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")
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 28, 2009
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."
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."
Monday, September 21, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
One Summer, Five Weddings, Three Continents
I've been back in Morocco for a week now. I left Morocco for a quick trip to the Netherlands for a wedding and also to renew my visa. Every time I enter the country, the stamp in my passport is only valid for 3 months and so I was due to leave the country and then come back in again. It just so happened that one of my really good friends (named Melvina, she calls me her "brother from another mother") was getting married in Holland right around the same time my 3 months was up. To top it all off, a new budget airline was launched a few months ago in Morocco with daily flights throughout Europe. As you read in my last blog, my experience at the airport was quite a unique one, but I got there safe and sound. And if you're wondering about the lady whom I agreed to check in with in order to claim half her bag weight, she wasn't carrying any drugs, bombs or other illegal material, so I (or we) wasn't stopped at customs in Amsterdam. Actually, we got disconnected after getting off the plane and I didn't see her in the immigration line or in the baggage claim area. I thought maybe she already got her bag (after all, she was sitting in the front of the plane and got off way before me) and took off to Den Haag without me. If you recall, back at the airport in Morocco, she found out I was going to The Hague and offered to give me a ride and also a place to stay for a few nights if I needed it. I was going to take her up on the ride, especially because our plane was about 4 hours late and we arrived in Amsterdam at 2am. There were no more trains to The Hague, so when I didn't see her after going through immigrations and customs, I figured that I was going to be spending the night in the airport. It's not all that bad (I did it last year) except for the security guards in yellow that prohibit people from falling asleep or sleeping on the floor. I remember being woken up every 30 minutes by these men in yellow yelling something at me in Dutch. Luckily, just as I was finding a place to crash for a few hours, I saw my luggage friend. She was like, "Where the heck were you? I was looking all over the baggage claim area and even asking customs officials if they've seen a young American man already pass through." I had my doubts, thinking that she left just like that. I kept thinking to myself that that was very un-Moroccan of her. And just when I began to doubt, I saw her. I should have known better. Stupid me. In places like the US, someone would have offered to give me a ride or a place to stay and then snuck out of the airport without being seen. In Morocco, they call this "swab". In other words, you are polite and hospitable, but don't really mean it. Offering me a ride to The Hague at 2am and then leaving me behind at the airport would have been "swab", but luckily that wasn't the case. It was standard Moroccan kindheartedness. Her husband was waiting outside the airport and they drove me to The Hague, to the doorstep of my friend's house. No strings attached. Just out of the goodness of their own hearts. Why can't the world be a place where this happens so much that it's not even a big deal anymore?
At 3am, after a long day of traveling, I finally got to lay down and get a nice night of sleep. In the morning, Melvina's parents walked into the kitchen area of the apartment, where I was sleeping on a roll-away bed. They had no idea that I had come. I haven't seen them since the last time I was in South Africa (about a year and a half ago) and they were pleasantly surprised. Her family has really adopted me as one of their own sons, especially whenever I am visiting South Africa, and her father always introduces me as his son. When introducing me to the new in-laws in Holland, he would say "...And this is my son, Ryan... Melvina's sister" People would smile and shake my hand, but they had a perplexed expression on their face as they were trying to figure it out. They didn't want to be impolite, but they were wondering how an African man could have a white son like me. Plus, Melvina and I don't look anything alike. I might be a little tan but I'm no African. Unless they asked, I just let them figure out that Melvina's dad wasn't serious about me being a blood-relative and left it at that. I'm not going to lie, it was a bit awkward at times.
Being in Holland was really great. It's definitely a change from Morocco. I don't know if I would consider Morocco a "Third World" country (whatever "Third World" even means these days), but I also don't know if I could call it a "First World" country (whatever that means). There are definitely aspects of Morocco that are more familiar to the Third World and other parts that are very First World-like. However, Morocco is no Holland, and Holland is no Morocco. Despite the widespread forces of globalization that are making the two countries more and more alike, there are something things that I saw in Holland that you just don't see in everyday Moroccan life. Here are a few of those snapshots...
1. Parking lots/garages for bikes only. There are not even enough parking garages for cars in Morocco, let alone bikes.
2. The first day in Holland, I saw a guy riding his bike; handle bar in one hand and a Heineken in the other. I was thinking about trying that in Morocco... maybe someone will stone me like the French girl in Fez (story below).
3. While walking the streets of Amsterdam, it's not uncommon to catch a strong whiff of Marijuana streaming from the "Coffee Shops". I have yet to smell any Marijuana in Morocco, pretty ironic for being the world's second largest producer of the plant.
4. On just about any street in Den Haag or Amsterdam, I could choose to eat Japanese, Greek, Chinese, Turkish, Indian, Suriname, or Indonesian food. In Morocco, it's either tajines, sandwiches, or shawarma.
5. Crosswalks and crosswalk lights. In Morocco, you just go. Although crossing the street in Morocco can sometimes be difficult (especially in Casablanca), crossing the street in Holland is equally as difficult. First you have to look for bikes on the specified bike lane, then check for cars, and before crossing, watch out for trams that have the right-away. If it's red and you try to cross, it's very likely you will get hit by either a bike, car, or tram. In Morocco, everyone on the road expects pedestrians will cross whenever they like and will mostly swerve to avoid hitting you
6. Liquor stores and bars- the Dutch love their beer. In most places in Morocco (apart from the nice hotels catering toward the international crowd), you have to look pretty hard to find alcohol.
7. Trains and public transportation that are fast, frequent, and reliable. In Morocco, trains are relatively fast and mostly reliable, except when compared to the public-trans of Europe.
8. Ramadan in The Netherlands is almost non-existent. Unlike Morocco, all cafes and restaurants remain open and people are shamelessly eating in public. In Morocco, you will not find any cafe or restaurant open (except those catering to tourists, located away from public view) or anyone eating/drinking/smoking in public during the Holy Month.
9. To ride in a taxi in Holland must be a luxury (and expensive) because they are all new Mercedes E-classes. In Morocco, the taxis are 30 year-old Fiats but are only a 10th of the price to ride in.
