Sanctuary
noun sanc·tu·ary \ˈsaŋ(k)-chə-ˌwer-ē\
a place where someone or something is protected or given shelter
the protection that is provided by a safe place
the room inside a church, synagogue, etc., where religious services are held
“Human beings by their very nature are worshipers. Worship is not something we do; it defines who we are. You cannot divide human beings into those who worship and those who don’t. Everybody worships; it’s just a matter of what, or whom, we serve.”
― Paul David Tripp
I am sorry for the delay in the post, the classes are intense and the week was shortened due to the possibility of Eid al Fitr (Muslim Holiday marking the end of Ramadan) falling on Friday, we had to complete everything by Thursday. Let me first give you a run down of what has happened over the past two weeks and then I will go into my typical musings. As always feel free to skip ahead to the pictures but if you care to get lost in some thoughts and have a minute to spare read on.
Two weekends ago we took a program day trip to Volubilis an ancient Roman ruin that was a former frontier town on the far southwestern border of the Roman Empire. We also visited Moulay Idriss, a nearby mountain town. This city is held near and dear to the hearts of Moroccans because it is the place where Moulay Idriss settled and brought with him Islam in 789.
The week that followed passed by normally, it was the last week of Ramadan and therefore there was a sense of anticipation and longing as the month of fasting to come to a close. Nathan (My roommate) and I would sit there and salivate over the idea of eating and drinking during the day in the near future. As the week drew to a close we had plans to share an Iftar meal with our friends and their host family. The Eid (holiday) is based on the position of the crescent moon and when the moon is exactly in the middle of the phases Eid. The holiday is three days and consists of giving clothes and money to children and visiting with family and feasting to mark the end of fasting. The government of Morocco chooses to announce the day the holiday will begin the night before, shortly after sundown. Many other Arab nations and the United States decide several days ahead of time so that families can plan. While with our friends an announcement flashes across the TV screen which announces the day of the holiday. It happened to fall on Saturday, even though half the students on our program were long gone on their way to Tangier in the north by the time the announcement was made. I will say that a lesson I am consistently reminded of here in Morocco that time does not matter, the moon will be there tomorrow, the holiday will change, family members will arrive late, dinner will eventually be served, the sun will rise, and life will continue to tick on like the watch hand on your wrist, until one day it just wont anymore and then we will figure it out from there. We left shortly after school on Friday and began our adventure to the West into the Middle Atlas Mountains.
This story deserves a new start to my thoughts given the whole weekend was one adventure after another. Filled with mishaps and memories. Let me first say that the ways to get between cities in Morocco is train, grande taxi, bus and petit taxi in the order of ease and expense. We decided to take a grande taxi, which is a 1980’s Mercedes Benz that is a few inches off the ground and barely functioning. The gas gauge, the speedometer, and the RPM gauge are not functioning in any of them. Lined in old fur and cheetah print siding, religious tokens dangling from the rearview mirror. The windows are either almost closed or completely open with no way to adjust them except passing around the one hand crank in the car and hoping that you can slam it into place hard enough to make it function. The tires are usually partially flat and barely hanging on, but it is almost guaranteed to have a nice radio. Usually these cars fit 7 people and the driver, which means 4 adults in the 3-person back and 2 adults, plus the driver in the front. Now that you have an idea of what these vehicles look like you can see the five of us pile into the car on a 105-degree Meknes day and head towards the mountains. Now, normally at this time of year rain is a far off concept, and the dry Sahara weather patterns are king in Central Morocco. These trends are normally true, but thanks to ever changing weather patterns around the world it had rained the previous night and was forecasted again for that day. As we approach the foothills of the mountains we see the dark clouds rolling over the top. Now, being from Michigan I am used to driving in the rain, you slow down, put on your brights and hope for the best. As the rain comes down we keep the windows open for a while because it feels good to cool us down but quickly the weather escalates. The rain is coming down in sheets and pelting us inside the car, we feverishly attempt to roll up the windows to only find them stuck 2/3 of the way up. Ice-cold rain is now b-lining its way into the car whipping its way around our heads. The roof of the car has also begun to leak. The feeble wiper blades are struggling to keep any water off the outside of the windshield, while a thick layer of condensation builds on the inside. The rain is now coming down so hard that you can barely see the car in front of us. Our driver has not slowed down in any respect. The mountain road, which is wide enough for one lane of traffic, has cars passing each other as we are whipping through the foothills. When the driver wipes down parts of the windshield we can see that the road is washed out, with standing water coursing its way across. He plows ahead and we hope that we don’t get stuck or worse yet swept into cedar forests next to us. Then the fun begins, hail. Hail is pelting down from the sky in slightly smaller than golf ball size chunks. Meanwhile the windows are still open. We decide our best plan of action is to get as low as possible and hope for the best. The windshield cracks from the hail and we continue on, speeding furiously through the mountains. We travel like this for the next 25 minutes and then finally the storm breaks and the rain settles in the background. In the course of this time the temperature has dropped 30 degrees, we are shaken, cold, and wet but when the clouds break all we see are beautiful rain soaked mountains as far as the eye can see, dotted with cedar forests and fractured rock, the tan stained dirt subdued by the rain and is now the color of sand castles in high tide. We arrived in Azrou, a beautiful town nestled deep in the valleys of the Middle Atlas Mountains. The central mosque overlooks the valley and in the middle of the city stands a massive rock adorned with a royal crown, the name Azrou comes from the Amizigh tribal name for rock. There is a palpable difference in the way the town feels, a man guides us to our Riad where we are staying and invites us for Iftar at sunset. We settle in and then go explore the tiny town. We eat Iftar at a local restaurant and enjoy coffee and people watching for hours along the main road. In my opinion there is beauty in being stared at, being the only people who do not belong. Experiencing this tiny mountain town was more than I could have asked for.
