Morocco: Culture & Ecology, Fall 2007

Posted by Aaron Bos-Lun at 04:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Kempie has sent text messages relaying the Morrockers adventures hiking the Todra Gorge, enjoying a Saharan sunset in Merzouga, and trekking into the great desert's dunes on camels. They should be back in email contact shortly--they are in Midelt today and will depart for Fes in the morning-- and will be adding detailed posts and photos about their activities since surfing in Essaouira. All are looking forward to their reunions with the homestay families and a return to language classes, independent study projects, and service work after the grand excursion south of the High Atlas.

John

Posted by Global LAB at 04:01 PM | Permalink

We're excited to be back in Fes and today the students found out that they will be staying with their same homestay families. This is a great opportunity for them to really deepen that relationship. They will begin darija lessons in the morning and then after class, they will move back into their homestay families' houses and get settled. In the afternoon we will have a calligraphy lesson.

Look for more here on the blog soon.

Kempie

Posted by Global LAB at 05:17 PM | Permalink

Lauren practicing her calligraphy

The students had their first calligraphy class yesterday. They learned how to make kasabas, calligraphy pens made out of bamboo, and practiced the ever patient dot drawing, the base of all calligraphy. Tomorrow they will learn to write their names in Arabic calligraphy.

Posted by at 12:05 PM | Permalink

One of the beautiful images from our travels--sunset in Marrakesh (photo: Alexis)

We have been making ourselves at home again in Fes. The students have begun their darija classes again and some promising new opportunities for independent study projects (ISPs) have appeared. The students spent this weekend with their families and engaging in their ISPs. Tomorrow we will resume our community service work at Ahli. The students will work with the children to create masks and engage in some theater activities. We will also begin some bellydancing classes! On Tuesday we will learn how to play a classical Andalusian instrument, the lute.

On Wednesday we head to Ifrane and Azrou to explore current ecological and development issues as well as to visit Al Akhawayn University (AUI). AUI was founded by King Hassan II with support from King Fahd of Saudi Arabia and is dedicated to promoting tolerance. Instruction at AUI is taught solely in English and AUI’s system of education is modelled off of that of higher education in the U.S.

Posted by at 07:58 PM | Permalink

At the Women's Argan Coop

Shwiya is possibly my favorite word in derija. Say it slowly. Shhhhhwiiiiiiya. Your teeth clench, your mouth puckers, and air noisily escapes your lips to produce the shw sound. Your mouth then widens (sideways of course) for the iiii, only to open lengthwise to make room for the YA. Shwiya.

What a fabulous word...useful in a manner of contexts. Its technical meaning, I believe, is "a little" or "a little bit," but the word shwiya means far more than this definition would imply.

Situation 1: you are not feeling well.
host mother/teacher/anyone: Labaas? (are you welll?)
you: shwiiiiya (said in a sad tone of voice, obviously, with emphasis on the shwiii)
host mother/teacher/anyone: (concerned look)
you: shwiya mriida (a little sick)

Situation 2: you said something in Arabic to someone and they assume you know Arabic well and begin talking to you quite rapidly, much to your dismay because you don't understand a word they're saying.
taxi cab driver/waiter/anyone you might meet randomly: lots of words in derija, of which you understand maybe two
you (when the person pauses in expectation of a response): shwiya arabiya (a little arabic) (said apologetically). Shwiya shwiya.

Situation 3: you're eating dinner with your host family and your host mother is constantly trying to get you to eat more
host mother: koulii koulii!!!! (eat eat!!) (she offers you more soup)
you: shwiya (as in, only a little more)
this allows you to be polite but also prevents you from becoming sick from well-intentioned forced overeating.

In short, shwiya rocks, and I might just bring it back to the U.S. with me--the most important import to the States from Morocco.

Onto ISPs.
For our last three weeks in Fes (only two weeks now...time moves far too swiftly here), I am continuing to meet with Fadoua, my peer mentor, once a week, and I have also taken up private calligraphy lessons twice a week!!

