Reports of Protests

Kids in New York have snow days. Kids here have political unrest days.

Mubarek has stepped down. He was a very different kind of ruler than our own king
Mohammed VI. The people that I have spoken with generally approve of the message that the protesters in Egypt were communicating, but not with the method they used to communicate it.

Saturday 19 February
All weekend, there has been a hum of rumor flying just under audible volume. Facebook has apparently published some invitation to a protest-style gathering, and everyone knows someone who's seen it, but no one has seen it themselves. I've said all along that I would be surprised if anything came of it. Firstly, the plan is such a shadow that it compeletly lacks organization. Secondly, Morocco is not Egypt or Tunisia; our King is good to our country. Of course we have some issues we are working on, but people are generally content and living well.


Sunday 20 February
At noon I was on my way to school from church, walking down the main street in the New City party of town, I saw a crowd of people in Place Florence. I thought for a moment there might be a new souk or marketplace open, but it was odd that everyone gathered was a man. Then I saw a few signs, patriotic pleas for powers to be given out more freely, complete with supportive portraits of the king in the center. There were about 200 men involved in the peaceful demonstration, including a couple with megaphones who were chanting melodically above the chatter.
The main road and a reasonable surrounding radius had been closed to motorized traffic by some impressively uniformed policemen, and the grand-taxis that went to the towns around the city were not running. Thus, I didn’t get to see Amina and her family today. Someone else told me the trains and buses between Casablanca and Rabat and Fes were closed down for the day, as well.
I didn’t witness any further turmoil, but neither did I go looking for trouble. I heard there were only a few demonstrators, perhaps only the ones I saw at midday, but that many other ragamuffins took the opportunity to piggyback on the mischief, and caused all manner of havoc. Storefronts were smashed, people were robbed, cars had accidents…
At dusk I ventured out to check the status of Place Florence, and found it empty. The protestors had gone home, leaving only discarded signs bearing the King’s face and pleas for distribution of authority.

Monday 21 February
I taught Physics this morning, and the lesson was one of those that makes you feel like a gymnast on the uneven bars who just stuck the greatest ten-point landing. Not the kind of lesson with spontaneous teachable moments, or the kind that revealed to the students the true wonders of the world, but a lesson that was solidly, to-the-letter, according to plan. We were studying changes in states of matter and the energy transfers associated with various changes, and the demonstration of regelation that was set up in the beginning of the period successfully fell through the ice block at the perfect moment, 50 minutes into the period. The room was cold enough that breathing on the individual mirrors was a perceptible display of condensation releasing energy, and the internet worked well enough to load the youtube video of the Triple-Point of water.
When the bell rang, perfectly after homework was assigned, we stepped out of the room into chaos. Let me explain: my physics class is at the back of the building. It is a fortress. During our highly structured science time, the rest of the school had apparently been going mad with panic. Someone started an unverifiable rumor that the American School of Marraksh had been attacked, and students were refusing reason. They were scared, and so they were rebelling, refusing to come to class, yelling, or leaving. Some called their parents, others just walked out. In the interest of their mental safety (and, ok, their physical safety, too, just on the off-chance that something happened) we closed school for the rest of the afternoon and the following day.

I stopped at the big grocery store on the way home to get some lab supplies, and then looked for a taxi back to my apartment. I opened the door of the first taxi who pulled over for me, and he looked back, peering at me under my hairscarf. “You are not Moroccan,” he stated. I tried to dodge the accusation by telling him that I live here, and asked him to take me to La Gare. “50 dirhams!” he cried. I tried to answer calmly. “I live there, I know it’s only 6 dirhams from here.” He would have none of it. “50 dirhams for you, because you are not Moroccan.” I got out of the taxi.

The next driver also asked where I was from, before I entered the taxi. Since he was less abrasive, I told him, but that merited me the flat-out refusal of a ride. As I was waiting on a taxi who would stoop to carrying an American, a boy ran up to me. “Look out, Madam! You are not Moroccan, and there are men with knives out who are looking for you!” I found a taxi shortly thereafter and decided not to stick around to find out if he was telling the truth.

Tuesday 22 February
No school today. The founder posted on the school closing early yesterday on her facebook status, and received about 100 comments in total, mostly from scared students, and some from concerned parents. Because of the panicked atmosphere, the administration decided it would be better to play it safe and stay home today. The founders had a barbecue at their house, which many teachers and even a few students attended. It was a beautiful, sunny day, warm and peaceful. It would have been a perfect Jersey Shore day.
We return to school tomorrow, rested and at peace.

