The SIDA Monologues

We had a SIDA awareness commpetition at the beginning of December. The competition consisted of two parts: a poster making contest and a skit competition. The students in my group won the poster making contest, but we came up just short of winning both. The judges really liked how my group had characters that you could fully get into, rather than simply people stating facts about HIV/SIDA. My group wanted it to be in English, so they told me to write it. This is what I came up with for them. A series of five monologues that focused on the lives of the people infected as normal human beings. They wanted to portray that SIDA isn't a judgment, and that anybody can get it. I put the English level at above average because most of the students were in an English club, and I was also able to use this experience to give them a broader vocabulary. I wrote these in a day, and they were given four days to work on the lines. They made me incredibly proud.



The SIDA Monologues

The User

I just wanted to feel... alive. To feel something inside of me. I wanted it to run through my veins like a wild dog in the desert, like a cat through the city streets. Don’t judge me. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it’s like to have a dad who beats you without mercy... to have a mother who doesn’t have the courage to stand up and protect her own children. I had to escape.

One of my friends introduced me to heroin. I remember the needle piercing my skin like ice, the drug running through my veins. I wasn’t just a dog running through the desert... I was Cerberus at the Gates of Hell. I wasn’t just a cat running through the city streets... I was a lion in the Serengeti.

A few months later, I felt sick and went to the doctor. I told him I shared a needle. The doctor tested me for VIH. It came back positive. I thought it was just a sex disease. The doctor told me that it passed to me through my friend, through the needle.

Yeah, VIH passes through semen and sex fluids, but I didn’t know it passed through blood, too.

All I wanted was to feel alive. To have a life inside of me that I could want. But this was the only life I could have, and I didn’t want it. Who would?

I didn’t tell my friend. I told him that I wanted more heroin, and he gave me enough so that I could have more animals running through my veins than were on Noah’s Ark.

I still remember the feeling I had as I injected needle after needle into my veins. Everything running through me. I pretended the animals were like my own army, fighting the VIH in me as I fell asleep.

The Razor

My dad said becoming a man meant learning responsibility. Allah tells us that being responsible is required to be a good man. In order to learn responsibility, I had to get a job.

My family was never rich. My brothers all got jobs when they were my age to help support the family. My dad always traveled to other cities for work. And now it was my turn. In order to get a respectable job, I had to shave the beard that was beginning to grow on my face. I remember him taking me into the bathroom. I remember looking at the razor blade that I would share with him and my brothers. I watched as the blades moved against his face. And then it was my turn.

I thought I was learning responsibility. I thought I was a man. I thought I was a good man. I went to school. I went to mosque. I fasted for Ramadan. I didn’t deserve this. Did I?

The doctor said that I got it from the razor. That was the only explanation. But that couldn’t be possible. We’re a good family... we’re a good family. The doctor said I had a responsibility to tell my family. But it couldn’t have come from my dad. I had to have done something to anger Allah. My dad is a good man. He taught me how to be responsible. So it was my job to be responsible, too.

I didn’t tell anyone. I got sicker, but I kept going to my new job. I couldn’t tell them. They would fire me. Good Muslim men don’t get SIDA. I was a good man. Just like my dad.

He was traveling when I died. My mom was praying to Allah as I was laying on the ground, too weak to walk to the hospital. But I couldn’t tell her what the doctor told me. I had to be responsible.

The Mother

Muhammad, peace be upon him, said that a thankful tongue, a soft-hearted wife is a friend of yours in religion.

I had faith that Allah would bless me with a child after my first night with my husband. I had faith that Allah would bless me with a loving husband, and a wonderful child. I thought about this when I was in school, and when I went home. Allah blesses those who bless others.

I was a virgin on my wedding day. I knew that being a good Muslim woman meant doing anything that I could to make sure my baby would be healthy. The doctor suggested, as a precaution, to get tested for any diseases, including VIH. I said yes.