I share with Fadoua short stories and poems I have written while in Morocco, and she shares her poetry with me. We also trade books to read--she lent me several books (translated into English) by Moroccan authors, and we occasionally discuss them. However, I have found that it's somewhat difficult to discuss the literature because our approaches are so different. Our discussions usually consist of me saying something about the main point of a short story and asking her if she agrees or has a different opinion. Sometimes she nods, sometimes she presents another point that her teacher had brought up in discussion about the story, and that's where it ends.

I find my time with Fadoua to be extremely valuable not because of these half-discussions, but because of the stories we share through writing and just through talking as friends. I love reading her poetry; even as the words are usually very simple, the ideas portrayed behind the words are intensely emotional. The main themes in her poetry seem to me to reflect many of the main themes running through Moroccan short stories. I also enjoy giving her my own work to read. Her enthusiasm in reading my stories and poetry has increased my confidence substantially. I was particularly eager for her to read one very short story in which I exaggerated the Western world's misconceptions of Islam. The main character is a businessman who travels to an Arab country for his business, and he immediately begins making judgments on everything he sees. At one point, he meets a woman who completely transforms his viewpoint. Consciously or subconsciously (I'm really not sure), I wrote the story in the writing style of most of the Moroccan short stories that I've read. Anyway, in showing the story to Fadoua, I was somewhat concerned that she would take offense at the prejudices introduced in the beginning. My concerns were baseless, however, because she of course realizes such prejudices exist, and she loved the story. After absorbing each others' work, we just talk--about anything, really. I ask about her life, and I tell her about my experiences in Morocco. She even invited me to her uncle's engagement party! (I'm not sure yet if I can go). Our weekly meetings are a fabulous opportunity to share our cultures with each other, exploring the differences and similarities, and to simply enjoy each others' company. I love Fadoua!!!

As for my other ISP, I have had only one private calligraphy lesson so far, but I enjoyed it very much, and I'm looking forward to my next meeting with my teacher this Sunday. I have to do my homework though! So far, I've learned to write Alif, the easiest letter (just a line...but don't let that fool you...it's quite hard to draw a precise, beautiful alif), and Del. Multiple rules dictate the drawing of each letter, and my teacher is very very precise. This is so I will be able to recognize my mistakes on my own. My homework is to create an entire page of close-to-perfect alifs (which I can tell you, even if alif is just a line, is NOT easy) and a page of close-to-perfect dels.

Homestays!
I am very happy to say that we all have the same homestay families as last time in Fes. My host family is very hospitable and open. Whenever I see my host father, his mouth cracks open into a HUGE smile, and he says, "ALEEEXIIIIIS!" I never know what to say back, so I just laugh and nod. My host father and little sister, Aziza, playfully attack each other on occasion, my father always appearing very solemn and Aziza always falling over with laughter. The first time this happened, I was a little shocked, but Aziza's laughter is infectious, and I found myself laughing along. My older brother, Akram, has left for Germany, sadly, because I had enjoyed his company the last time we were in Fes. Raja, my seventeen-year-old sister, is a senior in high school and is preparing for her baccalaureate, so she's working hard, while Hamza, my fifteen-year-old brother, watches TV whenever he's home (according to my host mother, he does not like school). Raja is very fashionable, and I am quite jealous of her style...I occasionally find myself wishing I had my cute clothes from back home so we could compare fashions. Finally, my host mother says that I am like her daughter, just like Raja and Aziza, and is generally very kind. She always prepares delicious food with which I am eager to fill my stomach. I will be sorry to say goodbye to my Moroccan family, but I am sure we will keep in touch.

Lots of love to everyone back home, and I will see you soon!!!
-Alexis

Posted by Alexis at 01:35 PM | Permalink

Good afternoon from Ifrane,

We are staying on the beautiful campus of Al Akhawayn University. This morning the students had lectures on the history of Rai music and Moroccan geography. Yesterday we took a tour of the campus and learned about various rural development and ecological projects in Morocco. Our guides showed us how solar energy is used on campus. They also showed students a medicinal garden and explained some uses of the plants and herbs. Tomorrow we will be heading to Azrou to learn more about the environment and development. Stay tuned for more updates.