Wednesday, 23 February
Back in school. I am glad to be back, and so are the students. Our school is a haven; for many of the students, and also for me, it is a place of comfort and refuge. It may be my workplace, but it is also a place I feel at home, my fortress.

I hear there were a few ruffians out yesterday on the outskirts of town, but I witnessed none of it myself. In other cities, there is some further unrest, but Fes, the city of tradition, returns to the way it has always been.

Eid M'loud

Somehow, this vacation has been more restful than most. It came at a time when it was very needed. The winter lull has affected everyone at the school, students and teachers alike. Between the rain, report cards, seniors working on college applications, and the continual flow of lessons, homework, and tests, the students all needed a chance to re-energize.

I had the chance to spend a long day with Amina, go with her to the al-S'boua3, the celebration a family has for a new baby, for her neighbor (the baby's grandmother), spend a day showing off Fes for two sweet Polish university students who stayed with me, and train to Rabat with one of Amicitia's new volunteers to take photos of the ruins of Challah and the blue medina. I spent the train ride in the door, watching the countryside fly by, and was determined to swim in the ocean, despite the cold.

The cold was not the greatest deterrant from the ocean paddle. The afternoon sun was thin through the winter clouds, but a greater threat was the ocean itself, still caught in the throes of the recent rainstorms. The waves crashing against the shoreline were nothing but fear-inspiring. As tall as buildings, they came from both diagonals, ripping through each other like a pack of dogs fighting over nothing, for sheer bloodthirsty instinct. The waves were large enough to hide mountainous rock features on the beach, revealing them in the trough of the waves like knives. Though it was daylight, the water seemed to suck up the sunlight and reflect back nothing. I have never seen an ocean so murderous and powerful.

Once, while backpacking in the Sierra's with Dad and Rachel, we were hit by a lightening storm on our way down a mountain. Isolated in the rock field, we had no cover and no protection from the storm. Watching the immense storm surrounding us, I saw for the first time that Nature could kill me.

In Rabat this week, the children playing between the concrete barriers on the beach and the lighthouse foundation ran past yelling, 'les vagues tuees! les vagues tuees!" The killer waves. Standing in my sweater and swim-pants with the water ripping past my ankles, I felt that power a second time. Those waves would have killed me. It was so beautiful.

The train on the way back to Fes was standing room only - I stood in the little aisle by the compartments with some students and an American tourist couple, chatting until we got to my city. I visited Candace and Suzanne, and finished some lesson planning for school. I am excited for school to start again, with new plans for classes to inspire learning and curiosity, and fresh patience and love for the students that I care so much for.

Saffron-Coloured Glasses

In times of challenge, we grow. When presented with obstacles, our determination is sharpened. When faced with adversity, we find strength we never knew we had.

I have never been more thankful to be home. The first week back at school passed with little difficulty - an unanticipated treasure, as all teachers can verify. Somehow the rooms full of students accustomed to sleeping late, eating snacks consistently all day, and tackling intellectual challenges no more difficult than composing a decent argument to get your neighbor to give back the soccer ball, quietly re-focused themselves on their studies.

I am thankful for my students this week, and the honesty and kindness they show.

The Algebra class greatly enjoyed a game that I borrowed from the fourth grade teacher, "Stump the Chump." Although none of the groups managed to make an equation that I couldn't solve, they participated enthusiastically, and there was some creative number manipulation devised. The three physics students who entered my class halfway through the year are catching up, and at least catching on to the necessary basics, a good start for now. They showed significant respect for lab equipment and sharing with each other in a Hooke's Law Spring Constant Calculation Lab. In equation-of-the-day news, the 7th grade has now defeated the 12th grade *twice* in the number of valid equations discovered on any one day! They have gotten very creative!

A few groups of foreign guests came through this weekend, and I really enjoyed dancing until after midnight with the folk dancers who stayed at my apartment - sunny young girls who spoke eloquently floral French.

Guests always indicate medina tours, and never fail to bring some small adventure to the day! The weekend was sunny and warm. Though I worry for what the spring will yield with the absence of the month-long rain we should be experiencing now, I must admit to fully enjoying the sunshine that melts over every ancient wall and street. The noise and bustle of the medina just glows brighter today, and the warm sunshine matches the warmth in the smiles of familiar faces along the streets.