The next day we enjoyed another day of mishaps and adventure as we were guided through the mountains by Hassan, a local Amazigh hiking guide who took us to see the small village of zaouia d'ifrane. The way to get there is to hire another grade taxi, in small towns like this all the drivers know each other and are even willing to flag a driver down on the road to get a hand crank to roll down the window for you. We arrive at the head of the trail, which is a 5 hour walk into the canyon deep in the mountains through the royal game reserve. Seeing wild monkeys and hunting outposts used by the royal family. Finally arriving at this small village nestled in the valley, the only place it can be compared to are the images in my head of Eden or Shangri law, the streets run with waterfalls fed by ice cold springs from far above the city in the waterfalls off the plateau. Young boys swim in the river and old men cool their tired feet and drink tea in the streams that run alongside the alleyways. The smell of mint and jasmine surround your senses. The swift current of the river cools the soul and eases the aches in your tired feet. There is a sense of serenity in that town that is calming after a long day of hiking through the ragged mountains.
After the long and packed taxi ride back to our hotel we attempted to clean up but due to the boiling hot water in the showers we barely showered, we then left to go to Ifrane a small town high in the mountains, famous for its Swiss architecture, beautiful views, and skiing in the winter. The tiny town was truly an oasis; the temperature was in the 60’s and in combination with a cold beer provided just the relief needed after a long day of hiking. I often find the best memories are those that you do not plan on. Being temporarily trapped in Ifrane before a man overhears our conversation, offers to find us a ride and then rides back with us through the cedar forests in the mountains to Azrou at 1:00 AM is something that you look back on and part of you says how could we be so trusting and then part of you says how could we say no. Many times I am astounded by the cruelty of humans, the greed, and the need to get ahead and then at other times equally astounded by the opposite, the kindness, generosity and willingness of people to help.
We all fully enjoyed our time hiking, laughing and living (at least temporarily) in Azrou and Ifrane. Getting to know and understand each other better as well as our guide Hassan and seeing yet another side of Moroccan society and life in the mountains.
One experience I forgot to include in my ramblings about these past two weeks which ties both the quotes at the top and my experiences in Azrou together is that this week I went to prayer for the first time. Now before I delve further let me back up explain that I am not Muslim and I am not going through an identity crisis while abroad. I have always been raised to be open-minded, to think, to try, to attempt to understand, to study, and to learn from others. While being here my language partner and I have discussed religion several times. My curious mind is always seeking to know, to understand, and to experience a life different than my own. In my previous posts I have discussed the topic of feeling the need to be a part of something larger than oneself and my experiences with Ramadan and fasting. When I asked my language partner if there was a way for me to participate in prayer with him I was pleasantly surprised when he said yes. All the mosques in Morocco are forbidden to non-Muslims except for a few for tourist purposes. In order for me to participate in prayer my language partner has to get permission from the Imam for me to participate in prayer. Here I recount the experience.
