And I'm happier than a clam.
I'll try to post a "debriefing" on Morocco sometime. I'm busy seeing people and spending time with the loved ones, currently.
For those of you who took the time to read everything I wrote in Morocco---- geeeezzz. Didn't you have anything better to do with your time? Thanks for suffering through all of it: the intestinal difficulties, the tears, the sappy silly stories about the boyfriend. Sorry you had to read a lot of what I wrote. I didn't know I had many readers... I just posted whatever I wanted to say. I'm sorry if I offended or bored, but it was my place to say things, good, bad, or infantile.
I hope everyone had a good Christmas! And an Eid al-Kebir Moubarak, which was December 20 for all my friends in Morocco.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Ready to come home
December 9
2:30pm
It’s difficult being here in
I want to practice piano. I want to go and spend hours at the gym, lifting and lifting and running and running until all my muscles give out in sweet blissful exhaustion. Then I’d go home and curl up and read a book, confident in the knowledge that I had done some good for my body and now could justify doing something good for my mind and intellect. I can’t wait to put on my dance shoes and beat my body into submission, forcing it to jump high and stretch far and point with unbeatable accuracy. I’m afraid of what my dancing will be when I get home. I might not watch myself for weeks — watching myself dance has always put a halt to any aspirations I have to actually be good again. Every day I’ll run for miles, stretch and practice piano, then trudge down the steps to the basement or drive across town to one of my students’ studios to dance. I need to dance. I’m itching to dance. I want to get the hell out of
At this moment, though, I am actively trying to convince myself of the importance of these last few days here. I could finish The Poisonwood Bible, although I probably won’t, because it makes me depressed and want to leave here even more. I can go to the internet café and research Patrice Lumumba and
As I am ethically obligated to do a great deal many things when I get home. To say a great many things to a great number of uninterested people. That there exists a people here in
And I also should comment on gender relations in this country, on the difficulty of being a young, foreign and painfully blonde woman. This is what I’m most happy to leave — the oppressive and constant attention I get just for looking the way I do. I can’t wait to get home and blend into the background of my generally monochromatic life.
It’s appropriate now to place a caveat at the end of this piece, because any American reading this who has not experienced
I love
I’m getting off my bum and heading to
Monday, December 3, 2007
December 2
6:30pm
We are going crazy.
I am sitting in the entryway/bathroom of our hotel room, smelling the lovely odorous toilet. I can’t think, I can’t write anything intelligent, I don’t know what to do with my project.
I am distracted by Carly, who is sitting on her bed conducting “science experiments”: cupping her hands together and clapping spastically in order to determine “if my hands are louder when I cup them and clap the air.”
I laughed.
We’re stressed, we’re pissed off, we have inactive academic directors, laissez-faire (me) and micro-managing project advisors (Carly), our projects are entirely different from what we’d originally intended, my questionnaire subjects go on strike at their universities so I can’t interview them, Carly has hours of interviews to transcribe and edit, we both have to figure out how to structure our work, we want to go home right now but we don’t really want to leave Morocco, we want our projects to be over, we want to see our families...
and we’re conducting science experiments and listening to country music to quiet the demons in our heads.
In other news, I’m a bad-ass. I shoved a guy last night. He was harassing me and wouldn’t stop following me after I’d asked him repeatedly to go away, so I let go of Carly’s hand, and shoved him. He almost fell backward into a fountain as I yelled at him, “No! Go away,” in the fiercest voice I could. He was stunned and it took him five seconds to recover and start calling me a whole slew of derogatory terms in French. I didn’t care. He stopped following me, and that’s all I wanted.
I’m loaded up on caffeine (three café au laits), and I’m currently nursing a Coca-Cola Light. I plan on being awake, sitting near our damn toilet that won’t stop running, until I get somewhere with this ridiculous project.
I hope Carly keeps experimenting. It’s funny.
Happy birthday, Mommy.
We are going crazy.
I am sitting in the entryway/bathroom of our hotel room, smelling the lovely odorous toilet. I can’t think, I can’t write anything intelligent, I don’t know what to do with my project.
I am distracted by Carly, who is sitting on her bed conducting “science experiments”: cupping her hands together and clapping spastically in order to determine “if my hands are louder when I cup them and clap the air.”
I laughed.
We’re stressed, we’re pissed off, we have inactive academic directors, laissez-faire (me) and micro-managing project advisors (Carly), our projects are entirely different from what we’d originally intended, my questionnaire subjects go on strike at their universities so I can’t interview them, Carly has hours of interviews to transcribe and edit, we both have to figure out how to structure our work, we want to go home right now but we don’t really want to leave Morocco, we want our projects to be over, we want to see our families...
and we’re conducting science experiments and listening to country music to quiet the demons in our heads.
In other news, I’m a bad-ass. I shoved a guy last night. He was harassing me and wouldn’t stop following me after I’d asked him repeatedly to go away, so I let go of Carly’s hand, and shoved him. He almost fell backward into a fountain as I yelled at him, “No! Go away,” in the fiercest voice I could. He was stunned and it took him five seconds to recover and start calling me a whole slew of derogatory terms in French. I didn’t care. He stopped following me, and that’s all I wanted.
I’m loaded up on caffeine (three café au laits), and I’m currently nursing a Coca-Cola Light. I plan on being awake, sitting near our damn toilet that won’t stop running, until I get somewhere with this ridiculous project.
I hope Carly keeps experimenting. It’s funny.
Happy birthday, Mommy.
“I thought if I cupped my hands together and forced the air out,
it would sound like a sonic boom.”
it would sound like a sonic boom.”
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Rachid
This may or may not make it into my ISP.
I'll have to do some academic-type analyzation of it, if it is to be part of my project.
Whether or not it makes it in, it's kind of funny all the same.
---------------------------------------
“Guess who just passed us without saying hello?” Carly asked in a disgusted tone of voice used only when speaking about Rachid.
After meeting him, Carly and I saw him and his various Italian-speaking friends a few more times. He knew that Carly spoke Italian, so whenever he wanted to meet up with me, he’d be sure to bring an Italian-speaker along. I wouldn’t go anywhere without Carly, and he wanted to see me, so there would always be another awkward Moroccan in tow. We made a strange quartet. Carly and I were never really interested in the guys, and Rachid always made his pre- and mis-conceptions of American women and us in general painfully clear. We would always have to “go Skype our families” or “do homework.” “Can we have coffee later?” we’d smile. Each and every time we avoided a coffee date, we thought that Rachid would get sick of our annoying and mischievous ways, but he never seemed to.
Once, we saw him in the medina with another white foreign girl, and he didn’t even have the courtesy to say hello. After he had walked past us, ignoring our existences, I text messaged him. “Better luck this time, insha’Allah.” It was a bitchy thing to say, but sometimes acting like a fifteen year old feels good.
speaking of the devil.
“Hi,” Rachid said. “Oh, hi,” I forced a smile. He was both sheepish and pissed — a combination I couldn’t pull off if I tried —, acting like we hadn’t wanted to say hello. “You didn’t have to walk by without saying hello.” “What? Us not say hello? You were passing us by.” Carly brought up the time in the medina when he had ignored us while he was with another girl. He denied all accusations.
Seeing an opportunity to use him as a research subject, I smiled coquettishly and apologized for the mean text message I had sent. While he said, “No, I liked it. It was cynical,” he kept referring to it and treating me like I was just-like-all-the-other-obnoxious-two-faced-American-girls. At least he got that right. I was being a two-faced American girl, but I found no ethical problem in this. He had been “shady” ever since we had met him, making fun of how we talked, our American-ness (which we tried to shed in no small way while attempting to assimilate into Morocco), and the 8:00pm curfews which our host families had imposed and to which we held strongly. We weren’t going to break our families’ rules just to have coffee with some mean, macho Moroccan. Sorry, Rachid. It wasn’t gonna happen.
He remained cynical the entire time he was with us. If he was still mad at me, why would he want to follow us to a café? “We’re going to this café to do homework,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me you’re doing homework,” he spat. “No, really,” Carly said. “We brought our computers so we could steal the wireless and do research on the internet.” He complained about never having coffee with me. “You can come, if you want,” I said, trying to smile against near impossible odds. “We are going to be working, but you’re welcome to come.”
The things we’ll do to obtain information for our ISP’s.
I tried to make small talk with him about his family, his life, his trip to the south. I asked him about his mother and brothers, to which he responded,
“What. First you send me a nasty text message and now you’re asking about my family?”
“I’m trying to be friendly,” I said. “If you don’t want to talk, I’ll do my work.”
“No, it’s fine,” he wasn’t even trying to be convincing. “It’s fine.”
He asked about my research, and I delighted in making him uncomfortable when I used the word “sex”. “Sex” is the same in French and English, so the people working and sitting in the café knew what we were talking about. Didn’t bother me to use the word, but his moody went from sour to bitter.
I told him I was originally interviewing young women, but decided that I needed young men’s opinions as well. “Well, you can ask me,” he said. “Are you sure?” I smiled. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Yes, I thought. I had my “in”. All I needed was his permission.
I showed him my questionnaire, and when he read the question, “Do you flirt with women in the street? Do you try to get their attention?”, I told him about how offensive we American women found street harassment.
“Why do you think Moroccan men do that?” I asked, in the most non-accusatory voice I could muster. “I mean, some of it is fine, but then there are the times when they grab us by the arm or step right in front of us, and that’s really offensive.”
“They do it because they want to pick girls up. Moroccan women like it,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I could hear Carly holding down laughter. She kind of snorted. I kept my eyes locked on him, and somehow managed not to laugh myself.
“Really? They like it?” I asked.
“Yeah. They don’t want to get picked up in bars, so they like to get picked up in the street. They’re just playing hard to get.”
In my head, I both chuckled and struggled to hold down the vomit. Ewwww, I didn’t like him.
The “interview”, if one could call it that, ended with him again questioning my new-found friendly feelings towards him. (At least he’s smart in that respect). I thanked him for spending time with us, and he glared at me while he said, “Everyone knew what we were talking about.” “Oh well,” I smiled back.
He went to the waiter and paid for his coffee (the waiter looked incredulous when Rachid didn’t pay for kulshee — all — of the coffees), and high-tailed it out of there.
I don’t think I’ll see him again. But at least now I know why some Moroccan men won’t ever stop harassing women in the streets:
“The women like it.”
Right.
I'll have to do some academic-type analyzation of it, if it is to be part of my project.
Whether or not it makes it in, it's kind of funny all the same.
---------------------------------------
“Guess who just passed us without saying hello?” Carly asked in a disgusted tone of voice used only when speaking about Rachid.
* * *
I met Rachid my second week in Rabat. He complimented me on the djellaba I was wearing, which wasn’t a djellaba at all, only a dress. He tried to woo me with his English and his charm; I don’t know why I gave him the time of day. I guess I was just in a good mood that night, and decided that I wouldn’t ignore this street harasser. Now I kind of wish I had.After meeting him, Carly and I saw him and his various Italian-speaking friends a few more times. He knew that Carly spoke Italian, so whenever he wanted to meet up with me, he’d be sure to bring an Italian-speaker along. I wouldn’t go anywhere without Carly, and he wanted to see me, so there would always be another awkward Moroccan in tow. We made a strange quartet. Carly and I were never really interested in the guys, and Rachid always made his pre- and mis-conceptions of American women and us in general painfully clear. We would always have to “go Skype our families” or “do homework.” “Can we have coffee later?” we’d smile. Each and every time we avoided a coffee date, we thought that Rachid would get sick of our annoying and mischievous ways, but he never seemed to.
