Reflections on a Revolution

I was sitting on the upstairs patio of Cafe Imilchil in Errachidia, enjoying a cafe niss-niss, when the waiter came upstairs to turn on Al-Jazeera. Something was different this time. Rather than frantic desperation, the announcer spoke with a sense of joy. The TV showed the same crowds as it had for the past two weeks, but mixed in with the shouts and chants was the sound of singing. The ticker read: "People throughout the Arab world, from the Atlantic to the Gulf, celebrate the fall of Mubarak's regime." My Arabic is not good enough for me to trust it at first glance, so I read it again and then asked a Moroccan nearby to confirm the news. My friend, a fellow Fulbright ETA, said this to me: "We'll always remember where we were when we heard this news."

The Egyptian Revolution was an undeniable turning point in history. While it remains in its nascent stages and the outcome is unclear at best, there is no way to ignore its importance to the Middle East and to the world.

Since September, I've lived and worked in a country similar to Egypt. Morocco is poor, Arab, Muslim, and not really a democracy. In many ways the Egyptians who protested are no different than the men and women I work with, see on the street, and sit next to in cafes. They have similar backgrounds and aspirations. And though I believe Morocco will remain a stable country and not experience any major change in government, it would be wrong to think that Moroccans are disconnected from the events that happened in Tunisia and Egypt. Everywhere you go people are watching Al Jazeera, listening to the news on the radio, or reading a newspaper.

One night during the first week of protests I went to a cafe near my house to have a coffee and watch the news. Even then, I felt a tangible energy in the place, as if at any moment Mubarak could fall. More than that, I knew everyone else, in Egypt, on television and in the cafe was feeling and thinking the very same thing.

During that night's coverage, they showed a video of a large SUV driving through a crowd of protesters near the American and British embassies in Cairo. The men in the cafe threw up their hands, shouting at the television. On each replay they would nudge their neighbors, wide-eyed, furious. They, like I, were disgusted by such a wanton and violent act against those people, no longer mere protesters. It was a powerful and essentially human moment.

This intense humanity drew me back to the television and newspaper throughout the protests. I was familiar with the various political implications, especially to America's foreign policy. I was interested in pundits' opinions and prognostications, but more so I read and I watched because of the drama. This was human drama to its fullest extent playing out on television: a poor, down trodden people set aside their social, political and religious differences in a united act of revolution; humanity pushed to its extreme pouring in through the television screen.

Media has played a huge role in all of this. And while it's popular to boast about the role of Facebook and Twitter in organizing these uprisings, I doubt their impact. Americans inflate social media's role in society because it plays such a big one in ours. There are about 150 million active Facebook users in the United States, or around 50% of the population. In the Middle East/North Africa region there are 15 million Facebook users, or less then 4% of the population. While I believe that Facebook and Twitter are revolutionary in the way they connect people, I can't buy their purported revolutionary influence on the Middle East. Then what is the revolutionary medium? In my opinion it is satellite television, and more specifically Al Jazeera.

Al-Jazeera has broadcast footage of the uprisings from Sidi Bouzid onwards. These images are the most powerful illustrations of the will and determination of the Tunisian and Egyptian people. Revolutions need logistics, organization and planning, but most importantly, they need energy. That energy comes from the pain, suffering, triumph and victory that plays out every night on television. I know this because I've felt it and seen it, and it is infectious. When Mubarak announced his resignation, a friend reported that it sounded like a crazy soccer match; she was listening to the crowds gathered in a cafe watching Al Jazeera.

As the events unfolded, and Egypt got closer to winning its freedom, I kept thinking, "Why don't Americans love this? This is the beauty of democracy: people rising up against oppression to make their voices heard. Shouldn't we love this?"

But America's reaction has been ambivalent at best.

It's well known that the Egyptian Revolution put America in an awkward political position. Sadly, we chose to view these events as such: a radical change to the factors that comprise our desired geopolitical reality. By fretting over "stability", oil prices, and "national security", we've lost the sense of human drama and triumph. We forget that this is a great human accomplishment. We're missing the point. Egyptians fought and died in the streets. They risked their lives to achieve a dream, a collective hope they've been denied their entire lives. What comes of this bloodshed when we we look past it?

These days, our national empathy has enough difficulty transcending party lines, let alone cultural, religious, and socioeconomic differences. And what happens when we increasingly view the world as a series of factors that comprise our "national interest"? Is it easier to empathize when we value abstract principles over ourselves and others?

Will protests happen in Morocco?

Many Western commentators have written how the revolution in Tunisia sent a "shockwave" through the Arab world. It was the first time an Arab dictator has been removed from power through popular revolt. One article which explained that the ouster of Ben Ali, unlike that of Saddam Hussein in 2003, was something Arabs could "be proud of." Recent protests in Algeria, Jordan and especially Egypt speak to the influence of Tunisia's uprising. And while some are comparing Tunisia to Poland in 1989, and this moment to the beginning of the fall of the Soviet Union, it's a stretch to think we will see the collapse of every authoritarian regime in the Arab world. 

