Happy New Year!

Today marks the beginning of a new year in the Islamic calendar.

Unlike the Gregorian calendar, the Islamic calendar is lunar. In pre-Koranic times, the Arabic calendar had extra days at the end of every lunar year to make the its new year coincide with the solar year. However, the Koran forbid that practice. So now, the Islamic months do not match up with our calendar. As a result, Ramadan, Eid al Kabir, and the New Year shift slightly every year in relation to our calendar.

The big question for Daniel and me was whether or not anything would be open today. Almost everything was open when I bopped out to get a few things in the morning. But then when we headed into the medina this afternoon, we encountered nothing but closed shops.

We asked one of the few men selling cigarettes on the street, "Will everything open up after lunch or is it closed for the holiday?"

He replied, "Everything's closed today." We figured as much. But then he continued, "Everyone went to pray." And he made the bowing and praying motion to further signify what he meant.

Then Daniel and I realized: it's Friday. Many places close in the afternoon for the important afternoon prayers and then most Moroccan families have couscous and spend the rest of the day together. It's a normal day here; it just so happens that it's a normal Friday.

So we had a coffee in an empty cafe and headed back home.

The Face of French History

Sometimes it feels as though the past is irretrievably lost. You can't interrogate documents and recordings as you can human beings, and even then, human memory is notoriously fallible.

As a result, I pessimistically assume the only access I will ever have to fascinating past events will be through the pages of history books. But then occasionally, once in a blue moon, I have an experience that reminds me of the living connection between the seemingly distant past and the present.

I attend mass at the local Catholic church on Saturday nights. On Sunday mornings, they say the service is packed with sub-Saharan students at the local university. But on Saturday night, the nuns and the priests are joined by only a smattering of others, mostly older French types, partisans of that strange French Catholicism that is so foreign to me. After a few months now, I've spoken with most of them, but one stands out among the bunch. His name is Roger, and he is 87.

Unlike some of the other elderly French ex-pats, Roger has not lost a step. He enthusiastically rambles up to you and warmly greets you. He inquires about you and invites you to join him for dinner at his house or perhaps his weekly picnic in the mountains outside of Meknes.

Or at least that's he does with me every week. Of course, until this last Sunday, I had never taken him up on his offers, mainly because of scheduling conflicts. But this time, he insisted that I come by the house just to see where it was. So I rode with him back to the house and went in.

At first I thought he was just going to show me the house and drive me home (he had opined that it was too cold and too dangerous outside for me to walk home). He offered me a drink from his well-stocked liquor cabinet. And then I really knew I wasn't headed home anytime soon when he asked me to sit down. He brought out yogurt (unsweetened, unlike the "awful stuff" the Moroccans eat), bread, ham (ham!), and French cheese. Then he pulled out a bottle of hand-labeled Sauvignon Blanc. When you live in an area long enough and you are French, you become friends with the winery owners and are privy to the best of the cellar.

As we started eating, he regaled me with stories from his past. I was impressed with the fact that he has been in Morocco since before colonialism ended; that's over half a century. For me colonialism is one of those inaccessible aspects of history. And not only was he a French colonist back when European countries were still doing that sort of thing, but he also fought in World War II. He wanted to let me know how far he had come to make it on his own. So he explained how difficult it was living out in the French countryside for four years as part of the French resistance to the Nazi occupation.

The most interesting thing for me was how, 53 years later, he still bears the colonial mentality. He knows only a few words of Arabic, and he insists on keeping a good distance from Moroccans, preferring the company of Westerners. I certainly couldn't agree with everything he said about Morocco and Moroccans, but just to be able to talk to someone like that gave me a lot of insight into colonialism and the French mindset.

As he drove me back home, I revealed my love for the French language. He didn't blink. "Well, of course. The French language knows no bounds. Its expressive power is limitless."

The American Culture Club

Today I taught the last section of the American Culture Club.

With just a few minutes to spare, I finished covering Barack Obama's Democratic National Speech on the American Promise. The students seemed to have enjoyed the club. Now they know a lot more about the African-American experience and the American Dream.

My goal was to nuance certain stereotypes I've encountered here in Morocco about racism in America and about the American Dream. At the very end, I asked my students if they had learned anything surprising or if any of their past assumptions about America were changed.

Only one student seemed willing to answer. He said, "It's good to learn about the history of another country, to see how it got to be where it is."

That wasn't quite what I was hoping for, but I guess it's a good start. My club will continue next term with a new theme.

Christmas Music

When something important in the United States is happening, I try to mention it to my students, for both my sake and theirs. For their sake: because I want them to get a fuller view of American culture. For my sake: because sometimes I feel disconnected.

The past week or so, I have been trying to get in the Christmas mood by listening to Christmas carols. Usually about this time in the season, I'm annoyed to death with the incessant Christmas carols, but this year Christmas is anything but all around.

On Wednesday, I mentioned Christmas carols to my class of 11 and 12-year olds. One of them asked me to play a song or two for them. I readily obliged.

These kids hear a heavy dose of American rock and R&B, along with smatterings of French music, Arabic pop music, and more traditional Arabic music. It never occurred to me how different Christmas carols sound compared to American pop music, but one of my 11-year olds complained right away.

"This is terrible!"

I responded, "It's not suppose to be pop music. Do you like Eid al Kabir music and listen to it all the time?"

He lowered his head, "Uh...no."

Now, I feel a little bit deceptive. The entire week I have done nothing but listen to Christmas carols...

Are you feeling better?

The day after the Eid, Daniel told me, "I feel ten times better than I did yesterday, but I still feel absolutely awful."

When his symptoms continued through the weekend, he decided to visit a doctor. He was given five separate medications, and they sent a snot sample of his off to Rabat. When he returned home he laid out all five of the medications and sat down to take them. It must have taken him nearly 20 minutes to get through the entire batch, a process that repeated itself a few times a day thereafter. It seemed to have worked, though. After a few days of the ritual, he started to feel a little better.

But then on Thursday, his results came in: Daniel was positive for H1N1. The Delegation of Health called on Thursday night and asked him to report the next day. On Friday morning before Daniel made his official appearance, I left the house to go to my Darija lesson at work. About 20 minutes in, my lesson was abruptly interrupted by the secretary. She pulled me out of the class into the hallway.

"You know that Daniel has H1N1?"
"Yes. He told me."
"You need to go to the doctor right now."
"But I feel fine."
"You need to go to the doctor right now. Daniel isn't to come to work for one week. You won't be working either."
"But I feel fine..."

One of the other administrators walked me over to the doctor's office. After watching me sign in, he left me to wait along with the dozen or so coughing, wheezing patients, bundled up in coats, hats, and scarves (The building, like almost all Moroccan buildings, had no heat.) There were some ancient Moroccan travel magazines on the coffee table in the middle, so I took a look at them. After thirty minutes I had flipped through all of the German, French, and Arabic versions. I then proceeded to play Snake on my phone for another half hour.

After an hour and forty minutes, I was finally ushered in to see the doctor. He took my weight, listened to my breathing, and took a snot test. He then concluded, "I don't see why you can't work." In any case, he wrote me a prescription for a couple of medications and sent me away.

I returned to work and reported what the doctor had told me. However, they said they would prefer to wait until the test returned.

Frustrated, I returned home to find Daniel a bit befuddled. After reporting to the Delegation of Health, he had been given a certificate that forbid him from working for a week. This, despite the fact that it had been almost a week since his fever broke and it had been over four days since he started taking medication.

On forced medical leave and yet not sick, the two of us decided to do some shopping. We checked out some furniture we've been meaning to buy. We had lunch at a nice pizza place. We walked around town. The sun was shining. Birds were tweeting. It was a great weekend.

On Monday my results came in: negative. At last, I was allowed to return to work.

This entire week I have been running into co-workers in the hallway. They all say, "You look great. Are you feeling better?"

Eid al Kabir, part 2

During the preparation of the boulfef meal, cousins and uncles dropped by to say hello, sometimes multiple times. Afterwards, it was time for my friend Anass to do the same. He invited me to join him as he participated in this masculine visiting ritual, and I readily agreed.

