Eid: thoughts, teachings, snapshots

“These are days for eating, drinking and remembering God”.  That is a description of Eid, which we celebrated this past week.  And that sums it up pretty well.

Eid comes as the celebration marking the end of each year’s pilgrimage season.

Some of my favorite things about Eid are…

…thinking about those who have made the pilgrimage, their stories, their light filled faces as they return.  Thinking about the year that my husband made that journey, as I stayed home 7 months pregnant with Karima.  That is a story worth its own blog post.

…Eid prayer, a special communal prayer held outdoors.  Normally we go to the one on the road to Ourika, with tens of thousands of people.  This year we had the good fortune to be out in the countryside, where a gathering of the entire community means a couple hundred people.  As we arrived and settled onto the straw mats, we were greeted by the most peaceful singing “dear Lord, make us among the thankful”.

…the beautiful teachings related to the slaughter of the Eid sheep.  As part of the celebration, it’s traditional to slaughter a sheep (or goat, cow or camel), feeding family, friends and giving away a third to charity .  It’s a very real experience, that puts you face to face with your own meat-eating.  Certainly for me there is a heaviness associated with it.  I’d much rather just grab some meat at the store, but as Barbara Kingsolver put it, you can’t run away on harvest day.  The Islamic teaching is to accompany the animal through the door of death in the best possible way.   That is, to speak softly and soothingly to it, to not show it the knife, to not slaughter it in the same place as another animal so that it won’t smell or see blood, to use a well sharpened knife and to make the slaughter itself as quick as possible, and finally to utter a prayer a the moment of death.  One of two things will happen if you witness or participate in this event, either you will become a vegetarian, or you will come away with more gravitas, a much deeper awareness of the responsibility we have as meat eaters.  Where does our meat come from?  How was the animal raised?  How was it killed?  The answers to these questions are so directly relevant to our own humanity.

…family time, food time.  See pictures below.  What I love about this set of pictures is the light, notice the light.

1-On the way to Eid prayer.  My son and my father.

2-Planting feathers.  An ambitious endeavor.

3-Let the feasting begin.  Moroccan tektouka salad, made with roasted red bell peppers and tomato.

4-My plate.  Spinach artichoke dip, the famous liver brochettes of the first day (meat needs to wait till day 2 to taste better), guacamole, broccoli (a treat in Morocco, trust me on this), and tektouka.  I didn’t actually eat the liver brochettes, sorry, not a fan.  But my kids love them, and broccoli too, contrary to the common kid stereotypes.  

5-This is my identity expressed via the medium of cookies.  One one hand, the all American fave, chocolate chip (chip here is singular).  On the other hand, Moroccan “slipper” cookies (shaped like a belgha), which are, incidentally, filled with peanut butter.  I had an “I am baker, hear me roar” moment when I baked these and they actually came out looking and tasting as good as store bought.  I always thought Moroccan cookies were well beyond my scope.  

6-Last food pic I promise.  Indian carrot pudding (much, much more heavenly than the name connotes).  And Moroccan tea.

7-My daughter is wearing a dress that my sister, and later I, both wore as girls.  I think it was used to begin with.

8-Just the light.  It almost made me cry, all day, it made the simplest things so beautiful.

9-That night we stayed in one of the few houses in the area still without electricity.  Candle light is also so peaceful and lovely.

Pomegranates, food for the heart

It’s definitely pomegranate season in Marrakesh.  Every city block has its own cart.  And at 6 dirhams a kilo (40 cents a pound) there is no reason to hold back.

Do you like pomegranates?  My kids love them, they scream with delight when I serve up a plate of the crimson jewels.  And I scream with delight internally knowing that my kids are crazy about one of the healthiest foods in the world.  Indeed, pomegranates have one of the highest levels of antioxidants of any food, three times the amount found in green tea.  Studies have linked pomegranate consumption to reduced blood pressure and bad cholesterol.  The flavenoids (a type of antioxidant) in pomegranates are effective in fighting both breast cancer and skin cancer, and a study has shown that pomegranate juice may slow the growth of prostate cancer.  The pomegranate also has anti-inflammatory properties, a high level of vitamin C and pantothenic acid.  The seeds present in each aril contain unsaturated oils (the good kind), and if you manage to chew them, you’ll be getting more than enough fiber.

Unfortunately, science has still not developed a protocol for picking out a good pomegranate.  It’s one of those obscure skills, like picking out a good watermelon, where many factors are in play.  The color, the amount of give when pressed with your thumb, the smell even.  It takes practice and a refinement of the senses to become a connoisseur.  There is always that moment of anticipation when we open up a pomegranate.    Will it be over-ripe and starting to ferment?  Under-ripe and still a little too tart?  Or will it just glorious; dark, sweet and juicy?