Once, we saw him in the medina with another white foreign girl, and he didn’t even have the courtesy to say hello. After he had walked past us, ignoring our existences, I text messaged him. “Better luck this time, insha’Allah.” It was a bitchy thing to say, but sometimes acting like a fifteen year old feels good.
* * *
Carly whispered to me, “Guess that text message worked.” I laughed under my breath, and then, who should walk up behind us, but...speaking of the devil.
“Hi,” Rachid said. “Oh, hi,” I forced a smile. He was both sheepish and pissed — a combination I couldn’t pull off if I tried —, acting like we hadn’t wanted to say hello. “You didn’t have to walk by without saying hello.” “What? Us not say hello? You were passing us by.” Carly brought up the time in the medina when he had ignored us while he was with another girl. He denied all accusations.
Seeing an opportunity to use him as a research subject, I smiled coquettishly and apologized for the mean text message I had sent. While he said, “No, I liked it. It was cynical,” he kept referring to it and treating me like I was just-like-all-the-other-obnoxious-two-faced-American-girls. At least he got that right. I was being a two-faced American girl, but I found no ethical problem in this. He had been “shady” ever since we had met him, making fun of how we talked, our American-ness (which we tried to shed in no small way while attempting to assimilate into Morocco), and the 8:00pm curfews which our host families had imposed and to which we held strongly. We weren’t going to break our families’ rules just to have coffee with some mean, macho Moroccan. Sorry, Rachid. It wasn’t gonna happen.
He remained cynical the entire time he was with us. If he was still mad at me, why would he want to follow us to a café? “We’re going to this café to do homework,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me you’re doing homework,” he spat. “No, really,” Carly said. “We brought our computers so we could steal the wireless and do research on the internet.” He complained about never having coffee with me. “You can come, if you want,” I said, trying to smile against near impossible odds. “We are going to be working, but you’re welcome to come.”
The things we’ll do to obtain information for our ISP’s.
I tried to make small talk with him about his family, his life, his trip to the south. I asked him about his mother and brothers, to which he responded,
“What. First you send me a nasty text message and now you’re asking about my family?”
“I’m trying to be friendly,” I said. “If you don’t want to talk, I’ll do my work.”
“No, it’s fine,” he wasn’t even trying to be convincing. “It’s fine.”
He asked about my research, and I delighted in making him uncomfortable when I used the word “sex”. “Sex” is the same in French and English, so the people working and sitting in the café knew what we were talking about. Didn’t bother me to use the word, but his moody went from sour to bitter.
I told him I was originally interviewing young women, but decided that I needed young men’s opinions as well. “Well, you can ask me,” he said. “Are you sure?” I smiled. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Yes, I thought. I had my “in”. All I needed was his permission.
I showed him my questionnaire, and when he read the question, “Do you flirt with women in the street? Do you try to get their attention?”, I told him about how offensive we American women found street harassment.
“Why do you think Moroccan men do that?” I asked, in the most non-accusatory voice I could muster. “I mean, some of it is fine, but then there are the times when they grab us by the arm or step right in front of us, and that’s really offensive.”
“They do it because they want to pick girls up. Moroccan women like it,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I could hear Carly holding down laughter. She kind of snorted. I kept my eyes locked on him, and somehow managed not to laugh myself.
“Really? They like it?” I asked.
“Yeah. They don’t want to get picked up in bars, so they like to get picked up in the street. They’re just playing hard to get.”
In my head, I both chuckled and struggled to hold down the vomit. Ewwww, I didn’t like him.
The “interview”, if one could call it that, ended with him again questioning my new-found friendly feelings towards him. (At least he’s smart in that respect). I thanked him for spending time with us, and he glared at me while he said, “Everyone knew what we were talking about.” “Oh well,” I smiled back.
He went to the waiter and paid for his coffee (the waiter looked incredulous when Rachid didn’t pay for kulshee — all — of the coffees), and high-tailed it out of there.
I don’t think I’ll see him again. But at least now I know why some Moroccan men won’t ever stop harassing women in the streets:
“The women like it.”
Right.
November 29
November 29. 3:30pm
I rang the doorbell of the CCCL, and was let in by the nice lady at the front desk. I said “Salaam,” and made my way up the staircase.
Just as I’d started up the very first flight, Badrdine, my “bro”, bounded down the second flight.
“Bro I’m so glad to see you ”
“My sis,” he said as he extended his right arm to hug me. “How are you?”
“Kulshee mezyaan (everything is good),” I responded.
“How is ISP?”
“It’s great.”
“You’re making progress.”
“Yes.”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
‘You’re making progress.’ I wish I knew. I guess I’m making progress on my ISP, but as I write more and the days remaining in this research period decrease, I feel like I’m falling behind.
It’s almost harder being in Morocco now than it has ever been. I had awful boughts of “let me leave now ” all throughout September and October, but through them, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere for a while. I just learned to become part of Morocco.
Now, I am finally happy living here. I passed my friends Abdullah and Yassine while walking to the CCCL, and I was so glad to see them. Almost immediately after I entered the medina, I ran into Fati. I love seeing my Moroccan friends, because it makes me feel like I really do live here. Like I could belong in Morocco. I’m a regular at several cafes. I don’t even have to order in one of them; the waiter just brings me a café au lait.
I know my way around Rabat. I know the best grocery stores; I know where to buy expensive and cheap clothes. I know where to get the least expensive meal, the best coffee, the most amazing gelato. Hilton Park is my place to run, to walk, to exercise, to think.
I’ve run countless miles in Rabat. It’s home.
And I’m leaving my new home in 16 days. I miss Kentucky, but I’m already dreading the day when I leave and won’t see Badr, Nawal, Nabil, Rachid, Doha, Fati, Brahim, Carly, Zainab, Ikbal, and Asmaa... if not for ever, at least for a long time. Even when I return to Morocco in May, things won’t be as they are now. I might be setting myself up for a huge disappointment in May. I might expect too much out of my visit. I’ll never be able to recreate my SIT experience.
I’m determined to enjoy my last two weeks in Morocco. I just have to push the sadness of leaving Morocco out of my head and enjoy it while I’m here. Now.
“I’m alive,” he said to the boy, as they ate a bunch of dates one night, with no fires and no moon. “When I’m eating, that’s all I think about. If I’m on the march, I just concentrate on marching. If I have to fight, it will be just as good a day to die as any other.
“Because I don’t live in either my past or my future. I’m interested only in the present. If you can concentrate always on the present, you’ll be a happy man. You’ll see that there is life in the desert, that there are stars in the heavens, and that tribesmen fight because they are part of the human race. Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we’re living right now.”
The Alchemist, 85. Paolo Coelho
I rang the doorbell of the CCCL, and was let in by the nice lady at the front desk. I said “Salaam,” and made my way up the staircase.
Just as I’d started up the very first flight, Badrdine, my “bro”, bounded down the second flight.
“Bro I’m so glad to see you ”
“My sis,” he said as he extended his right arm to hug me. “How are you?”
“Kulshee mezyaan (everything is good),” I responded.
“How is ISP?”
“It’s great.”
“You’re making progress.”
“Yes.”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
‘You’re making progress.’ I wish I knew. I guess I’m making progress on my ISP, but as I write more and the days remaining in this research period decrease, I feel like I’m falling behind.
It’s almost harder being in Morocco now than it has ever been. I had awful boughts of “let me leave now ” all throughout September and October, but through them, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere for a while. I just learned to become part of Morocco.
Now, I am finally happy living here. I passed my friends Abdullah and Yassine while walking to the CCCL, and I was so glad to see them. Almost immediately after I entered the medina, I ran into Fati. I love seeing my Moroccan friends, because it makes me feel like I really do live here. Like I could belong in Morocco. I’m a regular at several cafes. I don’t even have to order in one of them; the waiter just brings me a café au lait.
I know my way around Rabat. I know the best grocery stores; I know where to buy expensive and cheap clothes. I know where to get the least expensive meal, the best coffee, the most amazing gelato. Hilton Park is my place to run, to walk, to exercise, to think.
I’ve run countless miles in Rabat. It’s home.
And I’m leaving my new home in 16 days. I miss Kentucky, but I’m already dreading the day when I leave and won’t see Badr, Nawal, Nabil, Rachid, Doha, Fati, Brahim, Carly, Zainab, Ikbal, and Asmaa... if not for ever, at least for a long time. Even when I return to Morocco in May, things won’t be as they are now. I might be setting myself up for a huge disappointment in May. I might expect too much out of my visit. I’ll never be able to recreate my SIT experience.
I’m determined to enjoy my last two weeks in Morocco. I just have to push the sadness of leaving Morocco out of my head and enjoy it while I’m here. Now.
“I’m alive,” he said to the boy, as they ate a bunch of dates one night, with no fires and no moon. “When I’m eating, that’s all I think about. If I’m on the march, I just concentrate on marching. If I have to fight, it will be just as good a day to die as any other.
“Because I don’t live in either my past or my future. I’m interested only in the present. If you can concentrate always on the present, you’ll be a happy man. You’ll see that there is life in the desert, that there are stars in the heavens, and that tribesmen fight because they are part of the human race. Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we’re living right now.”
The Alchemist, 85. Paolo Coelho
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
stuck in grey Rabat
I was supposed to go to University Ibn Tofail in Kenitra today, but my advisor text-messaged me to say the students were on strike. She didn't think there would be anyone in her class for me to interview.
So, I have lovely men and women's questionnaires, uncompleted and lonely in my hotel room. I'm back at my new favorite cafe stealing wireless and drinking 'atei b naanaa', mint tea.
Hopefully I'll get some answers from students someday soon.
I like those Kenitra students. That's gutsy--- to strike during exam week.
So, I have lovely men and women's questionnaires, uncompleted and lonely in my hotel room. I'm back at my new favorite cafe stealing wireless and drinking 'atei b naanaa', mint tea.
Hopefully I'll get some answers from students someday soon.
I like those Kenitra students. That's gutsy--- to strike during exam week.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
a section of my ISP
Women like to talk. We like to talk about ourselves, our lives, our problems; about our friends, their lives, and their problems. We like to tell stories — the juicier, the better, and the best when they are about someone else.
“I have a friend who is having sex with her boyfriend, but hasn’t lost her virginity.” “I know someone who is a virgin, but is pregnant ” “No one would tell you that they’re not a virgin, but most Moroccan girls are having sex.”
These are the things I hear. They are the sweet, innocent kind of gossip that add layers to my understanding of how things work here in Morocco. I know secrets, but I don’t know names or faces, so I can’t hurt anyone. This gossip is about as harmless as it comes.
But then there are the stories that are harder to swallow. The stories about women brutalized and beaten, and Moroccan women looking on because they both think it’s the victim’s fault and know that the police won’t do anything anyway.
A close friend told me this story. Good or bad, women will tell each other’s stories. It is what we do.