The first house we visited was only a few blocks away, which explained why the uncle and cousin had stopped by multiple times during the morning. The family was watching a Moroccan movie called "The Sheep" (think Eid al Kabir kitsch on the order of "It's a Wonderful Life" for Christmas) and eating their meal of boulfef. Apparently some of the family members dislike sheep innards (I can't imagine why...), and so they had cooked an entire chicken for the sheep guts-haters in the family. They invited me to eat, and so I bellied up to the table and ate along with them, my second boulfef meal of the day. They all chatted in Arabic, paying special attention to me, asking where I was from and if I liked Morocco. (In contrast to some European countries where the polite thing to do is to totally ignore the guest.)

The second house was a little further away. They had a gigantic parlor with Moroccan couches lining every wall, enough to seat dozens of guests. They had finished the boulfef meal but had some sweets and tea to offer the 10 or so guests who were currently there. And they were also watching the Eid movie "The Sheep".

The third set of Anass's relatives lived in the medina. So for safety reasons, Anass' brother stayed with the car while we entered. After winding through narrow covered alley ways, we entered a small room maybe a tenth of the size of the previous parlor filled with the same number of people. Two or three people had to stand once we arrived and were given seats.

Never one to let sweets pass me by even after huge meals, I inquired about some cookies sitting on the table. They told me the name of the cookies and encouraged me to eat some. So, of course, I did.

Anass didn't seem to want to stay long. After just a few minutes of chitchat in the crowded room, he stood up to leave. He said his goodbyes, and I began to follow suit. However, before I could get far, the grandmother figure who was sitting nearest the cookies, the object of my curiosity, asked if I wanted to take some with me. I knew it was impolite to refuse food, so I agreed to take some. She went into the kitchen and rummaged around until she found a large plastic bag. Then she came back to the table and started stuffing the cookies into the bag like nobody's business. I said, "That's good. Thanks." She just shook her head at me as if I didn't know what I really wanted. She kept stuffing cookies in the bag. I reached out for the bag and repeated, "Thanks. That's good." She didn't stop. I tried to wrest control of the bag from her as she continued to stuff cookies into it. After a mini-tussle between the cookie-packing grandmother and me, I emerged with a bag filled with a few dozen Eid al Kabir cookies.

As we left the small room, Anass led me in the opposite direction from which we had entered and into a gigantic open space. I realized then that his family were not poor medina-dwellers. They owned one of the ancient riadhs, beautiful homes built into the walls of the old city complete with courtyards, baths and tiled walls close to 30 feet tall. We took some photos of everyone and then got back into the car to leave.

After the family visits, I parted ways with Anass. I thanked him for the food and the opportunity to accompany him on the family visits, and then I came back to the house and checked on Daniel. He had come down with serious flu-like symptoms and ended up spending the entire day in bed. As I closed my curtains to head to bed, I noticed the sheep carcasses strung outside, ready for a week's worth of cooking.

I sat down to read. But I was so stuffed that I couldn't concentrate. I could feel the blood engorging my stomach. Soon I had fallen asleep on the couch.

An hour or two later, my phone rang. It was Anass: "We're waiting for you to eat dinner." I jumped up, got ready, and headed out the door.

As soon as I got in the door, his family immediately inquired about Daniel. "He's still not feeling very well," I said. They insisted that I take some medicine that they had on hand over to Daniel. So Anass and I headed right back over to our house and we gave him the medicine.

When we returned, Anass' father was working on a used bike with training wheels, preparing it as a gift to give to some cousins. Anass' mother sat next to me and we started talking a little bit about the holiday Eid al Kabir. She asked if I knew the story.

"Yes, I know the story. It's actually very similar to one found in the Bible."
"Oh, ok."
"Except in the Bible, it's Isaac and not Ishmael."
"Oh no, it's Ishmael."
"Yes, Muslims believe it was Ishmael. Christians and Jews believe it was Isaac."
"Well, that's wrong."

A little later, I was called to the table to eat Dawara, the sheep's cooked intestines. I was so stuffed; I didn't want to eat any more. But I knew it wasn't polite to refuse the meal. It was slow-going, but I started making a dent in my section of the gigantic serving bowl. Anass' mother reproached me, "You're not eating anything."

I responded, "I am. I'm eating. Look."
"That's nothing. You're not eating anything."

I kept plugging away, but it was so difficult. The sauce on the Dawara was actually quite good. The problem wasn't the sheep's intestines; it was my intestines and how full they already were. Eventually I couldn't do anymore. So I said "Hamdullah", wiped my hands, and swore off sheep's guts for at least a year.

After the meal, Anass' father showed me the dual language French-Arabic Koran that the family uses. I was surprised to learn that a well-off, educated Arab speaker requires French help to understand the Koran. Theoretically, Modern Standard Arabic is the same as Koranic Arabic with just some slight vocabulary and grammar changes.

We sat around watching TV and then I went back home. Daniel still wasn't feeling very good. I tried to read again, but again failed to get far. I was asleep in no time at all.

Eid al Kabir, part 1

Eid al Kabir is one of the few truly global holidays. There are over a billion Muslims throughout the world and all of them celebrate it in some form or another, the most fortunate in Mecca, fulfilling one of the five pillars of Islam.

And yet despite the global nature of the holiday, I never really knew much about it before I moved to Morocco. I see some news coverage every year, but I don't generally pay a great deal of attention to it.

One year, I remember there was a controversy in Britain because the government was trying to keep neighborhoods hygienic as Muslims brought sheep into their homes. Then two years ago, I ran into a Ghanaian immigrant in the alley behind my Philadelphia house, and he explained why his son and all the other Muslim boys were playing football there in the middle of a school day. He had plenty of experience discussing the holidays with Christians, so his explanation drew on my knowledge of the Bible but deftly pointed out the differences. Even with those few encounters with the holiday, I found myself remarkably ignorant as the week of the Eid began. (Of course, when I ask Muslims here about Christian holidays or even about the commercialized bastardizations of religious holidays we have in America, there is a similar ignorance.)

On Saturday morning, my friend Anass stopped by around 9 o'clock. Then we headed, not to his house, but across the street to another house. He explained, "The sheep is at my cousin's house." As we walked, a mass of men came down the street, emerging from the mosque after the important prayers the morning of the Eid.
I met the sheep on the back patio of the house. Like many other sheep, it was bought in the week or two preceding the Eid al Kabir and only moved to the house the day or two before. Unlike my apartment building, there were no telltale sheep droppings scattered throughout the entryway of the building. However, in the corner of the patio where the sheep was tied up, it was just as bad.

After saying hello to the sheep, we sat down in the family area and watched TV while we waited for Anass's dad and the butcher. There were concerts of traditional Eid music and some European soccer games, but nothing terribly interesting.

After only a short wait, the rest of the family and the butcher arrived. We all gathered on the patio. The butcher held the sheep down, and the dad slit the throat of the sheep. The mother recited a verse from the Koran. Blood gushed forth. The sheep's head slowly lowered as its life quickly flowed away.

Then in a sudden spurt of resistance to death, the sheep started moving its legs as if to gallop to safety. But, as the sheep was lying on its side, it went nowhere. It only spread blood all over the courtyard and onto all of us. The father bore the brunt of the blood spattering, and so he left to change clothing. I escaped with only a few drops on my shoes and jeans.


As the sheep slowed to a complete stop, the butcher began to dress it. For the next hour or so, we rotated between helping clean the patio and watching TV. The mother was given the intestines, the heart, and the liver to start the long meal preparations. The first meal of the day is called "boulfef". It consists of skewers ("qtaban") of sheep heart and liver, wrapped in fat and seasonings. The second meal of the day consists of the cleaned and cooked intestines of the sheep, served in a very tasty sauce.

While the mother and daughter prepared the meal, we men sat in the family room and watched TV. Occasionally, they would try to teach me Arabic words. At one point, the TV showed the prayers of the king and his top advisors followed by the killing of his sheep. The entire family entered the room to watch, but after that short pause, the women returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning and cooking the sheep's innards.

We changed houses to Anass' house to eat the boulfef meal. It was quite good. I was quite surprised. I figured I would sit around for a while and then head back home after a great cultural experience. But my day was far from over.

A Moroccan Thanksgiving

Last Tuesday I got a hankering for a good ole-fashioned Thanksgiving. So I sent out some text messages to my American friends inquiring about interest for the holiday. As it turned out, everyone wanted to celebrate it and was willing to help out. So we divided up the dishes amongst ourselves. Somehow I ended up with the turkey and the stuffing. We all had to work Thursday evening, so we decided to make it a lunch Thanksgiving. We also decided to try to share our culture, and so we invited five Moroccan friends.

