Ritual Sacrifice and Irrigation

Salam, my friends. It’s been too long, but after all, it was the holiday season here in Morocco, followed by a week of procrastination, and then another of limited internet access. Let me explain.

Two weeks ago marked the three-day holiday of Eid Al-Adha, or “feast of the sacrifice.” The second of two major holidays in Islam, it celebrates the moment when Abraham was ready to sacrifice his only son, Ishmael, to God. However, when Abraham attempted to cut Ishmael’s throat, God substituted his son for a sheep, and left Ishmael unharmed.

These days, the family rarely does the 
sacrificing themselves. Some men make a 
job of traveling from home to home to 
perform the ritual, proudly parading 
their blood-stained clothing through the 
streets of the medina.

The holiday is celebrated through prayer, thousands of pilgrims performing the Hajj in holy city of Mecca (this year, estimates top two million), the ritual sacrifice of an animal (usually a sheep), and a large feast with family.

Much like Christmas in the United States, Eid takes over the spirit of the city. People are off of school and work. The holiday is a time of happiness, of giving, and of celebration. The Marjanes (Moroccan Wal-Marts) portion off parts of their parking lots to sell sheep. Teenagers erect hay huts in the streets of the medina where they sell hay, charcoal, and freshly sharpened knives.

The day had come. Sheep were dragged, kicked, and carried through the streets, and others bleat from the rooftops all around me, perhaps aware of their inevitable demise.

When I originally asked my host dad if we would be celebrating the holiday, he replied, “Non, c’est trop sale.” (No, that’s too dirty.) However, my host brother Malak apparently insisted that we participate, and a goat was led up the stairs of our three-story home the next day.

The process takes about 15 or 20 minutes altogether. The throat is slit, the blood is drained, the goat is hung, and the animal is dressed. While I may have had some reservations about it in the beginning, I didn’t find the sacrifice disturbing. In fact, I found it liberating to for once see the actual animal I would be eating, a luxury we are rarely afforded in the United States.

Mr. Azami roasts liver brochettes on a small barbecue grill
just twenty minutes after slaughtering the goat.

At night, the streets erupt with music, barbecue pits, and life. They eat every part of the animal, and I at least tried a little bit of everything, perhaps the most disturbing being the goat’s actual head, which looked up at me from the platter in the center of the table as my family pulled pieces of skin from its cheeks.

And then, just as quickly as the holiday had started, it was over. The streets went back to normal, school started once again, and life in Morocco resumed.

That Wednesday, the J-Squad was chaperoned by Aida Alami, one of mentors on the program, to the studios of 2M in Casablanca, which is one of the larger television stations in Morocco. We toured the building, got a look at the newsroom, various sets where they film talk shows and game shows, and we stayed for the broadcast of the francophone evening news, which we were able to watch from the control room. It was certainly one of the highlights of the week.

The control room of 2M during the evening francophone
newscast. The control room is extremely out-of-date, but the
employees there stand by their equipment, saying it "doesn't
crash or lock up."

Then, before we had a chance to catch our breath, we left for the Sbaa Rouadi Commune in Fes on Saturday morning for a week of living with a family in a rural Moroccan village. I think we were all pretty nervous about the prospect of detaching from society for a week, but it ended up being one of the more rewarding parts of this Moroccan journey.

Al and I shared a host mom for the week, Ms. Fatima Zaraoui. After going through a divorce, she used her own money to build a home on the family’s compound, where she takes care of the children, tends to the fields, and keeps a quaint little home. Maya Whitfield, another J-Squad-er, stayed in another one of the houses on the compound, so we saw her quite frequently during the week.

The week was spent playing games with the children on the compound, walking around the expansive commune to visit with the village people, and doing a little bit of manual labor on the family fields.

Al and Maya pose for Photobooth pictures with the host
family in Fatima's living room. Karime is on the far left
poking his head in. Fatima is next to him in the floral shirt.

