Final Thoughts

“One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language, that is our country, our fatherland – and no other” Emile M Cioran






As I sit in a coffee shop with my sweater on starring out at the cold, cloudy late summer day that has arrived in Michigan I cannot help but think I am incredibly far from the scorching sun, sand, cacti, cigarette smoke, the scent of musk and old rugs, far from roads with no rules, children running about the streets without parents, ten or more family members discussing the happenings of the city till all hours of the night, sweating all hours of the night, incredibly sugary Fanta, strong coffee, French music , Darija speed talkers, far from new friends, incredibly cheap food, shame about drinking alcohol, the kings face always looking down upon you, the call to prayer ringing out over the city, and on tv, and on the radio, constantly hearing Allah used in every context possible. At the end of this list I must say that I essentially just feel far… far from Morocco and far from the home that I am attempting to readjust to.






In this post I will try and briefly summarize what I did for the last three weeks and wrap up my experience in Morocco. I have completed my second study abroad and after 36 grueling hours of travel and 2 days at home I am glad to have my friends, family, and some sense of returned normalcy but at the same time each time I return from another question I ask myself, is what I live normal, is what I consider the real world truly what is and should be the standard in my life, each time I feel myself further and further fractured between different states of existence, separated by seas, and walls of emotion, by language, by shared experiences, by the lived reality of the world I reside in. Upon returning from Palestine I felt inspired and energized to prove to the world there could be another way and upon returning from Jordan I was reminded that the world is a horrible place full of hardship and cruelty of humankind upon one another and yet upon returning from Morocco the jury is still out, I feel exhausted, full of questions that cannot be answered, and furthermore I feel distant and fractured once again. I fully believe fro every place you live, every relationship you build, every mile passed, and ever opportunity take is another part of your soul invested and scattered to the winds of this earth. I have learned to never regret a dirham spent of experiences, or a dinar spent on a meal with friends, or a dollar on a plane ticket, because in the end it is all essentially worth both the monetary and emotional toll that being committed to learning and understanding other people and places comes with.






Which leads me to discuss two of my favorite places in Morocco that truly captured my heart, my fascination for people and culture, and furthermore taught me that home can be wherever you want it to be regardless of the building you reside in.






I will first talk about our weekend trip to Assilah and Tetuan, the first city is a beach side fortress that is now famous for Spanish tourists and international art festivals. We spent a dat wandering the streets and laying on the beach and playing the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, playing soccer on the beach in between the camels that decided to join us for a few quick minutes on the field before boarding a grande taxi to head to Tetuan. Now as we head acorss the peninsula which is Northern Morocco looking to the north and seeing the confluence of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, with the city of Tanja (Tangier) off in the distance and then further off across to Spain. When looking south one sees green mountains rising from riverbeds and basins high into the greyish blue ocean clouds that hang low overhead. We arrive as the sun is setting after whipping through narrow mountain highways, the city of Tetuan clings to the sides of mountain on both sides of a valley with a river snaking its way between the two halves, the lights from the fortress overlooking the city glimmers like a lighthouse guiding us home, at the end of the valley it opens back up again the small cities of Capanegro and Montillo are seen glinting off the waters of the Mediterranean. Needless to city this city is a site to behold from a distance, much larger than I had ever imagined it to be.






When taking a grande taxi it is always an adventure of when you will arrive and in what shape, after having several miscommunications our cab driver characterized by his coke bottle glasses and goofy grin proceeds to attempt to turn around and then backs up into someone, this is quickly dealt with by a quick exchange of 200 dirham and some harsh words and everyone is off on their own. The only way to get around a new city is to just drive around and continuously ask people where to go, this sounds easy but is much harder when it is dark, the streets are narrow, the hills resemble San Francisco, the place where you are staying will not pick up their phone, and no one in the car has ever been to that city before, and so after about 30 minutes we make it the center of the city and are dropped off and the first though that comes to my head is that I am certainly not in what I would think of as a Moroccan city anymore. The white buildings shine with lights cast from European style twinkle lights that adorn each wrought iron lamp post, the cobble stone street are worn to a beautiful sheen by years of feet and hooves and car tires. There is beauty in the central fountain surrounded by palm trees; the promenade streets have neon lights with names of shops, boutiques, and cafes in Spanish. The military officers that line the barricaded streets smile and wave us on as we pass close by the royal vacation palace in the center of the city. We enter the old city and soon realize that this is not the old cities we are used to, the walls are all white and the streets an elegant brick, and soon we find that the language is also going to prove to be interesting, using a mixture of Spanish, Darija, Arabic, and French with an accent my ears were certainly not accustomed to. The busy market streets unfold before us like an ever changing maze, full of loud voice, kids playing, shop owners attempting to make last minute sales before the night comes to a close, the cold humid wind sweeps the trash on the streets into piles and alleyways. The buildings span over the alleyways, which creates little tunnels and alleyways, something I have never seen before in my life. We arrive at our Air BnB and get settled in and after passing at least 12 military officers on our way to the home we realize that we must be close to something important. As we are getting the tour of our 5 bedroom three bathroom mansion we go to the roof to be greeted by floodlights, a 12 foot fence with barbwire at the top, a massive cooling system and in the distance we see the massive doorway to the Kings vacation palace, we were staying in the home that abuts the walls to the royal palace, and so we could all now say we were the Kings neighbors, at least for a night.






