepared to laugh at myself over my cultural faux pas should the need arise…and I am sure it will. Also, I have come to terms with that fact that in spite of my best efforts to speak the languages, follow cultural norms, and be respectful, I am inevitably going to stand out. There are not too many blond Moroccans!

Today was the first day of classes, although mine start tomorrow. I am anxious to get a feel for the academic environment. The nerd in me is really looking forward to reading my text books with titles like Poverty and Development in the 21st Century and Globalization and Politics of Development in the Middle East. I also can’t wait to get back in the swing of Arabic. Darija, the dialect spoken in Morocco, is a far cry from Modern Standard Arabic (MSA), the formal Arabic taught in the classroom. I hope to pick up a little darija so that I don’t sound like a haughty book snob when I order tea or fruit from a merchant in the local market. I’ve been speaking much more French than Arabic so far.

Last night I had dinner with my friend Soumaya from Rabat. I stayed with her family last May for a week. I was so surprised to run into her while eating at a café in Ifrane two days ago. I was busy sipping my sweet Moroccan mint tea (a staple beverage here) and eating my brochettes du poulet (chicken kebabs) when all of a sudden Soumaya came walking down the street. It turns out she is here on vacation with her family. Ifrane is a tourist-town, popular in the summer because of its relatively cool climate compared to the blazing South, coastal cities and lower elevations. There is not really much to Ifrane. The centre-ville has a few cafes and hotels while the marché (market area) boasts a dozen or so ice cream vendors, hodge-podge electronic shops, meat market, restaurants and miscellaneous shops with everything from shampoo to jellabas, a long woman’s cloak with a hood. The town entrance is guarded by a huge bronze lion. I’ve yet to get the story behind the beast, but I did take get a lovely photo with him!

I can’t wait to travel and really get a feel for the rest of Morocco. I have made it know to my fellow exchange students that should anyone want to go anywhere at anytime, I’m more than willing to tag along.

Monkeys, Music, and Couscous
On the last day of orientation, 200 new Al Akhawayn freshman and seventy-some international students boarded buses for Cedar Gourard, a nearby mountain park and resort area. When we got off the buses we headed into the forest, kicking up red dust everywhere. A few boys stood nearby offering donkey and horse rides. No more than ten feet into the trail sat several monkeys. Using my extensive zoological knowledge (aka-Google) I later identified these monkeys as the Barbary Macaques of the Middle Atlas. The monkeys paid no mind to the fact that 300 college students were suddenly swarming their habitat. In fact, they seemed to enjoy the company, letting students walk right up behind them to capture this Kodak moment. I even heard rumors of one monkey steeling a candy bar out of a one of the vendor’s boxes! One other monkey, who was plopped on the ground with his arms dangling lazily, looked unnervingly like a fat old man watching Sunday night football!

After a dusty 15 minute walk we came to a clearing. Some of the students said the scenery reminded them of Northern California. Four large tents were set up with tables underneath. A feast was in the making! Ten Moroccan men clad in long white robes and caps, beat on hand-held drums while their leader, a man in an orange robe, led them in a chant-like song. I joined in the dancing for a while, not really sure what to do but playing along anyway! This was traditional Moroccan music, staged and funded of course, but nonetheless entertaining. Eventually we shuffled over to the tents where we served Moroccan mint tea, followed by community style couscous with vegetables, chicken, and the most delicious grapes and melon I have ever tasted. If you took the best honeydew in the world and bred it with the best cantaloupe in the universe and then added extra juice and sugar, you might end up with something akin to this mouth-watering treat.

After lunch we wandered around the site, roaming through the herds of sheep and goats. We climbed a large hill and scoped out the view. I “rode” a horse- sort of. After a twenty seconds of trotting, which entailed me bumping up and down while searching frantically for something to hold on to and scrapping my leg against the stirrup, I politely asked the man running alongside the horse to please slow it down in French.

The feast and sun wore me out. I returned to AUI that afternoon ready for a nap, but also ready for the semester. The day trip was an excellent beginning to the school year.