3la salemtek! Welcome back.

After a summer’s long vacation from writing, September feels like a perfect time to resume. 

This summer went by in a blur. I spent June and July in Rabat. With a lightened workload, I had ample time to travel, try new things, and spend time with friends. One of my goals for the summer was to learn how to surf. There is a small surf shack on the beach that offers a very attractive surfing “package”, where you pay for twelve lessons that include an instructor, wetsuit, and surfboard. As you can imagine, the surf instructor are very laid back guys who do this because they absolutely love it. There is no time limit to your lesson. You arrive, wait for the mouja mezyena (good waves), and then set out until you tell them safee (that’s it, I’m done). The best times of day to surf this summer were either early in the morning or about 6 at night. 

For one reason or another, I ended up doing the latter time, which placed me floating in the surf just as the sun was beginning to set over the Atlantic. While my goal was never to become an expert surfer, as someone who has always enjoyed swimming there is something incredibly exhilarating about finding a new way to enjoy the ocean. It has also been fun to be a part of a different side of Morocco, meet new people, and learn new words along the way. My sister visited me for a weekend in the very beginning of the summer and I was able to take her surfing. She loved it and was able to stand up on her first lesson! It was great to be able to share something like this with her. 

Us post-surf lesson with our instructor Hamza 

 In the beginning of July a few friends and I did a four-day trek up Mt. Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa. Our journey started by taking a train to Marrakech, where we spent one night in a hotel before setting out early the next morning to meet our grand taxi driver. We drove an hour and a half up winding dusty roads to a small village in the mountains to meet our two mules (b’ghla), guides and begin our journey. Over the course of four days we saw breathtaking views (that brought upon many ‘Sound of Music’ inspired sing-a-longs), hiked up countless switchbacks, stopped for lunch in a small village, danced, and met new friends each night as we congregated for tea and cookies in the mountain refuges. Our guide, Hicham, spoke English fluently and was very gracious to us. He told us that he has several sisters and was therefore not phased at all by spending four whole days isolated on mountain trails with a group of four girls. For that, we were lucky. He also impressed us by the ease at which he maintained his brisk pace. He always had his hands casually slid into his pockets and barely ate or drank anything while we hiked. He told us he was practicing for when he has to work during Ramadan.

The view from the house in a small mountain village where we stopped for lunch the first day

Being in the mountains meant that Darija was replaced by Teshelheit (a Berber dialect) as the lingua franca. In the evenings after dinner we would sit around with the mountain guides at the refuge and they would try to teach us songs in the local language. While the words didn’t stick, we did acquire a fun list of new words in Teshelheit during our trip: 

Or geese eelie - there isn’t…

Or geese ajmeel - you’re welcome

Aghrome  - bread

Aman - water

Eemeem - delicious

Goma - brother

Ultima - sister

Eesh/ch’e - eat

Zund zund  - same

Eemik eemik  - so-so

Timinseeween  - good night

Throughout the trip, the summit had been the goal. Everyday we were getting closer and closer to reaching it. In the morning on our second day, I had my first experience with altitude sickness.  The climb was steep and the altitude raised quickly. All I could think about was old PBS documentaries on climbing Mt. Everest when they showed hikers experiencing altitude sickness and needed oxygen masks and coughed up blood. Of course, our experience was not that bad. I did feel incredibly nauseated, had serious vertigo, and as it was happening felt like I would never be able to summon the strength to continue. Apparently, one of the easiest ways to ward off altitude sickness is by drinking enough water. Finally, the episode passed and we moved forward. I learned never to underestimate the power of proper hydration. 

Post-dinner tea time on the roof of the refuge our first night

The next day was summit day and I woke up nervous. I knew that the altitude we would reach today would be even higher than yesterday and my fear of coming down with altitude sickness for another time haunted me. As usual, we set out early in the morning. I couldn’t believe it when we could finally see the metal triangle perched atop the peak in the distance and Hicham gave us the estimated time as 30 more minutes. In the final stretch, my heart began pounding and I broke into a jog. At that moment, it all felt so easy. We finally reached this incredible peak that for days seemed threatening and unattainable. From the top, there were several groups from all over the world taking pictures, holding flags, laughing, and enjoying well-deserved snacks. Hicham surprised us with a huge bag of cookies and nuts. We looked out in all directions over the clouds as a large group began praying in a circle, hands out, heads bowed. We sang more folk songs, took pictures, and then started our descent down. In total, it took about two and a half hours to reach the top from our refuge, and about 3 hours to get down.

