Wasn’t There a War There Once?

Toto Tito, I’ve a feeling we’re not in not in Kansas Mediterranean Yugoslavia anymore.

Sooo…Bosnia and Herzegovina. I don’t want to discourage anyone from going. God knows they could use your money and it offers a fascinating east-meets-west/Ottoman-meets-Habsburg history. And, yes, 100% safe.

But hoo boy.

I scoffed when asked about safety. Duh, the war was like 20 years ago! I was, however, totally naive not to realize how much the war would still be in evidence and how depressing that is. (Yes, thanks, I do know that I sound like an asshole for being sad about having a vacation sad when other people are sad about, you know, living through war.)

Let’s bookend this with happy. First, Mostar, unofficial capital of the Herzegovina (southern) part of BiH. Stari Most (old bridge) was even more stunning than I expected. Here are .08 % of the pictures I took.

See the two minarets to the right? That one on the far right isn’t a minaret

Both Mostar and Sarajevo, in the Bosnia part, boast picture-perfect neighborhoods plucked straight out of Istanbul.

Mostar’s Ottoman quarter

Mostar

Mostar

Gazi Husrev-bey mausoleum in Sarajevo

Sarajevo

A lunar clock in Sarajevo marks the prayer times for Muslms

Ottoman quarter viewed from Stari Most

Sebilj fountain–one of Sarajevo’s most famous landmarks

Entrance to Stari Most

Kriva ćuprija (Crooked bridge) rumored to be a test run for the real deal

Kazandžiluk (Coppersmith’s Street) in Sarajevo

My guidebook and the tourist office really pushed the “little Istanbul” angle, speaking directly to travelers who had never before experienced this mysterious Ottoman-Islamic world and may well never get closer. The problem is that I’ve been to Turkey and visited their mosques and bazaars. I also spent just a tiny bit of time in this other Islamic country…what was it? Oh, the name will come back to me I’m sure.

So while I was interested in the unique ways Bosnians practice Islam (pretty liberally), and I’m always happy to eat Turkish Delight and drink fresh pomegranate juice, I didn’t need to make my visit ‘Islam 101’ or even ‘Ottoman empire 101.’ I moved to more recent history. First-up, transition to the Austro-Hungarian empire.

The Austrians definitely left their mark when they replaced the Ottomans as the ruling power. Although I would have assumed that the Habsburgs’ top concern in the last few decades of their reign was how to supply their aristocracy with sufficient quantities of mustache wax, it turns out they also cared about sprucing up their recently acquired Bosnian territory. The conundrum was how to honor the Islamic roots of their new citizens without unduly reminding them of the old Ottoman regime. Architectural solution? Hire some Czech guys to create a bunch of “neo-Moorish” fantasies. It was as if I’d been transported to Bizzaro Morocco!

Built in 1889, the Sharia Law School Building is now the Faculty of Islamic Studies.

Gimnazija Mostar, originally built in1898. This high school became segregated after the 1990s war and is only slowly working in integration

Vijećnica, from 1896. Originally the city hall. Later converted to the national library.

Vijećnica was completely destroyed in the war.

Rebuilding was finished in May, 2014 and it once again serves as city hall.

But obviously things didn’t end well for the Austrians in Bosnia.

Remember the days when Sarajevo was best known for the shot heard round the world? The Archduke lost his life on this unassuming street corner.

After Franz Ferdinand, Bosnia blipped on the world’s radar screen for the 1984 Olympics and the disappeared until the wretched 1990s.

Bank building turned sniper tower

“I personally was shot twice,” my Mostar hostel owner casually told me, pointing out the former sniper tower.

While tourists in Mostar, especially day trippers, might avoid seeing much obvious war damage, it’s nearly impossible to keep the blinders on in Sarajevo. You’d have to be willfully ignorant not to notice damaged buildings, plaques commemorating those who died while simply going about their daily lives, and the “Sarajevo Roses” still visible on sidewalks.

I admit to feeling squidgy about “dark” tourism. It can feel like trampling through someone else’s tragedy. But it can also be an exceptional learning experience.

 

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A refresher: Mostar’s fighting was originally between an alliance of Bosnian-Croats (Catholics) and Bosniaks (Muslims) against the Yugoslav People’s Army which was essentially controlled by Serbs (Orthodox). After the Croatian and Serbian presidents made a deal to carve up Bosnia between them, Serbs took off and Bosnian-Croats turned against Bosniaks, leading to neighbors fighting neighbor.

