Ramadhan, with a dh.

Posting to: The Black Keys, Magic Potion and Rubber Factory

Transliterating the ninth month of the Islamic calendar as 'Ramadhan' may look silly (I think it does, but I'm notoriously snooty about my transliterations), but it's the closet that this, the glorious Latin alphabet, can come to ض, or the letter dhad.

The dhad, my friends, is the most unique letter in the Arabic language. Some may credit the 'ain (looks like ع and it's the letter that starts the word Eid - you see some people represent with a 3), and others, the ghain (looks like غ and it's the bane of any Arabic-learning Anglo-speaker's existence), but they're wrong. This little letter - close to the retroflexed D present in many Indian languages - is the most unique and interesting letter in the Arabic language, and even the known linguistic world.

You see, friends, the Arabic language is the only codified language on earth to utilize the dhad. Mm-hmm, that's right.

(It's okay if you don't find that interesting. I love stuff like this, but I'm pretty nerdy.)

I thought that'd be a nice introduction to Ramadan. I've thought a lot about Ramadan since it ended ten (or so) days ago, and there are a few key elements of the season that I'd like to highlight.

It's written.
Fasting during the month of Ramadan is one of the pillars, or key tenants, of Islam. The other four include the proclamation of faith (declaring your belief that God is a single entity and that Muhammad was his messenger), prayer (performing the obligatory five daily prayers), giving alms (technically, 2.5% of your yearly income, though I'm not sure how stricly this is followed), and making the pilgrammage to Mecca (providing you're physically and financially capable).

Blash: going without.
Some people are forced, through circumstance, to go without food or water for more than just sunrise to sunset. It's not fair, but no one ever told you that life was going to be fair. While Islam doesn't provide a plan to solve world hunger (actually, it seems to be quite the opposite: Islam is fatalistic by design), the Ramadan fast is a reminder of how lucky we are to be able to afford food and drink whenever we want it.

Self-discipline.
Fasting is not easy at any time of year. The weather could be a pleasant 72/23 degrees with a slight breeze, and you'd still be hungry by the time l-mghrb (the sunset, fast-breaking prayer) comes around. Ramadan's a time to check yourself and your habits, and to prod you in the direction of the 'straight path.' What's even more of a test of your discipline, friends, is making up the days that you didn't fast, after Ramadan and Eid is over. I've got six more days to go. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Contrast.
The Ramadan season contrasts the cycle of daily life in about every way possible. Virtually everyone becomes an early riser, to partake in one last pre-dawn meal before fasting officially begins for the day. Then, the standard daily trips to the store, to see the neighbors or to romp around town in your newest amelhaf drops off dramatically, and people either grumble about their offices at work or putz around the house (we'll get into just how much putzing took place in my house in a bit) without any extraneous errands, visiting of the neighbors or... well, anything extraneous at all. Even those morally opposed to napping seem to succumb to mid-afternoon slumber during this time of year, and everyone makes it a point to be home in time for the breaking of the fast at sundown. While during other times of the year sundown is the most hopping time of day for socializing and being outside to greet the world, Ramadan puts everyone (and I mean everyone) in a house and out of the street at sundown (which is called tiwooch in my dialect of Berber).

Okay, so that's what Ramadan meant to me, in a nutshell. Very romantic, I know. Now, allow me to share with you my daily Ramadan schedule. This wasn't every single day during the month, but this schedule dominated my Ramadan experience. It was still averaging 110/44+ degrees everyday at the beginning of Ramadan this year, and I didn't want to even put clothes on, let alone exert the energy needed to put on sunscreen and go outside. With that in mind, keep your judging minimal (or at least... keep it to yourself):