My four days in Holland were fabulous. Balanced between the family (Melvina and her parents), eating (lots of good meals, especially food that I don't get in Morocco), enjoying public transit (taking the trams and trains into Den Haag central and also to Amsterdam), meeting new friends (Stefan's friends and Melvina's new in-laws), and having the time of my life at a wonderful wedding, I had such a great time that I really do miss Holland. After going to a few Moroccan weddings, I was interested in seeing what a Dutch wedding would be like. This summer has been a summer of weddings for me... one back in California, three in Morocco, and now one in The Netherlands (I went to more weddings this summer than in my whole life). Of course, I didn't get a "typical" Dutch wedding (if there was such a thing), but instead a blend of Dutch, Suriname, Indian, and South African cultures into one fun celebration. The wedding began at noon at the City Hall where they did all the legal stuff. There were about 100 people, family and friends (most of whom were Stefan's, as Melvina's support is mostly in South Africa) in this little room. Since it was all in Dutch, I didn't really get much of it, so I just pretended like I knew everything that was going on. After an hour, the papers were signed, the groom kissed the bride, and just like that, my sister Melvina was married. I had the privilege of being the "non-paid" photographer. It was my first time taking pictures of a wedding and I really enjoyed it. They had a professional photographer, so this gave me the freedom to experiment and take a bunch of shots without having the burden of making sure they get their money's worth. Every shot was really just a gift to them... and experience for me. It was a nice change to see the wedding from behind my camera's viewfinder (I know... I'm such a nerd). After all the legal stuff was done, the party began at a venue nearby. The wedding celebration took place a club/church. Yes, Club slash Church. During the weekend, the building is used as a night club... dancing, booze, the whole thing. Then a few times a week during the day, the fellowship rents out the building to use for their gatherings. Don't you love the irony of it? Anyways, there are several ups to having a wedding celebration in a club. Some might say it's because of the open bar, and others might say they just feel more comfortable at a place like a club (instead of a reception hall or traditional church building). In my opinion, the best part about having a wedding celebration in a club is the sound system. You know you aren't going to be lacking in the music section when you are partying at a club. And to top it all off, the DJ played some great music. It wasn't just your Top 40 R&B hits that everyone knows... he included music from India and Suriname, as well as a good dose of salsa and other latin hits. When you get a group of multi-cultural people celebrating a wedding and you play music from all over the world, you know you are going to have a fun time. Melvina's parents were breaking it down South African style, Stefan's Suriname relatives were doing their South American style jig, and the Indians were doing their thing. I don't know where I was in the mix, but I had fun! 6 hours of dancing and a couple hundred photos... what a night!
I made it home around 2am (early if you compare it to Moroccan weddings) for a few hours of sleep before my last day in Holland. Fortunately, my flight back to Morocco was at night so I was able to catch a train to Amsterdam for a few hours. Amsterdam is probably my favorite city in Europe (I've been to quite a few throughout most of Western Europe). It's unlike any other city. There are no skyscrapers (except for outside the main part of Amsterdam) and the whole city is lined with the skinny 4 story houses you've seen in postcards or while watching The Diary of Anne Frank movie in Middle School. There are literally thousands of miles of bike paths throughout the city as well as a whole network of dykes/canals that give another perspective of the city when seen by boat. Then, as was the case the other weekend when I was there, there is always something going on in Amsterdam. Last year in April when I was there, there was a huge carnival set up in the main square. The other weekend, there was an outdoor music festival throughout the city. Bands were playing in parts all around the city. To top it off, there were guys walking around with Grolsch keg carts. They had a chilled keg of beer on their cart, selling beer on tap to those enjoying the festival. I think this keg cart fits in the "This is definitely not Morocco" list. One of my favorite things about Amsterdam however, is the diversity of the city. Amsterdam is a city of immigrants. Some, especially those whose political views are further on the right than they are left, may see this as a negative aspect. But I see this as something beautiful, not just because I had so much fun the night before at a diverse, multi-cultural wedding, but because the beauty of God's creation is found not in those like ourselves, but in those unlike ourselves. It is through interactions with "the other" that enlightenment, understanding, and knowledge are made possible. Amsterdam is a place where people from around the world have come in pursuit of a better life. The city of Amsterdam is a beautiful mosaic of God's creation. On every street you will see people from every continent, color, and religion. It seems that the world is moving in the direction of a multi-ethnic and multi-cultural collection of cities where understanding and harmony replace hate and close-mindedness. May we continue to seek "the other" and discover the true abundance of God's beautiful creation.
***Above, I mentioned something about the French girl in Fez. I guess last week, a French tourist was visiting the medina in Fez. Fez, particularly the medina, is the religious capital of Morocco. Many consider it the most conservative city in Morocco, simply for this reason. So, this French tourist was walking through the medina. Because all the cafes are closed during Ramadan, she was unable to stop and eat or drink. However, she had a water bottle and wanted to drink a bit. Attempting to be culturally sensitive and "hide" the water from public, as not to offend or make it look like she was eating or drinking anything, she put the water bottle in a bag and then continued to drink it. If you can picture this... a girl drinking something from a bag... it looks like booze. The story goes that people began to throw stones at her because it appeared that not only was she drinking something, but she was drinking alcohol. This is a big no no... anywhere in Morocco, especially during Ramadan, especially in Fez. I can't help but to laugh at this story. I am not a Muslim, but I can't help but to respect everyone else who is fasting. If I am going to eat or drink anything, I'm going to do it away from everyone... not in the medina where there are thousands of people on the streets. Also, to "cover it up" in a bag is just ironic. I can only imagine how oblivious she was to her own actions, until the rocks started coming. On the other hand, I can understand the Moroccan side... kind of. I understand how offensive that might be, but I could never imagine myself throwing rocks at a not-so-bright tourist. That is too hilarious (I hope you get my humor)! So maybe if I ride a bike with a Heineken in one hand, like the guy in Holland, I too may be stoned. That would be a story to tell my kids.....