Group shot at the refuge before beginning our summit hike on day 3

Summit!

Less than a week after returning from our hike, I packed up my bag again and set out on a three day trip to Brussels in hopes of setting up contact with several people and associations who could help me with my Fulbright application. The days went by fast and were filled with pleasant surprises. Cold calls turned into warm meetings and I left feeling euphoric by the way the puzzle pieces felt like they were finally fitting together. 

Shortly after coming back from Belgium, I could feel that there was something different in the air. The streets of Rabat became flooded with cars that had MRE (Marocains résident à l’étranger - Moroccans living abroad) license plates from France, Spain, England, Italy, and Belgium. This could only mean one thing: summer vacation was here and Ramadan was quickly approaching. The date sellers in the markets nearly doubled, as did the honey-soaked chebakiyya pastries and large tupperwares. Billboards popped up all over town showing major Ramadan sales at supermarkets and department stores. Interestingly, as the city began to fill up with extended families, it also simultaneously became more peaceful and quiet. 

Just as Moroccans were welcoming their extended families living overseas back home for the holidays, I was lucky enough to have the rest of my family visit for one week. We hired a driver and went down south to the beach towns of Essaouira and Agadir as a way to beat the heat and enjoy the seaside culture à la marocaine. After five days down south exploring Argan cooperatives, ancient medinas, resort-style beaches, and learning to respect the incessant and powerful wind Essaouira is known for, we returned back to Rabat and Fez for our last few nights together. Ramadan began during our trip, which provided us with an added challenge of finding food throughout the day while everyone else was fasting. Despite that, it was a great experience to be able to observe the holiday with my family. I think we all realized that while we may not fully grasp the purpose behind this strict month-long regime of fasting and feasting, we could respect the similarities that it shared to holidays that we hold as sacred: how time slows down and people take the time to be with those that they love. 

After saying goodbye to my family I began a two-week house/cat-sitting “post” at a friend’s house in Agdal. The couple has two very loving and attention-hungry cats that feed off human affection. It was nice to be around clean and domesticated cats again as opposed to the all too often run-ins with cute but dirty dumpster-diving ferrel variety. As teachers at the Rabat American School, their house was equipped with many comforts of home, including dependable wi-fi, a verdurous garden, and an ‘American telephone’ that I could use to call home. In the evenings I would have friends over after they broke their fast. We enjoyed several Mexican fiesta dinners followed by long games of cards that lasted well into the night. 

The garden tortoise that always found his way into the house

Finally, I returned home to Boston for a short three week trip. It felt wonderful being home again with my family just in time to celebrate my birthday and savor the last few weeks of summer in New England. I left to come back before my heart or head was ready, but new opportunities were on the horizon back in Morocco that I needed to attend to. Last week I signed a one year contract with an American-Moroccan development agency and moved into a cozy new apartment on the beach. While things are moving fast and at times feel overwhelming, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. Inch’allah my exchange of comfort and familiarity for new and challenging will be one that will prove to be as rewarding as I imagine it will be. I’m looking forward to all the lies ahead while trying to take things one step at a time. Shweeya b shweeya. 

"Sarkozy, c'est fini!"

On the evening of May 6th, the long-awaited French presidential election results announced François Hollande as the next French president by a mere 3.8% over Sarkozy (51.9 to 48.1, according to Le Monde). The crowd of hundreds of thousands of Hollande supporters cheered and popped bottles of champagne around the Bastille as they waited for Hollande to make his first address as president.

