I really don't know what I was thinking when I started this blog and thought I could actually publish a post every now and then. I've attempted my whole life to keep a journal and have never made it past a few weeks... and same with this blog. But there have been some angry comments recently wanting more posts so I'll try to oblige.
So much has happened since my last post, which was about my summer in Tunisia. There was Ramadan during the month of September, when I decided to join in and fast along with my host family and everyone else. Fasting required no drinking or eating from the morning call to prayer, around 4:30 in the morning to the evening call to prayer, around 6:30 pm. By 6:30 a cannon from atop a hill would blast, and everyone in Fez would be in their home, listening the calls to prayer from nearly 200 mosques rise up over the ancient city, loud, muddled wails of allahu akhbar and lailahhaillalah, (Allah is the greatest, There is no god but Allah) proclaiming that it was time to break the fast. Hamdullilah! (Praise be to Allah) Every Iftar (the meal to break the fast, meaning breakfast) consisted of harira, tomato soup with chickpeas, boiled eggs sprinkled with salt and cumin, shabakia and hulawiat (Moroccan honey desserts), and dates with milk.
After Iftar everyone goes out and has fun, finally being able to drink coffee or banana shakes in the outdoor cafes and smoke. I would normally go to bed around 12, only to get up again at 3:30 for the Suhur, the late night meal. It's hard to realize how uncomfortable waking up from REM and eating fried sausages or chicken tajine at 4 in the morning is until you've experienced it. Every night too. By the last week of Ramadan the whole city seems sedated and sluggish. Work hours during Ramadan change so everyone can return home at 4, to salvage what little energy they have left, or in my case, sleep away the time until the cannon blasts. It also becomes the time when people, fatigued and hungry, become rash and aggressive. Tantrums and fights in the medina are a common sight during the month dedicated to Allah.
Looking back, I'm glad to have participated. For me, fasting was a wonderful way to mediate on life, on faith, on purpose and aspirations, as well as a time to think of the poor who fast daily and not by choice. Here people wish you a generous Ramadan, as a focus of the month (and in Islam) is charity and aiding the poor. It is a month of religious introspection which actually got me going back to Mass. By the time Ramadan had ended, I felt so happy to be living in this ancient city, to be living with an interesting and fun host family, and confident that I could learn to fit in. After all, if I could go for over 20 days fasting, what couldn't I do?
Unfortunately, the first month is a period known to all who have lived abroad before as the honeymoon stage. At first everything is new and exciting. Everything you eat takes delicious, everyone you meet is friendly and helpful, and acquiring the new language is an exciting challenge. The honeymoon stage is almost always followed by a plunge, brought on by a catalyst such as a breakup, an illness, frustrating interactions with the natives, even change of weather. In my case, I can say it was all of the above that brought on my plunge which, hamdullilah, I am ascending out of currently.
I was completely content living with my lively Moroccan family, and intended to stay with them until March. Their mother had died several years earlier, leaving the father, grandmother, three sons, Hamid, Mehde, Amine, and a daughter Oumima. The three brothers are all in their upper 20s, and Oumima is 13. It was great living with them, and the four siblings really took care of me and helped me become accustomed to living in Fez by taking strolls in the medina, going to play billiards, providing an occasional nighttime escort when it was too dangerous to walk back home, and exchanging all the words you hear constantly on the street but would never learn in the classroom. However its through a host brother I learned one of the hardest lessons I've learned here in Morocco- that men and women, at least in this conservative city, cannot be friends. There will always be more expected than friendship and consequently it became just too awkward to live in a family with three older men. There were other reasons why I decided to move too, some of which being the expensive rent and a growing need for more freedom.
To continue on the issue of male female relations in this city, well... it's frustrating and difficult and has caused me to throw a tantrum or break into tears many a time. Even if I cover myself up so that only my head and hands are exposed, men in the streets will call out, follow, and ever grab me on occasion. It's quite the culture shock to feel constantly sexually harassed whenever you're outside walking by a male dominated cafe. Many men have no shame and feel entitled to stare and sleazily offer offensive propositions as I whisk by, walking fast, head down. The trick is to never ever look at anyone's or face or in their eyes, this is just an invitation for harassment.
To be fair, however, I must acknowledge that it seems like it has been less that I've been harassed on the street. It is possible that at the peak of my discontentment I noticed it more, or now I'm noticing it less. And, most importantly, there are some good men here who don't participate in the catcalling, which at times seems to be the national sport. At any case, I've heard from many that in the cities such as Rabat and Casablanca male female relations are much more healthy and the harassment isn't as bad. I hope this is true. Anyways, I could go on and on about men and women in Moroccan society, but I will admit that my current position on this is an uneducated one based on superficial observations and very likely to change, as I continue to explore Moroccan culture and Islam. I'll keep you posted on my evolving impressions and research (that is, if I can actually keep this blog running).
Adding to my plunge was a 2 week battle with a "worm inside of me" (Kelly from The Office). I eagerly took up on a host brother's offer to go out to a city in the country for an afternoon. Upon arrival we ate at a little roadside restaurant. On the menu? Fried egg and cold potato and rice sandwiches with mayo. I know, sounds dangerous from the get-go right? Well, that infamous egg sandwich caused me to.... ahem... expel whatever I ate from both ends. During this time the smell or sight of any Moroccan dish triggered a visceral revulsion, and the ordeal ended with my near-fainting and a long overdue trip to the doctor. He prescribed me 5 different medicines, all foul tasting and taken through unorthodox methods, and after a few days I was feeling better and ready to move into a new apartment with my two Fulbright girlfriends Roz and Liz and the adopted medina kitty Marley.
And that's where I find myself right now. Marley is purring on my lap, a little ball of black and white plush. If you have gotten the impression that my time here in Fez hasn't been a cake walk, well it's true. But it gets better day by day. Living here is a roller coaster ride. Some days I understand everything, all the taxi drivers are friendly, people don't rip me off when I buy veggies at the outdoor market, and I manage to walk in the streets invisible. And some days I can't seem to speak any language, including English, I get overcharged by 200% and don't realize until later, it's pouring down rain and the past 100 taxis I've lost to Moroccans, who are used to pushing, fighting, and running after the elusive available taxi. And, hamdulliah, de plus en plus there are more good days than bad, and I'm optimistic about living here for another 12 months. And inshallah I'll be able to keep up this blog until then.
Oumima and Mehde on Eid al Sghir, the festival celebrating the end of Ramadan
Host brother Amine and me on Eid al Sghir. I'm wearing a kaftan, Amine is wearing a jllaba.