At 3am, after a long day of traveling, I finally got to lay down and get a nice night of sleep. In the morning, Melvina's parents walked into the kitchen area of the apartment, where I was sleeping on a roll-away bed. They had no idea that I had come. I haven't seen them since the last time I was in South Africa (about a year and a half ago) and they were pleasantly surprised. Her family has really adopted me as one of their own sons, especially whenever I am visiting South Africa, and her father always introduces me as his son. When introducing me to the new in-laws in Holland, he would say "...And this is my son, Ryan... Melvina's sister" People would smile and shake my hand, but they had a perplexed expression on their face as they were trying to figure it out. They didn't want to be impolite, but they were wondering how an African man could have a white son like me. Plus, Melvina and I don't look anything alike. I might be a little tan but I'm no African. Unless they asked, I just let them figure out that Melvina's dad wasn't serious about me being a blood-relative and left it at that. I'm not going to lie, it was a bit awkward at times.
Being in Holland was really great. It's definitely a change from Morocco. I don't know if I would consider Morocco a "Third World" country (whatever "Third World" even means these days), but I also don't know if I could call it a "First World" country (whatever that means). There are definitely aspects of Morocco that are more familiar to the Third World and other parts that are very First World-like. However, Morocco is no Holland, and Holland is no Morocco. Despite the widespread forces of globalization that are making the two countries more and more alike, there are something things that I saw in Holland that you just don't see in everyday Moroccan life. Here are a few of those snapshots...
1. Parking lots/garages for bikes only. There are not even enough parking garages for cars in Morocco, let alone bikes.
2. The first day in Holland, I saw a guy riding his bike; handle bar in one hand and a Heineken in the other. I was thinking about trying that in Morocco... maybe someone will stone me like the French girl in Fez (story below).
3. While walking the streets of Amsterdam, it's not uncommon to catch a strong whiff of Marijuana streaming from the "Coffee Shops". I have yet to smell any Marijuana in Morocco, pretty ironic for being the world's second largest producer of the plant.
4. On just about any street in Den Haag or Amsterdam, I could choose to eat Japanese, Greek, Chinese, Turkish, Indian, Suriname, or Indonesian food. In Morocco, it's either tajines, sandwiches, or shawarma.
5. Crosswalks and crosswalk lights. In Morocco, you just go. Although crossing the street in Morocco can sometimes be difficult (especially in Casablanca), crossing the street in Holland is equally as difficult. First you have to look for bikes on the specified bike lane, then check for cars, and before crossing, watch out for trams that have the right-away. If it's red and you try to cross, it's very likely you will get hit by either a bike, car, or tram. In Morocco, everyone on the road expects pedestrians will cross whenever they like and will mostly swerve to avoid hitting you
6. Liquor stores and bars- the Dutch love their beer. In most places in Morocco (apart from the nice hotels catering toward the international crowd), you have to look pretty hard to find alcohol.
7. Trains and public transportation that are fast, frequent, and reliable. In Morocco, trains are relatively fast and mostly reliable, except when compared to the public-trans of Europe.
8. Ramadan in The Netherlands is almost non-existent. Unlike Morocco, all cafes and restaurants remain open and people are shamelessly eating in public. In Morocco, you will not find any cafe or restaurant open (except those catering to tourists, located away from public view) or anyone eating/drinking/smoking in public during the Holy Month.
9. To ride in a taxi in Holland must be a luxury (and expensive) because they are all new Mercedes E-classes. In Morocco, the taxis are 30 year-old Fiats but are only a 10th of the price to ride in.
My four days in Holland were fabulous. Balanced between the family (Melvina and her parents), eating (lots of good meals, especially food that I don't get in Morocco), enjoying public transit (taking the trams and trains into Den Haag central and also to Amsterdam), meeting new friends (Stefan's friends and Melvina's new in-laws), and having the time of my life at a wonderful wedding, I had such a great time that I really do miss Holland. After going to a few Moroccan weddings, I was interested in seeing what a Dutch wedding would be like. This summer has been a summer of weddings for me... one back in California, three in Morocco, and now one in The Netherlands (I went to more weddings this summer than in my whole life). Of course, I didn't get a "typical" Dutch wedding (if there was such a thing), but instead a blend of Dutch, Suriname, Indian, and South African cultures into one fun celebration. The wedding began at noon at the City Hall where they did all the legal stuff. There were about 100 people, family and friends (most of whom were Stefan's, as Melvina's support is mostly in South Africa) in this little room. Since it was all in Dutch, I didn't really get much of it, so I just pretended like I knew everything that was going on. After an hour, the papers were signed, the groom kissed the bride, and just like that, my sister Melvina was married. I had the privilege of being the "non-paid" photographer. It was my first time taking pictures of a wedding and I really enjoyed it. They had a professional photographer, so this gave me the freedom to experiment and take a bunch of shots without having the burden of making sure they get their money's worth. Every shot was really just a gift to them... and experience for me. It was a nice change to see the wedding from behind my camera's viewfinder (I know... I'm such a nerd). After all the legal stuff was done, the party began at a venue nearby. The wedding celebration took place a club/church. Yes, Club slash Church. During the weekend, the building is used as a night club... dancing, booze, the whole thing. Then a few times a week during the day, the fellowship rents out the building to use for their gatherings. Don't you love the irony of it? Anyways, there are several ups to having a wedding celebration in a club. Some might say it's because of the open bar, and others might say they just feel more comfortable at a place like a club (instead of a reception hall or traditional church building). In my opinion, the best part about having a wedding celebration in a club is the sound system. You know you aren't going to be lacking in the music section when you are partying at a club. And to top it all off, the DJ played some great music. It wasn't just your Top 40 R&B hits that everyone knows... he included music from India and Suriname, as well as a good dose of salsa and other latin hits. When you get a group of multi-cultural people celebrating a wedding and you play music from all over the world, you know you are going to have a fun time. Melvina's parents were breaking it down South African style, Stefan's Suriname relatives were doing their South American style jig, and the Indians were doing their thing. I don't know where I was in the mix, but I had fun! 6 hours of dancing and a couple hundred photos... what a night!