Karime Zaraoui, our host uncle, quickly took the role of our village guide. We played soccer with the kids, went on walks, and worked the fields. He’s the one we got to know the best during our time in the village. This week I will produce a profile on him and his struggles working around a water shortage and maintaining his family’s property. I think the article has the potential to be posted on Reporting Morocco. Stay tuned.

By the end of the week, we were all ready to get back to Rabat, but it was surprisingly emotional leaving our host families. It’s amazing how you can get to know someone in a week.

We have one week until we take off for our one-day Northern Excursion to Chefchaouen and Ceuta, Spain. Then, we have one more week until we begin the Independent Study in Journalism portion of this Moroccan adventure. More to come soon.

The Homesickness Layer Cake

It’s an inescapable feeling. You’re in a foreign place, surrounded by foreign things and foreign people speaking a foreign language. You long to be back where you were before, where you understood things. I knew it was coming, and so I prepared myself, but nonetheless, I am starting to feel a little homesick.

Rest assured this post will not be about how much I miss all my friends, my family, my dog, although I do miss all those things very much. No, this post is about the differences between two countries, both good and bad. My purpose in writing it is more for me than for anyone else, a sort of coping method.

I came up with the idea of a “layer cake” of sorts. I will start off with something I miss from home and then I will talk about something I’ll miss from Morocco when I get home. Hopefully, in the process, I will highlight some interesting cultural differences.

Couscous is served every Friday for lunch. It may be one of
my new favorite foods.

From Home: The Food
Illegal Pete’s. Need I say more?

From Morocco: The Food
Couscous in the US is a joke. And McDonald’s? Not that I really eat McDonald’s in the U.S., but their meat here is halal, meaning it is raised and slaughtered in a way that is consistent with Islamic tradition and the Qur'an. Basically, it's organic and delicious. Oh, and Bueno bars. No candy bar I've ever had measures up. Hazelnut cream filled wafer, covered in chocolate. You're drooling.

From Home: Red Rocks
There’s simply nothing like it.

From Morocco: Inexpensive Shit
It might be kind of like being alive in the 50s. Something like 25 cents for a candy bar. I bought a cell phone yesterday for 20 dollars. Like, come on.

From Home: Passive Shopkeepers
When you walk into a store in the United States, it usually goes something like… “Hello” “Hello” “Is there something I can help you find?” “No, just looking” “Okay, let me know if you need anything.” In Morocco, as soon as you enter a shop, the shopkeeper bombards you. They begin throwing you all of their merchandise until you grab onto something, and then they bargain. They say “good price” to you in five languages. You leave feeling a little taken and confused.

From Morocco: Internet Everywhere
It’s a small USB stick. Insert it in the side of your computer, and you can access Internet anywhere that’s in reach of a cell tower. While it may exist in the U.S., unlimited data certainly doesn’t anymore. In Morocco, you pay for months of use, not data. I paid something like 50 USD for three months of unlimited Internet. Humdulilah!

From Home: Lines
Whether it’s trying to check out at the market or turning left on a major roadway, it’s a free-for-all in Morocco. I never thought I’d say this, but damn it, I miss standing in lines so bad.

Sometime during the first week, hanging out on the terrace.
Such a sweet hangout spot.

From Morocco: The CCCL Terrace
I’m not sure what I like more—the terrace or the people standing on it—but it’s hard to find a view like this in the U.S..

From Home: My Car
I take advantage of being in control of my own life. The cabs are inexpensive here, yes, but the cabbies are borderline insane. Sometimes drunk or high, they weave between other cars, they honk, and they sometimes drive down the wrong side of the road. I-70 doesn't scare me anymore.

From Morocco: Cafés
Café culture is completely missing in the U.S. and Starbucks absolutely does not count. Cafés are places to sit, drink coffee, and people watch, not to pull out your laptop and be pretentious.

From Home: English
Talking different languages is freakin’ tiring. I miss people understanding what I’m saying.

From Morocco: Hospitality
Everyone likes Americans here, and so everyone is very accommodating. In the US, everyone is suspicious and withdrawn of each other. It’s something you don’t realize until you leave.

I could go on all day, but I'll stop myself here. The point is, homesickness is one side of the coin. I feel a little better now. Until next time.