It's been strange to be in Morocco during all of this. There's no lack of information. When you walk into a cafe, people are watching coverage of Egyptian protesters burning police vehicles or tearing down posters of Hosni Mubarak. But these images and ideas don't seem to be penetrating. A glance through two of the biggest newspapers, As-Sabah and Al-Masa', lead you to believe that the protests are only tangentially relevant to Moroccans. There are no attempts to apply Tunisians' and Egyptians' grievances to a Moroccan context. On Facebook, my students have posted pictures of the Egyptian protesters along with words of support and solidarity, and then proclaim their love for Morocco's King Muhammad VI. How can you identify with the protesters of two revolutions against authoritarian governments and still support the authoritarian government that governs you?

Why have the events in Tunisia and Egypt failed to generate the same reaction in Morocco as they have elsewhere in the Arab world?

Reading reports from the past weeks has made it clear to me that life for the average Moroccan is very different than that of a Tunisian or an Egyptian. Yes, Morocco is a poor country with high unemployment. The GDP per capita is significantly lower than Egypt's and nearly half that of Tunisia. Yet, the poverty is not oppressive. Life necessities are cheap in Morocco. People are poor but do not starve. The Moroccan government also tolerates "underground economic activities" which provide money and support for many young, uneducated Moroccans. The most notable of these is the drug trade, which according to WikiLeaks, generates more money than Tourism, the largest sector of the Moroccan economy.

A second, key difference, concerns education. As one commentator pointed out, Tunisia is an exception in the Arab world in that it has a large, educated middle class. The middle class' dissatisfaction with the country's economic prospects fueled the protests that eventually led to Ben Ali's downfall. Egyptians, while not nearly as wealthy as Tunisians, are similarly educated. Both countries post literacy rates in the 70s and both protests movements have utilized social (especially Tunisia) and print media (especially Egypt) for organizational purposes. Morocco is a completely different story.

At best, 50% of Moroccans are literate and many well-educated Moroccans are ex-pats living in Europe or North America. While this may seem insignificant, I think it's a huge factor. Moroccans' illiteracy hampers the spread of information in general, and would definitely impede the organization of any type of protest movement. Additionally, the Moroccans who identify the most with Tunisia and Egypt don't live in Morocco. They've already exercised their discontent by leaving the country. This last point deserves some elaboration.

There is a class of Moroccans who are wealthy and educated and unhappy with the current political system, but their influence on average Moroccan life is unclear. Many comments at English language sites catering Moroccan ex pats living in North America are critical of the political status quo, and since the Tunisian protests has been quite vocal about the need for some sort of change in Morocco. Whether these views are valid or not, they only represent a tiny, and, honestly, insignificant portion of the Moroccan citizenry. These people are both literate and English speakers, which alienates them from about 98% of Moroccans. Additionally, they're ex pats. As one Egyptian commentator wrote, "people remember those who abandoned them in their quest for democracy." In other words, I don't think being centered in North America or Europe helps this opposition's credibility with the Moroccan people.

And this brings me to my last point: there is no credible opposition to the King.

Morocco is a parliamentary monarchy that has a prime minister, political parties and elections. But in reality, it's more like an absolute monarchy. Parliament and the lesser bodies of government are where corrupt officials take bribes and appoint their sons- and daughters-in-law to influential posts. This corruption is obvious and know and derided by the Moroccan people. It's not uncommon for a Moroccan to say that the best way to make money in the country is to get into politics, but that you can only do that if you know the right people.

The King is seen as the only credible member of government despite his overwhelming and unquestionable political powers. And there's good reason for this. Royal initiatives, like infrastructure development and some social reforms, are completed on time and relatively efficiently. In other words, he gets things done when other Moroccan politicians don't. Combine that with the legacy of the Alaouite Dynasty, which has ruled Morocco for nearly four hundred years, and Muhammad VI is seen less as a despot and more as a benevolent and beloved monarch.

Now it's true that the King has the power to end the corruption that plagues parliament, the police and the military. But that serves him no purpose. Allowing his political opponents to profit in their subordinate positions decreases their desire for change. Additionally, their corruption draws the ire and attention of the people, making him look better. So while his policies may leave something to be desired in the eyes of some Moroccans, the alternatives are much much worse.

The commentator who describe Tunisia as an exception in the Middle East may be eating his words in the next few days depending on Egypt's outcome. I may as well when I say that protests will not happen in Morocco. This doesn't mean Moroccans are happy with the state of affairs in their country. Poverty, unemployment, education, and political freedom are just a few issues that Moroccans feel must be addressed. But for now, the situation does not seem dire.

More than anything, Moroccans love stability. This is why they love the King. They tolerate the political and social status quo because it still meets their needs and because they don't have to worry about what tomorrow will bring. Because of this mindset, I don't think radical change is anything many Moroccans feel is necessary. Speaking to a Moroccan friend he said that while things here are not good, they are getting better. "Maybe five or ten years from now, but not now," he added. As long as this attitude persists, Morocco will stay stable. 

Eid al-Adha: Photo Diary

On Eid morning, we woke around 7:30am to get ready to go to the musalla for prayer. A musalla is a field or large open space used for congregational prayer on the two Eids. Any town or city will have at least one, possibly more depending on need. On Eid morning, men and women go there to pray together (women behind the men), and listen to a topical sermon. In Tahala the event lasted about 30 minutes. Afterward everyone goes home to commence their celebration.

Not everyone goes to pray, and I was surprised there wasn't more pressure to do so. For those I was around on Eid, the more captivating event was the sacrifice.

