السالام عليكم

The sun has just barely come up and I sitting here in bed wide awake. I usually have no problem sleeping and if it were always up to me I would sleep in until 9 or 10 every day. But last night was an exception. Despite how exhausted I was, I lied in bed, my mind racing one hundred miles per hour and unable to sleep. When I finally got to sleep, I woke up about two hours later; exhausted yet unable to sleep. Then again and again and now that there's some light coming through my curtain-less window I just gave up trying. **By the way... by the time I finish writing this blog it will be a day or two later... i will not longer be in bed... it's because each one takes anywhere between 3-5 hours of writing and I can't sit here that long to pump one out. So sorry if I talk about this morning in bed... and then tonight and then today and go back and forth... I'm just writing as I go so I hope you can follow along) As my time here in Morocco is quickly coming to an end, I am flooded with emotions, thoughts, feelings of excitement and sadness, questions and uncertainties. In two days I will be leaving a life behind that has--for lack of better words--become part of me. Though I have traveled extensively in the past 10 years, I have never stayed in one country for longer than 2 months. In the ways that I look back to see how my experiences in South Africa, Kenya, Tanzania and South America have shaped my life, I can only imagine how these last 6 months in Morocco will continue to shape and affect my life. Just as the other countries were influential in determining my path in college as well as my passion to see change in the world and work in solidarity with the poor and oppressed, Morocco will (and has already begun to) deeply affect my vocation, my interests, my decisions for the future and the particular way I will live in the future. On this last point, I would like to take many of the aspects of Moroccan culture and apply them to my personal life, whether I live in Los Angeles or London. I have found Moroccans to be some of the warmest and welcoming people and when it comes to caring for the poor and the marginalized, it something natural for them, nothing out of the norm. There are parts of their everyday life that show their love and concern for the poor; Families using the extra bedroom in the house to provide a bed and a room for a homeless man, giving away part of every meal to feed those who cannot afford to cook, preparing meals and drinks for construction workers who work in miserable conditions, and inviting the stranger/foreigner into their home for a meal or for the night are all practical examples that I've seen first-hand since I've been here. When I read Jesus' words, "what you did to the least of these [the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick and the imprisoned], you did unto me" I cannot help but be challenged by the fact that my Muslim brothers and sisters are doing a better job than I am. It's time that I step up to the plate, not so that I can be better than them by any means, but as a follower of Christ this is what my life should already look like.

The Moroccan life is something that I've fallen in love over the past 6 months, though not everything. I have seen the good, the bad and the ugly here in Morocco, just as every country and culture has its good, its bad and its ugly. Although I think these are relative terms ("good" "bad" & "ugly"), I think it is necessary to identify them and to justify why they are put in those categories. For the sake of those who have not been to Morocco, I will not mention the "bad" or "ugly" aspects of culture so that it does not taint your view of this beautiful country and complex culture. I'm a firm believer of getting out and experiencing life and I think that a full survey on Moroccan culture may, in some ways, hinder one's experience here if they ever have the opportunity. I understand that not everyone has the opportunity to go to Morocco, but even if you do have the opportunity and still want to know the more than just the "good", I'd be happy to share (so, you know how to contact me).

I have been saying goodbyes for the last week and its a bit hard. I'm usually OK with goodbyes but under certain circumstances. For example, leaving home is much easier than leaving anywhere else. It's not that I like everywhere else better than I do home, but it's the fact that with few exceptions, everyone I say goodbye to at home will still be there when I finally decide to come back. These goodbyes are more like temporary goodbyes, "Goodbye, I'll see you in a few months" or something like that. But the goodbyes I'm doing now are not so temporary. They are goodbyes to the people I met and would see on my everyday walk around the city, the store clerk, the people behind the counter at the bakery I went to every day for bread, the children at Darna Association, other interns, volunteers and students that came to Morocco from Belgium, France, Spain or the US, and of course my friends here in Tangier (and all over Morocco) that welcomed me despite differences in language, culture, nationality, faith and interests. These are difficult goodbyes because I don't know when I will see them again. I don't have a return ticket to Morocco at this moment. Everyone asks, "Are you going to come back to Morocco?" and I answer that it's not a matter of wanting to come back, but the time and the money and the opportunity. So until I have the time (not until I'm finished with college) and the money (not until I get a job) and opportunity (probably when I get a job and money and have time off), I will be anxiously awaiting another trip back to Morocco. These goodbyes are indefinite goodbyes. I am saying goodbye to kids at Darna who I will probably never see again as they might return to living on the streets (as some kids already have) or simply because they don't have the money or resources to keep in contact over internet. My friends who volunteer at Darna are heading back to their home countries and in order to see them would mean to go to several different countries in Europe and maybe a trip to the East Coast of the US (two friends from the East Coast). Over the weekend, I went to Al Akhawayn University to say goodbye to a few good friends there who have really been an integral part of my life in and outside of Morocco. Taha and Youssef are two guys that I studied on The Scholar Ship with 2 years ago and although we've said goodbyes before, we said goodbyes knowing that we would see each other shortly. But now that there are no plans in the works of coming to California in the near future, this is a goodbye for a few months, a year, 5 years, 20 years, forever, who knows? The rest of my goodbyes are like this, uncertain of the future.

Despite these last few days of difficult goodbyes, I've felt a bit more relaxed and trying my best to take advantage of every last minute here in Tangier. On Thursday, for example, I had planned to run around town all day doing last minute shopping for people and buying Christmas presents, saying goodbye to people, stopping by Darna and going crazy. Just as I was walking out the door, my friend Absalom called me to go out on the boat with him and a few friends. It's been something I wanted to do the past few months and of course, my last week in Tangier, my day to cross more things off my "to-do list", Absalom calls and says, "I'm coming to pick you up in 10 minutes, were're going out in the boat." I went with him and a few friends out to the Straight of Gibraltar/Meditterranean in the 15 foot zodiac. About 5 miles off shore, Absalom and I stayed on the boat while his two friends went spear fishing. A few hour spear fishing trip turned into an all day event. His friends caught some fish and we headed back to the marina, cleaned the boat and dropped off the fish at a favorite seafood restaurant. Within minutes, we were feasting on the fresh catch. So maybe I didn't cross anything off my to-do list, but I spent the day out on the ocean on a boat (my element) and eating a huge feast of fresh seafood with good friends, good conversations and good laughs. I can't think of a better way to conclude my time here in Tangier than being spontaneous and enjoying the last-minute things like this. It keeps me sane and in the moment whereas my own planning and to-do lists just distract me from being with the people taking advantage of such amazing opportunities as these.

Well I must be going now as my train is leaving in an hour. My bags are packed, I've said my goodbyes, and every second becomes more of a reality... a reality that tomorrow I will not be here. I cannot yet fathom this, but life moves on whether we go with it or not.

In parting, I leave with the words of Henri Nouwen, as they have spoken to me throughout my time here. After his six month experience in South America, similar to my six months here, he writes, "I wonder if going north still means going home." In my own version, I say, "I wonder if going west really means going home."

Please stay tuned for other blogs in the next few weeks..... السالام عليكم

A 3-Holiday Weekend and a Week in Spain

Another loooong one....

In the past 4 days I've celebrated 3 major holidays. On Thursday, I celebrated Thanksgiving, though not a Moroccan holiday by any means. Yesterday, Saturday, it was Eid al Adha (Festival of Sacrifice) or commonly referred to here in Morocco and other parts of North Africa as Eid ul Kabir, which literally means "The Big Eid" or "The Greater Eid" ("Eid" meaning holiday or festival) and today we celebrated "El Clasico", the football (or 'soccer' for those Americans reading) match between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid, the two most popular teams in Spain and two of the best teams in all of Europe (or the world for that matter). For Thanksgiving dinner, I was invited to a nice Italian restaurant by two of my really good friends from Tangier, Imane and Taha. In order to keep the tradition, I asked the three of us to share what we were thankful for in our lives. It was a special moment to take a break of our busy lives and share what we are thankful for. Even though I didn't see turkey (traditional to eat on Thanksgiving) on the menu, the highlight for me was the feeling of gratitude that we easily forget with our busy lives in which we often to take things for granted more than be thankful for (I am speaking about myself more than anyone else, because I in no place to judge your gratitude. I confess that I among the worst at pausing to say 'thanks' for health, for food, for being in Morocco, for another day of life, for my family, for my amazing friends and relationships, for God and everything he has done in my life, for moments of joy, for hardships, and for education and for opportunities). I am still learning how to have the grateful mentality that Henri Nouwen seemed to have mastered during his 6 month stay in South America, "I learned that everything that is, is freely given by the God of love. All is grace. Light and water, shelter and food, work and fee time, children, parents and grandparents, birth and death--it is all given to us. Why? So that we can say "gracias", thanks: thanks to God, thanks to each other, thanks to all and everyone" (Gracias! p.187). Many Christians practice the tradition of saying "Grace" before eating. It is a time to give thanks to God for providing the food and in the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., no follower of Christ should begin eating without first giving thanks to God as well as praying for those who are not fortunate to eat regularly (my paraphrase, taken from his autobiography). I have prayed only a handful of times before my meals and it is something I really miss. I mentioned it a bit in my entry about my reflections of Ramadan... I wish that it was part of the Muslim and/or Moroccan tradition to pray before meals. I know some do, but it is very rare. After sharing the things we were (and are) grateful for, Taha said that he missed saying grace. A few months ago he came to visit me in California and it was there that he remembered one night when my girlfriend prayed before our meal and also for my roommate Chad, as it was his birthday. It was a moment that stuck out to him whereas for me it was the status quo, the normal thing to do. Isn't it amazing how contagious a little bit of prayer and gratitude can be? Just as fear and anger can be contagious, so is gratitude. Let us work on spreading gratitude, even if it's a small and simple prayer before a meal or for someone's birthday. You never know how it might affect someone else and how it can spread like a wildfire. I think the more grateful we are, even for the little things, the more people will see and acknowledge the goodness of God and respond in a way of gratitude and worship. After all, isn't gratitude a form of worship?

