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In-Transit Reflections

From Random

The light in our compartment flickered as the train ricketed onwards. We were on the second to last leg of our trip, exhausted and, for the moment, out of words for each other. I was plugged into my ipod, head resting against the glass wall that separated our compartment from the train's hall, staring through the grimy window into the darkening Moroccan countryside. I was feeling flat, disembodied. I was in "go" mode, computing, reacting, barely analyzing. Deeper ideas, poetic nonsense or philosophical meanderings seemed to brush up against my mind, but never held. Saturation. This sponge was done.

The people here are happy, I started to think. The vast majority live in rundown buildings we Americans would, perhaps, call shacks. They squat to shit, don't sit, advocate no microscopic obsessions, eat with their hands, artfully, organically, and live and breathe the same air and water their food comes from. On warm, sunny days, they walk right out of their doors onto the grass and lie under the sun with their grandparents, their parents, their children, their love - they lie on the same grass their livestock graze on. They don't sport etnies or rock out on Linkin Park in between Cafes full of Dante-quoting friends and brightly lit productions full of beautiful people and coveted "essentials." But, they're happy. They're alive. They're not addicted, needle to the vein, like I am, to the pomp and glitter of my technicolor, manicured, streamlined existence.

Everything in moderation. Alhamdulilah.

What matters then, anyway? I started asking myself. What am I looking for? Where do I want to be? What do I really need?

What am I doing? I mean, what am I doing, here, in Morocco, an ocean away from my family? This sensation, almost burning in my blood to seek out the strange, unfamiliar, foreign, to tread upon as much of the vastness of the world as I can possibly squeeze into my lifetime and my lifeframe, started to falter.

What am I doing? Marvelling at these stones, here, that someone, long ago, set up into a castle for his or her own life, that person, now long dead, that castle (home) now crumbling. What am I doing, chasing this dust? This awe I feel standing in the place where all the facts of history (the stories we are told) took place, in actuality, do these facts converge in this spot into some kind of truth? Does standing in a Hungarian castle upon which Hungarians and Turks fought, does walking in a garden shared by Roman and Arab conquerers over the centuries, does standing at the lip of the Mediterranean upon which countless histories have sailed - does this give them any less or more truth, does this change or teach me in any way? Or is it all just dust?

Everything in moderation, alhamdulilah.

Why am I here? Beyong asking what I need to live, what is it I'm living for? Out of all the dust that comprises the human experience on earth, what do I most want? What do I live for?

Sometimes I feel like the human experience, as a whole, is a continal process of rebuilding and crumbling. Stuff your brain through high school, back to zero for college; work yourself to limits in college, back to zero for "the real world"; are our lives truly drawn out in waves?

Faith, they say, moves so. Up and down, High and Low, Strong and Weak. Humans, we're taught, the Forgetful that often Remember. Subhan Allah.

In my wanderings I have discovered that the only guarantee of any sort one can have, is the connection of the spiritual body to the physical, and it's that we guard. This, my body, none like it, a unique composition of tissue and genetic design, the vessel for my Self. And my God, this blood, this blood that runs through me, this very real and physical thing finds its partner in three other individuals on this Earth. My parents are of different stuff, and they find a place in me, and I in them. But my brothers, these other, sentient, moving, breathing, individuals whose existence I take for granted - there are no others in the world that can claim what they can, that we are the flesh and blood of our parents. We are each other. Our vessels, for all their minute and infinite difference were formed in the same womb, from the same blood, and our cells contain the same histories. We are irreversibly bonded, and when our parents pass on, we are mini-embodiments, we carry our families history within ourselves, connected wherever we are, forever, by this bond and this shared self.

I almost fell to tears realizing that wherever my brothers were, would always be my home.

And wherever I was, I would be theirs.

Until my dying breath.

And that is one of the reasons I live.

Catch-Up Post I

It seems I'm a little behind, so I'm going to do a quick catch-up post. (Let's call this a series because I'm sure I'm going to have to do this again.)

Horseback Riding, January 29

From Horseback riding

Last weekend, I decided against a long excursion on the grounds that I was a) drowning in homework, b) recovering from illness and c) really, really excited about horseback riding. I've always been an animal lover, but my parents are not exactly animal-lovers (which isn't to say that they hate animals, just don't exactly see the POINT).

From Horseback riding

I don't really need a point. I just think that riding a horse is one of the coolest things EVER. So when Natalie, who has been riding horses since she was 5 years old, suggested that we go horseback riding with the club here on campus, I was 100% gung-ho! Hafsa, my roommate, also wanted to go with us, so Friday night we all agreed upon a phone-call buddy system to wake up for the trip (Hafsa and I aren't exactly morning people, so it was mostly just us hoping Natalie made sure we got up). Despite our best intentions, however, Hafsa slept right through (despite my pleading) and I was 15 minutes late. Fortunately, true to Moroccan time, the bus was late anyway, and we arrived safely to our destination, a huddle of men and horses on the side of the road, leading into a gully. After some confusion, we picked our horses and were off.