3:45a - wake up and eat one more meal, consisting usually a frozen yogurt with cut-up fruit and museli, water and iced tea.
4:45a - chug the last of my water, brush my teeth and then head back to bed after the first call to prayer.
8:00a - wake up again, and do the daily chores: sweeping the house, doing dishes or laundry and generally tidying up. I'd then hop back in bed and read the day's portion of the Qur'an and either reflect on it, or listen to music. I'd then head to my sitting room where I'd boot up my computer, pop in the ol' external hard drive and pick out a movie.
After the first movie - I'd get up (to avoid ponj-sores), wash my face and grab my journal, and then write for a bit. I'd also use this time to decide where I was going to break the fast: in my house, with a home-cooked meal, or at someone else's house, Moroccan-style.
Around 2:00p - time for a second movie. I'd pick one that I'd seen recently or didn't really care about, because I was really just looking for white-noise to lull me into an afternoon nap (as if I'm not already an expert napper).
4:30p - a knock on my door would wake me up from my heat/hunger-induced slumber, and I'd throw on a scarf and grumble to myself in Tashlenglish as I answer the door. The same two little girls, every day, bless their bored, not-fasting little hearts. I'd hand over my tagrtilt (the woven mat that I use for sitting on the roof) to them, tell them that I'd join them once I woke up, and then I'd sit upstairs with them until it was time to run over to someone's house, or to prepare my own break-fast table of fruit juice, Berber coffee, iced tea, water, and assorted treats like dates, hard-boiled eggs, cinammon toast, soup, pasta, fruit, etc.
7:00p - time to break the fast!
Midnight-ish - drink my last sips of water and head to bed, with the alarm set for 3:45a.

Eid l-fitur, or Leid Saghir/Leid Imziy here in Morocco, is fitting for its name, which translates to small celebration. I went to host family's house and sat around for a little while, and then went to another friend's house and sat around for a while there, too. I hear that it's tradition to get up early and go to the houses of the poor families in the community offering them either flour or money as your yearly zakat (giving alms is one of the pillars of Islam, remember), but I didn't partake in that tradition for personal reasons.

(If you must know, everyone already asks me for money. And as I learned in grade school, if I give to one person, I have to give to everyone... for the next nineteen months. Without making that Greg Mortenson reference that would be totally appropriate here, let's just say that I don't get paid enough for that.)

And there you have it, folks. رمضان. Ramadan. I can't wait to see how next year goes!

Apartment building? Elementary school? It's hard to say.

Post Soundtrack - The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, Lauryn Hill

I had a long, perhaps overly-wordy Ramadan schpeal typed up and ready to post... but I'm choosing to hold off on posting on Ramadan and (L)Eid, as I'd like another week or so to process it. Ramadan was a really interesting time, in that it was the longest, chill-est 'holiday season' I've ever experienced. Being in a Muslim country for a holiday that's also one of the five tenents of the faith was amazing, of course, but it's also interesting to see how the religious blurs with the cultural, and how things come together in a very mechanical-yet-still-fully-incha'Allah kind of way.

I'll explain what that means in the next post, incha'Allah.

Anyhow, onto the show: the after-Ramadan picnic.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment (photos of which I'll post... eventually), which is - believe it or not - the biggest apartment in the building (there is no concept of 'bedroom' in my part of the country, so calling it a one-bedroom when referring to size is arbitrary. It's a five-roomer, how about that?). There are six units in my building, two of which are on the ground level and open into an alleyway, and the remaining four (including my own) are up a half-flight of stairs. Up another flight-and-a-half of stairs is the roof, which is casually-partitioned with walls that are only about 4 feet high.

Five of the six units are currently filled, with tenants including a foreigner living alone (which is absurd in this culture), a married couple of school teachers and three families with a combined total of eleven children ranging in age from born-during-Ramadan to approximately thirteen.

The building is part of a larger structure that also houses a youth association that's open daily, and is located across the 'street' from an elementary/middle school. Next to the school is another complex of three units with children bursting from the seams. Needless to say, there's never a dull moment around here (with the exception of the recently-ended summer months).

Anyhow, what started as an afternoon rooftop dance party has turned into a routine banging down of my door at all hours of the day. Anytime the children aren't in school, really, there's banging, begging and pleading for me to come out and play. The children, bless their little Moroccan hearts, don't understand what living alone entails: doing all of the housework yourself.

With that in mind, it should be clear that "I've got work to do," "I'm cooking [insert whatever meal is next]" or "I didn't answer the door because I was showering/napping/etc" are not valid excuses for not coming to the door, and then out to play until it gets too dark to see each other.

