tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27680328118867449482024-03-05T18:39:19.198-05:00And the Kitchen Sink TooThe elusive allure of Morocco and North Africa, as seen by one Mr. Tar. The words below uniquely reflect the thoughts of Mr. Tar and in no way are meant to represent those of Peace Corps.Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-80236244580198567272007-07-28T20:53:00.001-05:002008-11-13T10:32:57.551-05:00Morocco, in black and white 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBVeXDot-h3I9te1NJMhWMRrakCttuEAdqKB0C6EPaEkvUrfEjgXFgJ_JRt38hGD6lGM1_bteg9Xv5fJmWMwLj1WWbkpV_MrA7nz2YOULq4mWH_7h1lfA2WCghvdjAdJuTq8MrpghteVb/s1600-h/Relaxing+in+tazarine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBVeXDot-h3I9te1NJMhWMRrakCttuEAdqKB0C6EPaEkvUrfEjgXFgJ_JRt38hGD6lGM1_bteg9Xv5fJmWMwLj1WWbkpV_MrA7nz2YOULq4mWH_7h1lfA2WCghvdjAdJuTq8MrpghteVb/s400/Relaxing+in+tazarine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092431507663642002" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8_FYcDmTHMoDmWuy75_VjbhYXFKMM7AaJv2VHRVxI1wIzQ3WK6emTXRHydQA_BLpxXMLVBAbe4YbiD7GB8gddu15IPsq4BhmabBF2HV5f7GiwS31WUbcto1qSRS8KGO6eF9wkaQyj0NW/s1600-h/two+Qelaat+boys+and+concerned+father.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRd0IHc9ROxGDKwKYBTLS3-AcVoDJv7z5ETE1LAGfrnIT192Pa2u9ECOakKv4gRKS9JObR0ONrkqb4lyNacXRssdxcbRjFpDums0Bdembwpphu_wRuZowwjqhZKgMzCYbt45uITDX74Znc/s400/sorting+out+saplings.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092432220628213170" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHndA7lD2Uot0eIGdhXT0jGnRT08XjyYvYtOOVd8F_Z_WUjVQxvd9mxiNjWnjcXg16QCD5JxJHKLvkGOVeXdDfCjZl5LmciYrXlUZydda7Z0scaJlNcGxkjlhzG6h2RejR-OXY6D1jE4I/s1600-h/Said+Abou+and+Hamzah.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHndA7lD2Uot0eIGdhXT0jGnRT08XjyYvYtOOVd8F_Z_WUjVQxvd9mxiNjWnjcXg16QCD5JxJHKLvkGOVeXdDfCjZl5LmciYrXlUZydda7Z0scaJlNcGxkjlhzG6h2RejR-OXY6D1jE4I/s400/Said+Abou+and+Hamzah.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092431950045273506" /></a>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-90663947740579301232007-07-28T20:28:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:32:58.751-05:00Morocco, in black and white<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMunvxDPzRBo0-P__FNnSU7zb06JPYEsBaDcYjSRGQKICYfbUdBwd9pQVHN2m-8RQFUl09OOXLYjjZIa1kfEE7QAurELdx6X5CJsWDx92XUapUsyNUdbh_5k2_GJzFLDNcEr6wtZ2BnWp/s1600-h/Laundry+by+the+river.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMunvxDPzRBo0-P__FNnSU7zb06JPYEsBaDcYjSRGQKICYfbUdBwd9pQVHN2m-8RQFUl09OOXLYjjZIa1kfEE7QAurELdx6X5CJsWDx92XUapUsyNUdbh_5k2_GJzFLDNcEr6wtZ2BnWp/s400/Laundry+by+the+river.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092428823309081986" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFtac3P0e7EUYNNT7g5TEh5fsACTM-hMlYSXK4plfGgTsnBRzOtghWOqBICfNgGlBqDneCbWQ-04sDlFJ_R8lom9znTGrjB7RpQEjEOCjKvqo7bhmF5ssBhThxmfIu2xL9IIrlffsNgSV/s1600-h/Improvised+wall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFtac3P0e7EUYNNT7g5TEh5fsACTM-hMlYSXK4plfGgTsnBRzOtghWOqBICfNgGlBqDneCbWQ-04sDlFJ_R8lom9znTGrjB7RpQEjEOCjKvqo7bhmF5ssBhThxmfIu2xL9IIrlffsNgSV/s400/Improvised+wall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092428514071436658" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LE-MvLtx0xJYT_JryngkV2EvGlZXMXxJWTT1-6hwh0VLLx5s3KDzeWB4Id5Ci5VPUiYUZAlESXI8zheNqcx603zhKO1jOFVyjnviIEn7xnb9FAH0i61DdyJNzwF6RZZEL-ovGJFMA1hG/s1600-h/Hanging+with+the+pups.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LE-MvLtx0xJYT_JryngkV2EvGlZXMXxJWTT1-6hwh0VLLx5s3KDzeWB4Id5Ci5VPUiYUZAlESXI8zheNqcx603zhKO1jOFVyjnviIEn7xnb9FAH0i61DdyJNzwF6RZZEL-ovGJFMA1hG/s400/Hanging+with+the+pups.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092428080279739746" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYqdN0wyLtXKAA6yksY8cI4UdQWYVD7dXpSvNX-CVIwS7TImk7GkGdEIFGx6-dlfUdYPJRd-z9TnquMaFsF154wnMRwLrSAAPWRsIFzWqVYMwgsB8_CyolM2vMC67K6DZ4aC_6NIrIpZW/s1600-h/Hanging+out+in+tazzarine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYqdN0wyLtXKAA6yksY8cI4UdQWYVD7dXpSvNX-CVIwS7TImk7GkGdEIFGx6-dlfUdYPJRd-z9TnquMaFsF154wnMRwLrSAAPWRsIFzWqVYMwgsB8_CyolM2vMC67K6DZ4aC_6NIrIpZW/s400/Hanging+out+in+tazzarine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092427715207519570" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukoITpnjGkIul6MFn9BB_uImK0YNgqw6c3Es7q8pfE7ljGTRBHXAuJZ6B_qWNcy6SlGxOvCGxmpD8oo2byqmSoX983k_UhPffQaIpOCHlJ0LI2nZ-9oPNBQ9RdWU-rID5mcIEaGoOn4VY/s1600-h/Crowd+of+tazzarine+kids.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukoITpnjGkIul6MFn9BB_uImK0YNgqw6c3Es7q8pfE7ljGTRBHXAuJZ6B_qWNcy6SlGxOvCGxmpD8oo2byqmSoX983k_UhPffQaIpOCHlJ0LI2nZ-9oPNBQ9RdWU-rID5mcIEaGoOn4VY/s400/Crowd+of+tazzarine+kids.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092426035875306818" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHoyuPg9nVuHfEHfEXGEIQG7vuo2hNKgYettZP8Jzp-NFbr1GVbxyWjNqGX4VhmBsSZJVfEk4K6c8RZtZyn2BAqK0HF76AYXim5Z2wKG1U12NnC6y7Y5NmVyInWAy6yW4oHNnnXDjVq12D/s1600-h/Baking+bread+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHoyuPg9nVuHfEHfEXGEIQG7vuo2hNKgYettZP8Jzp-NFbr1GVbxyWjNqGX4VhmBsSZJVfEk4K6c8RZtZyn2BAqK0HF76AYXim5Z2wKG1U12NnC6y7Y5NmVyInWAy6yW4oHNnnXDjVq12D/s400/Baking+bread+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092425675098053938" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZdX_boPiMFcTPnXFgVZ64pqtzelMOZ9nUfuOiJjah7cdUhUPfeMwg1aCpURnNwAQX43fxqXOBFXEdk05qdAWcpPjCipL6T2LQqhlSFqj-q0mrNVhNqYC3yusFXQ-CNGP5MVTprBvIxNI/s1600-h/Arrival+of+forestry+trees.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZdX_boPiMFcTPnXFgVZ64pqtzelMOZ9nUfuOiJjah7cdUhUPfeMwg1aCpURnNwAQX43fxqXOBFXEdk05qdAWcpPjCipL6T2LQqhlSFqj-q0mrNVhNqYC3yusFXQ-CNGP5MVTprBvIxNI/s400/Arrival+of+forestry+trees.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092425043737861410" /></a>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-56144197184254039462007-05-31T10:04:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:32:58.811-05:00Fait accompli<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIn8KCP3cb-cDRwUm0LUueN1-aeO-N_ajXtZBbx3WrTAdERK8hxtWeQmuz2kkYEql4MpbD5koQK89_jXYrcz3uDch8hLxoFuIAN6BDuCTf8xHmyxVymL-jT-wCkLNtdUWlJx47UJ80A0k6/s1600-h/Mike+and+Abou+Kids.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIn8KCP3cb-cDRwUm0LUueN1-aeO-N_ajXtZBbx3WrTAdERK8hxtWeQmuz2kkYEql4MpbD5koQK89_jXYrcz3uDch8hLxoFuIAN6BDuCTf8xHmyxVymL-jT-wCkLNtdUWlJx47UJ80A0k6/s320/Mike+and+Abou+Kids.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092434625809899010" /></a><br />Just two hours ago I passed in a paper to one of the administrativepersonnel at headquarters signifying the complete and definitiveclosure of my service as a Peace Corps volunteer. In 90 minutes we will all participate in a group signing out of the volunteer log, using an aforementioned "cachet" of blog entries past. The symbolism of this book signing and the revelry to follow should be aptly climactic, especially since I will be rising early tomorrow morning toleave the African continent.<br /><br />By signing out of the volunteer register, I add one letter to myacronym. To date, I have been able to easily identify myself as a PCV, or Peace Corps Volunteer. Precisely how to define that acronym has often beguiled me, as I attempted on numerous occasions to describe the <em>raison d'etre</em> of my work to both Moroccans and passing foreigners. Ironically enough, when I add a new letter to my title, R for"returned", the definition may prove less perplexing and certainly more enduring.<br /><br />Similar to the odd instance of encountering someone who has also worked at the South Pole, I hope that I will always be touched by asense of connection between RPCV's that I am bound to meet throughout the rest of my life. It is a connection that I have felt many times already while living here and perhaps will grow increasingly fond of attempting to describe those ineffable aspects of the Peace Corps experience. There are still, after all, many volunteers in my own host country who worked during coinciding periods that I have never met and whose living and working experiences I would be challenged to understand. Therefore, what will I think in some distant future when I go to a party and run into someone who was a Micronesian volunteer in the early 80's or Uruguayan volunteer from 2010-2012? I really can't predict, but I hope that I will recall that we had both shared a common drive to work with and understand a different culture and that there are subtle and vast shifts in our outlook that were engendered as a result. I also hope that while listening to their tales I will recall my own dusty roads and endearing salutations when I try to visualize their own communities and experiences.<br /><br />I hope that I was able to give all of you a glimpse of this world through the stories I wrote and pictures I took while serving as a PCV. Embarking on my new life and title of RPCV, this role will not cease, albeit using different methods of retelling the stories and incorporating an ever-increasing degree of hindsight. I am also fairly nervous about returning to that world that now seems alien. I apologize as I have missed weddings, birthdays, births, parties, and reunions in the 27 months that have past but I do not regret the distance. It was simply something that I felt I had to do.Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-2891705502802336332007-03-13T13:23:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:32:58.975-05:00Could I have that in writing, please?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMOjljRyQSA2a0JSw27EUPMWnFoG34lIVTIE9vSbvX78v9QKKMb2vVrXBIzoy1nEw0lvTWBAEv-jqCQPZvumfmnDQSTIQQa3XvzC0s_y826BcSIg2RO-4J5af4nd2mhAG6YRT0Ifs3f0k/s1600-h/072_10.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041477373313411858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMOjljRyQSA2a0JSw27EUPMWnFoG34lIVTIE9vSbvX78v9QKKMb2vVrXBIzoy1nEw0lvTWBAEv-jqCQPZvumfmnDQSTIQQa3XvzC0s_y826BcSIg2RO-4J5af4nd2mhAG6YRT0Ifs3f0k/s320/072_10.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">March 13, 2007</span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">I recently returned from a trip to Paris. After working and living in Morocco for 23 months, I was amazed by the efficiency and orderliness combined with aesthetics in everything around me. The French have perfected the art of being French. But in addition, it must be noted that over two centuries of torpid administration, the French have absolutely perfected the bureaucratic system. Every government worker knows precisely his place and job description, who he can condescend to and who can condescend to him, and who the next pencil pusher is to shuffle his papers to. And it is precisely the system of government that the French were happy to instate in their North African colonies. The bureaucrat to citizen ratio in Morocco was 24 times higher than what the British utilized in one of their own cumbersome, shameful colonial playgrounds, India. But the days of colonialism are, in all practical terms, finished. So what happens when you put in place this same rigid, authoritarian system of domestic governance without the parallel structure of informed personnel and efficient physical infrastructure? You guessed it: Morocco. Even after Independence in 1956, the returned king Mohamed V must have been green with envy at the wonderfully hierarchical system that France used since he retained basically all elements of the top-heavy government. Save one important change: his complete and unequivocal authority. The result is what the Moroccans and the world’s few remaining kingdoms like to call a “constitutional monarchy” or as I prefer to call it – a “royal bureaucracy”.<br /><br />The first task that all volunteers must accomplish when beginning their service is obtaining a carte de séjour, a temporary national identification card for foreigners. The process serves also as a Peace Corps volunteer’s introduction to disheveled bureaucracy. For some reason, however, national identity cards for country bumpkins like myself are handled by your local gendarmes’ office. Gendarme, like all Moroccan bureaucratic terminology, comes from the French, meaning “armed men (gens d’armes)”. The term is centuries old, its meaning changing to reflect the mode of transportation used to maintain law and order in the hinterlands of French territories from Bourbon to Brazzaville. From the mounted policemen of yore to Jeep-cruising officers of today, they are the ubiquitous hand of the centralized bureaucracy for a much decentralized population. If you saw the grey-suited jolly fellows in the movie Babel, you have seen them protecting and serving.<br /><br />I walked into the gendarmes’ modest office on a warm June morning. It consisted of an empty waiting-room/paper-pushing-terminal and several other offices kept well out of sight. There were no other civilians waiting, but a diminutive officer was seated at said terminal – a school boy’s wooden chair and folding desk – methodically stabbing his index fingers into the keyboard of a circa-1940’s typewriter, like talons into flesh. Every fifteen seconds or twenty letters, which ever came first, he thrust a filter-less dark tobacco Casa cigarette in between his yellow teeth, cocked his head back to exhale and with equal aggressiveness, extricated it from his mouth and resumed typing. His was a contrived masculinity akin to crushing beer cans on your forehead. For about thirty-five minutes I sat in very awkward silence waiting to be acknowledged but he averted his eyes from those two central tasks. It was then that the sheriff walked out, an obtuse man of small stature (for a policeman) with a penchant for mumbling in several languages at a time in between periodic moments of spirited arm-waiving oration and yelling at subordinates. After our greeting we began the two hour process of filling out a form with essential information, such as my grandfather’s birth place and father’s place of secondary study.<br />Procuring a national identification card, he told me, also requires a battery of supporting documents in duplicate. Specifics were not an option. I asked the officer, “How many pictures do I need to get my card?”<br />His eyes lit up and he proclaimed, throwing his arms into the air, “A bunch!!”<br />“How many is that?”<br />“Tons!”<br />“Could you give me a number, please?”<br />“I don’t know! 12 maybe, or 15, just bring a lot!”