Mbruk L3id!
For those of you who are not up on your Muslim holidays, today marks the biggest one-day holiday of the Muslim year, 3id Kbir. Literally translated it means “big holiday.” Think Christmas big, but instead of sacrificing a tree, sacrifice a ram. That’s the idea behind it, and the killing is what makes the day what it is (at least for a non-Muslim like myself). All the visiting relatives compare the size and beauty of the carcass just like we do with Christmas trees. Maybe it was my imagination, but it really did feel like Christmas. Everyone goes to mosque in the morning. The streets were as quiet as I had ever seen them. I’m afraid the thought of stringing lights around the bleeding body even crossed my mind at one point.
A little info for the curious. 3id LKbir, or more formally 3id Ladha, is an important religious holiday celebrated by Muslims worldwide to commemorate the willingness of Abraham (Ibrahim) to sacrifice his son Ishmael (Isma’il) as an act of obedience to God, before God intervened to provide him with a ram to sacrifice instead. Two things: Yes, that was copied from Wikipedia and yes, the same story is in the Christian Bible. If I am learning one thing about religion here, it is that Christianity, Islam, and Judaism all share a lot more in common than I previously thought.
The day started with misinformation. When I showed up at my host family’s house the slaughtering had just been finished and the head was just being cut off. No worries though. The killing is symbolically important, and I wasn’t happy that I missed it, but the rest of the day was great.
I think that as soon as I stepped in to help skin the sheep, Ramdan recognized that I had very little clue what I was doing and so relegated me to the symbolic position of making sure the hanging carcass didn’t spin while they peeled the skin. By the time we were done skinning and gutting, Charifa came out with the smoking, charred, and, well, kind of gruesome looking head of the ram. Surrounding it in the bucket were its charred legs. As soon as the assorted body parts came out, the kids went to work on hacking at them with a small hatchet while Charifa sorted through the guts, squeezing the poop out and cleaning them. At one point I looked over and saw Sana gauging out the eyes with a dull knife. Undoubtedly we were going to eat those.
The first thing on the menu (the pre-lunch snack) was barbequed liver wrapped in fat. My mom will be pleased to hear that I downed that liver like a champ. It is actually pretty good. How could it not be? It’s wrapped in salty fat. After an intermission of some pomegranates and further animal parts cleaning and sorting, we had lunch. My fears of eating the head resided as the pressure cooker was brought over and a lovely smell came forth. As Charifa spooned the contents onto the plate, she said to me in darija with her usual amount of gusto, “eat. Guts.” Why thank you! That’s just what I was hoping would appear instead of the chopped up head! I admit that while the pile of assorted stomach, liver, intestine, and heart pieces didn’t look that good and the idea of it certainly was foreign to me, it did smell good. I wish I could say that it tasted as good as it smelled. It did not. But I managed a reasonable amount. Enough that there was little arguing among the family that I had eaten too little.
I guess it is a testament to how far I have come since being a vegetarian that I can say with confidence that a holiday almost entirely devoted to eating meat is a pretty good idea. Meat for lunch, meat for dinner, meat for breakfast. For four days. Bring it on!
Now, if you will please excuse me, I have to go prepare my stomach for my meat breakfast tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Life IS like a box of chocolates
I arrived home last week after two weeks on the road, and immediately noticed a new sense of how I felt about Tafoghalt, my job, and my neighbors. Maybe my perception had been altered while I was gone or maybe being away, on the road so to speak, had enabled me to put a label on what I was already feeling. I don’t know. Whatever happened, I feel different. Like I’ve entered a new phase.
It was an immediate recognition. I had left with a lot of doubts, but optimism shone over them. Now, upon my return, my mood, like the weather here, has become much more melancholy. My language progression is at a standstill. Work (and this is stretching the meaning of the word) is slow. I feel a certain amount of disappointment and frustration with the people I am living and working with. And, in general, I dislike the culture; the way it treats women, the way it treats animals, the disrespect for personal feelings and beliefs, the general lack of motivation, the underground, unacknowledged “sin”. I know, I know! I sound miserable when I put it like that. Those are just my feelings right now and at their worst.
In Philadelphia, even before we got to country, we were given handouts that charted and described the emotional phases of the average volunteer through her/his service. Two years of inner war; Battles fought on daily, monthly, and yearly terms. The chart claimed that there would be victories and loses and that attitudes would depend on the outcomes. Liking to think myself unique and uncategorizable, I tossed the paper into a folder without much though, and buried it under a pile of books in my apartment.