I didn’t understand how I could have gotten a positive test. But that didn’t matter to me. I knew that what mattered was my child. No matter what was inside of me, I knew I had to do what I could to not allow this to get into my child. Even if that meant losing the one man that I loved. I knew what I was in the eyes of Allah.

So I told him. I waited for his response.

He got tested, and when the test came back positive, he told me about how he had sex one time before me. He said it had to have been from that woman. But he knew what Allah needed of men, so he stayed. We went to the doctor together, and he gave us medication to keep the baby safe.

After the baby was born, I couldn’t get access to the medication. I know it was painful for my husband and child to watch me die. But even though I’m not with them on the Earth, I know that my husband and child will be all right. Allah knows what I am. Allah blesses those who bless others. And Allah has blessed me with the ability to continue to watch over my husband and child as they continue with their lives.

The Rich Man

Everything has a price. Everything.

I got into this business because I wanted to see the world. I wanted to own the world. Going to the doctor was required for my job. I explained to the doctor that I was going to be a very rich man and I would be traveling everywhere. The doctor asked if I was planning on having sex. I said what good is having this money if you can’t buy the finest women? He explained to be that in order to be healthy, I needed to think about the ABC’s: Abstinence, Being Faithful, and Condoms, but I didn’t need anyone’s help; not friends, not family, and not this doctor.

I had sex with women in France and Spain, even Portugal. I kept getting more and more money. But the women never seemed to fill a gap that I couldn’t name. I kept trying to find more women to fill that gap, but none of them could do it.

When I went to the doctor for a checkup, he tested me for VIH. When the result came back as positive, I shrugged and asked him how much the cure cost. He said that there is no cure. There were medications, called antiretrovirals, that could slow the spread of the disease, but VIH was not going to go away.

I got angry. I wanted to find the woman who did this to me and kill her. But then I realized that I couldn’t even count the number of women I had sex with, much less remember their names. I tried to find a detective to help me find them. I could buy it. Everything has a price. Everything.

I lost my job. I watched as my bank account slowly dwindled to nothing. I lost my house. I couldn’t understand why Allah did this to me. I couldn’t go on living this life. I killed myself, thinking that the pain would end with my life. But now I am here.

Everything has a price. Everything.

The Child

I like to think that together, we can solve any problem.

I had VIH my entire life. My mother told me that I was infected one night while breastfeeding. She said it was an accident.

When I was a child, I remember watching a wedding. I remember it because the thought that went through my head was that I would never have that. I would never find anyone who would love me like this. I would never get married or have children. I would never be normal.

But that wasn’t true. My doctor told me that people living with VIH and SIDA can live long, meaningful lives. I’ve used antiretrovirals my entire life. My viral load is undetectable. The doctor said that as long as I was honest with people, I would find someone who would love me for who I am. He gave me hope.

No matter what I am on the outside, I know that the light of Allah is something that is inside all of us. It connects us to one another. It makes us all one. I decided that I would tell people my status. People needed to know that VIH is not a judgment, it is not a punishment for a sinful lifestyle. It is a disease. It doesn’t discriminate. But it is a disease that, if we work together, we can fight and defeat.

I remember the night I died. A group of boys started it. They told me that only prostitutes get VIH. I tried to explain my story, but they kept calling me names and then they kicked me to the ground.

But even as I died, I still thought of Allah. I saw the light of Allah in each of them, even though they let prejudice blind them to the light of Allah in me.

One day, I know everyone will see it. Everyone will see that shining light. And we will see that we are all in this together. That is what we need. Because together, we can solve any problem.

The User

I wanted to feel alive. But being alive means having hope and faith that no matter how life appears, things will get better.

The Razor

I needed to learn responsibility. But responsibility means knowing your status, and getting friends and family tested.

The Mother

What matters is our children. Though we were not long for this world, our children will go on through our actions.

The Rich Man

Everything has a price. Everything. Be abstinent. Be faithful. Use protection. All human beings have worth.