On Wednesday night I went to the grocery store to look for turkey. The butcher told me if I wanted a whole turkey, I had to request it at least two or three days in advance.

The super market is only good for a few things here; it's better to go to the open air market for most things or even the "hanuts", smaller stores located on every block that sell all the staples. So after getting the turkey at the supermarket, I wandered down the street to the market and picked up some vegetables and spices.

I got up early on Thursday morning. After a quick breakfast, I cleaned up a bit and arranged the tables so we could all sit together. I wrote on our whiteboard: "Happy Thanksgiving! I am thankful for..." in both English and Arabic and left plenty of space for others to write as well.

Then I turned my attention to cooking. The preparation of the turkey and stuffing took a while, but eventually everything made its way into the oven. I have a better appreciation for what my mom does every year now...

I took a shower and waited around. Even though we had agreed upon noon, there were still no guests at 12:45. But then a Moroccan showed up. A little later an American. And then around 1, the last six guests showed up all at once.

We couldn't start just yet; we still had to make the gravy. The turkey had produced much more juice than I had thought it would since it wasn't the full thing. We poured it into a sauce pan, added a little flour, and in no time we had gravy. I gave a brief explanation of Thanksgiving and a blessing and we dug in.
After dinner, we cleaned up a bit and then had apple crumble (the logistics of pumpkin pie were too difficult). And then by popular demand, Daniel pulled out his guitar and gave us a mini-concert.



At various points, the Americans among us left to the other room to talk to relatives on Skype. After my turn, I emerged from my room to find all of the dishes miraculously done and the furniture re-arranged.

Not very long afterwards, people started filtering out. I took a short nap and then got ready for a work.

No football and no real day off, but Thanksgiving nonetheless.

The Visa Lottery

I met Anass while watching a soccer match. Daniel and I were sitting in a cafe just down the street, and we had grown a little bored with Barcelona's insuperable lead over Zaragoza when a Moroccan guy sitting behind us struck up a conversation with us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he offered us help with whatever we needed and insisted that we get together to do something.

The weeks drifted by and we didn't do much more than exchange greetings in passing. But last Monday we finally got together and chatted in Arabic and English over coffee.

He asked for help with the United States visa lottery. Every year the United States gives work visas to tens of thousands of foreigners from countries that traditionally do not immigrate to the United States. All that is required is a photo and personal information to apply.

When I arrived, Anass led me into his parents' apartment in the building right next to my apartment. Unlike our apartment, theirs was extremely well furnished. Carpets covered the tile floor from wall to wall. A large screen TV hung in the family room and three sets of Moroccan couches covered the three main rooms, broken only by waist-high walls. On one wall was a picture of Mecca. A few bookshelves near the entrance to the kitchen were separated by a picture of a boy reading the Koran, in the same sort of light-intensive kitsch that Thomas Kinkade produces.

He introduced me to his mother, and she immediately started to speak to me in French. Anass reprimanded her, telling her that I spoke Darija. So I stuttered through the basic formalities and we sat down to do the visa application. Among other things, the photos are required to be 600x600 pixels. So while I tried to change the photo's size, his mother brought us Moroccan tea and pastries.

I finally got the picture to the right size and we entered the rest of his information without a problem. While we were working, his father came home from work and said hello. He then took out the prayer rug and started doing his prayers directly in front of us.

After I finished, I got up intending to go, but Annas' mother insisted, "No. Stay for dinner." Since it's rude to decline when a Moroccan extends hospitality, I quickly consented.

As in so many households the world over, the TV was left on during the meal. The coverage was of the Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca for the Eid al Kabir. The two big items of news were that Obama's Kenyan grandmother was in Mecca this year and that heavy rains were causing problems.

Dinner was Moroccan country hare, shot by father cooked by mother, seasoned with teeth-breaking pellets. With the exception of the pellets, it was quite good.

At the end of the evening, the family invited me back for Eid al Kabir. And because it's rude to decline when a Moroccan extends hospitality, I quickly consented.

An Exciting Week

Because of the holiday Eid al Kabir, I have little access to internet.

However, this has been an interesting week, complete with an American visa application, a joint American-Moroccan Thanksgiving feast, a sheep sacrifice for Eid al Kabir, a roommate with a likely case of H1N1, and a Barcelona victory over Real Madrid.

I'll be posting on most of the events in the days to come.

The Sunrise

A few days ago, I woke up around 5:30 and couldn't sleep. Many mornings I awake to the call to prayer or even pigeons cooing on my window sill, but that wasn't the case this time around. Sometimes on the weekends, the noisy aftermath of all-night weddings might wrench me from my slumber. But that wasn't the case this time. There are usually no weddings on Thursday nights and certainly not the week of Eid al Kabir.

I may not have known why I woke up, but I did know what to do with my time. I sat up in bed and started reading.

An hour later, it was becoming clear that I wasn't going to fall back to sleep. So I made myself some coffee and a bowl of cereal. I sat down on the couch near the southward-facing window. I turned on a light to read while I ate, but by the time I had finished my cereal, the artificial light was becoming increasingly unnecessary.

I stood gazing out of our 7th floor window at the sky. Some taller buildings were blocking my view of the horizon, but I could tell the sunrise was on its way. The sky above the buildings had shaded from the black of night to a magnificently dark blue, and the clouds had emerged from the darkness as palettes of pastels.

I sipped my coffee and watched from my window until all the colors had resolved to the white and blue of day.

Further Notes on Eid al Kabir

I've continued to ask a number of my Moroccan friends and students about the upcoming Eid al Kabir holiday. Yesterday, for instance, only 5 of my 14 students showed up for class. So, rather than pursuing the lesson I had planned, I led the group in a discussion about the holiday, working on the near future ('I'm going to',....'then my family's going to...', 'next we're going to...", etc.)

For Christians encountering the Eid al Adha, the other name for Eid al Kabir, we might wonder why an animal sacrifice is necessary. In Christian theology, the crucifixion of Jesus was a once for all sort of sacrifice that makes further atonement by animal death unnecessary.

However, the most common explanations for the holiday, as I've briefly outlined before, involve aspects other than atonement. Particularly, Moroccans have mentioned 1) remembering Abraham's unquestioning obedience to God, 2) spending time with family, and 3) social solidarity.

In terms of family togetherness, the holiday is a lot like Thanksgiving and Christmas all wrapped up into one. People travel to be with their extended family, often the only time of the year, and they kill an animal and eat it in every imaginable way. After the meal, visits to family and friends in the city take up much of the following few days. For most people, it seems this togetherness is the real point. Theological abstraction is always harder to grasp, I think, than the tangible reality of being with loved ones.

As for social solidarity, Muslims are commanded in the Sunna to give 1/3 of their meat to the poor of society. Sometimes, richer Muslims will even buy whole sheep for poorer families.

But family togetherness and social solidarity aside, that still leaves the question: Why kill a sheep? Why use the most universal act for appeasing God's anger to accomplish these other goals? The way it has been represented to me here puts the main emphasis on the commemoration of Abraham's obedience in his willingness to sacrifice his son out of obedience to God, and not on an attempt to appease God's righteous anger.

Islam's insistence emphasis on submission to God is demonstrated quite powerfully in the story. Abraham submits obediently to God's command to sacrifice his son, despite his reservations. When God sees that Abraham is faithful, he stops him and provides a sheep instead. From a Christian perspective, the foreshadowing of God's own sacrifice of his son and the atonement aspect are missing from this Islamic ritual of the sheep killing, but Christians should be able to appreciate the commemoration of unwavering obedience to God, even if the content and means of that obedience takes different forms in Islamic and Christian theology.

True Variety Radio

Most American radio stations self-identifying as "variety radio" don't hold a candle to the true variety on Moroccan airwaves.

While having breakfast this morning, I was listening to a Moroccan radio station. When I started listening, it was a news report in Fusha (standard Arabic). Next, the DJ started talking in French about various songs and local events, dropping in a few words in Darija here and there. Then the station's jingle came on. The jingle itself is half in French and half in English. The first part is in French and the last half brags about the station's "music and news".

The first song that came on was "The House of the Rising Sun", performed by the Animals. Then there was a Beach Boys' song. A little later, there was a contemporary French song.

After "You Can Call Me Al" came on, I turned the radio off. Less than thirty minute: news, talk, and music in four languages.

