Click here to view our Picture GalleryMorocco - May 22- 28, 2006
By Jill Slutzker - Project Ambassador
May 22, 2006
This is certainly a trip of firsts. My first time in Morocco, first time to step foot on the continent of Africa, first time to hear Arabic spoken by native speakers, which is particularly exciting for me since I began studying Arabic in the fall. From the very minute of our departure from JFK airport in New York on Royal Air Maroc, I am soaking in every detail- the passengers, their clothes, the plane food, the ease with which the flight attendants slide in and out of French, English, and Arabic as they talk to the travelers on the flight. I'd love to be that multilingual!
I flip through the complementary flight magazine and notice that from the front cover all the articles and ads are in French. From the back cover the magazine features the same articles and ads in Arabic. As the engines start up I am told to buckle my seat belt in three different languages. I can already tell Morocco will be rich in diverse cultural influences. I settle in for the seven hour flight, anticipating the hundreds more little discoveries I'll make on my week-long visit to the Jeanne d'Arc school in Morocco's capital city, Rabat.
May 23, 2006
Just as I am getting off the plane, I speak to a Palestinian man who has been living in the United States for over 20 years. He is visiting friends in Morocco. He tells me that he has trouble understanding the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. It is very different from what is spoken in the Middle East, he explains. Later, Project Ambassador Soumaya explains to me that "everyone understands Egyptian Arabic," because that is where most Arabic movies are made. She says that in Saudi Arabia spoken Arabic is the most classical, or formal, and the farther away a country is from Saudi Arabia, the more its dialect changes. As the trip goes on, I am thrilled on the few occasions that I recognize a single word of Arabic. My beginner language skills coupled with the unfamiliar Moroccan dialect leave me pretty clueless! Jess and I arrive in Casablanca airport and then board a train for Rabat, a couple hours away. I do my best to keep my sleepy eyes open as landscapes zoom by my window. Occasionally there are people walking alongside the tracks, but for the most part there are fields, grazing animals, and run down buildings.
One of the things I really take notice of on my first day in Rabat is how global, how blended the city seems. Alongside Muslim women in scarves are teenage students in jeans. Cafes serving French-style crepes sit next to McDonald’s - there are three in Rabat. Every road sign and nearly every advertisement is in French and Arabic. At the Jeanne d'Arc school, students must take Islamic education classes as mandated by the Moroccan government, even though it was originally founded as a French Catholic school. At the French high school I visit, the student body seems to represent every country from Morocco to France to Spain to Germany and more. Because Rabat is the capital of Morocco, many ambassadors' children attend these French schools, giving them a stronger international feel. I learn that Muslim students who choose to wear veils or scarves must remove them at the door of school because the French government does not allow displays of religion in school. Cultures seem to come together here in an interesting give, take, and blend relationship.
Downtown the architecture in the government district of the city is distinctly French, a remnant of the French protectorate here from 1912-1956. Yet amidst these buildings are mosques, which sound the call of prayer five times a day. Soumaya tells me that Moroccans have a plural identity, which can't be defined in one concise word. This is a country where one can be Arab, Berber, Moroccan, African, French, Muslim, Christian, or any combination of any of these. The word "Moroccan" is full of meaning.
Today is our first visit to the Jeanne d'Arc school. The buildings are white and surround an open pavement courtyard. The group of 12 students we met are 12 and 13 years old. Their classes are taught in French and Arabic and, like the flight attendants, these students slide easily in and out of the two languages as they chat with one another. After an introduction (using my dormant French skills) we are all excited for the week's events. Tomorrow is One World Youth Project's AIDS Awareness Day. Soumaya has many activities planned for the day.
May 24, 2006
In my own journal I wrote an entry for today all in French. After speaking with the students in French yesterday and today, my mind was functioning in French mode! Languages have always fascinated me. Sometimes it seems they are yet another barrier to overcome. But really beyond simple linguistics, we can all be saying the same thing with different words.