The Child

Together, we can solve any problem. In order to work together, we have to know that we all have worth in the eyes of Allah.

All

Together, we will fight. Together, we will win.

Open Minds Result in Open Hearts

I try not to focus too much on American news anymore, for a few reasons. I have access to international news organizations, (I apparently had no idea what objectivity meant until I looked outside of America for my news needs; niether do American news outlets.) American "news" is lacking in substantive reporting as compared to other news organizations around the world, (but if I want to learn any insipid and vacuous information on Sarah Palin or any other pop princess, I know where to turn.) And according to American news organizations, Muslims are categorically incapable of doing anything good at any time ever, unless it is to convert to Christianity and condemn Islam on a whole.

Living here with Muslims in Morocco is what made me really notice the third issue. I do not miss American news outlets, so I feel no need to ever turn to them to reconfirm my observations.

I was sitting in the bus station in Casablanca, waiting to go home, when a young Moroccan teenager sat next to me. He was learning English so that he could study engineering in America. He was applying for scholarships from both countries so that he could go to school, learn, and then return so that he could help his country become a better place for all of its citizens. I asked where he wanted to study. He told me that he didn't want to go to a small place because he was scared of Americans.

"They burn Korans over there. I do't know why. I didn't do anything to them." he said.
"Some Americans burned Korans, or tried to." I replied, "But a lot of people that are in our generation understand that we are all connected and that we all have a shared responsibility to each other."
"I see that," the young man said, "The generation before us... is very scared of something. But I don't undrstand it."
"Me neither."
"So," he asked, "Are you Christian?"
"No, I'm a Buddhist."
"Really? I've never met a Buddhist."

I explained some of the concepts of Budhism to him, and he explained the concepts of the five pillars of Islam. I told him about the four noble truths, and he told me about Mohammad's divine revelation. Throughout the entire exchange, we both felt a muntual respect for one another. We both knew that we weren't there to convert the other person, but to share a piece of ourselves with each other. It was a beautiful experience. But I have noticed that Muslims here are genuinely curious and interested in other religions. They seem to thirst for knowledge of things outside of their own world. At least, the ones I have met. Then again, it could be that I have an unthreatening demeanor to myself, and so they feel more open to discuss these things with me. Either way, I find that when I go into a conversation with an open mind, then the other person in the dialogue will respond with an open heart.

Witnessing the Sheep Slaughter

“If slaughterhouses had glass walls, everyone would be a vegetarian.” ~Paul McCartney

I woke to the sound of the kids pounding on my door. The moment I stood up, I knew what was about to happen. I open the front door, and there are the kids.

"Come on, it's happening."

They ran back to my landlord's house. I grabbed my camera and followed them. The night before, I had promised my landlord that I would take pictures and get them developed as a gift. I told him that I make not have a sheep, and I may not be able to make good food, but I can help give them something.

I made my way to the front porch of my landlord's house. A pool of bright red blood already stained the cement from the first sheep. I looked at its body as it lie still on the cold porch. I watched as they dragged the second sheep to the front door of the house.

"Come on, get a picture." The kids said, laughing and pointing at the sheep as it struggled to stand against the weight of the two men holding it down. I held up my camera and pointed it at the sheep.

"In the name of God." My landlord said.

He dragged the knife across the sheep's neck. I heard a gurgling sound, like some thick fluid passing through a straw. The sheep's eyes widened, the blood immediately ran down the wool and pooled onto the cement. I watched as it trembled for a moment, and was then still. It kicked around again, its hind legs thrashed in every direction possible, and then it was still again. I watched as its eyes darted form side to side, and then came to rest on me. I tried to move to get out of its glare, but its eyes remained fixed in mine, as though it knew I was an intruder there.

"How long does this last?" I asked.
"About ten minutes." he said.