In Sarajevo it was different–everyone in the city was under siege by invading Serb forces. One of the special tragedies of the siege of Sarajevo is that many different religions had been living there in relative peace for centuries. These sights (plus a Catholic cathedral) were all within a few blocks of each other:

Fountain in front of mosque

From the Jewish museum

Jews were a part of Sarajevo’s peaceful religious coexistence until the holocaust

Orthodox Cathedral

While some Orthodox fled to Serbia or Serb-controlled Bosnia and likewise the Catholics to Croatia/Croatian-controlled Bosnia, many stayed in the city simply as “Sarajevans.” Bosniaks didn’t really have another country to flee to. Everyone who stayed was under siege from the outside Serb/Yugoslav People’s Army forces.

I depended upon guidebooks, my hosts, tour guides and exhibits for my information. Of the latter, the most interesting were Galerija 11/07/95, about the Srebrenica genocide, and the Tunnel Museum, which includes part of the actual tunnel that the Sarajevans hand dug to move food, supplies, fuel and even the Bosnian president in and out of the city during the siege. I visited the tunnel with a guide who was a police officer/soldier during the siege and he talked about his own experiences going through while carrying supplies. His record was seven round trips in one night. En route to the museum we drove through and learned about the street many Sarajevans still call “Sniper Alley.”

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While this was all fascinating, it was also incredibly depressing, especially coupled with evidence that BiH hasn’t exactly bounced back from the war.

In Mostar my host explained that while visitors generally don’t notice, locals know that the city is still split along the former front line. Bosniaks (Muslims) stay on one side and Coats (Catholics) on the other. Walking into the Coat side of town I noticed that all the beer advertisements on cafe umbrellas were for Croatian beer rather than Bosnia’s Sarajevsko. Coincidence?

Also on the Croat side a destroyed monastery has been replaced with a new one, complete with an insanely tall campanile that bears a suspicious resemblance to the Ottoman-style minarets that dot the skyline…only much taller and crowned with a cross. Then you look up to the hilltop and lording over town is another (giant) cross. I’m not sure how one is to interpret these post-war additions to the local landscape except as two middle fingers to neighbors across that front line.

This bell tower looks even more like minaret when viewed from the Bosniak side of town

Bosniak side of town with minaret in the foreground; cross on hill behind (Croat side of town)

 

One of the sadder examples of the continuing division is the state of Mostar’s Partisan Memorial Cemetery. Look, I get that Tito’s legacy is complicated. But can we just agree that kicking Nazi ass is an impressive achievement?

Nope.

Mostar Croats have decided that Tito and the communist years were only a time of oppression and that the giant monument park on “their” side of town–a communist-era creation honoring the partisan war dead and dedicated to Tito–isn’t worth any upkeep.

Never mind that Ygoslavian communism looked very different than Soviet communism and that lots of former Yugoslav cities still maintain street names, statues and other tributes to Tito. And that this monument is really about the men who fought with him against Nazis. The local Croats can’t be bothered to mow the lawn.

Entrance

In it’s heyday, water moved from one part of the monument to another. I think the basin to the right once held water

Walls and “streets” are part of the monument’s expansive feel

The site is overgrown and littered with garbage, including the purple bra on the lower left hand side

I have been to towns that were smaller than this.

Even in its abandoned state, this is something to see.

There are other concerns about present day BiH and I don’t just mean their decision not to participate in Eurovision 2015. I heard official unemployment figures ranging from 40-60%. The bureaucracy needed to manage their three-part government/rotating three-person presidency (part of the Dayton Accords) is staggering and infrastructure is clearly suffering. I chose train over bus between Mostar and Bosnia because I was promised beautiful scenery (delivered!) but the stations on both ends were downright eerie–ghost towns, obviously built to handle more traffic than they currently have. In recent years train service has become even sparser after cancellation of Belgrade-Sarajevo service. Finally, one of the town’s most exceptional treasures, the Sarajevo Haggadah, perhaps the most valuable book in the world, is owned by this museum.

It has been moved to a different (open) museum but was unavailable for viewing during my visit.

None of this is to say that I regret visiting, but I was really ready to move on. While two nights in Mostar was perfect, four nights in Sarajevo was maybe too much. If I’d sampled nightlife I might have felt differently but my homestay hostel was a long walk up a steep hill and it felt kind of like my Peace Corps homestay where coming back too late would be “noted.”

Also, if I return to Bosnia I think I’ll focus on the natural beauty rather than the cities. I’ve had enough evidence of man’s inhumanity to man for awhile.

Because I promised to bookend with happy, here are some pictures of some beautiful and fun things I saw.

Some of the stunning scenery between Mostar and Sarajevo

Statue commemorating the humanitarian aid recieved during the siege of Sarajevo

A group of Mostar citizens intent on reconciliation sponsored this symbol of…well, I am not sure.

Celebrating the rebuilding of the bridge

Austro-Hungarian architecture

Sarajevo window

School children gather at Sarajevo’s partisan monument. See, some Bosnians still appreciate Nazi ass-kicking!