My advice is to just buy loads, you are bound to get some good ones.  Like human beings, a beautiful outside is no indication of what’s on the inside.  It’s usually the most undramatic and unassuming ones (fruits and people) that hide the most precious treasures.

In Morocco, pomegranates are a beloved fruit because they are mentioned in the Quran as being one of the fruits of paradise.  In the chapter called “Ar Rahman” or “The Merciful”, the gardens of paradise are described thus, “in them are fruit trees, dates palms and pomegranate trees”.

The commentary on this verse addresses the fact that dates and pomegranates are mentioned distinctly, even though they are both fruits.  This is because dates are distinguished as being a source of nourishment, something a person could live on, while pomegranates are a cure for ailment.  Why would there be a cure for ailment in paradise?  The Sufi commentary points to the fact that some of the people entering paradise have spiritual imperfections, ailments of the hearts, and that the pomegranate tree is a symbol for the cure that they will find.

The Arabic word for pomegranate is rummaan, which in turn comes from a Persian word meaning “to illuminate”.  Indeed the translucent fruit catches and reflects light like a thousand dazzling rubies.  This celebration of light and perfection, each aril fitted to other with the precision of the world’s most delicate puzzle, encased in a dull, thick, leathery and bitter skin, is a perfect analogy for the infinitely complex microcosm that is encased in the human form.  It would only make sense that the pomegranate is a cure for the heart, both through its physical properties, and its spiritual ones.  There is a saying attributed to the prophet Muhammad that says “Whoever eats a pomegranate, God will illuminate his or her heart for forty days”.

So my dear ones, if you live in Morocco or on the Mediterranean basin, make pomegranates a daily delight, and eat to your heart’s content.  If not, then add this to list of reasons to visit.

El gardien.

Meet one of my local heroes.

Let me give you some perspective.

He is a parking assistant, as we call them in Morocco, el gardien.

He spends all day helping people park at one of the busiest bakeries in town.

His job is to keep a lookout for traffic, tell you when to turn the steering wheel… left… right… now all the way around.  Although he himself cannot drive, he can coach you through the arduous task of parallel parking.

He also keeps your car safe, from petty vandalism I suppose, while you are loading up on petit pains and baguettes at the bakery.

He works the street up and down all day, receiving 2 dirhams (25 cents) per car.  Which is something, except that he has to pay the city “rent” for guarding that street.

I’ve never seen him without a huge smile on his face (except for when he solemnly posed for this photo).  Everything he says is punctuated with ecstatic prayers.

God help you!  Go in God’s hands! he says to me as I hand him 2 dirhams.

Every time I see him, I am grateful for my good health and sound body.  I hope to one day have grace and utter contentment, like him.

He could have been a beggar, no questions asked.  But instead he’s chosen a lively profession; instead of being burden, he lives a life of service.  I so admire him for that.

What is it like to go from having two legs to having just one?

One day I will ask him to tell me his story.

A tooth puller, literally!

I had a wisdom tooth out yesterday.

Here are the stages of mental preparation I went through.

1-Realization: when I connected all the dots and realized that the intense migraines I had been having the last few weeks were caused by wisdom teeth that looked like this:

2-Denial: the dentist set the date for the surgery, but I still didn’t fully internalize what was going to happen.  Denial is bliss!

3-Sheer terror: I decided to learn a little more about the procedure.  A certain youtube video showed me a little more than I needed to know.  After a few seconds of watching it, I was in shock, tears rolling down my eyes, and scared out of my mind.  So much cutting with the scalpel, the SCALPEL!  In my mouth!  I am not prone to swearing, but in this case, it was appropriate.

4-Getting my zen back together: as the day and the hour drew near, I needed to build my mental fortress.  I explored all the things I was afraid of: being cut, possible long lasting nerve damage, the trauma of a medical procedure to the body, those first few seconds in the chair as the dentist is laying out all manners of needles, knives and drills…I needed to go through each of these things in my mind, fully accepting each fear, accepting the reality of what I was going to go through.  Only then could I get to the stage of mental fortitude that I knew I needed.

5-Focus: as the hour drew near, I settled into a deeper level of being.  More quiet, more serene.  Ready for battle.

6-Surrender, and patience: in the chair, all I had to do was open my mouth and surrender.  I focused on breathing and relaxing.  After all, I have given birth to a few babies, and that required a bit more courage than dental surgery.