<br /><br />All of this effort was eventually requited when I returned several days later with 16 photos, ten copies each of four different documents, an official stamp and three more hours of time to kill. It seemed they had recently acquired a PC and were eager to see what it was capable of. Even with the synergistic effect of five officers huddled around the new office computer it took at least 45 minutes to have my form typed from the handwritten copy – a paragraph of approximately eight lines in length. The gaggle of budding technical writers spent the better part of an hour passing around and dictating from the sheet, arguing about how many spaces to leave between words (one usually will do but you can leave three or four for dramatic effect) and the exact spelling of “Boston” (precisely why democracy could never succeed in the Middle East). All the while, my heart pounded against my chest, but not because I feared any legal troubles. With five brutes trying to commandeer a keyboard, the image of a near-completed paragraph being obliterated and having to start from scratch gnawed away at my equanimity. It seemed that no one had taught them that you could save files; the title “Document1” at the top of the page taunted me from beginning to end of the transcription.<br /><br />After watching the brute squad discover the joys of printing, it seemed like I was relieved of the royal bureaucracy. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and excused myself, hoping to receive my annual identification card sometime in the next eight months. But two weeks later I received a phone call from a frantic officer demanding that I come at once. He had forgotten to subject me to the most sacred step in the bureaucratic process: validating my documents at the town hall.<br /><br />In the military world, an officer’s credentials are gauged by how much brass adorns his jacket. But in Morocco, a bureaucrat is judged by how many rubber stamps he has in his/her desk. Any bureaucrat worth his salt has at least two (note to reader, how many rubber stamps do you have at your behest?). These stamps or cachets are the bane of every Peace Corps Morocco volunteer’s experience. Any official document (identification card documents, travel permission, vacation forms, money transfers, etc.) is considered completely invalid, naked, null, void, even offensive, until it has been adorned by several cachets. Government workers or fonctionnaires are meticulously trained like Pavlov’s dogs to react solely to the awesome power of a rubber stamp. Produce an official document at a government office that does not feature the correct number of red stamp marks, and your fonctionnaire will immediately become catatonic, unable to lift a pen, move his chair or even speak until you return with a barrage of red circles and rectangles.<br /><br />The well-trained Moroccan bureaucrats are absolutely dumbfounded that Peace Corps and their volunteers do not have their own stamps. To them, all of our dossiers carry as much value as Monopoly money. Once, while having a friendly conversation with the local hospital director, I asked him for his contact information. He grinned from ear to ear and reached into his desk. Was it to give me his business card? No, he stamped my notebook; that particular stamp contained his cell number and address. You could say that was his “business casual stamp”.<br /><br />It would not be honest commentary if I did not acknowledge the apparent benefits of bureaucracy, and they do exist. If you ever become entrenched in this sordid, leaky, bloated system of governance, make bureaucracy work for you! I never have and never will pay anyone off to get a service done. However, I am willing to exploit the fact that ordinary Moroccans are bred to cower in the face of authority in its many shapes and forms. Even the most peripheral functionaries will act in haste to follow through with the orders of a superior. Once, when hosting a long-anticipated and well coordinated event at the local Youth House, we arrived on the first morning to find the doors locked. An urgent call from one of my Moroccan colleagues, Tariq, came in, “Good morning. We have a little problem with the custodian. He doesn’t want to work this week so we can’t get in.” I was enraged by this, especially since the custodian sat in on our meetings to help us develop the schedule. Tariq suggested a solution: go to the mayor’s office with a letter of request, massage his sense of self-importance until he rubber stamps our letter and call up our errant custodian with an ultimatum. Upon receiving our call, he knew just what to do. </span></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-67805330435717675412007-03-08T14:04:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:01.598-05:00Morocco, in images 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwlthyphenhyphenv3LTroQhHQNobJWgsR_FOBbZmoaoQ68MnbcZT8xC3wsC1yCPXYX8dp3ZgANadk6FACdrmD4B4LrzZ2hsTkR1qUdoQVK1gZEs-vb-vPYtDYu5zV_VjfxYHnEgm85j9YCgav7uOX-u/s1600-h/052_17.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5039636741876662978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwlthyphenhyphenv3LTroQhHQNobJWgsR_FOBbZmoaoQ68MnbcZT8xC3wsC1yCPXYX8dp3ZgANadk6FACdrmD4B4LrzZ2hsTkR1qUdoQVK1gZEs-vb-vPYtDYu5zV_VjfxYHnEgm85j9YCgav7uOX-u/s400/052_17.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVW7ZVPVlWxHZVWo8ps__S2l4b9gkYjh_lWGPjLkNl63YFhiSJjK6sFq43Utc-z4lDcyzf9t1E6XDUtupH8QGcsf1tYWa0qXJXeWcZerm-gaxH7O2g6myE94N0QjcaDFTIK0QVdAAPJk7W/s1600-h/076_14.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5039636591552807602" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ4Xq9IDb7ntcYmycxWxXckVgFVZzUEvHbpxYW_sN3eJHsLHLh9-b3y7T_MomphEUGXEnMNYomAkjHXVEp2j9qQA7cDAt4GucyohFdy2ninrJBLsArmB3ZfPETLXuPOl3EcrPUbk1VYCjC/s400/Egypt0008.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-44891779855955400842007-01-09T06:18:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:08.831-05:00Morocco, in images 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10Eot_97xlcYUIbvk-Qmcnp6M5fPkZ6LbmzCyV5fvNsifVLKOzchVuIBZQ6ectdGO0n2fOK8IZ5MaCvYTQh8w_uP90U9QXwTZTHNYFL16DP_5_hifXPfAEyR0DO9meR1b2IfYPYVnnWoL/s1600-h/window.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017991433167434786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10Eot_97xlcYUIbvk-Qmcnp6M5fPkZ6LbmzCyV5fvNsifVLKOzchVuIBZQ6ectdGO0n2fOK8IZ5MaCvYTQh8w_uP90U9QXwTZTHNYFL16DP_5_hifXPfAEyR0DO9meR1b2IfYPYVnnWoL/s400/window.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-h2Z6WTiLJZt9ftYBdCtMDqG_QVg5-SrB_4mrYXRAmknQf50BvNA2lo7mfEyorPH9leGE_edniJftf3_9rHESTVdgntiFfykxklobgi9n1H5ZE6F7L7D19hRUyUxXYtzwrglP8nqeG6hS/s1600-h/tools.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017991287138546706" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUoakztMlzqHCOaTpkjYqJhBbOlexLThJxHWpzBjA4EYL30aA3o2Mx-fET4scOU5M-YdACgA1Vica3AXJhZ3xfNMOGN8-lOPnqgavTc-kFbcTHvy3Lk5Nty3fLHvRzz5uvyPuoXKDx8L4/s400/022_22.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-15555643664035424142007-01-08T07:52:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:14.569-05:00Morocco, in images 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPf0sv9YGgph44AK1GPXc9MlCOqAVVheQPqSry-IM3-Ea135eSadZOEKXwW6ouTCWhN_Ynj3ePlxIQDXIWmBgzgZEBVvpqKq4NOU3_nAH_LkE994-Sw33dcxtGHnCHDp3M5nYleBweidv3/s1600-h/018_18.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017647011150033474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPf0sv9YGgph44AK1GPXc9MlCOqAVVheQPqSry-IM3-Ea135eSadZOEKXwW6ouTCWhN_Ynj3ePlxIQDXIWmBgzgZEBVvpqKq4NOU3_nAH_LkE994-Sw33dcxtGHnCHDp3M5nYleBweidv3/s400/018_18.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlXu9qagmnGJo0_O1o5A5l_nML9N7p2wRUZikkuJu9Me6KtMGPnN-VfS0uGVj5-bJDe51FVP_xFJK2ace_pOLaJuDlIh6LmfihvjNq6Frf0z4BmIufCOQ4py15GNXgmxf4J6M9Ma6NOdP/s1600-h/015_20.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017646826466439730" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6RE6ENlYtqwI4NmQzTLklRFHfM4Xqxil-W5L11ZAO_MbQIo4JYElOY0g5FV358XtTOso9S1Nxt-533Mngsu6ZCMoiLCrSUklXxE9gSe7It2CpsL2GmC59rrqiDilJ__GoGgEXWCdc9tj/s400/007_12.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHioBl0Usu1dp1l7CyLzfS696DTIpngDoeZDaLO-sap9NMUaoG-vSkcApNnpXDvsazgYjnLDhYi8IG7bkw6k7NGuNiVhqP5LTx0ePsLqJ0jbscbw3EAzZ57BHcM6rBShRCEuveQ6QvhrUl/s1600-h/004_4.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017643944543383922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHioBl0Usu1dp1l7CyLzfS696DTIpngDoeZDaLO-sap9NMUaoG-vSkcApNnpXDvsazgYjnLDhYi8IG7bkw6k7NGuNiVhqP5LTx0ePsLqJ0jbscbw3EAzZ57BHcM6rBShRCEuveQ6QvhrUl/s400/004_4.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EMVmpquKVXM1uOO4dTljEhuH0w1U8J7JHtOqk4RVXevW_hyphenhyphenQQ2WYSILcKMXJtLIJFYcSU4cpC6QbjOKpyMhpUgfWRBbaz-SO9g3fK8WvBg9gYAzgETfUuE8hKN0RIxMd957QcaoHM0GD/s1600-h/003_3.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017642432714895714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EMVmpquKVXM1uOO4dTljEhuH0w1U8J7JHtOqk4RVXevW_hyphenhyphenQQ2WYSILcKMXJtLIJFYcSU4cpC6QbjOKpyMhpUgfWRBbaz-SO9g3fK8WvBg9gYAzgETfUuE8hKN0RIxMd957QcaoHM0GD/s400/003_3.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoclj6UH4VauY513ZUWxEtRFZ7GX8uc9Ywj-_xy0cBWgb0nEdmT1HANZu2KcvcOpb1E1pi9u7_ojjaz5LehqZNmI6TwGC80JZVYmL6Ahwmk0l3N2ES2wlxUC7UF_C_Mee0CsbDoQ24WifY/s1600-h/001_1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017642007513133394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoclj6UH4VauY513ZUWxEtRFZ7GX8uc9Ywj-_xy0cBWgb0nEdmT1HANZu2KcvcOpb1E1pi9u7_ojjaz5LehqZNmI6TwGC80JZVYmL6Ahwmk0l3N2ES2wlxUC7UF_C_Mee0CsbDoQ24WifY/s400/001_1.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-81854967199037007752007-01-06T19:21:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:14.752-05:00A nation of Jalopies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_CT0bBihIxRZPzqUrmTNhtri46-jL-2Lfi6fRiDdDsoxtpcW9EsGMdxA483HwmAsikBb2p_kx4_rkxwQIMAU3pDxVt2jPat7PlSnVzPj77Q-H-DfOhhTBdLpYyKsZ5qDNIDipdmfvSWH-/s1600-h/025_25.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017077751889654066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_CT0bBihIxRZPzqUrmTNhtri46-jL-2Lfi6fRiDdDsoxtpcW9EsGMdxA483HwmAsikBb2p_kx4_rkxwQIMAU3pDxVt2jPat7PlSnVzPj77Q-H-DfOhhTBdLpYyKsZ5qDNIDipdmfvSWH-/s320/025_25.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">January 2007</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">The last time I wrote to all of you the end of Ramadan was rapidly approaching and the Little Feast (<em>L’Eid Sghir</em>) was almost upon us. At present, my fellow volunteers and I are celebrating the Big Feast (<em>L’Eid Kabir</em>), the principal religious holiday of the Muslim calendar, with the greater Moroccan population. This is the holiday where every Muslim household sacrifices a sheep in reverence of the divine intervention made with one of the Qu’ran’s most revered characters. Shamed by an illegitimate son begat by he and his Egyptian slave girl, Abraham was going to remove the blight when God intervened, instructing him to sacrifice a sheep in lieu. Hagar, the slave girl, and her son, Ishmael, fled to Arabia, where Abraham later constructed the shrine at Mecca. Abraham is venerated as the father of all monotheists (though strangely, not considered Jewish by the Qu’ran) and progenitor of the anointed Arab people. He is, in other words, an important dude, and as such, his holiday is the most festive of all. In many ways, it is roughly analogous to Christmas, where everything shuts down, prices on holiday-related goods and services skyrocket, each household emulates Abraham’s sacrifice, and family come flocking (no pun intended) home from all corners of the world to do so. Likewise, similar to Christmas, it is the most emphasized family celebration of the year even though Ramadan (like Easter) carries far more religious significance.<br /><br />For the volunteers, we can spend a good week with our neighbors, getting acquainted with every organ on the sheep anatomy for two principal reasons. First, as Christian bachelors and bachelorettes spending the holiday alone, they pity us and perhaps see it as another opportunity for us to see the light and right of Islam. Another reason we are visiting our neighbors and fellow villagers is because we are… well… grounded. The enlightened administrators of Peace Corps Morocco, once again assuming that we are incapable of thinking for ourselves, have declared that anyone leaving their village during the 12 days before, during and after the holiday will be fired. The rationale on paper is that transportation is too dangerous, but this is a ruse, as are many of the silly policies. In reality, moving oneself from point A to point B anywhere in the developing world at any time of year is never a good idea.<br /><br />Take the other day, for instance. I took a taxi ride home, though it may not be the kind of taxi that you are imagining. In a broken down Jalopy of a station wagon, roughly the size of a Subaru Outback, sat 11 men (10 Berbers and your intrepid correspondent) packed tightly enough to bleed into each other’s wounds. Two guys sat in the driver’s seat and took turns steering, and sometimes agreed that two drivers operating the vehicle in tandem was far safer. On the roof there were two full grain sacs, several duffel bags and a bundle of hay, on top of which three more blokes laid down, clutching firmly to a rickety aluminum rack as we drove a serpentine mountain pass road. It looked more like a circa-1955 fraternity stunt than a viable mode of transport. But I was not concerned – anything with four wheels and a motor is a joy ride these days – and after two years of Morocco, I was not particularly phased either. Nor was I disquieted by the sound of the undercarriage moaning like the bow of a pilgrim’s ship navigating gale force winds. I was simply grateful that the Berber next to me knew to cough into his hands rather than share his delightful affliction with us all.<br /><br />The station wagon, or “bush taxi” as former PC volunteer Fran Linn calls them, is actually the anomaly. The majority of volunteers living in remote areas share the transit experience. No, I am not talking about BART, or any other pioneering rural subway system. I am referring to a decrepit mini-van, van or bus that is most likely unlicensed and insured to carry a single person. So, they carry 35 instead.