I made it home around 2am (early if you compare it to Moroccan weddings) for a few hours of sleep before my last day in Holland. Fortunately, my flight back to Morocco was at night so I was able to catch a train to Amsterdam for a few hours. Amsterdam is probably my favorite city in Europe (I've been to quite a few throughout most of Western Europe). It's unlike any other city. There are no skyscrapers (except for outside the main part of Amsterdam) and the whole city is lined with the skinny 4 story houses you've seen in postcards or while watching The Diary of Anne Frank movie in Middle School. There are literally thousands of miles of bike paths throughout the city as well as a whole network of dykes/canals that give another perspective of the city when seen by boat. Then, as was the case the other weekend when I was there, there is always something going on in Amsterdam. Last year in April when I was there, there was a huge carnival set up in the main square. The other weekend, there was an outdoor music festival throughout the city. Bands were playing in parts all around the city. To top it off, there were guys walking around with Grolsch keg carts. They had a chilled keg of beer on their cart, selling beer on tap to those enjoying the festival. I think this keg cart fits in the "This is definitely not Morocco" list. One of my favorite things about Amsterdam however, is the diversity of the city. Amsterdam is a city of immigrants. Some, especially those whose political views are further on the right than they are left, may see this as a negative aspect. But I see this as something beautiful, not just because I had so much fun the night before at a diverse, multi-cultural wedding, but because the beauty of God's creation is found not in those like ourselves, but in those unlike ourselves. It is through interactions with "the other" that enlightenment, understanding, and knowledge are made possible. Amsterdam is a place where people from around the world have come in pursuit of a better life. The city of Amsterdam is a beautiful mosaic of God's creation. On every street you will see people from every continent, color, and religion. It seems that the world is moving in the direction of a multi-ethnic and multi-cultural collection of cities where understanding and harmony replace hate and close-mindedness. May we continue to seek "the other" and discover the true abundance of God's beautiful creation.
***Above, I mentioned something about the French girl in Fez. I guess last week, a French tourist was visiting the medina in Fez. Fez, particularly the medina, is the religious capital of Morocco. Many consider it the most conservative city in Morocco, simply for this reason. So, this French tourist was walking through the medina. Because all the cafes are closed during Ramadan, she was unable to stop and eat or drink. However, she had a water bottle and wanted to drink a bit. Attempting to be culturally sensitive and "hide" the water from public, as not to offend or make it look like she was eating or drinking anything, she put the water bottle in a bag and then continued to drink it. If you can picture this... a girl drinking something from a bag... it looks like booze. The story goes that people began to throw stones at her because it appeared that not only was she drinking something, but she was drinking alcohol. This is a big no no... anywhere in Morocco, especially during Ramadan, especially in Fez. I can't help but to laugh at this story. I am not a Muslim, but I can't help but to respect everyone else who is fasting. If I am going to eat or drink anything, I'm going to do it away from everyone... not in the medina where there are thousands of people on the streets. Also, to "cover it up" in a bag is just ironic. I can only imagine how oblivious she was to her own actions, until the rocks started coming. On the other hand, I can understand the Moroccan side... kind of. I understand how offensive that might be, but I could never imagine myself throwing rocks at a not-so-bright tourist. That is too hilarious (I hope you get my humor)! So maybe if I ride a bike with a Heineken in one hand, like the guy in Holland, I too may be stoned. That would be a story to tell my kids.....
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Aeroport Mohammad V, Casablanca
I decided a bit last minute to come to Holland for a wedding. This isn't like the weddings I went to in Morocco (I went to 3 weddings for people I didn't even know), but this wedding means much more to me. Melvina, one of my closest friends in South Africa, is getting married on Friday to a Dutchman. Melvina and I first met in South Africa back in 2003 when I taught Life Skills and AIDS Education Curriculum in a township outside of Cape Town. Her family invited me to stay for a few nights in their modest home in Plettenberg Baai. Since then, they've really adopted me as one of their own and I've continued to stay in contact with them while in the US and while visiting South Africa several times since 2003. I had the priviledge of meeting Melvina (and her husband to-be) last year when I came to Amsterdam and now I'm back in Holland (in Den Haag... just south of Amsterdam) for the wedding. Although Melvina knew I was coming, she didn't tell her parents so I was able to surprise them. It was as great moment, as they had no idea Ryan would randomly show up to their daughter's new apartment in The Hague.
Anyways, I thought I'd share a little bit of my experience flying here from Morocco as it was quite an memorable one. Here is a little something I wrote last night from Mohammad V Airport in Casablanca.
I don't know if it's this airport, or Air Arabia, or what. This is a total nightmare. I got here more than 2 and a half hours before the flight. I waited in line for about 1 hour and a half, passed security, got to in the terminal, only to find out the gate was already closed. "Did I miss my flight?" There were at least a hundred people still in line waiting after I checked in. It didn't say a gate, just "termine" (French, for "closed" or "finished"). After frantically going back and forth between terminal several times, only minutes before 4:10, which is when the plane was supposed to leave, it looks like I missed my plane. If the hand-written boarding passes weren't ghetto enough, a plane leaving with half it's flight missing, sure is one for the books. Only in Morocco I guess. Finally, I see a group of the people who were waiting in line with me to go to Amsterdam, all around the "information screen" getting upset at the police and airport security who have not a clue what's going on. "Just look on the screen" they said, "Air Arabia? Marsielle? France?" "NO. Amsterdam" I said. What?" Ahh... useless. They weren't much help. Finally, by ruling out that the plane didn't leave with only half flight, we assumed that it was delayed. Someone came up to us and said it was delayed 30 min (which then became 2 hours and then 4 hour delay), so we had to wait. It's pretty bad when 20 of your passengers are looking at the flight info screen, which says that the plane's left, and there's no one in the airport that can help. No Air Arabia service desks... nothing.