Back to the holidays. Holiday #2 was yesterday. It is possibly the biggest holiday in the Islamic tradition. Called, "Eid al Adha", it is a day when every Muslim family, if financially able, must slaughter a sheep. The slaughtering of the sheep is to recall the story shared by Muslims, Christians, and Jews of the faithfulness of Abraham to sacrifice his own son and becuase of his faithfulness, God provided a sheep (more specifically, a ram) in place of his own son. I read the story (the Judeo-Christian version which is found in Genesis chapter 22 in the Bible) yesterday and thought to myself, "What a crazy story!" One random day God tells Abraham, "Hey, go take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and sacrifice him as a burnt offering." So Abraham wakes up the next morning, takes his donkey and his son Isaac out into the forest to be sacrificed. No big deal, right? Let us not forget one of the most important moments in history when God tells Abraham--no... God promises Abraham--that he will not only become a father, but the father of a "great nation" and that all the people of the earth will be blessed through him and his descendants. I'm not going to go into everything here, but the basic things to know is that Abraham was childless, and even at nearly 100 years of age, his wife still didn't bare any children. Finally, they have one, a boy named Isaac. Then one day he's just supposed to go burn his child as a sacrifice, the same kid who is going to fulfill the original promise God gave Abraham--all because God asked him to? What was God thinking? Talk about a crazy story! Because of Abraham's faithfulness and obedience to God, a sheep/ram was provided to take the place of Isaac and then sacrificed. In Islamic tradition, the slaughtering of the sheep, or ram, is done by each financially able family to remember the faithfulness and obedience of Abraham to God.

I woke up to the sound of Arabic chants coming from the mosque next door. Laying in bed, it had the same feel to the other Eid we celebrated three months ago at the end of Ramadan. Believers went to the mosque firs thing in the morning yesterday as they did three months ago and chanted prayers yesterday as at the end of Ramadan. But once I got out of bed, it was a completely different holiday. Whereas the other Eid, Eid Al Fitr, people left the mosque all wearing djellabas and traditional clothes, greeting everyone on the streets and being social, this Eid, Eid al Adha, was concerned solely with one thing... the sheep. On Haitams narrow street, little makeshift corrals were set up the past week to gather the sheep and hold them there until they were sold and/or slaughtered on the Eid. As people left the mosque, they took their sheep that they previously purchased and dragged it to their homes. Watching this from the rooftop terrace, I looked down on the street to see fathers dragging the sheep by their horns, usually with the help of the anxious little kids. Once they got to the front door, a man (often the hired butcher) would grab the sheep by the four legs and carry it up the stairs to the rooftop. (For those in America or not familiar with Morocco, most people in Morocco live in apartments or apartment-like houses. In other words, most people don't have isolated houses with their own yards or area around the house. Each house and/or apartment building has a rooftop/terrace... which is usually the location for the slaughtering of the sheep... or hanging clothes out to dry on every other day) Once the sheep was on the terrace, its legs were tied. At this point the butcher, with the help of one or two others to help hold the body of the sheep down, would hold the head down against the ground, it's throat facing toward the sky, and according to proper 'halaal' procedures (if unfamiliar with halaal meat, wikipedia it for more info) would cut the throat of the sheep. At this point, blood would go everywhere. Sometimes the blog just gushed calmly on to the ground, other times it squirted, and pretty far too! As Haitam's family bought three sheep, I got to see this process several times. It was all a new experience for me. I missed the slaughtering of the first one because when I got up to the terrace they were already taking off the head. So I watched from that point on for the first sheep, and other two sheep, observed the whole process. After the throat is cut, the blood gushes and squirts. If you ever get to be a part of this ceremony one day, I would recommend staying at least 6 or 7 feet (2 meters) away, as you might get an unexpected surprise... sort of like the 'splash zone' at Sea World. The cutting of the neck, and it's huge artery, is said to be the quickest way to slaughter an animal, and the way that creates the least amount of suffering for the animal. I'm not an expert, so don't quote me... this is just what I've been told. Maybe wikipedia will have better information.

Anyway, after the blood stops and the sheep is dead, the butcher (and maybe another butcher or help from any other guys willing to get their hands a little dirty) does what he needs to do to remove the head. I know that's vague. I'm trying to be descriptive, but also I don't want to be too vivid, especially for those who don't like this kind of stuff. What I'll say is this... we like to pretend, or should I say, turn a blind eye toward this seemingly gruesome event and idea of slaughtering. But for those of you who eat any meat or chicken or lamb or even fish, are eating something (an animal) that has been through a slaughtering process like this, but probably worse (at least if you're in the US). I'm not up-to-date on my animal rights knowledge or awareness of slaughterhouses in the US, but I imagine that the animals go through much worse conditions than what I described above. What America does really well is distancing its people from the origins of the food we eat. I'm not saying it's your fault or my fault or a major problem in the world today, but I do think we need to be aware of where our food comes from and how it gets to us. In other words, we might enjoy the luxury of having fresh vegetables for cheap prices in our grocery stores, but against having any immigrants, especially illegal ones, in our country. I am pretty certain that many of the cheap prices are possible only because we have illegal immigrants picking them for us. Of course, not all, but I would estimate quite a bit. We can't have a double standard of enjoying cheap fruits and veggies at the same time as wanting to kick out all the illegals in America. In the same way, the chicken you had for dinner last night probably came from a factory where a single visit to that place might make you never want to eat chicken ever again... or maybe they slaughtered it like most places in Sub-Saharan Africa where someone grabs the chicken by the head, holds it off the ground and cut off it's head with a machete and after the chicken runs around like crazy without a head. I'm not saying this so that you don't touch any meat ever again, but instead that we become aware of the food we are eating. Just as I mentioned about the immigrants, you can't say, "Oh this lamb is the best lamb I have ever had!" when eating a meal at Haitam's house or at a Moroccan house or restaurant while finding the way they slaughter sheep cruel or barbaric and wanting nothing to do with it. While watching these three sheep being slaughtered, their heads taken off, skinned, and organs taken out, I felt a bit guilty taking part of something that looks so cruel... but then realized that I am the one responsible for this as I am eating beef, chicken or lamb just about every day. I think that I need to remember not to remove myself from the reality of what I am eating and to be aware of what is behind, more or less, the food on my plate.... whether it be child laborers, immigrants, cruel slaughtering methods/treatment, or a local farmer doing his best to make a living.

Back to the Eid. It was a very memorable few hours I spent up on the terrace, watching these three sheep slaughtered and the whole process that goes along with it, as well as watching sheep being dragged away to peoples' homes, and looking across the M'ssalah skyline of Tangier to see families out on their rooftops taking part in this sacred religious holiday. After it seems like all the sheep had been slaughtered, the streets were then busy with butchers walking in the neighborhood hoping for just one more slaughter. A good butcher can do the whole process in 10-20 minutes, and therefore could slaughter up to 5 or 8 different sheep at different homes and make quite a bit of hard-earned wages. Late in the morning, these butchers walked the streets, covered in blood and carrying their set of slaughtering knives. I couldn't imagine someone coming to Tangier, or anywhere in Morocco or the Muslim world for the first time, having no idea about the holiday. They would walk off the boat or out of the airport only to find the most common people on the streets were carrying large knives and covered in blood. I can't help but laugh at the thought of a somewhat wealthy, conservative, or sheltered couple making a weekend trip across the Mediterranean from Europe for the first time only to find this seemingly barbaric sight. At first glance, they were probably thinking to themselves or telling each other, "I know we shouldn't have come!" If Westerners had stereotypes of Muslims being terrorists, they were wrong about that because a walk around the streets on Saturday would have replaced the terrorist stereotypes with the reality they were a bunch of violent murderers (animals of course). haha!

For lunch fresh kebda was served. And by fresh, I mean really fresh! Kebda--not to be confused with 'kefta'--is liver. Within about two hours of the slaughter, the organs were removed, cleaned, and cooked. Thank God for garlic, spices and lemon which make meals like this easier to eat. Although I've tried the stomach and intestines (and probably some other miscellaneous body parts from inside), I prefer to stay away from them if possible. Haitam knows this and so he asked me the next day, "If you were stuck in the desert and all there was to eat was l3lawa (pronounced more or less 'LuhaLWAH'), would you eat it?" I said, "Yes of course, but there's a huge fish in front of us, so I prefer the fish!" So far, the intestines and stomach are my least favorite (after a few bites I'm finished), the liver is pretty manageable but not my favorite, and the meat itself I love. I have yet to try the sheep brains... so it's going to be a tough call between the sheep brains and intestines. If I try, I'll tell you which one is more enjoyable. :)

That night, I went for a walk around Tangier. The Eid is a bit similar to Christmas Day (or even the Superbowl) in America. The streets are probably the least crowded as they can be throughout the year, most stores are closed and most of the people are in their homes enjoying the holiday. This is of course with the exception of the couple thousand people who think it's a good idea take their kids to Legoland on Christmas and eat at the Cafe... meaning that people like me had to work last Christmas. At least in Tangier, there is no Legoland or other themeparks that are open on the Eid, so just about everything is closed. Turning the corner of nearly every street I found big metal trash cans turning into bon fires filled with wood and coals. Kids, teenagers and young adults alike were all gathered around the flame with rebar metal or long sticks One one end they stood away from the heat holding the stick over fire as if they were roasting marshmallows. But instead of marshmallows they had sheep heads impaled on the other end and were roasting them over the open fire. After the sheep were slaughtered, most people gave their heads to the eager kids and teenagers to start roasting in the afternoon. I guess the best way to eat the head is like a rotisserie chicken; over open flame. It was kind of a weird night for me. Empty streets, trash cans and open flames everywhere, kids roasting sheep heads huddled around the open flames, closed stores and cafes and just an overall weird ambience. Maybe it was a bit more barbaric than I'm used to for a Thanksgiving weekend, but I'm thankful I was able to experience this holiday as over a billion people around the world were doing the same... 4 or 5 times as many people than those celebrating Thanksgiving... weird!

Tonight was holiday number 3 of the long weekend. OK, so it's not an official holiday, but it had a similar affect that holidays have in society. Tonight, people gathered together across race, religion and citizenship to watch the infamous Barcelona/Madrid match. Originally I wanted to watch it in a cafe... where most people in Morocco watch football matches. When it comes to the Spanish league (and other European leagues, but mostly the Spanish League and the Champions League), Moroccans are crazy about football. It could be your first visit to Tangier and if when walking down the street you hear a loud uproar and people cheering, you could probably bet money that it was either a Barcelona or Madrid game (with few exceptions such as the Egypt vs Algeria game a few weeks ago in which most Moroccans supporting their neighbors went crazy--and when i say 'went crazy' i mean, they really went crazy... it beats any Lakers game, boxing match, or superbowl game--at the first score made by Algeria). So when Madrid and Barcelona face each other in a match two times every year, known as El Clasico, it's like a cocktail for the perfect storm. When you take possibly the two best clubs in the world and the best players in the world, you cannot leave unsatisfied, as was the case with this years' El Clasico. Because of the cold rainy weather in Tangier this weekend, I decided to stay home and watch it with Haitam and a few friends. It might not have been the craziness or roudyness of the cafe clamour, but it was still exciting (not to mention that time with friends and relationships is more important than my own desire to have an 'authentic experience'). The match was one of the best that I've watched in a long time. Thanks to Ibrahamovic's beautiful goal, Barcelona took the victory against Madrid as 1-0. Although there was only one goal, every minute was filled with intense playing and unmatched skillfulness. After the victory, crowds filed out of the cafes and on to the streets, cars honking and people celebrating. It seemed like people were more excited about the El Clasico as they were yesterday for the Eid. In this way, I consider El Clasico a holiday celebrated by people throughout the world, especially here in Morocco and I imagine even more so in Spain.