<br /><br />I am still amazed by the extreme urgency with which the transits and all of its passengers will leave the stand on a sweltering summer day. A dozen Moroccans will languish for hours under the aluminum awning, drinking pot after pot of tea and playing cards. Then at a moment’s notice, the driver will come sprinting out of an alleyway, jump into the front seat, blaring the horn and preparing for battle. Like a crew of drunken, bellicose firemen, 29 men, 5 women and I go lunging for the rear and side entrance, bickering over who claimed whose seat and who will have to stand on grain sacks in the back or will be left clinging to the rear door ladder for the 130 kilometer trip (fortunately, I get dropped off after only one third of that journey). Despite the transit’s carrying capacity of 15, this cacophonous mélange settles itself with surprising efficiency and we are off in about four minutes, invariably with at least one adolescent male sprinting after the departing vehicle. The van will travel 75 feet and then be left to idle, motor running, for 10 minutes, with all doors closed (windows are often sealed shut too since many Moroccans believe that mischievous spirits and the common cold attack by means of a draft). Wiping sweat from my forehead, I peer out the window to see five Berber men arguing about the best way to hoist two sheep and a spare tire to the roof. Once this is accomplished, the van inches forward, just to the middle of an intersection, and then stops again. A toothless man inside argues with a toothless man outside while five vehicles behind us start to lay on their horns. After 4 minutes of friendly fire, the van may actually leave the city, stopping only one more time to pay off the local authorities.<br /><br />Then there is the camion. I had never heard of the automotive company “Bedford” before arriving in Morocco, but the name will be forever burned into my memory. At some unspecified point in modern Moroccan history, the government apparently struck a deal with the company to import a mind-bogglingly large fleet of Bedford clones. It must have been a one-shot deal, as every single camion in the kingdom is a facsimile of the group, all of which exhibit the same level of wear and tear, rock side-to-side disconcertingly as they navigate the pock-marked roads, and adorn the same sexy, flaking maroon paint job on the cab. The front end resembles an F350 on stilts and it tugs behind it a hollow steel cage whose sides are lashed together by chains. The rear compartment is sometimes partitioned into two levels, to carry a wide gamut of imprudently stacked goods: sheep, grain sacs, cattle, lambs in burlap sacks, Berbers, etc. I cannot imagine any greater health hazard than passing a fully loaded Bedford descending a mountain pass during the wheat harvest. To get a sense of their perilously high center of gravity, picture a willowy Kenyan girl carrying a day’s worth of water on her head, running down a hill. Luckily, I will be gone by next harvest season.<br /><br />These are all the accepted means of transport in the countryside. Many volunteers may never even step into one of these during the entire service if they live in the city. But their travel options, and how we bush-whackers get to them, have their own perks. I am speaking of the intercity bus and grand taxi. The latter is a Mercedes sedan that will take off for a scheduled destination – usually the next city, but sometimes one can find a long-distance taxi – once six passengers show up. It can be a relatively painless ride as long as the three passengers with you in the back seat are skinny guys (the Moroccan population is a strong testimony of the benefits of the Atkins diet for women if there ever was one). If you are a woman, it might be less pleasant as the cramped quarters can make for some uncomfortable situations. But if you really wanted to escape sexual harassment, you would never come to North Africa in the first place.<br /><br />Someone who lives in the north of the country near a medium-sized city has access to the national train line and bus line, which, like all governmental and bureaucratic functions, is a poor-man’s version of the French equivalent. In either, you could easily forget that it is the Maghreb that is quickly racing by your window as you glide imperceptibly from urban center to urban center. But here in the dirty south, we utilize a large number of privately-owned bus companies. What they lack in efficiency, organization, comfort, customer service, and cleanliness they make up for in… I am still working on that. Compared to these sluggish and disorderly transport systems, Greyhound seems like the Tokyo bullet train. While these do have some semblance of a schedule, many paying passengers are unable or unwilling to go to the station, and so it operates as an intracity and intercity bus.<br /><br />It is often said that automobiles are designed for a six foot tall man, and that the designers are insensitive to the needs of most women and short men. The people who design Moroccan buses, on the other hand, arrange the seats in a fashion suitable for a dwarf and are insensitive to the needs of most normal human beings. One possible solution to this is to ride in the fetal position, which I do on occasion. Another advantage is the fact that traditional Moroccan women seem to all suffer an inner ear problem which quickly turns any transport system faster than a mule into an emetic. At the beginning of many bus rides, a man walks up and down the aisle, passing out motion sickness bags to many of the females on board. On certain routes, a large number will be used.<br /><br />I can only grin, thinking of some of my traveling mishaps and experiences since 2005. Riding in the back of a transit, wedged between two donkeys. A taxi ride at dusk that quickly spiraled down into a motorized rabbit hunt. Picking up my bag on a bus and having to wipe someone else’s vomit off of it. My bottle of wine that broke at the beginning of a long mountain pass, spreading the devil’s brew under the seats of twenty veiled Muslim women, all giving me the evil eye and wishing me a quick entry into hell. The van with a hole in the exhaust pipe and the floor, spewing bluish-gray smoke into the riding compartment and trying to explain carbon monoxide poisoning to the driver. Being tossed from taxi to taxi as drivers brawl over who-gets-to-take-the-rich-white-folk-to-Marrakesh. Passing drivers playing chicken and tearing out the other’s side view mirror. Some of my friends have better stories.<br /><br />The anecdotes are all very amusing until you look at the statistics. In a country of only 30 million people, 3500 people are killed every year by motor vehicle accidents. With incredibly lax traffic law enforcement (true enforcement, not collecting bribes), a generally casual attitude towards safety, and a dearth of posted speed limits, the numbers are not that surprising. Half of those fatalities are pedestrians, which really emphasizes the look-both-ways axiom. Since September 11, 2001, about 19,000 people were killed in motor vehicle accidents in Morocco, whereas 30 were killed by terrorists (excluding the attackers themselves). Nonetheless, Americans are petrified of traveling in Morocco or anywhere else in the world where people watch Al Jazeera. But traffic accidents simply do not offer the same shock and awe as bombings do, and besides, we have justify those pesky, bloated Iraq and Homeland Security budgets somehow, don’t we? Honestly, unless you are in a bona fide war zone, you don’t have to worry about being ambushed or targeted as a white person. If you want to be safe in the Middle East, just make sure your taxi driver is watching the road.</span><br /></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-51270553600551092007-01-06T19:16:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:14.971-05:00Ramadan Karim!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gcf9XewJMCJW3slwvgSb4W6LsGdBi99C9EdDSFmq-owBqjQleYWGfukC80O3U2X9bH9GaL5w4WGxw57dsuQtHxyjdzeXfmfNZAz_sxvnFb_IVlyuNI9AqaVMeB9ow5tZfksymoK07tOS/s1600-h/Egypt0013.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017076673852862754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gcf9XewJMCJW3slwvgSb4W6LsGdBi99C9EdDSFmq-owBqjQleYWGfukC80O3U2X9bH9GaL5w4WGxw57dsuQtHxyjdzeXfmfNZAz_sxvnFb_IVlyuNI9AqaVMeB9ow5tZfksymoK07tOS/s400/Egypt0013.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">October 2006</span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">In August 2004, I decided to make a little extra money by waiting tables at the Sturgis Bike Rally. The cavernous restaurant, within which every sort of hedonism was condoned and practiced, had a bouncer at the door. With his mohawk and beard, he blended perfectly with the sea of tattoos, leather brassieres and broken glass. Except one thing: every time I greeted the jolly fellow with the normal perfunctory, “How is it going?” he would ignite, exclaming, “Great! Couldn’t be better! Praise Jesus! God bless you!”<br /><br />I remembered thinking how odd it was to find such celestially-inspired enthusiasm in today’s society, never mind from a biker manning the gates to the garden of earthly delights. These days, it does not strike me as the least bit odd. This is exactly how I greet everyone in Morocco. I don’t really even have a choice; failing to deliver this exchange would be seen as rude. As this greeting is made in Arabic, it does not feel nearly as awkward as it would in English. In reality, many daily conversations are so riddled with religious references and “God-speak” that, translated into English, one might think they were listening to clerics at a mosque. But, it is simply how the Arabic language operates. In many West African nations with large Muslim populations, numerous God-speak expressions are directly inserted or translated into their language. How could you not when there are so many to pick from?<br /><br />God bless you!<br />Praise God!<br />God give you peace!<br />May God help you!<br />May God make it easier for you!<br />God bid you a good night!<br />If God wills it!<br />God return it to you!<br />God give you health!<br />God bless your parents!<br />In the name of God!<br /><br />Only the most seasoned Peace Corps volunteer fully integrates all of these expressions into their daily language, but to a Muslim, it is as simple as breathing. I often muse that the Muslim world would make a fascinating place for studying the linguistic-mental bridge: Are they really making a “little prayer” every time they pronounce one of the above expressions or are these simply mechanical, second-nature utterances – the product of a lifetime spent surrounded by God-speakers? One usually finds that the religious references are far more common amongst the conservative elements of society, but that is not exactly a universal trend. Perhaps there is a third, related but independent factor: to not use such expressions is to appear as a bad Muslim and suffer the attendant consequences (which range drastically based upon your community and family). It just so happens that these three factors act on more than just conversational patterns but on the full spectrum of Muslim life. And there would be no better time to study this question than now; it is Ramadan, after all.<br /><br />Ramadan, of course, is the holy month of fasting and prayer and observing it is one the Five Pillars of Islam. From sunrise to sunset (determined by the moment where a white and black thread are indiscernible or just by turning on the television and waiting for the call to prayer) Muslims refrain from drinking, eating, smoking, and sex. The faithful horde the mosques to pray five times daily. It is a month of piety, alms-giving, suffering and peaceful contemplation on God’s first contact with the Prophet Mohamed. It is a month of self-denial where Muslims understand the plight of the poor and are instructed to give to the homeless. Are you feeling inspired? Well, that is the description that the Saudi Arabian Chamber of Commerce would probably give to tourists, but in practice, it just ain’t the same thing.<br /><br />This past week, the Prime Minister of Turkey passed out and was hospitalized. The cause? Ramadan. Maybe he really is a devout Muslim. But maybe, just maybe, he was also partially inspired by the current anti-Western fever that is spreading across the politically secular but culturally religious country and wants to remind his people he is no lap dog to Brussels. Maybe he was doing what all Muslims are forced to do 30 days a year: play the part. I am hardly incriminating anyone – I truly believe that the vast majority of Moroccans and Muslims worldwide that claim to be fasting are, more or less fasting. Furthermore, I could care less whether someone cheats every now and then, but the fact remains. Lots of people do and the evidence is everywhere!<br /><br />Perhaps a volunteer walked into the bathroom where a light-headed and loopy Muslim forgot to flush a surreptitiously devoured apple core down the toilet. Perhaps a stealthy volunteer taking a quiet stroll happens upon some farmers in a distant field, furiously cupping water from the irrigation canal into their parched mouths. Perhaps a volunteer was sitting in a taxi with two Moroccan buddies who assumed he did not understand the following conversation:<br />“So, how about Mohamed? Is he fasting?”<br />“I don’t think so, he fasted yesterday, after all. How about you?”<br />“Nah!”<br />Each of these volunteers (one of them was me) all witnessed the month-long hypocrisy. Every time I get a tirade on my “shameful, impious” ways, I wonder if the moron is one of these hypocrites. He must be a moron, right? After all, he doesn’t seem to understand that non-Muslims and Christians do not fast during Ramadan. But it is these moments, fortunately rare, that I conclude that this third, related but independent factor is what really drives Moroccan society during Ramadan. It is not necessarily important whether you are fasting, whether God is in your heart, whether you are contemplating the majesty of His final prophecy to mankind. It is important that everyone else thinks you are doing all of the above.<br /><br />There are also some quirky aspects to this holiday. At first thought, it seems logical that Moroccan citizens are barred from ordering or purchasing alcohol during this holy month. Every large department store in the country has a couple of shifty looking Moroccan guys asking foreigners and tourists to buy them beer. All liquor stores are completely shut down. Yes, even Morocco has blue laws. When you remember, however, that the Qu’ran explicitly proscribes any drinking of alcohol, it seems a moot point. Why not let the bad Muslims remain bad Muslims, it is not as if they are keeping the fast?! Strangely, though, many of them are. Even some atheist, non-praying, dope-smoking, beer-swilling, prostitute-frequenting Moroccans will at least try to observe Ramadan. Why bother? Maybe the peer-pressure is too high. Maybe they reason it is the least they can do to join everyone’s agony. Maybe they still live with their Mom, who would have an aneurysm if she smelled cigarettes on their moustache at two in the afternoon.