There is a “Hanout” of sorts in my neighborhood.  A Hanout /emphatic “H”- noot/ is small corner convenience store in Morocco that has everything. They are not like convenience stores in the US: There are no aisles, no restrooms, no self-serve cappuccino; you step in off of the street and usually, in Kenitra anyway, there is only enough room for a few people to stand. There are coolers with Sidi Ali water, orange juice, and apple soda. You ask the man behind the counter for what you need; a coke, some diapers, a mint bunch, a  laughing cow baguette sandwich, eggs, a can of peas, laundry detergent, toilet paper, chips. He either has it behind the counter, stocked on the floor-to-ceiling shelf, or sometimes he’ll have it in a back room somewhere.

The corner food/dollar grocery on 6^th and M is owned by an Ethiopian family. You can get most rudimentary household items as well as the essential half gallon of milk. I didn’t feel like braving the local Safeway for the latter so I dropped in my “hanout”. As I perused the shelves of atypical merchandise, some glasses caught my eye. Not only were they on sale, they were “made in the KSA” as the label proudly read. Sure, I need some Saudi Arabian coffee glasses, right?

After a pleasant chat (1/2 in Arabic, even though Ethiopians speak Amharic– “for you, good price” ) with the man behind the bullet-proof window, I walked home with my milk and glasses.

I had read about the smooth and strong cardomom-rich Saudi coffee in In the Land of Invisible Women: A Female Doctor’s Journey in the Saudi Kingdom and having just recently shopped at an Indian grocery store, I had a selection of spices to expend.

I looked up a few recipes:

http://www.aramcoexpats.com/Internal-Links/Aramcon-Recipes/Arab-Favorites/1435.aspx

http://www.foodbycountry.com/Kazakhstan-to-South-Africa/Saudi-Arabia.html

I made mine in the following way.

I used my Moka coffee pot. I used espresso coffee grounds and about 1 tablespoon of cardamom. I brought it to class to share with my students. There wasn’t any left over.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704409004576146321725889448.html

This article isn’t just about our culture’s near expectation that men stay adolecents and that women(ie. their girlfriends) are increasingly acting like their mothers. It also highlights the new pressures 20-30 somethings are facing with regards to profession and gender roles as well as the uncertainties which lead to what the author describes as ” ‘quarter-life crisis,’ a period of depression and worry over their future.”

 

http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-06-03/-intellectual-meat-market-makes-washington-long-odds-for-women.html

Again, the consensus is that Washingtonians are in a co-dependent relationship with their careers.  DC is full of single 20-30 somethings who are in a collective competition to gain the most lucrative position in which they can simultaneously bolster their résumés and change the world. This is all to the detriment of their social life and apparently, marriage prospects.

DC is full of workaholics. Workaholism is a dominant cultural undercurrent here. Unpaid overtime seems to be the norm. 35 hours a week is part-time. I’m expected to check my work e-mail everyday (whether I’m working that day or not, whether I’m on the clock or not, whether I have health benefits or not…). I hate this.

When I was taking a Spanish class in Spain, I was the only non-European in the class. The teacher didn’t comment on anyone else’s culture (Why does being an American always mean exceptions to the rule?) but she did one day comment on an American’s view of one’s job and how it completely contradicts a Spaniard’s. “An American lives to work, we work to live”. The dichotomy was so clear, I considered defection. (Just kidding, although moving to Granada would be ideal) She continued, “An American actually believes that if he works hard enough, he’ll become a better person”. Her incredulity indicated that a Spaniard would find this utterly laughable. You work because you have to; because you have bills to pay- it is a means to an end, not an insular entity.

I tend to agree. I’m not a workaholic or at least I am trying not to be. My identity is not in my job, although that is very tempting to me as a teacher who is also a people pleaser. I know that I have to be conscious about drawing boundaries with work otherwise it will take over my life. For lots of Washingtonians and lots of Americans, one’s job is one’s life. I do not want this to be true for me, however. My job is a part of my life. Teaching is certainly an important part; it represents both my professional and academic life and in many ways (especially with my current students) fulfills my spiritual vocation. Nonetheless, in this environment I am walking against the tide. I care deeply about my teaching. I want to do my job well but I also want to leave my job at work and have a social and private life. This Mediterranean sensibility which I have so intimately adapted as my own is counter-cultural here.