‘An SIT friend of mine lived with a Moroccan family near the large cemetery by Rabat’s beach. One night she and her older host sisters heard a woman screaming, and ran up to their roof to see what was happening. There was a group of eight to twelve Moroccan men in a group off in the cemetery. From what could be seen from the roof, they were raping a woman, who presumably lay screaming on the ground, hidden by the gang of men. The SIT girl asked her sisters, “Isn’t there anything we can do? Shouldn’t we call the police?” “The police won’t do anything,” the sisters replied. “Besides, it’s her fault for being out past 9:00 at night.”’
Her fault.
Not back at home.
Our fault.
Because what can we foreigners possibly do about it?
Their fault.
Demons.
“I have a friend who is having sex with her boyfriend, but hasn’t lost her virginity.” “I know someone who is a virgin, but is pregnant ” “No one would tell you that they’re not a virgin, but most Moroccan girls are having sex.”
These are the things I hear. They are the sweet, innocent kind of gossip that add layers to my understanding of how things work here in Morocco. I know secrets, but I don’t know names or faces, so I can’t hurt anyone. This gossip is about as harmless as it comes.
But then there are the stories that are harder to swallow. The stories about women brutalized and beaten, and Moroccan women looking on because they both think it’s the victim’s fault and know that the police won’t do anything anyway.
A close friend told me this story. Good or bad, women will tell each other’s stories. It is what we do.
‘An SIT friend of mine lived with a Moroccan family near the large cemetery by Rabat’s beach. One night she and her older host sisters heard a woman screaming, and ran up to their roof to see what was happening. There was a group of eight to twelve Moroccan men in a group off in the cemetery. From what could be seen from the roof, they were raping a woman, who presumably lay screaming on the ground, hidden by the gang of men. The SIT girl asked her sisters, “Isn’t there anything we can do? Shouldn’t we call the police?” “The police won’t do anything,” the sisters replied. “Besides, it’s her fault for being out past 9:00 at night.”’
Her fault.
Not back at home.
Our fault.
Because what can we foreigners possibly do about it?
Their fault.
Demons.
Days of discovery...
[a picture from my first protest. On Sunday afternoon, a crowd of about three hundred gathered in front of the parliament building to protest the government's refusal to acknowledge the Amazigh people and their culture. The Amazigh people are the native people of Morocco, and their history has been erased, and their language isn't acknowledged in the constitution of Morocco. History begins in school textbooks with the Arabs conquering North Africa and setting up their empire. Amazigh (Berber) history is not taught, and the language is only marginally taught, and poorly, at that. So, I joined Carly, my roommate and dear friend, and helped her gather information and interview people at the rally. She's researching Amazigh identity politics. It was a great day. I want to protest more. ha.]
What a cliche title for an entry. It sounds dumb.
Oh well.
Morocco continues to be wonderful. I'm sitting in a nice cafe in central Rabat right now, stealing wireless from who knows where. I love when people don't "lock" their wireless, and I can use it. God bless them.
"Research" is going well, if you can call it research. Really researching the sex education of young women would take months, if not a year, so now I'm writing a paper of short essays and vignettes about my observations of Morocco. So far so good. I'm enjoying writing; I write when I have something to say, and usually I turn out well-worded and thought provoking pieces.
My paper won't be "academic" in its flavor (not your normal research paper), and I'm glad about this. When else will I have the opportunity to write 15-80 pages of whatever I want, in whatever form I choose? So, I'm just having fun with it. I'm telling stories, writing prosey poetry, analyzing popular opinion in Morocco, looking at the difference between Morocco's Islamic culture and America's culture which is only marginally influenced by Christianity.... and on and on. I'm taking photographs, waking up at four in the morning to watch street fights over prostitutes, attending protests, and drinking lots of coffee. And running. I like to run, now.
I don't know where I'll be tomorrow, who I will interview, who will return a questionnaire, what other thoughts I'll have about this country and it's "hush hush" world of sex, virginity, and illegal consumption of alcohol.
ISP is fun. And it's spoiling me. I have no idea how to be a college student anymore.
Friday, November 23, 2007
My Moroccan Thanksgiving
(warning... I don't use any bad words in this entry, but at the end I do give some information I've uncovered in my research. I'm researching sex education, so moms, don't let your young girls read this until you approve it...)My Thanksgiving Day began with moodiness, and ended in one of the happiest moods I've been in here in Morocco. I ate an American Thanksgiving meal in the home of Jack Wald and his wife Annie, Bostonians who have lived in Rabat for 8 years. I met their friends and new acquaintances -- all ex-pat Americans -- and I felt at home.
They were welcoming. They were warm. Their home looked like America.
After turkey and pumpkin pie, I got to Skype call my family in Kentucky and see all of their lovely faces. It was great to see everyone on Thanksgiving day. And it was strangely comforting to see the kitchen at Mom's. I don't know why.
I loved being "carried" around by my mom and dad to see the kitchen, the turkey, the family and friends.
Thank you for that, family.
The picture proves how happy I was, come the end of the day. It was wonderful.
It's raining in Rabat today--- a cold, unrelenting downpour. Carly and I will search for soup and hot chocolate for dinner... hopefully somewhere near our hotel. I might need to buy some winter clothes, because each day gets colder and colder.
Research drags on. I had a wonderful interview with a young woman from Mohammad V University the other day, and it was the saving grace of my research. I have somewhere to go now, something to build on.
An interesting tidbit of information that I hope to learn more about:
1. According to Moroccan perceptions, if you use tampons, you'll lose your virginity.
2. If you have sex, you could still be a virgin.
I cock my head to the side and ask, shnu? (What? in Moroccan Arabic).
hopefully this weekend I will discover how this incoherency works....
Insha'allah.
Early on Thanksgiving Day
bad words.... sorry!
“It’s November 22...
Can we go home now?”
“I fucking hate myself. Rather, I fucking hate that I’m never happy where I am.”
--- setting the mood for Thanksgiving day.
Quotes from my friends.
I woke up this morning at 8:30 and ate breakfast. I saved my UHT milk for today and enjoyed some rather tasteless corn flakes with milk. You wouldn’t recognize this as out of the ordinary, but pause for a second to remember that Moroccans don’t know what cereal is, and if they do, they don’t put milk on it. I haven’t had cereal and milk since August. This morning, breakfast was as exciting as it was unpalatable. You don’t complain about the flavorlessness of cereal when you haven’t had it for three months.
After breakfast, I broke. Feeling the full pressure of missing Thanksgiving in Kentucky weigh upon my soul, I gave in. I turned my computer on and started washing the breakfast dishes with pink hand soap. When the computer had loaded all its applications, which takes something like ten minutes now, I anxiously clicked through the menus of Windows Media Player and located my prize: Celtic Women’s A Christmas Celebration. It’s not that their Christmas album is better than others... quite the contrary. Their sweet soprano voices can grate on the ears after a while, even though their sound is probably the closest we’ll ever hear to the heavenly host that visited Matthew’s shepherds. (Or was it Luke? I just ran around my hotel room chanting “Where’s my Bible? Where’s my Bible? Where’s my Bible?”, much to my roommate’s annoyance. “Why do you need your Bible?” “I can’t remember where the shepherds are ” I cried. “They’re either in Matthew or Luke, but not both... and I can’t remember ” If any of you reading this know the answer, please enlighten me).
I melancholily (wow that is a word) returned to my task of dish washing and hotel-room arranging, listening to O Holy Night and The Little Drummer Boy and dreaming about the turkey and stuffing I’m missing.
I have no complaints (well, at least not big ones) against Morocco. I’m even entertaining the idea of returning here after graduation to teach English for a year. However, I’d be lying to myself and everyone who reads my blog, though, if I didn’t admit that it’s difficult here sometimes. It’s hard to miss out on beloved annual traditions. This morning I was craving the sight of a Santa Claus or a holiday wreath They’re out there in America now, I know.
My friend Rebecca walked into the room about fifteen minutes ago and saw me crouching over my computer, clicking through other music selections. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked. “Listening to Christmas music...”. She laughed. “It’s November ” she said. I stood up. “Yes, and in America there are Santa Clauses and holiday lights and they’re going to light the Christmas tree in my hometown,” I only half-faked the whimpering. She laughed as she walked back to her own room.
So, stateside readers, whenever you are pissed off by the oppression of the American Christmas, remember that you might miss it dearly if you didn’t have it. I too hate that Fayette Mall is transformed into a reindeer’s playground the day after Halloween, but today I also wish I could see some red and green garland— that I could smell Christmas cookies baking.
Enough of missing America. There are so many things for which I’m thankful here in Morocco. First, I love that my friends and I have transformed this hotel in central Rabat into a regular dormitory. This morning I walked to TaReva and Miranda’s room to retrieve my detergent, and after TaReva answered the door, entered a hotel room turned comfortable dorm room, with half of the room looking like a kitchen/dining room, the other half looking like a bedroom and bathroom. They have a beautiful view of the café below us, and of the grassy boulevard/park in front of the Parliament building. TaReva and I talked about our evening plans for Thanksgiving (we actually get to go to the home of Rabat’s lone Protestant pastor for turkey ), and as I walked back down the hall and stairs to my room, I smiled and was thankful for all of my American friends stuck with me in Morocco. It’s much better to have friends with whom to laugh and commiserate about missing Thanksgiving than it would be if I were traveling and researching by myself. So, I’m thankful for friends and for small pieces of American-ness wedged between constant and intense experiences of Morocco.
And now I’m going out with Carly and Rebecca to our favorite pricey French restaurant where I will enjoy a goat cheese salad, olive pate, and Coca-Cola light with ice. It is the Coke with ice that I am most excited about. Ice just doesn’t exist in Morocco, but it does in this little piece of paradise.
More thanks to be written and given later.
“It’s November 22...
Can we go home now?”
“I fucking hate myself. Rather, I fucking hate that I’m never happy where I am.”
--- setting the mood for Thanksgiving day.
Quotes from my friends.
I woke up this morning at 8:30 and ate breakfast. I saved my UHT milk for today and enjoyed some rather tasteless corn flakes with milk. You wouldn’t recognize this as out of the ordinary, but pause for a second to remember that Moroccans don’t know what cereal is, and if they do, they don’t put milk on it. I haven’t had cereal and milk since August. This morning, breakfast was as exciting as it was unpalatable. You don’t complain about the flavorlessness of cereal when you haven’t had it for three months.
After breakfast, I broke. Feeling the full pressure of missing Thanksgiving in Kentucky weigh upon my soul, I gave in. I turned my computer on and started washing the breakfast dishes with pink hand soap. When the computer had loaded all its applications, which takes something like ten minutes now, I anxiously clicked through the menus of Windows Media Player and located my prize: Celtic Women’s A Christmas Celebration. It’s not that their Christmas album is better than others... quite the contrary. Their sweet soprano voices can grate on the ears after a while, even though their sound is probably the closest we’ll ever hear to the heavenly host that visited Matthew’s shepherds. (Or was it Luke? I just ran around my hotel room chanting “Where’s my Bible? Where’s my Bible? Where’s my Bible?”, much to my roommate’s annoyance. “Why do you need your Bible?” “I can’t remember where the shepherds are ” I cried. “They’re either in Matthew or Luke, but not both... and I can’t remember ” If any of you reading this know the answer, please enlighten me).
I melancholily (wow that is a word) returned to my task of dish washing and hotel-room arranging, listening to O Holy Night and The Little Drummer Boy and dreaming about the turkey and stuffing I’m missing.