<br /><br />Secondly, we have the issue of discord. In the theoretical Saudi Arabian Chamber of Commerce brochure we perused above, you may have read the part about “peaceful contemplation”. Well in reality, it is by far the most violent time of year in the Muslim world. Every day, at about 3 or 4 pm, the streets get nasty. The entertainment value rises by an order of a magnitude. All attention is drawn away from the white guy on the street to the rapidly growing swarm of disgruntled taxi drivers bickering over 2 dollars and it is also one of the rare opportunities to see a Moroccan man actually throw a punch. It is truly the only good thing about Ramadan for a Peace Corps volunteer. Well… I suppose they also make good soup at sundown too.<br /><br />Lastly, speaking of sundown, there is the aberrant interpretation of piety, suffering and self-denial from sunrise to sundown: sleeping all day. Such behavior is looked at with much less scorn than, say, an exhausted village housewife, who was cutting grass in the fields at 7am, popping a chickpea into her mouth while making the breakfast meal. Hardly sounds fair, but Muslim society was not designed by women, after all.<br /><br />If you ever decide to travel to the Middle East (which you should; it's a good head and shoulders above a trip to Carhenge) DO NOT COME DURING RAMADAN. Do what rich Arabs do: Take vacation in France. Well, it is about sunrise as I write this, so I should join my comrades in Moroccan solidarity by hitting the hay. Ramadan Karim! </span></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-77357473737149516072007-01-06T19:10:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:15.178-05:00The revolution will be televised!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLk3J2UALoy2azu08p3CCODS_axmuOagbmchUWN8pIX_rQLFGj6J6CNMJCymbMgI-PrQaXUEJ1INQ_g4sTx8nbI3p9NgtoJVww6g2g2ydV6Jc7UKBFxW1DAGcOdLs8BeOEziRlOfrmUrbF/s1600-h/Egypt0009.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017075484146921746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLk3J2UALoy2azu08p3CCODS_axmuOagbmchUWN8pIX_rQLFGj6J6CNMJCymbMgI-PrQaXUEJ1INQ_g4sTx8nbI3p9NgtoJVww6g2g2ydV6Jc7UKBFxW1DAGcOdLs8BeOEziRlOfrmUrbF/s320/Egypt0009.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">August 2006</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">It is by far the most beloved product that modern society has to offer. The Moroccans call it “<em>telefaza</em>”, which is a close cousin to its original name, television. You could jump into a Land Rover, criss-crossing the ancient countryside and you would be absolutely astonished by the sheer abundance of satellite dishes and their accompanying television sets. I will never forget some of these remote Atlas mountain villages, dozens of miles from the nearest power line, where nearly-toothless housewives dip buckets in the muddy river for drinking water and farmers till their diminutive parcels of land by hand, yet atop several mud huts one finds gleaming white satellite dishes. Their system might be powered by a car battery and solar panels, or perhaps a development agency introduced a micro-hydroelectric project in order to deliver them the fruits of the twentieth century. The end goal is always the same though: <em>telefaza</em>, and lots of it.<br /><br />I could not overstate the importance of telefaza in Moroccan society and how quickly it has managed to fit snugly into more traditional aspects of their culture. One such timeless aspect of Moroccan society is that of copious hospitality, yet it is not always of the kind that we may think of. To an average Moroccan, it is not necessarily important that you are engaged by the conversation, having a good time, or even sitting with anybody else. It is vital that you are physically within their home and the longer they can keep you there, the more satisfied they are. It has happened on several occasions that I have been invited to a Moroccan’s home, was led promptly to sit on the floor and within 20 seconds the television was blaring Tom and Jerry, dubbed into Arabic. Just as quickly, the host disappeared and was never seen again. Every 25 minutes or so, some mute female household member would scurry in, perhaps bringing a glass of tea or peanuts and then vanish as fast as humanly possible. After an hour and a half, this would get old and I would start trying to think of ways of to escape when all of a sudden, five men crammed in through the door and screamed over the blasting television that I needed to stay for the next meal, which arrived, inevitably, after two more hours of waiting.<br /><br />At no point would I ever enjoy being there, but it was a chance to get caught up on Egyptian soap operas, but that is not all that is being watched. If it’s on the tube, it is fair game, regardless of whether the program is in Arabic, Dutch or Spanish and the viewers speak none of the above. Soccer matches (there seems to always be a soccer game being played somewhere in the world by someone on some channel), French trials-of-life nature shows, Arabic-dubbed American and Japanese cartoons, North African religious-drama-mini-series with horrific editing, Western action films with bountiful explosions, and anything on the two government owned channels are choice programming around these parts. When the news comes on, lots of people will change the channel for something requiring less of an attention span. The past month, though, normal viewing habits have changed somewhat.<br /><br />Morocco, and southern Morocco especially, can be safely described as a politically ambivalent society. In the past two years I have had the delight of living in the Middle East during some fairly colorful conflagrations in the Muslim world. Whether it was vacationing in Cairo when Yassir Arafat’s funeral procession was made through town, teaching English classes in Morocco after Danish newspapers were found to have run cartoons featuring disparaging depictions of the Prophet Mohamed, or the current war between Israel and Hizbullah, there always seems to be something that could have kept the conversation lively. But in reality, much of the harassment that I had originally expected, be it political or otherwise (I have only ever been asked four times about why I have long hair, for instance) has not been encountered in the least.<br /><br />Not that emotions are tepid everywhere throughout this country. A protest this past Sunday in Casablanca drew at least 50,000 people, though a conflicting estimate of 1 million people makes you wonder who exactly is doing the counting. Newspapers and television broadcasts were plastered by images of the protestors who despite being entirely peaceful in their conduct are, in fact, incensed. The words being used not only by the picketers but also by the organized media are to the tune of “butchery, savagery, genocide…” This last allegation is absurd of course, and it seems that people are conveniently forgetting that a number of Israelis are in fact Jewish Arabs. The words are certainly being said, however, and to what extent it is believed, I can only guess.<br /><br />I read a long time ago that the Hebrew faith once held that God was much a more human entity possessing flaws and undesirable, more closely resembling deities of Greek mythology. With passing ages and endless persecution it was decided that their Creator would never subject them to such cruelties and as a result, they constructed a duality of God and Satan that would rationalize their suffering. I have no idea if this is true (and let me know if you have ever heard anything similar to this theory), but we do know that the Anti-Semitism that may have spurred this theological shift is as old as the Torah itself. Unfortunately, it is also alive and well in the Muslim world.<br /><br />Two a half years ago I was chatting with a man on a bus while traveling around the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt with my girlfriend. The political tension at the time was heightened by a year and a half-old Iraq war and a triple bombing in the Sinai Peninsula that had occurred only one month earlier. Naturally, we chose to vacation in the eastern coastal town that had not been bombed, Dahab, although the extremists eventually hit that one this past spring - it was somewhat chilling to see pictures in the newspaper of an obliterated bridge where Cara and I had stood just a short time earlier. Nonetheless, a jovial traveler tried to reassure me that we would be safe based not on who we are, but by who we are not. “Americans, British, Spanish,” he explained, listing members of the Coalition of the Willing “are good people. We understand the difference between their governments and the citizens. But Israelis… all Israelis are bad people.”<br /><br />There are some fairly amusing misconceptions that are floating around Morocco. One somewhat common belief here is that the September 11th hijackers were Jewish (we probably have Al Jazeera to thank for that), while others will tell you that George Bush is a Jew. But then again, not so long ago, some Americans thought that Jewish people had horns, so who are we to talk? Nonetheless, I have long been very tight-lipped regarding my childhood spent in the Jewish town in Massachusetts. The few times that I have told someone of my origins it usually resulted in a very awkward silence and then changing topics, or just turning the volume up on the <em>telefaza</em>.<br /><br />As I write this, the world is poised at the edge of its seat, waiting to see if Hizbullah and Israel will honor the cease-fire scheduled for this morning. God willing, they will observe the deadline and abandon the blood fest which has primarily served to devastate the civilian population and ensure heavy recruitment for the “Party of God”. Peace Corps Morocco volunteers having been following the news with a certain interest in mind, that of our status in this country. Volunteers have been evacuated twice in our long history here, due to Iraq War I and II, courtesy of the Bush dynasty. What are the criteria for evacuating a Peace Corps country? All of us would love to know. It does seem strange to evacuate volunteers when the nearest war is 3000 miles away, although anonymous death threats directed towards staff and volunteers were the flashpoint in 2003. Even if the cease-fire does fall apart, though, it is likely we would still be here for a while, as our presence here is a relatively delicate geopolitical matter. Tourism is an essential component of the Moroccan economy and the evacuation of development workers always leaves a dark blemish on the tourism industry. The Moroccan government has made it abundantly clear that if we take down shop for a third time, it would be for good. This would not be a smooth move at a time when Peace Corps is trying to expand its operations throughout the Muslim world. In fact, Morocco is one of only two Arab countries that will accept volunteers (the other being Jordan and I am not too sure of their status right now) and it is one of America’s most consistent and faithful friends throughout history. It is often noted that after the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, the Moroccan sultan was the first world leader to pen a letter of congratulations to the fledgling nation.<br /><br />To date, I have only heard about one incident of a politically-driven threat, and it was a fairly hollow one. A friend who lived in the heart of the Berber boondocks recently found a letter on his front door saying, “A friend of Israel is not a friend of Morocco. Leave immediately!” It probably was not even a resident of his actual village as he lives in a vacant pocket of the High Atlas that attracts a much larger population in summer. His home is situated on the hiking circuit circumscribing the country’s most recognized National Park, Toubqal – named after the highest peak in North Africa laying its center. Nonetheless, the note prompted the immediate intervention of the rural policemen, the beloved gendarmes, a bunch of bored city boys best known for chain smoking, two-fingered typewriting and collecting bribes from uninsured/unlicensed transit drivers. It is these fellows whose “protection” we are placed under by royal decree (literally). A long series of interrogations produced little in the way of an author, but it did uncover a rash of skeletons from villagers’ closets, causing complete scandal in his mountain hamlet and thoroughly eliminating any possibility of his working there in the future. I saw him this past week, taking a forced vacation while Peace Corps tries to find him a new village to serve his remaining ten months of duty. One must admit, though, that whoever wrote the note achieved his exact demand – he is gone after all. Maybe threats really do work, but it will take a fairly serious event to send us packing for home. So, have no fear, the Moroccan blogs will continue. </span><br /></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-54203392270127936132007-01-06T19:06:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:15.343-05:00Parlez-vous français?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWO3SvDayLwd7NTZVhBiy-EkMAcebp5C0FOLTUf1zTJJrT5zdLgfP6hlLxqKV_0yeNpb-yvREQ538Qjgit_dYhyphenhyphen4EMwMrfIcGuhJ-jMgH96d5jVOIePCArItxrb2QQoxh_-P2ikqV8GHN/s1600-h/015_15.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017073980908368130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWO3SvDayLwd7NTZVhBiy-EkMAcebp5C0FOLTUf1zTJJrT5zdLgfP6hlLxqKV_0yeNpb-yvREQ538Qjgit_dYhyphenhyphen4EMwMrfIcGuhJ-jMgH96d5jVOIePCArItxrb2QQoxh_-P2ikqV8GHN/s320/015_15.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">August 2006</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">I came back into the house just a few minutes ago, leaving behind the glow of a full moon and the chorus of frogs, crickets and birds that line the river behind my house. I had not gone outside to listen to the sounds of mountain life, though. I was trying to break free from my mud walls to see if I could get better reception on my shortwave radio. It was lent to me by a friend in order to explore the airwaves during the week following the conclusion of a major project. This past Friday, four volunteers and I finished a week-long series of camp activities for kids in our market town. It may not sound like much, but as a Peace Corps volunteer, the output of our projects is rarely commensurate with the blood, sweat and tears put into them. Consequently, I have been enjoying the free time to experiment with such an obsolete but strangely fascinating technology. Despite my Luddite tendencies, I am embarrassed to say that I hardly knew what a shortwave radio was until I joined the Peace Corps and found that they were just about standard issue for rural volunteers, alongside Nalgene water bottles and iPods.