Lamia

Posted by at 01:57 PM | Permalink

Today we left the modern campus of AUI to head for the woods of Azrou. We traded students in trendy outfits for hungry monkeys! This morning, we visited the Azrou Center for Community Development, where we learned about current development initiatives in the Azrou community. These include literacy, IT, and women/human right's classes. The center also hosts a hair stylist training school and a carpet weaving room. In addition, the Azrou Center for Community Development includes health facilities, which offer medical services to local women and children free of cost.

In the afternoon, we visited the Cedre Gouraud, the oldest and largest cedar tree in the area. Azrou is known for its beautiful cedar trees all over Morocco and throughout some parts of the world. Deforestation and use of the trees for construction and firewood continue to pose a threat to this cedar population. In the ceder forest, we had an up close and personal encounter with the Barbary Macaque, a species of monkeys native to the area.

We finished our trip to Azrou up with a lovely couscous Friday meal with some local women in the community and visited the zawiya (religious shrine) of Sidi Absellam, a marabout responsible for bringing water and providing blessings to the area.

Tomorrow morning we will return to Fes.

Posted by at 04:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Ellie learning to throw on the potter's wheel during her Independent Study Project

This morning we arrived safely back in Fes. The students will be spend their weekends with their families and continue their ISPs. This week the students will continue their darija lesson as usual. We will also hear a lecture on Moroccan music, volunteer at Ahli, keep shaking our bodies at belly-dancing, and learn the art of woodcarving. On Thursday, we will have a Moroccan Thanksgiving in which we will learn to cook some Moroccan dishes and be grateful for our time left in Morocco!

Stay tuned for more...

Posted by at 05:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

This morning we had the first of two woodcarving lessons. We learned the process of carving a variety of motifs and each created a piece of our own (with some help from the professionals). Tomorrow we will learn how to paint our wood carved pieces. Off to bellydancing...

Posted by at 03:54 PM | Permalink

Our Community service in Imlil was not actually in Imlil. In fact, from Imlil we travelled to the highest tip top village in the High Atlas. Our host was the best skier in the High Atlas and in the season, worked as a ski monitor for the resort on the other side of the mountain. He was the representative in the village for the association that aims creating sustainable development in the high atlas communities and for two wonderful nights we stayed in his home with his family. The village was small, beautiful and so high that the clouds kissed your face. Our plan was to plant cherry trees so this oh-so-high up village with scarce resources would have a crop that they could sell annually in markets, rather than having to go long ways to find work to support their families.

We had two days to plant the 120 trees. A task that was accomplished thanks to the many village boys that came to work with us, more often than not showing us how best to improve our tree planting skillzzz. Indeed, each Moroccer (Formally the Morokettes) was paired up with a boy and together the American/Moroccan team was armed with a pick axe and a shovel to dig and plant trees in the rocky High Atlas soil.
At the start of the digging I was not particularly enthusiastic and was a little worried about the possibility of planting 120 trees in two days (we originally said that we were planting 60 trees in two days). But the thing was, even with one of number out due to sickness, the work went quickly and it was even fun. We had more than enough people and I ended up with two awesome partners, Ibrahim and Hicham.
They were probably the youngest boys there. Ibrahim did not look like more than 10, 11 at most. They were tireless and at times I had to fight for my turn with the shovel. I was astounded by the fact that an eleven year old boy was doing such hard work and doing that work much better than I could. My initial reaction was guilt, that it was not fair, that children should not be working. But, I realized that the reality of Morocco right now is such that many families cannot afford to let their children go to school, when for the survival of the family they need to work. What this project was working towards was a future for their community where families would have a means to support themselves and their children would be able to go to school. More projects like this one, with that goal in mind, headed and advocated by the community that they are for, are needed.
In the end we did plant those 120 trees and at the end of the second day we went to sleep sweaty, exhausted, and happy. The High Atlas was one of my favourite parts of Morocco. I loved the hospitable people, like the old women who would stop us on the road to give us walnuts (a nut which is everywhere in the High Atlas). I loved the fact that during the course of one day hike we would see and sample at least 5 kinds of fruits, vegetables, or nuts (Walnuts, apples, apple-pears, corn...) (It was a verrrrry fertile valley). I loved turning a corner and seeing a hidden waterfall and grass so green I wanted to rub my cheek against its softness. There were rivers of rocks, donkey treaded paths, and guides that took 2 seconds (where I took 5 minutes) to bound down a slope. And then we had our endless cardgames and very interesting nights in gites... hehe.
Anyway, It was wonderful and I am thankful for having gotten to go.