We awoke the next day and were served breakfast on a nearby rooftop that overlooked the cloud enshrouded mountains in the distance. We decided that we would walk to the section of the city where the traditional arts are made and were pleasantly greeted by a person willing to show us around the city. This is a play used a lot in Morocco, a local will approach you and make friends and then offer to show you to where you are trying to go, which is great but will end one of two ways, they will demand money at the end of it or they will be taking you to a place where they have a relationship with a shop owner and you will have to sit through a speech from that person about their products and then awkwardly feel obligated to by something. To many people this sounds like an awful plan but at the same time, formal tours are extremely expensive in Morocco and that it is often worth is to get the perspective of a local and at the end of it you end up spending a few dollars will not break the budget and there tours have been some of my favorite experiences while being in morocco. We saw so many beautiful rooftop terraces and were given the full tour of the Jewish quarter which is an important part of Moroccan culture overall and an important symbol of coexistence in Moroccan society. We ended up at a traditional Apothecary where we were kind and bought a few things before heading on our way to go eat in the new part of the city. In the day you can see the Spanish influence even more than in the night. Seeing the traditional Spanish architecture that is frozen in the 1930’s and 40’s colonial era that screams of Spanish nationalism. In our own house there were beautiful remnants of a Franco era rule, the house felt like it was owned by the upper crust of Spanish colonialists living their exotic dreams in the Moroccan northern territories, the old tape player rang out with 1940’s Spanish bing band music and the book shelves were lined with books about Spanish imperialism, all of which was tainted with the touch of orientalist superiority complex, the shiny tile, and the painting and photos taken during the great documentation phase where the colonial powers of Europe swopped in and decided how Moroccan society should and would forever be defined by the West in international studies. Having lived and seen a place where a colonial past is so incredibly palpable truly makes it easier to feel and understand what a post-colonial world can and should mean. Living in a place where the scars of wrongdoing are evident in the stone, concrete, cobble stones, plaster, paint, and language truly puts the past in a present context into sharp clarity. The place we ate lunch was called Casa Espana, a club that was once a socialite gathering place in the heart of Tetuan, where the dining room still has the dance hall style stage that the high wooden ceilings recall in all of us an older time where the walls would have been soaked in the smell of wine and cigar smoke, and the military elites, and the administrators of the colonial rule would have danced the night away. The past defines the future and with this past it is understandable to see that the future of Morocco will be marred by constant change, fear and anger from being ruled over once again both in reality and in more figurative terms.






We then traveled to Tangier to catch the train home and after a very long weekend of exploring it was certainly time for rest, our bodies at this point are also getting close to the point of ultimate exhaustion and most of us have been sick for at least a few days of not most of the summer. So as we slept in the afternoon sun outside the Tangier train station we reminisced about our time and tried not to think about our last two weeks of school.






During the school week is passed by without much ado but we were able to go and volunteer/job shadow for an afternoon at a local business. My roommate, Nathan, decided to go and visit the government school for artisans and traditional crafts which is a school run by the government to teach new generations of Moroccans the arts that many think of when they think of Moroccan architecture and traditional products. We spent a few hours learning how to carve wooden pieces for furniture, doors, celling sections and in general artwork. I will say that I did not have much to show after about two hours of work compared to what the artisans produce in a quarter of the time and gave me more appreciation for the amount of detail and artisanship that goes into simple things like doors, and walls panels throughout all of Morocco.






The week continued on and as we headed into our last weekend in morocco we prepared to head to Rabat, the capital city. The train was full and the countryside beautiful and as we approach the city we quickly realize that we are not in Meknes anymore and although I feel like a broken record constantly repeating that phrase, the influence from each colonial ruler and thousands of years of movement of people and ideas and goods has crafted a country of unique identities that all share a common homeland and fatherland but yet are so completely different from each other and therefore I must comment on the differences spotted in each city because it deserves to be noticed and appreciated because if gone over without notice than wars were fought, ideas born and crushed, families destroyed and rebuilt all for nothing, it is worth it to notice people, to notice their struggles, and to notice their soul seeping out of the stones of each city, crashing on the rocks with each tide, and whispered in each quiet conversation had at a coffee shop.