⁹ What do workers gain from their toil? ¹⁰ I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. ¹¹ He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. ¹² I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. ¹³ That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God… ²² So I saw that there is nothing better for a person than to enjoy their work, because that is their lot. For who can bring them to see what will happen after them?  (Ecclesiastes 3)

Apparently it’s my lot. I will now spend the better part of my Saturday doing stuff for work.

Today I was helping with registration at the Carlos Rosario International Charter School where adult immigrants can take ESL and vocational classes. A woman came to a work station to get her documents checked. She looked tired and nervous. The supervisor reviewed a form in Spanish stating she was receiving public aid. She needed another document. She fidgeted, her brow furled, then she presented her proof of  DC residence. She had an attestation of residence from a shelter. The supervisor called for a second opinion about the validity of her application and left me to talk to her while she waited. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.

 

“Estara bien, no se preocupe” (it will be fine, don’t worry), I told her. “?De donde viene?” (where are you from?)

 

“Guatemala” She grimaced with concern and uncertainty.

 

” Es muy dificile lo que hace, mudarese aqui…” (It is very difficult what you’re doing, moving here)

 

“Hay que luchar” ( You have to flight (for it))

 

“Usted es muy brava. Va a mejorar” (You’re very brave. It will get better) I tried to encourage her, fighting my own tears of compassion.

 

Later, I saw one of my supervisors and told him about the woman and our exchange. He said, “We have to help her! She needs to learn English so she can get a job and get out of that shelter”.

 

Yes, this is what I want to do.

 

I ride the Metro everyday which means in the approximate three weeks I’ve spent in Washington DC, I have spent about 42 hours riding its trains. In the last post, I mentioned the collective respect and communally maintained serenity of the metro. Here is an ad where The Metro justifies the no food no drink policy while taking a jab at NYC…

Beside the obvious sanitary benefits and maintenance cost reduction, the fact that everyone so steadfastly adheres to the policy is an example of our rule-abiding culture. Other cultures are “more relaxed” as one of my students observed in his essay comparing Istanbul with DC. In Morocco, Spain, to some degree France, and apparently Turkey, rules are mere suggestions whereas in the US rules are meant to be dutifully followed for the common good of society with little to no exception. (I even got some raised eyebrows when I drank some water on a platform) In a lax culture, if you, through your own judgment, deem a more efficient alternative, you have the option of acting on that alternative. When I lived in France, I sometimes borrowed my host brother’s bicycle. There was a bridge across a harbor channel in La Rochelle designed for both cars and pedestrians. There was a sign indicating that cyclists should dismount to cross the bridge and so each time I got off my bike, walked across the bridge and got back on once on the other side.

 

After a while, I realized that no one else did that. Other French cyclists disregarded the sign and rode on through. “Fine”, I said to myself and began ignoring the sign as well. In Spain, there is a classic, “no pasa nada” (no big deal) attitude, which permits the axiom, “es mejor pedir perdón, que pedir permiso” (it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission). In Morocco, where traffic has been described as a game of Tetris, the mere idea of J-walking was purely absurd. I realize now that I have more or less adopted this Mediterranean view of rule bending and sometimes the degree to which rules are followed here can feel stifling and I keep thinking, “there must be some exceptions” or “surely they wouldn’t mind if…” for rules and norms.

The Metro is kept very quiet. Audible radios and mp3 players are prohibited and only allowed with earphones. Usually the cars just bustle with the white noise of shifting passengers and flipping pages. After three weeks here, a fellow passenger greeted me for the first time and felt the need to justify talking to me;

“How are you?”

“Fine”

“I like to say hello to people, you know…some people don’t like that but I like to say hello”

“Way to break the norm”

“Yeah, exactly”

He told me to have a nice evening when he left the train. “You too” I rapidly offered.

            Most people are engrossed in a fat novel or skimming the Washington Post or reading something off of their electronic reading device. I tried this; reading on the Metro, I mean. Growing up, I almost always got car-sick. I managed to be ok on trains and planes but I could never read in the car. I thought the Metro would be more akin to a train so I brought a book along. Quickly, an ominous nausea reminiscent of childhood road trips set it. “Don’t vomit, don’t vomit” I internally panicked. I thought about the terror or throwing up in public- I was sitting in a window seat surrounded by rush-hour passengers. Breathe and think about being outside. Thank God for audio books.