Animal Slaughtering Feast Holidays

Every year for the past 25 years of my life, I have spent this last full week of November preparing for Thanksgiving. And by 'preparing' I mean doing a little bit of schoolwork and then relaxing; my mother usually does the cooking. The lone exception, of course, was the year I lived in France, when I myself threw a Thanksgiving feast for over 40 exchange students. But every year, in some way or another, I have prepared for an ostensibly religious holiday that involves the slaughter of an animal.

This year is no different.

Of course, this year the animal in question is a sheep, and the ostensibly religious holiday is the Eid al Kabir, one of the most important holidays of the Muslim calendar.

The past few days, I have been asking my Moroccan co-workers, friends, and acquaintances what Eid al Kabir means to them. There are a few main themes that emerge.

The first is the reference to the Koranic story of Abraham and Ishmael. The story roughly follows the Biblical outline of Abraham and Isaac in Genesis 22, except that the sons are switched. Abraham is commanded of God to offer up his son as a sacrifice, and Abraham follows God's command. But just as he is about to kill his son, an angel stops him and instead, an animal is provided for the sacrifice.

There are two main points to the story. The first is that God expects us to submit to his command come what may. We are to offer utter obedience to God whatever he may call us to do. The other is that animals sacrificed are pleasing to God in some sort of way. I have tried to push a little bit on this last point to understand in what way the sacrifice pleases God or soothes his wrath, but I haven't heard any great answers. This last point is important because for Christians, the sacrifice of Jesus is supposed to be a once for all sacrifice.

The other two themes that emerge from Moroccan's discussion of Eid al Kabir are those of family and social solidarity. Eid al Kabir is the one holiday when the entire family gathers together in the same place (although sometimes it also happens during Ramadan or Eid el Saghir that follows Ramadan). So, we might say, Eid al Kabir is a bit like Christmas and Thanksgiving all rolled into one.

Also, since every family is required to kill a sheep and eat it (but not until after the king has killed his sheep), there is an opportunity for richer members of society to help poorer members of society. I have been told that many of the rich will buy an extra sheep (or even several) for the poorer families of Moroccan society in order for them to participate in this important holiday and feast.

I haven't been invited to Eid al Kabir just yet, but I'm hoping an invitation will be forthcoming. In the meantime, I'm planning a little get together with the other Americans before work on Thursday.

A Beautiful Sunday

I teach at 3 PM on Sundays, usually the quietest day of the week here.

Today, after taking care of some things around the house, I went to my favorite newsstand and picked up "The Economist" and "Tel Quel", a liberal, French-language Moroccan weekly.

Then I made my way over to one of the fancier cafes in town, the Salamanca (I guess "Spanish" = "fancy" here). I sat down on the front row of tables and chairs, facing the large plaza and park next to Ciy Hall.

As the waiter approached, I decided to preempt his French, "Salaamu 'Alaykum". A smile lit up his face and his attitude changed from seriousness to playfulness. In Arabic I ordered a cafe latte and then asked if they had Marakshias, my favorite local pastry. He smiled again, "Why, of course we do."

A little later he brought out the coffee and pastry, along with the tap water that accompanies every hot drink here in Morocco. He asked where I was from and we chatted a bit in Arabic.

Smiling, I opened "The Economist", and sipping my coffee, I began to read in the Moroccan sunlight.

Another Veil

I was teaching this morning when the director of our center burst through the door.

I expected her to tell me something or to ask for permission to speak to my class.

But she immediately addressed them, "Do any of you attend the Paul Valery school?"

Three students out of my eight raised their hands.

"Are any of you students in the classes that were closed because of the swine flu?"

A bit of confusion ensued. All of them knew of the closed classes, and some of them confused that with being in the class. The director switched to French in order to clarify.

As it turned out, one of my students was in the class that was closed.

The director said to him, "Why did you think it would be ok for you to come here if you can't go to your regular school?"

There is a serious concern at our school about the swine flu. We take students from almost every school in the city. So if a student brings it to the center, it could spread further and faster. And there would be a chance that our center would be shut down.

She sent him home and walked to the next class. And I resumed my lesson.

After class, I was on my way out to eat with two of my co-workers when we saw something that stopped our conversation dead in our tracks.

Three girls, crossing the street across from us, had their faces covered. But it wasn't the veil that over half of Moroccan women wear. Instead, they were wearing medical masks.

The swine flu has arrived in Meknes.

Happy Independence Day!

Yesterday was the 53rd anniversary of Moroccan independence, and so I had the day off.

The past week I have asked class after class what they plan to do for the holiday. Are there fireworks? Parades? A special type of meal? A picnic?

Apparently, the answer to all those questions is "no".

I asked my students what they planned to do on the day off, and the most popular response in all classes was "sleep".

Welcome to the Monarchy

Sometimes when I teach, I find it beneficial to use examples that everyone knows. When everyone shares the same background knowledge, there is no interference with the vocabulary or grammar point.

So, the other day when we were learning vocabulary to describe physical appearance, I thought it would be a good idea to ask my students to describe some celebrities and public figures. I gave them a list of people including the President Obama, the soccer player Ronaldo, King Mohammed VI of Morocco, and French President Nicolas Sarkozy.

My students happily did the activity: "Teacher, teacher, President Obama is tall and has short dark hair."

But then, we reached the King of Morocco. And they balked.

I said, "Come on, what does the King of Morocco look like?"

Not a word in response.

One student tried to say something about not talking about the king.

"I just want to know what he looks like. This isn't politics or anything. Just tell me: what does he look like?" I understood that discussion of politics and the monarchy is a touchy subject. You can get sent to prison for offense to the crown. But I didn't think that describing him as medium height with short black hair and brown eyes would count.

Still: silence.

Eventually I gave up and moved on. I guess I learned something about monarchies.

The View from My Window

overlooking Meknes

A Conference and a Concert

On Saturday I had the opportunity to attend a few sessions of the Intercultural University Forum at Moulay Ismail University. Daniel was playing in the concert that wrapped up the Forum, and some of our Moroccan friends were participating in the panels.

The format of the panels was a bit unique. A professor or two gave a short introduction to a subject and then a few students (either Moroccan, American, Chinese, or Spanish) shared some of their thoughts and opinions on the subject. Then students from the audience (presumably from a different country) were invited to give comments and ask questions. In principle, it's a good idea: students from different countries talk to each other about difficult issues. In practice, it didn't work out nearly as well.

The first panel I attended was about the International Studies Abroad and how it functions, or could function, as a cultural bridge, correcting common stereotypes, recognizing other cultures' humanity, and enhancing dialogue, mutual respect, and tolerance. The Moroccan professor introduced the subject by showing a clip from Obama's "A New Beginning" speech in Cairo from earlier this year. Although there is still a lot of distrust of America in the Arab world (especially after American inability to get Netanyahu to stop settlements in the occupied territories), many Arabs still see Obama's presidency as an opportunity to rethink our cultures' relations.

Some intriguing issues were raised during the discussion session. One student, who had previously been an immigrant in Europe, came up and started ranting about how students could wax eloquently about tolerance and diversity from their comfortable perches, but that in the real world, such talk meant absolutely nothing. I'm glad he said what he did, because some of the American students had shown incredible naivety about the issues. Another, more humorous comment, was an American inquiry as to whether Moroccans really believed that all American students were CIA agents and should be avoided. After laughing, the Moroccan panelists replied that one shouldn't believe rumors.

The second panel I attended began with an excellent introduction by Dr. Javier de la Puerta from the University of Sevilla. He addressed immigration, religion in politics, and Israel/Palestine, giving one of the best and most nuanced summaries of all the issues that I've heard.

He explained how the West needs immigration, but how there is often fear and misapprehension about terrorism, Islam, poverty, and cultural identity.

He discussed the three different models of the relationship between religion and politics: the weak secularization exemplified by the United States, the strict secularization modeled by France's laicite, and the Muslim world's closer mix of religion and politics.

And regarding the Israel and Palestinian conflict, he explained that the conflict has been so intractable because both sides refuse to recognize the other side's identity and suffering (the Holocaust from the Arab side and the Naqba from the Israeli side).

All of the panels went over, sometimes by more than an hour; the organization was absolutely ridiculous. They had to cancel the last three or four panels because of the lack of time. Even worse, all of the bands were permitted only two songs.

So after an extensive series of excessively self-congratulatory thank you's from every individual even remotely involved in the conference's (lack of) organization, the music finally got going.