<br /><br />For about two hours each day, I have been scanning the troposphere between 6 and 16 MHz. In my little corner of the world, perched on the side of a hill in the Atlas Mountains, facing the wrong direction – south, the opposite direction of any major city and Europe – I can categorize my discoveries under three headings: mundane radio, not-necessarily-exotic-but-interesting-to-me radio, and bizarre radio. For the first group, I surreptitiously scan Arabs reciting the Qu’ran and Spanish news broadcasts, seeking out the stations in the second group. This includes the British Broadcasting Company, which, with its global focus, reports not only the Iraq war, but every battle, skirmish, religious riot, ethnic cleansing and bombing currently ignited in the world. The second group also subsumes random music stations playing everything from 80’s-style contemporary Spanish rock to aboriginal flute music. But there are some real gems in the third category.<br /><br />Interspersed throughout the band are radio stations of numerous, completely unidentifiable European (I would assume) languages. I have no absolutely no idea what they are saying but it is interesting to sit back and marvel at the diversity within such a small area of the world. That can pale in comparison to places like the Congo and Nigeria, that boast 500 languages each, but all those tribes don’t exactly run radio stations. I have also found several stations in French and Spanish, which at first was not the least bit surprising, except that I noticed that the announcers had thick Chinese accents and were talking incessantly about Beijing. They were all part of Chinese Radio International, apparently aimed at the Chinese diaspora living in Western Europe. That there are several of those and only one English language media conglomerate (BBC) on the Atlas airwaves is proof that the Chinese really are taking over the world. And then there is my favorite discovery: a station that only plays synthesized bird calls around the clock.<br /><br />The confusing mélange of tongues and recent conversations with new volunteers who are struggling to communicate has been a real throwback to where I was 13 ½ months ago when I dropped by bags on the floor of my home-stay family’s house in this village. I do recall that my first email I sent out when I get here focused on that issue which is quite central to the volunteer’s experience. A lot has transpired since then, with the advent and passing of various professional and mental stages of my service. Through that time, my normal modes of communication have altered considerably as well. You may have noticed that I dropped little bits of French into my last few emails. This is not solely because I am pretentious. French has largely supplanted Tamazight (the Berber dialect) as my working-, and consequently, social-language. It may seem like a strange choice or even antithetical to the Peace Corps vision of getting down with the yokels. In Moroccan society, there are three levels of language that can be found and each generally indicates which echelon of society you occupy. At the bottom is Berber (where I reside), in the middle is Arabic (the national language) and at the top is French (where the money is). My decision to use the lower and upper level tongues makes me a somewhat strange anomaly around these parts, although that pattern is somewhat common amongst anti-Arab Berber intellectuals. Those guys would argue that Arabic is the real colonial language, but I will avoid politics tonight. Rather, I will take some excerpts from a journal entry from last November which elucidates my hitherto rationale.<br /><br />“In explaining the reason to concomitantly learn French and Tamazight, I can offer the following analogy. Imagine you are a South Korean volunteer to teach and assist poor, immigrant Latino youth in forsaken Californian public schools. Upon arriving, you receive a rigorous, 10-week crash course in Spanish before commencing your job. However, you are taught only Mexican Spanish and the area you work in is culturally diverse, including Puerto Ricans, Cubans, El Salvadorians, Peruvians and Argentineans. While they can certainly speak to each other, you can hardly talk to the Mexicans, never mind the Caribbeans or the South Americans. Your job is to work with the children, hence the Spanish education, but you also required to speak with school administrators and local government. Each time you are required to meet one of them you pray that they are bilingual, but usually they are not. Each time you travel for work or pleasure, you search relentlessly for hotels and shops where your heavy Asian-accented Spanish will be understood, while most other people are baffled that you never learned English to live in the States. Now and then, you worry, ‘If I ever got into trouble, how would I ever speak to all of those red-blooded American doctors and policemen?’ Among the children, you are loved because you speak their language and you are occasionally offered invitations to go to their homes. Within their homes, though, you realize that the kids all actually speak Spanglish, which you have been honing, and it takes great effort to speak with their families, who speak español puro.”<br /><br />At first I intended to try to develop the two concurrently and equally, but soon my interest in Berber diminished for multiple reasons. As a result, my conversational ability in Tamazight is pretty pathetic. But most conversations in Berber revolve around weather, the prices at the market for a kilo of bananas, and 20-minute introductions, all of which are repeated 3 or 4 times throughout dinner, so I am not really missing anything. The ability to work and socialize with teachers, engineers, national and regional associations; write grant proposals, emails, shared reports and text messages; read newspapers, magazines, government documents and other work-related releases more than compensates. To my surprise, many people who found out early on that I was trying to learn French refused to speak me in anything but that. It turns out I was the only person they know they could practice with after all those years of studying. Nonetheless, I remain an odd bird among my peers, which is nothing new.<br /><br />Communicative ability makes or breaks volunteers, but not necessarily in the way one may think. To be sure, conversational adeptness can play a key role in your ability to speak with the average Moroccan Joe, thereby increasing your opportunities for establishing friendships. However, language does not equate with effectiveness; not in the least. On one hand, we have those who spend their two years perfecting the Moroccan gift of gab. I can think of one volunteer in particular who spoke very confident and emphatic Arabic after less than one year of working here. As we sat on the terrace of a café, I asked him what he did for work. He slouched back in his seat and grinned from ear to ear. “You’re looking at it,” he replied triumphantly, remarking later that, “I rather enjoy not working.” On the other hand, there are those volunteers who come here with a heart gushing full of blood but a head that is less than malleable in the language department (older folks, especially, have a difficult time picking up new languages). This obstacle infrequently bars such people from pursuing and achieving their goals. Some will perform much of their work through friends and colleagues who are willing to translate. Others find their low-verbal-communication niche which might entail focusing on younger children; generous use of photocopies; a trusty pocket-sized notepad and pen for sketching; or frequent, amusing games of charades. In the end, exactly how and with what words you performed your job is completely irrelevant. One could argue that those who rely on assistance from others are more effective, as they get members of the community involved in their work and transfer the skills and provide a more seamless transition to working without their Peace Corps volunteer. One could also argue that you simply have to communicate to get your point across. It’s a balancing act, really, and like everything in life, there is no yardstick for success.<br /><br />P.S. If you ever thought of starting your own shortwave radio station, there seems to be some dead space in between 12.35 and 12.37 MHz begging to be filled. </span></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-21024928159885574982007-01-06T18:56:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:15.521-05:00The One Who Asks<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIh8GNYG0hAw214rT5_mrWFZFmGSHXkl72SF8UjfXs_9zrnjEOi3rBcNV_EwuxoSneQ53hj6CuL8HHwLDKTga3ynPlkvwFr0603EpbEuwU9lWop4QwdB71_ng4WvEXCiBFkE2wairlCAaT/s1600-h/024_24.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017072091122757858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIh8GNYG0hAw214rT5_mrWFZFmGSHXkl72SF8UjfXs_9zrnjEOi3rBcNV_EwuxoSneQ53hj6CuL8HHwLDKTga3ynPlkvwFr0603EpbEuwU9lWop4QwdB71_ng4WvEXCiBFkE2wairlCAaT/s200/024_24.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">June 2006</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">I have decided, this time at least, to take a slightly different approach to communicating with such a large group. Seeing as my blogs have become increasingly impersonal as of late, I think I may just write an email or two that explains what actually happens directly to me like a normal person. No waxing philosophic this time around, just a bit of info on the daily routines and a more concrete description of my job here. I do work here, after all. Theoretically.<br /><br />I am not too sure exactly where to start, but I think that the spring would be a good place to start, since the last email only discussed the 1.3 billion “Muslims” (I place the term in brackets, since all this really means is that one is born in Muslim society, but not necessarily practicing or observing the attendant religious duties) out there, of which I am certainly not a member. So what does Mr. Tar the agnostic do out here?<br /><br />Last week I was reading a magazine that I picked up in Rabat, <em>Jeune Afrique</em>, when I saw a very interesting and pertinent quotation by the late author, Madeleine de Puisieux. “Do you want to know how one must give? Put yourself in the place of the one that receives.” This philosophy, above all others, is the one that Peace Corps has exemplified and mastered in the past four and a half decades and has wooed almost 180,000 volunteers to undertake the journey. It sets Peace Corps apart from the majority of the world’s development organizations while it inspires, overwhelms and challenges its volunteers. Even after one year spent in the Atlas Mountains, living in the same mud-walled homes and walking the same dusty roads as my fellow villagers, I feel I have only glimpsed that idealized insider’s perspective. In truth, I have largely given up on trying to see the world through their eyes. What I do know intimately, however, is the place of the one who asks.<br /><br />In the past six months I have been working closely with a local rural development association called <em>l’Association Tachoguachte pour le développement et préservation de l’environnement du Ksar Tabouârbite</em>. They are not all that unlike the countless other community organizations which are ubiquitous throughout the countryside and towns of Morocco and as you may remember, fit the naming scheme that I described in my January email perfectly. The unit is quite new (existing only 18 months at present), is guided by an extremely vague mission statement – the name says it all, in fact – and the president, who I have never met, lives approximately 600 kilometers away in the Mediterranean city, Al-Hoceima. To boot, the member that I principally work with neither works nor lives in the village. His name is Moha Bagarrou, a relatively educated, middle-class Moroccan who runs a half-baked electronics store in my market town, Rich. The store itself is somewhat of a disaster, with countless wires hanging from ancient shelves and a myriad of random boxes filled with an assortment of couplers and gadgets, all with a musty, incomprehensible sense of organization to it. The store could have served as an indicator of things to come. The remaining members of the association are either partially-literate or joined the association only to embezzle funds from whatever funds they might be awarded. Consequently, he is the only participating and trustworthy member of the only organization in the area that was interested in working with me. Nonetheless, our work (and managers) necessitates a local presence to facilitate programs, organize inhabitants, provide valuable local knowledge, translate conversations with community elders (who are excruciatingly difficult to understand) and ideally, carry on programs after we leave.<br /><br />My first conversation or two with <em>Association Tachoguachte</em> was performed with my language tutor, Khadija, but it soon became clear that this was an unsustainable practice considering her two toddlers at home. Those initial conversations were invaluable. At that point, I was still uncomfortable with speaking about details and technical subjects in a foreign language. With a firm understanding of their current projects and the expression of their aspirations, I decided to go it alone. At first, my assistance to them was minimal, shooting them some ideas on ongoing projects. After our In-Service Training (at the 6-month point of service), though, when I gave Tachoguachte a list of funding sources available in Morocco, the real interaction began.