The children pointed at the sheep and laughed. I looked at one of the older boys and thought to myself, "Had the Bible story of Abraham and Isaac (or in this case, Ibrahim and Ishmael) been a little different, you wouldn't be the one laughing, oh firstborn." I turned back to the sheep, whose flailing continued to grow weaker as minutes passed. I heard the air pass through its windpipe.

I thought of my grandfather's breathing machine. In Kentucky, I would always sleep in the parlor right next to it. I knew that as long as the machine worked, he lived.

I watched as the sheep's eyes became still. It was as though a thin cloud suddenly formed over it. The eyes glazed over, and its pupils expanded until all that was left was blackness.

The kids came over to me and looked through my camera at the pictures I had taken. They were especially fond of the ones I had taken of them with the flailing sheep in the background. My landlord and the neighbor began to prepare the sheep. They grabbed the legs and sliced open the knees. I heard the snap as they broke each of its legs in half so that they could hang it easier. I heard the sound of the skin detaching from the rest of its body, the sinews stretching out like thin spiderwebs. I never realized just how thin and frail a sheep's body was, nor how much of its heft was attributed to thick wool.

I watched as my landlord began to tear open the sheep and pull out the organs. The small intestines burst through the opening at its stomach, as though they had been unwillingly trapped inside of it. He pulled them out, little by little, and coiled them around his hand like a rope. The stomach emerged, as did the liver and other organs, until all that was left was a hollow being.

Flies had arrived at this time, and the smell of fresh flesh and entrails filled the air. Streams of feces puddled onto the floor. I pulled out a spare bottle of hand washing soap to utilize this experience as a need for proper hand washing.

The entire process to kill, skin, and disembowel a sheep takes about an hour. But when it was all done, the women took the remains into the kitchen and began to make lunch. I went back to my house and uploaded the pictures onto my facebook profile.*

I went back to my landlord's house for lunch. The women brought out a large plate of couscous. On top of the couscous was a large hunk of freshly killed meat. I found myself dipping my bread in the sauce and picking up the beans and potatoes, but for some reason, my hand didn't want to go near the meat. After repeated entreaties from my landlord, I finally picked up a piece of meat and put it in my mouth. I tasted the skin of the sheep, and the pieces of flesh separated in my mouth like bits of string. But my throat refused to swallow. I had to smile and nod my head to hide the gagging that was taking place.

I have always known, where meat comes from; I am not that naive. But there is a difference between seeing little packages of red colored substances in plastic wrap in a supermarket and watching the process itself. Even the photographs don't do much justice. They don't allow for the sound of a sheep drowning in its own blood, or the rapid movements of the eyes. They can't quite capture the flailing as it move slower and slower, and then stops.

I am going to Paris soon. When asked about what I wanted most, I used to respond, "Bacon cheeseburger and pork." But now, I think I'll settle for a nice glass of white wine and a fresh salad.

I have chosen, due to the nature of the pictures, not to post these pictures on the general website.

Peace Corps 2.0

I remember when I first applied to Peace Corps I kept imagining myself either on some deserted island, teaching people about water purification or helping them cope with some foreign disease that travelers brought to the indigenous people, or in an African grassland, running from lions or teaching about AIDS beneath a large tree to children excited to see an American. When I had my interview and was told that I would be placed in a Middle East program, which would have either been Jordan or Morocco, I was torn. Morocco sounds cool, and is near the desert, so I would be helping nomads and perhaps teaching women about literacy. Jordan, on the other hand, was near so much Christian history; not to mention I would have had an opportunity to witness the Israeli-Palestinian struggle firsthand. When told I would go to Morocco, I looked up more details on it, and decided that living the desert life would be cool. I imagined no water, no electricity, and certainly no internet. Little did I know that the 21st century was embedded everywhere around the world. Nowadays, not even the smallest mountain village escapes the ongoing updates of facebook and twitter.