Back to the check-in line.... it was ridiculous. I moved about 12 feet the first 50 min. Then, this lady asked me to join her, as if we were flying together, so that her oversized bag wouldn't be charged. In America, that is totally illegal. I told her that and we both laughed. But I said, "Mekein Mushkil" ("no problem"). She was impressed by my shweeya Arabic (the reality is my Arabic is even far from "shweeya" so I tried not to feel too good about myself), and was grateful of my decision to help her out. OK, so I know I'm going to get a flood of emails, probably from my mom, telling me never to make such a stupid decision like that again. I know I know I know. Maybe in hindsight it wasn't the smartest decision, but know that I'm here and safe in Holland, I have no regrets about what I did. In my defense, I took nothing from her bag because she just asked me to check in with her so that the weight of her huge bag could be distributed to our total weight allowance. She was nice and got me ahead of the line and checked in. I felt kind of bad though. There were two lines; the one I was in, which was moving much faster (12ft/50min) and then there was the other one (not even half that pace). The people in the slow line looked at me with evil stares... but everything was out of my control. After telling my new friend that I'm on my way to Amsterdam to go to a wedding, "Well... The Hague" I told her, she told me that she lives in The Hague and asked if I had a place to stay. "You can stay with me and my husband, he's meeting me in Amsterdam". She was an middle aged Moroccan woman. Her English wasn't great, but we could communicate the basics. "I can drive you to The Hague" she said. I love it... Only in Morocco. First, I shouldn't have accepted to help with claiming her luggage... but I did. Then, she invites me to stay with her at her house and give me a ride to The Hague... just because... no strings attached! Haha! I feel like this is what the world should be like... "Can you help me with this (luggage)?" We lived in a screwed up world where we fear that someone is going to have drugs in her baggage or a bomb or something. Then... she makes sure I have a place to stay, otherwise I will be invited to her home. This is not the world as it is today (ok.. maybe the minority... or places like Morocco), but this is the world as it ought to be. There's hope in the midst of long lines and frustrating budget airlines.
I know this is bad, but standing in line was actually entertaining. There was no order, no "lines", just a crowd of people and their luggage waiting to check in. 30 feet later, after waiting two hours, you get to check in, only to watch your bag get a handwritten luggage tag, then handed a boarding pass written in pen. Gotta love the advance in technology! Because there was no roped off line, like most places in the world, some people tried cutting and others were getting heated. Then, yelling started. Two ladies started going at it in Arabic, both infuriated. The Police were just standing and watching (classic). In Ramadan, a time that encourages non-fighting, fights break out. People get irritated and heated. Then, everyone starts gathering around, and the husbands grabbed their wives to keep them from full on killing each other. These people would have been arrested, or not let on the plane, at the very least. I felt privileged to see such action at the airport, so close to me! Free entertainment. But then again, I guess I can try to understand why people got so upset. The waiting sucks, you haven't eaten or drank anything since 3:30am, and you just want to get to Amsterdam. But this is Ramadan. A time for patience. What good is fasting from food, when you don't control any of your other emotions. However frustrating it was, I just remembered, "It's Ramadan. If I can learn anything from this month, it's patience. Patience. Patience." So, I continued to watch... and laugh (on the inside of course). :)
Anyways, I thought I'd share a little bit of my experience flying here from Morocco as it was quite an memorable one. Here is a little something I wrote last night from Mohammad V Airport in Casablanca.
I don't know if it's this airport, or Air Arabia, or what. This is a total nightmare. I got here more than 2 and a half hours before the flight. I waited in line for about 1 hour and a half, passed security, got to in the terminal, only to find out the gate was already closed. "Did I miss my flight?" There were at least a hundred people still in line waiting after I checked in. It didn't say a gate, just "termine" (French, for "closed" or "finished"). After frantically going back and forth between terminal several times, only minutes before 4:10, which is when the plane was supposed to leave, it looks like I missed my plane. If the hand-written boarding passes weren't ghetto enough, a plane leaving with half it's flight missing, sure is one for the books. Only in Morocco I guess. Finally, I see a group of the people who were waiting in line with me to go to Amsterdam, all around the "information screen" getting upset at the police and airport security who have not a clue what's going on. "Just look on the screen" they said, "Air Arabia? Marsielle? France?" "NO. Amsterdam" I said. What?" Ahh... useless. They weren't much help. Finally, by ruling out that the plane didn't leave with only half flight, we assumed that it was delayed. Someone came up to us and said it was delayed 30 min (which then became 2 hours and then 4 hour delay), so we had to wait. It's pretty bad when 20 of your passengers are looking at the flight info screen, which says that the plane's left, and there's no one in the airport that can help. No Air Arabia service desks... nothing.
Back to the check-in line.... it was ridiculous. I moved about 12 feet the first 50 min. Then, this lady asked me to join her, as if we were flying together, so that her oversized bag wouldn't be charged. In America, that is totally illegal. I told her that and we both laughed. But I said, "Mekein Mushkil" ("no problem"). She was impressed by my shweeya Arabic (the reality is my Arabic is even far from "shweeya" so I tried not to feel too good about myself), and was grateful of my decision to help her out. OK, so I know I'm going to get a flood of emails, probably from my mom, telling me never to make such a stupid decision like that again. I know I know I know. Maybe in hindsight it wasn't the smartest decision, but know that I'm here and safe in Holland, I have no regrets about what I did. In my defense, I took nothing from her bag because she just asked me to check in with her so that the weight of her huge bag could be distributed to our total weight allowance. She was nice and got me ahead of the line and checked in. I felt kind of bad though. There were two lines; the one I was in, which was moving much faster (12ft/50min) and then there was the other one (not even half that pace). The people in the slow line looked at me with evil stares... but everything was out of my control. After telling my new friend that I'm on my way to Amsterdam to go to a wedding, "Well... The Hague" I told her, she told me that she lives in The Hague and asked if I had a place to stay. "You can stay with me and my husband, he's meeting me in Amsterdam". She was an middle aged Moroccan woman. Her English wasn't great, but we could communicate the basics. "I can drive you to The Hague" she said. I love it... Only in Morocco. First, I shouldn't have accepted to help with claiming her luggage... but I did. Then, she invites me to stay with her at her house and give me a ride to The Hague... just because... no strings attached! Haha! I feel like this is what the world should be like... "Can you help me with this (luggage)?" We lived in a screwed up world where we fear that someone is going to have drugs in her baggage or a bomb or something. Then... she makes sure I have a place to stay, otherwise I will be invited to her home. This is not the world as it is today (ok.. maybe the minority... or places like Morocco), but this is the world as it ought to be. There's hope in the midst of long lines and frustrating budget airlines.