Retro Blog Out.

Posted by Ellie at 06:12 PM | Permalink

Out of the Atlas and into the Desert

I'm seeing snow in Morocco & watching Red mud rivers flow,
I'm listening to Hip Hop
K'os
Bouncin' to the beat of the music
and the Jeep,
and the So High Atlas,
and the cold sharp air,

On the way to the desert

Impulsive. Decisive.
Stop. Appreciate.
Live.

Red Brick buildings blend with
the Morrocan Mountain side
Bounce
A white minaret rises out of the red
Bounce (Bounce)

Techno, Rap, HipHop Landscape
Ska, DJ, Chill Red Earth
Red rocks, Green Brush
Lonely Road and Carsick Car

Segway to Brown and
Blue Sky
Leave the Mountains
and Lonely people and Sheep
Hiphop craze
new eyes
And the Music speeds on
and Up
past Paintbrush Hills

Posted by Ellie at 06:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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

Posted by Lauren at 05:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

"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."

Posted by Lauren at 05:12 PM | Permalink

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.

Posted by Lauren at 05:14 PM | Permalink

Happy Thanksgiving from Fes,
This afternoon we are going to learn to cook a traditional Moroccan meal. We actually found an English woman to make us a pumpkin pie for desert. We thought that we could blend two traditions together. This evening the students will pass the holiday with their Moroccan host families.
This weekend we will be heading to Rabat (one of the Moroccan Imperial cities). As our trip unfolds we will send details. I hope that everyone enjoys their Thanksgiving.
Warm wishes from Morocco,
Lamia

Posted by at 06:34 AM | Permalink

I can see the Stars through my tent.
Tommorow I am waking up to see the sunrise,
There are Brilliant pinpicks shining through the patchwork fabric of the tent
I love this spacious tent
Where three sleep,
where six could.
It is beautiful and carpet-covered

But, I am afraid that I don't Appreciate the Sahara Night
What are these anxieties that keep drawing me away?
These Judgements?
What can draw me away, sway me
When there are PinPoints Shining though my Sleep
Why fear when I have stars out there
amidst palm trees and sand.
and Camel backs,
Long eyelashes and Teddy bear hair
with the potential to Spit

Ignoring my passion
That Anxiety is there
in the back of my throat
But
In defiance,
I will fall asleep
remembering the Stars

Without a tent

Posted by Ellie at 11:59 AM | Permalink

Two Sundays ago, my peer mentor, Fadoua, invited me to her uncle's engagement party, which would take place this past Saturday. I was thrilled at the invitation, but as time brought me closer and closer to the date, I started getting nervous. The others were busy Saturday, so they couldn't come with me, and I was worried about going all alone. I was also having trouble getting in touch with Fadoua, so the meeting time and place were still not arranged by Saturday morning. However, that afternoon, upon receiving Fadoua's email with all the necessary information (I was to meet her at 3 PM at Bab Boujloud, which left me just enough time to eat lunch before leaving), I put aside my concerns and set off.
I wore my djellaba to meet Fadoua, as it's the fanciest thing I own. My host sister Aziza meticulously fixed my hair and made me change my shoes before I left. I met Fadoua and her mom at the appointed place, Bab Boujloud, and we were soon walking down the winding paths of the medina on the way to Fadoua's relatives' house. We stopped by a teleboutique to inform my host family I would not be home for dinner. We soon arrived. Fadoua's sister was all make-upped: extensive eye make-up, rouge, glitter, the works, but she was still in normal clothes--a matching pink sweat set. I greeted all the women with cheek kisses.