From Horseback riding

I would just like to point out, at this juncture, that I did, in fact, tell everyone that I had never ridden a horse. Sure, I had sat on one a couple of times, but this whole rein and kicking business I had no idea how to do, specifically, I had no idea how to start, stop or steer. It was a bit nerve-racking; I remember thinking almost as soon as I was on the horse that, "NO. ALLAH MADE ME SMALL FOR A REASON. I AM NOT MEANT TO BE UP THIS HIGH." But I got a hold of myself, despite imagining my brains on every jagged rock I walked by, praying under my breath. After crossing a one-way bridge over a creek-like thing and admiring the waterfals, we made our way up the side of a muddy hilly area. I had been given a guide and tried my best to, at the very least, keep a smile on and save some face in light of my terror.

From Horseback riding

A few factors made this especially difficult. The first was that, out of all the horses, they gave me one that kicks, so I had to avoid other horses. And the second was that, well, as sweet as he was, the guide they had given me was deaf and mute. So, he couldn't really explain to me what I was doing wrong, though he did try (bless his heart) and he also couldn't hear me screaming about overhanging branches heading straight for my FACE. The third, was, of course, after the guide left me to my own devices, I often spent significant portions standing still, seeing as I was a bit too short for my horse and couldn't quite hit his sides.

Heh.

From Horseback riding

But the trip, truth be told, was incredibly peaceful and rewarding. I loved the feeling of riding a horse. At first it took me a while to get used to the idea (me, the video game player) that I couldn't just perform a function and expect immediate results. Horses have their own whimsies, needs, and intelligence. Sometimes, he didn't move because he'd rather not plunge across an icy river, or knew, unlike me, that going down that particular path was just plain stupid.

From Horseback riding

I returned to campus with a sore butt, and while I hadn't exactly established a relationship with my horse like Natalie seems to have done, I have a grudging respect for the ornery old thing. (He's pictured above; I named him Marvin.)

From Horseback riding

This guy over here I took a picture of without realizing he didn't want me to. Oops. He glared at me the entire time after that. But did offer to let me ride his baby donkey. So I guess he wasn't all THAT mad.

Smells like Souk (January 30)

From Souk, Ants, Etc.

Sara, Natalie and I went to the market on Sunday to get vegetables for Sara. In the town my school's in, Ifrane, there's a market every Sunday where everything is very, very cheap. We got, literally, four bags of vegetables for 12$. No kidding. Good times, right?

From Souk, Ants, Etc.

You can buy all sorts of things at the souk. Shoes, bags, crates, teapots, heaters. Sara and I bought some bags and a few other nick nacks she needed. Once I purchased my bag (that Sara actually fell in love with first and was nice enough to let me have), I realized that the souk had quite a distinct smell. It permeated the air, but also seemed to stick to the items inside it, as well. It's not the most pleasant smell... But hey, it was a learning experience. I realized how much of a spoiled brat I am, fingering through this old stuff as if it's got some kind of dreadful disease.. Which, hey, I guess some items might, but that's what boiling water is for, right? Disinfected. Bam.

From Souk, Ants, Etc.

Natalie is a picky shopper. Well, as far as shoes go :) But I loves her.

From Souk, Ants, Etc.

We finished up our trip with chicken. Now, when Sara said, "All I need to get now is chicken," prepackaged little fleshlets in nicely wrapped plastic containers came to mind. I was a bit taken aback when we walked up to the butcher. It was then I realized that those living breathing little chickens were not, in fact, just walking meat parcels. They were...well....alive. After watching the man slaughter our chicken and see the way it slowly took on the familiar shape I was used to, I felt a deep sense of... appreciation. Respect. Gratefulness... to the chicken.

I think that Native Americans had something with their reverance for the "spirits" of the animals they killed. I dig that.



-n.

Snowy Saturdays with Sara

From Photo Booth

So, today the plan was to wake up at 9AM and then head over to the library with Sara. In fact, I woke up at 9AM and rolled over to sleep for two more hours. Called Sara, she said she was going to grab some food. Rolled out of bed, made wudhu, prayed, dragged on some boots...Realized that Sara probably wasn't calling back, went to grab some food.

A lot. Of. Snow. Had been snowing most of the night, was still snowing, is still snowing now. *sigh* But it's nice. Met up with Alicia, Emily, and Kendra on the way to get lunch. A burger, fries, and mint tea never tasted so good. Eventually beat a path to the library, where I pouted and read. Eventually Sara met up with me at the library. We read for a while, then head over the masjid to pray.