The Ramadan fast left me weak (and maybe a little bit brain-dead), and last week I told my Executive Board that I'd be willing to do a picnic with them. They've been begging me for a picnic since I moved in, and to their surprise (and later, my chagrin), when they brought it up on the roof, I agreed. Yesterday was that picnic.

Two nights ago, one of the smaller girls knocked on my door to remind me about the picnic, and we agreed on 6:00p on the roof. I decided that we'd do American-style tea and an almond-sugar cookie recipie from my Peace Corps cookbook, and then I went back to preparing for the next day's trash meeting (I love to talk trash, but that's still a few posts away).

Eid is two days long here in Morocco, and my trash meeting was therefore bumped forward a day -- so I slept in and treated myself to a pancake brunch. I popped in a movie, sat down with my pancakes, and heard a knock at the door.

I have a Peace Corps-mandated metal door, and when someone knocks on it, it's nothing short of jarring.

Before making a move, I knew how this was going to play out. I looked longingly at my plate of pancakes, took a sip of juice and got up.

Ah yes, I thought to myself, just as I expected. It was not one but seven children at my door, wanting to discuss the picnic. I told them that I was eating breakfast, and that I'd come and find them when I was done.

The knock on my door eleven minutes later was disappointing. I kept eating.

The subsequent knock at the 24-minute mark was just annoying. I was sipping tea at this point.

I finally got up after thirty-three minutes, threw on some appropriate clothing (read: my beloved, ugly-as-sin housewife nightgown) and went outside to talk about this picnic.

I told them that I'd contribute tea and cookies.
They told me that they wanted sandwiches.
I asked them if they'd really want sandwiches at six o'clock in the afternoon.
They said that they wanted the picnic right now.

Oh.

Twenty minutes later, we had it all worked out. They'd provide the ingredients (bread and tomatoes), and I'd throw the sandwiches together now. And then, at 6:00p, we'd do tea and cookies.

After thirty minutes of sandwich-assembly, providing blankets, clothespins and other accessories to facilitate rooftop shade, and answering the ten thousand door-knocks that ranged from "we need ten sandwiches, not six" to "I want to see the inside of your house. Do you need help?," the picnic was officially kicked off with a group hand-washing and a resounding bismillah.

The sandwiches - tomatoes, onions and basil-laced Laughing Cow - were a great success.

The incessant knocking on my door of "what are you dooooooing? Aren't you going to come out and plaaaaaaaay?" after lunch was finished and I was back in my house, was a bit much. I had dishes to do, and had a nap planned.

I don't play around when it comes to napping.

So I took an abbreviated nap, did dishes, and then invited the eldest neighbor-girl in to watch me make American-style tea. I boiled water, brewed some strong fruity tea, and threw some sugar and milk into it. It was pretty basic, but she enjoyed the lesson. Unfortunately, when there was a knock on the door and she answered it before I could get to it, things went downhill.

The fact that Eldest Neighbor-Girl got to see my house and the other kids were not permitted entry was, in a word, incendiary.

Confession: it wasn't fair for me to invite one girl in and not the others, I know. But she was the only one who asked, and she came to the door alone. Also, cultural differences make me uneasy about allowing anyone into my house, let alone seven unsupervised children at the same time.

There were threats to boycott my tea, but when I told them that Eldest Neighbor Girl and I would drink all the tea alone in my house and would play all afternoon without a care in the world, they changed their story. They ultimately hated the tea (which I knew would happen, mainly because I thought it was delicious), but it was the fist-fight between the two eldest neighbors that really killed the mood for me. Things ended on a sour note, and I stopped answering the door at 5:45p.

The kids didn't stop knocking until about 7:15p.

I love my job, I love my community and I love this country. I'm comfortable living under a monarchy, and in a culture that's far more repressed in the areas of sex and gender than my own, but I reserve the right to not answer the door should I not be in the mood.

An Update in Three Acts

Soundtrack to today's post: Janis Joplin, "[Her] Greatest Hits"

Act I: Dance Class
The school year has started here in my part of the world, and that means that the other families in my apartment building - all of which have small children - are back from vacationing in other provinces. I must admit that the quiet that this break provided me was a nice break, but I was beginning to feel a bit... bored. Out of the loop. Detached from the community.