A brief description of Fadoua's huge confusing family: many babies, kind and accepting aunts, smiling mustached uncles, little cousins continuously pulling me onto the dance floor, sister who took care of me when Fadoua was busy getting make-upped herself, brothers dressed in jeans and t-shirts, really sweet grandmother, amazingly good dancer mother, grandfather who slaps anyone who says the word z'bda (butter) in his hearing (no one knows why, but I said the word twice [the first time I met him, Fadoua told me to say it...] and received The Slap), and of course, my awesome friend Fadoua, writer, poet, and just beautiful person. I LOVE her family. Everyone was unbelievably welcoming, smiling at me, dancing with me, begging me to take their pictures. Her cousins were wonderful--the five of us (Fadoua, her sister, me, her two cousins)--danced in circles and laughed at my inability to perfect the shoulder move the hip move etc etc. Her uncle danced with me and then left, somewhat disgusted by my lack of skill. Later, I found myself dancing with him and his wife, who was trying to teach me to dance better. However, I did manage to impress them with my circling hips and bending knees--a swaying squat that brought me almost to the floor and back up. "Nice!" That move happened to impress many of the guests. My signature. I was proud. So proud, in fact, that I told Najia, our belly-dancing teacher.
Cookies and tea. Water for parched throats. I danced and held my bladder for hours. Pink green blue gold red colored kaftans. Fadoua had lent me a beautiful black kaftan which I wore with proud. I wore my jeans and a black tank top underneath. But it's difficult to go to the bathroom in those things. Especially with a squat (hence the holding my bladder).
The bride, Fadoua's meilleure amie, was beautiful. She wore three different outfits. The groom, Fadoua's oncle prefere, wore two.

But I have yet to begin at the beginning, before the dancing.
I greeted the women with cheek kisses and donned Fadoua's beautiful kaftan. Lunch (even though I had already eaten with my host family). A very awkward episode of urination in a kaftan in a squat toilet. No desire to repeat the experience. Getting "slapped" by Fadoua's grandfather for saying z'bda (at Fadoua's evil suggestion) upon meeting him. And then we began the procession through the crowded streets of the medina to the house of gifts for the future bride and groom. When we arrived, the trumpets started blasting and the drums rhythmically beat ou a steady romp. Fadoua handed me an enormous candle, and everyone started dancing. I felt awkward, and so my dance mainly consisted of waving the candle around in the air and slowly shifting from side to side. Gradually, the engagement party crowd filed out. Fadoua and I were left in the back, with the candles, right in front of the musicians, who were enthusiastically trumpeting and drumming with all their might, announcing our presence to the medina.

Our procession was musical magical loud surprising painful (because the shoes Fadoua lent me were killing my feet) fun photographed stressful (because as luck would have it, the candle bearers are supposed to be at the FRONT of the procession) just WONDERFUL. Fadoua whispered (shouted) urgently to me that we were needed at the front. She took my arm and tugged. Together we forced our way through. It was a battle. At one point, another woman from the party smiled at me so so sweetly. So I took her hand, and she followed Fadoua and me. She was beautiful, and I canoot forget her smile, so accepting, making me feel welcome amongst this party of Moroccans. And I, a lone white girl in a traditional kaftan, heading the procession of an engagement party of Moroccans. What an experience! All the Moroccans we passed (who were not part of our party) started curiously at me. Fadoua told me they all thought I was the bride, for what else would I, blatantly NOT Moroccan, be doing there? Tourists snapped photographs, but when they saw me, their fingers hesitated in astonishment. Perhaps I am too self-involved, but I admit, the attention amused me. And I did stand out all too conspicuously. Even a kaftan couldn't hide the fact that I wasn't a relation.