My host and me dressed to go to the musalla

Tahalaoui's praying in the musalla

After prayer, we waited for the gazzar, or butcher. Only a man trained in halal butchery can sacrifice a sheep on Eid.  

Halal is Islam's equivalent to Judaism's kosher. For meat to be halal it must be slaughtered facing Eastward, the direction of Mecca and the butcher must bless the animal:

In the name of God,

God is the greatest,

Halal is most important,

[to] He who Hears All and Knows All.

After this he must slit the animal's throat in one sudden and smooth motion. Then the animal is left alone for several minutes to allow "the spirit to leave the body." My host said that if the spirit does not leave the body, then the sheep suffers as it is skinned and butchered. Animals are not supposed to suffer during halal butchery. My host told me that the butcher will hide the knife from the sheep, so as to not frighten it. And though Islam prohibits the use of anesthetics for halal animals, it is believed that once the animal's throat is slit, it does not suffer. Once the sheep is dead and it's spirit vacated, the gazzar proceeds to skin and butcher the animal, preparing it for cooking.

My hosts slaughtered their sheep on their roof. They were generous enough to let me photograph the process. The photos below illustrate the Eid sacrifice from start to finish:

Preparing the sheep for the sacrifice. I can't say that the butcher (my host's Uncle) went out of his way to hide the knife from the sheep. As you can see, it took a professional butcher and his assistant to hold the sheep down. However, this varies.

Slitting the sheep's throat. According to halal guidelines, the throat must be slit just below the jaw bone, which, it is believed, will kill the animal instantly.

Allowing the sheep to bleed out and it's spirit to leave the body. There was a bit of thrashing around prior to this shot.

Cleaning the neck wound once the animal has died.

The skinning starts with the hindquarters. Here we can see the butcher inserting a sharpened reed into the skin just above the back left knee of the sheep. This reed puncture the skin, allowing the butcher to inflate the hindquarters, separating the skin from the meat and easing the skinning process.

The butcher's assistant orally inflates the hindquarters as the butcher strikes the lower abdomen to ensure equal air distribution.

The butcher makes his first incision behind the sheep's genitals.

Once the incisions are made the butcher breaks and removes the forelimbs of the sheep's hindquarters, so he can hang the sheep to skin it.

The butcher skinning the sheep. He works down, from the hindquarters to the front limbs.

Removing the skin from the front limbs and neck is a delicate process. A knife isn't used to avoid cutting into the meat. Instead, an incision is made near the sheep's shoulder. The butcher places his foot there and pulls the skin off with it.

Once the skin is removed, they begin to gut the animal. Here we see the butcher and his assistant removing the large instestine, which is not eaten, and the stomach.

Removing the small intestine, which is gathered together like rope.

The butcher standing next to the finished product.

 

 

The sheep goes immediately from the butcher's knife to the grill. Cooking and eating comprise most of the Eid holiday activities, and my host said that they celebrate until all of the meat is gone. 

The first body parts to be prepared are the head and legs which are scorched over open flame as the sheep is skinned and butchered:

 

This scorching is only preparatory. My host father tended to the grill and scraped off the sheep's hair once it was burnt. Once clean, the head and legs are slow roasted overnight. We ate them the morning of the second day.

On the first day, the priority is to eat what will spoil quickest: the intestines and internal organs. My first delicacy was boulfaf: pieces of liver and/or kidney wrapped in fat and grilled on skewers. These were seasoned only with salt and cumin and were quite delicious. Next, we ate some small intestine, which was flavorless and mushy and not very appetizing. Last we ate heart, also seasoned only with salt and cumin.

Preparing the fat for boulfaf.

Liver and kidney, pre-boulfaf

My host's father, preparing boulfaf

Boulfaf on the grill.

Grilling the small intestine.

Heart.

 

On the afternoon of Eid we traveled to my host's granfather's farm in 'l-Khizanah. There we feasted on mutton tagine and mechoui, Berber barbecue. It was nice to move away from organs to real meat.

My Eid al-Adha experience was eye-opening and incredibly impressive. Before last Wednesday, I had never seen a live animal slaughtered. It was intense. I'm not a very squeamish person, so I wasn't upset by the blood (even when some splattered on me). I didn't find it disturbing, but it was very real. It is one thing to buy a steak wrapped in cellophane from the supermarket and another to watch a sheep get gutted a few feet in front of you.

I don't think I will ever have a comparable culinary experience in my life. I ate meat so fresh that it was warm when it the fire. I ate liver for lunch and sheep face for breakfast. I was stuffed with mechoui, prune and mutton tagine, and mufawwur: roasted neck and leg meat with no sauce. In between meals there was kefta and an endless supply of harsha, a Moroccan cornmeal pancake, and olive oil. I will never eat so much meat in such a short period of time again. And it was all for the sake of family and friends.

On my last night, after a three course dinner left me stuffed beyond belief, I wondered aloud about why I continued to be plied with food. My host told me, "It's not about the eating. It's about the talking. Everyone has a sheep and it gets eaten whether you're here or not. But we do this because we want to spend time with you."

Eid al-Adha in Morocco

I just got back from three days in Tahala where I celebrated Eid al-Adha with one of my students. It was an incredible experience that I will never forget. To put all of what happened into one post would be impossible, so I've decided to divide my description and thoughts of Eid into three separate ones. The first will describe the lead-up and preparation to the holiday. The second will take you step-by-step through the day of Eid, including pictures of the sacrifice. Some of these are graphic. The last will describe my impressions of the holiday.