The house we are staying in for the weekend is squished deep in the Kasbah (Fort) area of the old city that towers of the mouth of the river where it meets with Atlantic ocean, the old city spreads out behind us and the new city crawls over the coastline resembling the algae clinging to the rocks at low tide. The beautiful purple and orange sunset stretches over the sky as the Maghreb call to prayer echoes from the mosque next door. This is followed by a delicious meal of Jasmine rice and fresh octopus cooked the owner of the house who lives in Paris and vacations in Rabat in the summer. Drinking and smoking of the room with friends and laughter until late into the night followed by a restful night sleep in an air-conditioned room. The morning was welcomed with fruit and fresh pastries followed by making our way into the city to find a great lunch that would not consist of Tagine or Couscous, and we were happy to find that we ended up at a Shami restaurant. We then explored the city making out way to the Hassan tower and the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, Hassan II and Prince Abdullah, a beautiful white building which is adorned with all the flourishes of Moroccan architecture and is viewed as both a beautiful memorial to both the return of the Moroccan dynasty after the king had been forced into exile by the French, it also has its ironies because Hassan II, during his rule was refereed to as the Father of the Nation during the lead years where a religiously conservative rule and extreme censorship where an attempt at rebellion was met with such force and cruelty that no one dared to step out of line. The tomb sits opposite the Hassan tower, which is the remnants of a mosque, began in 1195, in 1199, Sultan Yacub al-Mansour died and construction on the mosque stopped. The tower reached 140 ft., about half of its intended 260 ft. height. The rest of the mosque was also left incomplete, with only the beginnings of several walls and 200 columns being constructed. It was intended to be the largest minaret and mosque in the world but was never completed. Fun fact, instead of stairs, the tower is ascended by ramps. The minaret's ramps would have allowed the muezzin to ride a horse to the top of the tower to issue the call to prayer. This too is also a beautiful memorial to the past but another reminder of a failed past of Moroccan greatness that is a constant reminder that the past haunts the Moroccan future. Just below this plaza is the memorial to the November 16th Memorial, which marks the day that Hassan V and the royal family returned to Morocco but yet again the modern situation in Morocco has changed the meaning of this memorial as well where the dates have been spray painted over by and now ready February 20th which marks the day that the people of Morocco requested the king once again leave during the Arab Spring. And although that revolution has so far not gained traction and has failed to really gain significant ground in Moroccan politics but yet the symbolism screams out as reminders from the past continually play into the physical space of Moroccan identity and politics in the capital city. We then make our way back and purchase some wine for our night in of cooking and hanging out which that in itself is a sketchy experience. We wait patiently in line outside a hole-in-the-wall convenience store where three men are quickly grabbing bottles off of tall shelves wrapping them in newspapers and then plastic bags and sometimes eve into boxes before handing them over to people as large amount of cash are placed hurriedly on the counter before heading back out into the busy market place. We bought what we needed and made our way home and enjoyed Japanese cooking from our dear friend Marie who had been dying to cook all summer, a small taste of home that was much appreciated.






The next day we awoke much the same and Nadeen and Tasnime made a Mexican style egg breakfast and then we headed to the old city to wander and do some shopping. The old city lies deep within the center of Rabat with the new city branching out in boulevards on each side of the old city walls. The stark contrast between the old mosques that dot the skyline and the 40’s and 50’s style architecture reaches towards the sky, the new tram system rumbles by and the city buses which at one point must have gleamed grimace back at us with broken windshields and rusted paint. It is truly a post-colonial dream a city both trapped in the past while constantly seeking a new future while at the same time being constantly reminded of an oppressive past that still influences every decision that comes from the royal palace and parliament buildings that line the central boulevard, which has at one end the ocean and the walls of the fortress old city and at the other the royal mosque. A constant remind of past, present, and future. We watched a protest happen outside of the parliament building, something that happens often in Morocco but to little effect and rarely any fanfare. The police and military presence is palpable around these types of events. We then headed to the train station after looking longingly one more time at the Rabat skyline and the ocean behind us. The train as usual was not running quiet on schedule and we waited for an extra hour and a half for our train to come and passed out once we boarded.






We then came back to Morocco to finish of our last week in Morocco, a whirlwind of tests, late nights, last minute runs to the coffee shop, buying gifts and in general saying goodbye to Meknes and Morocco. It was almost too much at some points with having way too much to do and at the same time not enough to occupy the hours we used to fill with homework and test preparation. Overall it was a wonderful final week that was full of pleasant goodbyes and looking forward to the next adventure.






Before I wrap up my thoughts on Morocco, I would like to say that both of my travels abroad taught me more than I can comprehend and has left me feeling part of a larger picture than before. I will say though that the feeling of living in two different monarchies in the developing world has left me with a unique appreciation of my home, my values, my freedom, and my future. On all the mountains in the southern portion of the country there are sigsn painted onto the rock high above cities dotting the valley floor that read Allah, Al-Watin, Al-Malik, which translates to God, Fatherland/Homeland, and King. The trinity of Moroccan statehood appears to reign over the people below and yet one comes to realize that this land is far from simple communities that exist within the Moroccan state. The land here is where the Sahara is the ruler over the land, the Amazighi symbols are painted on doors and buildings symbolizing both the tribal and fiercely independent nature of these people. The history of oppression over these lands from foreign rulers is still palpable with the names of rebels who have fought against these regimes prominently displayed on buildings and above family doors. The monarchy in Rabat may have placed their red banners proudly on every building and the radio may announce important messages from the monarch but in reality the only ruler over these people are themselves. Though the constant reminder from the state rings out above these villages, the unending resilience of the Moroccan people is palpable.






And with that I will close my musings on Morocco, a country and a people that have truly captured my heart, my tongue, and my thoughts. I shall not forget the beauty, the kindness, and the realities of Morocco. Until next time, cheers!