Ramadan is that slow, I tell you. As there is no tea or lunch served, the socializing drops off sharply during this month.

So anyhow, the kids are back, and they're knocking at my door every afternoon just like when I first moved in, in July. I got a knock at my door two days ago, and instead of the two girls that were around through all of Ramadan, it was six girls (the executive board of my 12-and-under fan club) wanting to bring my tagrtilt [tag-ur-teelt] (it's like a mid-sized woven mat that is used in place of carpet in houses here) up to the roof and sit for a while, to "study." I knew that there'd be no studying involved, but I accompanied the girls upstairs anyway.

What ensued once we sat down was something I had never seen before. Six small girls had put together a song-and-dance routine, but the song that only had one word as the lyrics - my name. I was serenaded by these girls and their, ahem, interesting combination of traditional ashlhee (that's code for 'Berber'), ballet and French euro-pop dancing styles. This was enjoyable to watch and giggle at, don't get me wrong, but the fact that they pretty much announced to the entire province that I was upstairs with them was... embarrassing. I had gotten used to my seclusion, I suppose.

After the performance was over, the girls launched into solos and duets of singing, dancing and acting. The sun was shining but the breeze was cool, and I was looking forward to breaking the fast with a quasi-Lebanese meal that I had cooked earlier that afternoon; in those moments, all was right with the world.

And then the girls all sat down and insisted that it was my turn.

I was pulled, poked and prodded up on "stage" under the afternoon Moroccan sun and my laundry lines, to "sing and dance like you do in America."

Oh, yeah, I did used to do that. Hmmm.

Since I frequently suffer from I-can't-think-of-how-any-song-I've-ever-heard-before-goes syndrome, I chose to make up a song about how I was on the the roof, singing in front of these six little girls. I had to do a little dance to placate them, the details of which I will not get into, and everyone loved it. Then, it was time to teach them how to "dance like Americans" -- slow-dancing, they meant. It baffles them that men and women dance together, touching each other. They asked me if I danced like that, and who I danced with, and if my brother danced like that too.

Note: in my site, if the company is mixed, the women dance with a beautiful piece of fabric covering them from the top of the head to the waist.

The girls still didn't quite grasp it... to them, this style of dancing is something they see television. They asked me about it again the next day just to make sure I was telling the truth!

Act II: H-brother Update
So I broke the fast over at my host family's house the day before the rooftop dance class, and when I got up to do the dishes, Host Brother was hot on my heels. We have a routine now - I set him up with a small sponge, some Tide (we use Tide as dishwashing detergent here) and small stuff that isn't very dirty: tea glasses, silverware, soup bowls. He washes one, and then when he's done, he gives me the soapy dish that I rinse off dry and put away. We're a pretty efficient team, even if I could do the dishes in a quarter of the time if I were alone.

Host mom started making dinner whilst we were still doing the dishes on this fateful night, and per our usual routine, brought up Host Brother's newfound passion for chores. The conversation went as follows:

Host Mom: [Host brother], are you doing dishes again? That's a woman's work, you know. Are you a woman?

Host Brother: Yes, I'm a woman -- now give me more Tide!

I'm afraid that text doesn't do this story justice. I nearly dropped and shattered the bowl I was rinsing when Host Brother said this, I was laughing so hard.

This kid is so cute. A little confused, perhaps... but so. darn. cute.

Act III: I'm in with the president, but not like Monica Lewinsky.
I had a training session about a week ago in the province of Essaouira, and I returned from that training refreshed and enthusiastic about my cultural integration, but a bit concerned that I had to wait until after Ramadan to start looking for "work."

Little did I know, my number was up -- as soon as I got out of the taxi at my site, a member of the local association's Waste Management Committee approached me with news that The Commune - the city hall of rural communities - wanted to meet with me.

I love this country.

I ended up catching a ride back from my souq town with the newly-elected president of the Commune over the weekend, and while he's got a presidental air to him, he's a down-to-earth guy. We talked about fasting, and why our trash man ran off with the donkey (that's not a Clerks II reference; our trash man and the donkey that pulled the trash cart are both gone) and he called the horrifying trash problem we have mamnu3a -- the Arabic word for 'prohibited by law'. It was an interesting choice of words to use, as I would've defaulted to hshuma, or shameful, but it got me thinking about how else to look at this situation, other than the initial reaction of "zomg, there's trash everywhere."