I heard a report on NPR's Morning Edition that discussed France's election night, Hollande's plans for France, and the differences between Sarkozy's and Hollande's political platforms. One of the major differences that was highlighted in the news program (as well as in other popular media outlets) is their position on immigration and foreign affairs. While Hollande welcomes multiculturalism and more progressive approaches to strengthening France's international relationships, Sarkozy has always preferred more traditional and exclusionary tactics. Towards the end of the program there was a clip of the cheering crowd outside the Bastille when out of nowhere a voice comes to the forefront and shouts, "Vive la France! Vive les Marocains!". It made me reflect on how French politics affect Moroccan (and North African, more generally) society. What do Moroccans have invested in having their presidential candidate win office in France? Will France's relationship with Morocco change now that Hollande is president?

In late April, the French Embassy in Morocco published the results of the French elections in Morocco. There is a large portion of the urban population in Morocco that hold dual citizenship, which gives them the ability to vote in the French elections. In Rabat, François Hollande took the lead with 43.5% and Nicolas Sarkozy was the runner up with a mere 26.9%. The rest of the votes were divided among the remaining three candidates.

While the results differed depending on the city (Sarkozy won the majority vote in Marrakech for instance), what is undeniable is that the French elections were considered an important issue for Moroccans. Throughout the election cycle I had several conversations with my English language students about their opinions on the candidates, the French electoral process, and their hopes for the future of France. Most of my students are professionals who work for companies or organizations with strong European ties. Even if they don't think that the outcome of France's election will greatly affect aspects of their personal life, they all agree that it would change the way they do business with their French clients and partners.

From the students "polled", it was unanimously stated that they felt that Sarkozy was a disappointing president, and certainly not the type of president that France needs now. While some felt that Sarkozy's "work more, earn more" mantra did good things for the French economy, his eccentric personality made him difficult to trust his judgement in times of hardship. They believe that the French are ready to trade in their hot-shot celebrity president for someone more humanistic and moderate.

Furthermore, Sarkozy's strong anti-immigration and anti-multiculturalism stance weakened the country by dividing France into ethnic and cultural factions. He candidly identified certain groups as better than others, which led to a less united country. While he gained the support of the far-right through these actions, he lost the respect of everyone else. One student even said that Sarkozy was "France's George Bush": he managed to debase France's long history of high culture through his poor language and ignorant view point on immigration.

I see several paralells between Hollande's campaign and Obama's 2008 presidential campaign. The first similarity is in the type of candidate they are competing against. Sarkozy ran an incredibly conservative campaign whose foundation rested on the pillars of social conservativism and anti-multiculturalism. Ring any bells? The second similarity was in their progressive campaign slogans. Hollande's, "Le changement, c'est maintenant" (The change is now) begged for comparisons to Obama's 2008, "Change we can believe in" campaign slogan. Finally, the third similarity is in their voter demographic. While both Sarkozy and John McCain pushed for tighter immigration restrictions and paraded anti-multiculturalist values and bill proposals, both Hollande and Obama recognize the importance of the minority/immigrant vote. It will be interesting to see if these seemingly symbolic paralells seen between the two presidents' campaigns will manifest itself into anything significant as time progresses.

On a final note, I found out yesterday from one of my students that after the election results were announced, King Mohammed VI of Morocco coridally invited Nicolas Sarkozy to come to Morocco for a vacation. After François Hollande was officially sworn in yesterday as the President of the French Republic, Sarkozy boarded the King's private jet and set off to spend some time sunning himself at a resort in Marrakech. I asked my student if this gesture holds any greater political implications, since it seemed to me that the King still stands by Sarkozy. My student just shook his head and said, "No, I don't think so. The King did the same thing for Jacques Chirac."

A funny thing happened on the way to Marrakech...

This past week was wonderful.

We had visitors from the United States (read: my boyfriend's parents came to Morocco for the first time!) and we had a great week showing them around Rabat and Marrakech. It is always an interesting experience having guests. Not only does it give you an excuse to take time off from work, but it encourages you to see the world around you from a new perspective. Things that you take for granted -nearly getting hit by speeding cars when trying to cross the road, weaving through the old medina streets, living less than ten minutes away from the King's palace, to name a few - all become special things again.