First, an Andalusian group of one female singer and two guitarists did some amazing jazz and flamenco numbers.

As they were finishing, I headed backstage to confer with Daniel and his bandmates. The Berber group that was set to play last, after Daniel's band, was busy berating the concert's organizer that people were leaving and that they wouldn't be able to play.

When Daniel's band went on stage, I went back inside and filmed their "Roots Rock Reggae" and "The Wait". I was really disappointed by the audience's reaction: there was some cheering but no one got out of their seats to cheer or dance. I chalked it up to a very anti-party Moroccan spirit, and I tried to do more than my fair share of hooting and hollering.

And then the Berber group went on.

Dressed in traditional Berber robes and turbans, they began to play their drums and sing traditional melodies., and within a minute, the entire audience had left their seats and began to dance and sing along. All the Spaniards had left, and a few Americans had as well, leaving a mostly Moroccan audience that went bat crazy.

In no time at all, Daniel and I made our way to the front. I did my white man bop and tried to clap along, while Daniel really grooved with the Moroccans dancing and hopping and almost even moshing. Not pleased with my seeming lack of excitement, one of my Moroccan friends, one of the few women in attendance and who also happens to be veiled, complained that I wasn't shaking my ass enough. A bit surprised by this strange turn of cultural events, I tried to oblige as much as possible.

But I could only continue for so long. The Berber group went much longer than two songs. The dancing and moshing continued for almost an hour. As the drums slowed to a stop a few times I thought it was going to end, but inevitably the beats would pick up again and the crowd would come back to life.

When it was finally time to go, the Berber drum corps marched straight down the auditorium's main aisle and headed toward the university's gate, without missing a beat. The dancing and clapping crowd followed and the auditorium slowly emptied.

Thus, much later than scheduled, the 2009 Intercultural University Forum at the University of Moulay Ismail drew to a close.

Football Rivalries Moroccan Style

As an American teaching English in Morocco, I make enough money to be considered comfortably middle class here. Compared to the United States, though, the same amount would be solidly lower class. There is enough money to live, but not a whole lot for travel or for the nice things in life. What's more, since most Moroccans can only take English classes outside of normal working hours, we teach almost exclusively at night and on the weekends. So I work every day of the week.

And yet despite these minor drawbacks, this job attracts the most interesting of people. One of my co-workers grew up in Harlem in the 1960s and was a member of the Nation of Islam. Another is a Catalan who spent a number of years as an Army nurse...in the United States Army. My roommate has lived on five continents and speaks over a dozen languages. Another is a Cuban-American dating a famous Moroccan rapper.

And just when I thought I had heard everyone's interesting story, I found out that one of the oldest teachers has an MA from the University of Texas in linguistics. He's Moroccan, so I didn't expect him to understand the UT-OU rivalry, but I am happy to report that there are some things that transcend national boundaries. I now have a co-worker with whom I can regularly share my deep-felt feelings towards Texas.

After receiving his MA, he traveled the world as part of a UN team for over a decade, before finally deciding to settle down in Meknes. His parents are from the north, the Berber-populated Rif mountains, and his hometown was a far cry from the more cosmopolitan places he had lived in for a couple of decades. (He told me he had to hike 11 km to school every day as a child). So upon returning to Morocco, he chose Meknes. And teaching English fit his background well. So he was hired at the same place I came to a few years later.

Reliving History

Sometimes, learning Moroccan Arabic feels like a trip back in time.

English used to not be standardized. People would write words in a number of different ways depending on their accent and their fancy. They would write what they heard, and so, of course, it came out differently at different times. Anytime you read an English text more than a few hundred years old, you notice the variation in spelling.

But when I think about Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, I am less likely to think about English, and much more likely to think about the dead language Latin.

In the Middle Ages, Latin was no one's native tongue. No one spoke Latin in the home. And yet it was the most important language in all of Western Europe. The liturgy of the Christian church was all in Latin; the Bible was only read or recited in Latin. Legal documents and literature were all written in Latin. University instruction was in Latin; textbooks were written in Latin. An education required Latin.

But during the late medieval period, there was a move away from Latin in all these areas. Priests were asked to give their homilies in the vulgar tongues--notice the use of the word 'vulgar' even; the common, unrefined language of the people. Important kings started giving patronage to writers actually using the language of their kingdom. Poets like Dante argued that it was ok to write in the language they actually spoke. (His essay justifying it, though, was written in Latin.) Various groups tried to translate the Bible into their own spoken languages, usually with fierce resistance from the established Catholic church.

And then, at some point this language use reached a tipping point, and Latin started the long drift into oblivion. Just 60 years ago, the Catholic Church ended the required use of Latin in the mass. These days, very few students even bother with Latin.


The contemporary Arabic world is much like the late medieval Latin world. All religious discussion and dialogue occurs in Arabic (something that is much less likely to change given the importance of Arabic in Islam). University instruction is in modern standard Arabic (Fusha), not in Darija, or occasionally in French or in English. All written media is in Fusha, and the vast majority of TV and radio are in Fusha. More and more music is in Darija, though. Novels are often written in French, not even Fusha, so that they find a wider readership in the Francophone world.

If you ask a Moroccan about Darija, they will say, "Oh, that's not a real language. That's just something we speak at home. Real Arabic is Fusha." There is such a low esteem for Darija that it is almost unthinkable to try to change these attitudes.

When my Darija tutor tries to write down a word for me, he will sometimes spell it two different ways. If he uses Latin letters to spell it, there might be even more than just two. There is no accepted line between French words and French words accepted into Darija. There's often a French word, a Darija word, and a Fusha word for the same thing, and depending on the circumstances, you might use any one of the three. More often than not, though, there is a clear difference between the Fusha and Darija word, and every Moroccan knows both.

For a foreigner coming in, it can be extremely confusing. Many never bother trying to learn. Even with my extensive French and year and a half of Fusha, I find it difficult to navigate the language.

But every struggle gives me a taste of what late medieval Europeans experienced. It's a little like going back in time.

The Tragedy of Study Abroad

This afternoon I was invited to lunch with a Moroccan student of English Literature at the local Moulay Ismail University. She is chairing a talk this weekend as part of a conference on international relations and intercultural-cooperation. My roommate is playing in a concert as part of the same conference, but that is beside the point.

We talked about what the study abroad experience of a typical American is here in Meknes. Almost none of them come in with a level of French, standard Arabic (Fusha), or dialectical Arabic (Darija) that would allow them to meaningfully communicate here. Instead, they all rely upon a few English-speaking professors and advisors at the university, and if they make friends, it is almost always with the Moroccans who speak English extremely well. When they hang out, it is almost always with other Americans. And when they go out, it is to foreign hotels that offer the alcohol and music and dancing that most Moroccans go without.

In short, American students abroad do not integrate. The vast majority do not learn the language and culture to any meaningful degree. For most American students, study abroad is a break from classes, a time for traveling and partying and slacking off.

My Moroccan friend said that she appreciated that Americans are usually open to try new things and that they can be so much fun. But she was unsure how to approach the issue of cross-cultural understanding and cooperation, because in dealings with Americans, so often it is one-sided. She speaks English about as fluently as a foreigner can.

I offered her a few thoughts on why this is the case. First of all, English is the world language today. And when individuals and institutions are faced with the choice between exerting time and effort and just speaking the language everyone else already knows, laziness and entropy inevitably win out. Another problem, though, is that American universities send students out in such large groups that it makes English-speaking clusters extremely likely. The promotion of study abroad by many American universities can also be extremely hypocritical. While they encourage students to study abroad as a formative cultural experience, their clustering of American students and lack of linguistic preparation prevents Americans from truly learning and engaging the new culture. When one takes into account the fact study abroad programs are one of the biggest moneymakers for universities, such two-faced rhetoric about cultural experience makes more sense. While charging American students the normal $10,000s for tuition, they pay virtually nothing at the foreign universities, which are inevitably much cheaper. The tuition, for example at Moulay Ismail University is $0/year.

At the end of the conversation, I think my friend had a few ideas about how conversations and discussions and activities could foster inter-cultural understanding and cooperation. But, as they say in places where dancing is more common, it takes two to tango.

Investigative Report: Moroccan

Occasionally, I like to dispense with the petty stories from my life and provide you, my readers, with an in-depth, investigative report into a certain aspect of Moroccan society. Today I choose the subject of Moroccan public hospitals.