AIDS Awareness Day
Today was One World Youth Project's AIDS Awareness Day. The OWYP students at the Jeanne d'Arc school pasted red paper ribbons for AIDS awareness around the courtyard of their school. Against each white column of the school courtyard hung a bright red ribbon. The contrast made the ribbons impossible to ignore. Our message was seen as well as heard. Across the wall hung "SIDA"(Syndrome d'Immuno Deficience Acquise) in red letters, and posters were posted announcing the day and information about the AIDS epidemic. Two by two the students went into the classrooms of their peers and educated them on the AIDS epidemic and, in their own words, why it is crucial to show support and solidarity in the fight against AIDS. The students also wrote letters of support to people living with HIV or AIDS. The day certainly had a very serious undertone, but the laughter and hard work of the students reminded me of how much hope, optimism, and dedication there is among young people in the fight against AIDS.
The Medina
The medina is the old section of the city where street markets, or souqs, run daily. During our week we would visit it several times. The old clay/stone walls of the median created a maze of narrow walkways lined with merchants. Everywhere you look, there is color. Clothing hang from the ceilings of tiny shops, just little outlets in the stretch of wall really. Merchants sit on stools or stand outside of their shops beckoning potential buyers. Tables are stacked with traditional Moroccan teapots that glint in the sunlight, which occasionally sneaks through the crowded narrow walkways. Everything from jewelry to underwear to laundry detergent to Moroccan souvenir key chains is on sale. As I turned a corner in the medina, the sweetest smell caught me off guard- delicious Moroccan pastries. Across the way vendors sold fresh mint for the can't-do without-it, deliciously sugary Moroccan mint tea that I came to love during my time in Rabat. As I turned another corner I was again stopped in my tracks by a certain smell, thought this time not as pleasant. We'd entered the fish and meat section of the medina. Juts as the t-shirts and scarves had hung in show in the other area of the medina, here strings of meat and entrails hung from the ceilings. Like I said, any imaginable purchase could be made in the medina.
As I walked along the medina pathways, taking in sights and smells, I also picked up on the sounds. Rarely did I hear French, unless from a passing tourist. Instead the merchants and customers spoke Arabic. The music sounding from an occasional shop was Arabic music. Merchants spoke French to me when I asked them about an item, but among themselves they conversed in Arabic. Whereas among the students and in the government district I had predominately heard French, in the medina Rabat seemed to totally transform into a truly Arab city. Again, the cultural mix in this one city fascinated me.
May 25, 2006
The best news of the day- no tsunami! That sounds crazy, but in the past weeks a city-wide rumor had spread in Rabat that on May 25 there would be an Atlantic Ocean tsunami that would wipe out much of the city! Apparently the rumor began on the internet and spread like wild fire, though few people took it seriously. In the few days we have been in Rabat the mock tsunami has become a running black humor joke "We'll work on the documentary on Friday...if our video equipment is still dry of course!" I even heard that some parents had moved their families to Marrakech, an inland city, in anticipation. But all jokes and rumors aside, at the end of the day, I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps those rumors had gone to my head a little too!
Declaration
Today at the Jeanne d'Arc school the students wrote their declaration. This is one of my favorite things to watch happen. You can practically see the wheels turning in students' heads as they search for just the right words to let the world know who they are and what they think. In a couple hours, from the ideas of a dozen students, one honest and genuine piece of writing emerges. Each declaration is unique and, having witnessed its creation, I can detect the identities of the students in its finished product.
View from the Top
This afternoon I saw one of the breathtaking views of Rabat I will keep with me for a while. When someone asks me to describe Morocco, this picture will come to mind. Jess, Soumaya and I emerged from the labyrinth of the medina to a busy main street. Across the street was an old fortress, clay-colored, geometric and daunting. The fortress overlooked the river to Sale, a neighboring town. Outside the fortress a dozen boys from ages 6 to 16 were playing soccer. (A sign of the "football fever" that seems to affect everyone outside the U.S.!)