45 minutes of work by two amazing Moroccan dentists.  They did an awesome job.  I felt more sorry for them than for me, they had the really tough job.  I managed to open my eyes after a while and watch what they were doing.  But thankfully I couldn’t see into my own mouth.

The best part of all is that I was able to come home to an empty house, the kids were over at my mom’s.  If that’s what it takes for me to get some alone time, then so be it!  I have not been home alone for a day in years!  Well, maybe a day here and there.  Hubby is also planning to take the kids to the beach this weekend, so I can rest some more.  Thank you honey!

Now I just need to rest, which is always the part I am worst at.  The pain is manageable.  I can’t open my mouth or chew much.  There are stitches in there!  The medication helps.   It’s a strange irony that now that I have some actual TIME to blog, I am kind of loopy and so this will not be my best writing.  However, I am well versed in the art of compromise, so please indulge me in my medicated mediocrity!

Ramadan Night Prayers at the Koutoubia Mosque

I’m in a pre-mourning phase for Ramadan.  Today is likely to be the last day here in Morocco.  This evening we look for the moon, again.  If we see it, tomorrow will be Eid, a celebration.

Ramadan has made the transition back to Morocco, after two months in the states, very kind.  Most people are being the best they can be.  Those who generally “know better”, in Ramadan actually “do better”.  When I walk by, I can recognize the young men who might, if they weren’t fasting, make boorish cat-calls to me and any other female.  But because it’s Ramadan, they just lower their gaze (and I don’t need to puke, thank you very much).  Fasting and prayer are having a calming, pacifying effect on the whole country, and I’m so thankful for that.

One of the Islamic teachings about Ramadan is that “demons are chained up, and the gates of heaven are thrown open”.  It does seem that people are freed from their demons, because when you give up food, smoking, sex, drinking and drugs, for 14 hours a day, what demons are left?  In addition to these things, people voluntarily give up other vices, such as back-biting, lying and cheating.  I mean, who even has the energy for sin, when you are fasting in this heat?

So, substitute all that with prayer, reading of the holy book, increased devotion, increased charity, and really the gates of heaven ARE open.  This is God’s mercy,  the rahma, and we can get a taste of it even now.

One of the highlights of this Ramadan was going to pray at the Koutoubia mosque.  I don’t get much chance to pray in mosques, what with the kids and all, but when I do, I enjoy every minute.

I drove through the empty streets of Marrakesh, and really that was a treat in itself.  There is no other time when the driving is that pleasant.  The Koutoubia is easy to spot from afar.  The French colonials had the good sense to oriente several major avenues towards the Koutoubia, so it is, in a sense, the town center.

The Koutoubia mosque was built some 1000 years ago (ok, I’m a little loose with dates), by the founders of Marrakesh, the Almoravids.  It was then partially destroyed and rebuilt by the Almohads around 1150 C.E.  It stands at an impressive 69 m (221 ft) which was quite an architectural feat for its time.  Tonight, the towering minaret is all ablaze with lights.  Atop the minaret are 4 decorative golden balls, tour guides will often perpetuate the urban myth that highest ball was donated by the wife of Sultan Yaqoub el Mansour, who melted down all her gold jewelry, as penance for breaking her fast.  (I find this Arabian nights-esque tale rather implausible, as there are 3 ways of atoning for a fast that is broken for no reason: either freeing a slave, or if that’s not possible, then feeding 60 poor people, or fasting 2 months back to back).

The mosque was rebuilt a third time because the original orientation was not quite accurate.  Mosques are meant to face the direction of Mecca, or at least in the cardinal direction that is closest to the direction of Mecca.  However, many old Moroccan mosques faced due South.  This was what the Moroccans of old thought was the direction of Mecca.

The ruins of the old mosque remain, a large esplanade dotted with partially standing columns.  I am happy to find that this year, the ruins are actually being used for prayer space.  The Koutoubia has a capacity of 25,ooo people within its walls, but in Ramadan, even this is not enough.  So two large overflow areas have been designated, each with about 5,000 people.  In Ramadan, ALL the mosques are usually overflowing in this way, with sidewalks, even streets being converted to prayer space.

I join the 5,000 or so women in 1,000 year old ruins of the mosque.  I feel alive already.  I settle in and wait for prayers to begin, looking around at all the faces, young and old, rich and poor, all the colorful jellabas being worn, all the chatter and laughter.