I was doing laundry and dishes when I heard the sound of knocking on my door. I opened it, and there stood Majid and Ismael. They asked how I was doing and whether or not I could help them with something.

"Sure," I replied, "But I need to finish my housework first."

By this time, I know why the men laugh when I say that I, a man, need to do dishes and laundry. They said to meet them at two at Ismael's house, and to bring a camera.

I arrived at Ismael's house, where I was advised as to how I would put my Peace Corps service to good use.

"We need you to take pictures of us for our facebook account."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Yeah, we are having difficulty with that."

At that moment, I was happy to know that my skills at noting irony were bring put to good use in the Peace Corps thanks to the taxpayers. Technically, this falls under the category of goal one, which is to provide technical skills to local citizens of the developing country. And what is more important nowadays than having a profile to serve as a means of networking? This is something that I've learned to tell myself every time I go to someone's house to upload video games for the local children or to create profiles for the young men, though once I did manage to help my host mother find information on how to sew her own jellaba.

Anyway, I took them around the village, and that's when it started. Back in America, I loved taking fun pictures of people and nature. I think it is because I secretly wanted to be a photographer. The two men were confused at first with how seriously I seemed to be taking the project, but once they saw the pictures, they were more than excited to put them on their facebook. Here are a few samples:









Quick update, also: this is the week of one of the biggest celebrations in Morocco. Eid Kibir, the reenactment of the slaughtering of the ram by Abraham in the Bible. I will have pictures of that, as well, so keep in touch.

Cleaning House

Ichram told me to take her picture as she held up her newest drawing. She had been coming to my house for the past few days to draw while I worked on cleaning my house. As she finished her drawing, I was flinging out the last bits of sand and corn husk from the cement floor into the courtyard. Ichram came out of the salon.

"What do you think?" I asked. "Did I do a good job?"
"Yes," She replied, "You sweep very well."

My landlord's wife comes in.

"Yunz," she asked, "why haven't you come to get bread?"
"I'm sorry, I'm still trying to eat all the bread you gave me last time."
"All right."

She walks out, with Ichram following behind her moments later. I'd say community integration level is set to indispensable.

Opening the Door

Whatever you do in your life, know this. The door of my house will always be open to you.
~Ajahn Brahm, on loving kindness

I returned home from IST at three o'clock in the morning after riding in a souk bus for about ten hours. I had two volunteers stay the night with me so that they could get some rest before finishing their travel to their sites, which would have taken another three hours. The two of them awoke to hot tea, omelettes, and fruit. They left, and I was left alone.

As I stood at the doorway and watched them hike up the hill to the main road, I looked around my village. The dried husks from the corn were blowing around in the wind, and the sun had risen but was covered by a string of gray clouds. My freshly shaved head, not used to exposure, tingled. When asked by other volunteers why I shaved it, I would reply, "I was too attached to it. It's a Buddhist thing; you wouldn't understand." and then laugh.

At IST, I was in a group dedicated to discussing maternal health. I was in that group because I wanted to get ideas on how to speak with the women in my village. I was the only male in the group; but rather than give me advice on not being threatening to women, the other volunteers instead told me that I have a unique opportunity to speak with the men.

I began to think about that again, as I stood at the open door of my house. Would the men be receptive to the message? Would I be able to convince them that pre- and post-natal health was important for men, also? I wasn't sure, but I began to feel better knowing that I finally had a goal to reach in my service; it was something for which I could actually see results, instead of the vague notions of the "second" and "third" goals of Peace Corps.

I went back into my house, but I decided to leave the front door open. I went around my house and opened my windows that were covered in spider webs from me being gone for the past week. I opened my back door, and the entire house was filled with air and light. corn husks blew in and through the main foyers. I started with my dishes that I had left unwashed when I left for Marrakech.

I little while later, I heard a knock on my door. Two little girls, Ichram and Selma, stood at my door, looking down at their feet.

"May tramt?" I asked.
"Chips." they said.