What is Eid al-Adha? There are two official, major holidays on the Muslim calendar: Eid al-Fitr, which ends the month-long fast of Ramadan, and Eid al-Adha, also know as Eid al-Kabir, or the Big Eid. In Arabic, its name means the Celebration of the Sacrifice. The purpose of the holiday is to commemorate and reenact Abraham's near-sacrifice of his son Ishmael. Islam identifies with the traditions of Judaism and Christianity, so this is the same Abraham in the Old Testament, and the same event Jews and Christians know as the Binding of Isaac. In Islam, Ishmael replaces Isaac as Abraham's favorite son.

This is how it reads in the Qur'an:

So We gave him the good news of a boy ready to suffer and forbear. (101) Then when (the son) reached (the age of) (serious) work with him, he said: "O my son! I see in vision that I offer thee in sacrifice: now see what is thy view!" (The son) said: "O my father! do as thou art commanded: thou will find me if Allah so wills one practicing Patience and Constancy!" (102) So when they had both submitted (to Allah), and He had laid Him prostrate on his forehead (for sacrifice) (103) We called out to him "O Abraham! (104) "Thou hast already fulfilled the dream!"― thus indeed do We reward those who do right. (105) For this was obviously a trial― (106) And We ransomed him with a momentous sacrifice: (107) And We left (this blessing) for him among generations (to come) in later times: (108) "Peace and salutation to Abraham!" (109) Thus indeed do We reward those who do right. (110) For he was one of Our believing Servants.

This is the religious context that justifies Eid al-Adha, and most importantly, justifies the sacrifice of a live sheep. A lot has been written about whether such an act is humane. Seeing it firsthand, I can say that it is a pretty gruesome. But it is not senseless. This sacrifice is central to the whole celebration. Through it, Muslims  participate in Abraham's sacrifice, they embolden their faith by mimicking his. The sacrifice reaffirms God's mercy as well. Abraham's sacrifice was just a test, and Muslims are rewarded for their participation in the ritual just as Abraham was. The immediate reward is abundant food to enjoy with family and friends, as well as hasanat, credit for good deeds, that cancel out sins. In the long run, these help ensure a Muslim's place in Heaven. 

We may all have our opinions about this act, whether it is truly justified or justifiable, but we cannot overlook its tremendous meaning to Muslims. 

Like any major holiday, you can sense Eid's coming. Last weekend I went with my roommate and some other Fulbrighters to Sebta, a Spanish enclave on Morocco's northern coast, to renew our tourist visas. The train back to Fes was packed with Eid season travelers. My roommate returned a day later and reported he couldn't find a seat for one portion of his journey. He counted 17 people standing, packed like sardines, in the space between two of the railroad cars. In other words, this is a big deal. Moroccans travel back to their familial homes from all over the country. The train service provides extra trains. Bus companies and grand taxis work overtime to bring people from the country to the cities and vice versa. It's like traveling on Thanksgiving Day everyday during the week leading up to and after the holiday, but with a developing country's infrastructure.

The second sign of Eid is shopping. The most important purchase is, of course, the sheep, or hawli in Moroccan Arabic. Beyond the religious significance, the Eid sacrifice provides a family with a tremendous amount of fresh meat that is eaten almost immediately. As you will see, no part of the sheep goes untouched. The type of sheep and the manner in which it is purchased and cared for varies. 

There are six varieties of sheep in Morocco, all of which vary in size and price. The best, according to my hosts and other Moroccans, is the hawli ahmar, or 'red sheep', from the Atlas Mountains. A good one is about a year to a year and a half old. You can tell this by the size and color of the teeth. My host explained that you want a sheep with short, white teeth. In Arabic these are called sanan al-haleeb, literally 'milk teeth'. If the sheep doesn't have a full set of teeth, it is too young. And if they are yellow, then it is too old.

A good hawli ahmar costs around 2500 DH ($315.50), which is a big purchase. The Morocco's monthly per capita GDP is about 1850 DH ($232), and the average middle class monthly income is 6000 DH ($750). Some families buy sheep on credit or save up for one throughout the year. But others purchase only what they can afford. Smaller sheep, kbsh, and goats, 'anzi, are cheaper alternatives. Those who can't afford to purchase one of these can purchase meat from a butcher in advance or accept meat as charity from their neighbors. Religiously speaking, it doesn't matter that these people don't sacrifice a sheep. They get credit for the sacrifice. If they could afford to do so they would, and in Islam, intent is what matters. Large and/or wealthy families will sacrifice multiple sheep or even a cow. The latter is excessive. Beyond it being unnecessary, it seems difficult enough to me for a family to finish one 50kg sheep. How do you finish off a whole cow?

Traditionally, sheep are purchased off the street or in a market. Farmers and grazers bring their sheep to cities or souqs, either selling them directly or through agents. In Tahala we visited a large sheep market where many merchants were selling hundreds of sheep. Out in Fes this past Monday, I was harried by streams of men pushing their sheep down the street in carts. Shoppers would flag one down, negotiate a price and then drag or carry their future mutton home. This was last minute shopping, with a dash of Moroccan insanity. The flurry of handcarts, the bleating sheep, the haggling; it all makes arguing over the last Butterball in the supermarket on Thanksgiving Eve sound pretty tame.