Soon the call to prayer is made, the same call that has unfurled from this minaret, 5 times a day, every day for the last thousand years.  We stand, shoulder to shoulder, in long straight lines.  As the imam, or prayer leader, begins his recitation of quran a wave of joy comes over me.  He has a beautiful voice, which I recognize from quran CDs.  We spend the next hour standing, bowing, prostrating and sitting, sometimes listening to the imam’s melodious chanting, sometimes uttering our own silent prayers, always praising God, thanking Him, beseaching Him for His Mercy, Guidance and Forgiveness.

And lastly, thank you all for your loving, thoughtful, supportive comments.  I appreciate them more than you can imagine.  I am humbled and honored that you take the time to read this.

Peace from Marrakesh,  Nora.

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Raising kids in Morocco

Hello blog, hello dear readers…I’m still on vacation.  Yes, vacation is a lot of work.  No, I’m not scared of work.  I neither love nor hate work. It just takes up time, when I could be blogging.  Plus, where has my inspiration gone?  If you see it, can you tell it I’m in New Mexico, not in Marrakesh. It needs to hop on a plane and join me. (but that reminds me of a good quote: “Inspiration is the result of writing, not the cause”).

And you know, when you have small children, and someone asks you “how do you DO it?”.  I think about that, and it’s not so much what you DO, but what you ENDURE.  Because really folks, it’s not that complicated to feed, clothe, play with, and enjoy 3 children.  I do it every day, so do many of you.  But here’s what’s hard for me.  I’m a quiet person.  To begin with, I have a soft voice, you can barely hear me when I talk.  When telemarketers call, they ask if my parents are home.  I say no, and hang up.  I’m not exactly loud or boisterous by nature.  But that doesn’t work with my kids.  If I am just quiet, I almost disappear.  Then the kids will be like “where did mama go?”.  Then I’ll have to re-materialize.

When you read child-rearing books, (it’s been a while since I’ve cracked one of those open), they always say “talk to your child as you go about your daily chores, narrate each activity that you do together”.  I was always such a quiet mom, even to my first child.  Everyone said that she wouldn’t talk early, etc. But she did talk early, or one time at any rate, and was lacking in neither quality nor quantity.

Wait, I though I was reading a blog on Morocco, not some self-analytical mommy blog.  Click.

Hold your horses, I’m getting to the Morocco part.  You see, the wonderful part about raising my kids in Morocco, is that Moroccans are nothing like me.  Almost every Moroccan I meet has a similar relationship with kids.  Moroccans generally celebrate children, whether their own, or others.  They love to engage, laugh, tease, even provoke.   My kids get kissed a lot, by other kids as well as adults.  Adults are not afraid to interact with other people’s kids, since we don’t yet live in a fearful, or litigious society.  Once we were at my work, and a man kissed my littlest boy, and he said to me “You see mama, the man LOVES me”.

Susu sticks to our dear friend Si Mohamed, as a wedding procession goes by.

When my daughter was younger,  she didn’t yet get the Moroccan sense of humor.  So when someone (a playful adult) would say to her “that’s not your baby brother, he’s mine, I’m going to take him home”, well my very literal daughter would burst into tears.  I had to train her to recognize what we call “Moroccan joking”.  Now she is a pro, and she teases and plays with the best of them.

Once, when Amin was about 1 and a half, we went to one of the outdoor restaurant/playgrounds (Station Afriquia, for those of you who know).  Amin didn’t want to eat with us and wandered through the tables.  There was another family sitting a few tables away.  Before I’d even noticed, the father picked up Amin, put him on his lap, and hand-fed him for the entire meal.  They waved to us, we waved to them.  I said “Allah y jazikom bi khair” (May Allah repay you with goodness).  And that was that.  Now, I’m sure that the other family didn’t think they were doing anything special.  They didn’t have to overthink it.  To them, a hungry kid is a hungry kid.

In Morocco, when you are eating, even if it’s just a piece of bread, you offer some to anyone near you, whether you know them or not.  My kids have learned to share, both in accepting what’s offered, and offering their own food.

Many people recognize that raising the child is not just the parents’ responsibility.  If you see a child, then you interact, not quite to the degree that you would with your own, but still.  Some foreigners find this a little too invasive. I have learned to take advice, and even criticism, because I know that it’s not being dished out maliciously.

Some specific examples come to mind.  There are a few things that Moroccans seem to universally agree upon.

One is that running is not a great idea. I’ve probably heard “Mat jreesh” (don’t run), about a million times, directed at my kids as well as every other Moroccan kid.  This is because sidewalks are not great in Marrakesh, they’re about a foot wide, and change topography continually. It’s easy to fall, get hurt, or get hit by oncoming traffic.