A sign at Cafe Tito

I guess even Bosnian cops can’t resist donuts

Visiting a typical Ottoman-era house filled with stunning carpets

Let’s close by remembering one of Bosnia’s greatest achievements as a nation: their 2008 Eurovision entry

 

 

 

What I Wish Americans Knew About Morocco

President Kennedy’s establishment of the Peace Corps is recognized as March 1, 1961. On each anniversary Peace Corps encourages us to produce a video or blog on a particular theme. The theme for 2014 was “What I Wish Americans Knew About [my host country]” and I totally meant to do a blog post. Better late than never?

Whatevs. Here’s a list of things I’d love for people to know before I land back in the U.S. Then we can have better conversations!

1. Morocco is in Africa, not in the middle east. Doesn’t seem like you’d need to say it but you do. Even some Moroccans will refer to “Africans” as someone else; “Africa” as some place else. Morocco is in North Africa, on the west coast. It’s Arabic name (Mahgrib) means “west.” Although often times the region of MENA (Middle East North Africa) is used to indicate the cultural connections between the regions.

2. Morocco is not “an Arab country.” This one would surprise some Moroccans too.

The Amazigh (as they call themselves, it means “free man”) or Berber (as the Romans called them, it means “barbarians”) were here before the Arabs and while some sources will smoosh the two together and say that Morocco is 99% “Arab-Berber” the people in my region very strongly do not identify as Arab at all. One letter of the Amazigh alphabet, ⵣ, is also used as a symbol for their culture and you’ll see it written officially and unofficially throughout Amazigh communities.

3. Morocco is geographically diverse. Yes, I live in the kasbah-dotted landscape of the south, where camels really do roam and houses are made of mud and a couple hours or so by car (longer by camel) will bring you to towering sand dunes. But Morocco also has mountains and sea coasts (Mediterranean and Atlantic) and lush forests aplenty. There are even monkeys in those mountains!

4. Morocco lays claim to having been the first to grant recognition to the brand new United States of America. Although I happen to know that the Republic of Ragusa, now known as the Croatian city of Dubrovnik, claims it was the first. What is not in dispute is that the USA’s first piece of foreign real estate–before embassies and military bases–is the American Legation building.

5. Morocco is semi-secular. I have met Moroccans who brag about the secularism of their country and western tourists who proclaim Morocco very liberal. It’s not untrue but it’s hardly the full story. Headscarves are not mandated but the cultural pressure is high to wear them in many places; alcohol is not illegal, just expensive and often difficult to find (ditto for pork). However, 99% of the people who live here are Muslim, mosques are government funded, it is illegal to proselytize for other religions, restaurants open during daylight hours are forbidden from serving Muslims during Ramadan and similar laws govern supermarkets that sell booze–it’s a no-go for Muslims during Ramadan, although my American passport was enough to get me in to the hshuma room at Carrefour Supermarket, even though it’s not like religion is listed on my passport.

6. Moroccans are often quite a bit more overtly religious than Americans. Things only the nerdiest/most enthusiastic Christian youth group members would do in the States (listen to Christian rock, wear t-shirts proclaiming their love of Jesus) are way more accepted here. At a training I attended, answering the question “if you could meet one person from any point in history, who would it be?”, 75% of the Moroccans in the room answered “Muhammad.”

7. Moroccans are very family-focused. It’s not unusual for multiple generations to live in one house.

8. Moroccans speak a lot of languages. Not all Moroccans and not always well, but I’ve met so many who speak Moroccan Arabic, some other Arabic (usually FusHa), French, a Berber dialect, and maybe English and a little Spanish.

9. Moroccans don’t generally get to read in their native tongue. Arabic as written is Modern Standard Arabic or classical Arabic. While Shilha (Berber) does have an alphabet that is now being used more frequently, it is still more common as a spoken language and many of the older women who speak it are illiterate. I can’t help but think this impacts things like reading for pleasure, ease of education, cultural identity…so many things! I feel like they need their own Dante to elevate the vernacular to a higher standard (plus, based on my experience/conversations, a poem about hellfire would be very popular in Islam) but I’ve heard from others that elevating the vernacular is somehow a corrupt French (read: western) idea. They want to keep focusing on a ‘purer’ Arabic because it’s the language of the wider Islamic community. One of my least favorite things about Islam is the fetishization of all things Arab even though outside of MENA, Muslim-majority countries like Pakistan and Indonesia are full of Muslims who can barely understand a word of Arabic. There are some similarities to the way Latin was viewed a few centuries ago in the west, although there’s no Tyndale Bible-esque freak out over translations of the Qur’an. In fact, Qur’an translations are widely encouraged and available, although a smug feeling of superiority might be detected by those who read it in Arabic vs. a translation.

