Moroccan Time

 Time.  It seems pretty straight forward, but it I’ve found that it moves a little differently in Morocco.  In any cross-cultural class, one of the first things covered is the difference between m-time (monochronic) and p-time (polychronic).  America is an m-time society, where time moves linearly and punctuality is given primary importance – things are expected to start and end on time.  However, in Morocco (a p-time society) time moves more to the rhythm of the community and people one is with than to the mechanical ticking of a clock.  

For instance, a few weekends ago one of the Arabic professors at Amideast organized a trip for the people in my program to his “farm” about 45 minutes outside of Rabat.  I say “farm” because just like my aunt has a “cabin” that’s really a lake side home with 3 bathrooms and 2 kitchens, this “farm” was really a miniature estate with a castle surrounded by an oasis of fruit trees and vegetable patches and at least 3 housekeepers that kept the place running.  Even though it wasn’t the traditional Moroccan farm I was expecting (or maybe because it wasn’t) it was still a badly-needed rejuvenating experience that was completely immersed in Moroccan time.  At first Moroccan time can be a bit frustrating, especially when trying to catch a bus or a tram that have no set schedule and can be stopped at any time by the driver to have a 10 minute conversation with one of his friends he sees walking by.  But after making an effort to fully embrace Moroccan time, it feels like I’ve been liberated, at least partially, from the shackles of my type-A personality.  For an explanation, let’s return back to the farm.

After arriving at the farm, the 16 of us on the outing were ushered into the professor’s castle and just relaxed inside his home while showering him and his wife with appreciation for their hospitality.  Then, when the time was right and everyone had toured the house to his satisfaction, we migrated to the patio to find a table sagging with brimming bowls of dates, figs, and nuts and platters of the most decadent Moroccan helwat (cookies).  Having consumed more delectable sweets than we should have, the professor led us on an impromptu tour of his fruit trees, handing us guavas, oranges, apples, and grapefruit straight from the tree faster than we could eat them. 

The next stop was to a big hole in the ground, where we commenced to plant a fruit tree we had bought at the souk (the weekly country market) earlier that day.  While planting the tree, the professor kept telling us to get our hands in the rich soil and feel the energy of the sun in the earth rising up through our feet.  Every word about the beauty and vitality of the earth he uttered (in a mix of French and English) weaved the enchantment of this verdant Eden ever stronger.  After spending just enough time in the garden, we moved back into the house to find 2 luxurious platters of couscous, which could have fed twice our number.

According to the schedule, we were supposed to leave after couscous, but because we hadn’t finished all the farm activities, stayed longer – 2 hours longer – until we did everything our professor had wanted us to do – bake bread, make lemon-orange juice, and walk to a neighboring dairy farm to milk a cow.  The activities themselves were nothing extraordinary, but because of the people we were with and where we were, we could have been watching paint dry and we still would have had one of the best and most satisfying experiences of our time in Morocco to date.  If there is one lesson I hope to bring back with me from Morocco, it is to value people and experiences more than what I do and when I do it.  Time ticks away no matter how much one worries about it, so why stress out about what time it is, when the same energy could be used to strengthen relationships and truly experience life.

p.s. Sorry for the delay.  This was written a week ago, but I haven’t had internet access for the last week, so I’m posting it now.

The Rihla of an American College Student

Today in Contemporary Moroccan History, we talked about a genre of Moroccan travel literature called rihla, which was first used developed by Moroccans to try to write about and share the knowledge they gained while on the Pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina, and later used by Moroccan diplomatic envoys to Europe to describe their experiences in the foreign Christian world.  I won’t bore everyone with the details the rihla writers, but I bring it up because I realized in class that I am experiencing what the Moroccan envoys to Europe experienced 300 years ago – going to a foreign land, with a foreign language and foreign customs and trying to share the experience so that others may share in the knowledge gained from it.  But instead of writing as a Moroccan official concerned with using diplomacy to preserve Morocco’s sovereignty, I’m writing as a poor (although relatively rich by Moroccan standards) college student focused on broadening my understanding of humanity to make my corner of the world a more interesting place.  One of the characteristics of almost all travel literature is comparing where one came from with where one is, so I’ll give it a shot too.   

Over the last week I’ve noticed that the average Moroccan seems to know as much about Christianity as the average American seems to know about Islam.  For instance, one night I met with two of my Moroccan friends, Hamid and Imid, and we eventually got to the topic of alcohol.  I said that I only drink wine at church, which only elicited quizzical looks from Hamid and Imid.  I then tried to explain the concept of Communion to them, but in the end just gave up because it was clear that trying to explain the theological significance of Communion was only making them more confused.  The cross-cultural miscommunication was so bad that I think I’ve convinced two Moroccans that Christians only get together to get drunk on wine and cannibalize the body of Jesus (which is kind of embarrassing since I was the president of the Interfaith Council last year, whose sole purpose is to try to avoid this type of mishap).  However, considering that there are only 25,000 Christians out of 30 million Moroccans, and almost all of them are foreigners from outside Morocco (either from Europe or the rest of Africa), I can understand why the tenants of Christianity are not widely known throughout Morocco.