When the procession, laden down with gifts, finally made it to the house (another one--I lost track of ownership), the REAL dancing (aforementioned) began. At one point I slumped in a chair, utterly exhausted, but cookies soon revived me, and I was dancing once again--with Fadoua, Fadoua's cousins sister mother aunts uncles, the bride's family...

During the dancing, the bride and groom were usually sitting together, posing for photographs, or absent (to change clothes). Occasionally they got up and danced. When they did so, the rest of the party surrounded them, chanting and wishing them luck (I think...the chants were [obviously] in Arabic).

Dancing from around 430-1030. Everyone was amazing at moving their bodies--even the very old women were sexy in their swaying motions. Even the little five-year-olds showed more skill than me.
And the cookies were delicious.
I took many pictures and Fadoua's cousins were fascinated by my camera. One of them kept taking it and snapping photographs. Finally I took it back with a "Saaaafi."
At last, after all that dancing, it was dinner time. Two courses: chicken and then meat. I sat in between the bride and Fadoua. Apples and clementines (the usual) for dessert. I called my host family to ask if it was okay to sleep over, and they agreed immediately.
After dinner, everyone started filtering out, until only I, Fadoua, her two younger cousins, a very young cousin, her sister, her two brothers, her mother, her grandmother, her aunt and uncle, and various others were left. We danced again, briefly, because her cousins miraculously still had energy and I didn't have the energy to say no. Her cousins looked at me, before I finally lay down to sleep, and they said, "ntii zouina bzaaf bzaaf." You are very very beautiful. I have never felt more flattered and more welcomed in a different house different family different culture. I am so grateful to Fadoua for allowing me this glimpse into her wonderful family. I am so grateful for my experience, for the people I met, for the laughter and smiles, for the dancing and the feast, for being in Morocco and seeing a new way to celebrate love and marriage. That engagement party was one of the best experiences of my life. The only American, non-Arabic speaker there, helplessly out of my league in terms of dancing (with the exception of that one move of course), and I felt extraordinarily comfortable and at ease among strangers, who, after five minutes, even though I didn't really converse with them, were no longer strangers at all.

Posted by Alexis at 04:14 PM | Permalink

Hello,

We spent this weekend in Rabat (the political capital of Morocco). We started the weekend with a lecture on womens rights at the Center for Crosscultural Learning. We toured Chellah, (Rabat's first settlement) and Hassan Tower (masoleum of Mohammed V). The first day we were stuck inside part of the day due to heavy rains.

We have a week and a half left in Fes. This week students will continue with their classes and prepare for final individual study project presentations.

Lamia

Posted by at 06:02 PM | Permalink

Our last week in Fes is getting off to a busy start - trying to take everything in before we depart for the north next week. On Monday, we had an interesting lecture on the history and evolution of Moroccan literature. We also had our last day volunteering at Ahli. The students led several activities with a musical theme including musical chairs, dance freeze tag and "follow my moves, " a type of follow-the-leader game. This morning we participated in some medina restoration - still getting our hands dirty! Tomorrow we will finish our medina restoration projects and the students will finish their darija lessons. We look forward to a lecture on Moroccan politics as well as a henna party with Andalusian music on Thursday.

Posted by at 02:48 PM | Permalink

Tomorrow morning we will head to Taza, the capital of Morocco during some of the Almohad and Merenid dynasties. We will visit Djebel Tazzaka National Park and the Friouato Cave, arguably the largest and deepest cave in North Africa. We will return to Fes on Saturday morning. This weekend, the students will finish their ISPs and prepare for their presentations on Monday. On Sunday afternoon, we will participate in a zellij workshop, in which we learn the ancient and contemporary art of Moroccan tilework.

Posted by at 01:53 PM | Permalink