10. I feel welcome in Morocco. It is true that tact (yep–I have it!) and language barriers mean that not everyone knows me as well as my friends in the U.S. but Moroccans I know personally, especially my host families, have been accepting of me, kind to me, and welcoming to any guest I’ve brought to them. For every moment of harassment or mendacity, I’ve experienced 100 more of kindness and love.

So there are just some things people should know about Morocco. If you are interested in the 2015 theme, it’s “Host Country Hero.”  A bunch of PCVs here in Morocco put together this video about a cool PC staff member.

Ramadan and the Denial of Pleasure

We’ve nearly finished another Ramadan, hopefully my last for a while. Once again, I didn’t fast, although many PCVs did. Ostensibly all the adult Moroccans around me fasted, although I’m sure that’s not the case.

One dinner bowl for me, another for my friend who has been fasting all day.

Last year I was coy when asked about fasting, wanting not to offend. This year I’m more open about the fact that I am not Muslim and, therefore, not fasting. Peace Corps’ Goal #2: Represent the United States and its people to the host country in which we are placed.

Part of me regrets the missed chance of a really great cultural experience. PCVs tell me about the connection they feel to their community when they break fast with neighbors. I have no doubt that I’d get points for fasting plus I’m sure I’d get a better view into life in a Muslim country. So why don’t I at least try?

I’ve asked myself that question lots and tried to come up with an answer to my almost visceral reaction against the practice. Here’s some thoughts:

1. I’m just too lazy (and hungry). Let’s be real–no water or food from 2:30 am-7:30 pm? That’s hard! I might be able to buy into the challenge of fasting if the ban did not include water. That’s just unhealthy and only good medical data will convince me otherwise. Sorry Morocco, a bunch of (lovely) people telling me “Ramadan is zween” does not count as medical data. Pointing to the sky and saying ‘Allah’? Also not medical data.There is however, data showing that fasting has some negative public health implications. Just like there are, perhaps, negative health consequences to my dream involving a CamelBak filled with spiced wine that never leaves my side during the entire month of December.But plain and simple maybe I’m resistant because it’s hard. While I hear fasting is supposed to be “joyful,” when I walk into the bus ticket office and find the lone employee lying on the floor because she’s trying to conserve energy, I don’t think “Gosh, that looks joyful. Count me in!”
2. I don’t want to participate in an enforced religious event. Yes, enforced. Even in liberal(ish) Morocco, people who are “known Muslims” can be arrested and fined for daylight eating during Ramadan.
   

   McDonald’s reminds people to eat at their own risk. By law, only kids and non-Muslims can eat in public during daylight hours. Tourists, ex-pat Europeans and sub-Saharan African immigrants take over the McDonald’s at lunchtime.

   I can get behind celebrating religious events you don’t believe in (Christmas!) but I can’t support forced observation. By openly not fasting, perhaps I set an example of another way. You could, however, make the argument that I am just exercising one more western/American privilege that is unavailable to Moroccans. I’m definitely annoyed that my only lunch option in Rabat is McDonald’s, but at least I can eat without fear of jail. 

3. One of my major problems with religion overall is how often it’s used to deny people pleasure. This is my second July in southern Morocco but my first as an owner of a refrigerator. It’s no secret that this is a difficult climate to live in and a difficult time of year to live in it, especially as an American who is used to certain comforts (Thai food, air-conditioned movie theaters, watching cat videos on YouTube) but has access to few. One of the truest pleasures I have right now is what my refrigerator provides me: cold food and beverage. What Ramadan says to me is this: “that one pleasure that you have? Deny it.” During the hottest part of the day in the hottest month of the year, don’t drink that ice cold water or eat that ice cold watermelon.

It’s this last one that I spent the most time contemplating, as “fun denial” is also an American tradition. The recent SCOTUS decision on contraception brought out the anti-fun brigade in full force. Here’s just one tweet among many:

“Sex without consequences?” Code for “sex for fun.” It turns out lots of people in the U.S. are anti-sex. Especially anti- women having fun sex. Women–don’t you know that you only get to choose between two flavors of sex?

a. Sex with the desire to be pregnant
b. Sex shrouded in the veil of fear (of unwanted pregnancy)

Booze, coffee, pork, sex, cold watermelon on a hot day–these are all things that religions of various stripes tell me are wrong. Even the U.S. Drug War, which I would classify as “anti-pleasure” (and racist among other things) has long been intertwined with religious groups and a certain kind of religious sensibility.

Some PCVs told me that breaking fast after a long day gives them a kind of high that actually is quite pleasurable. I believe it. But that’s a lot of pleasure-denial to get to a point of pleasure. Again, it calls to mind some Christian religious practices, in which people spend copious amounts of time and energy trying to convince people that god can get you high better than anything else.