Sheep are not all that is bought last minute. In Morocco, it is tradition to wear new clothes on Eid. Monday night, before leaving Fes I went shopping for a jalaba, a traditional Moroccan robe, to wear on Eid. I also bought new belgha, slippers. The streets were again packed with people doing the exact same thing. In this way, consumerism is an almost institutionalized feature of Eid. However, I did not sense it being similar to American Christmas. Granted, I don't have a television, so I don't know if or how Moroccan TV commercializes the holiday. Elsewhere there is evidence of commercialization: Morocco's national train company offers and advertises a sheep purchasing service. It's entirely possible that Eid's consumer culture is identical or similar to that of Christmas. But I doubt that. Eid is not a gift giving holiday. Moroccans do buy new clothes, but not in excess. Only my host's brothers wore new clothes and they were limited to one outfit or accessory. This may differ elsewhere, but in general, I think Eid's consumer culture drastically differs from what we're used to being associated with American holidays.

In preparation for my Eid in Tahala, I only formed a few expectations. Not having experience Eid before, I really didn't know what to think, and my host deliberately kept me "in suspense". But from what I knew of its role in Islam I expected the day to be very religious, especially the sacrifice. Looking back, while religion is an important feature of the celebration, to reduce Eid to a solemn religious expression is both inaccurate and does the holiday and its participants a great disservice. As you will soon see, the meaning of Eid is much deeper and richer.

Medina Life: The Public Bath

Last Friday, I went to the hammam, the public bath. I got a massage. It was great.

The hammam is a ubiquitous feature of Morocco's medinas. Every neighborhood has one, and you would be hard pressed to find anyone who hasn't ever visited one, or even doesn't use one regularly. Yet, despite its prominence, I feel like the hammam is very difficult to describe. Yes, it is a public bath, but you don't go there just to bathe. Yes, you can get a steam and a massage, but it is not a spa or luxury retreat. There is a purpose to going to the hammam, but its function is not purely utilitarian. Hammams were once centers of neighborhood society, especially for women, who were able to enjoy themselves in the freedom and comfort of gender homogeneity. There is even a hammam economy: the shops and street dealers who sell soaps, cosmetics and bathing accessories in the alleyways surrounding the baths. But before going too deep into the social and cultural subtleties surrounding the hammam, let's get an idea about the public bath experience.

I visited the hammam Moulay Idriss, which dates back to the reign of its eponym, the first emperor of Morocco who founded Fes in the 8th century. All traditional hammams share the same design. You first walk into a dressing room where you pay the entrance fee (around 10DH, $1.50). In exchange you receive two water buckets and a secure place to store your clothes. The next step is to disrobe down to your underwear (bathers are not completely naked), and to enter the bath itself.

The hammam is comprised of three chambers of succeeding levels of heat and humidity. The first chamber is the coolest, somewhere around 80 degrees Fahrenheit. The second chamber is around 100 degrees, and the third is hotter, seemingly infinitely so. Water comes from this room. An attendant fills your buckets, mixing water from a hot tap and a cold tap in the ratio of your choosing. Most patrons aim for a 50/50 mix of scalding hot and cold water. The result is something slightly warmer than what I like for a hot bath, but not unbearable. Where does the heat come from? Giant stoves built below the hammam's third chamber provide its and the water's intense heat. Traditionally these are shared with community bakeries, usually built next to hammams, in order to use efficiently use this energy. Once your buckets are filled, you stretch out and settle in.

The process of bathing at the hammam reflects its structure. While you can wash yourself in any room, traditionally the hottest room is used first, for a nice, long 'preparatory' steam. You lay on the tile floor - hot, but not to the point of discomfort. Sanitation takes care of itself: a bucket of scalding water is used to wash away anything the previous users left behind. The heat around you is oppressive. Sweat doesn't just stream down your face, it runs out of your pores at an incredible rate. Before you know it, you're covered in it, but it's ok; by this point the heat and steam has lulled you into a somewhat sleepy delirium. Your worries and inhibitions wash away. Your bones soften to puddy and muscles to jelly, and that's when you take a deep sigh of relief and let go of everything that you had on your mind.

That night, as I laid in the hottest room, my brain starting to melt, I couldn't help but wonder about the thousands upon thousands of men who had laid in the same spot as I over the centuries. Who were they? What was their business? Did they, like me, come to the hammam to escape the concerns of everyday life? I felt connected to them, united by a shared purpose, a purpose unchanged for over 1000 years.

The steam portion lasts anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes. Any longer is unsafe and uncomfortable. Afterwards you enter the middle chamber, which, at this point, feels quite refreshingly cool. This is where the serious bathing takes place. To do so, you first rub yourself down with what is called a kis (kees). The kis is like a loufa, but slightly rougher, and is worn on the hand like a glove. You usually use it without soap to remove dirt and dead skin (and a lot of it at that) prior to lathering up. Also it is too thin to retain soap on its own. After some serious exfoliation, you lather up and shampoo just like normal, using the water from your buckets to rinse off. In addition, the middle chamber is also where you can get a massage, which was the highlight of my hammam visit. After bathing, you go to the last chamber to lower your body temperature a bit before leaving the bath altogether.

Prior to my night at Moulay Idriss, I had heard of the legendary/notorious hammam massage. So I knew going into it that this wasn't your white linen, pool side rub down. This was a serious, utilitarian, relaxing of the muscles and stretching of the body (emphasis on stretching).