This afternoon, I was struggling to think of a way to penetrate the Moroccan public hospital system deep enough to gain the kind of profound insights that I always like to deliver to my readers. I was struggling. I was struggling to cut open some newly bought dishware, and I decided that the best way to check out a hospital would be to cut myself open. So I did just that. I cut the index finger of my left hand straight through to the bone.

Thinking quickly, I immediately decided that it would be best to have a Moroccan friend accompany me on my investigative visit. So I contacted a coworker who has previously helped my roommate and me find couches, tables, and the like. He cheerfully agreed to provide interpretation on my journalistic quest. And so we set out for the nearest public health station, a little first aid station on the side of the city hall run by the Red Crescent. Fortunately, my ploy worked: the cut was too deep for him to patch it up. Soon, we were in a taxi headed directly to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, we passed the two security check points with no problem. I said "Salaamu 'Alaykum" at both in an effort to seem more native and ingratiate myself with the object of my investigative report.

While checking in, I was able to retain a high level of anonymity thanks to, of all things, my long name. My identification card lists my first and middle name on the same line, but the last line is dropped down to a second line. Those unfamiliar with long names and their formatting often confuse my middle name for my last name. I snuck into the hospital, thus, without actually giving my last name. I hoped this semi-anonymity would help preserve some authenticity in my reporting.

I was in luck.

The doctor on call took one look at my finger, commented on it in French and took me straight into an operating room. A window was open and a man in working clothing was squirming in pain on the operating table, surrounded by three nurses and one surgeon who were delicately working on his lower leg, which bore a much deeper wound than my finger. The doctor beckoned me to a chipped wooden chair in the corner. So I sat down, all the while watching the man in pain. His sandals had fallen off and were on the floor not far from where I was sitting.

The doctor pulled out a local anesthetic, some stitches, a needle, and some gauze, and proceeded to clean my wound. The nurses turned towards me and stared. Eventually I attracted even the surgeon's attention. We shared a few words in Arabic, and then he proceeded to try out his English on me.

"You're American?"
"Yes."
"You're here on vacation?"
"No. I work at the American Language Center."
"Oh. Do you know David?"
"No, I don't think so."
"When I studied there, he was the director."
"When was that?"
"Oh, 10, 15 years ago."
"No, I don't know him. But there is a David directing another center here in Morocco."

Periodically I would try to respond in Arabic, but he persisted in English. The nurses giggled.
"I speak English. You speak Arabic. Good for both of us."
"Yes."
"I will teach you Arabic. You give me your address and phone number and we talk."

About this time, I wished that I had my camera with me to fully document the scene, but I consoled myself with the observation that it seemed more authentic without it. The surgeon finished sewing up his patient and my doctor finished the two stitches that tied my finger back together almost simultaneously.

We walked into the waiting room, and the doctor asked for 200 Dirhams (about $25). My friend translated, even though I understood. I gave the 200 Dhs and he walked down the hall. No receipt. The surgeon came and spoke with me again. He wanted to write my name down. In the rush, I don't think I gave him my contact information. But he has my name and work address. So perhaps he will find me someday and we can continue the Arabic lesson I started in the emergency room.

A little later, he came back with a scrap piece of paper. In the universally recognizable, illegible handwriting of a doctor, he prescribed an antibiotic and a tetanus shot for me (or so my friend told me). We then walked out of the hospital and across the street to the pharmacy where I bought both. And then we made our way back to where my investigative foray into Moroccan medicine had started. The same man who had sent me to the hospital administered my tetanus shot, telling me repeatedly in three different languages:
"No meat. No eggs. No fish."

I have yet to bring my investigative research to bear on those three claims. But my finger does seem to be on the way to recovery. The anesthetic has faded a bit, and my hands are different colors, but I am using the finger to write this blog post, reporting to you from Morocco on the state of Moroccan emergency services.

Where Did The Weekend Go?

These days, it doesn't feel like I really have weekends. I work Saturday mornings for three hours and Sunday afternoons for three hours. I have plenty of free time every day of the week, but I have no 48 (or even 24) hour period that is completely free. In the end, it doesn't bother me too much, but it is a strange sort of sensation. Every week blends into the next.

The last month, I have had Mondays off, although I have used the day off to lesson plan. Starting today, though, I teach the "American Culture Club" on Monday nights. Students are allowed to come for free, but teachers receive extra pay to teach clubs. So some teachers go over the lyrics of popular songs or work on creative writing or direct dramas. I wanted to use the opportunity to help Moroccan students think about both the good and the bad sides of America.

So I'm starting my club with a section called "Dreams and Promises". We're going to read Langston Hughes' very descriptive but very manageable "A Dream Deferred" as well as selections from speeches by Martin Luther King, Jr. and Barack Obama.

I want my students to think critically about the much-touted "American Dream". It has been true for millions of immigrants, including everyone in my family, but not for everyone.

Here are some key parts of the three texts:

Dream Deferred – Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up 
like a raisin in the sun? 

Or fester like a sore-- 
And then run? 

Does it stink like rotten meat? 

Or crust and sugar over-- 
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags 
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Martin Luther King, Jr.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today!

Barack Obama

This country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that's not what makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that's not what makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores.
Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend.
That promise is our greatest inheritance. It's a promise I make to my daughters when I tuck them in at night, and a promise that you make to yours - a promise that has led immigrants to cross oceans and pioneers to travel west; a promise that led workers to picket lines, and women to reach for the ballot.
And it is that promise that forty five years ago today, brought Americans from every corner of this land to stand together on a Mall in Washington, before Lincoln's Memorial, and hear a young preacher from Georgia speak of his dream.
The men and women who gathered there could've heard many things. They could've heard words of anger and discord. They could've been told to succumb to the fear and frustration of so many dreams deferred.
But what the people heard instead - people of every creed and color, from every walk of life - is that in America, our destiny is inextricably linked. That together, our dreams can be one.

Green March Day

Yesterday I had the entire day off. Because I essentially work every day, it was the first day I hadn't been in to work since school started. The reason?

Green March Day.

In 1975, an International Court of Justice ruled that the Spanish colony of Western Sahara had some, but only some, ties to the old sultan of Morocco. King Hassan II gathered 350,000 unarmed Moroccans to the Moroccan-Western Sahara border to march into Western Sahara territory. They bore Moroccan flags, banners calling for the "return" of the Moroccan Sahara, and photographs of the king and the Koran.

The territory is still disputed. The Polisario, an independence movement supported by Algeria, is still somewhat active, although there was a cease fire signed in 1991. Relations with Algeria and the Polisario are still quite tense.

Because of the recent history of the holiday, I was expecting some sort of big patriotic displays. Instead, it was a bit like the Bastille Day I spent in France last year: except for a few things on TV, there were no real visible signs of the holiday.

I asked my coworkers about the meaning of the day, and they responded that it was just a day for relaxation...

...which is exactly what I did.

A Tale of Two English Language Schools

Yesterday I had the opportunity to volunteer with the Franciscan mission Le Pere for the first time. One of the priests, who teaches English, was engaged with another activity and couldn't teach. So I substituted.

As I entered the classroom, the discrepancies between my employer and this mission became clear. There was no TV or any other audio-visual opportunities for teaching aids. And instead of a nice whiteboard, there was only an ancient green chalkboard that was not very amenable to crisp, clear writing. On a positive note, the class size was about the same as what I was used to, around 20 students.

We were studying the present continuous ("I am learning", "you are learning", "he is learning", etc.) and negation in the present tense. In my teacher training, I was instructed to avoid as much as possible the teacher-dominated mode. Language learning happens best when students have many opportunities to practice, with each other and with the teacher.

So after using the present continuous in a few different contexts and explaining how it was formed, I gave the students a question to ask their partners using the present continuous. All of the students just repeated the question very loudly. Then silence. I was a bit baffled. I assumed that they understood that I wanted them to actually converse with their neighbors. But the majority of their instruction up until then had been in such a teacher-dominated, rote-repetition sort of mode that they didn't even understand that I was asking them to try to communicate with each other.

I acted out what I wanted with one of the students and they appeared to get the idea. So I asked them to do the same thing again, this time with more success.

Beforehand, I was told that the class was an intermediate class, but they were more closer to the beginner level where I normally work. So I lowered my level a little bit.

Rather than frustration, this challenge inspired me. I started thinking about what I could do if given more time to work with them.

After the class, as I was walking to my real job, one of the students ran after me. "Excuse me. Teacher. Teacher."