I ended up pulling the “critical periods” handout out this morning, and every single issue that I just described is listed under the 7-10 month period. It doesn’t do much to help, but it is nice to know that this is normal. I’m not a horrible person for hating where I am right now and, sometimes, the people I have to work with. I know that other volunteers here are feeling this way, but its good to know it’s not just a regional thing.
Right, so I know that some people are curious about where I have been, and, as I’ve mentioned it here, I should probably write a little about it.
Two weeks ago, overly ready to leave and feeling a lot of doubt as to whether Moroccan transportation would get me there, I headed out of Tafoghalt in a mid-morning taxi bound, ultimately for Paris. The plan had been to leave the day before, spend a night alone in Paris, and then meet up with my mom, grandma, and aunt who were just ending a week-long river cruise through France. I had been feeling apprehensive about the whole rendezvous not working out, but was surprised when plans had to be changed, that it was not because of problems in Morocco, but because of the striking French.
I arrived at my mom’s beautiful Paris hotel at midnight on Friday, tired and dirty, but so relieved that I had made it. I think Mama’s relief was double mine. After my first hot bath in eight months, I fell asleep on the carpet floor of the hotel room, realizing as I did, that even the floor of this hotel was nicer than many places that I’ve slept in Morocco.
I will admit right now, much to my own chagrin and knowing that it defaults all the arguments that I made before I left about why I wanted to leave America, that I miss the West. I miss convenience. I miss comfort. I miss English. I miss diversity. I even miss the consumerism that drives us and makes our culture what it is. Most of all, I miss my family and friends. Paris, from the moment I stepped off the plane, felt different. It felt comfortable, and convenient, and all those things that I just mentioned. It felt a lot like home (being America in general). No standing outside hoping for a taxi that might, if you argue enough, use its meter. Water fountains. More than one type of coffee. No assumptions that if you look different you are not from there (and no assuming that just because you look Asian you are from China). Diversity in people, food, buildings.
I know that this is the romanticized view of a home-hungry voyager, but Paris really did blow me away. Not only because it was Paris, but also because it reminded me of all the things that make America great. It reinstilled the sense in me that my home really is there and nowhere else.
I will leave out the details of what I did in Paris because it is probably not much different than what most tourists do there, but I will say this: I had a wonderful time seeing my family and experiencing Paris at such a beautiful time of the year. It was reenergizing.
Unfortunately Paris was only a weekend. Not enough time to see it or to reconnect with family. On the other hand, by the grace of the Peace Corps, I was given a transitional reentry period in Marrakech in the form of an Inter-Service Training. The training itself was marginally interesting overall, but seeing all the other volunteers from my stage again was great. It had been about six months since I had seen the majority of the health volunteers that we swore in with. It was nice to reconnect and to see where other people were in their Peace Corps lives.
A week of Marrakech and the binge lifestyle of Peace Corps Morocco and I was ready to go home (the Morocco one). The transitions from loneliness to crowdedness back to loneliness are exhausting. Before going home though, I joined the rest of my CBT group (remember CBT? Go way back to the beginning of this blog if you don’t) for a reunion south of Marrakech in our training site, Idelsen.
As with Paris, the visit to Idelsen was much too short. We got there on Saturday evening and left Monday morning. In that short amount of time, we basically did nothing but eat, drink tea, and sleep. Socorra and I calculated that we must have drank well over 30 glasses of tea in the time we were there. As the tea is half sugar, that’s about 15 glasses of sugar. Diabetes here we come. Again, maybe this is retrospective romanticizing, but our whole group seemed to agree that the people of Idelsen were much kinder, open, and genuine than the people we currently live with. Whether its true or not, we were all reluctant to leave.
Now I’m home. I’m alone and it’s quite again. In a lot of ways I am thankful for that. In a lot of other ways, I wish it weren’t so. I know that this post is a little overcast, but not to worry. The “critical periods” handout assures me that things do get better. I will not doubt it again.
It was an immediate recognition. I had left with a lot of doubts, but optimism shone over them. Now, upon my return, my mood, like the weather here, has become much more melancholy. My language progression is at a standstill. Work (and this is stretching the meaning of the word) is slow. I feel a certain amount of disappointment and frustration with the people I am living and working with. And, in general, I dislike the culture; the way it treats women, the way it treats animals, the disrespect for personal feelings and beliefs, the general lack of motivation, the underground, unacknowledged “sin”. I know, I know! I sound miserable when I put it like that. Those are just my feelings right now and at their worst.