My masseuse, Muhammad Massage, was a pudgy, balding, middle-aged Moroccan man. Identifying me as a foreigner, he communicated to me with polite "monsieurs" and exaggerated gesticulations: pointing, clapping of hands and  the occassional smacking of the tile floor to get me to turn over.

He began by rubbing me down to loosen me up. He then proceeded to put my body through a serious of contortions that I previously didn't know were possible. These included stretching all of my joints to the limit of comfort and a stretching of the spinal column that resulted in an equally significant compression of my nose cartilage. Afterwards he massaged the muscle in my back, and then flipped me over and massaged my chest. Every time he pressed down against me, he let out a quick "SSSS-AH",  much like a weight lifter doing squats. That's the type of force he employed. I've never had a deep tissue massage, but I imagine what I experienced Friday night was similar.

As Muhammad Massage stood over me, grunting, sweat streaming down his face, I couldn't help but smile. To him I was a pliable mass of bone, tissue and tendon, and one of many he had kneaded that day. I had ceded control, and by doing so I was able to withdraw. I didn't care about what he was doing because I trusted him. Why? Because so did everyone else who came here. And so I felt deeply content. I had achieved total relaxation.

The next night, I went to a going-away/Halloween party with the other Fulbright students studying in Fez. Towards the end of the party, a group of us starting to discuss the possibility of introducing hammams to the United States. To one of my companion's chagrin, I questioned whether that would be possible. In my opinion, it would not be enough to merely construct a Moroccan hammam and open it for business. As we established above, the hammam is not merely a place that provides a service. It is a social and cultural symbol that has strong influence and multiple connotations. I think America could adjust to the hammam as a place, but not to hammam culture.

Socially speaking, the greatest challenge would be getting the 'correct' Americans to use the hammams in the 'correct' way. What do I mean by this? In America, the practice of going to a spa to enjoy the steam room and get a massage exists, but only among the upper class. The same is true in Morocco, but those people don't go to hammams in the medina, they go to spas in the new parts of town. The people who use the hammam are everyday, average Moroccans. It is cheap. It is simple. And most importantly, it is not a luxury. The experience is certainly luxurious, especially for someone who is new to it, but it is not seen that way. As we said, a trip to the hammam has a utilitarian purpose. It is for bathing. It is also for relaxation, but this, as my bathing companion Driss told me, is "very good for the health". So could you have a public bath in the United States that not-upper-class people used daily for utilitarian reasons? I don't think so, at least not anytime soon.

An additional challenge is cultural, and it mainly relates to our perceptions of modesty and hygiene. It may be shocking for me to say this, but I think Moroccans are much less squeamish about bathing with each other than Americans. In other words, a Muslim country is more liberal in a very very specific way than the United States. The "gym-class embarrassment" that one American mentioned has kept him from going to the hammam doesn't exist in Morocco. Now keep in mind, we're talking about same-sex hammams. The idea of men and women sharing a hammam is considered shameful, but for men to sit in a steam room together and bathe is completely acceptable and normal. No one bats an eyelash at it. In America I'm not sure this would be the case.

There are a lot of qualifications to this assertion, but I think it is accurate. The key point is that the bathing experience at the hammam is completely asexual, and therefore there is no shame. In the United States, I think the experience would be sexualized (think of our perception of Turkish baths), and only superficially, but just enough to make it awkward. Because Moroccans keep both homo- and heterosexuality almost completely private, that's not the case here.

Another consideration is American culture's view of hygiene. This appeared in hammam discussion with the other Fulbrighters. I mentioned how I doubted many Americans would feel that a traditional hammam was 'clean', and one of my interlocutors agreed. He felt that the heat of the hammam and the near-boiling temperature water used to clean the floors when they're not occupied is not really enough to ensure 'proper' hygiene. And from a typical American point of view, I think he's right. We use Purell before touching food and believe that our children will get poisoned if they don't eat Halloween candy that is prepackaged in plastic. So, from this perspective, hammams are filthy. And I'm sure some are, but the key point is that Moroccans don't think so. As I told my companion, I feel that if Moroccans kept getting sick at the hammam the practice would have died out a long time ago.

I'm glad it hasn't; I'm planning to revisit the hammam tomorrow night.

Medina Life: Buying Furniture

In my first post from Fes I expressed my desire to live in the Medina, Fes' old city. I also gave a brief description of what I imagined life there would be like:

I will work in new Fes, but hope to live in old Fes. Fes's medina, also called Fes al-Bali, is the world's largest car-free urban zone. It is the pre-colonial Islamic city, and houses several hundred thousands Fessis (people who live in Fes). Living in the medina is a little like going back in time. Its streets are really serpentine alleyways that seldom follow a straight line. Without cars, people use donkeys to transport goods, much like was done centuries ago, except today they carry mini-fridges and flat screen televisions as well as rugs, spices, and anything else a person can't carry him or herself.

A month later, now a settled resident of the medina, I can definitely say that life here is different from any other lifestyle I've experienced in my life.