Apparently, as with drugs, dosage control of god can be problematic

I’ve decided to stick to what I know and take my pleasures where I choose, not where a religion I actively disbelieve tells me I should get them. I do this with some regret, knowing that I am giving something up in the process.

My Ramadan wish is that we all get to a point where people realize that their religious beliefs should not trump others’ pursuit of happiness (as long as it’s not hurting anyone, duh).

Because what does this anti-pleasure business get you? According to some, eternal life. According to the evidence, not much.

The First of the Last Times

 

After mid-service medical, desperate to replace to 10 lbs of (mostly booze) weight I’d lost, I headed to the land of milk and honey–if by milk you mean “wine” and by honey you mean “ham.”

I made my way north to work at a camp with my friend Courtney. With no spring camp in my own site I decided it would be best to work up north where I already know the students.

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Conveniently, Courtney’s site is only about an hour from the border with fake Spain. And it was Semana Santa! Not like I planned that or anything. [editor’s note: totally planned that.]

While the processions were much smaller than the big ones held throughout real Spain, especially in Sevilla, I have to give it to the Catholics–for sheer unadulterated spectacle, they are hard to beat.

 

While you definitely see women in headscarves and jellabas in Melilla, the uniform for Spanish girls these days appears to be Daisy Dukes and pantyhose. Yes, even at a religious procession. As I watched these girls watch the procession, which included many women, I thought about how the Catholic Church, while still profoundly anti-woman at its core, has been dragged (mostly kicking and screaming) into a slightly friendlier attitude towards the second sex. It has had to in order to survive in progressive western European countries. (Spain seems to be taking some steps backwards but still deserves props for it’s early move to marriage equality.)

Is the same kind of change possible for Islamic countries? How long will it take? Will the change necessarily come from non-Arab Islamic countries? Many questions to ponder…

I find Melilla a true oasis of booze, short skirts, ham, and obeyed traffic laws. It also has beautiful architecture and the only functioning bullring in Africa.

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But it’s a long way from my site and the sad truth is that I probably won’t be making many–or perhaps any–return trips up this way. Anything is possible of course, but I suspect that I just had my last trip to Melilla and my last trip to Zaio. In this second year of service, how many other places will I find myself visiting for the last time?

En route up north I stopped in Fes to see my host family and eat their food–still the best in Morocco. It was my first return trip with Anna (the other PCV in my extended host family) and while I certainly hope I get to visit them a few more times before I leave, I was reminded again that time is finite: our visit coincided with the goodbye visit from the PCV who preceded us in our host family and is closing her service this month.

She congratulated us on being almost done and I was like “isn’t that what we should say to you?” But she said the last year will just fly by. We’ll see about that.

To be on the safe side, I brought back some souvenirs from Melilla to help pass the time. Thanks for the memories fake Spain. I’m glad to have known you.

So this is Eid (and what have we done?)

Like Ramadan, many PCVs look forward to their first Eid Kabir (Big Feast), aka Eid al-Adha (feast of the Sacrifice), with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Your first Eid is definitely a milestone.

Let’s start by getting my obligatory religion-snark out of the way: Modern advances involving treatment of delusions? Worth celebrating. A man who obeys a disembodied voice telling him to kill? NOT.

But that’s Eid!

The Abrahamic faiths hold that there’s some Important Life Lesson in the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Ishmael—[sound of record scratch] Wait, what? Ishmael? Don’t I mean Isaac?

Yeah, well…you know how there’s those four out of five dentists who recommend Trident for their patients who chew gum? Islam is like the fifth dentist of the Abrahamic faiths, maintaining that it was Ishmael (Abraham’s son by Hagar, the handmaid) offered up, not Isaac. Not incidentally, Muslims believe Ishmael is the founder of the Arab race. So he’s a BFD.

My cynicism (and me! according to those pesky Abrahamic faiths) be damned, I still looked forward to experiencing Eid since it’s such an important day. Besides, lots of people don’t even know what they’re celebrating. I specifically asked about “Ibrahim from the Qur’an” and my host sister (who is smart and goes to Qur’an study classes) was like “dunno.” A friend of mine had similar failed attempts to engage with Moroccans about the reasons behind Eid.

For those who don’t remember their Torah/Old Testament/Qur’an myths, Isaac or Ishmael or Brayden or Ethan or WHOEVER wasn’t killed after all because God was all “Just checking you’d do what I wanted.” Ha! That was a good one, God.