I’ve also noticed that there is a huge division between what is public and what is private in Morocco.  For instance, when my host mom, Nezha, goes out of the house, she wears a hijab, but when she’s at home among family she takes it off and relaxes inside the private space of the home.  Similarly, windows are smaller in Morocco and are often shut to try to physically separate the private realm of the household from the public realm of everyone else.  With this in mind, I know that I’ve been shoved into the mama Nezha’s family and accepted as one of her own sons because last Friday I invited one of my friends over to have couscous at our house since his host parents both work during the day and can’t prepare the traditional Friday couscous lunch.  Mama Nezha’s mom, Hajja Betu, happened to be staying with us for a few days while she waited to see a doctor, and when my friend and I walked in, she quickly covered her hair before we gathered together to eat.  Hajja Betu has never covered her hair around me (except when she was praying, of course), so this experience was a striking example of the division between public (e.g. my friend) and private (e.g. the family).

Finally, on a lighter note, Yassine, my one year old host nephew, almost knows my name, despite the fact that I dropped him the last time I saw him while bouncing him on my leg.  In many ways, I feel a lot like Yassine right now, because he is just learning to speak and tries to parrot every word that someone says, which is exactly what I do when mama Nezha tells me a new word for something in Darija.  Mama Nezha has also been telling me that it’s getting cold out, which I guess is technically correct since the mid-70’s is cooler than the mid-80’s, but it still feels like summer.  Some people would love having summer 24/7, but not me.  Right now I am craving Fall and would give anything to be transported to southeastern Minnesota to see the colors on the trees just for a few minutes.

Christian in a Muslim World

Cathédrale Saint-Pierre

I’ve often heard that Islam is not a religion, but a way of life.  I think that after only a month in Morocco, I’m beginning to understand why.  The way Moroccans greet each other, interact with each other, and say good-bye to each other is infused with and inseparable from Islam.  For instance, every time Moroccans great one another, they ask “Labas?” (How are you?), and respond with “Labas, lhmdo lilah” (Fine, thanks be to God).  When I’m with my host mom, it feels like she says “lhmdo lilah” every other sentence – when she’s done eating, drinks a glass of water, finds out someone else is doing okay, etc… 

            Society in Morocco, like all other Muslim countries, is also punctuated by the call to prayer that’s broadcast from all the mosques in the city to remind everyone of the five daily prayers that all Muslims are supposed to pray.  I thought the call to prayer would have a more commanding presence than I’ve found it to have; part of the reason may be that I don’t live or have classes close to a mosque, so I often only hear the call to prayer as a distant song.  Some nights at about 4:30am I do hear it, but it seems more like a dream than reality.  Another weakness of the call to prayer is that the mosques are often out of sync with each other, so just as one mosque finishes another will begin.  But probably the main reason is that I almost never see Moroccans responding to the call to prayer – while being reminded to pray, most Moroccans just keep on with whatever they’re doing.  There are some who make their way to the mosque to pray or get down on a rug or piece of cardboard on the sidewalk, but these people are often older men.

            The above commentary in one way is meant to suggest that Moroccans aren’t good Muslims (that’s not for me to judge) or never prayer (although I’m sure there are a substantial number of Moroccans who don’t pray, especially younger, westernized Moroccans like my host brother).  My host mom still does her daily prayers on the carpet in the fancy sitting room, but she does them at her own time.  This seems to be a general, almost paradoxical theme in Morocco – Islam is everywhere and absolute, but it is not rigid (although that could change if Moroccans aren’t careful). 

I’m probably exaggerating quite a lot and much of what I'm saying probably isn't true, but the Islam Morocco has now appears to me, the outsider, to be a living religion, which Christian churches in the US would give anything to achieve.  I’m not claiming that everything is perfect in Morocco, but the poor on the street are almost always fed, either a few dirhams or a bag of food from people passing by (I saw one man buy a bag of prickly fruit from a fruit cart and turn right around and hand it to an old woman and her grandchild).  There are still many unsolved social problems, but at least people are treated like people, and not like they don't exist.  In general, the main difference between religion the US and Morocco is that Moroccans know they have problems and try to fix them despite their limited resources, whereas the Church in America has the resources to solve its social problems but doesn't have the drive to try.

Living in a Muslim country for the four weeks has been interesting as a Christian.  I haven’t been able to find a Protestant church in Rabat, so I’ve been going to the Cathedrale Saint-Pierre.  Even though it’s mass and it’s in French, I still feel like I’m being transported by home from the moment I step into the cathedral to the moment I leave.  The congregation is probably 90% African with the other 10% Europeans and always seems to be on the verge of dancing during all the hymns, which are lead by an angelic choir of African women.  I can follow most of the service, and even if I can’t follow exactly what’s going on, I use the time for reflection and meditation and my own prayers.  The hardest part is not being able to partake in Communion, which I haven’t had in over five weeks.  I just have to keep reminding myself that I wanted to come to Morocco and be part of a minority of 25,000 Christians.