Fes' medina has 'enchanted' many many writers, especially Westerners. I definitely fall into that crowd. There are so many moments where I'll being walking down the street - to work, to shop, to grab a bite to eat - and I'll see something that reminds me of how incredibly fascinating, intriguing, and mystifying my new home can be. But what I've learned is that the experience of living in the medina, and probably anywhere, is impossible to generalize. I think that when you reduce the medina to a place "back in time," through which "serpentine alleyways" weave, you lose the fact that this is a living city, where hundreds of thousands of people pass their daily lives, performing normal, everyday tasks. To play into the mystery and enchantment of this place is to forget that it is real.

So in contrast, I'm going to present scenes of medina life as I experience them and without placing them within some greater narrative. Once this year is over, we can look back an figure out just what makes Fes the place that it is.

Since moving to the medina I've been on the lookout for furniture. Traditional Moroccan homes are not equipped with much storage space. Space is designed to be used actively and to be lived in, so even a room like the kitchen, which is not livable, is usually small and tucked away. Storage comes in the form of furniture, and though my room in my new house came with a small shelf unit, it didn't meet my needs. What I really wanted was a dresser or armoire to store my clothes, and other items.

So, I set out on a mission. I discussed options with my friends and colleagues, and decided to look for something antique or used. I could have purchased pre-fab, factory direct furnishing from Marjane (Morocco's Wal-Mart), but felt I needed something nicer to accompany my surroundings. I visited the antique market in the mellah, the old Jewish quarter. The quality of the furniture and craftsmanship amazed be, but I could neither afford it nor honor it with dutiful service. I wanted something permanent, not eternal. As a result I shifted my focus closer to home.

As it turns out, my neighborhood is home to a small furniture joutiyya. A joutiyya is a used goods market, and where many Moroccans purchase clothes, furniture and home goods. My friend and neighbor David informed me that mere blocks away from my house, on Derb Belhaj, is where men sell used furniture to the neighborhood. The men are brothers Hasan, the salesman, and Said, the workman, and they have since become friends. I had passed by them, and made conversation, but had never noticed or understood their business.

One day on my way back from work, I saw them selling an old, gigantic, slightly beat up armoire. Perfect for my needs, and cheap. Yet, the realities of medina life seemed to stand in the way of our union: how would I transport it to my house through those "serpentine alleyways"? How would I get such a huge thing into my house? I thought for a day, but decided that possible or not, I needed the furniture, so I might as well buy it and see what would happen.

I voiced my concerns to Hasan, the salesman, and he gave me the very Moroccan answer of "no problem;" he would carry the armoire in a karrousa, push cart, and deliver to my doorstep. Just to make sure, I walked him to my house and he looked at our entry and repeated "no problem". I returned with him to the joutiyya and met his brother Said, the workman. Said told me he would "fix up" the armoire before delivery, which designated for Wednesday, one of my days off. I didn't quite know what he meant, but I appreciated the thought, paid, and waited.

Wednesday morning, as I turned onto Belhaj, I met my new armoire, freshly varnished, its new brass hinges gleaming in the sunlight. I was overjoyed. I found Hasan, told him I was ready for the delivery, and he said, "excellent," that he needed to find his brother and that I should go home and he would come shortly:

My wardrobe, before and after.

What I had failed to realize was the solution to the problem that Hasan had told me was "no problem": getting a 6 foot tall, 4 foot wide wardrobe through a small doorway, around a hairpin turn, and up a narrow, windy staircase into my courtyard. My brain, which is not good with 'logic' and sometimes still stuck in America, figured if he said it could be done it could be done by artful navigation and manipulation of the wardrobe as a whole. So I was surprised when I opened the door for Hasan and found my wardrobe in pieces. After I helped carry the parts in, Hasan got to work and told me Said would come later to reassemble the wardrobe. And as happens frequently, the obvious sense of this process struck me quite suddenly and bluntly.

I am grateful to Hasan and Said for letting me photograph their handiwork:

The first stages of reconstruction

Hasan adding varnish to the bottom of the wardrobe

Said carrying one of the wardrobe's doors into my room

Said with the finishing touches

The experience of purchasing a wardrobe, having it delivered in pieces and watching it be reconstructed my bedroom, made me realize in the medina life is carried out in ways that are very obscure to Westerners. Perhaps this is why it is so mystifying. To get past the mystery and wonder of this place, you have to meet it on its terms. But sometimes that's easier said than done, and even then, an outsider can only penetrate so far.

That time I taught 200 students and half of them walked out

Today, the students' union organized a walk out during my class to protest the quiz I had scheduled. The quiz was five questions long: define four terms and a short answer comprehension question. It covered the material I had taught the previous class. I told my students it would be easy and was an important in assessing their note-taking abilities. I managed to convince many of my students the quiz was a good idea, but the union persuaded more to walk out. There was a stand-off. Eventually, I relented.

While this experience was frustrating, I think it's really illustrative of the problems facing Moroccan higher education. The system is at best dysfunctional. Issues as basic as the inability to distribute course materials and as complex as the political relationship between the Ministry of Education and Morocco's public universities impede learning on a daily basis. Students and faculty struggle everyday to perform what appears to some as an exercise in perpetual futility. It is a situation that breeds discontent and frustration to the point where a simple review quiz can be seen as a tool of oppression.

Why are things this way? There are many ways to answer this question, but in my opinion a significant factor is the gap between ideal and reality.