Well, I have to go ride the Metro now.

The Metro Rap:

I’ve accepted a job in Washington DC. “Je change de cap de capitale” as Camille puts it. I’ve spent less than a week there but here are a few of my observations, a list of DC-isms if you will.

a)  List-servs: Many of the contacts I initially made  offered to send out messages on their list-servs for housing opportunities.  My host notes, “People still do yahoo groups here”

b)   Five Guys– This burger joint is originally from Arlington but has now become a national chain. Much like Seattle and Starbucks, DC is secretly proud.

c)  Themed Happy Hours– They’re everywhere.

 d) Silly 20-30 something events i.e. A giant viral snowball fight during last year’s “Snowpocalypse”, commute to work sans pants day…  These kinds of activities and themed happy hours may be a kind of release from the stress of government internships, administrative non-profit work, and the like. 

e) Go Go music  Here’s a mini-documentary about this music endemic to DC

f)   People ask you which terminal degree(s) you have, employers request to see your transcripts, and graduate school is assumed.

g) Racial/Ethnic distribution map I’ll be moving to a predominantly African American neighborhood with an Eritrean cultural community center, an Ethiopian minority, and a Salvadoran community nearby.

h) Gentrification– The neighborhood is changing quickly. The Washington Apartments used to be “the projects” in the 70s but have since been renovated and are now an affordable leasing option for people of all backgrounds (including me!). On one block you may encounter a boarded-up, abandoned building, an expensive town house, a historical row-house which had been nearly destroyed in the riots and is being protected and restored by the city, a new store front, an empty lot, a CVS and a community garden. This indicates the rapidly changing nature of downtown DC.

 i)    Respect for the metro and its serenity Talking on your cell phone in the metro is frowned upon- literally. Radios and audible music are prohibited and metro users follow the rule. Nearly no one eats or drinks aboard. The metro is a communal space that is kept clean and quiet.

 

j) Attire: Lots of people dress business casual or The Gap meets J Crew meets United Colors of Benetton most of the time with some hipster styles thrown in the mix. It’s not like NYC where anything goes…

 k) Reggaeton on at Whole Foods

 

l)  Black squirrels?

Mom and I were Christmas shopping in Aldi’s, which is a grocery story where you can buy in bulk, non-brand name products and more notably, German and Belgian chocolate.

The customers in front of us in the checkout line were Hispanic; there was a young woman accompanied by two men, possibly her brothers or a husband and a friend. The cashier started making a big fuss about the fact that the woman was paying in quarters and singles. “Roll the quarters before you come”, she talked at them, “Explain to her that she needs to roll the quarters” she said to one of the young men. The woman was looking increasingly apprehensive and disoriented. “I don’t have time to count all these, look at the line!” She pointed to the two carts waiting behind them. The young woman looked anxious and apologetic. I caught her glance and while the cashier was still going on about the quarters said, “No pasa nada, es una loquita eh”. (Don’t worry about it, she’s a little crazy.)  The young woman sheepishly smirked, her olive cheeks turning red to contain an impertinent smile.

Eid l Kebir (literally, “the big holiday”) is when Muslims celebrate the story of Abraham’s obedience found in Genesis 22 . “For some centuries there was a debate among Muslim scholars, some saying it was Isaac whom Abraham was prepared to sacrifice, and others saying it was Ishmael. It wasn’t until centuries later that it became a fixed belief among Muslims that Ishmael was the subject of the story found in the Qu’ran (37:83-113). It is important to note, however, that the Qu’ran does not explicitly say that the “son” concerned was Ishmael.” (Colin Chapman)

 

About a month leading up to the Eid, vacant lots and market places fill up with holiday sheep markets. Families stroll together through them, often several times before finally purchasing a sacrificial sheep, which will stay with the family for up to a week before the holiday. This year and last year, the Eid seemed to coincide nicely with Thanksgiving. In the United States, there are trite advertisements and cartoons with turkeys, portentously aware of their impending fate. In Morocco, billboards for cell phones and supermarket newspaper leaflets feature sheep.

 

Thanks to the renowned Moroccan culture of hospitality, I received several invitations to spend the holiday “en famille”.

 

My first host was a couchsurfer. He also invited a young French woman who was about the same age as me and ironically, a vegetarian, to join him and his family for the day.