<br /><br />The association’s secretary, Moha, gave me a phone call one day, saying he needed help with a grant proposal for the Canadian Embassy’s funding agency. It was an excellent idea: requesting money for an elite breed of sheep to be managed, in terms of labor and revenue, by the women of the village. The only problem - the Canadian Embassy accepts grants written in French only, which neither Moha nor I wrote very well. In the next week, we sat in front of my laptop for hours, conversing in pidgin-French and tapping out grammatically incorrect elaborations of our project plans, budget, and community description. Several more sessions of touching up, my <em>Larousse Dictionnaire de Poche</em> close at hand and placing a lot of faith in Microsoft Word’s grammar and spell check, and we were ready for a second opinion. I gave a draft to <em>Eaux et Forêts</em>, our Moroccan sponsoring agency, and had them report their corrections to the association. But when I called Moha to get the most up-to-date version to send to my program manager, I was told, ever-disappointingly, “<em>Mais, je l’ai déjà envoyé</em>! (But, I already sent it!)” – so much for communicating fine details.<br /><br />Ultimately, we were unsuccessful with the Canadian Embassy, but not with any great surprise: they typically fund only 7-8% of the proposals received. That does not spell surrender for that idea quite yet. Even before receiving the rejection letter, we arranged plans for a different funding agency and a different strategy. Another association, Association Taghia, procured funds for a very similar project gave us advice on how to write a successful proposal and this time I am taking more of a backseat with the actual writing – an integral step in weaning them off of my help and acting independently. Providing an articulate, thorough request for funding in a second language has proved incredibly challenging. It was never a situation I had encountered before; not before I put myself in the place of the one who asks. Well, we still have a long way to go. My friend from Association Taghia had applied to and received funding from the Belgian Embassy. He encouraged us to apply there, as they focus on the southern regions and have a clearly demonstrated interest in women’s agricultural assistance and social equality projects. Hoping for inspiration and guidance, I asked him for a copy of their proposal in January.<br /><br />I got it two weeks ago, which is diligent in Moroccan terms, and gave a copy to Moha, telling him, “Read this carefully and note down the strengths that we can add to our proposal.” When I returned two weeks later, I was surprised to see that he was working on it very hard, and the new version ran a good 7 pages long. I was short on time and copied it onto my USB stick to read and work on at home; just the first glance at his shop revealed a number of spelling and punctuation problems. When I got home, it was abundantly clear why. He had copied the other association’s proposal word for word, exerting the effort only to change the name of the village, association and the number of women in the town. Most brazenly, he also plagiarized their budget, despite a vastly different population. I was both bemused and disgusted. It would be one thing to carbon-copy a proposal, but to send it to the exact same funding source? Of the 10 projects they fund annually, did he really think they would not recognize a spitting image of last year’s grantees?<br /><br />Derision in Arab society takes a completely different shape than it does in ours. Never before have I seen such a vocal and irritable culture. At least in cities, one often sees crowds of men, yelling, screaming, and picking up rocks that are never thrown in a rather hollow threat – like a boy brandishing a toy gun in a fight. But what is usually being expressed is general rage; personal attacks and ridicule are relatively off-limits. Even in civilized, person-to-person arguments, to cut someone down is to burn a bridge. Consequently, Moha, who I respect and is the only reliable and somewhat effective person to work with from my village, had to be dealt with in a very indirect way. I arranged a meeting with him and the other association that week to discuss organization and planning, a meeting he almost skipped intentionally, presumably since he was afraid to face the man he plagiarized from. But my patience was running out. When he was running 90 minutes late, I sent him the curt message, “Are you coming are not?” and resolved to myself, “If he does not show, I am done with these clowns”. He did eventually. The copied proposal was never broached and will never be again; that alone should signify that what he did was unacceptable. Afterwards, I wrote out a list of items that I thought could strengthen our proposal and we will proceed from there; it is all I can really do.<br /><br />There is still more asking to come; the town is eager for trees, which unlike some of their previous demands, is actually a tenable project idea. It is certainly better than the irrigation canal project. The village already has one which operates on a rather ingenious and ancient strategy of diverting river water upstream of the town into a vast network of shallow channels. Farmers flood their fields on rotations of 10-20 days depending on the crop and climate. The mud and dirt walls of these canals are bound to erode and fall apart with time, however, and a good assortment of communities tend to request funding to cement them. Knowing that it would be an expensive project I warned Moha that Peace Corps-specific funding is limited to $2,500; in other words, a pittance. One day I received a text message from him, saying, “I got the estimate for the irrigation canals from the Department of Agriculture: $100,000. Come by my shop”. I don’t know who throws down $100,000 on one little village’s water canals, but it certainly was not going to be miserly Peace Corps coffers. I got my laughs out and then stopped by his shop two days later. “Moha,” I exclaimed, “I told you that we don’t have that kind of money!” He became stern and quiet, contemplating. After a few moments he shot, “Okay. You get one half, and I’ll get the other half.” We never talked about the irrigation canals again.<br /><br />Projects that run smoothly can be extremely enjoyable. Some of the educational programs that we have organized have been a lot of fun: AIDS education, summer camps, etc. Along more environmental lines, however, my largest program, in theory, would be a national program of bird surveys, corresponding wildlife education and birding-related eco-tourism workshops with the residents and service providers of national parks. It is right now in the grant stage, a proposal I wrote with two other volunteers who are bird fanatics. I am merely a neophyte and collaborator. We did a preliminary bird survey in Imilchil, a village on the western flanks of my national park, situated 90 kilometers away, where there are two of the few natural lakes in all of North Africa. Owing to the sparse alpine lakes, reservoirs and coastal wetlands, combined with a strategic location – the junction of the Mediterranean, Atlantic, Africa and Europe – Morocco harbors and is visited by a good 450+ species of birds.<br /><br />Developing this program entailed finding a capable Moroccan organization to partner with. We believe we found one in the Association of Earth and Life Science Teachers (AESVT) partners, and so far we have had a planning meeting and spotty correspondence to establish each partner’s role. I sense they may be getting annoyed with us, due to the glacial pace of finding funding and a little mishap in a little mountain village in Demnate. I have not confirmed this story yet, but it goes like this: AESVT requested a volunteer to come to the Atlas mountain village of Demnate, just two hours southeast of Marrakesh. It is a relatively large town, bordering a nationally protected forest, brimming with teachers to collaborate with on environmental education projects. One woman was assigned there in May; in the final weeks of training, each volunteer is given a village/town/city assignment, and visits it. The site selection process itself is rather cursory. Peace Corps is given a list of potential sites by government ministries or receives a request from an NGO directly – in this case, AESVT. Peace Corps then goes to the town, glad-hands public officials who invariably whitewash the state of affairs and then finds a family willing to host the new volunteer for $5 per day (a pretty good deal, in fact) for two months. I talked to the woman after visiting it. She was very excited about the physical location but a little intimated by the number of qualified professionals already working there; what role would she play there? Nonetheless, I heard through the grapevine, two weeks later that her site had been changed. The only explanation I have heard is that some staff members were reading the newspaper (yes, the newspaper no less) after her site visit when they read that Demnate had been used recently as a training site by terrorists. Oops! It could all be hearsay. Nonetheless, AESVT has not been returning my emails recently. </span></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-21309728636628495512007-01-06T18:49:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:15.830-05:00Islam, according to Mr. Tar<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-4Gm2FMUk4vYRd4qF-2_QP4uf01SANwGu9CDh1n2cIzkzQaaQFvJ0rIYg2WYPq2rFXMFRhVZMfCkjqK52f8wuGGgRs6-Qwkll7GoUY71k7c8QbiHi32vZTV_qEWAFTdmykVCOtEmrNeRE/s1600-h/Egypt0008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017081239403098434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-4Gm2FMUk4vYRd4qF-2_QP4uf01SANwGu9CDh1n2cIzkzQaaQFvJ0rIYg2WYPq2rFXMFRhVZMfCkjqK52f8wuGGgRs6-Qwkll7GoUY71k7c8QbiHi32vZTV_qEWAFTdmykVCOtEmrNeRE/s320/Egypt0008.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">April 2006</span><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">It must be that time again to berate you with more observations from across the Atlantic puddle. Instead of completing some unfinished projects and proposals that call to me right now from my desktop, why not distribute an open letter on Islam? It is a dicey subject these days. As you all know, in February, the Islamic world erupted in seething anger as belligerent protesters pushed their brethren, already teetering near the edge, towards a global conflagration of religious violence and jihad.<br /><br />Or did it?<br /><br />Here, on the western tip of the Arab world, I became far more agitated and nervous checking the news online or watching the BBC than I ever did walking by mosques, through city squares, down dark alleyways in the ancient neighborhoods of imperial cities, or past gaggles of idle and testosterone-inflamed twenty-something guys. The reports remind me of the massive World Trade Organization protests in Seattle in 1999, where several days of open political discourse and peaceful demonstration were sidestepped to cover the real news – a few rabid packs of nihilist punks going on a rampage in the city center.<br /><br />So, how many people did gather in small towns and cities for civil displays of discontent, without burning down an embassy or two? Why were they offended so? And what are these beliefs which they proclaimed, ad nauseam, Westerners fail to understand? I am certainly not a theology scholar nor do I aspire to be one. But in the past year a half, I’ve enjoyed travels and living in Egypt and Morocco, read several books and countless articles on the subject – written by both Muslims and non-Muslims – talked to numerous friends and colleagues about it, and witnessed its daily manifestations. Granted, I have never stepped foot into the real heart of the Muslim world – the Arabian Peninsula and many of the places that I have whisked through may be correctly referred to as Islam-lite. Moreover, the area where I live and have the most contact with people has an overwhelmingly Berber population. Many of my young, educated peers explain to me that traditional beliefs, like land and language, were stolen from the Berbers, replaced by Islam and Arab culture. Due to their inaccessibility and contempt for Arab society, mountainous regions tend to be even less religious than low-land communities. With that disclaimer, I will try to be clear below on what I have learned from labyrinthine alleyways of Fes and what I learned from my armchair. In any case, here are some thoughts.<br /><br />Islam is followed or identified with by 1.3 billion people. It is the world’s second largest religion and its fastest growing faith. Despite its common association with the Arab world, only one fifth of its followers actually live there. There are also generous populations in central Asia (Iran and most of the countries that rhyme with it), southern and southeastern Asia, and western and central Africa. Islam (and all proper religious terms for that matter) comes from the classical Arabic language; it can be approximated by the word “submission”, which sets the stage quite properly.<br /><br />In some of its manifestations it can be an austere and demanding practice, but despite the rules concerning daily conduct, I am often struck by the relationship between the Muslim and God. The Qu’ran is riddled with references to the apocalypse and hell fires that await the non-believers. Devout Muslims pray at least five times a day, but it is a submissive practice, indeed. There is no conversation with God, simply a well-memorized recitation and prostrating oneself, facing the city of Mecca. Moreover, to be a true Muslim is to put complete faith and trust in God to make anything happen. Hence the well-worn expression Insha’ Allah, which means “If God wills it”. One can hardly even exchange pleasantries in the street without it being uttered and submitting your fate to the will of God:<br /><em><strong>Said:</strong> “Hey, Mohamed, where are you going?”<br /><strong>Mohamed:</strong> “If God wills it, I am going to the café across the street and ordering tea.”<br /><strong>Said:</strong> “If God wills it! Go in peace!”</em><br />The expression is so ingrained that many Muslims, speaking any number of languages, will still say it in the original Arabic. Of course, much of it is force of habit, but you get the point. To be a follower in the Muslim world is to submit to God’s desire. Despite the fatalism, it has managed to produce some very orderly and powerful societies in the past 1300 years, advancing its people well beyond their meager origins.<br /><br />It arose in seventh-century A.D. Arabia, a lawless and pagan land surrounded by a bloody political and social change elsewhere, not the least of which are the conquests of the Persians in Syria, Jerusalem, and Egypt, and Europe’s decline into the Medieval Period. It was in the year 610 that Mohamed Hashem (his lineage, the Hashemites, include the Jordanian and Moroccan royal family), a 40-year old illiterate but savvy businessman from Mecca, was confronted by the angel Gabriel and told to “Recite in the name of your Lord!” And recite he did. The entire Qu’ran (Arabic for “recitation”) is a posthumous collection of the speeches that he made during his 20-year career, collected by his followers.