Anyhoos, Abraham slaughters a ram in place of his son and now Muslim families commemorate by slaughtering an animal themselves. Sheep are the go-to sacrifice but others are used too. Even camels! Tradition holds you keep one third of the animal for yourself and your family, give another third to other family and the final third to the poor/to charity. But I don’t know the ins and outs of how this works. I heard some just give money to charity.

In the weeks leading up to Eid, Moroccans buy or prepare their animals. In my town people commonly keep livestock but in cities it’s a different story.

Animal selling, followed by awkward transport, increases pre-Eid.

City-folk who normally buy their meat from a butcher suddenly have a live sheep on their hands and need to put it somewhere for a few days. My friend’s hosts, a teacher and his family, kept theirs in the bathroom of the (closed for the holiday) elementary school.

Since many Moroccans travel to see family and animal vendors are hurrying from souk to souk,  PCVs are banned from travel that week. Even die hard rule breakers are like “dude—the hassle’s not worth it. You don’t want to share a taxi with a goat.”

So what was the day actually like?

At 7:30 am (new time) my sitemate and I were be-jellabaed and at my host family’s. Between servings of  fried carbs/sugar we watched my host sisters Zahore and Hayat dress Hayat up in a jellaba plus about 5 meters of lace.

From there it was off to the big open space in front of the youth center, the designated public prayer space. A crowd of chanting men made their way here from the mosque and it seemed like the entire town joined them—some actually prayed while others just milled about. The men generally wore the usual prayer robes and yellow shoes but the women were dressed in all kinds of finery—jellabas, caftans, and more “western” style dresses.

After prayers, we made our way back to the house for some slaughtering. En route you stop to greet everyone you know–and everyone you know is out. You also stop into people’s houses to wish a happy Eid (and get offered tea and carbs).

We passed a butcher going from one house to another. Most families get at least get some slaughtering help from a professional. This is good because I have yet to meet a Moroccan family who has a sharp knife. It would drive my uncle Gary to distraction to see everyone using these tiny 2 dirham stainless steel “knives.” Butchers have the real thing.

Once home, a few people paid calls on us while we waited for our butcher. Zahore said that each will probably help about 10 families before the day is out.

One of two lambs whose mom died in “lamb-birth” and now identify my host mom as their own mother.

I wasn’t sure I could stomach seeing it all but I definitely wanted to try. After all, I eat meat; I should be able to watch where it comes from.

So, how was it?

Less violent than I imagined. Almost silent except for two oblivious lambs running around baa-ing the whole time. (Your time will come lambs.)

Picture taking can be a touchy subject here but my family encouraged me to take as many as I wanted. I figured, this is my first Eid (and maybe last because you never know what will happen), so I’ll document EVERYTHING. Skip the rest if you are squeamish.

The butcher and my host brother carried the sheep outside, laid him down and tied his legs together. Then the butcher put his foot on the sheep’s neck while my host brother held the legs. This seemed mostly precautionary—the sheep was very chill.

note the rubber boots

The butcher slit its throat with one slice. The sheep bled out a lot and kicked a (very) little bit. I don’t know if that was out of pain but it kicked a few more times after they cut the head off–maybe a minute after the first slice–so obviously by then pain was over.

With the head off, a bone in a leg was broken. The butcher separated some of the skin in the leg from the body and proceeded to blow into the hole, blowing the sheep up like a balloon. Zahore said it was to make it easier, but I wasn’t entirely sure what was being made easier. Did it make it easier to separate the skin from the body? They continued doing that for a few minutes but then moved the sheep to a hanging position where it deflated and they continued skinning.

Post-skinning the stomach was slit open and unceremoniously dumped on a tarp, where it attracted the attention of a curious cat. Most of the other organ meats were also removed, with the intestines taking the longest. The butcher, assisted here and there by my host brother, proceeded to pull out the very long small intestine, followed by the large intestine. Watching them variously squeeze, sluice and blow the poop out of the large intestine was not appetizing and it was at this point that the smell started to get to me. Fortunately, we were mostly done.

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Organ meats were brought into the house for cleaning by the womenfolk as the men hung the sheep up on the hook that comes with every Moroccan house in these parts. My own kitchen has one. I guess renting a house without working plumbing is no big deal but without a meat hook? Scandal!

My kitchen hook, being used for mouse-proof storage of mac and cheese.

My family’s meat hook, being used appropriately.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A nice piece of fat is removed and then liver, heart and lungs are cleaned and prepared for grilling. Plus some other organ that the language barrier prevented me from identifying. Liver was easy–I knew the name for it and sheep’s liver looks just like chicken livers, only bigger. With the others, my host sister pantomimed the beating heart and breathing lungs. But for the last one she had no pantomime. I did ask if there were one or two of them and she said just one so it wasn’t kidneys. It might have been pancreas.