It also gave us a reason to re-visit Marrakech. When I mention Morocco to friends, family, and strangers back at home, one of the most common outbursts I get is, "oh, Marrakech, right?" or "Marrakech Express!". In a nutshell, Marrakech is one of the most well-known aspects about Morocco. Naturally, as a tourist with less than a week to explore the country, it is a high-priority destination. The stories of snake charmers, story tellers, monkeys, and fortune tellers are not hyperbole, but rather reality. The old medina that we stayed in feels more chaotic than our familiar Rabat medina. Not only is it packed with tourists and polyglot shopkeepers haranguing said tourists, but there are also donkeys pushing carts filled with anything from fresh produce, engine parts, or cases of Coca-Cola. Did I mention everyone rides motor bikes? Even women in djellabas and head scarves?

Outside of the congested medina streets are high red clay walls that wrap around the city and seem to glow as the sun sets, setting fire to the palm trees and ducking behind the tall distant mountains that are still capped in snow.

Marrakech is no exception to the rule that Moroccans live in a world of paradox, where you find elements of tradition next to modernity, a desert climate next to snow-capped mountains, an illiterate man who has never left the country can speak multiple languages. It is this juxtaposition of opposites that makes Morocco so culturally rich and expansive. There is no one singular Moroccan experience.

With that being said, I'd like to share a particularly unique experience that happened to us on the train to Marrakech. The train ride between Rabat and Marrakech takes about 4 and a half hours. The first time I took a weekend trip there my friends and I bought 2nd class tickets, without knowing that in second class there is no limit to how many tickets could be sold. Long story short? We ended up standing body-to-body in a sweaty train car for half of the ride before we could find a seat. Ever since then I have learned my lesson. For long train rides I always pay a little more and buy a first class ticket. First class is the only section of trains in Morocco where your ticket corresponds to a specific seat and car number. Especially since we were traveling with guests, we thought that our choice would give us peace of mind. We took an early morning train and within minutes of departing the Rabat Ville station we all began to nod off.

I didn't notice that a few stops into our trip a young woman (about my age, in her 20's) got into our car and sat in the empty seat next to me. About twenty minutes later, my boyfriend nudged my arm to wake me up when he noticed the girl next to me writhe about and then fall to the floor, totally sprawled out between the two rows of chairs facing one another. My first thought was perhaps she was having a seizure, but I quickly realized that this couldn't be the case. Her eyes seemed glazed over and she was moaning loudly and uncontrollably as she tried to rip her shirt off. She seemed really upset and started dry heaving. The only thing we could do was try to wake her up, but nothing seemed to work. Within seconds, she began having what is best described as a severe tantrum. She flailed her legs and arms in all directions with great force while still moaning loudly. So loud, in fact, that by this point we had acquired a bit of an audience outside our car looking on in awe. The next thing I knew she began slurring a single phrase in Arabic over and over. It was difficult to understand exactly what she was saying, but from what I could gather, it was something to the tune of, "he has everything, I am alone." Later, she began reciting what seemed like Quranic verses, "Allahu Akbar" (God is Great), "La ila illa allah wa Muhammad rassoul allah" (There is no God but God and Mohamed is His prophet), and another verse about "Shaytan" (Satan).

An older woman from a neighboring car came in to help us try and restrain her. Without missing a beat, she immediately called her daughter to bring her a bottle of water and her perfume. When I saw how relatively calm she was by this seeming medical anomaly happening before us, I began to piece together my knowledge of Moroccan folkloric culture. I started to wonder if this was what Moroccans call a djinn (spirit) possession. The woman began to spritz the girl's face with water and then sprayed perfume around her face, presumably in attempt to make her come to her senses. Nothing seemed to work. She didn't flinch at the water. She continued to moan and wail the same phrases over and over again. Shortly after, the people in the car took her iphone and started playing a Surah from the Quran off of her iphone's iTunes library and tried to hold it up to her ear. I was pinned to my seat, trying to sort out my own feelings about the event happening in front of my eyes. Should I be scared? Uncomfortable? Intrigued? Excited? All I knew was I wanted to stay calm, alert, and absorb as much of the scene as possible. Within minutes, the conductor of the train came in and started to help move the girl off the floor and lay her down on a row of chairs, helping another man in the car pin down her limbs as she tried to kick them off.