I know this is bad, but standing in line was actually entertaining. There was no order, no "lines", just a crowd of people and their luggage waiting to check in. 30 feet later, after waiting two hours, you get to check in, only to watch your bag get a handwritten luggage tag, then handed a boarding pass written in pen. Gotta love the advance in technology! Because there was no roped off line, like most places in the world, some people tried cutting and others were getting heated. Then, yelling started. Two ladies started going at it in Arabic, both infuriated. The Police were just standing and watching (classic). In Ramadan, a time that encourages non-fighting, fights break out. People get irritated and heated. Then, everyone starts gathering around, and the husbands grabbed their wives to keep them from full on killing each other. These people would have been arrested, or not let on the plane, at the very least. I felt privileged to see such action at the airport, so close to me! Free entertainment. But then again, I guess I can try to understand why people got so upset. The waiting sucks, you haven't eaten or drank anything since 3:30am, and you just want to get to Amsterdam. But this is Ramadan. A time for patience. What good is fasting from food, when you don't control any of your other emotions. However frustrating it was, I just remembered, "It's Ramadan. If I can learn anything from this month, it's patience. Patience. Patience." So, I continued to watch... and laugh (on the inside of course). :)
Friday, August 21, 2009
Ramadan Starts Tomorrow... I Think
I'm back in Tangier now, the place that I will call my home for the next 4 or 5 months. Coming back to Tangier after a grand tour of Morocco, I know why I chose to make this place my home. The sunsets themselves are hard to beat. The summer sun sets behind the city on the Atlantic coast illuminating the sky with beautiful oranges and reds (I've only seen more more orangey sunsets in Los Angeles, but I think that is more because of the man-made pollution and exhaust of the 10 million residents... not the master artist himself). The clouds have both an airbrush and blotchy effect, I thought only obtainable on a canvas painting with oil or acrylic. But then I realize, isn't the one who created all this a better artist than the one who paints colorful sunsets and cool cloud formations on a two-dimensional sheet of canvas? Of course there is more to Tangier than the sunsets, like the 24 hour/day ocean breeze or the choice to take a dip in the Atlantic or the Mediterranean. But I'm just a really big fan of the sunsets. And the people of Tangier... well... they are... OK... I guess. (sarcastic). I love Tangerines (not only the fruit, but the people too). But I'm not going to show favoritism to my friends from Tangier because someone from Casablanca, Marrakech, or Fez might be reading this and I like them too! Also, after reading A.J. Jacob's book "A Year of Living Biblically", I've been inspired to follow the bible as literal as possible (I'm nowhere close... but it's worth a shot). The Apostle Paul writes "God does not show favoritism" (Romans 2:11) and Jesus says "Be perfect, for God is perfect." (Matthew 5:48). Therefore, I figure that in order to be perfect (no simple task for a guy like me), I probably shouldn't show favoritism to the people of Tangier, despite my love for the city.
Anyways, I heard some good news last night. One of my friends spent the summer working for a producer here in Tangier and was able to work on a few film sets. Tangier has been frequented in several movies. It's a scenic city conveniently situated on the Straight of Gibralter, looking right at the Southern coast of Spain. Between the countless rooftop terraces and the cafe-lined streets facing Mediterranean, it's no wonder that it has shown up in so many films, including the most recent, Bourne Ultimatum, the last of the Bourne Trilogy, where Jason Bourne (Matt Damon) is filmed jumping from rooftop to rooftop through the medina (great movie... highly recommended). My friend also told me that she saw Matt Damon a few years ago when he was here filming at the same cafe that I go to just about every day. I don't know why, but this makes me feel cool, or special, because I go to the same hip cafe that Matt Damon went to when he was here. But then Jesus' words cut deep, "For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted" (Matthew 23:12). This whole "be perfect" thing is a bit harder than expected. Maybe with a bit more time and practice, it might become a bit more feasible. OK.... so the good news. I guess Leonardo DiCaprio flew in yesterday and he's shooting a film in the Medina for the next ten days. I was tempted to go meet Mr. DiCaprio at the airport, but maybe I'll just camp out at the 5-star hotel he's staying at and hopefully get an autograph. As I'm writing this, I realize that I have no idea the purpose for telling you this. Unless of course you were wondering where the pop star was, or if celebrities ever come to Morocco, now you know. On to more relevant things...
Ramadan starts tomorrow... I think. For those of you who don't know, Ramadan is a month of fasting (no food, water, smoking, sex, or fighting) from sun up till sun down and is required of all Muslims (with exception for those who are pregnant or have other health issues/restrictions... they have to make up the days of fasting later) as one of the Five Pillars of Islam. It is one of the most important times of the Muslim year, when adherents fast, remember those who are less fortunate, and spend lots of time with family (unless you are in your early 20's and you study away from home, like many of my friends). There has been so much anticipation leading up to Ramadan, especially on TV where they advertise these cheesy Saudi soap operas and "comedies" that are aired during the month (During Ramadan, people watch tons of TV... more about that later). For those who haven't had any experience with Ramadan in the Arab world, think of Easter weekend on steroids. On Easter, churches around America are packed and nearly everyone becomes a church goer that Sunday. Multiply that times thirty. Mosques (so I hear) are so packed that people can't even fit into the mosques and are praying outside on the surrounding streets and sidewalks. Restaurants close, except for those ones that stay open for tourists. It is serious stuff. If a Moroccan (Muslim) breaks the fast in daylight by taking a sip of water in public, he can be arrested. Can you imagine during Lent (the 40 days leading up to Easter) if Police went up to people asking if they gave up (or fasted from) anything during the 40 days? If they answered "no" they would be arrested, but if they said "yes, chocolate" then they were safe from the Police (and God's wrath). When I think about people giving up chocolate for Lent, it makes me wonder if it's really worth it. Jesus fasted for 40 days... and we give up chocolate. I just don't think that's what Jesus had in mind. Maybe something more like food and water, as He did. Maybe then we'd know what it's like to be poor, without food, and the only thing in life we have to count on is God. But then I'm just being too idealist.