I looked back to my kitchen and decided to let them in. I told them that I didn't have chips but that they could have fruit. I sent them to my salon and set out a bowl of fruit, colored pencils, and a large piece of paper and told them to draw while I finished working. Once the dishes were clean, I returned to the parlor, where I found that they had traced their hands multiple times and filled them in. They looked around the room and pointed to another poster that I had been working on. It was my poster of the food pyramid, and so I took the time to teach them about the five food groups and why it was important to eat the fruit I gave them. Their mothers knocked on my door and took them back, but I secretly think they were relieved that I had watched them for that time. It was late afternoon by that time, and it was beginning to get chilly, and so I started to closed my windows again for the night. I watched as the mothers hiked up the hill with their daughters in tow.

It's funny how completely different a village acts towards me once I simply open my door. Before IST, I would usually have my front door closed. People would pass by it and pass by my windows, sometimes greeting me, but most of the time, not. I thought about how much I had just felt like part of the community, to where the mothers didn't get angry, upset, or frightened by the fact that they little daughters stayed at the foreigner's house. Had my door been closed that day, I'm sure the girls wouldn't have knocked.

There were times before IST that I truly worried if I was going to do anything productive; I had made a vow that if by May of 2011 I still felt like I was wasting taxpayer money I would return home. But now, I know that I have been productive. Moroccans trust me with their children. Just that one action lets me know that I have changed their opinion about Americans. I don't think their opinions were negative, but maybe if they hear another Moroccan talk about how bad Americans are, they'll think of me and confront him.

That's how you change the world. That's how you create peace. That's how you keep the door to your heart open to everyone.

P.S.: My camera disk was destroyed by a virus, but I have another one, and will get a picture of the drawing the girls made.

IST and Light

We are reaching the six-month point in our service. The job quoted as "the hardest job you'll ever love" and the one that I went through a year and a half to get is already a quarter of the way complete. I have been to festivals, weddings, a funeral, and a baby naming ceremony here. I have congratulated fathers giving away their daughters, consoled villagers at the loss of their grandmother, congratulated a mother on her twins, and have been almost trampled by men wanting a closer look at American women giving blood pressure tests. Though I am able to speak with people in my village, for some reason, the villagers and the nurse in the next village 3 kilometers away still are unable to understand me, nor I them. Also, because I speak the dialect of the rural people, I am pretty much unable to communicate with people in any of the major cities of the country, which makes traveling difficult, unless I have with me a volunteer who speaks Moroccan Arabic.

The Peace Corps' three goals: to provide need to communities, to help locals understand America, and to help America understand the local people are being fulfilled by the volunteers, all within their own unique idiom. The volunteers are beginning to establish themselves in their communities; some have started English tutoring (mine fell through, though I may begin a one on one approach with a neighbor.), while others have started SIDA clubs and drama clubs. Others, who have discovered that their sites aren't conducive to their skills, have taken up work in nearby villages. For instance, a health sector volunteer is beginning to work in youth development.

I was told at the onset of my service that I needed to expect many false starts for projects that I had in mind, much less for projects that were suggested to me by local authorities. The English Club was my Rays' idea, issues regarding maternal health and nutrition were my nurse's idea, the meditation poster was my idea. For the past six months, my "successes" can be counted as thus:

1.) Created a maternal health poster and explained it to my nurse, who, in turn, now explains it to the local women.
2.) Created a food pyramid poster and explain it to children who come into the clinic each week.
3.) Assisted at a booth for the Wedding Festival in Imilchil, where I taught nutrition and anti-smoking.
4.) Assisting another volunteer with a SIDA-Health Club class in Er Rachidia that will culminate with a drama competition.
5.) Going to a weekly English Club meeting in Er Rich.