Right up there with not running, is not getting dirty.  If you run, you might fall and get dirty.  Moroccans like cleanliness.  Moms are used to washing out clothes by hand, and so they try to get the kids to keep the clothes clean for a few days.  Even now that washing machines are more common, there is always the economical question, of wasting water and electricity.

The next thing is avoiding the sun.  And the sun in Marrakesh is really hot, many people underestimate it, then bam, heatstroke.  So people will always tell my kids to get into the shade.  Or they will ask me to put a hat on the kid.  My favorite time was when I took my 2 year old on a walk to the end of the street to the little store, in the middle of the day.  A woman stopped me and said “please, don’t take this boy out at this time”.  I said “we’re just going to the hanut“.  And she said “Well, that’s not the hanut that’s closest to you, you need to go to Moh’s hanut“.  I did not even recognize this woman as one of my neighbors (my bad), yet she knew where I lived and therefore which hanut was closest to my house.  Now, I could have taken offense, but why would I do that?  I’m getting a little too old to grumble at my elders.  I must have said “wakha” (ok) and continued on.

At least it’s interaction, you know?  I appreciate it, because I know that it’s real.  I think my kids have benefited immensely from all the interaction they’ve had with people in Morocco.

I have a great friend, Raja, she’s been there for me and the kids ever since Karima was a baby.  She’d knock on the door, just when I was slowly losing my mind, and she’d bring all this cheerful Moroccan energy into our home.  She’d laugh with Karima, and celebrate her in ways I was maybe too close to do.  She’d take pictures of her, talk to her, play with her, etc.  And Raja was only 18 or so a the time.  She would babysit so happily.  (I was not anywhere near that helpful when I was the same age).  I used to take Raja for granted.  I had just come to expect that Moroccans are generally cheerful, hardworking, and helpful.  Now I am too old to take anyone for granted.  I am trying to learn how to be more like Raja.  Now that my kids are a little older, I try to help out other moms with babies.  I try to hold the baby, if she’ll have me, and I’ll tell the mom “go, do what you need to do, your baby’s fine”.  Cause every mom needs that.

Raja indulging Susu's every whim

How did this post get so long?  When it rains, it pours.

A Moroccan Tashelheet Wedding

I am here in Taos, New Mexico.  But I still have a lot to share from back home in Morocco.  In fact, yet another benefit of blogging is that I can stay connected to my Moroccan home, and revisit some things that touched me.

A few weeks ago, at my parents’ farm out in Ourika, we heard lots of music and noise.  My first thought was “world cup fever”.  We grabbed the kids and rushed outside.  We didn’t see any football fanatics, thank goodness.  What we saw was a beautiful, joyous wedding procession.

Now, I am kind of a city cynic, I tend to be fatigued with all things urban, and all rosy eyed about anything that originates in the countryside.  (Please don’t burst my bubble).  This wedding procession is a perfect example.  What I saw was pure joy, real celebration.

The people who live out in the country are called the Amazigh, they are the original inhabitants of Morocco, long before the Arabs came from the East.  Although the Amazigh and the Arabs still maintain very different identities, (language and culture esp.), they do co-exist seamlessly, peaceably.  The Amazigh are most commonly referred to as Berbers.  Not sure if this term is politically correct.  Anyhow, they don’t call themselves that.  They refer to themselves by one of three main tribes.  In Ourika, they are part of the Tashelheet tribe.

Maybe this is a stereotype, but I do have a special fondness and respect for Tashelheet people.  They tend to be honest, direct, open, and have a great sense of humor.  Maybe this is true of all people who live close to the natural world.  The Amazigh accepted Islam from the Arabs, in large part because Islam contains a lot of symbolism and imagery from the natural world.  It resonates perfectly with a people so in tune with the natural cycles.  Reflection and meditation on the natural world is something that all Muslims are encouraged to do.

On to the pictures.  Because I value my sanity, I will only try to include 3 or so photos in this post (I still can’t stop apologizing for my last post, way more pictures than I planned, and a lot of text that disappeared upon publishing).

In this first picture, note the three percussion instruments that the men are playing: the castanettes, the tambourine, and the tray.  In the background you can see a white caftan hoisted on a bamboo stick, topped with a bouquet of flowers.  So festive.

And here is a tray of goodies: dates, a bowl of milk, a giant cone of sugar, 2 rosewater shakers, candles, incense, and roses.  I love the henna on her hands.

This is the whole procession.  They were accompanying the bride to her house, where the wedding would happen later in the evening (much later).

I will try to post more pictures of this blessed event, but later, insha Allah (God willing).

Hope is alive in Morocco

She’d be sitting there every Friday, appealing to the generosity of the people headed for mid-day prayers.