Every Moroccan recognizes that the education system needs improvement, and there is a great and nearly universal desire to do so. In the past decade, the government has enacted three consecutive education reforms, each of them attempting to compensate for the shortcomings of its predecessor. These initiatives aim to move Moroccan schools towards a more modern educational philosophy; they emphasize active and collaborative learning and make curricula more flexible so they can meet students' needs. The will to improve and the ideas to do so are present, but at every level the system lacks the necessary resources to realize these goals.

The most fundamental resource gap is between the rich and the poor. Many many Moroccans are poor, some Moroccans are wealthy. Rich Moroccans send their children to private school, poor Moroccans can't. At the tertiary level, only very few Moroccan families can afford private universities or to send their children abroad. The government recognizes this, so public universities are free and open to any Moroccan who passes High School. So, Moroccan university students come from mixed socioeconomic and educational backgrounds. Those who attended private primary or secondary schools tend to perform much much better.

Continuing with this theme, Moroccan university professors, while earning enough money to qualify as middle class (roughly $750-1100 a month), are underpaid. Without tuition, public university budgets are small, which means professors make only enough money as is necessary. Many of them work two jobs, teaching full time at the university and part- or full-time at private schools or language centers.

These two realities converge to create a critical situation. A vast majority of eligible university students attend public universities. There, they sit in classes taught by overextended, underpaid professors. Add to this the reality that most universities are desperately understaffed, and you have serious problems. My department has 12 professors and 1000 students; overworked faculty members don't teach classes of 30-40, they teach classes of 100-200+.

Add to this the resource deficiencies at the macro level. Universities lack good libraries, accessible audiovisual aids, and study areas for students. Students wait in line everyday to get course materials from the small campus copy center. Break downs in communication are frequent. Students often arrive hours late to class due to unreliable public transportation. In this situation it is practically impossible to realize any type of educational ideal. Students and faculty get frustrated. Educational quality deteriorates to the point of desperation.

Professors stretched between multiple jobs will often augment their class schedules, with or without informing students. I've heard stories of Moroccan professors who work at American universities and only teach here over Winter or Fall vacation, compressing a semester's worth of classes into two or three weeks. Homework and quizzes, which take time to grade, are often omitted in preference for midterm and final exams. Sometimes professors allow students to skip class and only sit for major exams. Many students fail in these cirumstances, but that's what is expected. Moroccan professors may be stretched between jobs, but Moroccan students are equally pressure by their course schedules.

Moroccan universities operate under the French system, so students complete the License (equivalent to a BA) after three years or six semesters. Semesters are divided into modules which are divided into classes. In those three years they must complete nearly 300 hours of class. If students fail any of their modules, an average failing grade in that module's classes, they have to retake the failed module before they can pass their semester. Because failure is so common, this leads to students taking multiple modules at the same time in order to pass. Many of my students cannot attend my classes because they have other classes from other modules scheduled at the same time.

This is a complex situation that defines educational dysfunction. Failure is expected, with many department anticipating a 50% drop out or fail-out rate among first year students. This is certainly accepted, and perhaps condoned as a means of alleviating the tremendous burden of overcrowding. And this is the environment where I work twice a week, trying to do my best to teach well and support my students in any way I can.

I started teaching three weeks ago. I have two classes: Comprehension and Spoken English and Mythologies of the West. Both have over 100 students. My Comprehension class averages 200-250 and the Myth class around 150.

I came into this experience thinking I was prepared. I had applied to be an "English Teaching Assistant" and I had taught two student taught courses at Rice. I had written lectures and syllabi, organized group projects and even a field trip. I had imagined my responsibilities would be light: assisting English teachers in instruction or course design, giving presentations about American culture and maybe providing tutoring to students outside of class. Obviously, turned out to be very different, but that's pretty inconsequential at this point. Now, all that matters is doing my best to help as many students as possible in the time that I have.

I am lucky for many reasons. First, I am American. This is important because my students, like many Moroccan students, have never had a native speaker teach them English. They recognize this, and view the opportunity to learn from me as a great and fortunate privilege. And while I feel that I'm not a great teacher, I know that my students are motivated to attend and to participate in class by this fact alone. Second, I only teach two classes, and though they are large, I'm able to focus on my students and give them as much individual attention as possible. Third, many of my students love learning English. They see English as a language of freedom and liberty, not politically, but culturally and economically. They listen to American music, watch American movies and television, and aspire to work in multinational corporations or in any of the hundreds of countries in the world that speak English or value English speakers.

So between my status as a native speaker, my students' passion and motivation, my ability to give them time and attention, and my motivation to work with them as much as possible, I see great potential in my time as an English teacher in Morocco. And for the most part, my work has gone well and I've been successful. But as today illustrates, the system, with its problems and frustrations, can oppose good intentions.

I understand the union's complaints. When students are overworked and overstressed, being held accountable through constant assessment can be a huge burden. In an environment where professors are often unfair, capricious and exacting, a review quiz is not merely a review quiz, it is a measure of control or punishment. Unfortunately, they consider me and my methods to be part of the problem rather than the solution. And that may be true, I may be asking too much. But rather than setting impossible expectations, I see myself as challenging my students. And unlike the professors who choose to not or cannot pay attention to their students' needs, I've committed myself to meeting them as best as I can. So we'll see what happens in the future as that becomes more apparent.

What encouraged me today is that when I resisted the walk out, about half of my class supported me. Many of my students wanted the quiz, but too many did not.

Today, I decided to give in rather than lose the entire class period. Maybe next time things will go the other way.