Back to Ramadan. You get the point... this is important stuff! It's on the top 5 (pillars) list of Islam for Heaven's sake. But, do we know when it's starting? Does anyone know when it's starting? Earlier this week, I was told that Ramadan would start on Thursday, or maybe Friday. Later in the week, I started hearing, "Friday... maybe Saturday". Even last night (Thursday) still no one was 100% sure, "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Saturday". "No. Saturday or Sunday" someone else said. I understand that it all depends on the moon, but with 1.3 billion Muslims anticipating this 30 day fast, it's hard to imagine that all 1.3 billion are sitting around wondering if it's going to be Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. So, assuming it starts tomorrow, today will be the last day I get to enjoy drinking water and eating (i'm not much of a smoker or a fighter, so those aren't too bad for me to give up and I'm not married, so I don't have to worry about the sex) during the day. I can understand why non-Muslims living in or visiting a Muslim country during Ramadan might not fast. But eating or drinking in public is just flat out inconsiderate (in my opinion). It is my goal to fast during Ramadan and if at any point I change my mind (not planning on it) or I need to eat or drink because of illness, I will still not do so in public, simply out of the respect to my Muslim brothers and sisters fasting around me. As I mentioned before, Ramadan is a time of sacrifice. When we give up the basic everyday norms, we not only rely on God's grace and mercy, but also humbled to think of those who are less fortunate than ourselves (the majority of the world). There is purpose in the month of Ramadan, not just several weeks of hollow actions and practices. Although he was talking about his experience with Judeo-Christian traditions, the words of A.J. Jacobs can be applied in this Muslim context as well, "I thought religion would make me live with my head in the clouds, but as often as not, it grounds me in this world."
Unfortunately, there is a negative side to Ramadan that I feel necessary to share. Of course, there may be some Muslims who don't really follow Islam and therefore might eat and drink and smoke on their own during Ramadan. These may be called "Cultural Muslims", a term used by one of my Moroccan friends. He told me this term when describing the commonalities between Morocco and Mexico. Having spent a significant amount of time in Mexico, he was making a parallel between Catholic Mexicans and Muslim Moroccans. Statistically, they each represent almost 100% of their respective populations. However, there are some Catholics who are Catholic because they are Mexican and because almost everyone else (in Mexico) is, just as there are some Muslims who are Muslims simply because they are Moroccan. In both cases, they are more "cultural" than religious. Their life reflects a life that is more in line with the greater culture than that of a life of real and relevant faith. This isn't even the negative side that I'm talking about. I think this "cultural (fill in the blank here)" term is somewhat universal. It can be applied to Catholics, Christians, Muslims, Jews and probably Hindus, Buddhists, and Atheists. Ok, maybe not atheists, but anyways... During the month of Ramadan, many Muslims, whether or not they fast or eat, can usually be found in front of the TV, watching cheesy Saudi Ramadan sitcom specials. I don't mean to say that you can't watch TV during Ramadan (who am I to judge?), but it seems like it takes away the purpose of this holy month, especially when watched 12 or 15 hours a day. A bit like giving up chocolate for Lent, maybe TV sitcoms aren't what God had in mind. Furthermore, most Muslims wake up before the first call for prayer (around 3:30 or 4am) to eat their last/first meal before the sun comes up, then go back to sleep for a few hours before starting the day. I have no objection to this. It's when people wake up at 3 or 4am to eat, then go back to sleep until 1 or 2pm. They wake up in the afternoon, go pray at the mosque, then come back for a late afternoon nap. Before you know it, the sun's down and it's time to eat again. What's the point of fasting when you spend most of your time awake feasting? Of course they "followed" the rules and restrictions of fasting from sun up until sun down, but was it really a sacrifice? Of course I could "follow" the rules by giving up eating chocolate or white bread for Lent, but is that getting at the heart of it? I have so much respect for those who, despite the side-effects of not eating or drinking, continue to work during Ramadan, who wake up before noon, and who fast without complaining. It's not about drawing attention to ourselves, but being humbled and sacrificing. I hope that after saying all this that I fall into the former category as one who sacrifices the things taken for granted every day to rely on God and to begin to understand what it might be like to be poor and hungry.
I don't mean to end on a negative note because this is not the heart of Ramadan. But I do feel like I would be unjust in saying that Ramadan is a super-holy month, its heart and purpose observed by ALL Muslims all across the world. That would just be like saying that ALL Christians give away half of their possessions to the poor, lend money to others without being expected to be paid back, invite strangers into their homes, when taken to court they offer the persecutor the clothes off their back, visit those in prison, or love their enemies and do good to those who hate them. Maybe one day...
Until then, reflect (and act) on Gandhi's probably-overstated, yet timelessly applicable words, "Be the change you want to see in the world."
(If you aren't challenged by these words, then maybe something is wrong... or I'm living in a different world than you and we need to talk)
Anyways, I heard some good news last night. One of my friends spent the summer working for a producer here in Tangier and was able to work on a few film sets. Tangier has been frequented in several movies. It's a scenic city conveniently situated on the Straight of Gibralter, looking right at the Southern coast of Spain. Between the countless rooftop terraces and the cafe-lined streets facing Mediterranean, it's no wonder that it has shown up in so many films, including the most recent, Bourne Ultimatum, the last of the Bourne Trilogy, where Jason Bourne (Matt Damon) is filmed jumping from rooftop to rooftop through the medina (great movie... highly recommended). My friend also told me that she saw Matt Damon a few years ago when he was here filming at the same cafe that I go to just about every day. I don't know why, but this makes me feel cool, or special, because I go to the same hip cafe that Matt Damon went to when he was here. But then Jesus' words cut deep, "For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted" (Matthew 23:12). This whole "be perfect" thing is a bit harder than expected. Maybe with a bit more time and practice, it might become a bit more feasible. OK.... so the good news. I guess Leonardo DiCaprio flew in yesterday and he's shooting a film in the Medina for the next ten days. I was tempted to go meet Mr. DiCaprio at the airport, but maybe I'll just camp out at the 5-star hotel he's staying at and hopefully get an autograph. As I'm writing this, I realize that I have no idea the purpose for telling you this. Unless of course you were wondering where the pop star was, or if celebrities ever come to Morocco, now you know. On to more relevant things...