Almost every mosque-goer would press a dirham into her palm.  Even in a country where beggars are so ever-present that you become numb to them, she stood out.

Maybe it was her two little girls, Shayma, a polite and spunky 3 year old, and Khadija, a 4 month old baby permanently strapped to her mother’s back.

I think it was something more though, a shiny aura about her, a calm serenity on her face that made you trust her and moved you to help.

I’d pass her with my own daughter, also a 3 year old, on our way to her private school.  Hard to keep tears at bay, like so many other places, faces, stories of hardship.

I’d gather up all my daughter’s clothes.  The cute dress someone sent her from the states, from land’s end, too small now.  The clothes my daughter refused to wear, too tight, too formal, too scratchy, etc.  When i’d hand over the bag, it became treasure in their hands.

We’d talk.  Our kids playing together on the sidewalk, as people continued to drop coins on the cloth she’d laid out.

“I thought he’d marry me, but when I got pregnant, he told me to leave.  I didn’t have any sense.”

She may not have had any sense…she certainly did not have an education…she did not have what we westerners would call “self esteem”…or she would have demanded so much more…a marriage contract to protect her and her kids, for one.

But women make poor choices every day, and pay the consequences.  Single moms raising babies all over the world, God bless them all.

What she does have is patience, and strength, more of these virtues than I can even fathom.

I wanted to help.  She said she was managing, surviving.  How about school?  I asked.  That would be nice, she said.  So we made an agreement, she would find a school for Shayma, I would pay for it (technically, my hubby would pay, since he’s the one with the job around here, but you know, what’s mine is yours, and all that).

Shayma was ecstatic about her new school (which cost 100 dhs, or about 15 dollars a month).  She treasured her pens and notebooks.  She learned her alphabet, in Arabic and French.  I didn’t see much of her anymore, she no longer accompanied her mom and baby sister on all day begging rounds.  Her mom was happy, she did not want Shayma to grow up learning to beg.  She wanted more for her girls.

Eventually, Shayma started 1st grade in public school.  It was free so I no longer paid the monthly school fees.

One day, Shayma’s mom and her little sister came by.  Shayma’s mom (ok, I honestly don’t know her name, since she always refers to herself as Shayma’s mom, and we don’t exactly have much need to call each other by our first names), so, Shayma’s mom was dressed “normally” in a nice jellaba.  Her outward appearance was strikingly different, in fact the whole way she carried herself was different.  She was not hunched and diminutive, trying to disappear.  She stood up straight, with a beaming smile on her face.

“What happened?”  I asked.

“I got a job,” she said,  ”at a cafe, I make msemen”.  (msemen is a type of fried bread served in many cafes)

“Bessehha!” I gushed.  Then I pressed her for details, how many hours did she work, how much did she make, and how did the girls manage.

She obliged me with replies to all my nosy queries.  She worked 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, and she made 50 dirhams a day (about 6 dollars a day).  She left her youngest daughter, now about 4 years old, with a babysitter, whom she paid 300 dirhams a month (36 dollars), out of which the babysitter paid for a school, and would take her and bring her back, and basically keep her until her mom came home.

She was so happy and proud of herself.  I was so surprised and excited.  And I do believe her girls will fair better through EDUCATION.  It’s such a life-changer.  Oh it’s such a key to understanding the world.  I believe in it so strongly.  I am all for empowering girls and women with an education.  Knowing how to read and write, knowing enough about their bodies to make good choices, these things we take for granted can have such a profound and empowering impact on their lives. Yes, hope is alive in Morocco, and it’s called education.

Before we parted I snapped this photo of her and Khadija:

Scarlet drops of blood…

…fall on the counter near me, and are hastily mopped up by a blue and white checkered rag.  I look up as the man brings the rag back to the gash above his eye.

“I need stitches,” he says quietly, almost apologetically.

We are filling out admittance paperwork at Hopital Ibn Tofail, the public hospital of Marrakesh.  It is 1 pm.

Be assertive, but not too pushy or they won’t deal with you, I remind myself.  I stand up as tall as I can, try to give off an air of competence, of someone who is educated, of someone who is upper-middle class.  Someone who deserves, not special treatment, but treatment.

I am not here for myself, but for Aisha, a 70 year old berber woman.  Aisha has been having intense abdominal pain, fever and a sever headache.  She has barely eaten anything for the last 20 days.  Now she is moaning quietly in pain.

“All I can say is that she must absolutely be seen by a surgeon.  A surgeon must observe her over a period of 24 hours to see if she needs to operated on.  Go to the Hopital ibn Tofail, don’t let them send you away.  She must stay there!”  These were the directives given to us earlier by the private Dutch doctor.  So we are here, Aisha, her two grown children, and myself, at the Emergency Room.