As we walked up the steep hill of a street, cars zooming by on one side and soccer balls bouncing off a centuries-old fortress on the other, all I could see was the sky and the road ten feet ahead of me. Then, suddenly, at the top of the hill the view opened up to a panorama of rolling hillsides dotted with cemeteries, a vast Atlantic ocean, and behind me a bird's eye view of Rabat. The maze of the medina overflowing with fish, trinkets, and tourists blended into a sea of red and white buildings. Behind me to the left I could still see the town of Sale across the river. The fortress and the impromptu roadside soccer match were faintly in sight. I turned around again and let the never-ending blue of the Atlantic take over for a while. It struck me that seven hours of air travel away, in a land that just four days ago was a mystery to me, the same ocean water that I had, for years, watched roll in and out on the beaches of South Carolina also lapped at this hillside in Rabat.
Scarves
Tonight I had a conversation with Soumaya about the Muslim practice of wearing a head scarf for women. I have observed that there is no typical scarf-wearer, no sure-fire characteristic that identities who will and won't practice the custom. I have seen groups of teenage girls walking through Rabat in the trendiest of fashions, some sporting matching scarves, the others not. I have seen mothers wearing scarves while their daughters do not. I have seen business woman with and without scarves, mothers with and without scarves. I have even been told of women who do not strictly adhere to the teachings of Islam but nonetheless opt to wear the scarf. The unpredictability of this practice at first perplexed me. However, after talking to Soumaya about the scarf, I realized that women and girls sometimes have reasons beyond religion to wear the scarf. Modesty, for one. The scarf is a symbol of purity, a valuable quality in a potential wife. Societal pressure can also influence the decision. Sometimes, it is simply easier to wear a headscarf and blend in then to stand out. Freedom is another reason. Counter-intuitively, the scarf can be liberating. It frees women of the vanity of having to worry about and spend time on their hairstyles. Though this may seem somewhat superficial at first, it made a lot of sense to me. How many hours have I wasted over the years standing in front of a mirror with a brush and bobby pins? Did image matter that much? Could a great weight be lifted if I did not have this feature to fuss over? Would I feel liberated? And, of course, there are religious reasons. Morocco is a predominately Islamic society with an Islamic government. Of course, for all the reasons to wear the scarf there are just as many not to. Thus, as I observed, there is not magic formula to predict who practices the custom and why!
May 26, 2006
Today at the Jeanne d'Arc school the students filmed their documentary and assembled their cultural exchange box, which they painted with the Sahara, a camel, the Moroccan flag, and a greeting in French, English and Arabic.
Chella
This afternoon, we visited a place called Chella. Chella is a site of both Arab and Roman ruins. The ruins here were less preserved than, say the Forbidden City in China or other museum-like historical sites, but there was something so natural about the beauty of this place. Something about being able to touch a stone carved in Latin, or run your fingers over the edge of a centuries old hamam (bath), makes the history and beauty of a place radiate. The Roman ruins lay in a large open area. Segments of decaying columns spread across the ground. Stones with missing chunks displayed lines of hardly visible Latin script.. The bottom half of a statue, robes and sandals still intact, stood torso less. Perhaps it was inappropriate, but I posed behind the statue as its upper half. I held my arms in the most Caesar-esque position I could imagine. Caesar would have been so lucky to have such fine arms! The Arab ruins were shaped by partial stone walls forming outlines of rooms. Some walls had turrets; others were opened with tiny windows. The sky was our roof. The ground we walked on was rough and uneven, stone and dirt. In one section of the Arab ruins the ground was covered in five foot long stone rectangles and strategically placed stones- a burial ground. I was surprised by how tiny these tombs seemed. Had we grown as a species? Were these children's graves? In one room we could make out a half dozen individual hamams, or baths, lining the wall. I can just imagine the sultan's wife and daughters relaxing in fresh scented water as they gossip over the day's events. Then came the gardens- small pebble pathways swirling through a sea of green. As one pathway came to an end I noticed a small dirt path leading up to the wall. As I got close enough to peak over the wall, I saw a vast hillside of livestock, vegetation, and the most perfect pallet of greens, yellows, and the colors of earth. While this view was breathtaking, nothing compares to the hilarious, almost seemingly engineered "bird apartments" that caught our sights. While walking down the hill towards the ruins I noticed incredibly large birds circling the area. Looking up, I saw these same incredibly large birds stationed contentedly in stacked lollipop-like trees, one on top of the other. It was as if a gardener long ago had been commissioned to plant a "split-level flat" for the royal family's birds. The only thing missing was a doorman and an elevator.