The rest of the innards are eventually stuffed into the stomach (and possibly the intestines) and left to cure in the sun. In four or five days this will become a kind of sausage. But all of that happens later, after the grilled organ meat kebabs.

We pre-grilled the liver, then wrapped it in the fat, and re-grilled it along with the rest of the organs. Then, dinner time!

My verdict? Lungs: a little too chewy for my taste. Everything else was fine. We accompanied our meal with the highest-class beverage known to the Islamic world: Coke. OK, I can’t speak for the entire Islamic world. But here, Coca-Cola is the signifier of a Very Special Occasion.

Post-grilled meats we moved onto a tagine that was made not  with our sheep, but with some other meat. This isn’t universal, but something else is often served to supplement the grilled meat. Then we were done.

I guess some families celebrate more as they eat the rest of the sheep over the next few days. But my family was pretty chill about that.

Some call Eid “Islamic Christmas” since there’s food, family and (frequently) presents. How does it match up?

For food, I’d take Christmas (or Thanksgiving) dinner over Eid any day. If only for the addition of side dishes (vegetables anyone?).

For religious significance…celebration of the cult of virginity or of untreated mental illness? Let’s split that evenly.

For sense of celebration? That’s a tough one. Christmas feels more celebratory because of cultural signifiers like wine and the surfeit of food and decorations (not to mention presents). But culture aside, while both Christmas tend to focus on family, Eid, at least in this small town, manages to celebrate both the family and the larger community in a way that Christmas doesn’t.

Will I celebrate Eid again? If I am here, of course. But I think I’d like to go up to Fes to celebrate with my CBT host family and see a city-Eid. Sheep on the rooftop! Slaughter in the bathroom!

Early Days of Ramadan

For the first few days of Ramadan I was in N’Kob, which was exactly where I wanted to be. I wanted to see my “home town” during Ramadan because, as I suspected, things are different then. Usually I see tons of men hanging out in cafes next to tagines bubbling away atop small fires. But with all the cafes shut during daylight hours (towns with lots of tourists can stay open during Ramadan but it’s actually illegal for Muslims to break fast so who would they serve?), there’s a ghost town feel to main street until early evening. Then, while the women are preparing l’ftur, the fast breaking meal, a mini-version of souk revs up featuring a better-than-usual selection of fruits, veggies, and fried treats. At the edges of souk kids hawk C’Bon “just add water” energy drink powders. Yeah, that’s totally going to take the place if a well balanced meal.

While in N’Kob I had l’ftur at my host family’s house. We somehow established a very comfortable don’t ask/don’t tell policy about my own fasting, but with pretty much everyone else in town…the conversation would go like this:

Me: Salam alaykum
Them: Walaikum salam. Are you fasting?

Dude! What happened to the 12 minutes of “How are you? Are you well? Is everything good?” that we are supposed to go through before speaking about anything of substance?

I copped to drinking water but white-lied about food. Re: water, I’ve always been like “Whatever I do during Ramadan, I think it’s stupid not to drink water. I’m not not drinking water.” As for food, I ate during the day but much less, simply because I knew I’d be eating a big meal at dusk. Even if I wanted to fast, could all of my available willpower have prevented me from indulging in the last fruits of my fig tree or the first fruits of a care package from my friends Laurie and Vance? Check it.

It was good to be hungry when I got to my host family’s house because they put out a great spread. Which, they would have me (and you) know, they make themselves. “Mashi f’hanut” (not from the store). My only complaint is that the first night we had a fair mix of protein and carbs; each day thereafter the protein got less and less and the carbs got more and more. Also, for anyone wondering, those are pools of honey atop the crispy fried bread, not pools of oil.

On the fourth day of Ramadan I started traveling to El Jadida for an assignment working at an SOS Village. More on that later. Officially travelers are exempt from fasting but the reality is that a lot of people who are officially exempt fast anyway. That, I believe, is one of the dangers of a “holiness-based” fast. People feel like they are less holy if they don’t power through, even if they totally should not be fasting. I’ve seen the very pregnant and the very old fasting and I am pretty sure it’s a bad idea. In any case, I didn’t eat or drink for the 7 hour bus-ride for the very simple reason that I didn’t want to be an asshole. It seemed rude to guzzle a bunch of water in front of all these people who can’t do the same.

While on the bus I got a call from a fellow PCV who asked if I was aware that the trains were running less frequently because of Ramadan. I was not. Sure enough, when I got to Marrakech I discovered I would need to spend the night and continue on the next day. Sigh. I made the long trek to a hostel in the medina in the 100+ degree heat and by the time I got there it was near 4:00 pm and I hadn’t eaten or had water since right before dawn when I left N’Kob. One voice whispered to me “just wait a few more hours and you’ll have fasted all day. Won’t that be an accomplishment!” But I thought that voice was stupid so I headed to one of the ubiquitous juice stands and had a tall glass of OJ.