Now I am looking for a wheel chair, because Aisha is too weak to walk unassisted.  A guy in blue scrubs offers me this: “Just look around and grab the first chair you see”.  So that’s what we do.

We walk past a row of 5 tiny rooms, each one with 2 patients, they are labeled, oddly enough, in English, Box 1 through Box 5.  We are admitted to the Salle de consultation.  The young doctor and I manage to hoist Aisha up on to a worn looking bed.  There are reddish drops on the floor.  The doctor starts to push on Aisha’s stomach, everywhere he touches, she yells with pain.

“Where did the pain start?” He asks.

“Everywhere hurts,” is all she can reply.  The pain seems to be stronger in the lower right quadrant, but it’s hard to tell.

I speak to the doctor quickly, in French medical terminology.  I suppose I’m trying to get him to one-up me, to impress me by showing me that he knows what he’s doing.  Please do your job.

Now another doctor is examining her, again he is pressing on her stomach, “How about here?” he asks.  ”Kulshi kai darni” she says, everything hurts.

The doctors whisper to each other, does she have a temperature? …I don’t know, we don’t have a thermometer…send her for an ultrasound, we need a diagnosis. It’s now 2 p.m., I leave for work, with the promise that I will be back at 5.  As I’m leaving, a young man walks in, clutching his ribs as blood trickles down, a dazed smirk on his face.  Through his open shirt, 2 old scars, each over a foot long, slash across his torso .  Thanks drunk guy who got in a fight, for using up what little resources we have.

(a photo of the hospital that I got from their website.  I was not in photography mode for sure)

When I return at 5 Aisha still has not had the ultrasound.  She also has not eaten anything since 6 a.m., since she left her bled in Tamellalt, an hour outside of town.  She has no appetite and will only eat semolina porridge, which we don’t happen to have.  Yet she is so incredibly patient.  She continues to  moan quietly as the spasms of pain come and go.

The man who needed stitches got them, but without anesthetic.  The hospital does not provide it, and he could not afford to buy it.

The doctors wander around aimlessly, they don’t seem to have a very clear procedure, I try to catch their eye again, by looking somewhat important.  The skinny foreign doctor who is now with us calls in a female doctor.  ”We can’t keep seeing the same patients twice!” she snaps at him, “Take her to get the ultrasound”. Thank you, you’re competent!

Finally one of the top doctors addresses me.

“What do you need?”

“We need an ultrasound.”

He barks some orders to some of the brancardiers, the guys in pale blue scrubs who seem to disappear for hours on end, and things get moving.

I go back to Box 1, where Aisha is.  There is a little girl on the other bed, her eyes are closed as if asleep, but her hands flutter up every now and then.  She is the same age as my own baby, about 2 and a half.

“What happened?” I ask her mom.  They are from the country too.

“She fell”.  I feel tears welling up and an immense sadness hits me.  I notice the scrapes on her face.  Thoughts fly through my mind, brain damage…please God no.

But I stoically say “She’ll be ok, kids fall, that’s what they do.  Insha Allah la bas.”   No harm.  I wish that by saying it, it could be true.

I never find out what happened to her.

Aisha is in the ultrasound room for an hour.  We are told that the ultrasound shows nothing abnormal.

So they decide to do a blood test.  Which sounds simple enough, but actually involves running across town to the Military Hospital to get the tubes, running back with them, taking the blood samples and returning them to the Military Hospital to be analyzed.  They also give no indication towards a diagnosis.

In the end,  Aisha and her family return home, exhausted from another fruitless day of trying to find relief from the constant pain.  I am once again left with a feeling of utter helplessness.  She is after all, poor, old and uneducated, unimposing, undemanding and patient.  She has neither money, nor is she connected to people in high places.  She is at the mercy of this dinosaur of a medical system.  For all my good intentions and efforts, I’ve done nothing to alleviate her pain.

A few days later, Aisha’s family take her to a doctor who is known to diagnose using only two methods, x-ray, and his intuitive touch.  Apparently, he can feel the sickness by placing his hands on the patient’s body.   He looks at the big stack of prescriptions and procedures that Aisha has had done.  He feels her stomach.  Right away he says “These doctors have gone looking for complicated answers and left the most obvious.  She has Typhoid fever.  I wish you would have not let her get this bad”.

He prescribes some medicine.  Aisha takes them and has a much-needed pain-free night’s sleep for the first time in 3 weeks! Alhamdulillah, all praise is God’s!