The actual meeting happened yesterday, and while there's a Commune member that speaks impeccable English, he didn't show up; I was left to my own devices. The meeting went well though, and while we still have a lot to talk through, I'm excited that they're excited to get the ball rolling. More on my work as it develops, of course.

I'm ruining my host brother's life.

I've mentioned my host family before, but I've refrained from going into depth about my host brother until this post. My host brother, whom I shall refer to as Host Brother, is the love of my (Moroccan) life. He's my best friend and biggest fan here in my community, and the feelings are mutual. He's always got a smile and a kind word for me when I see him, and has been known to fight tooth-and-nail with other members of the family to be the first to greet me at the door when I visit. He's supportive of my efforts to integrate into the community, patient with my language-learning and occasional cultural faux pas, full of questions about American culture, and now that I'm fasting, is even concerned about my post-lftur caloric intake!

He's saving his centimes to come back to America with me when my service ends, which is sweet but obtusely non-committal -- he's an intelligent and capable individual, but he hasn't much income to speak of.

Oh, he's also five years old.

My side of the story reads like this: this country, community and host family were all picked for me. I specified 'Middle East/North Africa' and 'Latin America' on my Peace Corps application, and the rest was let up to the powers that be; namely, God and The Placement Officers. This entire experience, from the moment I submitted my application in February 2007 until today, has been an arduous exercise in letting go of control of every aspect of my life. As a former card-carrying Control Freak, I'm proud to say that I've emerged more patient, calm and easy-going than I ever imagined possible. My priorities are basic, my day planner is (mostly) blank and my soul is at peace.

My new-found inner peace has attracted the inner peace that small children possess, and I have a thriving fan club of kids aged twelve and under in my community. Host Brother has asserted himself as the president of said fan club, and defends his position by being my right-hand man whenever we're together... literally. He demands a seat next to me at meals, insisting that I take the choicest vegetables out of the tagine, putting pitted dates into my harira without me even asking and offering up the chocolate part of his petit pain that is served at the lftur table during Ramadan. He also makes an effort to work on my language skills, constantly grilling me on pronunication skills with his favorite game: "say (this word/syllable/meaningless gutteral sound)." He constantly vies for my attention with cunning linguistic tactics such as smqald gigi [look at me] and wa Nicola [hey Nicole] and shooooooooooooof!!! [loooooooooooook!!!]. He's also very critical of my physical appearance, and is the first to notice if I'm wearing something new or if my scarf is wrapped differently.

He's recently taken it upon himself to monitor my progress in becoming a proper Berber woman, and has become insistent that I never sleep alone when I spend the night at host family's house (sleeping alone with the door closed is a very Western idea, and is misunderstood by many Berbers that I've met). He also has discovered that I am an expert dish-washer, and supports my love of this activity by accompanying me in the kitchen and even trying his hand at washing alongside me. It still takes him approximately four minutes to wash and rinse a tablespoon, but once he's tall enough to reach the sink, I'm sure he'll be more efficient.

Note: The transfer of skills is worked into my sector's project framework, and I'm considering listing this activity on my next quarterly Volunteer Reporting Form. :)

Unfortunately, Host Brother's apprecation of my expertise and blind loyalty to me and my interests has caused him severe ridicule from other family members. In my community, the kitchen is exclusively women's domain. For most men in my area, the kitchen is like a woman's menstrual cycle: they know it's there and (approximately) how it works, but they don't want to hear about the details. Host Brother is challenging his gender role by accompanying me into the kitchen after breakfast, lunch or lftur, and is teased mercilessly by the other members of the family for it. It's actually so blatantly not what he should be doing that I worry that my host mom will ban him from the kitchen in an effort to retain his 'manhood,' or will accuse me of enticing him into this hshuma, or shameful, practice.

Ya Latif, what I thought would be the ultimate act of community service is actually corrupting the life of an innocent, five-year-old Berber boy.