May 27, 2006
Oudaya
I've never been to the Greek Isles, but today I saw a place that I was sure possessed the same charm and beauty. Today we visited a very old area of Rabat called Oudaya. The streets were so narrow I could almost reach my fingertips from one house to the other across the street! Traipsing down the narrow winding paths of this little village, I certainly felt like Lena in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (a character who spends an exotic summer in Greece in one of my favorite books and movies!) But of course, Morocco is just as intriguing as Greece! The walls of the houses and buildings in Oudaya were painted a light blue from the ground to about five feet up and then were whitewashed to the roof. Their wooden doors were beautifully designed and elaborately carved. Flowers and greenery adorned open windows and doorsteps. The uneven stone roads weaving among the houses were only accessible by foot, and by foot we explored Oudaya, turn by turn, under arches and over tiny hills. The main street of Oudaya was, like the medina, a haven for merchants. Every few minutes we passed by a group of singers wearing colorful costumes, bright hats shaped like thimbles with tassels on top. They sang to the beat of a drum and hand bells. Their tasseled heads swung rhythmically to the beat. Also along this street, women sat with henna ready to embellish the arms of any willing tourist. The main street of Oudaya led us to a crowded ocean overlook. Following the narrow foot paths of another street, we came upon a scenic outdoor cafe. We sat down at the cafe along with, it seemed, every other tourist in Rabat! We took a small blue round table along the wall lined with one continuous built-in bench. The wall overlooked the sand river bank and the town of Sale. It was beautiful.
After a few minutes though, I opted to leave my river vista for another outlook- the goings-on in this crowded cafe. A group of twenty or so Italians crowded around a few small blue tables, chatting animatedly. Next to us a Moroccan mother sat with her own aging mother and her teenage son. In the corner a young Arab couple sat, she with her hair covered. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans jacket. Soon the dynamic of the scene changed as a swarm of tourists entered-fair-skinned, weary, and all sporting cameras. Determined to capture that scenic overlook on film, they unabashedly approached our table, coming within inches of us to steal that beautiful image forever in film.
I loved this moment. Different voices, accents, types of dress, skin colors all floated in and out of this scene. Moroccans, foreigners, tourists, lovers, Muslims, nonbelievers- all occupying the same space on the same flawless afternoon under a blue blue sky. All of us were united, however briefly or remotely, by our small blue tables and identical glasses of mint tea atop. I sat content, taking it in, with no place in the world I'd rather be at that moment. Just listening as a dozen languages rolled off tongues. Cats that famously roamed the city curled their backs and basked in the afternoon sun and breeze. We all sat there together enjoying some simple shared pleasures. This is what I will take away with me.
May 28, 2006
Fish-perfume, Salt and Sand
Today, on our last day in Morocco, we went to the beach. I’ll remember the fisherman and the fish the most. While one side of the beach was full of families, soccer players, sandcastles and umbrellas, the other half smelled of fresh catch and fishing boats. Dozens of small boats were grounded upon this stretch of beach. Many of the boats were piled to the brim with shiny silver and wide-eyed fish. Fish perfumed the air. The scales, baby sharks, and fins rolling in and out with the tide attested to the fishermen's victories. My curiosity at the whole business attracted the attention of some of these fishermen. I don't imagine that many sunbathers often wander into this fish-laden domain!
Parting thoughts
My final thoughts on Morocco- I want to return. There are places you go that surprise you, those that you fall in love with, those that possess something unnameable that seems to urge you to continue the journey and discover more. Morocco, for me, is all three. I don't know exactly why this country appeals to me so much. Perhaps it is the blend of cultures or the promise of intrigue in its rich, long history. Maybe it is its uniqueness. I cannot imagine another place with quite the character of this one. I do not know what it is exactly that moves me here, but I do not that I will come again and try to find it out. I will see Oudaya, Chella, the Jeanne d'Arc school, the medina, all of it again and it will be just as wonderful as the first time.