<br /><br />Revelations of God’s words are said to have been written in 104 books, 100 of which have been lost. The remaining four, the Pentateuch, the Psalms, the Gospels and Qu’ran, reveal the words of Moses, David, Jesus and Mohamed, respectively. Much of the Qu’ran incorporates and builds upon Judaic and Christian stories and the moral code detailed by the Qu’ran closely resembles that of Judaism. Mohamed’s illiteracy actually makes part of his claim to authenticity as God’s final Prophet: How else could an illiterate Arab be cognizant of passages from Hebrew holy books? Certain aspects are unique to Islam, however. The most important of these are the Five Pillars of Islam: profession of faith, praying five times a day, giving alms to the poor, fasting during the month of Ramadan, and making the pilgrimage to Mecca.<br /><br />As Mohamed became more powerful and influential, the relationship with Judaism soured considerably. Recruited by a group of Arabs and Jews to unite the people and resolve disputes in the city of Medina, he soon demanded recognition as both religious and secular authority by Jews and Gentiles alike. Rejection spawned mockery, which spawned bitterness and power struggle and the honeymoon ended very quickly. Consequently, Mohamed changed the day of prayer from the Jewish Shabbas (Saturday) to Friday, he began instructing followers to pray towards Mecca rather than Jerusalem (though it still remains the third most important city in Islam), and incendiary language towards the Jews starts to show up in the Qu’ran. One finds passages such as, “Those to whom the burden of the Torah was entrusted and yet refused to bear it are like a donkey laden with books.” Implicit in this statement is his reverence for the Torah and his contempt for the non-believing Jews. But to an anti-Israeli imam conducting his Friday sermon, you can imagine the power of such statements taken out of context. I mention this as some historical perspective on the tremendous emphasis on Jewish-Muslim relations, both past and present. I am in absolutely no position to dissect the source or solution to their inter-religious conflict. Nonetheless, I find it interesting to see that the animosity is not solely the byproduct of twentieth-century politics and Zionism.<br /><br />By the time Mohamed died, he led several armed battles against the Quraish tribe who controlled Mecca, had 10 wives (most of them were the widows of fallen soldiers), and was the spiritual and temporal leader of several Arabian cities. In his death, however, he left a power vacuum that divides the Muslim community to this day. The only child that outlived him was his daughter, Fatima. Though she plays a strong role in Muslim custom and identity, (somewhat analogous to the Virgin Mary) there was no chance that a female in Arab society would become the heir to his struggle. Naturally, his followers vied for the role of successor, or Caliph.<br /><br />Open any newspaper in the world that covers international events and you will find the words, Sunni and Shiite. This division is just about as old as the religion itself. It started in 661, when Ali, Mohamed’s cousin and Fatima’s husband, was assassinated after serving as Caliph for only six years. His second son, Hussein, martyred himself in a stymied attempt at reclaiming the Caliphate at the Karbala in Iraq 19 years later. Hussein’s passionate fight, though, won him thousands of followers, giving rise to the schism between mainstream Muslims and followers of Shiat Ali, or partisans of Ali. Though Sunnis comprise almost 90% of the global Muslim population, Shiism is the official religion of Iran, and makes up approximately one-half of the Iraqi population. No big mystery why the American government is wary of a Shiite (read: Iran-leaning) takeover of the Iraqi political establishment.<br /><br />As I implied above, Islam is a religion inextricably connected with the Arabic language. The majority of Muslims, despite their native tongue, will learn the fundamentals of Arabic to conduct their quotidian prayers in the original sacrosanct words. Unlike the Bible, which was composed over the ages in various languages, the Qu’ran is an exclusively Arabic text. The focus on the Arabic language (and its speakers too: e.g. the full name of the country of Egypt is The Arab Republic of Egypt – you can only imagine the international outcry if we changed our name to the United States of White America) is arguably overemphasized, certainly in the past and still to an extent in the modern day. The revelations to Mohamed by the angel Gabriel were made, needless to say, in his native tongue and it is written that “We have revealed the Qu’ran in the Arabic tongue that you may grasp its meaning”. Muslim purists will contend that recitations of prayers in any other language are sacrilegious and strongly resist translation into any other tongues. But Mohamed certainly could never have dreamed that his speeches would be disseminated to the far corners of the Earth, such that the two countries with the largest Muslim populations, Indonesia and India, are not Arab peoples. In its fastidious observance of the Arabic language, Islam encounters a few pitfalls of misinterpretation in a globalized world. It vexes many Muslims that western media (and some of my English-speaking Moroccan friends) insist on referring to the Islamic Allah, as if they worshipped a separate deity altogether. This term is simply an Arabic term for God and deviates no further from Western monotheism than Spaniards who go to the cathedral and pray to Dios. The word, nonetheless, carries considerable weight and is incorporated in hundreds of expressions in daily conversation. The other day I walked by a funeral and heard a droning song emanating from every door and window. The lyrics from what I could tell were, “Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah…” sung again and again and again till the cows come home. If there is any equivalent in other religions, I would like to hear about it.<br /><br />One important difference between the major faiths is the religion’s stance on protecting the faithful. Whereas Jesus instructed his followers to turn the other cheek to their enemies and the Buddha advocated pacifism, Islam condones defending oneself and the faith. Mohamed himself lead an army of 10,000 men in the name of God. When living in Medina, he would make rallying calls such as, “The believers who stay at home – apart from those that suffer from a grave impediment – are not equal to those who fight for the cause of God with their goods and their persons.” The Qu’ran, however, is clear that retribution is to be taken out only upon the guilty and that, “To kill an innocent man is to kill the world.” This position, of course, is a very slippery slope to walk on and this religion is no less immune to literalists – or more fittingly, out-of-context-ists – than any other. As some Christian preachers will gladly skim over sections of the Gospel that advocate relinquishing worldly possessions to dwell on the story of God unleashing his fury on the indecent inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, plenty of imams and radicals will be selective in their diatribes. Consequently, whatever people are truly fighting for – resources, territory, a reckoning of long-held grievances, or political power – there are plenty of Scriptures that may be exploited to shore up support.<br /><br />Muslim identity is often the only thing that bonds such an immense and disparate population of believers. Skin color, language, diet, political structure, gender roles, history, traditional beliefs, and history have drastically different in each new corner of the world it has reached. In each region, Islam has changed them and Islam has been changed by them. Far more often is it the former case. But in the rural byways where proselytizers do not focus their efforts, a colorful mélange of practices take form. On the small Indonesian island of Lombok, a historically Hindu and Buddhist stronghold, the local mosque is not oriented to Mecca (and is too small to actually pray in), worshippers pay devotions to sacred rocks from a nearby volcano, and hold drunken festivals to celebrate the Prophet Mohamed’s birthday (April 11 and 12 this year). Their urban and conservative counterparts view these deviations as tantamount to heresy. But religion is a garment, which despite its bold colors and distinctive patterns, invariably takes the form of the body it covers. Much of this has been analyzed in the context of women’s rights, and several Muslim feminists have written treatises positing that Islam, as written, is relatively egalitarian and that the faith absorbed misogynist tendencies as it spread.<br /><br />In my experience, the standard by which people identify a Muslim is the second pillar of Islam – that of praying five times daily. Among a list of small talk questions that you may be asked when meeting people is, “Do you pray?” Though it is against the law to proselytize in Morocco and several other Muslim nations, citizens are duly encouraged to convert foreigners. For those without a good sense of humor and firm beliefs, this can be a very tiring and ultimately maddening experience. In my experience, I seem to attract the unfaithful for some reason, so when people approach me with that same question it is often followed by, “Neither do I.”<br /><br />Speaking of bad Muslims, if I remember correctly, Canadian courts were recently settling a dispute about whether or not to allow Muslim defendants to be judged based upon Sharia law. Ultimately, the notion was rejected. Had it been accepted, however, it certainly would have sent shockwaves through liberal (liberal, at least, until Steven Harper took office) Canadian society. Sharia, which translates to “the path leading the water (water meaning the source of life, quite literally, in a desert society)” is the legal code based upon the Qu’ran and a set of six books called the hadith. The former details some rather explicit guidelines for a virtuous life, the majority of which are adopted from Mohamed’s didactic speeches in the second half of his career. The latter, however, is a more debatable and indirect source, in which thousands of Mohamed’s sayings and actions were inscribed as dictum for the righteous. It must be remembered that Mohamed is viewed as the paragon of human behavior, which explains the deep-seated rage over the Danish cartoons. As an open-minded but devout Muslim school teacher told me, “You cannot touch my Prophet!” Devout Muslims seek to emulate the way or sunna (source of the word Sunni) of the Prophet and so to insult him is to insult every last belief that Muslims hold.<br /><br />In the most conservative Muslim societies, such as Saudi Arabia, Sharia is the source of law – civil, commercial, criminal, political, etc. – and the concept of separation of church of state is abject profanity. The more moderate nations, including Morocco, are somewhat more flexible with their adaptations. In Sharia, all human acts fall into five categories: required, encouraged, permissible, discouraged, and prohibited. Examples of some behaviors and their designations would be prayer as a required act, forgiveness of debt is encouraged, polygamy is discouraged, and usury is prohibited. Those actions which fall into the “permissible” category are left to a governing body to decide whether it shall be allowed or restricted.<br /><br />One topic that is often tossed around is that of smoking cigarettes. Like declaring oil/mineral rights and parking violations, there are certain behaviors that simply did not exist in the Prophet’s time and thus are left to interpretation. In practice, your average Arab male smokes like a chimney (it’s no coincidence that Camel is one of the bestselling cigarettes around) and many of my Moroccan friends seem to have justified smoking hashish to themselves and their community. It required a change of perspective when I would offer a glass of wine to an ardent pothead and have him reply, “Sorry, it is against my religion.” In any case, many Muslim scholars in several countries have expounded the need to outlaw any and all inhaled volatile chemicals, but usually to no avail. Personally, I think the response would be similar to Prohibition-era America: a fabulous disaster. And with all of the proscriptions on stimulants and depressants, it would make being Muslim about as fun as being Mormon – but without the HBO series.<br /><br />One rule that still rests on the Moroccan books is the law actually requiring all Moroccans to be Muslim – hence the government estimates that 99.9% of the population is Sunni Muslim. Only a fool could truly believe that only every 1000th person he meets is the one who neither prays five times a day nor fasts during Ramadan. But, many of my fellow volunteers have met such apparent fools. It is more likely, however, that they seek to portray their land as the land of peace and piety – a veritable myth. It may be easier to do as such than to admit to the moral depravity that one sees in any country. The two Muslim countries I have spent time in, Morocco and Egypt, are fairly moderate cultures that rely heavily on tourism. As a result, there is a de jure and de facto set of double standards for nationals and foreign visitors – even long-term ex-pats. While co-ed hotel rooms, public displays of affection and transportation of alcohol bring hefty fines and/or jail sentences for Moroccans, we foreigners can commit them and get off scot-free (although the second transgression could cause considerable discomfort and ire among any witnesses)!<br /><br />Not being a Muslim in a Muslim country, however, can carry grave repercussions. Take, for instance, the Afghani Abdul Rahman. He converted to Christianity 15 years and was condemned to death by a tribal council (eventually thwarted by western diplomatic pressure). Such rulings would be appalling in Western society, who adopted the concept of individual rights and liberties during the Renaissance. But that is not how many of these societies operate. In collective cultures, if one hand becomes gangrenous, it is better to cut it off than allow it to infect the rest of the body.