view down the road as seen from my roofSaturday, August 29, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Several nights ago I sat alone at home while dinner cooked, texting members of my first host family to congratulate them on the start of Ramadan. Outside, the glowing streetlamps illuminated a seemingly abandoned neighborhood-- the normal buzz and rumbling of passing motorbikes and voices was replaced with absolute stillness as people retreated indoors to break the day's fast together.
I thought of last year in Itzer, nine people packed into a tiny room around a table on top of which a feast was presented, all quietly listening for calls of "Allahu Akbar" to echo their way into the house. I recalled the discolored walls, the hiss of a pressure cooker from another room, the incomprehensible activity taking place on the television, the frenzy of hands reaching forward to grab and pluck, the almost unbearably awkward task of eating amongst them, and the dreamlike, removed sensation of really being there, here in Morocco.
As the vegetables sizzled in my kitchen, I felt a twinge of melancholy-- I missed that rush of unpredictable moments, the confused and broken interactions, the chilled air, the smell of burning cedar (a scent that will likely forever take me back to that time), that grand, invigorating newness of it all that has somehow, bit by bit, been replaced by normalcy. I have privacy, independence, and all the time to myself I could desire-- the things I initially craved so much. People in the street often ask me, "Are you used to it here yet?" and it's strange now to answer with an honest "yes".
There is something compelling in witnessing the communal suffering of Ramadan. It's seeing first-hand the devotion and certainty in a people's relationship to their faith. I pass by workers mixing cement by hand and making bricks under the heat of the day, and I know that the thirst they must be feeling won't be relieved for hours to come, nor will the work. The persistent ache of hunger that I've only felt briefly and on rare occasions will be present with them for the next thirty days. The same for my good friends who take walks and muse cheerfully to pass the long daylight hours, and for the women, perhaps the toughest of them all. I hear no complaints, and those with whom I discuss Ramadan speak of it with reverence and gratitude. I stop briefly to chat with my vegetable man: "Are you hungry?" I ask, jokingly. "Hamdullah," he smiles-- "Thank God."
I thought of last year in Itzer, nine people packed into a tiny room around a table on top of which a feast was presented, all quietly listening for calls of "Allahu Akbar" to echo their way into the house. I recalled the discolored walls, the hiss of a pressure cooker from another room, the incomprehensible activity taking place on the television, the frenzy of hands reaching forward to grab and pluck, the almost unbearably awkward task of eating amongst them, and the dreamlike, removed sensation of really being there, here in Morocco.
As the vegetables sizzled in my kitchen, I felt a twinge of melancholy-- I missed that rush of unpredictable moments, the confused and broken interactions, the chilled air, the smell of burning cedar (a scent that will likely forever take me back to that time), that grand, invigorating newness of it all that has somehow, bit by bit, been replaced by normalcy. I have privacy, independence, and all the time to myself I could desire-- the things I initially craved so much. People in the street often ask me, "Are you used to it here yet?" and it's strange now to answer with an honest "yes".
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There is something compelling in witnessing the communal suffering of Ramadan. It's seeing first-hand the devotion and certainty in a people's relationship to their faith. I pass by workers mixing cement by hand and making bricks under the heat of the day, and I know that the thirst they must be feeling won't be relieved for hours to come, nor will the work. The persistent ache of hunger that I've only felt briefly and on rare occasions will be present with them for the next thirty days. The same for my good friends who take walks and muse cheerfully to pass the long daylight hours, and for the women, perhaps the toughest of them all. I hear no complaints, and those with whom I discuss Ramadan speak of it with reverence and gratitude. I stop briefly to chat with my vegetable man: "Are you hungry?" I ask, jokingly. "Hamdullah," he smiles-- "Thank God."
Friday, August 21, 2009
Get Your Ramadan On
Summer crawls on here in this sleepy corner of the world. Though still quite warm, it seems the worst of the heat has abated, cooling my blood from a rolling boil to a light simmer. It's refreshing; I can think and function again. I've even gone back to sleeping inside. I should be better prepared next summer, knowing what to expect and having some coping methods ready, the ones I figured out this year just a little too late.
Ramadan will begin either tomorrow or the next day (August 22 or 23), whenever the first sliver of the moon's crescent becomes visible in the night sky. I'm not sure how the official distinction is made, though I'd like to think that the Islamic world's top astronomers gather each night in an observatory hidden in some high hills, shoving one another out of the way for a turn at the telescope, each eager to spot it first and make the announcement via red telephone set.
Ramadan will begin either tomorrow or the next day (August 22 or 23), whenever the first sliver of the moon's crescent becomes visible in the night sky. I'm not sure how the official distinction is made, though I'd like to think that the Islamic world's top astronomers gather each night in an observatory hidden in some high hills, shoving one another out of the way for a turn at the telescope, each eager to spot it first and make the announcement via red telephone set.
Regardless of how that happens, what will follow is a month of abstaining from food, water, impure thoughts and activities, etc. during the daylight hours. Men won't smoke cigarettes and women will not wear makeup. Families will stay up late eating under the cover of night. People may get a tad grumpy.
I arrived during Ramadan last year (September 9th marks the one year anniversary of my first day in country-- holy crap) and I remember seeing the blank faces of men at cafés, sitting empty-handed behind empty tables, wearily passing the days. Though the idea of abstaining to such an extreme measure and then spending what would normally be your sleeping hours eating might not sound so appealing, most people here seem to anticipate it eagerly and with excitement. It's a time to realign oneself with proper attitudes and practices, a time to deepen one's relationship and devotion to God, and a time of charity and forgiveness.
I recall last year, living at my first host family's house in Itzer (Pantsville), waking up early for all-day language classes, hearing my poor host sister in the kitchen, having woken up even earlier to prepare breakfast for me, the heathen. I kid; they were always extremely sweet and respectful toward me in that regard, never pressuring or proselytizing. Though I'm not planning to fast this Ramadan, I'm interested to see how day-to-day life will be affected this time around, living independently in a stable and familiar environment, having adjusted more to the culture. I picture myself cooking meals, shutters closed, duct tape over the cracks in the windows to prevent the escape of any delicious aromas, chewing extra quietly in a makeshift bunker in the darkest corner of my house. Hopefully I can join a few of my friends and their families for some twilight breakfasts, though I think I will be passing on the pre-dawn dinner.
Look-- corn! Just like home.....
I arrived during Ramadan last year (September 9th marks the one year anniversary of my first day in country-- holy crap) and I remember seeing the blank faces of men at cafés, sitting empty-handed behind empty tables, wearily passing the days. Though the idea of abstaining to such an extreme measure and then spending what would normally be your sleeping hours eating might not sound so appealing, most people here seem to anticipate it eagerly and with excitement. It's a time to realign oneself with proper attitudes and practices, a time to deepen one's relationship and devotion to God, and a time of charity and forgiveness.
I recall last year, living at my first host family's house in Itzer (Pantsville), waking up early for all-day language classes, hearing my poor host sister in the kitchen, having woken up even earlier to prepare breakfast for me, the heathen. I kid; they were always extremely sweet and respectful toward me in that regard, never pressuring or proselytizing. Though I'm not planning to fast this Ramadan, I'm interested to see how day-to-day life will be affected this time around, living independently in a stable and familiar environment, having adjusted more to the culture. I picture myself cooking meals, shutters closed, duct tape over the cracks in the windows to prevent the escape of any delicious aromas, chewing extra quietly in a makeshift bunker in the darkest corner of my house. Hopefully I can join a few of my friends and their families for some twilight breakfasts, though I think I will be passing on the pre-dawn dinner.
Look-- corn! Just like home.....
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