- Jill Slutzker
May 22, 2006
This is certainly a trip of firsts. My first time in Morocco, first time to step foot on the continent of Africa, first time to hear Arabic spoken by native speakers, which is particularly exciting for me since I began studying Arabic in the fall. From the very minute of our departure from JFK airport in New York on Royal Air Maroc, I am soaking in every detail- the passengers, their clothes, the plane food, the ease with which the flight attendants slide in and out of French, English, and Arabic as they talk to the travelers on the flight. I'd love to be that multilingual!
I flip through the complementary flight magazine and notice that from the front cover all the articles and ads are in French. From the back cover the magazine features the same articles and ads in Arabic. As the engines start up I am told to buckle my seat belt in three different languages. I can already tell Morocco will be rich in diverse cultural influences. I settle in for the seven hour flight, anticipating the hundreds more little discoveries I'll make on my week-long visit to the Jeanne d'Arc school in Morocco's capital city, Rabat.
May 23, 2006
Just as I am getting off the plane, I speak to a Palestinian man who has been living in the United States for over 20 years. He is visiting friends in Morocco. He tells me that he has trouble understanding the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. It is very different from what is spoken in the Middle East, he explains. Later, Project Ambassador Soumaya explains to me that "everyone understands Egyptian Arabic," because that is where most Arabic movies are made. She says that in Saudi Arabia spoken Arabic is the most classical, or formal, and the farther away a country is from Saudi Arabia, the more its dialect changes. As the trip goes on, I am thrilled on the few occasions that I recognize a single word of Arabic. My beginner language skills coupled with the unfamiliar Moroccan dialect leave me pretty clueless! Jess and I arrive in Casablanca airport and then board a train for Rabat, a couple hours away. I do my best to keep my sleepy eyes open as landscapes zoom by my window. Occasionally there are people walking alongside the tracks, but for the most part there are fields, grazing animals, and run down buildings.
One of the things I really take notice of on my first day in Rabat is how global, how blended the city seems. Alongside Muslim women in scarves are teenage students in jeans. Cafes serving French-style crepes sit next to McDonald’s - there are three in Rabat. Every road sign and nearly every advertisement is in French and Arabic. At the Jeanne d'Arc school, students must take Islamic education classes as mandated by the Moroccan government, even though it was originally founded as a French Catholic school. At the French high school I visit, the student body seems to represent every country from Morocco to France to Spain to Germany and more. Because Rabat is the capital of Morocco, many ambassadors' children attend these French schools, giving them a stronger international feel. I learn that Muslim students who choose to wear veils or scarves must remove them at the door of school because the French government does not allow displays of religion in school. Cultures seem to come together here in an interesting give, take, and blend relationship.
Downtown the architecture in the government district of the city is distinctly French, a remnant of the French protectorate here from 1912-1956. Yet amidst these buildings are mosques, which sound the call of prayer five times a day. Soumaya tells me that Moroccans have a plural identity, which can't be defined in one concise word. This is a country where one can be Arab, Berber, Moroccan, African, French, Muslim, Christian, or any combination of any of these. The word "Moroccan" is full of meaning.
Today is our first visit to the Jeanne d'Arc school. The buildings are white and surround an open pavement courtyard. The group of 12 students we met are 12 and 13 years old. Their classes are taught in French and Arabic and, like the flight attendants, these students slide easily in and out of the two languages as they chat with one another. After an introduction (using my dormant French skills) we are all excited for the week's events. Tomorrow is One World Youth Project's AIDS Awareness Day. Soumaya has many activities planned for the day.
May 24, 2006
In my own journal I wrote an entry for today all in French. After speaking with the students in French yesterday and today, my mind was functioning in French mode! Languages have always fascinated me. Sometimes it seems they are yet another barrier to overcome. But really beyond simple linguistics, we can all be saying the same thing with different words.