Ramadan starts tomorrow... I think. For those of you who don't know, Ramadan is a month of fasting (no food, water, smoking, sex, or fighting) from sun up till sun down and is required of all Muslims (with exception for those who are pregnant or have other health issues/restrictions... they have to make up the days of fasting later) as one of the Five Pillars of Islam. It is one of the most important times of the Muslim year, when adherents fast, remember those who are less fortunate, and spend lots of time with family (unless you are in your early 20's and you study away from home, like many of my friends). There has been so much anticipation leading up to Ramadan, especially on TV where they advertise these cheesy Saudi soap operas and "comedies" that are aired during the month (During Ramadan, people watch tons of TV... more about that later). For those who haven't had any experience with Ramadan in the Arab world, think of Easter weekend on steroids. On Easter, churches around America are packed and nearly everyone becomes a church goer that Sunday. Multiply that times thirty. Mosques (so I hear) are so packed that people can't even fit into the mosques and are praying outside on the surrounding streets and sidewalks. Restaurants close, except for those ones that stay open for tourists. It is serious stuff. If a Moroccan (Muslim) breaks the fast in daylight by taking a sip of water in public, he can be arrested. Can you imagine during Lent (the 40 days leading up to Easter) if Police went up to people asking if they gave up (or fasted from) anything during the 40 days? If they answered "no" they would be arrested, but if they said "yes, chocolate" then they were safe from the Police (and God's wrath). When I think about people giving up chocolate for Lent, it makes me wonder if it's really worth it. Jesus fasted for 40 days... and we give up chocolate. I just don't think that's what Jesus had in mind. Maybe something more like food and water, as He did. Maybe then we'd know what it's like to be poor, without food, and the only thing in life we have to count on is God. But then I'm just being too idealist.
Back to Ramadan. You get the point... this is important stuff! It's on the top 5 (pillars) list of Islam for Heaven's sake. But, do we know when it's starting? Does anyone know when it's starting? Earlier this week, I was told that Ramadan would start on Thursday, or maybe Friday. Later in the week, I started hearing, "Friday... maybe Saturday". Even last night (Thursday) still no one was 100% sure, "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Saturday". "No. Saturday or Sunday" someone else said. I understand that it all depends on the moon, but with 1.3 billion Muslims anticipating this 30 day fast, it's hard to imagine that all 1.3 billion are sitting around wondering if it's going to be Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. So, assuming it starts tomorrow, today will be the last day I get to enjoy drinking water and eating (i'm not much of a smoker or a fighter, so those aren't too bad for me to give up and I'm not married, so I don't have to worry about the sex) during the day. I can understand why non-Muslims living in or visiting a Muslim country during Ramadan might not fast. But eating or drinking in public is just flat out inconsiderate (in my opinion). It is my goal to fast during Ramadan and if at any point I change my mind (not planning on it) or I need to eat or drink because of illness, I will still not do so in public, simply out of the respect to my Muslim brothers and sisters fasting around me. As I mentioned before, Ramadan is a time of sacrifice. When we give up the basic everyday norms, we not only rely on God's grace and mercy, but also humbled to think of those who are less fortunate than ourselves (the majority of the world). There is purpose in the month of Ramadan, not just several weeks of hollow actions and practices. Although he was talking about his experience with Judeo-Christian traditions, the words of A.J. Jacobs can be applied in this Muslim context as well, "I thought religion would make me live with my head in the clouds, but as often as not, it grounds me in this world."
Unfortunately, there is a negative side to Ramadan that I feel necessary to share. Of course, there may be some Muslims who don't really follow Islam and therefore might eat and drink and smoke on their own during Ramadan. These may be called "Cultural Muslims", a term used by one of my Moroccan friends. He told me this term when describing the commonalities between Morocco and Mexico. Having spent a significant amount of time in Mexico, he was making a parallel between Catholic Mexicans and Muslim Moroccans. Statistically, they each represent almost 100% of their respective populations. However, there are some Catholics who are Catholic because they are Mexican and because almost everyone else (in Mexico) is, just as there are some Muslims who are Muslims simply because they are Moroccan. In both cases, they are more "cultural" than religious. Their life reflects a life that is more in line with the greater culture than that of a life of real and relevant faith. This isn't even the negative side that I'm talking about. I think this "cultural (fill in the blank here)" term is somewhat universal. It can be applied to Catholics, Christians, Muslims, Jews and probably Hindus, Buddhists, and Atheists. Ok, maybe not atheists, but anyways... During the month of Ramadan, many Muslims, whether or not they fast or eat, can usually be found in front of the TV, watching cheesy Saudi Ramadan sitcom specials. I don't mean to say that you can't watch TV during Ramadan (who am I to judge?), but it seems like it takes away the purpose of this holy month, especially when watched 12 or 15 hours a day. A bit like giving up chocolate for Lent, maybe TV sitcoms aren't what God had in mind. Furthermore, most Muslims wake up before the first call for prayer (around 3:30 or 4am) to eat their last/first meal before the sun comes up, then go back to sleep for a few hours before starting the day. I have no objection to this. It's when people wake up at 3 or 4am to eat, then go back to sleep until 1 or 2pm. They wake up in the afternoon, go pray at the mosque, then come back for a late afternoon nap. Before you know it, the sun's down and it's time to eat again. What's the point of fasting when you spend most of your time awake feasting? Of course they "followed" the rules and restrictions of fasting from sun up until sun down, but was it really a sacrifice? Of course I could "follow" the rules by giving up eating chocolate or white bread for Lent, but is that getting at the heart of it? I have so much respect for those who, despite the side-effects of not eating or drinking, continue to work during Ramadan, who wake up before noon, and who fast without complaining. It's not about drawing attention to ourselves, but being humbled and sacrificing. I hope that after saying all this that I fall into the former category as one who sacrifices the things taken for granted every day to rely on God and to begin to understand what it might be like to be poor and hungry.
I don't mean to end on a negative note because this is not the heart of Ramadan. But I do feel like I would be unjust in saying that Ramadan is a super-holy month, its heart and purpose observed by ALL Muslims all across the world. That would just be like saying that ALL Christians give away half of their possessions to the poor, lend money to others without being expected to be paid back, invite strangers into their homes, when taken to court they offer the persecutor the clothes off their back, visit those in prison, or love their enemies and do good to those who hate them. Maybe one day...
Until then, reflect (and act) on Gandhi's probably-overstated, yet timelessly applicable words, "Be the change you want to see in the world."
(If you aren't challenged by these words, then maybe something is wrong... or I'm living in a different world than you and we need to talk)
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