I don't know how much time passed as we sat there watching the scene unfold. After they got her off the floor, she began speaking French and English, but repeating the same lines she had been saying in Arabic. She then started screaming, "Ana Mohamed!" (I am Mohamed!) "Ana min Filastine" (I am from Palestine). A few minutes later she made eye contact with my boyfriend and started to have a conversation with him in English. She was telling him how lucky he was that he doesn't live in Morocco, to which he replied, "But I do. I live in Rabat." Without missing a beat, she said, "You're welcome in my country." She continued, "Do you know who I am? I am Mohamed. I come from Palestine. Do you know Palestine? I am beautiful and therefore no one loves me. I am all alone." It was shortly after this episode that the train conductor suggested that we leave the cabin and he helped us find new seats as the girl slumped back into her hysterical trance-like state.

As our train ride was coming to an end, the same girl, now conscious, found us in our new seats. Accompanied by the train conductor, she sincerely apologized to us for her actions. She appeared incredibly embarrassed and upset. We left it at that.

So, what happened exactly?

Following my gut instinct, I decided to look more into Djinn spirits and their role in Moroccan folk tradition. Djinns are spirits who live in a parallel universe to human kind's. The word "djinn" in Arabic comes from the verb meaning to conceal or to hide, since they are invisible to the human eye. In the Quran it states:

 "Indeed We created man from dried clay of black smooth mud. And We created the Jinn before that from the smokeless flame of fire" 

                                                                (Surah Al-Hijr 15:26-27)

In the Muslim tradition djinoun (plural of djinn) are believed to have the ability to inhabit minds or bodies. If a person does become possessed by a djinn, the name of Allah must be used to expel the spirit from its host. When I looked at a website that detailed the symptoms of djinn possession it became even more peculiar. The girl's behavior matched so many of the characteristics listed - seizure-like movements, talking to oneself, quick to get angry or weep with no apparent cause, erratic behavior and movements, moaning, and groaning. I also spoke to a few Moroccan friends who immediately recognized the behavior I was describing and said that it was most likely an episode of possession.

While I am skeptical of attributing this particular case to spiritual or religious affliction, it was chilling to me just how accurate the descriptions of djinn possession that I read were to what I saw happen before my eyes. Thinking back to Morocco and its paradoxical culture, I couldn't help but be amused by the circumstances: a young girl seems to fall ill by a spiritual possession in the first class car of a train to Marrakech. In her feverish state, she recites ancient scripture in multiple languages. Fellow passengers attempt to calm her down by playing Quranic verses...from her iphone. 

What else could have happened?

I spoke with two Moroccan women who work at the study abroad organization where I work - one is a Darija (Colloquial Moroccan Arabic) professor from Fez and the other is our cleaning lady. When I described the scene to them they first thought it was what they called a Suraa/Sur3,  or a hysterical episode. However, when I told them about her Quranic recitations of "Allahu Akbar" and "La ila illa Allah wa Muhammad rassoul Allah"  they immediately looked at each other with a look of understanding. They explained to me that in their opinion it was most likely the response to a khbar al-mout or death announcement that she received via telephone. 

In reality, who really knows what happened? It definitely is interesting to specultate. This experience has shown me another way in which Morocco walks the line that divides tradition and modernity. In the 21st century many families still hold onto ancient rituals and folklore surrounding spirits, life, and death. For instance, it is common knowledge to  Moroccans that if you whistle inside you are inviting djinn into the home. It is also not a good idea to pour hot water down the drain because that is where the djnoun live and it will upset them. If it truly was a death announcement, why is it that her reaction was so much different than what I would have if I was in her position? Is it a personal difference, or perhaps a greater difference in our cultural upbringing? 

What I witnessed on the train ride presented me with a new challenge: at what point does it no longer make sense to assess an experience through the lens of local culture? Should I take the word of my friends and colleagues who have lived here their whole lives, or should I refer back to my own sociocultural upbringing and attribute what I observed to a fit of extreme psychological hysteria induced by stress or traumatic news? I suppose this is part of the fun in obtaining cross-cultural understanding.