I have no complaints (well, at least not big ones) against Morocco. I’m even entertaining the idea of returning here after graduation to teach English for a year. However, I’d be lying to myself and everyone who reads my blog, though, if I didn’t admit that it’s difficult here sometimes. It’s hard to miss out on beloved annual traditions. This morning I was craving the sight of a Santa Claus or a holiday wreath They’re out there in America now, I know.
My friend Rebecca walked into the room about fifteen minutes ago and saw me crouching over my computer, clicking through other music selections. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked. “Listening to Christmas music...”. She laughed. “It’s November ” she said. I stood up. “Yes, and in America there are Santa Clauses and holiday lights and they’re going to light the Christmas tree in my hometown,” I only half-faked the whimpering. She laughed as she walked back to her own room.
So, stateside readers, whenever you are pissed off by the oppression of the American Christmas, remember that you might miss it dearly if you didn’t have it. I too hate that Fayette Mall is transformed into a reindeer’s playground the day after Halloween, but today I also wish I could see some red and green garland— that I could smell Christmas cookies baking.
Enough of missing America. There are so many things for which I’m thankful here in Morocco. First, I love that my friends and I have transformed this hotel in central Rabat into a regular dormitory. This morning I walked to TaReva and Miranda’s room to retrieve my detergent, and after TaReva answered the door, entered a hotel room turned comfortable dorm room, with half of the room looking like a kitchen/dining room, the other half looking like a bedroom and bathroom. They have a beautiful view of the café below us, and of the grassy boulevard/park in front of the Parliament building. TaReva and I talked about our evening plans for Thanksgiving (we actually get to go to the home of Rabat’s lone Protestant pastor for turkey ), and as I walked back down the hall and stairs to my room, I smiled and was thankful for all of my American friends stuck with me in Morocco. It’s much better to have friends with whom to laugh and commiserate about missing Thanksgiving than it would be if I were traveling and researching by myself. So, I’m thankful for friends and for small pieces of American-ness wedged between constant and intense experiences of Morocco.
And now I’m going out with Carly and Rebecca to our favorite pricey French restaurant where I will enjoy a goat cheese salad, olive pate, and Coca-Cola light with ice. It is the Coke with ice that I am most excited about. Ice just doesn’t exist in Morocco, but it does in this little piece of paradise.
More thanks to be written and given later.
Mom and me, November 20.
Nov 20
“I’m gonna brine the turkey.”
---Mom.
Oh my God I’m eating peanut butter.
---Me.
“I’m gonna brine the turkey.”
---Mom.
Oh my God I’m eating peanut butter.
---Me.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
In defense of my writing
what does personal mean?
what is private/intimate/personal but constructions taught to us, concepts placed in our brains by the overarching religion, social class, culture, language, and tradition in which we're raised?
"i thought your blog was your travel journal. you told people it was how they could keep up with you while you traveled the world."
and is it not?
if you don't want to hear about my memories, are uninterested in my spiritual "awakenings", are taken aback by my use of swear words.... don't read me.
this is my travel journal. it is what i'm thinking, doing, and being while i'm living in a country radically different from my own. it is my place to write whatever i want to write, feel whatever i want to feel, and experiment with words.
whoever said that everything i wrote was true, anyway? what if i'm merely trying to be a storyteller?
i've already censored myself in many of these posts. i have a problem with that, but i'd probably have more of one if readers of this blog read the me, uncensored. so i changed myself, in some places.
if you know me well at all, you know that i'm not only going to give you rosey postings about visiting monuments and eating fabulous meals.
because, in all truth, i'm living in a muslim country, i get yelled at and treated like a prostitute by men on the street, i'm struggling to speak at least three languages a day - sometime four in one conversation, i'm twenty years old and i have things i want to say, i don't judge people for what they think and i wish that others wouldn't judge me for what i am - that they would just love me.
so, don't expect this blog to be postcard after postcard.
i don't do postcards.
i love you.
what is private/intimate/personal but constructions taught to us, concepts placed in our brains by the overarching religion, social class, culture, language, and tradition in which we're raised?
"i thought your blog was your travel journal. you told people it was how they could keep up with you while you traveled the world."
and is it not?
if you don't want to hear about my memories, are uninterested in my spiritual "awakenings", are taken aback by my use of swear words.... don't read me.
this is my travel journal. it is what i'm thinking, doing, and being while i'm living in a country radically different from my own. it is my place to write whatever i want to write, feel whatever i want to feel, and experiment with words.
whoever said that everything i wrote was true, anyway? what if i'm merely trying to be a storyteller?
i've already censored myself in many of these posts. i have a problem with that, but i'd probably have more of one if readers of this blog read the me, uncensored. so i changed myself, in some places.
if you know me well at all, you know that i'm not only going to give you rosey postings about visiting monuments and eating fabulous meals.
because, in all truth, i'm living in a muslim country, i get yelled at and treated like a prostitute by men on the street, i'm struggling to speak at least three languages a day - sometime four in one conversation, i'm twenty years old and i have things i want to say, i don't judge people for what they think and i wish that others wouldn't judge me for what i am - that they would just love me.
so, don't expect this blog to be postcard after postcard.
i don't do postcards.
i love you.
free write
Free write
11:30am
November 19
Anger never solved anything
and no one is going to get through their grief by
tearing rage out of each other in attempt to assuage their own hurt
the wound won’t heal as long as hate feeds it
allows the blood to ooze out from under it
never hardening, never scabbing, never falling away
forgotten.
A scar could remain, but the pain of the puncture won’t
only the memory that it was once there
but that now, it doesn’t dictate life
for all the evil and perversion we must wade through
there is exponentially more joy
to be found in the smiles of children
the kisses of strangers
life is not to be wasted on grief
anger, sorrow, or unhappiness
these must only be passing phases
allowing us to more fully feel
the brilliance of being alive
that make beautiful days more beautiful
the hugs of friends more warm
than we ever allowed them to be before.
It’s not that love isn’t there
it’s that we refuse to see it
and accept it for what it is
it’s that we force every relationship
to conform to what we want it to be
instead of resigning ourselves
to loving it for what it is
to resign is not to forfeit
dreams or hopes
but to be grateful for everything we have
everyone we encounter
every trying situation we manage to live through
sometimes living is only about surviving
about existing through the difficulties
but when existence subsides,
and we can truly be...
God, what a glorious thing it can be
to live.
thank God for the sunny days
the clarity and the color
that grant peace and a moment’s solace
from the drudgery that humanness can become
but
don’t run from your humanity
it is too precious to neglect
don’t hate it, don’t regret it
don’t try to lose it
embrace it
embolden yourself, accepting your failures and successes
your propensities
the good and the bad of you
as part of your being human
and be thankful for it
and delve fully into the bewildering whirlwind
of times when you are both fully human and fully outside
of earthly experience
for those are the times when humanity reaches the divine
the world is not dependent on chance
and not dependent on gods
but it is dependent on the divinity within you
on the god that exists within each of us
on the love that can come from us
brightening the dreariness of another’s day
that negates all the ugliness that we wallow in
that brings us down to the level of beasts
and because of which we forget that we too
can be god-like.
man is wealthy of the beauty of the love he holds in his heart
we thank you for the splendor of the whole creation,
for the beauty of this world,
for the wonder of life,
and for the mystery of love.
I saw you at 4:40 this morning, and then I saw a shooting star through orion.
- love appears to me to be the chief thing of all -
11:30am
November 19
Anger never solved anything
and no one is going to get through their grief by
tearing rage out of each other in attempt to assuage their own hurt
the wound won’t heal as long as hate feeds it
allows the blood to ooze out from under it
never hardening, never scabbing, never falling away
forgotten.
A scar could remain, but the pain of the puncture won’t
only the memory that it was once there
but that now, it doesn’t dictate life
for all the evil and perversion we must wade through
there is exponentially more joy
to be found in the smiles of children
the kisses of strangers
life is not to be wasted on grief
anger, sorrow, or unhappiness
these must only be passing phases
allowing us to more fully feel
the brilliance of being alive
that make beautiful days more beautiful
the hugs of friends more warm
than we ever allowed them to be before.
It’s not that love isn’t there
it’s that we refuse to see it
and accept it for what it is
it’s that we force every relationship
to conform to what we want it to be
instead of resigning ourselves
to loving it for what it is
to resign is not to forfeit
dreams or hopes
but to be grateful for everything we have
everyone we encounter
every trying situation we manage to live through
sometimes living is only about surviving
about existing through the difficulties
but when existence subsides,
and we can truly be...
God, what a glorious thing it can be
to live.
thank God for the sunny days
the clarity and the color
that grant peace and a moment’s solace
from the drudgery that humanness can become
but
don’t run from your humanity
it is too precious to neglect
don’t hate it, don’t regret it
don’t try to lose it
embrace it
embolden yourself, accepting your failures and successes
your propensities
the good and the bad of you
as part of your being human
and be thankful for it
and delve fully into the bewildering whirlwind
of times when you are both fully human and fully outside
of earthly experience
for those are the times when humanity reaches the divine
the world is not dependent on chance
and not dependent on gods
but it is dependent on the divinity within you
on the god that exists within each of us
on the love that can come from us
brightening the dreariness of another’s day
that negates all the ugliness that we wallow in
that brings us down to the level of beasts
and because of which we forget that we too
can be god-like.
man is wealthy of the beauty of the love he holds in his heart
we thank you for the splendor of the whole creation,
for the beauty of this world,
for the wonder of life,
and for the mystery of love.
I saw you at 4:40 this morning, and then I saw a shooting star through orion.
- love appears to me to be the chief thing of all -
Monday, November 19, 2007
From the hotel. Nov 17 Parte II
November 17
5:00pm
This morning Carly and I moved into our new home: room 14 at Hotel Central, next to the massive Hotel Balima (which has good café au lait) and across from the Gare Rabat Ville train station.
The room is dingy and old; the floral print bed-covers and drapes are faded and look to have more years that I do; there is no toilet seat on the toilet (the toilet bowl doesn’t allow for the most comfortable bathroom time, but that’s alright). We have two beds: I took the twin, Carly the full. We have a beaten up old table and two chairs. We have a dilapidated boudoir with two side doors and one large middle section. None of the doors close. This is what our budget allows us.
Enough about the not so wonderful aspects. Despite its filth and age, I love this room. It is on the corner of the hotel, so we have huge windows on two walls. The light is lovely during the day. Carly and I moved the table and chairs one large window and named it our “breakfast nook”. We moved all of our clothing and toiletries into our own sides of the boudoir; we put our belongings in the rickety nightstand and in the bathroom. Carly put pictures of her friends and family along the mirror on the boudoir. I put my spare change in the desk drawer, and my chapstick and hand cream in the nightstand. We’re lounging on bed and chair, respectively, enjoying the fact that we are finally in our own space.
After two and a half months of having no space to call mine, I felt liberated and ridiculously happy when I put my toothpaste and face wash on the counter in the bathroom. I put my books in my nightstand next to my bed. My stuffed owl (with a sordid name not to be published here) is relaxing on my pillow. My side of the room is a little messy. (Yes, Mom, I did keep everything in the Ayad family’s home neat and tidy, and there was “a place for everything, and everything in its place.” It was downright oppressive). It’s so nice to make a mess. It’s nice to listen to my own music (Nickel Creek, currently) while typing, and not have to compete with Yassine’s Moroccan hip-hop or answer Zainab’s insistent questions. I love my Moroccan family dearly, but I am SO happy to be on my own. SO happy.