Speaking of Spain, I have to share a little bit about the 7 days I spent traveling around Andalusia with my mom as she came to visit. However, I know that just talking about the highlights won't do the trip justice because it was an incredible week traveling around to some of the most beautiful and historic cities and spending such quality time with my mom. We've traveled a lot together, especially throughout Middle School and High School, but it's been years since we got this quality time together. It's weird to think that the most quality time we have together usually take place outside the country, especially because I spend most of my time now at my University in Los Angeles and if I'm not in LA, I'm either at home in San Diego for a few days and or out of the country again. So we took the ferry across the Straight of Gibraltar--something I've been waiting to do since I first arrived in Tangier because I look across the Straight every day to the coast of Southern Spain--and bused from Tarifa to Algeciras where we rented a car and headed north to Sevilla. Oh the joys of driving. I know a lot of people (or maybe just my dad) hate driving. But because I haven't driven since I left America (except for the handful of times I drove Mounia's car in Fes and the few times I drove here in Tangier) and I don't mind driving (especially if it's a brand new rental car!) and there is no traffic, it was great! Not only was being in a new country, a new continent, a new culture and new language a nice change, driving a new car on nice European roads was one of the little things that made me happy.

After a quick stop in the small hill town called Arcos de la Frontera, we continued on to Sevilla and arrived before dark. I was really enjoying driving until we got to the small cobble-stone streets of Sevilla (and every other city for that matter). There's no grid, no organized layout of the city, and all the streets are one-way alleys. Good thing we didn't rent a Hummer because we wouldn't have even been able to drive down the streets without getting sandwiched by the tight buildings or road markers. Sevilla was impressive. I don't know if it was because I was back in the First World, the "West", in love with Spain and Andalusia, enjoying speaking Spanish, excited for tapas and beer or all of the above, but I loved Sevilla. The first night there I thought to myself "Oh I could live here! This is my favorite city in Spain (I only knew Barcelona, Girona, and Madrid before this trip)". But as the week continued, I had the same reaction everywhere we went. When we got to Cordoba, I loved it. Maybe not as many tapas bars as Sevilla, but so many good restaurants and a new part of the city that reminded me a lot of Argentina (probably why they named a city in Argentina Cordoba). Marbella (pronounced "Mar-Bey-ya" which means 'beautiful ocean' in Spanish) was the next stop. It wasn't like Sevilla or Cordoba but it was on the beach, situated along the beautiful "Costa del Sol" (The Sun Coast) between Gibraltar and Malaga. Our first night at the timeshare was spent with a walk to the beach (maybe a two minute walk from our room) for a beautiful sunset and glass of wine. Not a bad life... right? This was Thanksgiving vacation for me.... so it was nice to enjoy the beach, sunsets, time with mom, and sightseeing... something I never do or usually like to do. But a few days of sightseeing once in awhile isn't too bad. Mom and I made a day trip to Gibraltar, the British enclave peninsula across the bay from Algeciras. Like Ceuta, the Spanish enclave in Morocco, Gibraltar was weird. I can't imagine growing up in either of these places. You are British, living in the UK, using British Pounds and eating fish & chips, but you are surrounded by Spain. If you want to travel more than 5 miles (8km), you have to leave your country. Or in the case of Ceuta, you are a Spanish citizen, using Euros, enjoying tapas and beer, but anymore than 5miles from your home you are in a new country. You live in Africa, but you are in Spain. If you want to travel around your own country, you have to go to a different continent, taking a boat across the Straight of Gibraltar to the mainland. Weird! To top it all off, I found more people speaking Spanish in Gibraltar (UK) than English, and in Ceuta, I found the same thing with more people speaking Arabic and wearing djellabas than speaking Spanish. Gibraltar and Ceuta are quite possibly the two weirdest places I've ever been!

After Gibraltar, we headed back for one more night in Marbella and then left in the morning for Granada. I heard that Granada was one of the most beautiful (if not the most beautiful) cities in Spain... and it sure was. Like my reaction in Sevilla and Cordoba I thought, "I could live here!" Granada is known for its tapas and tapas bars because it's one of the few cities in Spain where they still serve you "free" tapas when you order a drink, alcoholic or not. My mom couldn't wrap her mind around this concept... maybe because it was our last stop and because we've been paying for tapas the whole trip. But it's the way it should be (بنسبه لي) and I hope Granada doesn't change.

One of the many highlights was a flamenco show we attended our first night in Sevilla. Sevilla is known for its flamenco and I'm so glad we went to a somewhat traditional flamenco. (I say "somewhat traditional" because I'm not flamenco expert, so I dont know how traditional it was, and the one we went to features local artists and is not as touristy as the other ones) I was astonished throughout the whole 60minute show. I got lost in the guitar player's skillful strumming, elegant melodies and unparalleled talent, as I've never heard such beautiful sounds come from a guitar before. The whole performance and experience was remarkable. Although the guitar player was world class and producing sweet sounds for the audience to hear, focusing only on the guitar would have been a shame. It was the full experience that made it so impressive. It was the music that captured the ears but the dancing that fancied the aesthetics. I felt at times like I was on a roller coaster; sometimes feeling a rush of intensity while the man rapidly strummed the guitar and the lady danced like crazy, and then instantly a stopped. Then it would build up again slowly and break, continue, rise and fall several times. If you let the music have control, there's really nothing like it. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of art I've ever seen. The flamenco trio (guitarist, singer, dancer) was doing what they do best to create one lively outpouring of art, beauty, talent, and music. Within minutes, the whole audience was consumed. If you take two people for example, (I think it would have still been incredible with the guitarist and the dancer) with such different talents and abilities and put them together as one... wow! It's stunning! Call me crazy, but I think this is a beautiful analogy for a marriage/relationship. Sure the guitarist on his own is great and same with the dancer. But when you have two people with such diverse talents and abilities and synchronize them, the finished product is something amazing! How beautiful is it when a man and women, so different and unique in their own ways, come together in a life that naturally draws people, not to the individual but instead to beauty and fullness of something that is beyond them, greater than themselves.

Spain was wonderful! Cathedrals, mosques, history, statues, good food and great atmosphere captured most of our time. Although we were in Andalusia, the once Muslim/Arab occupied region of Spain, I was reminded that we weren't in Morocco anymore. From the church bells sounding throughout the day which replaced the "Adhan" (Muslim call for prayer) which I've become accustom to hearing every day, to the 20-30 page menus for just wine (something not so uncommon in restaurants across the region), I was reminded that we were in a different country, a different continent, and among people of a different religion. Not to say that I don't like Moroccan anymore, but having spent the last 5-6 months in one country, one culture, and one religion (with a few exceptions of gatherings of Christian bible studies and times of worship), it was a nice change. And although I often feel more at home in the global south (and/or non-Occidental countries), Spain was an exception. I look forward to going back in the future (Inshallah) to both the same places and new ones as well.

It looks like this might be the longest entry so far. As always, I have just scratched the surface of describing my time, experiences, observations and interpretations of these past few weeks. If you've gotten this far, thank you! Thank you for your time, your curiosity, your investment in my life. I look forward to getting together with you to share even more about my experiences and the things I am taking away from them. As of now, I have less than two weeks left in this country before I head back to America. I cannot even fathom being back in America in two weeks time. It hasn't hit me yet, and I don't know if it will until I actually get there. In these next few days in Tangier, I will be finishing my research and other work for my Global Learning Term, as well as saying many sad goodbyes and trying to find some sort of closing--physically, emotionally and spiritually--to these last 6 months. It seems just like yesterday that I arrived in Tangier, wrote my first blog, and was at the beach enjoying summer, but I need to look back upon these past months which were full of new experiences, challenges, frustrations, lessons, and new people in my life.

I will try to write one last blog before I leave, but I do not know what the rest of my time will look like. However, I do plan on keeping this blog at least for a while and I have several thoughts and insights that I would love to share with you all (in blog format)... things that have been brewing since the day that I got here and that I've been wanting to share. Stay tuned for those.

In closing, السالام عليكم, As-Salaama Alaikum, 'Peace be with you'.

It's About the Journey

What a month is has been. There's no way that I could talk about everything that's been going on in the last month (if you think my last few entries have been long... just wait). Instead, I'll give you the Cliff Notes (Sparknotes for the younger crowd) version of my life in Morocco since I wrote last, and maybe a few personal thoughts here and there. Instead of going chronologically, I start at the present and back up a bit. I'm sitting in a Riad (traditional Moroccan-home-turned-into-hotel) down some narrow alley in the ancient medina of Marrakech. A few hours ago, I met my mom at the airport as she flew in all the way from California (via London). Its a bit surreal seeing one of your parents after you haven't seen them for 5 months. It's not like coming home however, it's more of a welcoming them (my mom) into the place and country that you call home. It's a strange feeling. But I'm excited, to say the least, to introduce my mom to the amazing culture and life here in Morocco. I know that 4 days isn't really enough to get a good grasp of this place, but I hope that in the short time we have together here, she will have a little insight to the culture, the food, the hospitality, the religion, and the landscape (both physical and social) of this amazing country.