In Philadelphia, even before we got to country, we were given handouts that charted and described the emotional phases of the average volunteer through her/his service. Two years of inner war; Battles fought on daily, monthly, and yearly terms. The chart claimed that there would be victories and loses and that attitudes would depend on the outcomes. Liking to think myself unique and uncategorizable, I tossed the paper into a folder without much though, and buried it under a pile of books in my apartment.
I ended up pulling the “critical periods” handout out this morning, and every single issue that I just described is listed under the 7-10 month period. It doesn’t do much to help, but it is nice to know that this is normal. I’m not a horrible person for hating where I am right now and, sometimes, the people I have to work with. I know that other volunteers here are feeling this way, but its good to know it’s not just a regional thing.
Right, so I know that some people are curious about where I have been, and, as I’ve mentioned it here, I should probably write a little about it.
Two weeks ago, overly ready to leave and feeling a lot of doubt as to whether Moroccan transportation would get me there, I headed out of Tafoghalt in a mid-morning taxi bound, ultimately for Paris. The plan had been to leave the day before, spend a night alone in Paris, and then meet up with my mom, grandma, and aunt who were just ending a week-long river cruise through France. I had been feeling apprehensive about the whole rendezvous not working out, but was surprised when plans had to be changed, that it was not because of problems in Morocco, but because of the striking French.
I arrived at my mom’s beautiful Paris hotel at midnight on Friday, tired and dirty, but so relieved that I had made it. I think Mama’s relief was double mine. After my first hot bath in eight months, I fell asleep on the carpet floor of the hotel room, realizing as I did, that even the floor of this hotel was nicer than many places that I’ve slept in Morocco.
I will admit right now, much to my own chagrin and knowing that it defaults all the arguments that I made before I left about why I wanted to leave America, that I miss the West. I miss convenience. I miss comfort. I miss English. I miss diversity. I even miss the consumerism that drives us and makes our culture what it is. Most of all, I miss my family and friends. Paris, from the moment I stepped off the plane, felt different. It felt comfortable, and convenient, and all those things that I just mentioned. It felt a lot like home (being America in general). No standing outside hoping for a taxi that might, if you argue enough, use its meter. Water fountains. More than one type of coffee. No assumptions that if you look different you are not from there (and no assuming that just because you look Asian you are from China). Diversity in people, food, buildings.
I know that this is the romanticized view of a home-hungry voyager, but Paris really did blow me away. Not only because it was Paris, but also because it reminded me of all the things that make America great. It reinstilled the sense in me that my home really is there and nowhere else.
I will leave out the details of what I did in Paris because it is probably not much different than what most tourists do there, but I will say this: I had a wonderful time seeing my family and experiencing Paris at such a beautiful time of the year. It was reenergizing.
Unfortunately Paris was only a weekend. Not enough time to see it or to reconnect with family. On the other hand, by the grace of the Peace Corps, I was given a transitional reentry period in Marrakech in the form of an Inter-Service Training. The training itself was marginally interesting overall, but seeing all the other volunteers from my stage again was great. It had been about six months since I had seen the majority of the health volunteers that we swore in with. It was nice to reconnect and to see where other people were in their Peace Corps lives.
A week of Marrakech and the binge lifestyle of Peace Corps Morocco and I was ready to go home (the Morocco one). The transitions from loneliness to crowdedness back to loneliness are exhausting. Before going home though, I joined the rest of my CBT group (remember CBT? Go way back to the beginning of this blog if you don’t) for a reunion south of Marrakech in our training site, Idelsen.
As with Paris, the visit to Idelsen was much too short. We got there on Saturday evening and left Monday morning. In that short amount of time, we basically did nothing but eat, drink tea, and sleep. Socorra and I calculated that we must have drank well over 30 glasses of tea in the time we were there. As the tea is half sugar, that’s about 15 glasses of sugar. Diabetes here we come. Again, maybe this is retrospective romanticizing, but our whole group seemed to agree that the people of Idelsen were much kinder, open, and genuine than the people we currently live with. Whether its true or not, we were all reluctant to leave.
Now I’m home. I’m alone and it’s quite again. In a lot of ways I am thankful for that. In a lot of other ways, I wish it weren’t so. I know that this post is a little overcast, but not to worry. The “critical periods” handout assures me that things do get better. I will not doubt it again.
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