It’s peaceful to come home to my own place, where I don’t have to struggle to communicate, or eat when I don’t want to eat in order to please my mother or sister who has worked hard to make the food. I’m going to eat peanut butter and bananas, drink juice and Coca-Cola Light, when and if I want. I’m going to go to cafes whenever I want; I’m going to be at internet cafes past 7:30 at night, and I will come home to my cozy room at the hour I choose. No more 8:00pm curfews.
Oh, how I’ve missed the freedom of the American college life. I have a dorm room in downtown Rabat!
I never appreciated my ability to live a private life and do things when and if I want to until I moved to Morocco. Moroccan hospitality and tradition doesn’t allow for privacy or personal desires.
I have my liberty back! WOO HOOO!
5:00pm
This morning Carly and I moved into our new home: room 14 at Hotel Central, next to the massive Hotel Balima (which has good café au lait) and across from the Gare Rabat Ville train station.
The room is dingy and old; the floral print bed-covers and drapes are faded and look to have more years that I do; there is no toilet seat on the toilet (the toilet bowl doesn’t allow for the most comfortable bathroom time, but that’s alright). We have two beds: I took the twin, Carly the full. We have a beaten up old table and two chairs. We have a dilapidated boudoir with two side doors and one large middle section. None of the doors close. This is what our budget allows us.
Enough about the not so wonderful aspects. Despite its filth and age, I love this room. It is on the corner of the hotel, so we have huge windows on two walls. The light is lovely during the day. Carly and I moved the table and chairs one large window and named it our “breakfast nook”. We moved all of our clothing and toiletries into our own sides of the boudoir; we put our belongings in the rickety nightstand and in the bathroom. Carly put pictures of her friends and family along the mirror on the boudoir. I put my spare change in the desk drawer, and my chapstick and hand cream in the nightstand. We’re lounging on bed and chair, respectively, enjoying the fact that we are finally in our own space.
After two and a half months of having no space to call mine, I felt liberated and ridiculously happy when I put my toothpaste and face wash on the counter in the bathroom. I put my books in my nightstand next to my bed. My stuffed owl (with a sordid name not to be published here) is relaxing on my pillow. My side of the room is a little messy. (Yes, Mom, I did keep everything in the Ayad family’s home neat and tidy, and there was “a place for everything, and everything in its place.” It was downright oppressive). It’s so nice to make a mess. It’s nice to listen to my own music (Nickel Creek, currently) while typing, and not have to compete with Yassine’s Moroccan hip-hop or answer Zainab’s insistent questions. I love my Moroccan family dearly, but I am SO happy to be on my own. SO happy.
It’s peaceful to come home to my own place, where I don’t have to struggle to communicate, or eat when I don’t want to eat in order to please my mother or sister who has worked hard to make the food. I’m going to eat peanut butter and bananas, drink juice and Coca-Cola Light, when and if I want. I’m going to go to cafes whenever I want; I’m going to be at internet cafes past 7:30 at night, and I will come home to my cozy room at the hour I choose. No more 8:00pm curfews.
Oh, how I’ve missed the freedom of the American college life. I have a dorm room in downtown Rabat!
I never appreciated my ability to live a private life and do things when and if I want to until I moved to Morocco. Moroccan hospitality and tradition doesn’t allow for privacy or personal desires.
I have my liberty back! WOO HOOO!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
November 18
November 18
“when someone speaks to me of truth,
I reach for my revolver.”
Gianni Vattimo
to acquire merit in God’s eyes, invite a guest
let him break bread and drink tea
invite him thus in God’s name and
paradise shall be yours at the end of the road.
amiss
(regarding my research)
I would be amiss to expect too much from this project.
I’ve never conducted field research before. I’ve never done qualitative research.
I have three weeks.
I might not find interviewees interested in my research. It’s possible that no one will talk to me.
I have three weeks.
My research depends on the vicissitudes of the lives of people over whom I have no control.
I have three weeks.
I’m asking young women very personal questions about their sex lives, their beliefs, and their religion.
I have three weeks.
I’m a white, unveiled foreigner. I will only know these girls for a few days, at most.
I have three weeks.
(In a café: I’m a dirty old French man. I like you).
memories from my hotel room
One. memory
I remember being moody and pissy one day in July when Clay was visiting. What was I moody about? Was I PMS-ing? Had he said something that was really very humorous, but I didn’t catch what was funny? Did he make fun of me, and I didn’t want to hear it?
I have no idea. I just know that whilst being moody I really wanted cucumber salad, and Mom didn’t have any. I left Clay at my apartment and drove to Kroger by myself to buy fresh fruit, hummus, feta cheese, and cucumber salad. It was expensive, but I was pleased.
I brought the food back, and Clay and I ate the couscous he had made, and the goods I had brought. He was quiet, which is I think his was of being loving and patient, and let me deal with my moodiness by myself.
We might have watched a movie later. We might have read books. We might have talked. I don’t know. But I know I loved it, despite my moodiness.
Two. memory
Another day Clay was visiting
I drove back to my apartment building, and smiled to see Clay sitting under a tree in front of my building, smoking a cigarette and reading. He looked up when I approached him.
“Why are you here?”
“I didn’t want to go to dance. I wanted to be with you.”
I went into the apartment and put on warm-up pants because I hate wearing shorts unless I’m dancing, and brought out a book. We sat in the grass for a little while. We may have shared a cigarette or a Black and Mild.
I’m really glad I went to dance late that day.
Three. memory & thought
I don’t particularly fit in with Clay’s
I was dismayed by Clay’s admission of how much I don’t work with that culture after my last GC party, at Paul’s house. I really enjoyed that evening. I didn’t drink anything; I smoked a little. I watched Clay and his friends laugh, loved it when Melissa gave me a hug, found Zach’s “
But, apparently, I don’t fit in with
I love
Four. memory
One day this past summer I was visiting Clay and his family in
Whose idea was it to sneak out to the pool late at night? Did I whisper it to him? Did he mention it to me? Did we just look at each other and then at the pool, and know that at 2:00am we’d sneak downstairs and outside, and slip into the pool silently where we’d kiss and look at the stars?
That night was one of the best I’ve ever spent with Clay. I felt like a child again, looking at the stars. He mentioned that, while he watched my face. “You look like you’re seeing stars for the first time.”
I couldn’t stop smiling.
journal
November 16
“He whispered, his lips in her hand so that she heard the words as if she were gathering them, one by one, in the hollow of her palm:
‘Kira, the highest thing in a man is not his god. It’s that in him which knows the reverence due a god. And you, Kira, are my highest reverence...’”
November 17
the motorcycles in the street remind me of sitting in Marcie’s freshman year dorm room, late at night. talking about boys, beliefs, listening to Marcie’s songs. figuring Transy out. we were so naive then, and we thought we knew it all.
the heavy blankets keeping me warm remind me of A’oud Lma and the Driouich family — when I was plagued with dreams and spent a day in an olive grove. When I both struggled to communicate and had the easiest time of it I can remember. Reaching for the stars so thick that looked close enough to gather. eating freshly killed sheep. defecating outside for a week. little brothers and sisters.
Sufjan Stevens reminds me of
‘less than a month to go...’
‘that’s what I keep telling myself.’
‘I’m so excited!’
thank god we figured this out. I can’t imagine not having him.
“What the Fuck” (my stuffed owl... I’m not apologizing for his name), laying peacefully on the nightstand, reminds me of cleaning the basement with Clay, of him scaring me with the damned stuffed animal, of WTF’s christening.
I am reminded of Hilton Head, of blissful childish afternoons in the pool playing boat and baby koala.
Of pulling him into the Lucille Little Theatre green room kitchen to give him a note, and of him kissing me hard and purposefully as soon as the door shut behind us.
Being bewildered and confused by him all the time.
Loving and missing him more with each passing day.
growing in anticipation of a hug, a kiss, a face, a hand, a drive, a song, a gas station coffee.
the good old things of
“where they caught a wild alligator...”
his laughter, his loyalty, his love.
his eccentricities, his desires, his attitude, his way of being alive.
appreciate her (appreciate her)
stand up and thank her
It’s the great I AM.
I fell in love again
all things go, all things go
drove to
all things know, all things know...
Time is the most freeing
and most frustrating acquaintance
I’ve met in
Why can’t it go faster? Why can’t it slow down?
Why do I feel it at all?
battling the curse of womanhood
November 14
battling the curse of womanhood
the mythical world of Djemaa el-Fna
a junkyard of humanity
the world of the man is a negative universe
the world of women is a fertile one
sick men, battered women, abandoned lunatics.
[a glass shattered and all heads turned toward
its sound, then followed its echo.
a woman screamed.]
how long have we been silent?
how long have we been paralyzed?
The struggle to break free from the uncertainties of language
the world is not dependent on chance and not dependent on gods.
Implode the grammar and syntax of life
congregation doesn’t necessarily mean family
Leaving the village
November 9 1:22pm
Ghreezlen cried when I walked away this morning. I don’t think she knew what was going to happen, that her new friends who chased her in the yard at night, who tickled her while she cackled before bedtime, who woke up and made nusnus buma (my stuffed owl) kiss her — that this strange pale girl from some faraway land was going to leave. How hard for a little kid — why do friends go away? Children think they understand what’s going on, they get used to a funny adult who speaks less than they do, they come to love the new addition to the family, and then she leaves. God damn and God bless the village stay, all at once.
Tuaheshtik. I miss you.
Somehow, slowly and gently, I will become reacquainted with Mohamed Rachidi. Insha’allah. And I will slowly learn more Darija and I will alk to my Moroccan families, and Mohamed will have a friend and hopefully he won’t be as homesick as he must be now...
I regret not being more hospitable to him, I regret not understanding him as a Moroccan, and I pray I can remedy my mistakes when I return to
These human beings have worked their way into my heart, and I can’t let them go.
Please god, don’t let me forget them.
I hope they haven’t forgotten the promises they made
‘Cause they said they’d stop the fighting,
and they said they would bring peace...
They said they’d feed a hungry child,
and I hope its someday soon...
2:00pm
We just finished a roadside pee stop, and we’re on the road once again.
A little boy wandered out of a nearby mud house and toward our bus. Nawal met him with kisses and a bag of fruit. The bus driver gave him a sandwich.
I have so much yet to learn. Jesus Christ. I love my family. I love my friends. I’ve been so ungrateful.
I don’t think I will ever again feel awkward meeting new people, or strange loving them.
Reading Camp is as much of a foreign country as
The little boy walked back to his home with his bananas, apples, and chocolate, and I thought about hugging Rob, about loving LeRon, about Paige, the younger sister of a Reading Camper, about playing Apples to Apples in Laurel House, about homesick campers, about snotty nosed children, about frightened illiterate grandmothers with bad dye jobs, a lot of apprehension, thick accents and promises to children that “I’ll come geet ya if you ain’t havin’ a good tahm.”
And about complaining volunteers and speaking in a Russian accent to my mom and aunt Chris, laughing until we almost pee our pants.
About nights in Nurse Lisa’s room, about the haunted library and Drew’s night terrors, about young adult life problems, about alcohol, sex, and pot, about running from home and finding people who will love you.