In order to come down to Marrakech (a good 700km south of Tangier), I left Tangier yesterday morning for Casablanca. I could have taken the train straight to Marrakech, but I didn't want to spend 11 hours in one spot, so I decided to break the trip up a bit. And instead of taking the nice CTM bus (the nicest, and most expensive, bus company in Morocco), I decided to go to the bus station and take the "regular" bus. You don't need any reservations or timetables for these buses. You simply show up at the station whenever you want to go. There you find men yelling "Dar Baida!" "Rabat!" "Fes!" "Meknes!" and so forth. I found the guy yelling "Dar Baida" (Casablanca... literally 'white house' in Arabic) and handed him a few dirhams (almost half the cost of the CTM) and just like that I was on the bus and we were off. Besides the lack of air-conditioning, opening windows, or any other form of ventilation, I thought "This isn't too bad. Why haven't I done this more often?" I could say that I'm used to crummy buses. After four months in sub-saharan Africa and 5,000 miles of bus travel, I had enough crazy substandard bus rides to last me a lifetime. This bus was still luxury compared to some others I'd been on. Plus, it was only 5 or 6 hours max, which was a lot better than 30 or 40 hours (for example, in Mozambique). This was all good until about 30 minutes from Casablanca when the engine started making funny noises and quickly faded to a small put-put. The driver pulled off the highway and turned off the engine. A few seconds later, his attempt to restart the engine was unsuccessful and within a minute or two, everyone was off the bus. Some ambitious men started running along the highway trying to hitch a ride with a passing semi-truck or flat-bed. When I realized that the bus wasn't going to start, I decided the only option is to walk or to do the same as the other men. I walked down the highway and tried to waive down any car or truck that I could tell either had room inside, or a place outside for me to jump on and/or ride on. Fortunately, many of the cars and trucks on the highway saw the broken down bus with a bunch of stranded men and women and therefore pulled over to give lifts to anyone looking for one. Within a few minutes, a business man in an VW Golf pulled over and let me and another man in. He took us down the highway toward the city. Since he wasn't going to the main part of Casablanca, he dropped the two of us off on the highway where we could walk off the highway and catch a taxi into the city center. Almost 7 hours after leaving Tangier (in a car it's only 3.5 or 4 hours), I finally made it to my destination. Sure, the train would have been easier and CTM would have been nicer (and more expensive), but how often do you get crazy stories like this? One day I hope to share stories like with my kids and look back to how much things have changed (or not) with time. Also, I asked myself, "How much have I been separated from the reality of life of a lower-middle-class Moroccan?" I have the funds and the opportunity to take CTM and do things that are luxuries for most of the people in this country. It was a reminder that not everyone in Morocco drives in cars to get to their destination, takes CTM, or has air-conditioning. When the bus broke down, I could have been upset and frustrated - and I had every right to be - that the bus I paid for didn't even make it to the destination, but in hind-sight, there is something so beautiful about this. In most cases, there is some sort of good that comes from the negative. In this case, the negative was that my bus broke down, but the positive was that within 15 minutes, every passenger on the bus (man or woman) was picked up and given a free ride into the city. All they had to do was stand on the highway with their arm out pointing toward Casablanca. I know that not every negative situation has something positive with it, but I find that the longer we focus on the negative the less likely we will see the positive.

Before getting ready for this trip down south to meet my mom, I spent the whole week doing interviews for my research. One of the courses I am doing here in Morocco for my GLT (Global Learning Term) is a community-based research project. My topic is "The Role of Religion (Islam) in the Lives of Young People in Tangier". Within the last week, I did 12 interviews, each lasting between 40 minutes and over an hour. It was exhausting to say the least, but definitely one of the highlights of my time in Morocco. In order to prepare for my project, I made a weekend getaway to Al-Akhawayn University in beautiful Ifrane. It was now my third or fourth time to Akhawayn and every time I go, I love it more and more. Besides getting to spend a few moments with my friends like Taha, Zouhair, Youssef and Laila (who were all in midterms), I spent the majority of my time hiding away in the Mohammad VI Library. It is absolutely beautiful and has one of the largest collections of English resources in all of Africa (I think second only to one or two in South Africa). For nearly two days straight, I sat at the same desk with a pile of books that towered over my laptop. Reading, skimming, writing, reading, skimming, writing, reading, skimming, and writing. Despite the mundaneness (yes, it's a word, I looked it up) of the work, it really paid off. My tower of books provided a framework for the direction my research would take, what questions I would ask, and how I might be able to make sense of the data after I finished the interviews and field-research. I came back to Tangier refreshed, partly because of a short break from my internship and partly from the crisp mountain air. In the days and weeks that followed my trip in Ifrane, I worked on constructing a fluid interview guide and questions, while simultaneously setting up interviews, getting project proposals and questions translated into French and Arabic, and scheduling times/interviews when I would need a translator to help conduct the interviews. It was enough to give me a headache... and it did. Three days in a row my head was spinning, and hurting. But overall, I feel that the interviews thus far have gone really well. I have learned so much about Islam and what it means to practice (or not practice) the great world religion that claims between 1 and 1.5 billion followers. When I am finished, I would love to share with you some of the things I found interesting and surprising. Although my research is limited to Tangier, simply because I don't have the time or resources or scholarly support to study this topic throughout all of Morocco, I have engaged in very penetrating conversations with my friends in other parts of Morocco like Casablanca and Marrakech. Based on what I have found to be very intriguing in my interviews I held in Tangier, sometimes I will pose one or two of the same questions to those I'm with in Casablanca or Marrakech. It's amazing how just one question usually sparks into a wildfire of dialogue and debate. Topics such as the hijab or "equal opportunities and legal protections between men and women" are always hot topics, providing sometimes hours of discourse and entertainment (maybe just entertainment for me).

Through both my studies/research and experience in Morocco so far, I feel like I have somewhat of a better grasp of the culture and lifestyle. I have learned which questions to ask and their appropriate times. You don't just go up to people asking them why they wear the hijab or probe for personal questions about the religion they practice (I'm being vague here, because although Morocco is 98-99% Muslim, within that, there are endless combinations of adopted beliefs, practices that wouldn't be considered consistent with Islam, attempts to practice a pure form of Islam, and traditions that have been passed from generation to generation. I say "religion they practice" - instead of "Islam" - because each person I've talked to said they practice religion, but sometimes it looks more like a particular worldview or philosophy than it does Islam). Some people don't mind the questions and others do. Like everything else, it's all about timing. In a situation where the person doesn't know me very well, they might perceive me as someone who is ignorant about their religion and trying to dispute their beliefs. Although I may disagree with some of the beliefs and doctrines in Islam, from the standpoint of an outsider (American, non-Muslim, non-Moroccan) student researcher on these topics I can stand at a distance and observe (and learn). In most cases, the conversation turns a bit tense and if there is more than one person, people's different viewpoints sometimes conflict. I love these conversations. Many people however, try to avoid such conflicts as they cause friction. What is so beautiful about this though, is the friction itself. In order to move, to change or to progress, friction is needed. Without friction we remain in the same place, unaffected by the world around us. Friction causes movement and growth. Without it, we would be grown adults on the outside, but like little ignorant kids on the inside. (I don't mean to talk bad about kids... there's something beautiful about who they are and what they stand for. But there is a time to be young, ignorant and innocent, as well as a time to be grown, mature, and aware. The only way to reach that stage is when we are challenged, tested, and stretched.) If it weren't for people to challenge my beliefs, worldviews, or the deconstruction such aspects in my life, then I would be the same now as I was in fifth grade. No offense Mr. Verga (my fifth grade teacher), but I am where I am today because of the 'friction' moments in my life that cause me to excel, change and learn. Not everyone enjoys these friction moments. Most of the time, it's when someone brings up one of the three off-limits topics at the dinner table; politics, religion, or money. But my friend Alex says, "If you don't talk about money, politics or religion, then what are you going to talk about?" Certainly we can talk about the weather or some other neutral topics, but such conversations don't really do much to challenge us, teach us, stretch us, or require us to think. Therefore, I prefer the friction, the dispute and the differences in opinions, especially when in the right timing and environment.

With that said, I have really enjoyed these talks while in Morocco. However, my study of Moroccan culture and somewhat fundamental understanding of Islam (I've really just scratched the surface) has shed light on the complexities of these two intersecting matters. The longer I am here, the more complex everything becomes. Things just aren't black and white. I don't know why I expected them to be, but maybe just based off of my first few months here, things seemed a bit more simple and easy to understand. Now however, I feel like I'm a bit more lost than when I arrived. Sure, I can explain why some things are and how life in Morocco is, but there are somethings I just don't understand. A somewhat comical incident happened the other evening as I was walking back home. Sitting on a small wall was a young couple, totally making out (for the non-native English speakers, "making out" means kissing... a lot). In America (or Europe) for example, this isn't that big of a deal. People kiss in public, PDA (public display of affection) is the norm. But for Morocco, you don't see this every day, or at all (at least among the locals). To make it more exciting (from a social-science nerdy perspective), the girl was wearing a hijab. The hijab is a scarf worn by a Muslim woman to cover her hair and it usually symbolizes a more strict/conservative form of religiosity. Seeing the girl in the hijab making out with her boyfriend (in public) was just about as paradoxical as it gets. Islam outlaws forms of pre-marrital relationships and kissing (not to mention doing it in public). When you see a girl in wearing a hijab making out with her boyfriend, you have to ask questions. Things that were once black and white instantly turn grey and complex. After telling this story to one of my friends in Casablanca, she replied by saying, "I have about 10 or 15 friends who wear the scarf, but only 2 that wear the hijab." She went on to explain, "The hijab is a way of life, not just an article of clothing [like the scarf]." I really liked that. It's not about what we wear or how we dress, but the lifestyle we choose to live. (A side note- I don't however, think women should dress inappropriately ('less-is-better' mentality) and justify it by their "modest" lifestyle. You get what I mean?) Another funny snapshot into the complexities of Moroccan life happened the other weekend when I was working at the Tanjalatina Music Festival (Latin Music Festival of Tanger). In general, there were very few women wearing the hijab at the music festival. But one of the women I saw wearing the hijab was older and had on more makeup than most of the young girls there wearing mini skirts. I thought, "That's ironic" and didn't think anything else about it until later that night when I saw her with her husband who was drinking a beer. Alcohol is strictly prohibited in Islam and to see this was somewhat comical. I almost started laughing when I spotted them. On the left, the veiled woman represents strict adherence to religion (minus the overdose of makeup) and the man on the right is drinking a Corona, something that completely goes against what his wife is symbolizing. I'm left with more questions and my only response is "C'est l'Maroc" ("This is Morocco").