"Yes."
"Is it good your center?"
"You mean the American Language Center?"
"Yes, that."
"I think it's quite good. But it's also quite expensive."
"That's ok. I will go."
I smiled, shook his hand, wished him luck, and headed back to the new city.

A Moroccan Halloween

Transferring a holiday from one culture to another can often be an easy task. When I lived in France a few years ago, I threw a Thanksgiving feast for over 40 people, complementing the turkey and mashed potatoes with French baguettes, wine, and cheese. However, it is not always that simple, as Daniel and I discovered last weekend.

We had some concerns beforehand and so we discussed them with our Moroccan friends. Specifically, the neighbors had previously complained about noise after 11 PM, so we decided to start at 6 PM and go until 11 PM, rather than having a typical American party which might start at 9 PM and go until the early hours of the morning. We were also concerned about who would come. We didn't know very many people, and so we asked our friends to bring some of their friends and coworkers. We were hoping to meet some people our age, particularly females (who are often almost impossible to meet).

Saturday afternoon before the party, Daniel and I bought some candy, snacks, and drinks at the supermarket, and then we cleaned the house. I headed off to the Franciscan church for All Saint's mass. On the way out, I explained to the concierge that there would be some people would be visiting because it was an American holiday. My anxious explanation was met with the typical Arabic greeting on a holiday, mabruk, which basically means "congratulations". I tried to explain that it's not really a holiday you say "mabruk", but I don't think I got my point across. It's hard to explain the idea of a commercialized holiday to someone who has never really experienced it.

The Franciscan Church is the only Christian church in town, and so I have been trying to go when I have the chance. I have met the priests, who work at a mission in the medina teaching languages, and the few older French people who attend on Saturday nights (on Sunday morning a large number of sub-Saharan African students at the University of Meknes attend). The oldest priest in this Franciscan province gave the homily. He has been in Morocco since before Vatican II and before the end of colonialism. In those days, they mainly provided hospital care, because the local health care was so poor. But now it is much better, so they have moved into education, particularly language education. As he spoke of the Beatitudes (one of the readings) and living them out to the end, they took on a new meaning for me.

When I arrived back home, there were about 12 people in our empty living area: five Americans, our five Moroccan friends, and two Moroccans I had not met before. The one Moroccan who had promised to bring a number of his fellow students was busy drinking, seemingly oblivious to the disparity between what had been promised and the reality. The American girls had made Halloween signs, so I spent my first few minutes at the party putting them up.

Later Daniel and I started poking fun at him for it, and he responded defensively, "You don't know how hard it is to get people to come to something like this in this country!! Girls can't come out to houses their families don't know. A lot of the students went home for the weekend."

Around nine, about half of the people (including all the girls) left the party. The few of us who remained ended up turning to serious topics: the lack of jobs in Morocco and what we Americans thought of Islam. They left sometime before midnight and Daniel and I went to bed.

I would say that it was the most boring party I have ever thrown, but on Tuesday a spark of excitement was inserted into the party after the fact. I was reading a local magazine when I stumbled across a photo of one of the Moroccans who had come to the party. It was a reproduction of the cover of this week's Paris Match (more or less the French equivalent of People) with Rachid Dati, the former French minister of justice who is of Moroccan descent, along with a rap group from Meknes. The rapper who was second from the right in the picture had stopped by our party for half an hour to hang out and pick up his American girlfriend.

So, out of the ruins of perhaps the worst party I have ever thrown, I can snatch the claim that a celebrity came. I can't say that about any of my previous parties. No one who ever appeared on a magazine cover came to my parties in the United States or in France.

Thoughts on the Koran, Part 1

One of my goals in living in Morocco is to be able to read Arabic, particularly Classical Arabic. On an academic but also on a very real personal level, I am interested in the relationship between Islam and Christianity and how both interact with secular modernity. I tend to think that a lot of contemporary problems would not exist if we better understood these issues.

Yesterday, along with a friend, I worked through the Arabic of al-Fatiha, the first sura of the Qur'an. So I thought that I would post my translation and a few thoughts on it.

Sura 1: al-Fatiha
1. In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful
2. Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds,
3. The Compassionate, the Merciful
4. King of the Day of Religion [the Day of Judgment]
5. It is you we worship and it is you we call on for help
6. Guide us in the correct way,
7. the way of religion, of those upon whom you have had favor and not of those upon whom your anger has come nor of those who have lost the way.

A few notes:
1) This sura uses a structure that puts the accusative (objective) form first in the fifth verse, thus putting God before those who worship him, even though those who worship him are the subject of the sentence. This mirrors grammatically the structure of the relationship between God and human: even in human action and agency, God is most important.

2) The use of the word 'Deen' ('Religion') is much broader than our current sociological use of the word 'religion' in English. It is comparable to Jonathan Edwards' 18th century use of "religion" (see his 30th Resolution, for instance). It is not just a set of beliefs and practices, but rather the true way, the way of God beyond any human creations). It involves the most important things we will have to come to account for at the Final Judgment. There is just a hint of the Islamic insistence on moving beyond idolatry (putting ultimate value on something other than God) to worship of the one true God beyond all those idols. We might compare this with Jesus' harsh rebukes of the Pharisees and their tendency to miss the forest of what God wants for the trees of tradition and rules. Jesus said the Prophets and the Law were summed up in two commandments: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and mind and Love your neighbor as yourself. The importance of that love and worship of God as more important than all rules and traditions (and what should be the source of any rules and traditions we do have) is shared between Islam and Christianity. As a result, avoiding idols is another similar aspect between the two faiths (although some Muslims might argue that the way Christians make images or talk of God is idolatrous). How this God beyond idols is known and worshiped are different, but the uppermost goal is central in both faiths.

3) This Sura clearly divides the world into those who seek to worship the one true God (the action of seeking it being described using the metaphor of the path or way) and those who merit God's anger and have lost the true way. This parallels Christianity as well. The difference, of course, lies in what that path is and, in the case of Christianity, who it goes through (the person of Jesus Christ). But once again, the similarities in purpose are very strong: seeking the one true God and his way.


Disclaimer:
I am in no way a Koranic scholar (nor a real Biblical scholar for that matter). These are just a few observations from my very limited understanding of the Arabic and my observations of both Christianity and Islam. I more than welcome corrections and constructive criticism.

An Indian Summer on Steroids

For the last month or two, the weather here seemed impervious to Earth's shifting axis. While most places I have lived shift into fall sometime in September or October, my new hometown of Meknes, Morocco weathered on as if Fall were a state of mind. Temperatures regularly approached 100 and I sweated every time I walked anywhere.

But then November came. On Sunday night, while sitting outside at a cafe with my friend, I found myself rubbing my arms to keep warm. That night, a thick fog, strangely out-of-place here in Morocco, settled over the city. And then during the night, I had to wrap myself tightly into my recently purchased wool blanket to escape the chill. The trend continued last night; it rained. And today while walking to lunch at noon, for the very first time in my Moroccan experience, a daytime breeze felt chilly.

The high temperature is still in the 80s, but it is declining fast. I have been told tales of miserable winters, damp and soggy in houses without heat. I keep telling myself it can't be that bad. After months of sunshine and sweat, it is hard to imagine this wonderful country giving me anything else.

Insha'allah, Part 3

After last week's couscous, Didouche and his family invited us to lunch again. In correct Moroccan fashion, I answered "Insha'allah" to the request.

Once again, God did will it. All of us American teachers met and headed over to Didouche's house.

Instead of couscous, this time we had rfissa. But even though the food changed slightly, the hospitality did not change a bit.

What are you supposed to say to that?

The end of the month has arrived, which, among other things, means that Daniel and I got paid.

We decided to celebrate by going out and buying stuff. Stuff like trash cans and large glasses (I question whether Moroccans adequately hydrate based on the average size of glasses here).

Daniel and I were wandering around a store browsing the inventory and asking questions of the boy who was working there in our broken Darija. After a while, some of the other customers picked up on the fact that we were foreigners (not too hard) and that we spoke a little Arabic (a little harder).

In typical friendly Moroccan fashion, a middle-aged man approached us with his wife and started jabbering to us in Arabic. I could understand bits and pieces: he knew an American who knew Arabic and Berber really well and he wondered where we were from. I responded and gave my standard response about how Arabic is hard, but I'm learning little by little (the literal expression shwiya b shwiya is a great set phrase).