I met one traveler near the main gate in the medina; I knew he was waiting a few minutes, but the area is interesting to the point of sensory overload. When I approached, I could pick him out immediately: shorts, backpack, overwhelmed facial expression. At least he wasn't alone; the waiter at a nearby restaurant was speaking quickly with him, holding up several menus, trying to convince the poor man that he REALLY REALLY did want to eat lunch now, because at this restaurant he would get the family price. I have seen this man say the same thing to every tourist for the last year, although we have never actually had a conversation ourselves. When I approached to rescue this traveler, the waiter responded joyously, "Oh you are with her! I known her since longtime! She is very good, very good guide. She is like my sister, I know her! Well, I never talk to her, but I see her all times! Since longtime I see her!" I was too busy trying not to laugh to even respond.

Being here makes me take joy in life again, and I grow stronger for it.

Read This With An English Accent

First impression of London: cold. As I de-planed, I found my Moroccan slippers entirely submerged in the snow. Also my hands, as I had to make snowballs to defend myself from the Brazillian peace corps volunteers I had flown with, and a full-on snowball fight broke out on the tarmac.

Second impression of London: big. Though my airport is supposedly 'in' London, the train still took about an hour to reach center city. I chatted with a friendly Londoner on the ride, and she burst out laughing after my first sentence. She spent the next hour trying to teach me to soften my apparently terrible American accent. Once in center-city, I thought it would be easy to find the family I was to stay with. In my city, I can walk from one side to another given about an hour and a half. Not in London! The underground had stopped running, so I ended up on a bus to another station. Still not there, I then had a half hour rail ride before I reached, not even to a place I could walk from, but to an area where my host could retrieve me in a car!

Third impression of London: pedestrian-friendly. Despite its absolute massiveness, once I learned my way about, the underground and rail lines actually proved quite kind. Busses, however, remained a success only when travelling with locals.

I stayed 4 days more than planned in London, and I feel I hit all the important tourist sites. However, I do recognize that said claim opens me up to a barrage of 'did you see this?' and 'did you do that?' so allow me a list before I elaborate.

What I did in London:

Natural History Museum
Science Museum
Telephone Box
Ice Skating Rink
Hampton Court
Westminster Abby
Big Ben
Buckingham Palace
King's Cross Station
London Bridge
Shakespeare's Globe
Southwark Bridge and Cathedral
Tower Bridge
Clapham Common Park
London Eye (big ferris wheel)
St Paul's Cathedral (went to evensong service)
London Zoo
Regents Park
Epsom Downs Raceway

And many nights of salsa dancing!

The family I stayed with, a mum with 3 grown kids, one with his own daughter of 4 years, was so generous and hospitable with me. They live in one of the 'sub-cities' of London, so I got a bit of the cozy town experience as well, on nights when I wasn't salsa dancing.

I also got to drive a London black cab! Only took about a minute for me to come out of a roundabout on the right side - I mean, the *wrong* side - of the road, and for the family's son to realize that it was probably a bad plan to let the American/Moroccan at the wheel. I really couldn't get used to getting into the left door of the car, during the course of the entire week and a half, that threw me off.

Two days before Christmas, I took the bus to Leicester to meet Evan and Nic, friends from uni that I haven't seen in far too long. Nic's family lives in Leicester, and she also has extended family in Ilkley moors, in the north. Evan and I trained to Ilkley to meet them the following day, since the car was full, and had a very picturesque afternoon walking around the cute little snowy town!

Simon and Wendy's house is perched on the hillside looking down into the bowl of the town of Ilkley, built like an oceanfront beach house, but lost on a mountaintop. Wendy told me that, after looking at the house, they just knew it was the right one. However, when asked to describe it later, they couldn't recall a single detail about the structure itself - only the view.

We ate heavy English food, all deliciously savory, and Nic's little sister Alice educated me in the ways of the English. Christmas presents were opened in a frantic mass of chaos, with all 11 people diving simultaneously under the tree and tearing wrapping paper right and left. Since this didn't take very long, we all went for an afternoon walk. Alice informed me that a proper English hike must involve walking to a pub, so we drove off to the next hillside where we could stroll among the mountains and cliffs on our way to a pub that looked like the wicked witch of the west had just dropped it out of a tornado in the middle of nowhere. The snow on the ground was soft powder, and we all slipped and slid along the semi-treaturous terrain with all the other English people who had the same idea of this particular hillside hike/pub.

Our hike was in vain, as the pub was not open, and we were left to enjoy only the beautiful views off the rocky cliff, and the snowy countryside, and shuffle back to the car before our feet froze to the ground.