Apart from having trouble understanding and attempting to explain culture and experience, the past month has provided more than enough frustrating moments in terms of language. I don't mean to be overly negative, but I have to be honest; this whole language thing is really frustrating sometimes (ok... pretty much always). I've come a long way since I arrived in June, but I've still got a LONG way to go. I dont know if it's because it's Arabic, or because I'm slow at learning languages, or because I'm an American, or because I've only been here a few months, or all of the above. Regardless, I still have no small feat ahead of me. I studied Modern Standard Arabic (FusHa) and am living in a country where that language isn't even spoken. An older friend of mine who's lived in Morocco for 20 years, has a Ph.D in Arabic studies, and speaks perfect Arabic (Moroccan and Classical) said that learning Arabic was like learning all of the romance languages at the same time. French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian all came from Latin. In the same way, Moroccans have their dialect, Egyptians theirs, as well as Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, the Gulf, Iraq, and Libya. However, unlike Latin where it split into different dialects (which then became official languages), all of these countries' dialects are all still considered Arabic because of the sacredness of the Qur'an. The Qur'an acts as the glue which holds the Arabic language together as one, despite its difference in dialects throughout the Arab world. The Qur'an also maintains the standard for Arabic. As languages change, Arabic relatively stays the same because of the immutability of the Qur'an. So, I studied a bit of the pure Arabic, but I'm living in a context in which the language has been changed, progressed, and mixed with other cultural and linguistic elements. If you're confused, don't worry- I'm still trying to figure it al out too. The bottom line is that some days (most days) are extremely frustrating. The other week I reached a breaking point. I wrote in my journal, "Language sucks. It is really a curse and a whole world is closed when you don't know the language. I just stood and watched a 30 minute conversation with a guy from France and a few Moroccans. I could only understand about 5 or 10% (mostly from body language, tone, all the non-verbals, and a few words in English). They talked about Islam, culture, media, religion, and change (of course... right up my alley). Not being able to be part of the discussion is not only frustrating, but also discouraging. Without French (in the case of this conversation), I can't participate, understand, challenge, or give my point of view. I can't be a part of the discussion, but instead just a spectator. How am I supposed to add to the discussion, listen, learn, or convey truths or principals that I know or have learned without speaking the language? It's very discouraging and the more than ever, I want to learn French (as well as Arabic and just about every other major language in the world). Without competency of language in the specific context, learning ceases to happen and I can't convey ideas, beliefs, or challenges." The 'friction' that I mentioned earlier cannot happen. It's not a fun place to be. My high school Spanish teacher (McCluskey- an amazing woman) told me, "When you learn a language, a whole world opens up." This couldn't be more true. Without it, there is a whole world out there that I don't have access to or am able to participate in. I just want to get to the end, where I can speak and understand and read and write perfectly, but I know - like most things in life - it's about the journey... not the finish line. Without the journey, it is pointless. Without the journey, I would miss out on so much along the way. I have to remember that these days and moments of frustrating are hopefully not only building character, but also language skills and competencies that I will have for the rest of my life.

So, a blog entry that I started as being a short one turned out (once again) to be quite long. It's late and I must get some sleep. As much as I would love to tell you everything I learned about the drug situation and drug cartels (fortunately non-violent cartels.. unlike the Mexican/Colombian ones) in Northern Morocco, which is the world's largest exporter of Hashish/Marijuana (I don't even know the difference), or my quick getaway to Ceuta (the Spanish enclave on Moroccan soil), or the smiles from my beggar friends Ibrahim and Rachid that always brighten my day, or the things I continue to do wrong according to Moroccan culture, or the unfortunate reality of the association I was interning with and the kids there, I am going to have to save if for another time. Maybe you have to call me up when I get back for a cup of mint tea or a california burrito (or if you're in Morocco, we better grab shawarma or some avocado juice sometime before December 12... my last day in this amazing country). Either way, I look forward to sharing these rich experiences in person with you all. Until next time... Salaama Aleikum ("Peace be with you")

Learning To Love

I just finished watching a movie The Kingdom of Heaven, or just the last third or forth of it. Nothing like watching a movie about the Crusades with a Muslim family. I cannot express the pain in my heart when watching armies killing each other in the name of God, even if it's just a Blockbuster. The ruthlessness of both armies was horrific and I'm left frustrated and a bit depressed. One of my favorite quotes in the movie however, was from a guy who refused to fight with the Christian armies against the Muslims. I caught the movie late so I don't know his background but he said something that stuck out to me, "First I thought we were fighting for God, then I realized we were just fighting for wealth and land." For me, it was a little glimpse of hope that one man knew that this isn't what God had in mind, but instead a way to justify their selfish greed. One of the priests (in the movie) then commented that it was the duty of the Christian army to kill the "enemies of God". I thought this was interesting, seeing how the Bible says not only to "love and pray for your enemies" but also that the enemy of God is Satan himself, not the Muslim Army. For Muslims, Christians, Jews, Hindus and Buddhists are created in the image of God. It is so painful to watch how the greed for money, land, and wealth of the "Christians" was masked by a ruthless war "In the name of God" (though I have to question which god they were serving) against God's beautiful and priceless creation. I cannot help but feel a bit uncomfortable watching these horrific scenes of history with the Muslim family I'm living with. I felt a bit more comfortable when my roommate Haitam (my age) commented, "It's too bad there are some people like that." His comment followed the priest's comment that God's will was to destroy the "enemies". Luckily, Haitam knows that Christianity doesn't equate to the Crusades, war, killing, and imperialism, but these evil people do terrible things in the name of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. Ironically, during the commercial break, there was a powerful ad about terrorism. The commercial began by showing a peaceful and quiet Middle Eastern neighborhood with kids playing soccer in the street. Suddenly, several trucks turned down the street with AK-47s and began shooting. The screen when black and written in Arabic were the words, "Terrorism has no religion." I thought that was a beautiful message and at an appropriate time. Terrorism, killing, wars, and genocide are horrific events masked by religion to hide ones own greed and evil.

If only there could be a Hollywood film about the story of St. Francis of Assisi, a mad monk who lived during the times of the Crusades and knew that God's message was not (and is not) a battle of power or a raised fist, but an outstretched arm of service and indiscriminate love, then maybe I'd feel more comfortable watching this movie than the one about killing. Jesus' challenging words of love led St. Francis to live with and serve the Muslim army (seen as "the enemy" by his contemporaries). He understood that God does not need mercenaries, but messengers of mercy and that the Gospel (literally "Good News" of Jesus) cannot go hand-in-hand with intolerance and aggressive attitudes, but instead with unconditional love and with all warfare strategies aside (Mallouhi 2000). St. Francis was a man who believed that if Jesus was alive in his era, that he would have renounced worldly possessions and lived a life of radical love and service. Call him an extremist... because he was. But not like today's extremists who bomb abortion clinics, gay bars, or hijack airplanes. He was an extremist who loved like no one else did during his time. He lived simply and faithfully to the loving message of Jesus, which meant living with the Muslim armies. It is comforting to know that in the midst of war and hate, that the message and spirit of Jesus is found in the vulnerable outstretched arm of one man(St. Francis) who refused to deny anyone the love of God.

As I am reading several books right now, including Mallouhi's Waging Peace on Islam who looks to the life of St. Francis of Assisi as an example of one who loved unconditionally. He dedicated his life to loving Christians, lepers, and Muslims alike, and I am challenged to love the same way that he did, that Mother Teresa did, and that Jesus did. I'm going to be honest with you, it's not as easy as it might sound. The three I mentioned above devoted themselves to a life of poverty. For them, the material possession of this world only got in the way of loving people with their entire heart. Coming from my suburban Southern California background, I am anything but poor. Yes, I am a college student drowning in student loans (ok, maybe not that bad, but it seems like a lot at the moment) and I don't have a job. But, the fact that I go to a University in the United States, that I have a car, that I could come to Morocco (even if I had to take out a loan to do so), and the fact that I could even take out a loan for several thousand dollars makes me one of the richest people on the globe. I am not saying that one has to be poor to love. In fact, I think it is more commendable when someone can love even with all of their riches. When someone has a mansion in Beverly Hills and opens it up to the poor, needy, and homeless is something beautiful. But lets be honest, how often does that happen? In my experience across the globe, those who had less were often more hospital and loving than those who had a lot. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But then again, this is just my experience. May we not be judged on the size of our homes or bank accounts, but by how we use these things (whether big or small) to serve others.

Several times this last month, I have been humbled, broken, and challenged over the blunt words of Jesus, "It is more difficult for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God" (Matthew 19:24). This verse has come up several times recently, whether in my own reading, personal studies, or churches I've been too. These words come just after an encounter that Jesus has with a rich man who has obeyed all the commandments. This guy was religious and without fault, yet Jesus said "If you want to be perfect, go sell your possessions and give to the poor." (Mt. 19:21). Is it just me or is this painful? I'm sure most of us are good law-abiding citizens and some of us obey God's commandments to certain degrees. But this wasn't necessary what Jesus was looking for. Now, I'm sure there are hundreds of books and thousands of sermons about this passage and how maybe Jesus doesn't really mean the words he said, or those words were just applicable to the rich guy in the story, or we focus on the verse at the end which says, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible." (Mt. 19:26). Sitting on the old wooden pews in St. Andrew's Anglican Church of Tangier this last Sunday hearing the pastor read this passage, I was broken-hearted, growing uncomfortable from of the wooden pews and even more uncomfortable from the piercing words of Jesus. Am I willing to give away my possessions to the poor? Maybe more importantly, are my possessions getting in the way of me loving people? There is part of me that says, "Right now, I'm ready to be finished with worldly possessions and live a life of poverty and service to the poor." And the other part of me enjoys the "finer" things in life. A nice gourmet meal here and there, an exotic vacation, a laptop, a house with an ocean view, or a Dave Matthews concert are all things that I enjoy. I'm not going to lie, I don't know if I'm ready to give those things up for a life of poverty. Then I think, is a life of poverty even possible? Sure I can live in the slums of Calcutta, India as Mother Teresa did, or with victims of unjust war crimes in Palestine and Israel, or with those dying of starvation in sub-Saharan Africa, but I may never be poor (And even so, without love, it would be completely useless. What makes Mother Teresa the light in the darkness of Calcutta's slums was her unconditional and relentless love, not her poverty). I could live in a shack, but could I ever be poor? The words of Henri Nouwen seem suitable for my situation (as they have been through most of my time and experiences here), "Living here not only makes me aware that I have never been poor, but also that my whole way of being, thinking, feeling, and acting is molded by culture radically different from the one I live in now. I am surrounded by so many safety systems that I would not be allowed to become truly poor. If I were to become seriously ill, I would be sent back to the United States and given the best possible treatment. As soon as my life or health were really threatened, I would have many people around me willing to protect me...I am not poor as my neighbors are. I will never be and will never be allowed to be by those who sent me here." (Nouwen 1999). I am by no means living in poor conditions at this moment in Morocco, but his words remain true. If I were to live in one of the places I mentioned above, I still couldn't be one of them. On the outside, I might be like one of them, living in a small house in their community, wearing the same dirty clothes, eating the same food, and taking the same buses, but on this inside I would still have the world at my fingertips. I have opportunities that those around do not have. I have the choice of living in that particular community or country, where most of them are there by fate. I have safety nets that distinguish the lucky (myself) from the unlucky (those around me). No matter how hard I try to live a life of poverty, it may be something impossible. Instead, Nouwen looks to a realistic lifestyle, "I have to accept my own history and live out my vocation, without denying that history. On the other hand, I realize the way of Christ is a self-emptying way." A life of poverty isn't necessary or even possible. And I don't think this is even what Jesus was getting at when he talked to the rich young man. For this man, it was his possessions the prevented him from complete obedience to Christ and love for all. Nouwen recognizes that possessions and personal wealth aren't the problem, insofar as they do not prevent us from a life of love and sacrifice. In the mean time, I must reflect on how I can live out such a life of love, service, and sacrifice without "denying" my personal history, background, culture, or social status.