AIDS Awareness Day
Today was One World Youth Project's AIDS Awareness Day. The OWYP students at the Jeanne d'Arc school pasted red paper ribbons for AIDS awareness around the courtyard of their school. Against each white column of the school courtyard hung a bright red ribbon. The contrast made the ribbons impossible to ignore. Our message was seen as well as heard. Across the wall hung "SIDA"(Syndrome d'Immuno Deficience Acquise) in red letters, and posters were posted announcing the day and information about the AIDS epidemic. Two by two the students went into the classrooms of their peers and educated them on the AIDS epidemic and, in their own words, why it is crucial to show support and solidarity in the fight against AIDS. The students also wrote letters of support to people living with HIV or AIDS. The day certainly had a very serious undertone, but the laughter and hard work of the students reminded me of how much hope, optimism, and dedication there is among young people in the fight against AIDS.
The Medina
The medina is the old section of the city where street markets, or souqs, run daily. During our week we would visit it several times. The old clay/stone walls of the median created a maze of narrow walkways lined with merchants. Everywhere you look, there is color. Clothing hang from the ceilings of tiny shops, just little outlets in the stretch of wall really. Merchants sit on stools or stand outside of their shops beckoning potential buyers. Tables are stacked with traditional Moroccan teapots that glint in the sunlight, which occasionally sneaks through the crowded narrow walkways. Everything from jewelry to underwear to laundry detergent to Moroccan souvenir key chains is on sale. As I turned a corner in the medina, the sweetest smell caught me off guard- delicious Moroccan pastries. Across the way vendors sold fresh mint for the can't-do without-it, deliciously sugary Moroccan mint tea that I came to love during my time in Rabat. As I turned another corner I was again stopped in my tracks by a certain smell, thought this time not as pleasant. We'd entered the fish and meat section of the medina. Juts as the t-shirts and scarves had hung in show in the other area of the medina, here strings of meat and entrails hung from the ceilings. Like I said, any imaginable purchase could be made in the medina.
As I walked along the medina pathways, taking in sights and smells, I also picked up on the sounds. Rarely did I hear French, unless from a passing tourist. Instead the merchants and customers spoke Arabic. The music sounding from an occasional shop was Arabic music. Merchants spoke French to me when I asked them about an item, but among themselves they conversed in Arabic. Whereas among the students and in the government district I had predominately heard French, in the medina Rabat seemed to totally transform into a truly Arab city. Again, the cultural mix in this one city fascinated me.
May 25, 2006
The best news of the day- no tsunami! That sounds crazy, but in the past weeks a city-wide rumor had spread in Rabat that on May 25 there would be an Atlantic Ocean tsunami that would wipe out much of the city! Apparently the rumor began on the internet and spread like wild fire, though few people took it seriously. In the few days we have been in Rabat the mock tsunami has become a running black humor joke "We'll work on the documentary on Friday...if our video equipment is still dry of course!" I even heard that some parents had moved their families to Marrakech, an inland city, in anticipation. But all jokes and rumors aside, at the end of the day, I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps those rumors had gone to my head a little too!
Declaration
Today at the Jeanne d'Arc school the students wrote their declaration. This is one of my favorite things to watch happen. You can practically see the wheels turning in students' heads as they search for just the right words to let the world know who they are and what they think. In a couple hours, from the ideas of a dozen students, one honest and genuine piece of writing emerges. Each declaration is unique and, having witnessed its creation, I can detect the identities of the students in its finished product.
View from the Top
This afternoon I saw one of the breathtaking views of Rabat I will keep with me for a while. When someone asks me to describe Morocco, this picture will come to mind. Jess, Soumaya and I emerged from the labyrinth of the medina to a busy main street. Across the street was an old fortress, clay-colored, geometric and daunting. The fortress overlooked the river to Sale, a neighboring town. Outside the fortress a dozen boys from ages 6 to 16 were playing soccer. (A sign of the "football fever" that seems to affect everyone outside the U.S.!)