Loving people who drive you crazy, who try to run from you but you catch them anyway. Mark hitting on girls a decade younger and trying to get cell phone service in West Wind to talk to his many women, Kory’s anger, humor, and smoking habit, Linda being a badass and handling any problem that comes her way, carrying on in the face of a type-A bitchy volunteer and unethical behavior from high-ups.
Sitting next to Laurel House with Drew, hugging him while he cried about the children and how much he loved them. Driving home with him and talking about significant others, being emotional, loving ridiculously and wanting to “save” people. Maybe they alone don’t need the saving. We all do.
Playing piano with Eric; singing with Rob, Eric and Marcie in the chapel of
Marcie collapsed on the couch in June 2006, thinking her life had ended because she saw David with another girl. I hugged her, and told her it would be okay. Clay looked on.
It was okay.
Driving through the
Laying next to him in May 2007, and feeling at home again.
Rob screaming and crying over a cigarette and a Screwdriver on the villa’s balcony in Hilton Head. He didn’t know what to do, and neither did I. He cried from the depths of his soul, I stared, I hugge him and told him I loved him. “Allison, I see the way Clay looks at you! He looks at you with such love, I can’t do that! Why can’t I do that?! Why can’t I be with anyone?!?!” And eyes were on fire and his face contorted in anger.
“Rob, I’m never going to leave you.”
Marcie telling me, “Allison, never leave me.”
And I never will.
Giving Mama Sfia my skirt, and watching her face light up and her eyes twinkle with tears when I tell her, “Min Amrika.” (It’s from
Barka and Sfia hesitating to let me go, kissing my dozens of time and giving me the longest hugs. How sweet kanbrik (I love you) sounds.
The filth covering my legs, ankles, and feet. That I never managed to stop spraying pee onto myself.
My poop trees, my brother Mohammed.
That was the village.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
weak excuses for bad behavior
I wrote this back in October, but forgot to post it.
I like it.
There's bad language. parents, don't let the kids read it until you have.
October 18
11:00pm
I don’t like it when people create weak excuses for their bad behavior.
“My hair just can’t handle being oily (giggle giggle),” is not adequate justification for showering every day in a drought-stricken country. It’s disgusting, actually.
But then again, don’t we all do it? Don’t we seek to quiet the demons within in unhealthy ways, claiming that “these are the years of our lives”, “you’re only young once,” “I’m going to enjoy college?” And we smoke and drink and fuck the hell out of it all. We obscure our reflections, we chop others to pieces and leave them strewn about in our wake.
We live in the richest country on earth, are privileged in ways that only hedonistic, vain, and corrupt nobility used to be. Now we’re the corrupt nobility, and our marble thrones are too high for us to begin to feel the scorching heat of the sand below. The sand that everyone else has to live on, breathe in, tend, harvest, eat, sleep, dream, and die in. There’s no sand where we come from. We don’t even have the concept of desert.
We can only read about the desert. Sitting in the Sahara won’t help us conceptualize it. Joyful rides on spitting camels across cool dunes in mid October won’t do shit to help us understand how desert dwellers live. Taking pictures of the fly-covered faces of brown eyed toddlers won’t change the situation. We can buy a ticket back to New York City, we can leave tomorrow.
And perhaps that’s the problem. We have the ability to leave any difficulty that we have ever, will ever face. More disturbing is the fact that we have the privilege to see and touch any difficulty — our dollar will get us far — in order to take photographs, return home, frame them, hang them on walls and call them art. Since when is it ethical to put a lense in the face of a blind and toothless man, shutter clicking away as he cocks his head towards the sound, wondering what is going on? Since when is it art to watch a child cry and position yourself just right so that the sunlight reflects off his tears?
Congratulations. You won the photo contest.
I like it.
There's bad language. parents, don't let the kids read it until you have.
October 18
11:00pm
I don’t like it when people create weak excuses for their bad behavior.
“My hair just can’t handle being oily (giggle giggle),” is not adequate justification for showering every day in a drought-stricken country. It’s disgusting, actually.
But then again, don’t we all do it? Don’t we seek to quiet the demons within in unhealthy ways, claiming that “these are the years of our lives”, “you’re only young once,” “I’m going to enjoy college?” And we smoke and drink and fuck the hell out of it all. We obscure our reflections, we chop others to pieces and leave them strewn about in our wake.
We live in the richest country on earth, are privileged in ways that only hedonistic, vain, and corrupt nobility used to be. Now we’re the corrupt nobility, and our marble thrones are too high for us to begin to feel the scorching heat of the sand below. The sand that everyone else has to live on, breathe in, tend, harvest, eat, sleep, dream, and die in. There’s no sand where we come from. We don’t even have the concept of desert.
We can only read about the desert. Sitting in the Sahara won’t help us conceptualize it. Joyful rides on spitting camels across cool dunes in mid October won’t do shit to help us understand how desert dwellers live. Taking pictures of the fly-covered faces of brown eyed toddlers won’t change the situation. We can buy a ticket back to New York City, we can leave tomorrow.
And perhaps that’s the problem. We have the ability to leave any difficulty that we have ever, will ever face. More disturbing is the fact that we have the privilege to see and touch any difficulty — our dollar will get us far — in order to take photographs, return home, frame them, hang them on walls and call them art. Since when is it ethical to put a lense in the face of a blind and toothless man, shutter clicking away as he cocks his head towards the sound, wondering what is going on? Since when is it art to watch a child cry and position yourself just right so that the sunlight reflects off his tears?
Congratulations. You won the photo contest.
Happy Birthday, Dad
Happy Birthday, Dad
November 7
10:00am
Dad’s birthday. Happy 60th birthday, Dad I can’t call you, but I can show you my journal in December and let you know that I was thinking of you. I love you
The village is a place of absurdity and vivid dreams. I never dream, and when I do dream, all I can say is that I did. I can never remember details.
The village has been a catalyst for thought, though, a haven of dreams. My first night in the village, I dreamed of escaping and returning home. I either made it to America or Rabat — I’m not sure which — but I know that I made it to Clay in some capacity. I felt safe but was filled with a sense of dread at having to face punishment for leaving the village.
I awoke disoriented, feeling as though I had lived a week, and it took me a few moments to realize that I was lying on a zarbia in a mud dwelling in central Morocco. I didn’t know how I was going to survive the rest of the week, and familiarity was all I craved.
Between 6:00 and 7:00am this morning, I was met by another insane dream. I was in Morocco, looking out of the windows of some large building onto a colorful Saharan caravan. Men were dressed in the characteristic Saharan blue, the camels were loaded. I go outside with a friend and a baby, whom I pick up and coo at as we walk along the line of camels and men toward the rear of the caravan. I decide I want to capture this quintessential Moroccan scene in a photograph, so I run back into the building to get my camera. When I make it back outside, the last of the caravan is walking into the distance, and all of a sudden, Morocco behind me disappears as the caravan walks off, dissipating into an intersection in historic downtown Lexington. I run after the caravan and the last camel floats away, mystified, as my feet touch down in Kentucky. As familiar and comfortable as this scene is, I bend over with my hands on my knees, sobbing because I have lost Morocco.
The next thing I remember from the dream, I’m walking through a fancy office in some American city. The tile floors and cherry wood fixtures are polished and shining, and the interior glows with yellow light. The building is decorated for St. Patrick’s Day, shiny green metallic shamrocks and leprechauns hanging in the arch of the ceiling. I walk out of the building and I’m standing on an outside balcony/hallway, my arm on a white railing, and I see out of my left peripheral vision Clay walk past me in dark blue jeans, white t-shirt, black belt, and white t-shirt sleeve in his hair. It looks like a hallway in the Hilton Head villa building we lived in, but I have no idea where it is. I’m about to call after him when Sfia, my mom, says, “Sbah al-khir, A’lia.” And I’m in the village again, coughing and blowing my nose.
This afternoon, smashed between one suffocating thing to the next, I will devise a plan. Like Jackie Chan.
I will not have a moment to myself the next two days. I, as myself, if that does exist, will no longer exist. At least my voice, and with it — my will — will have no memory of myself, and my body will have no ownership of privacy and space and pleasure to its own resources. A slave. — Julia Kirchhoff, my Montana SIT friend
November 7
10:00am
Dad’s birthday. Happy 60th birthday, Dad I can’t call you, but I can show you my journal in December and let you know that I was thinking of you. I love you
The village is a place of absurdity and vivid dreams. I never dream, and when I do dream, all I can say is that I did. I can never remember details.
The village has been a catalyst for thought, though, a haven of dreams. My first night in the village, I dreamed of escaping and returning home. I either made it to America or Rabat — I’m not sure which — but I know that I made it to Clay in some capacity. I felt safe but was filled with a sense of dread at having to face punishment for leaving the village.
I awoke disoriented, feeling as though I had lived a week, and it took me a few moments to realize that I was lying on a zarbia in a mud dwelling in central Morocco. I didn’t know how I was going to survive the rest of the week, and familiarity was all I craved.
Between 6:00 and 7:00am this morning, I was met by another insane dream. I was in Morocco, looking out of the windows of some large building onto a colorful Saharan caravan. Men were dressed in the characteristic Saharan blue, the camels were loaded. I go outside with a friend and a baby, whom I pick up and coo at as we walk along the line of camels and men toward the rear of the caravan. I decide I want to capture this quintessential Moroccan scene in a photograph, so I run back into the building to get my camera. When I make it back outside, the last of the caravan is walking into the distance, and all of a sudden, Morocco behind me disappears as the caravan walks off, dissipating into an intersection in historic downtown Lexington. I run after the caravan and the last camel floats away, mystified, as my feet touch down in Kentucky. As familiar and comfortable as this scene is, I bend over with my hands on my knees, sobbing because I have lost Morocco.
The next thing I remember from the dream, I’m walking through a fancy office in some American city. The tile floors and cherry wood fixtures are polished and shining, and the interior glows with yellow light. The building is decorated for St. Patrick’s Day, shiny green metallic shamrocks and leprechauns hanging in the arch of the ceiling. I walk out of the building and I’m standing on an outside balcony/hallway, my arm on a white railing, and I see out of my left peripheral vision Clay walk past me in dark blue jeans, white t-shirt, black belt, and white t-shirt sleeve in his hair. It looks like a hallway in the Hilton Head villa building we lived in, but I have no idea where it is. I’m about to call after him when Sfia, my mom, says, “Sbah al-khir, A’lia.” And I’m in the village again, coughing and blowing my nose.
This afternoon, smashed between one suffocating thing to the next, I will devise a plan. Like Jackie Chan.
I will not have a moment to myself the next two days. I, as myself, if that does exist, will no longer exist. At least my voice, and with it — my will — will have no memory of myself, and my body will have no ownership of privacy and space and pleasure to its own resources. A slave. — Julia Kirchhoff, my Montana SIT friend
Monday, November 12, 2007
November 6
November 6
7:36 am
A bit of a sinus infection going on, so I am overjoyed to have brought Advil Cold and Sinus with me. The chore today will be to make small talk and learn Arabic while trying not to feel sick.
“Do you believe in God, Andrei?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But that’s a favorite question of mine. An upside-down question, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I asked people if they believed in life, they’d never understand what I meant. It’s a bad question. It can mean so much that it really means nothing. So I ask them if they believe in God. And if they say they do — then, I know they don’t believe in life.”
“Why?”