From Saturday with Sara Part 1

From Saturday with Sara Part 1

I love that there is a masjid on campus. It's the most beautiful feeling to walk into the masjid as if it's my home, to run down the stairs without shoes on, throw my clothes off in the room for wudhu, splash water on myself in that familiar rhythm, and run back upstairs where I know, that a sister is waiting to pray beside me. Where I know that I am moments away from pressing my forehead to the floor, in a Presence I cannot imagine or fathom, just feel as the quiet comes to reside in my heart, and mere walls begin to fill, to buzz, to fade away.

Afterwards, we headed to the store to get some bread for dinner. Sara made lentils :) Apparently, the smell wafted down the hall, because two girls ran up the stairs yelling, "Who's cooking?" And Sara laughed and opened the door to give them some. Sara, it seems, cooks for everyone. I felt bad, after a while, showing up at all hours to talk and eat her good food. I kept apologizing, and still intend to buy some of the ingredients it takes to cook dinner. But, after a few reassurances, Sara explained to me a little bit about Islamic ettiquette that I never quite got back in the states. She said that in Islam, it's bad manners that your neighbor smells your food or sees you cooking, without you offering to share with them. She said, almost apalled, "What kind of selfish person would I be, to think, Oh no, she's eating all my food? We, Moroccans, believe that there is blessings in feeding people - what can feed one person can feed ten, we say." Neither of us are sure of the exact hadiths, but I remember the hadith about the Prophet, peace be upon him, and the hungry neighbor. I can't help but feel they are connected, or in the same vein.

It's been a while since I have lived surrounded by Islam. I recall Professor Doyle's conversion to Islam, his story about his time in Turkey, living with those young Muslim students. "This is the way life should be, I thought to myself," he told me. Yes, I get that sense, in my bones, in the smiles I see, this...this is the way life ought to be.

I'm discovering an Islam that isn't mired in politcal correctedness, isn't worried about stereotypes or terrorism, isn't cluttered with definitions or rules, isn't being stuffed in whatever stupid label or need for categorization of the Cartesian modern world...It's as organic, alive and breathing, like you and I.

Live Islam before you judge it, I will say, from now on.

From Saturday with Sara Part 1

From Saturday with Sara Part 1

From Saturday with Sara Part 1

From Saturday with Sara Part 1

From Saturday with Sara Part 2

After dinner the plan was to build snowmen with Jeff, Michael, and Luke. However, Jeff never told anyone, and it seems got caught up somewhere. So, Sara and I decided to take revenge and built a snowwoman... In Jeff's Image. :)

From Saturday with Sara Part 2

From Saturday with Sara Part 2

From Saturday with Sara Part 2

From Saturday with Sara Part 2

From Saturday with Sara Part 2

Alhamdulilah. It was a beautiful day.

From Saturday with Sara pt 3

From Saturday with Sara pt 3

Weekend Shenanigans....Wallah!

This weekend I went to Rabat, the capital of Morocco, with the BC boys and Sams (also known as the BC/Sam group - I was absent during the formation of said groups and am not quite sure where I belong during this whole exchange experience, so am just going to smile and love everyone, as usual.) Around 3:30 on Friday, after our classes and some interview Jeff had for Arrupe, we set off for the Grand Taxi station. It's about a 20 minute walk that I spent chatting with Selim about Palestine and Israel. It was interesting to hear his perspective; I personally don't know where I stand on the issue anymore or how to proceed. Right now all I can say is that I harbor a lot of frustration and annoyance at the perpetual injustices.

Anyway. That aside. We arrived in the marcha (the market, that's what we call it? Mar-shay. My roommate told me that's how it's spelled, don't look at me.) and it was a giant MESS. The entire place was swarming with people trying to grab taxis, and for a group of 6 (six people to a taxi), it was hard. We ran alongside incoming taxis yelling the number six in Arabic and in French, to no avail. We were in a bit of a time crunch; the plan was to take a cab to Meknes and then get on the train for Rabat. However, if we didn't get a taxi soon enough, we'd end up missing the train and having to stay in Meknes. We were considering alternatives when Haverford-Sam (there are two Sams) managed to negotiate a trip straight to Rabat. We were off!

Three hours in the front seat of a car designed for five next to a boy that is probably a foot taller than you is a bit uncomfortable, but it got the job done!

From Rabat!

We arrived in Rabat around seven, I think, and eventually made it to our hotel. We divided up three per room and then scoured the Medina for dinner. We ended up buying a sandwich filled with mysterious meet, and then buying a pastry that looked like a chocolate covered chocolate chip cannolie.... and it was DELIICOUS. After that, we strolled around downtown Rabat (that was absolutely quiet on Jummah night) and took pictures, eventually stopping for tea.





Back at the hotel we alternated between playing hearts and doing homework, like good students!

From Rabat!

Next day we left the marcha bright and early. We grabbed some bread and honey from a lady for breakfast. Was absolutely delicious! We had the same next time.


MAJOR INTERRUPTION. I have homework and friends just made me dinner, so I have to bail for LIFE, but this is what I did in pictures:

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

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From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!

From Rabat!