Daily, I am faced with this challenge of love. At my internship with Darna, an association for disadvantaged children (many of whom have come off the streets), I am finding it difficult to love. The grave reality is that these kids know no love. It's pretty obvious from the scares on their faces, arms, and legs or simply by the way they treat each other. The scares on their arms and legs come from knives and other weapons during fights, they tell me. Some of the kids have faces completely scared, either from abuse, fights, or just the marks of daily survival on the streets. Beyond the physical scares of poverty, their behavior is even more telling. I cannot tell you how many times I've had to break up fights because I thought one of the kids was going to kill the other one. Because they haven't been loved, they do not have the capacity to love others. Darna association is doing a great work by teaching them the skills to rise from their poverty and find hope in the abilities (both natural and learned) that they have. But because they do not know love, discipline, or opportunity, this is a difficult task. The kids come to "school" (Darna) every day, but they come with nothing. No pens, no paper, no books. It's no wonder that after 15 minutes, most teachers have lost the attention and interest of their students. Whatever supplies are in the class are vulnerable for kids to take and use as weapons. Chalk, makers, paint, books, and chairs have been thrown across the room. My 3+ weeks at Darna have given me some much respect and appreciation for the amazing and dedicated teachers in America's inner-cities, especially those who work for programs like Teach For America (http://teachforamerica.org/). I realize that I am not made for such demanding tasks. My gratitude and respect goes out to those who have the patience to work with society's marginalized youth; the poor and unloved. These teachers are the heros of today that often go unnoticed and unappreciated.

Today, I was spit on twice by a kid who was trying to come in and disrupt the class. You have to be rough with this kids, but where do you draw the line? I believe that violence (most cases) only perpetuates more violence (particularly on a global level, but I won't go there now). But I also believe that kids need to be disciplined. At the end of the day, I am so exhausted from protecting myself from not being punched, slapped, or stolen from, and also dragging the kids out of the classroom who are spitting on, fighting with, and cursing the teacher or other students. How can I love these kids when they have no respect for anyone (or anything)? I feel that to love them for who they are would mean to let them walk all over me like a doormat. When that kid spit on me today, part of me wanted to embrace him as an act of unconditional love, mercy, and forgiveness, but the other part of me wanted to strangle the little twerp. Usually the more aggressive half of me overrides the doormat side. I don't think he should get away with spitting on the volunteer, so I chase after him. When I think about how Jesus, Mother Teresa, Gandhi, or St Francis would love these kids.... well, I am left without answers. I just don't know. If Mother Teresa was spit on by a little daredevil of a kid, would she smile and embrace him or give him a good spanking? My first instinct is teach the kid that if he treats people like that he's not going to get too far in life. But then what do I know? Survival for them is the only way of life and far be it for me to impose my believes or worldviews on these boys and girls who really have so much to teach me. May I learn to embrace nuisance when needed and discipline the menace when appropriate.

Grimy Hands and a Floating Cemetery

It's been a week since Ramadan ended. Last monday, the entire country joined the 1.3 billion Muslims worldwide in celebrating the Eid. Eid ul-Fitr is the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. The word "Fitr" comes from the Arabic word meaning "to break fast", quite an appropriate name given, as the highlight of the day is eating breakfast together as a family for the first time in a month. In Morocco, it is not only a national and religious holiday, but a social one too. Believers wake up early to be at the mosque at 8am for a special prayer and khutba, or sermon. As most everyone goes to bed late during Ramadan, this isn't the easiest task. Waking up on Monday at 8am was like waking up for the first day of school after a long summer break. To make matters worse, I didn't sleep until 6am the "night" before. With a combination of finishing up some writing, having taken a nap earlier in the afternoon, the first call for prayer and Haitam's brother snoring, I finally got to sleep, ironically, after the sun came up and only to be woken up two hours later. Knowing that I went to bed later than some people go to bed in California and only getting two hours of sleep, I felt like I just walked off the plane from America. I felt sick to my stomach, my head was pounding and nothing seemed like a reality. I gave myself jet-lag without even traveling!

While Haitam and his family were at the 8 o'clock service at the Mosque, I listened to the chants and prayers and then looked outside the window as everyone left the mosque (the Mosque is next door to the house). In Morocco during the Eid, everyone wears their djellabas. A djellaba is Morocco's traditional dress for both men and women (though the womens' djellabas are much more colorful than the mens). It was a wonderful sight last Monday morning. Men and women were dressed up in their best djellabas and greeting everyone as they walked by... but more on the greetings in a sec. It is tradition for the family to eat breakfast together and then go and visit friends and family. After breakfast, Haitam and I went, in our djellabas of course, to visit Taha. Driving to Taha's house, we passed through town, which was completely empty and as we passed the "Lazywall" (a place in town where Moroccans sit, lazily, and brainstorm idea on how to cross the Straight of Gibraltar and get to Spain) and caught a glimpse of southern Spain from across the Straight of Gibraltar. It was by far the most beautiful day of the year. The deep blue cloudless sky was almost as impressive as the Straight, which had not a single trace of wind on it. Tangier is definitely one of the windiest cities I have ever been to, so to see the Mediterranean as flat as a lake was nothing less than phenomenal.

After visiting with Taha, drinking a few cups of tea, and stuffing ourselves with more pastries, the three of us took off to go visit some other friends. We stopped at Amin's apartment and stood on the street talking for about an hour. As the four of us were standing on the street and talking during that time, random guys would come up to us and say "salaam aleikum... eid moubarak" and shake all of our hands. Moroccans love to greet, but during the Eid, it makes every other day seem like Moroccans are afraid to touch. It reminded me of Christmas day in America, when no matter who you walk by you give them a "Merry Christmas". However here, it was a handshake, hug, and maybe a kiss on the cheeks. My favorite though was a guy driving down the street when he passed a friend, or aquiantance. He stopped the car (in the middle of the road mind you), got out and embraced his friend. Cars started piling up behind him and waited patiently for him to get back in the car. Any other day, cars would have been honking non-stop until the guy got back in the car. But because of the Eid, patience prevailed and time was stopped to greet friends and foreigners alike.

Now that Ramadan is over, I'm not only enjoying being able to eat, drink, and go to cafes during the day, but also getting to sleep a little bit earlier. Going to bed at 11 is now considered early whereas during Ramadan, eating dinner at 1 or 2am was normal.

I have recently started my internship, one of the requirements for my Global Learning Term (GLT) here in Morocco. I am interning at an organization called Darna, a center for poor women and children, many of whom come from the streets. It is located just outside the medina on top of a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. Not a bad location for a non-profit organization! :) There are about 100 kids that come to Darna to receive education and have the opportunity to learn several skills (such as cooking, sewing, farming/agriculture, art, etc.) so that by the time they are 18 they can hopefully enter the workforce. Many of these kids have even tried crossing the Mediterranean to get to Spain by makeshift rafts or by sneaking onto or under a semi-truck that crosses the Straight on ferry. Just the other night, I went for a run down by the port and I saw kids jumping on the semi trucks as they were entering the port, hoping to pass through customs without getting caught. I've seen people run underneath the semi truck as its stopped at a light in town and crawl up under the wheels, hoping they won't get caught at the port and will make it across to Spain. As I mentioned in my last blog, Tangier has one of the highest concentrations of Moroccans and Sub-Saharan Africans who risk their lives to emigrate to the EU. Unfortunately, or fortunately (they are still alive), many of the kids of have tried this end up at Darna.

Despite the disorganization I've experienced so far, the kids have really been a delight. This morning as I went to Darna, I was met at the gate by a little boy who stood there with both arms stretch up to my neck. I leaned down and he wrapped his grimy hands around my neck and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. Just when I was worried about figuring out what I was going to do for the kids today and how I was going to hopefully teach them something, I'm reminded that these kids just want to be touched and loved. Like last week, the kids won't stop touching me (maybe part of the reason why I came down with a cold over weekend). The rambunctious little ones will jump on me from all sides. The older ones aren't as straight forward as the younger ones but will always put their arm around my shoulder (when standing) or on my leg or knee when sitting. This is obviously a bit uncomfortable, as something like this wouldn't necessarily happen between two straight guys in America. Of course, this is just a cultural norm of Morocco that I've come to accept and try to be comfortable with as well as a reminder that these kids are starving for attention. I used this quote in last week's blog about my new friend Ibrahim, and I think it's fitting for the kids at Darna too. Henri Nouwen, a Dutch priest/pastor for a mentally handicapped community in Canada/author, describes this hunger that he witnessed among the kids during a visit to an orphanage in poverty-stricken Bolivia, "The children were so starved for affection that they fought with each other for the privilege of touching me. How little do we really know the power of physical touch. These boys and girls only wanted one thing: to be touched, hugged, stroked, and caressed. Probably most adults have the same needs but no longer have the innocence and unself-consciousness to express them. Sometimes I see humanity as a sea of people starving for affection, tenderness, care, love, acceptance, forgiveness, and gentleness" (Gracias! pg. 44).

I sat in on a class to observe how the instructor teaches the class and interacts with the students. He was teaching a "life skills" class to some of the older students who will be out in the "real world" in a few years. He said, "assume you have 100 Dirhams (about US$13), what are you going to do with that in order to make money and survive? Suppose you have 200 Dirhams, what then are you going to do?" Everyone went around and answered. Each student gave a creative idea about how he would spend the money in hopes of bringing in a return. On student said that he would be a bunch of CDs for really cheap, then turn around and sell them for more. A girl said that she would buy the ingredients to make shabakia (Moroccan pastry) and sell that. I realized that I was in a room full of potential business men and women, who given the opportunity and resources, would go to desperate measures to make a few dirhams to survive. It was humbling to know that not only were these things seen as hobbies for me or extra change (I'm sure I could buy a bunch of CDs online and come to Morocco and sell them.... but I would never look to that for my main source of income) but that opportunities for these young Moroccans are few and minimal. When I convert 200 dirhams into my currency, it's not much. While I'm thinking about investing with thousands of dollars, these guys are working with $10 or $20. There was another volunteer in the classroom from Spain and when the teacher presented this project to the class, the Spaniard said, "Con solo 20 Euros, estoy muerto. No puedo hacer nada en mi pais" ("With only 20 Euros, I'm dead. I can't do anything en my country (with 20 Euros)"). Some may say, "It's all relative". Maybe it is, but I still cant imagine even trying to get my in Morocco with a few hundred D's.