 

The sheep and a small goat were being kept in a small courtyard in the center of the house. My host’s young nieces paid them a visit before heading off to bed.

 

Alone in a guest room, I stirred. I was awoken by an unfamiliar sound; a deep bellowing, which I much later realized was the guttural monotone utterance of the ovine captive. It was distressing. It was not the tremolo of a bleat that I would have recognized. The sound seemed to make the walls vibrate with each increasingly voluminous expression. I didn’t sleep well.

 

The next day, we had a breakfast of scone like cookies and milky coffee. We went to fetch the French guest. The preparations were being made.

 

In Rabat anyway, very few families slaughter the sheep themselves. For this, several professional butchers roam the streets ready in white plastic aprons, wielding long blades.

 

 

Back at the house, I stood on the roof.  This is one of my favorite places to go. I’ve read once that the roof is traditionally the woman’s domain; she has a protected vantage point from which she can gather with friends and observe the world. I looked around me at the sea of square houses; clusters of tan and white dotted with satellites dishes and then out to the Atlantic lapping the rocky shore. Below me in the street I watched the following. The neighbors at the end of the street were standing near the garage, where their sheep was apparently housed. A group of small children milled nearby, absent-mindedly playing unaware of the imminent ceremony. A butcher came round, greeted them, and then entered garage. Then small stream of blood ran out into the street by the children. I was moved to tears. I thought of Jesus as the sacrificial lamb and I was overcome. My host’s father saw my emotional reaction and kindly patted me on the back, trying to usher me away from the scene.

 

The blood of thousands of sheep flows into the gutters and drains. I have been told the ocean near the mouth of the Bou Regreg turns red.

 

It is customary for Moroccans to walk around their neighborhood greeting neighbors on the morning of the Eid. I followed my host about, still reflecting on the significance and symbolism of sacrifice.

 

Back at the house, the butcher arrives. The French vegetarian and I stand by with our host’s 8 year old niece. The sheep is strung up by its rear hooves. We watch as the butcher deftly slits its throat. Life blood gushes forth and drains out. We hide our eyes and peek.  Our host tells us we are not obliged to watch but we go to the second floor to observe from above. The butcher skins the animal and then removes the internal organs. The 8 year old is constantly asking me which part is which tugging on my upper arm, “Regarde, Regarde!”  (Look, Look!).

 

The Eid is more commemorative than atoning. The sacrificial sheep does not serve the same purpose as in Yom Kippur, for example; it is not a scapegoat. It serves as reminder of Abraham’s obedience and Muslims are to give one third of the meat to the poor and the needy.

 

Our host’s father was busy making skewers with bits of lung, liver, and fat which were then to be smoked over a charcoal fire.  We later (well the French guest had salad) ate them with cumin and salt.

 

As I had more invitations to honor, my hosts dropped me off at the train station. On my way to Kenitra I watched one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve seen in Morocco. While it is generally a myth that smog enhances such colorful spectacles, I couldn’t help but think that the collective smoke of thousands of charcoal fires helped to paint the skyline.

 

First I visited the Qaddis. We chit chatted and I was served some stewed intestine.

 

I spent the night with Dalila’s family. I had dinner with her eating some more stewed intestine, her mother had prepared. It was exceptionally not offal (pun intended) tasting. I was told she had washed it in vinegar, then in lemon juice, then boiled, and then slow cooked it in garlic and tomatoes. The end result was something that tasted surprisingly like calamari.

 

The next morning, there was the traditional assortment of crepes (melwi, mssimin, bghir) with honey, cheese, and olive oil for breakfast, but this time the special addition of a sheep’s head graced the table. As the guest, I was passed some choice lip meat, I think. I tried my best.

 

After lingering around and lunch, I left to visit Ikram, my friend from the ALC in Kenitra. She was on the point of departure for Montreal.  Her mother, sister, and family friend were delighted to hear my pre-school Arabic and quite pleased to feed me even more mutton.

 

Ikram told me about how Saddam Hussein was executed on Eid L Kebir. She agreed that he was a criminal but her family was shocked at the lack of respect that showed to the Muslim world; it would be like executing some international crook on Easter. Somehow, Moroccans, and mostly likely other Sunni Muslims think that that was a deliberate choice on Bush’s part to shame Muslims when in reality is was the Iraqi people who chose this date and time. The shame was indeed intentional, but it was on the part of fellow (Shiite) Muslims not the United States government.