As we walked up the steep hill of a street, cars zooming by on one side and soccer balls bouncing off a centuries-old fortress on the other, all I could see was the sky and the road ten feet ahead of me. Then, suddenly, at the top of the hill the view opened up to a panorama of rolling hillsides dotted with cemeteries, a vast Atlantic ocean, and behind me a bird's eye view of Rabat. The maze of the medina overflowing with fish, trinkets, and tourists blended into a sea of red and white buildings. Behind me to the left I could still see the town of Sale across the river. The fortress and the impromptu roadside soccer match were faintly in sight. I turned around again and let the never-ending blue of the Atlantic take over for a while. It struck me that seven hours of air travel away, in a land that just four days ago was a mystery to me, the same ocean water that I had, for years, watched roll in and out on the beaches of South Carolina also lapped at this hillside in Rabat.
Scarves
Tonight I had a conversation with Soumaya about the Muslim practice of wearing a head scarf for women. I have observed that there is no typical scarf-wearer, no sure-fire characteristic that identities who will and won't practice the custom. I have seen groups of teenage girls walking through Rabat in the trendiest of fashions, some sporting matching scarves, the others not. I have seen mothers wearing scarves while their daughters do not. I have seen business woman with and without scarves, mothers with and without scarves. I have even been told of women who do not strictly adhere to the teachings of Islam but nonetheless opt to wear the scarf. The unpredictability of this practice at first perplexed me. However, after talking to Soumaya about the scarf, I realized that women and girls sometimes have reasons beyond religion to wear the scarf. Modesty, for one. The scarf is a symbol of purity, a valuable quality in a potential wife. Societal pressure can also influence the decision. Sometimes, it is simply easier to wear a headscarf and blend in then to stand out. Freedom is another reason. Counter-intuitively, the scarf can be liberating. It frees women of the vanity of having to worry about and spend time on their hairstyles. Though this may seem somewhat superficial at first, it made a lot of sense to me. How many hours have I wasted over the years standing in front of a mirror with a brush and bobby pins? Did image matter that much? Could a great weight be lifted if I did not have this feature to fuss over? Would I feel liberated? And, of course, there are religious reasons. Morocco is a predominately Islamic society with an Islamic government. Of course, for all the reasons to wear the scarf there are just as many not to. Thus, as I observed, there is not magic formula to predict who practices the custom and why!
May 26, 2006
Today at the Jeanne d'Arc school the students filmed their documentary and assembled their cultural exchange box, which they painted with the Sahara, a camel, the Moroccan flag, and a greeting in French, English and Arabic.
Chella
This afternoon, we visited a place called Chella. Chella is a site of both Arab and Roman ruins. The ruins here were less preserved than, say the Forbidden City in China or other museum-like historical sites, but there was something so natural about the beauty of this place. Something about being able to touch a stone carved in Latin, or run your fingers over the edge of a centuries old hamam (bath), makes the history and beauty of a place radiate. The Roman ruins lay in a large open area. Segments of decaying columns spread across the ground. Stones with missing chunks displayed lines of hardly visible Latin script.. The bottom half of a statue, robes and sandals still intact, stood torso less. Perhaps it was inappropriate, but I posed behind the statue as its upper half. I held my arms in the most Caesar-esque position I could imagine. Caesar would have been so lucky to have such fine arms! The Arab ruins were shaped by partial stone walls forming outlines of rooms. Some walls had turrets; others were opened with tiny windows. The sky was our roof. The ground we walked on was rough and uneven, stone and dirt. In one section of the Arab ruins the ground was covered in five foot long stone rectangles and strategically placed stones- a burial ground. I was surprised by how tiny these tombs seemed. Had we grown as a species? Were these children's graves? In one room we could make out a half dozen individual hamams, or baths, lining the wall. I can just imagine the sultan's wife and daughters relaxing in fresh scented water as they gossip over the day's events. Then came the gardens- small pebble pathways swirling through a sea of green. As one pathway came to an end I noticed a small dirt path leading up to the wall. As I got close enough to peak over the wall, I saw a vast hillside of livestock, vegetation, and the most perfect pallet of greens, yellows, and the colors of earth. While this view was breathtaking, nothing compares to the hilarious, almost seemingly engineered "bird apartments" that caught our sights. While walking down the hill towards the ruins I noticed incredibly large birds circling the area. Looking up, I saw these same incredibly large birds stationed contentedly in stacked lollipop-like trees, one on top of the other. It was as if a gardener long ago had been commissioned to plant a "split-level flat" for the royal family's birds. The only thing missing was a doorman and an elevator.