There is a place in Tangier that I absolutely love. Every time I go, I am reminded why I have fallen in love with Tangier. Just about every day, I make the trek down the hill from Haitam's house and then back up the step hill towards the kasbah (fortress) on the outskirts of the medina. Depending on how much time I have, I usually sit on the edge of the cliff overlooking the water for a few minutes or a few hours. The view is absolutely amazing and the ocean breeze is refreshing, though usually a bit strong. The view from the top of the cliff looks straight out across the Straight of Gibraltar, the mouth of the Mediterranean. Anything that enters the Mediterranean (with exception to those entering through the Suez canal in Egypt) enters here between this little 15 mile space of water between two continents... Morocco and Africa on the south... Spain and Europe on the North. Some days are easier than others. Some days I recall the snapshots I have of when I sailed through this same straight 19 months ago on The Scholar Ship. Other days, my heart becomes burdened with overflowing thoughts and questions about the world we live in. This little straight of water separates the "haves" from the "have-nots". If you're born on the south side of this sliver of water, your life is drastically different than if you were born on the north side of it. One side has tons of money, priviledge, and power, and the other not so much. One side has total access to travel to, to visit, to work in, and to potentially exploit the other, while the other side is trapped in a world of poverty, oppression, injustice, disadvantage and disease, unable to step foot on the other. Days like these make it hard to fathom why being born on one side of the water dramatically affects every aspect of your life. This little 15 mile space has claimed the lives of thousands of Africans (statistically speaking, 3 documented deaths for every 2 days during the last 15 years) who have drowned or been shot by government authorities. Some describe it as the Mediterranean's "Floating Cemetery". Looking out over this beautiful place, I try not to remove myself too far from the bloody water that tells stories of all the men, women, and children it has claimed.

I realize that I'm ending mid-thought. I apologize if it causes the same unease in you as it does in me. I did not write this with the intention of making people feel guilty or restless, but I cannot go any further or come to any conclusion. I tried continuing to write but to no avail. Each sentence begun and thought pondered was left unfinished. I am left with questions and a heavy soul. I have questions, but I'm not necessarily looking for answers. My soul is restless with thoughts, ideas, burdens, and mixed feelings, looking for an outsource. There are somethings in life that we just don't know and no matter how hard we try to understand or fix them, we are left discouraged and still questioning. Maybe this is one of those things, maybe not. Regardless, I am left with a simple, yet profound prayer; "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

Ramadan Reflections and Ibrahim's Smile

I realize that when I don't write often, I'm left with an abundance of words. I apologize for the length of this entry, but I encourage you to read the whole thing if you have time. I hope you enjoy my Ramadan reflections and writing about the past few weeks....

Ramadan is now officially over. Last night at this time, I also thought Ramadan was over. Everyone was talking about how the Eid (holiday) was going to be today but due to a moonless sky, Ramadan went on for another day. The Islamic year is based on the lunar calendar, something I am not used to growing up in the US. Each year, every Eid and the month of Ramadan take place 15 or 16 days before it did the last year. In some countries, Ramadan may start or end a day earlier or later than another country... it all depends on the moon. Assuming that yesterday was last day of Ramadan, when people found out that it was one more day of fasting, I felt a sense of burden among the people. To make things worse, today is a Sunday and therefore, most everything is already closed. The last day of fasting became a day of rest, sleeping in, and naps for many Moroccans. Its amazing to think about how the lives of 35 million Moroccans and 1.3 billion Muslims around the world are at the will, so to speak, of the moon. This has made me realize two things. The first is that Ramadan has really showed me the freedom we have in Christ. Jesus invites us to live an abundant life with the freedom to love and be perfect. It may be an impossible task, but it is the goal; to "be perfect, for the Lord your God is perfect" (Matthew 5:48). This does not take place one month of the year, but every day that our heart beats. It is a freedom not to indulge in a selfish life for oursevles, but instead to "serve one another in love" (Galatians 5:13). On the flip side, I think there is something to learn about being at the will of the moon. Like my attitude yesterday, too often we are concerned about tomorrow. I had my heart set on Ramadan being over, not because fasting is so difficult, but because I was so excited about the Eid (Eid Al Fitr is the holiday at the end of Ramadan... consists of eating breakfast (the real thing, not the one at sunset) with your family, the first time in a month, and then visiting friends and family for the reminder of the day while wearing Morocco's traditional dress, a djellaba) and to move on with life. I'm ready to get on with the next thing, but with the prolonging of Ramadan, I'm reminded to focus on today. And let me tell you, today has been a great day (more on that below)! If we are satisfied with today and not preoccupied with the worries of tomorrow, we can enjoy life. This is the day that the Lord has made, so rejoice and be glad in it (Psalm 118:24) for tomorrow has enough worries of its own (Matthew 6:24). When we live at the will of the moon (aka, God, the creator of the heavens and the earth), we cannot control the future, but are instead forced to live in the present. What a beautiful and calming lesson that can be learned from this. Let us focus our eyes on today instead of tomorrow so that we may see the beautiful things, both big and small, that God has given us.

Besides learning how to live at the will of the moon, I have learned a few other things during this Ramadan. A month ago, I started fasting and fasted the whole month, except for the four days I spent in The Netherlands and the one day I was sick here in Tangier. If I was following the pure form of Muslim fasting as discussed in the Qur'an than I have nothing to worry about. In Islam, exceptions to fasting are made for those who are on a journey (my trip to Holland) or who are ill (like I was a week ago) as well as those who are pregnant, children, and a few other exceptions. However, these days must be made up later in the year. If someone breaks the fast before the call for prayer at sunset and he/see does not fall under any of these categories of exception, the punishment is quite heavy. For every day one breaks the fast early (intentionally), their punishment includes the following choices: freeing a slave (a bit more difficult to do now than back in the 7th century), fasting for two months (this also means that if you break the fast 2 days you can add 4 months to your fasting, including having to finish Ramadan), or feeding 60 poor people (not giving them money, but feeding them, with the same amount of food you would eat... in other words, you can't just buy 60 McDonald's burgers or loaves of bread and pass them out to 60 beggars). I'm not a Muslim, but if I was, I don't know what I would choose. The truth is that even today, there are hundreds of thousands of slaves around the world today, ranging from child labor slaves to sex slaves. As much as I would love to free a slave, there are two factors I need to consider. First is the fact that I don't know of any slaves. I don't know where I could begin to look for them... maybe visiting a brothel in Thailand frequented by American, Canadian, European, Russian, Saudi Arabian, or Australian men men on "Sex Tours" (yes, as disgusting as this is it's the truth... such "tours" can even be arranged in Los Angeles) or a cocoa farm in West Africa run by a large multi-national corporation that exploits their workers so that the privileged in the global north can indulge in chocolate, unaware of the tired perhaps bloody hands that picked it under the extreme conditions of climate and abuse. The second aspect worth considering is being able to recognize and tend to the psychological effects of being released from slavery. I read an article a few years back about the psychological repercussions that freed slaves suffer from after being "released". Though physically released, every other aspect of their being remains in bondage to their master and the once-slave-now-free person often seeks to return to their previous lifestyle. I'm not saying that slaves should remain slaves, but a freed slave needs serious psychotherapy, otherwise they are worse off than they were before. (I cannot remember the exact title of the article, but if you are interested, please contact me. I have the article back in the US and I could pass it along when I get back) So maybe then I would fast for two months or feed 60 poor people. Fasting for two months seems a bit selfish, so I might as well spend the energy doing something that is beneficial to others, not just focus on myself for two months. Then again, I've cooked for 10 or 15 people and that was a lot of work. 60? I'd definitely need some lessons in the kitchen from some of the Moroccan women, who cook for 20-30 people like it's just another night with the family.

Ramadan has definitely been a time of reflection, not just fasting. Actually, when I look back on Ramadan, fasting remains in the background. The focus of every day seems to be the f'tour (feasting). "F'tour" literally means "breakfast" since it is the first meal eaten. At the Maghreb (sunset), the call for prayer is proclaimed from loudspeakers on every minaret in the city. When Ramadan began a month ago, the maghreb was around 7:30pm and with the days getting shorter, the maghreb tonight was at 6:28pm. The later in the month it gets, the less time it is to fast. In The Netherlands though, the maghreb wasn't until 9pm when I was there... making Ramadan much more difficult for the thousands of Muslims living there and in northern Europe. Forbidden during (the day) Ramadan are eating, drinking, smoking, lying, sexual activities, fighting, lust, alcohol, etc. but once the sun sets, the fasting is over. Things like eating and drinking (and smoking for some) are now permissible. I'm having trouble understanding how other things people fast from, like lusting, bad language, or lying are OK to do at night, but not during the day, or even after Ramadan for that matter. I know that no one can be perfect, but if Ramadan is supposed to be a month of fasting from the things of this world that bring us further away from God, it seems that it would be missing the point for people to carry on staring at girls the wrong way or taking part in indecent behavior just because the sun went down and the rules don't apply as strictly anymore. I'm reminded of the brilliant, and sometimes humbling words "It is not what goes into a man's mouth that makes him 'unclean,' but what comes out of his mouth that makes him clean, for the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart" (Matthew 15:11,18). The broader picture of this is that the life we produce through words, actions, and attitudes, come from the heart. This is of unparalleled significance to the things that we put in our body. If for example I fast (during the day) for a month straight and eat only kosher food (at night), it is unrivaled to my actions, attitudes, and words, which originate from the heart. If by night my heart is full of hate and lust, what good is fasting during the day? I don't mean to sound harsh or sound as if I'm making sweeping statements about Moroccans. Alternately, I'm thinking out loud, as these are some of the thoughts I've been wrestling with the past couple weeks. These words to not convey direct experiences but instead express personal reflections regarding fasting. It's not so much about the details of the law as it is the heart of the law. Furthermore, I'm seeking to understand the Muslim context in which I am living in while keeping Jesus' words fresh and alive in my life.