<br /><br />In practice many Muslim communities, especially small villages like my own, hardly even require a penal code. One of the supposedly proscribed behaviors, gossiping, is in such virulent practice that it helps to punish those who commit graver crimes. Even in some of the most isolated and conservative locales, there are people who drink and smoke, commit adultery and steal. But they do so with the penalty of the attendant stigma and potential ostracism. One could argue that the public jury construes a more formidable threat than God’s wrath in such insular locales.<br /><br />By far, the dominant resource for much of the above information is Thomas W. Lippman’s Understanding Islam: An Introduction to the Muslim World. I would highly recommend it to anyone that wants a relatively unbiased, factual and comprehensive overview of the religion. His tone, if anything, is somewhat flattering, yet he takes a very historical interesting perspective on the life of Mohamed the person. Published in 1995, he hardly even touches terrorism, but it is possible that a later version might have. Nevertheless, there is no shortage of rhetoric on that topic at your local bookstore on that subject if you so desire. But I have generally avoided this subject in what I write to people as it has almost nothing to do with the everyday lives of Muslims. The majority condemn such acts, resenting the image that it portrays to the outside world and fearing the retribution from the ideologues that control many Western governments. Many of them, quite justifiably, fear it may be the ideologues next door that will make the next attack and that it will be their children who get caught in the cross-fire. We can argue our tongues limp about the best course to take in Palestine, Iran, Indonesia, Iraq, etc. but the relatively recent integration of the Western and Muslim world is not going to be without considerable struggle, but understanding each other is one of the necessary steps in getting there.<br /></div></span></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2768032811886744948.post-90953802655546665322007-01-06T18:45:00.000-05:002008-11-13T10:33:16.028-05:00What exactly do you do, Mr. Tar?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2kKfhqPsvpNFItwxRIphDakFyXMe1gyUQPB3kLt-v7pw92_91KCHNyBkgSWctwPsBvky-sNVECWsnzD3M0A6Y9iCGjkOnaL1QANcIvaBtKq6BEFxeIcJ752Cns75OgnVml8T8lWA4ekj/s1600-h/036_36.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017072851331969266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2kKfhqPsvpNFItwxRIphDakFyXMe1gyUQPB3kLt-v7pw92_91KCHNyBkgSWctwPsBvky-sNVECWsnzD3M0A6Y9iCGjkOnaL1QANcIvaBtKq6BEFxeIcJ752Cns75OgnVml8T8lWA4ekj/s200/036_36.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">January 2006</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">I am a Peace Corps volunteer serving in Morocco. Many of my friends have asked that most relevant yet neglected question, “Mr. Tar, what do you actually do?” I will leave them in the dark no longer. One of you even responded to my call last time to indicate any specific inquiries that you may drum up about my current life. Well, I erased that email, so I will have to go off of my gut-feelings of what may be of interest here.<br /><br />In my sophomore-year English class, the teacher approached the definition of Hinduism as follows: Hinduism is not this, and Hinduism is not that. It is not to say that this organization is characterized by such ineffable qualities that it evades description, but it is often poorly understood by both Americans, host-country nationals, and sometimes the volunteers themselves until they get their feet a little wet. Listed below are a few of them along with some counterpoint:<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong>Myth #1 Peace Corps is a relief agency<br /></strong>There is a vital need for those organizations who rush to the aid of war refugees, victims of natural disasters and political unrest. Peace Corps is not one of them. It is, above all, a development agency whose idealistic goal is to emplace volunteers in a region, make an indelible yet anonymous mark on their organizational and technical skills, and leave with the locals carrying the torch. It is not always met, of course, but we do lack many of the assets that other high-profile organizations deem necessary, the most obvious of which is money. Funding allocations for Peace Corps volunteers are often a pittance. Much to the chagrin of some, we are often called upon by staff to seek various funding sources to fulfill even the smallest grant proposals. But money is not supposed to be the goal. Sometimes one of the most valuable contributions an outsider makes is to bring different parties who do not know or even actively dislike each other, and convince them to collaborate.<br /><br /><strong>Myth #2 Peace Corps is yet another form of exporting the West</strong><br />Having our American ways rub off on host-country nationals is as inevitable as breathing. In theory, however, and in practice, appropriating the local mores of dress, conduct, and withholding one’s personal beliefs is hammered into every volunteer even before they arrive. Participation in local political issues is grounds for dismissal and there is a strong encouragement to avoid talking global politics and religion. These topics are unavoidable in an Arab-Muslim country, needless to say. Still, we all quickly develop a sense of when to hold our tongue, and we typically do.<br /><br /><strong>Myth #3 Government-issued mud huts are standard accommodations</strong><br />There is a sub-set of the Peace Corps Morocco (PCM) who work in urban areas, live in lavish apartments furnished with every imaginable North African appliance (more extensive than one may think) and stay extravagantly connected via cell phone and DSL internet in their home. They are aptly referred to as Posh Corps. In the same province, only four hours of taxi-hailing, bus-loading and donkey-carting away, there will live a volunteer with no electricity, water, telephone, motorized (or at least authorized) daily transport; the majority of their neighbors may have never left a fifty kilometer radius of their home, have never seen an American and may spread cow feces on wounds to heal them. It is largely a roll of the dice. There are those regions, such as southeast Asia, central and western Africa, the Pacific Islands, where the simple life is the norm and most volunteers enjoy a very diverse array of perceptions of time, social graces and hygiene. But in many of the nations in which we work, urban living, information technology and glad-handing well-heeled government officials and international NGO’s is an integral part of their effectiveness. Just for the record, my home is a mud-brick walled, cement-floored, pastel-colored beauty with running water and electricity.<br /><br /><strong>Myth #4 Peace Corps is just a bunch of hippies, sitting around and singing “Kumbaya”</strong><br />The sub-culture demographics may change from country to country somewhat, but one comment that many Moroccan volunteers have is their observation of how un-crunchy volunteers are. You all know that I rather resent the title of hippy. Nonetheless, with my long-hair I am still one of the most threatening with my free-living insinuations. But when a gaggle convenes on the weekends in any random village or city in Morocco, do not expect noodle-dancing, reminiscing about those dank Phish shows or the patchwork pants to come leaping out of the backpack. An arbitrary cross-section of the program may render the investigator with a former school-teacher, several recently graduated economics and biology majors, an attorney, an aspiring politician and two Department of State candidates (one third of our nation’s Foreign Service officers are returned Peace Corps volunteers, so if you ever wanted to work abroad, be paid like home and get great benefits…). No one could deny that the political leanings are fairly uniform (take a wild guess which side of the spectrum), however, and those that spring from the opposite side of the aisle are likely to find their views somewhat unpopular.<br /><br />But still the question remains: What do you do? Well, the timing is actually quite ideal; sadly, eight months into my service, I am now starting to pick up speed and have a rather decent understanding of what programs are tenable and which are likely to be dead-ends. The protracted prologue to real activity is somewhat longer than it is for most volunteers, but not by much. We were all told not to apply for grants or to start major projects for the initial 6 months of service (this does not apply to the Youth Development program, who begin teaching a minimum of 6 months at the local Youth House within weeks of their arrival). That is what most of us did, leaving the months that follow for digging our heels in. The first half-year is a blur of meetings, hand-shakes, linguistic barriers and misunderstandings, door-knocking, flea bites, guesses of who is reliable and who is (quite frankly) a loser, chronic stomach problems, written and recited phone numbers, and numerous hours spent being lost, ripped off, or both. Over the course of this time you determine what a community or region’s needs are and how you can offer your services. In the meantime, the people determine what they can get out of you, how nice your belongings are and what you will leave behind when you leave.<br /><br />So what did I find? When talking to rural-dwelling volunteers, mainly from the Health and Environment sectors, the litany of demands sound similar enough to resemble a tape-recording. Potable water, trash disposal, planting trees, erosion control, poor hygiene, infant mortality, malnutrition mitigation, flood control, better irrigation, more livestock, language teaching, wheat, road paving, a public bath house, latrines, notebooks and pens for the school, clothing, a schoolhouse, bicycles, improved transit, tourist dollars, or just money in general. Some of these are prohibitively expensive but each year a few volunteers attempt to spearhead them, with mixed results.<br /><br />Overall, I am still not entirely comfortable with the role of candyman. It seems at times a more professional and glorified response to the children who implore, “Donnez-moi un bon bon!” in the streets. Nonetheless, it is the role that we can play to some extent and what often builds their trust in us. And so, under pressure from a local association, I have started to fill out some applications and search for funding. These associations are interesting. As the world globalizes and the Robin Hoods scout the developing countries for worthy beggars, locally-organized associations have spread like wildfire throughout Morocco. In all but the smallest and most remote mountain villages, every town, transit stop and hamlet has at least one association. Each of these has a twenty-word long title that alludes to every kind of project it aspires to accomplish before someone embezzles the money. In fact, the names are rather formulaic. If you are thinking of forming one, consult the following (it is written in French but the words are obvious enough):<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>L’Association _____________ (insert name of Berber town or animal) pour le Développement, l’Enfance, l’Éducation, les Femmes, la Culture et la Protection du Environnement, la Fôret et les Animaux.<br /></em><br />Without one of these shiny placards, no dough. So they all started organizing and getting chartered and submitting applications and making email accounts and forgetting passwords and…<br /><br />Then comes Mr. Tar, who rides up on his government-issue mountain bike and declares, “What can I do for you?” This is an incalculably powerful statement and I rather wish I never even said anything quite like it. In time, applications for irrigation-system refurbishing, tree plantings and weaving materials started creeping up from nowhere. But that is just a part of the picture. I have frequently resorted to the well-worn cliché, “Give a man a fish…” and have resolved to myself that education is the optimal effect that I want to have. AIDS education, collecting local environmental knowledge with a local association, establishing management protocols for a local gazelle reserve, teaching uneducated women their legal rights; these are projects that have been performed and are in the making. There are a few relatively involved ones in the making, but I don’t want to jinx myself, but I will let you know in time if these come to fruition.<br /><br />Sure, I think it is pretty fun, but would I suggest it to others? This question was posed by Angela (of the dynamic duo, Kobela, of Rapid City fame), and in response, I offer several questions for consideration.<br /><br />1) Can you appreciate and give people the benefit of the doubt, as they will undoubtedly behave very differently from that all we consider normal and polite, either unwittingly or intentionally?<br />2) Do you enjoy free time to read, learn new hobbies, have the same conversation with a neighbor for the 73rd time, or just sit and stare at a wall?<br />3) Would PC be a valuable step in your career? This may be especially important during those inevitable low points where you are ready to throw in the towel.<br />4) Are you not hell-bent on saving the world, and willing to accept minor increments and changes and purely enjoy the experiences and attained knowledge for what they are?<br />5) Do you mind living in a fishbowl and having everyone you know monitor your actions and associations?<br />6) Can you laugh at yourself and tolerate people laughing at you (for any number of reasons), knowing that they have absolutely no interest in how educated, well-trained, well-paid or well-respected you were back home?<br /><br />If you answered “Yes” to each of these and are interested in the kind of programs that Peace Corps offers, then I would say that Peace Corps is for you. Their range of programs surprised me somewhat and a quick glance at their web page says quite a bit. What I have described above may actually be significantly different from one may ultimately find and experience while serving. But by synthesizing the lessons learned by me, my colleagues and those who have lived and served elsewhere, one finds that certain aspects are universal. That is my spiel. I hope that all my loved-ones have a clearer picture of what I do out here.</span></div>Mister Tarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00396396401052080770noreply@blogger.com0