Anyone who’s been in pain knows what a miracle the right medicine can be.  I pray that Aisha and all those who are poor and forgotten…whose lives we seem to think are worth less than our own…who bear pain with silent, beautiful patience…I pray that they be granted those spiritual states that can only be attained through suffering… and I pray that they find merciful relief and healing.

Dear Mr. Joshua David Stein, of New York magazine:

I just came across your recent article entitled “Get scrubbed in Marrakesh”.  I agree with you that getting scrubbed at the hammam is one of the best Moroccan experiences possible.

I saw the names of the high end Hammam’s that you recommend, La Mamounia, and Spa something or other…even if I had 100 dollars burning a hole in my pocket (I don’t, believe me) I would never, ever give it to one of these luxury so-called hammams.  As people on the streets of Marrakesh struggle on a daily basis to eat and feed their families, I could not justify spending that much on a scrub.  No amount of spoiling or pampering will fill the yearning in our souls, but a little generosity might.  I’m just saying.

Then I saw that you did offer an alternative hammam, for those who do not wish to throw their money away by the fistful.  Alas though, I cringed when I read that it was Hammam Dar el Basha.

Mr. Stein, I must posit that you did not actually enter the Hammam Dar el Basha.  Had you done so, I doubt you would have enjoyed the experience, much less endorse it in a widely read magazine.

The Hammam Dar el Basha has long been featured as a “local hammam” in The Rough Guide, a recommendation which quite frankly baffles me.

I lived around the corner from said Hammam for several years, and frequented it on the rare occasion.  I always found it dark, crowded, and gross.

For those who have never been to the hammam, here is a brief summary of the proceedings:

You enter one of three rooms, each successively hotter than the previous, and find a corner to lay your mat.  Then you grab your buckets and wait in line at the hot/cold spigots.  Once you have filled up 3 buckets you return to your mat and commence the hammam routine: hot water, black soap, rinse, then scrub like mad till rolls of your actual epidermis start to peel off like soggy gray worms.  These you rinse off.

Now if you were a regular, savvy hammam goer, you would have NOT placed yourself in the flowing current of your neighbor’s rinse water, which is meandering towards the central drain.  In the hammam, as in real estate, location is everything.  That’s why the good spots, all along the wall, were already taken when your unsuspecting self got there.  If you are the newbie, you just sit any old where, including in the doorway (too drafty), in front of the spigots (you’ll get bumped a lot) or in the awful effluence of rinse water.

Now that is how it happens most hammams.  So why am I picking on Dar el Basha in particular?  Well, for one, it’s a relic, and not in a good way.  It’s decrepit, and compared to the newer sparklier hammams, it’s grimy and forsaken.  Also, the drains seem to get clogged regularly, and that is not pleasant, not one bit.

Now, I’m probably not as germ-phobic as most westerners, but even I cringe at the thought of sitting in water that contains dead skin cells from 20 different strangers.   I don’t care how much “local flavor” you want, or how tight a budget you are on, do not go to Hammam Dar el Basha.

Despair not however, there is a superlative choice.  If you will only listen, I will tell you about Marrakesh’s best kept secret.  It’s a wonderful little hammam tucked away on an quiet little street in the Ain Mezouar neighborhood (that’s near Menara gardens).  It’s called Hammam es Salama (the bath of peace?).  But that’s a pretty common name for hammams in Marrakesh, so that’s not much help.

So, to get there, you ask a taxi driver to take you to Hammam es Salam in Ain Mezouar.  A towering heap of chopped up olive trees marks the entrance, the wood is used to heat the hammams (which apparently poses a big ecological problem in Morocco).

There you will be treated like a queen (or king, but I wouldn’t know).  The hammam is very tastefully decorated.  It is rarely crowded and the clientele is varied, mostly local but enough foreigners.   I especially like the walls done in tadellakt, marble counters, your own personal hot and cold faucets, a marble stool and large marble slabs to lay on while you get scrubbed (they keep you up out of the rinse water), the reassuring smell of disinfectant, a professional staff of jolly ladies, and a cozy dressing room with a fireplace to lounge in when you are done.  You can’t get a better deal in Marrakesh, a scrub only costs 60 dirhams (8 dollars), or do it yourself for half that price.

Mr Stein, I thank you for your article, it provided the impetus to set things straight once and for all regarding the best local hammam in Marrakesh.

Hammam es Salam in Ain Mezouar. Ladies get the whole week: Monday through Saturday 8am to 10pm.  For men it’s only Sunday 8am to 10pm.  Starting at 30 dirhams (3 euros, 4 dollars).