“Because, you see, God — whatever anyone chooses to call God — is one’s highest conception of the highest possible. And whoever places his highest conception above his own possibility thinks very little of himself and his own life. It’s a rare gift, you know, to feel reverence for your own life and to want the best, the greatest, the highest possible, here, now, for your very own. To imagine a heaven and then not to dream of it, but to demand it.”
“You’re a strange girl.”
“You see, you and I, we believe in life. But you want to fight for it, to kill for it, even to die — for life.
I only want to live it.”
We the Living, 117
2:08pm
Life as a foreigner in this village is a bit ridiculous.
Around 1:00, I returned from our mini-excursion to Meseha, where the other half of the SIT students are living. I got out of the blue van and told Nawal, our program assistant, that I had to go to the bathroom, and to tell them men not to follow me. “I’m going to my poop tree. Tell them it’s okay that I’m walking alone.” I started off down the dry creek bed.
On the way, I passed Emily and her sister, who had been guarding her while she relieved herself in the bushes. Emily and I had a quick conversation about a recurring conversation within her family regarding marriage and wives. It was starting to make her uncomfortable (Moroccans are always trying to offer camels or other livestock in exchange for our hands) so she was off to ask Nawal for help. I bid Emily and her sister goodbye, and I looked past her to my poop tree and the hill that overlooked it. Of course the hill is full of all the men in Emily’s family, sitting there, looking in my direction, and in the direction of my tree. Dammit.
I start walking, and Emily’s insane — and precious, don’t get me wrong — grandmother walks out of the house and sees me walking down the creek bed alone. She probably had no idea what I was doing — the Americans didn’t walk anywhere alone in this village, especially the women. Maybe she thought I had lost my way, or she wanted to invite me to her home for athé b’na’na’, or simply wanted to be loud.... I don’t know. Whatever the reason, the woman starts yelling and flailing her arms wildly, trying to get me to acknowledge her. I refuse to look at her, my eyes glued to my precious poop tree. I use peripheral vision to glance at the men, who are curiously observing this scene, and I note that their vantage point is even more perfect for viewing my tree than I had originally thought. Dammit again. And grandma is now running along the top of the hill, flailing her arms even more wildly, yelling even louder: a streak of orange and yellow sweeping along the top of the hill, arms flapping like a bird’s wings, screaming in an old lady voice, “Salaam, lebes? ... lebes? Athé b’ na’na’...... lebes....” And on it goes. “Don’t you dare follow me,” I think.
I found another larger tree that would suffice as a poop tree for the time being. It wasn’t my favorite tree, but it would work. Unless I stood up and tried not to conceal anything, then men and crazy grandma wouldn’t be able to see me.
I finally found success and achieved a few minutes of peace underneath the branches of a gnarled tree. Grandma gave up and went back inside, leaving the men on the hillside. When I walked back home, they still hadn’t moved... just turned their heads to watch me walk up the hill towards my house.
7:36 am
A bit of a sinus infection going on, so I am overjoyed to have brought Advil Cold and Sinus with me. The chore today will be to make small talk and learn Arabic while trying not to feel sick.
“Do you believe in God, Andrei?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But that’s a favorite question of mine. An upside-down question, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I asked people if they believed in life, they’d never understand what I meant. It’s a bad question. It can mean so much that it really means nothing. So I ask them if they believe in God. And if they say they do — then, I know they don’t believe in life.”
“Why?”
“Because, you see, God — whatever anyone chooses to call God — is one’s highest conception of the highest possible. And whoever places his highest conception above his own possibility thinks very little of himself and his own life. It’s a rare gift, you know, to feel reverence for your own life and to want the best, the greatest, the highest possible, here, now, for your very own. To imagine a heaven and then not to dream of it, but to demand it.”
“You’re a strange girl.”
“You see, you and I, we believe in life. But you want to fight for it, to kill for it, even to die — for life.
I only want to live it.”
We the Living, 117
2:08pm
Life as a foreigner in this village is a bit ridiculous.
Around 1:00, I returned from our mini-excursion to Meseha, where the other half of the SIT students are living. I got out of the blue van and told Nawal, our program assistant, that I had to go to the bathroom, and to tell them men not to follow me. “I’m going to my poop tree. Tell them it’s okay that I’m walking alone.” I started off down the dry creek bed.
On the way, I passed Emily and her sister, who had been guarding her while she relieved herself in the bushes. Emily and I had a quick conversation about a recurring conversation within her family regarding marriage and wives. It was starting to make her uncomfortable (Moroccans are always trying to offer camels or other livestock in exchange for our hands) so she was off to ask Nawal for help. I bid Emily and her sister goodbye, and I looked past her to my poop tree and the hill that overlooked it. Of course the hill is full of all the men in Emily’s family, sitting there, looking in my direction, and in the direction of my tree. Dammit.
I start walking, and Emily’s insane — and precious, don’t get me wrong — grandmother walks out of the house and sees me walking down the creek bed alone. She probably had no idea what I was doing — the Americans didn’t walk anywhere alone in this village, especially the women. Maybe she thought I had lost my way, or she wanted to invite me to her home for athé b’na’na’, or simply wanted to be loud.... I don’t know. Whatever the reason, the woman starts yelling and flailing her arms wildly, trying to get me to acknowledge her. I refuse to look at her, my eyes glued to my precious poop tree. I use peripheral vision to glance at the men, who are curiously observing this scene, and I note that their vantage point is even more perfect for viewing my tree than I had originally thought. Dammit again. And grandma is now running along the top of the hill, flailing her arms even more wildly, yelling even louder: a streak of orange and yellow sweeping along the top of the hill, arms flapping like a bird’s wings, screaming in an old lady voice, “Salaam, lebes? ... lebes? Athé b’ na’na’...... lebes....” And on it goes. “Don’t you dare follow me,” I think.
I found another larger tree that would suffice as a poop tree for the time being. It wasn’t my favorite tree, but it would work. Unless I stood up and tried not to conceal anything, then men and crazy grandma wouldn’t be able to see me.
I finally found success and achieved a few minutes of peace underneath the branches of a gnarled tree. Grandma gave up and went back inside, leaving the men on the hillside. When I walked back home, they still hadn’t moved... just turned their heads to watch me walk up the hill towards my house.
November 5
November 5
10:45 am
Something feels important about November 5, but I can’t figure out what it is... what significance has it held in the past? Junior Miss, I know, but it seems like it’s something more...
This morning was mch better — I didn’t feel as sick, nor did I feel as awkward when grandma Barka accompanied me to the refuse heap that is my toilet. Things are starting to feel more normal, and I like my family a lot, despite the fact that we don’t really communicate.
I’m sitting right now next to Lahcen, surrounded by all the other SIT kids in the “salon” of a house on some high hill within the land holdings of the tribe of Ouled Khallou. There’s a nice funk in the room — mostly because we all had to take our shoes off to enter, and our feet stink. We’re all also sluggish, mostly from the lack of daily coffee and the food to which we’re accustomed. I’m sick of chubz (bread).
Life here is comfortable, and as long as I manage a bowel movement a day, I will be content.
10:45 am
Something feels important about November 5, but I can’t figure out what it is... what significance has it held in the past? Junior Miss, I know, but it seems like it’s something more...
This morning was mch better — I didn’t feel as sick, nor did I feel as awkward when grandma Barka accompanied me to the refuse heap that is my toilet. Things are starting to feel more normal, and I like my family a lot, despite the fact that we don’t really communicate.
I’m sitting right now next to Lahcen, surrounded by all the other SIT kids in the “salon” of a house on some high hill within the land holdings of the tribe of Ouled Khallou. There’s a nice funk in the room — mostly because we all had to take our shoes off to enter, and our feet stink. We’re all also sluggish, mostly from the lack of daily coffee and the food to which we’re accustomed. I’m sick of chubz (bread).
Life here is comfortable, and as long as I manage a bowel movement a day, I will be content.
November 3
November 3. Village stay
7:00pm
Jesus Christ. It’s November 3.
I’m sitting in a mud/concrete dwelling in rural Morocco with a family with whom I can only marginally communicate, watching some hip hop music video. “I’m Ridin’ Big, Yo”?
I recently returned from peeing outside, where I pissed on my foot. I envision my subconscious causing me to be constipated this week. This is going to be a crazy experience.
I don’t even know when I meet up with my group. And I never would have imagined that I would find refuge in bad punk and rap music videos. Disgusting, but it’s about the only thing of any familiarity right now.
November 4. 2:30pm
I wish I could stop counting down the days until the end of this village stay, and further, to the end of Morocco. I love Morocco as I want to be home, and I am at peace in this hilly village as much as I want to be in a café in Rabat.
That’s a lie. I’d rather be using a toilet instead of peeing on my feet, I’d rather take a shower than have to endure twenty flies crawling all over my body, and I just breathed a sigh of relief when my Baba and his friend Brahim left the room. Now I sit alone with the TV on, with pen in hand and Ayn Rand’s We The Living in my lap. I fear my grandfather will enter the room soon and try to teach me new words. My throat hurts and I don’t want to practice any more “ghrayn’s” and “cha’s” (two Arabic letters that are difficult to pronounce). I want a break.
“The first thing that Kira learned about life and the first thing that her elders learned, dismayed, about Kira, was the joy of being alone.” We the Living, 46
[My aloneness has just ended because all the female members of my family have decided to keep me and the flies company. Here’s to keeping the joy alive...].
LUNCH
I have survived more familial relations, aided by a delicious meal during which I mainly said “zweeyn” (a catch-all term for anything good, or beautiful, or tasty, or delicious) and “mezyaan” (good) and made lots of satisfied runting noises. Those translate well.
Ic an’t wait until the discussion with the village men, when I can chew a piece of Trident Maybe afterwards I can go poo in the dry creek bed with some American friends, and we can congratulate each other on satisfying shits and on returning to the same spot we went poo last time.
My grandfather is watching everything I’m writing ACCCCK
All the funny cultural mistranslations aside, life here is quite nice and comfortable. If only I could find a way not to splash pee on my feet every time I urinate, it would be superb. Alas, the ground is so dry, I think the pee will just keep splashing me and that I will have to get used to it. (Sometimes I wish I was born with a penis).
And to bread. And to athé b’na’na’ (mint tea with a pound of sugar dissolved into it, resulting in a syrupy green liquid I’m supposed to enjoy). Because I will be drinking it, everyday, five times a day. God dammit.
I will be ingesting the same amount of sugar as is found in seven Coca-Colas. Oh well. Such is life.
Goddamn these flies
Later..........
I pooped I’m so excited
8:42 pm
Last night was perhaps the longest of my life. While sleeping, I dreamed an entire week and woke up with a pit in my stomach thinking I was in serious trouble.
In the dream not only had I managed to run away from the rural village, but I had also found Clay. I’m writing this 24 hours after I dreamed all of this, so the finer points of the dream are lost to me. I feel like I found Clay, but perhaps I didn’t find at all? Maybe I just found contact with Kentucky/ I’m not sure. All I know is that while I slept like a rock, my mind was journeying far and wide. I really miss Clay. That’s about all it boils down to.
Today was also the first time I was struck with a genuine feeling of missing Mom. I’ve missed her, but it was only today that my waking mind was flooded with a vision of her. I was meditating on the unfaltering (and almost oppressive) hospitality of Moroccans, and I thought of how Mom always welcomes my friends into the house and feeds them — how she’s an American and modern version of a Moroccan. She doesn’t force feed her guests like Moroccans do, though.