 

Feeling a bit exhausted from constant visiting and mutton consumption, I decided to go home and enjoy my one day holiday off alone.

 

The next day I went jogging; I felt the need to purge my body of all the fat and sinew I had consumed at four different houses over the course of two days. I ran along the Palace walls up to Ibn-Sina park (which is in Agdal), in the park and then back to Hassan. I ran for well over an hour.

 

I remember not eating meat for about a month afterwards and subsequently retained a bit of semi-vegetarianism. This did not however, prevent me from trying brain tagine in April- yum !

 

Aid Moubarak Said, friends.

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http://www.salon-cheval-eljadida.ma/

Equestrianism is a part of Moroccan culture in a way that is difficult for a US American, uninvolved in horsemanship to fully understand. This love for horses is not isolated to a certain sector of the society; it is not a stuffy hobby for the well-off. It is appreciated by everyone and horses are esteemed animals. Many Moroccan sitting rooms feature paintings of horses or Fantasia.

It is interesting to note that the Arabian horse  is the world’s most well-known horse.

 There are several Islamic myths surrounding the breed and its spread around the world is due to the spread of Islam and for the breed’s use in war.

My students at one point informed me that Muslim men should be capable of  shooting a bow and arrow, swimming, and riding a horse… (Militarism?)  “Teach your children swimming, archery and horse-riding.”- Omar ibn Al-Khattab (2nd Caliphate). I asked them if they all knew how to do do that. Not all had shot a bow and arrow.

This weekend, a group of us went to El Jadida to the Horse Fair. El Jadida (The New City) was under Portuguese colonial power for about 270 years. El Jadida is about 3 hours from Rabat. The fortified walls face the blue Atlantic.

Before heading to the main attraction we decided to get some lunch. There were several seafood restaurants, but it seemed getting a table would be impossible. We spotted a hole in the medina where smoke was billowing up into the autumn sunshine. Inside there were fried sole, sardines, calamari, shrimp, grilled peppers, and Maakouda batata.  People sat at plastic tables beneath sheaths of tarps. Shafts of light filtered through illuminating the smoke.

 We took our lunch to the beach, eating our seafood feast with our hands. At one point a group of young boys came and begged for some fish. My friends gave them some but I was uncertain as to if the children were really in need. Someone commented that they had nothing better to do.

After lunch, we looked for parking. There was tons of traffic and we had to park quite far away from the grounds. The “salon” is kind of like a fair; there are pavilions, exhibits, tents, and grandstands. One pavilion was all about horses, breeders, local horse farms, horse farms in France etc. There was a pavilion with local venders and displays of various kinds of Moroccan handicrafts. There were people of all ages and backgrounds enjoying the day and the exhibits.

There was an area designated for Sultan Tea. People were lined up with their children to get their pictures taken with an old man who was dressed in traditional garb and sitting serving tea in ceremonial fashion. It was a bit like Santa Claus. I was told the man was very famous and had been the man serving this brand of tea in commercials for many years.

Thanks to a friend’s press pass, we got into the pavilion where there was a live horse show. It was strange that we needed the press pass, because despite the long line outside and guards at the entrances, there were plenty of seats in the bleachers. Finely dressed riders on even more finely dressed horses rode around the dirt track. There was a group of Gnaoua musicians who played and the horses began to prance and shake their heads to the trance-like beat.

Outside, in a field surrounded by people on all sides, was a Fantasia competition.  This has nothing to do with Walt Disney. Groups of men from towns, villages and neighborhoods in cities, form teams and practice together. Then they compete at weekend events. They line up horseback, charge in unison and at the yell of the leader, they attempt to fire their muskets together. The quality of the performance is based on synchronization and grace.

While I was watching this spectacle, my parents called my cell phone. Amidst guns going off, I reassured my parents that nothing was wrong, “No, no, just ignore the gunfire, I’m fine, really.”

 As I was leaving, I ran into Touria. She was beautiful, her long Hennaed black hair flowing,  kohl around her eyes. She was dressed up in a linen pants suit and looked very elegant. She had come for the event and was spending a few days in El Jadida with her lady friends. She was surprised to see me but happy and hugged and kissed me. She sort of ignored my friends, as they were male journalists.

We drove home the same day. Back to Rabat, my new home.