May 27, 2006
Oudaya
I've never been to the Greek Isles, but today I saw a place that I was sure possessed the same charm and beauty. Today we visited a very old area of Rabat called Oudaya. The streets were so narrow I could almost reach my fingertips from one house to the other across the street! Traipsing down the narrow winding paths of this little village, I certainly felt like Lena in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (a character who spends an exotic summer in Greece in one of my favorite books and movies!) But of course, Morocco is just as intriguing as Greece! The walls of the houses and buildings in Oudaya were painted a light blue from the ground to about five feet up and then were whitewashed to the roof. Their wooden doors were beautifully designed and elaborately carved. Flowers and greenery adorned open windows and doorsteps. The uneven stone roads weaving among the houses were only accessible by foot, and by foot we explored Oudaya, turn by turn, under arches and over tiny hills. The main street of Oudaya was, like the medina, a haven for merchants. Every few minutes we passed by a group of singers wearing colorful costumes, bright hats shaped like thimbles with tassels on top. They sang to the beat of a drum and hand bells. Their tasseled heads swung rhythmically to the beat. Also along this street, women sat with henna ready to embellish the arms of any willing tourist. The main street of Oudaya led us to a crowded ocean overlook. Following the narrow foot paths of another street, we came upon a scenic outdoor cafe. We sat down at the cafe along with, it seemed, every other tourist in Rabat! We took a small blue round table along the wall lined with one continuous built-in bench. The wall overlooked the sand river bank and the town of Sale. It was beautiful.
After a few minutes though, I opted to leave my river vista for another outlook- the goings-on in this crowded cafe. A group of twenty or so Italians crowded around a few small blue tables, chatting animatedly. Next to us a Moroccan mother sat with her own aging mother and her teenage son. In the corner a young Arab couple sat, she with her hair covered. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans jacket. Soon the dynamic of the scene changed as a swarm of tourists entered-fair-skinned, weary, and all sporting cameras. Determined to capture that scenic overlook on film, they unabashedly approached our table, coming within inches of us to steal that beautiful image forever in film.
I loved this moment. Different voices, accents, types of dress, skin colors all floated in and out of this scene. Moroccans, foreigners, tourists, lovers, Muslims, nonbelievers- all occupying the same space on the same flawless afternoon under a blue blue sky. All of us were united, however briefly or remotely, by our small blue tables and identical glasses of mint tea atop. I sat content, taking it in, with no place in the world I'd rather be at that moment. Just listening as a dozen languages rolled off tongues. Cats that famously roamed the city curled their backs and basked in the afternoon sun and breeze. We all sat there together enjoying some simple shared pleasures. This is what I will take away with me.
May 28, 2006
Fish-perfume, Salt and Sand
Today, on our last day in Morocco, we went to the beach. I’ll remember the fisherman and the fish the most. While one side of the beach was full of families, soccer players, sandcastles and umbrellas, the other half smelled of fresh catch and fishing boats. Dozens of small boats were grounded upon this stretch of beach. Many of the boats were piled to the brim with shiny silver and wide-eyed fish. Fish perfumed the air. The scales, baby sharks, and fins rolling in and out with the tide attested to the fishermen's victories. My curiosity at the whole business attracted the attention of some of these fishermen. I don't imagine that many sunbathers often wander into this fish-laden domain!
Parting thoughts
My final thoughts on Morocco- I want to return. There are places you go that surprise you, those that you fall in love with, those that possess something unnameable that seems to urge you to continue the journey and discover more. Morocco, for me, is all three. I don't know exactly why this country appeals to me so much. Perhaps it is the blend of cultures or the promise of intrigue in its rich, long history. Maybe it is its uniqueness. I cannot imagine another place with quite the character of this one. I do not know what it is exactly that moves me here, but I do not that I will come again and try to find it out. I will see Oudaya, Chella, the Jeanne d'Arc school, the medina, all of it again and it will be just as wonderful as the first time.
- Jill Slutzker
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