I miss her silly laughter, too. I miss laughing at nonsense with her — especially when Clay appears to find now humor in it whatsoever. That is perhaps the best part of our mother-daughter laughter: that I love it and will continue to love it despite the fact that it’s not funny to anyone else, especially Clay.
While living in the rural village for the rest of this week and trying to find conversation will by no means be easy, I think it will be fine. I pray that I don’t get sick; I’m fighting off my sore throat and runny nose.
The day has ended well, al-Hamdulilah, and that is partly thanks to the fact that Ayn Rand’s We the Living is now “wehzheeb” for “madrasa” (homework for school). I find nothing amiss in telling my family this. It allows me to escape the trials of communication, if only for a short while.
I pray that I never take a toilet, a phone, a computer, a friend, or english for granted again.
“‘Don’t you know,’ her voice trembled suddenly in a passionate plea she could not hide, ‘don’t yo know that there are things, in the best of us, which no outside hand should dare to touch? Things sacred because, and only because, one can say: ‘This is mine’? Don’t you know that we live only for ourselves, the best of us do, those who are worthy of it? Don’t you know that there is something is us which must not be touched by any state, by any collective, by any number of millions?’” (89)
“‘I don’t want to fight for the people, I don’t want to fight against the people, I don’t want to hear of the people. I want to be left alone — to live.’” (90)
“She said ‘no’ to the words he spoke, and ‘yes’ to the voice that spoke them.”
Isn’t that how it always happens...
how is it that we become enchantsed by those who perchance shouldn’t hold such power over us? but they do, and their hold is strong...
and oh, how we love them. and how easy it is to lose ourselves to them.
7:00pm
Jesus Christ. It’s November 3.
I’m sitting in a mud/concrete dwelling in rural Morocco with a family with whom I can only marginally communicate, watching some hip hop music video. “I’m Ridin’ Big, Yo”?
I recently returned from peeing outside, where I pissed on my foot. I envision my subconscious causing me to be constipated this week. This is going to be a crazy experience.
I don’t even know when I meet up with my group. And I never would have imagined that I would find refuge in bad punk and rap music videos. Disgusting, but it’s about the only thing of any familiarity right now.
November 4. 2:30pm
I wish I could stop counting down the days until the end of this village stay, and further, to the end of Morocco. I love Morocco as I want to be home, and I am at peace in this hilly village as much as I want to be in a café in Rabat.
That’s a lie. I’d rather be using a toilet instead of peeing on my feet, I’d rather take a shower than have to endure twenty flies crawling all over my body, and I just breathed a sigh of relief when my Baba and his friend Brahim left the room. Now I sit alone with the TV on, with pen in hand and Ayn Rand’s We The Living in my lap. I fear my grandfather will enter the room soon and try to teach me new words. My throat hurts and I don’t want to practice any more “ghrayn’s” and “cha’s” (two Arabic letters that are difficult to pronounce). I want a break.
“The first thing that Kira learned about life and the first thing that her elders learned, dismayed, about Kira, was the joy of being alone.” We the Living, 46
[My aloneness has just ended because all the female members of my family have decided to keep me and the flies company. Here’s to keeping the joy alive...].
LUNCH
I have survived more familial relations, aided by a delicious meal during which I mainly said “zweeyn” (a catch-all term for anything good, or beautiful, or tasty, or delicious) and “mezyaan” (good) and made lots of satisfied runting noises. Those translate well.
Ic an’t wait until the discussion with the village men, when I can chew a piece of Trident Maybe afterwards I can go poo in the dry creek bed with some American friends, and we can congratulate each other on satisfying shits and on returning to the same spot we went poo last time.
My grandfather is watching everything I’m writing ACCCCK
All the funny cultural mistranslations aside, life here is quite nice and comfortable. If only I could find a way not to splash pee on my feet every time I urinate, it would be superb. Alas, the ground is so dry, I think the pee will just keep splashing me and that I will have to get used to it. (Sometimes I wish I was born with a penis).
And to bread. And to athé b’na’na’ (mint tea with a pound of sugar dissolved into it, resulting in a syrupy green liquid I’m supposed to enjoy). Because I will be drinking it, everyday, five times a day. God dammit.
I will be ingesting the same amount of sugar as is found in seven Coca-Colas. Oh well. Such is life.
Goddamn these flies
Later..........
I pooped I’m so excited
8:42 pm
Last night was perhaps the longest of my life. While sleeping, I dreamed an entire week and woke up with a pit in my stomach thinking I was in serious trouble.
In the dream not only had I managed to run away from the rural village, but I had also found Clay. I’m writing this 24 hours after I dreamed all of this, so the finer points of the dream are lost to me. I feel like I found Clay, but perhaps I didn’t find at all? Maybe I just found contact with Kentucky/ I’m not sure. All I know is that while I slept like a rock, my mind was journeying far and wide. I really miss Clay. That’s about all it boils down to.
Today was also the first time I was struck with a genuine feeling of missing Mom. I’ve missed her, but it was only today that my waking mind was flooded with a vision of her. I was meditating on the unfaltering (and almost oppressive) hospitality of Moroccans, and I thought of how Mom always welcomes my friends into the house and feeds them — how she’s an American and modern version of a Moroccan. She doesn’t force feed her guests like Moroccans do, though.
I miss her silly laughter, too. I miss laughing at nonsense with her — especially when Clay appears to find now humor in it whatsoever. That is perhaps the best part of our mother-daughter laughter: that I love it and will continue to love it despite the fact that it’s not funny to anyone else, especially Clay.
While living in the rural village for the rest of this week and trying to find conversation will by no means be easy, I think it will be fine. I pray that I don’t get sick; I’m fighting off my sore throat and runny nose.
The day has ended well, al-Hamdulilah, and that is partly thanks to the fact that Ayn Rand’s We the Living is now “wehzheeb” for “madrasa” (homework for school). I find nothing amiss in telling my family this. It allows me to escape the trials of communication, if only for a short while.
I pray that I never take a toilet, a phone, a computer, a friend, or english for granted again.
“‘Don’t you know,’ her voice trembled suddenly in a passionate plea she could not hide, ‘don’t yo know that there are things, in the best of us, which no outside hand should dare to touch? Things sacred because, and only because, one can say: ‘This is mine’? Don’t you know that we live only for ourselves, the best of us do, those who are worthy of it? Don’t you know that there is something is us which must not be touched by any state, by any collective, by any number of millions?’” (89)
“‘I don’t want to fight for the people, I don’t want to fight against the people, I don’t want to hear of the people. I want to be left alone — to live.’” (90)
“She said ‘no’ to the words he spoke, and ‘yes’ to the voice that spoke them.”
Isn’t that how it always happens...
how is it that we become enchantsed by those who perchance shouldn’t hold such power over us? but they do, and their hold is strong...
and oh, how we love them. and how easy it is to lose ourselves to them.
La symphonie marocaine
November 1
La symphonie marocaine
“It’s hard to see so beautiful a woman when I’ve one foot on the earth and one in the graveyard.”
“Balahcen, some men never die.”
“It is true. People exist and are the living-dead.”
“Now I am astounded when I hear that some Arabs and some Israelis died.
They were men who died.”
“Man in rotten, but he has something inside which is shining.
Life is nice
The world is wonderful
Beauty is there
It’s hidden somewhere inside of us
I close my eyes, and it is here.
Man in wealthy of the beauty of the love he holds in his heart.
Men are the keynotes of the symphony.”
10:45 am (ignoring the film for a pause to write)
communal striving for a common goal not only of attaining harmony and beauty, but of reaching that point of transcendence where you’re not even there anymore.
earth falls away, your body moves by itself, trained for this purpose. self floats away, carried on the river of sound, leaving behind the worries and cares of this difficult existence.
music reminds us that there is something such as beauty, something such as grace. something more than being stuck in this café, contained and defined by the vicissitudes of being, from the trials of living.
through music we are able to let go of living, and to feel alive.
i remember sitting down on the wooden bench, settling my hands on the keys, letting them rest there. sometimes i would wait minutes before depressing a key, just breathing, clearing my mind, waiting for that feeling of embodiment when the piece becomes me and i become it.
the final breath exhaled, i let the weight of my arms settle into the instrument, and sound begins to waft out of it and around the room.
i melt away, at once fully absorbed in the memory of notes on page and gone, somewhere else entirely. that is the brilliance of music and of being a musician: senses are so heightened that one can be there and not there, and in all places at once.
this is why artistry is a gift of god to man, because it allows us to feel the soaring ecstasy of being uncontained by body and thought. and when that moment of artistry passes, we are comfortably returned to our embodied selves.
al-hamdulilah. ¹¬¬ v°o«[
the hard work and dedication of our bodies and minds are rewarded by an escape from embodiment. god’s grace allows us to forget, from time to time, that we are human. that we are “rotten” and plagued by the ability to hurt and be hurt.
and god speaks to us, and the music reminds us
“man is rotten, but he has something inside which is shining.
man is wealthy of the beauty of the love he holds in his heart
men are the keynotes of the symphony.”
la symphonie marocaine
La symphonie marocaine
“It’s hard to see so beautiful a woman when I’ve one foot on the earth and one in the graveyard.”
“Balahcen, some men never die.”
“It is true. People exist and are the living-dead.”
“Now I am astounded when I hear that some Arabs and some Israelis died.
They were men who died.”
“Man in rotten, but he has something inside which is shining.
Life is nice
The world is wonderful
Beauty is there
It’s hidden somewhere inside of us
I close my eyes, and it is here.
Man in wealthy of the beauty of the love he holds in his heart.
Men are the keynotes of the symphony.”
10:45 am (ignoring the film for a pause to write)
communal striving for a common goal not only of attaining harmony and beauty, but of reaching that point of transcendence where you’re not even there anymore.
earth falls away, your body moves by itself, trained for this purpose. self floats away, carried on the river of sound, leaving behind the worries and cares of this difficult existence.
music reminds us that there is something such as beauty, something such as grace. something more than being stuck in this café, contained and defined by the vicissitudes of being, from the trials of living.
through music we are able to let go of living, and to feel alive.
i remember sitting down on the wooden bench, settling my hands on the keys, letting them rest there. sometimes i would wait minutes before depressing a key, just breathing, clearing my mind, waiting for that feeling of embodiment when the piece becomes me and i become it.
the final breath exhaled, i let the weight of my arms settle into the instrument, and sound begins to waft out of it and around the room.
i melt away, at once fully absorbed in the memory of notes on page and gone, somewhere else entirely. that is the brilliance of music and of being a musician: senses are so heightened that one can be there and not there, and in all places at once.
this is why artistry is a gift of god to man, because it allows us to feel the soaring ecstasy of being uncontained by body and thought. and when that moment of artistry passes, we are comfortably returned to our embodied selves.
al-hamdulilah. ¹¬¬ v°o«[
the hard work and dedication of our bodies and minds are rewarded by an escape from embodiment. god’s grace allows us to forget, from time to time, that we are human. that we are “rotten” and plagued by the ability to hurt and be hurt.
and god speaks to us, and the music reminds us
“man is rotten, but he has something inside which is shining.
man is wealthy of the beauty of the love he holds in his heart
men are the keynotes of the symphony.”
la symphonie marocaine
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