I nodded as he continued to talk about his American friends and how they met. I got the gist of it, but I didn't want to interrupt his flow to ask about every third word that I didn't fully understand.

After a minute or so Daniel's comprehension maxed out. So he wandered off. I continued standing there out of respect, continuing the conversation. We gradually exhausted topics like my work and his friends, and so he decided that it would be a good time to talk about himself. I figured that was fair enough. We had already talked about the basics of my existence, so why not move on to the basics of his?

I asked if he was from Meknes and what he did. He said he was from Meknes and that he used to be in the Army.

Then without changing his expression or tone, he told me, "But that was a long time ago. I spent 26 years in an Algerian prison."

Since his expression hadn't changed, I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind conjured up as best as possible what two and a half decades in an Algerian prison would be like. Words failed me. I said, "Ohhhh..." and kind of grimaced, nodding my head in the most sympathetic expression I could muster. The only thing I could think to ask was when he got out. "2003", he said. Hmmm, 26 out of the last 32 years as a military prisoner. I grimaced and nodded again.

I didn't have any clue of what the right thing to say was. No conversation transition seemed appropriate. We just kind of stood there for a while. I nodded my head as he talked about it a bit more, once again emotionless, without a single display of pain or suffering or any sort of appeal for sympathy.

After his narrative drew to a close, I shifted into the long Moroccan goodbye. He said that maybe we would see each other around. I said, "Insha'allah" and I told him that it was a pleasure meeting him.

Then I paid and walked back home.

Under the Weather

On Tuesday I was a little under the weather.

I have no idea what caused my illness, but I do know that I shuttled back and forth between my bed and the bathroom well over 20 times during the course of the day.

Experiences like that raise the strangest dilemmas and most profound questions. Is it better just to stay in the bathroom and wait? Should I try to find something a toilet substitute to keep in my room to save me the ever more taxing journey? They also raise architectural questions: why aren't bathrooms fitted with temporary beds? Not being able to do much else for the entire day left me plenty of time to contemplate these oft-ignored issues.

I was scheduled to teach at 6:30, and around 3 or 4 I had thought that I was feeling well enough to go into work. So I didn't phone in sick, but when 5:30 came around, the frequency of my bathroom commuting increased again. So I called my boss to let her know. She said she couldn't find a substitute and so asked me to teach. I dressed and headed in to do my real business.

When I arrived, she pulled me off to the side and said that she had found someone, and she complimented me on my appearance: "You look absolutely awful." I thanked her for her kind words and when her husband offered to drive me back home, I readily consented. We stopped at the local grocer, and he bought me some potatoes and lemons. Then he told me to add a bit of the lemon to water and gave me instructions on how to make a good potato soup.

Two days later, I am happy to report that now I am very much above the weather and back in the swing of things.

What I Look At Every Evening

I have no complaints

Catching a Game

My roommate Daniel is a huge soccer fan. He played in high school and college, and since then he has found it very useful for developing relationships in his time abroad in Brazil, Vietnam and France.

My experience has been similar. When I learned how to talk soccer, door after door began to be opened. I can't claim to be nearly as talented as Daniel or to possess his knowledge of the sport, but the desire is there.

So, last night, I readily consented when Daniel asked if I wanted to go to a cafe to watch the Barcelona - Zaragoza match on TV. We set out intending to look far and wide to find a cafe showing the game, but we didn't have to go any farther than the cafe on the corner of our street. In Morocco, the biggest soccer game of the year is the Real Madrid - Barcelona game, and almost every adult male is a rabid supporter of one of the two clubs. So most cafes show all the regular season games on their big screens.

I found the coverage of the game quite interesting. The commentary here is generally in Fusha, the modern standard form of Arabic. So if a Moroccan hasn't completed his education (as is the case with many Moroccans), he can't understand follow it as we might John Madden and Pat Summerall discussing American football.

What was even stranger was the halftime show. The main commentator spoke in Fusha, but the guest expert was actually Spanish. He responded to the questions in Spanish and his responses were dubbed over in Fusha. I have no idea if he was reading a translation of the questions or if he spoke Arabic or what. But it gave the halftime discussion a really strange dynamic, like a much more boring version of an old Jackie Chan movie.

Barcelona was up 4-1 late in the game when one of the Moroccans near us leaned over and struck up a conversation in English. His English was not perfect, but pretty good. We tried to say a few things in Arabic and French, but mostly we talked in English. The last twenty minutes of the game or so, we talked about soccer and Meknes and traveling (he claims that he is the only Moroccan ever crazy enough to travel to Algeria for a vacation; not only is it a dangerous place, it also has very poor relations with Morocco). He also mentioned a soccer league that he plays in around town; Daniel sounded very interested. As we left the cafe after the game (Barcelona won 6-1), we discovered that he lives in the building right next to us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he said that if we needed absolutely anything we should just let him know.

In the next few weeks, I think Daniel and I will be taking him up on his offer and asking more about that soccer league.

Insha'allah, Part 2

I did indeed eat couscous with the handyman's family on Friday afternoon.

The two American girls and I waited around outside work for a while after our agreed upon meeting time, but Didouche, the handyman, finally arrived and we proceeded to walk to his house. First, he asked about my roommate Daniel, and I had to explain that Daniel had not finished preparing for his six hours worth of class on Friday evenings, so he wouldn't be coming.

Didouche is a Berber from the Sahara. Like many of his countrymen, he moved up north to one of the more populous cities. He's done quite well for himself all things considered. He married a woman from the area around Meknes, and they have three beautiful children. Based on the incessant friendly greetings he engaged in during our walk back to his house, I would conclude that he's well-known and well-respected in the community. I asked him how long he has been living in Meknes, and he told me, "Fifteen years, all in the same house."

We passed from Hamriya, where I work and live and where the new town founded in the French colonial period is centered, into a newer and more crowded residential area. The area might be considered subpar to most Westerners, but it has electricity, running water and paved roads.

After wandering through a maze of streets, we approached Didouche's house. He pointed it out, walking in and heading up the stairs. Following, we passed the nauseatingly stinky shared bathroom on the ground floor and ascended two cramped flights of stairs to his family's place. On the way up, we observed the other families' houses as the doors on each floor were open for the entire world to see, displaying well-made beds and tidy kitchens in a very cramped space.

Upon entering Didouche's floor, his wife greeted us in English and shook hands with us. The children approached us one by one, greeted us in Darija, and kissed us on the cheeks. To the right was a kitchen and a bedroom just barely visible on the other side and to the left was a tiny family room and another barely visible bedroom. Later Didouche explained that the girls sleep in that bedroom and the boys sleep on the couches in the main room.

The two couches were of the Moroccan style, each only five or six feet total. The other two sides of the room were taken up by the TV stand and by the walkway to the bedroom. So the family room was close to eight feet by eight feet.

We sat down and watched some TV on a nice plasma screen TV (one of the only luxuries I observed in the house) and occasionally tried to say nice things in Darija. Didouche was constantly teaching us new words and trying to joke around with us.

His wife brought out one giant bowl of couscous and set it on the table. Like my previous experiences eating couscous with Moroccans, we each received a spoon and began to dig in (quite literally), starting on the edges where it wasn't quite as hot. Didouche's wife rolled couscous balls and gave one to each of us in turn--a tradition I'm still not quite sure I understand.

The couscous is topped by carrots, pickles, chickpeas, and meat. The meat is usually hidden under the vegetables and so when it starts to appear after a few minutes of eating, the family will begin to toss the best morsels over to the side of the bowl of the guests. If you stop eating, the family will egg you on to continue. If you truly can't eat anymore, it is polite to say a few set phrases in Arabic such as "Praise be to God" or "May God replenish you". I lasted longer than the girls did, but eventually I had to throw my hands up in surrender to my small stomach and say the same.

After couscous, Didouche's wife brought out some Moroccan tea as the children cleaned up the table. Surprisingly, the boys helped out in the task. In most Moroccan families, the girls do all of the chores. We drank the tea and munched on some almonds, still attempting to joke around with our feeble Darija. Asking what things are called and trying to say them can really help carry a conversation when neither of you speak the other's language well enough to really discuss much of substance.

As we left the cramped confines of Didouche's house to walk back to work in the hot midday sun, they asked us if we would like to come back next Friday. After a meal like that, there's no way I could say no.

So in Arabic I said that I would love to, Insha'allah.