Waiting for happy hour to start at my favorite bar, I did wind up abstaining from additional food and beverage until the appropriate time. And yet…given that I was breaking my already-broken fast with a beer and a ham sandwich, I was starting to think that nothing about me+fasting was going to count for much. Then, upon powering up my e-reader and continuing where I left off on a weeks-ago abandoned book of essays, I realized I was smack in the middle of a piece by Salman Rushie. Nail in the coffin.

The next day on the train I was seated next to some parents who couldn’t be bothered to give their 3-year old child the subtlest of hints that running up and down the aisles kicking a ball and screeching for hours on end was not conducive to everyone’s happiness. I admit it: When I got thirsty, I busted open my bottle of water and enjoyed a long, satisfying drink.

On Fasting and Not Fasting and Gwyneth Paltrow

It’s Ramadan! Are you fasting? Judging by Facebook status updates, the majority of Morocco PCVs are. But there’s a few of us who are not, for a variety of reasons. I am in the latter group.

Awhile back I thought about fasting and decided that the only reason to do so was if I would be working with kids who were fasting. In that case it would be good to be on the same eating/energy schedule as they were.

But otherwise? No. I’m not Muslim, I’m not religious or even “spiritual” and I’m wary of being a tourist in someone else’s religion.

And while some kinds of fasts may be good for you, I can’t believe that one proscribed by Allah is either more or less likely to have value than one of the dozens proscribed by Gwyneth Paltrow. Pro: hers usually aren’t quite as long as Ramadan. Con: they are usually expensive and involve a lot less actual eating.

Because make no mistake: Ramadan does involve eating. It just happens after dark. In fact, I suspect many people consume more food during Ramadan. Also, if the barrel of sticky-sweet shebakia that appeared at my hanut a few days pre-Ramadan is anything to go by, it’s not at all the kind of food one would eat in a Goop-approved juice cleanse.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Ramadan is a Muslim holiday involving abstaining from food and water (and other stuff, boom-chicka-bow-bow) during daylight hours. Traditionally, you eat when it’s dark enough to no longer distinguish a white thread from a black thread, although mostly you just listen for call to prayer. I think our muezzin (caller-to-prayer) must have bad vision because it’s still pretty light out when he calls the end of fast and I think he also can’t see the “off” button on his microphone since those of us who live close to the mosque hear him apparently chatting with co-workers.

Several traditional fast breaking foods are served each evening, including dates, harira soup and shebakia.

Ramadan is in commemoration of the month where, legend has it, Mohammed became god’s dictaphone. As it is also a lunar-calendar holiday, it moves about from year to year by about 12 days. For some reason it’s impossible to really know the exact start day in advance. What we do know is that, lately, Ramadan has been in the summer with its accompanying heat and very long daylight hours. Next year we’ll totally hit solstice!

Speaking of long days, in many ways Ramadan is an atheist’s dream holiday in that it provides some pretty solid reasons for disbelief. I mean, if your god is so omniscient then why doesn’t he know that Finland exists? I’m going to go on record as saying I strongly disapprove of religious traditions that would actually kill a person if adhered to properly.

Also, the list of things you can and cannot put in your mouth during Ramadan is vast and confusing. Using an asthma inhaler or brushing your teeth can be considered breaking fast. There’s some stuff about how if you swallow your own spit it’s okay but if you swallow phlegm that you coughed up it’s not, at least if it has already reached a certain part of your throat and OH MY GOD DO PEOPLE REALLY SIT AROUND AND THINK ABOUT THIS STUFF?

But since I didn’t come to Morocco to be all up in people’s grill about religion (really!), I figured I would handle Ramadan by eating and drinking only in the privacy of my own home and accepting the occasional invitation to breaking fast so I could integrate in my community. Like other religious holidays that are based on sketchy premises (exodus from Egypt, virgin birth in Bethlehem), Ramadan is great excuse for hanging out with friends and family, eating well, and building a sense of community.

Of course, no sooner did I work out my “be discreet” plan for Ramadan then I got an email from Peace Corps telling me I had been selected to work summer camp at El Jadida! Beach town in the summer! Woo-hoo! Oh wait, now I have a reason to fast—at least for the two weeks I will be at camp with kids. But then it turned out that the group of kids I’ll be working with are almost all too young to fast. So what do I do? Stay tuned…

Link

A recently returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV in my new parlance) sent me the link to this Tumblr and swears it’s all true. At least pre-service, this particular entry is the one that resonated the most. I’m a little concerned about the religiosity of both Moroccan society and some Peace Corps Volunteers. We’ll see how I feel in a few months.