Anyways, back to the food! F'tour, or breakfast, is taken at the maghreb. I am blessed to have had the opportunity to take f'tour with at least 15 different people/families and locations. I broke the fast with wealthy families and a huge feast throughout many parts of Morocco, with younger Moroccans fresh out of college and making the transition into the adult/working life in Casablanca (the biggest city... a city of opportunities), with my host family in Fez, with a poor family in Azrou, in a restaurant in the college town of Ifrane, at a bible study with Al-Akhawayn University international students and faculty, on an airplane just before take off (nearly everyone on the plane was Moroccan and at sunset, people all of a sudden broke out meals they prepared and packed in tupper-wear containers and shared with everyone.... I brought a bag of dates to share with others... I'm quickly learning that in Morocco "what's mine is yours"... sharing is a part of the everyday life), and with friends, old and new, in several different homes here in Tangier. Typically, 30 minutes before the maghreb (and sometimes up to 45 minutes or an hour), families start gathering around the table as it is being set. The empty dinner tables quickly become filled with harira (soup), shabakia (sweet pastry-like thing with honey), dates, baklava, a plethora of sweet Moroccan pastries, milk, and juice. Then, everyone sits around the table and waits for the call. At the sound of "Allah Akbar..." ("God the Greatest...") everyone digs in. Once again, this idea that life revolves around the moon, or in this case, the call for prayer is so foreign to me. At that call, life changes. Drinks are sipped, food is eaten, and cigarettes are lit. Words cannot express what it is like to live by the authority of a call for prayer. I had trouble with that throughout the month. Some days I wanted to fast longer and other days I just wanted pray or go spend the meal with someone on the streets. The first few days, I was so thirsty that I skipped the food and went straight for the juice and the water. One thing I miss is saying a prayer of thanksgiving before eating, especially during such an important meal. Part of fasting is the aspect of remembering the poor and knowing what it may be like to be poor and hungry, but this is soon forgotten when there is a feast in front of your eyes and everyone starts devouring their food. Throughout the month, I tried to remember to spend time giving thanks to God for the food. For me, beginning a meal, in this case f'tour, should be marked with thanksgiving and not just hearing the call for prayer at the maghreb.

The f'tour meal lasts anywhere between 20 minutes and 2 hours. It is usually followed by tea and more pastries. One night in Tangier, I was invited for f'tour with Haitam (who I'm staying with), his dad, and his brothers. (Haitam's mom has been in Saudi Arabia for the last month for the "O'mara", not to be confused with the Hajj. Since she is gone all month, the boys (including the father) are left to eat f'tour at other peoples' homes or downstairs with Haitam's aunt because most men do not cook in Morocco). Not only did this one f'tour meal last 2 hours, but two rounds of two different tea were served, followed by a huge "dinner" (as if we weren't already full). Four hours later, we were done eating! This isn't anything out of the norm for Morocco, especially during Ramadan. I had trouble adjusting to eating absolutely nothing during the day and then feasting (literally) once the sun went down. I'm still having trouble trying to swallow (excuse the pun) this idea of "fasting". Personally, I think fasting should be the giving up of a meal, or two or three or four...etc. Instead, the month of Ramadan is fasting in the day and feasting at night. The meals that would be eaten during the day are pushed back until after sunset. This calls for a very late night. Dinner time is usually around 12 midnight or 1am. However, one night Haitam and I played a futsal match with some friends from 12:30-1:30am. Any excersize/activity during the day is difficult, especially when you can't drink water. So the only time to play soccer is at night, several hours after people spend f'tour with their families and friends. We got home after 2am, showered, and ate around 3am. This is the life of Ramadan in Morocco. Now that Ramadan is over, I'm looking forward to going to bed before 2am, morning runs and staying hydrated throughout the day. And the food... not as big of a deal as long as I eat once or twice. Not eating during the day even saved me a bit of money and we know that's always a plus! :)

Tonight, I just got back from a huge dinner. I had f'tour here with Haitam's family (minus his mom who is in Saudi Arabia for another week) and then we were invited to a friend's house for dinner. There were about 10 of us in total, all crowded around a 5 foot table. For dinner, an entire goat was served on a huge platter that just about took up the whole table. It's not very Moroccan to use cutlery, so we all dug in with our hands. I felt pretty barbaric sitting at the table with 10 other men eating a roasted goat with our hands. I've had goat quite a bit in parts of Africa and even India but this one took away the gold medal! After stuffing myself with a kilo worth of meat, a large assortment of fruit was served. Just when I thought I couldn't put anything else down my throat, we all shared an icecream cake from one of my favorite cafe's in Tangier. What a meal! This definitely makes the Top 10 list of meals I've had in Morocco.

Although the meal was definitely nothing short of a highlight to my day, the main highlight happened earlier this afternoon. Two blocks from Haitam's house, on the way to the main street, is a wall that attracts a handful of beggars. Most of the beggars here are regulars that I walk by every day. Some of them are blind, others missing a limb (others two, three, or all limbs), and there are sometimes women and children. My heart breaks every time I walk by them. I pass by them daily, sometimes several times in one day. Besides not being able to speak enough Arabic with them, I'm left with limited options. (1) I can smile at them, hoping that it might brighten their day just a little bit. On the other hand, I have to wonder what it must be like for them to see me walk by and smile like everything is OK and life is wonderful. I usually take the risk and give a little smile. (2) I can give them some money. The problem with this is twofold: I have a limited amount of money because i have no income and secondly, if i give to one, i should probably give to all. Since I see them every day, when do i give them money? I can't do it every day, otherwise i might run out of money and be stuck in Morocco. Hey, maybe that's a good idea! ;) (3) I can give them food. This too has been a problem. During Ramadan, finding food during the day is more difficult than one might imagine and eating in public is illegal. With the food option out of the question (until after tomorrow), I'm left with options 1 and 2.

So today I passed by a guy who I see just about every day. I smile at him and he gives me a warm smile back. More than anyone else, I feel drawn to this guy. His smile is impressive and it touches my spirit, walking by him several times a day as he sits in his wheel chair with only one leg and an outstretched arm. Unlike the other beggars, he does not say anything or try to get peoples attention. He just sits there waiting for someone to notice him and give a smile so he can give one in return. I can tell he is African, so I assumed that he knew a little English. Today as I was walked back to the house, I was praying for him, praying that he would be there and I could get to talk to him for a bit. Sure enough, as I turned the corner, I laid eyes on him. I greeted him and Arabic and shook his hand. I made sure to shake his hand and put my arm on his shoulder like most Moroccans do when they greet each other. The power of touch is something that most people take for granted as part of their everyday life. When you live on the streets and live off of the change that people give to you, you are nothing more than an outcast, an untouchable. Humans need physical touch to survive and remain healthy, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally (there have been studies on it). Henri Nouwen, a Dutch priest/pastor for a mentally handicapped community in Canada/author, describes his day at an orphanage in poverty-stricken Bolivia, "The children were so starved for affection that they fought with each other for the privilege of touching me. How little do we really know the power of physical touch. These boys and girls only wanted one thing: to be touched, hugged, stroked, and caressed. Probably most adults have the same needs but no longer have the innocence and unself-consciousness to express them. Sometimes I see humanity as a sea of people starving for affection, tenderness, care, love, acceptance, forgiveness, and gentleness" (Gracias! pg. 44). With an exchange of handshakes and greetings in Arabic, I asked him if he spoke English. Being from Senegal he spoke mostly French, but could understand most of my English. I sat with him and talked for a few minutes. A man, whom I didn't notice, was listening to us talk. He was Moroccan and offered to translate for me, just to make sure my new friend Ibrahim knew what I was saying. When you step out of the status quo, people not only notice but are drawn to do the same. With a little act of love, walls come quickly down and all of a sudden a Muslim Moroccan, a Senegali immigrant, and a Christian from America are quickly joined together. What a beautiful sight. So I told Ibrahim that because I live just down the street, I will see him every day and I won't be the stranger who just walks by with a smile. Although I gave him some money, I told him that whatever he needs to let me know. I may not have tons of money to offer him, but what I do have is love and touch.

I tell you this story for a few reasons. I do not want to build myself to be a righteous do-gooder or anything like that... I am neither of those. I wanted to tell you about my new friend, a man who's smile is not only contagious but humbling at the same time. When you sit in the same spot every day with a humble outstretch hand and with one less leg than everyone who walks by, grateful for the smallest coin to drop from someone's hand and you can still put a smile on your face... that is powerful! I don't know Ibrahim's story, but that my next reason for writing this. Morocco attracts a lot of immigrants from Sub-Saharan Africa. Located only 15 kilometers across the Straight of Gibraltar from Spain (the EU), Tangier is the destination for thousands who flee their home country in hopes to pursue a better life in Europe. Although Europe is the goal, most do not get there. Some stay in Morocco, finding life in Morocco better than their war-torn and impoverished homelands. Others, who remain set on their original goal, attempt to cross the Mediterranean in makeshift boats. If they are not caught by official patrol or guard boats, they often capsize and drown. The narrow, but deadly, straight has claimed countless lives of those who tried to cross, as it did this weekend (see attached link to article: http://english.aljazeera.net/news/africa/2009/09/200991919917332747.html). The ugly truth is that people leave their dire situations to search for a better life, a life where they can live in peace and dignity, without the threat or fear that terrorizes them daily. Some have fled civil wars and others manage to escape grinding poverty. Despite your political views on immigration, these are people in desperate need of love... a love that comes from the God of peace, not in the unfulfilled dreams and policies of politicians and world leaders. The Bible speaks repeatedly about caring for the stranger and the alien. Even if you don't follow the Bible, I think the least we can do as decent human beings is to stretch out a caring hand to these poor and oppressed people. If we can attempt to put ourselves in their shoes, then we can begin to understand what life is like for so many people in this world.

I don't know Ibrahim's story. I don't know how he lost his leg. I don't know if he's attempted the most frightening and treacherous task of crossing the Mediterranean in a makeshift raft with the hope of starting a new life in Europe, or if he's lost family or friends in the process of doing so. I do know that he deserves the loving touch of a friend and a few bucks at the very least. I ask that you will be praying for Ibrahim. Though you don't know him, please pray for his life as a foreigner, an alien, an amputee, a beggar, and a beloved child of God. Pray that through his little bit of English and my little bit of French and Arabic that we will be able to communicate with eachother. More importantly, I would encourage you (I want to command you but that might just be too overbearing... so I challenge you) to love. Jesus says that of course we can love our friends, anyone can do that. But can we love those we don't like? our enemies? the marginalized? In America, there are plenty of marginalized people groups. Illegal immigrants may be a drain on the education system, but that's no excuse not to love them, to treat them with dignity and respect, to reach out a caring and helping hand, to invite them into our homes or out for a meal, or to put ourselves in their shoes and imagine what a day in the life of an immigrant might be like. May we learn from Ibrahim's smile to be grateful of all things even though all around us looks so much better. May we learn from and love the meek.