I walked down the street in my white distasha and black traditional slippers, the sweat from my back already causing my t-shirt to stick to my nervous skin, the cab stares for a second longer than comfortable as I seat myself in the backseat, “Bank Shaebe, fe Zarhounia”. I walk up the hill at my destination and await the arrival of Nick and Youssef. We walk through the streets and alleyways of the neighborhood outside the old city. Arriving shortly after 9:15 pm we enter the grounds of mosque and go directly to the small room next to the door, which looks, feels, and smells much like a high school locker room. Men both old and young take off their shoes, roll up their pants and sleeves and begin to wash themselves. Slow, steady, methodical movements of water splashing over feet, hands and face onto the clammy tile below. The calmness of the room is appealing and is filled with the sounds of gushing water and dripping ceiling tiles. The water mixing with sweat dripping down from my chin, intermixing with the water that has coursed from these walls for longer than the oldest man washing his feet can remember. We pass by the old men relaxing on the ground outside the door and enter. Removing our shoes once more and sitting on the matted and aged carpet towards the far wall. LED chandeliers light the elegant ceilings, the hum of fans mixes with the soft murmurings of Quranic verses. Men who have seen more days in the sun that I can imagine slowly bobbing back and forth, their relaxed wrinkles and tired eyes focusing on some invisible horizon; rocking, standing, bending, bowing, kneeling, repeat, over and over until Allah hears their feeble voices lofted above the din of this earthly place. I sit silently, the moisture from within dripping down my forehead and back. The call to prayer reverberates through the air outside the mosque. The quiet hush outside the mosque increases to a fever pitch as people rush to fill every available inch. Hundreds of people with their toes perfectly aligned with the edge of withered red carpets as far as the eye can see. The wall we face has a picture of Mecca and a date and time indicator. A man goes to a bookshelf and opens the Quran to the page that will be recited. And just like that we began the journey; the movements of the prayer were slow, rhythmical and purposeful. The slow murmurings of prayer as the voice of the reader rang strong, bouncing off the walls, mixing with others needs, wants, gifts, peace, violence, forgiveness. All of these parts of our lives being released into the thick summer air, simultaneously setting us free and pushing us back to the ground. Begging Allah to take the weight from our shoulders, to show mercy, to understand the plight of our minute struggles and our human condition. Together we exist, and for those movements we are one, all seeking, yearning and needing gratification. Sweat streaming off my face, the smell of musk in the carpet and the words of Allah spoken through the Prophet Mohamed (PBUH) pulsating through my body. Yearning. Learning. Understanding. The voice of God ceased, the men arose from the ground, the oneness ceased once again. We all returned back to our thoughts, our qualms, turning away from the creator and towards the created, away from the well and towards the vessel filled with murky water left too long in the sun of desire. We all know this process and have become familiar with it over and over again. We know what it means to worship, to continue to pulsate through this life.
I found that night a new way of worship and not just worship of God or any other thing in life. Instead I felt what it was like to be part of a worshipping body. In Christianity often the followers of Christ are the body, the physical presence in this world to do God’s work. I have learned that we are constantly seeking this feeling in many different ways. I have found a way of worshipping, a way of becoming one, becoming the body, becoming a different self within the confines of this ill fated figure. My presence on this earth allows me to complete the movements of worship but that is not why humans continue to return, to seek and to breathe the shared spirit. We return because we seek the oneness, selflessness and the humanity. We continue to worship because we need the satisfaction of worshipping something. Many seek family, physical items, sex, food, friends, light, darkness, theory, practice, nature, or production. I found my place yet again at the shared table of worship and for that one moment we all become one, all giving up our fears, hopes, lusts and dreams into the same heavy air. The carpet felt the weight of want, the water washed away our past, the ceiling cradled the night air above us and kept us as one. We can only live for moments and when we chose to use those moments for worship together we chose a path often chosen but rarely appreciated. We have chosen to do what our hearts desire in pursuit of shared understanding.
We also must acknowledge the places that we chose to worship. I have chosen to discuss sanctuary because this word has forever changed in my mind. I can no longer only picture a church with poorly upholstered pews, or an elegant mosque ruling over the skyline of an ancient city next to the ocean, nor can I assign it to the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, nor the Temples that reside in neighborhoods and busy streets of West Jerusalem, nor the wigwams of Huron Indians, nor the soaring Hindu temples, nor the pyramids of Giza, nor the structures of the Mayans. I can no longer picture the word sanctuary in my mind without the web of interconnected images that expand far beyond the myriad places commonly associated with sanctuary. Instead I have gained further insight, that sanctuary can be anyplace that worship has occurred. The life that we live allows for places of peace and serenity in all aspects of our lives. I found my own personal sanctuary once again in the mountains. Strolling through the alleyways and streets of a small town in the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains, with waterfalls cascading above and water flowing freely throughout the streets reminded me of sanctuary. It reminded me to slow down my thinking, to breathe, to understand, and furthermore to simply exist. It reminded me that the humans we choose to surround ourselves with are often much more important than our surroundings. We are perpetually in the sanctuary of our lives and that we often glimpse into this world of inner sanctuary at moments of beauty and awe but we do not need to limit ourselves to these moments solely. Over the past two weeks I have worshipped in two distinct sanctuaries. I have seen the formality of gilded ceilings and red carpets of the mosque, and I have understood the pressure of water as it rushes over my head and emerging from the stream to see the mountains above. I have understood the difference and come to revel in it. I now understand that sanctuary can mean anywhere in our lives if we stop to realize how we define it. We chose places to worship but in reality those places are simply that… places that we chose to exist in for brief moments. Buildings designed to evoke in us the feelings needed to feel God and to worship. I challenge all of us to continuously respect those places of sanctuary but in return seek the sanctuary in yourself and in the people and things around you. Drink deeply the life that exists around you and once with other better understand that we all want to live freely and in shared existence.
I apologize if I have ranted too much in this post there was much to share and in my thoughts not many ways to shorten it. I apologize if these ideas are scattered at best. I will leave you with these final concluding thoughts that remember you are always infinitely you, that you reside in a special place in the world and if you slow down to realize what you worship and the sanctuaries that you occupy, you need not feel separate and apart but rather feel infinitely connected to the world. To be human is to be part of something larger than yourself, to worship with each other, and to find sanctuary.
Breath deeply… understand… love… and until next time Cheers and goodnight.