The day after Christmas is Boxing day, and it is a National Bank Holiday in England. This means that nobody does anything, maybe even more so than on Christmas day. I was due to fly back to Fes on Boxing day. Listen to how well-planned this was: I had a coach that left me 4 hours in London before my flight. During that 4 hours, I was to take the Underground, if it was running, or a citybus, if not, to the rail station where I could catch the Express Rail service to the airport and arrive in plenty of time.

Well. The coach was about an hour late ariving in London. The Underground was, of course, not running. The bus was somehow not going to the right place, to I ended up in a cab to the rail, where I discovered that the rail service was on strike. I resigned. Surely four more days in London wouldn't be the end of the world.

It was an absolutely lovely time.

I got back to some tourist attractions I hadn't seen the first time, and eventually met up with Tracey and the same family I had stayed with before, who once again offered me their generous hospitality! By the last day, I actually felt I could navigate my way through the city fairly effectively, most of my navigation centering either around the Victoria Rail Station, or the salsa club by Tottenham Court. London is a late-night city, and I enjoyed taking advantage of the activity!

When it was finally time to fly home, I must admit to feeling some sense of loss at leaving London and the English culture and people. Arriving in London felt so very foreign, but it must be reasonably close to America, because it felt comfortable by the time I left. I boarded the plane, dragging my feet ever so slightly, ready to sit silently in my seat and just sleep so I wouldn't have to watch the city dissapear out from under me.

I immediately encountered a tiff between an older Moroccan gentleman and a flight attendant in need of a translator, and was able to help. In the first few rows, I saw Sue and Larry, who had also been on my flight TO London, and greeted them. I shuffled back through the aisle, searching for a seat, and saw a space next to a familiar voice in a red coat: my school's fourth grade teacher, Kirsten, who grew up in Saudi and was on her way back from her family's house in Scotland! My spirits rose so much in that five minutes of getting on the plane; it felt like being personally welcomed back to Fes, the city of a million people, where you can't walk down the main street, or even get on an airplane, without meeting someone you know.

My mood continued to lift as I talked with Kirsten on the flight home, just to remember the amazing people that I had left in my city. Fes, it seems, just attracts exceptional people, and I am so thankful for the friends that I have here. I like coming home to a place where the system is familiar. I feel I belong in Fes.

Christmas Parties and Travels!

My next entry will be from London! I am preparing to leave Fes for the first time in months, what feels like years, to go to England for Christmas!

Three of the faculty at my school hosted a Christmas party this week that was amazing. I do enjoy the typical Moroccan parties, in which everyone dresses up, sits around and talks, is served food, dances, is served more food and talks some more, etc... This party reminded me just what it can mean to have a party: our hosts set out snacks and made the announcement, 'Since this is an American celebration, we are serving food help-yourself style. We are bringing around the tray of mini-pizzas to get you started, but after that, you are on your own to get food from this table!' They performed the funniest skit of making hot chocolate with one person's arms on another's body, and proceeded with other improv games and activites. For our student teacher who is finishing her internship this week and going home, we had a box where we all wrote her notes, and there was still plenty of talk time and eating time. The weirdest part of it all was when the party ended. It just... ended! We sang every Christmas carol we knew, and our hosts wished us Merry Christmas, offered out leftovers, and all the 30 people or so left. It was a great evening!

My roommates Dottie and Rachel should be back in Texas by now; they left on the train last night to fly home from Casablanca. I'll be returning to Fes the night after Christmas!

Princess for a Day

This was an exciting week at school. Between field trips, Tuesday off for lunar new year, student council elections, the arrival of the basketball hoop, Poetry Night, and the December Cup intre-high school soccer tournament, there has been little time to settle into our normal school routine. Friday was our bi-monthly half day for staff development, and we celebrated with a school spirit event: Traditional Dress Day for the whole school.

Although ‘traditional’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘Moroccan,’ that is the natural standby. Traditional dress days in the past have also yielded cowboy outfits, kimonos, and togas.

Traditional Moroccan casual-wear is a wonderful bathrobe-like creation called the djellabah that goes over any other clothes (usually ones that don’t match or don’t look appropriate for outside) and robes the wearer in a full-length dress of some bright color. They remarkably resemble wizarding cloaks, and it’s all I can do not to shout “You shall not pass!” at anyone walking toward me.

For this traditional dress day, I stepped it up a notch, to a kaftan-taksheta: beautiful formal gowns made for weddings and fancy celebrations!

Moroccan dress clothes are not really what Americans would call comfortable. There are multiple layers of stiff, rustly fabric, the sleeves fall well over your hands, and the skirt well over the feet. Wearing a Moroccan traditional dress is a big enough and complicated enough endeavor to be dubbed ‘and experience.’ But, you know, it’s not really about the dress.

Like so many of my experiences, I was surprised to find that, what I thought was the point, was really not the point at all. It was actually a means to an end. It’s not really about the dress. The dress is not the finish line, and the physical appearance not the aim.

The act of getting dressed couldn’t have been less dignified; I have never donned a taksheta by myself before, and I quickly discovered why Moroccan women put these on in a room all together. The satin has no give to it, the fancy decorative embroidery catches like teeth as it scrapes over my face, and each sleeve has enough fabric to considered an arm-skirt. When I finally have the first layer on, I have to tackle the second layer, still attempting not to drown in the first. The belt is wide like an obi, with lacings up the back. The train of the second skirt tripped me as I tied these up. You know what I did? I fell. I had a fleeting dream of catching myself before the reality of all those skirts and beading caught up with me, and rather than tear the skirt, I just let myself fall straight over like a bowling pin.

Finally I was dressed for school, with Moroccan make-up, which rivals theatre stage pancake, and ten million bobby-pins in my high hairdo.

Then I realized what the Moroccan dress was really about.

I walked into drawing class before the bell to the usual: squirrely students rushing about, chatting, riffling through papers, throwing things, and general manageable chaos. When I opened the door, the room fell silent. Students froze with papers half out of their bags and mouths still open from conversations, and the only sound was my deafeningly rustling skirts. “Miss,” one of them voiced, “You look like a princess!”

I have to confess that, at that moment, I felt like a princess, too.

We started class, with students drawing sketches for ten minutes each before a rotation. After about 5 minutes, one tardy senior opened the door, and I froze mid-attendance. She was beautiful in an untouchable way, like a porcelain doll, needing care, but somehow outside the daily life we shared. The rest of the room, too, had stopped mid-sketch to stare at her. She floated into the room without a trace of sheepishness at being late – and why should she be? Clearly, she was a princess.

Every repetition of this phenomenon was as dramatic, and each as natural. The production undergone in the morning was forgotten. Today, the girls were all princesses and the boys were all kings. The point of Moroccan dress isn’t the clothes, it’s the ceremony, the honor, and the respect that you do yourself and those around you, by stepping regally back from your careless, casual self, into a china figurine, admired, protected, and regal.

Catch Up

Here's what you missed:

1. School is more organized this year, and continues to get more organized each week. We have discipline now, and working internet, and we even take attendance in detention.

2. Amina is engaged! Her fiancee is an older Frenchman who is very calm and sweet to her. They are aiming for a summer wedding. Her parents are happy, and her siblings are excited for her. Her family doesn't understand her love of working, but her fiancee does, and says that if she is ever without a job she can help him out with his business, which is sort of a trade enterprise between France and Morocco.

3. I have started seeing an Arabic tutor once a week! I'm learning the finer points of grammar, most notably the difference between the four verbs that equate to various forms of 'taking' and 'bringing.'

4. My roommates have continued to visit with their American friends in Meknes, who came to visit last weekend, bringing Dottie a guitar that she had given them earlier! We are now a two-guitar household, and have been taking advantage of this fact.

5. I have spent a lot of time lately with three sisters who are my age and live together close to the city. They are a lively bunch, each with her own distinct talents and interests, and they know a lot of people around Fes. We had a birthday party for one of their friends recently and belly-danced around her living room for 5 hours!

6. The Eid Kabir, the biggest Moroccan holiday, was last month. I spent the time with Amina's family, and actually just lived with them for the week. We sacrificed a sheep, and I learned how to obtain, clean, and prepare everything from stomach and uterus to brains, lungs, and fat. And I did it with dignity.

7.I have had a few guests from Europe and America stay with me for a night or two here and there. It's fun to meet people who are just passing through Fes and get their impressions. It's also fun to tour them around the city and introduce them to everyone.

8. The weather hasn't changed yet. It's chilly, but not raining yet. It thought about raining, and we had 3 days of such intense rains that Casablanca suffered serious flooding, and the mountain highway to Ifrane, the major north-south road through central Morocco, was closed. But it's been dry for a week now. The rain should start any day now, and continue until the end of February.

You are caught up in Moroccan life! Insha'allah, blog entries will resume as scheduled this weekend.