The rest of my six months of service has included observations that I have made about the culture of Morocco, which I have relayed here, thus fulfilling one of the three goals of Peace Corps, and also which I do hope have provided some insight as to the lives inside an Islamic culture. Of course, if there are any topics you are curious about, do not hesitate to write a comment on my blog, and I will respond with a blog entry, email, or chat. I have also spent those six months interacting with that culture, infusing my little Buddhist quirks into the monotheistic system that takes place here. The responses have ranged from simple denouncements, such as "Oh, you have a picture of your God on your computer. Our God is above that.", or, "I understand. Buddhism has a lot... not everything... that Islam has. That's nice." This is fulfilling another goal of Peace Corps. Though there are still times, due to my almost painfully introverted personality and the localized nature of the language that I learned, when I feel utterly and irrevocably useless. However, thanks to the latter goals of Peace Corps, I feel that acting as an intermediary between these two distinct cultures is performing a great service. My hope, of course, is that if my readers feel that my observations are worthwhile, then they will tell others about it, thus ensuring that they expand ever outward.

My experiences here with the local people have, without exception, been positive. The local police are charming and helpful, the children as mischievous here as my nephew in America, and even so-called "religious zealots" are no worse than the average Baptist on the streets of my hometown waving a Bible. My interactions with them always bring my memory back to one place, as though it serves as an anchor to my life and constantly pulls me back to it, regardless of the nature of the waves in the ocean of my being. I remember, once, in October of 2005, while in school, in an elevator in a library at the University of West Florida, I met a young woman named Amber. I remember that I had read an article earlier that day where, somewhere out in space, there was a collision of heavenly bodies. But it was more than that. It was a collision of three heavenly bodies. For two things to collide in the infinite vastness of space is already an improbable event, but to have three bodies end up at the same place at the same time? I remember riding down the elevator. Normally, most people would not engage in any conversation if on the same elevator for just a moment, so I was slightly shocked to hear her say, "Hi."

She was going to graduate from school that spring. And it was at that moment that I realized that we were two heavenly bodies colliding with each other. Even if it was for only a moment, we had touched; our beings, that which we are, had touched. Our energies passed through one another and for a moment - we were one. Even after we separated, I knew that neither of us were the same. We each had each others' energy within us, to be carried off and passed when we would inevitably collide with other heavenly bodies, and so on. I remember thinking that the crashing of heavenly bodies is a miraculous event. But whereas the miracle out in the vastness of space is how rare the collisions are, in our own worlds, the miracle is how common it is.

Supernova from Glenn Marshall on Vimeo.

Every time I see another Moroccan, even if I cannot communicate with them, that is the feeling I want to generate. I want so much to express the utter, ineffable miraculousness of the meeting of the heavenly bodies that I see here. The light that I see in them is the same light that I have seen in people in America.

I know that, sometimes, we want so much to believe that the bad events we witness - wars, violence, inequity, injustice, propaganda - are the result of some conspiracy, and that, there are people who are all good and people who are all bad. But the truth of the matter is that we are all heavenly bodies, drifting and drifting and drifting in an almost infinite sea of emptiness. Every interaction is a glorious burst of light in that blackness, even if our limited consciousness cannot comprehend it that way. Every event, every moment, every interaction, regardless of whether or not we want to believe it is good or bad, is simply that - the collision of heavenly bodies. This is the truth that I have learned, and with all of my heart and all of my being, I don't think that truth is something that I can ever let go of, or that can never let go of me.

And, to be honest, I don't think I ever want to be separated from that truth. Being here, in a completely different culture, has not even shaken that belief, but rather, has only confirmed it.

Bureaucracy Part 2

Go to Part 1

taxi ride #6
"Think we'll be done by noon?" I asked.
"Sure, I mean we need a stamp," she replied, "It can't take that long to get a stamp, can it?"

We walked into the Department of Education with our forms in our hands, where we were greeted by the same older man from yesterday. After telling him what we needed to get done and reminding him that we were there yesterday, he led us to the same room. In that room, we were greeted by the same older man.

"I have a very, very bad feeling about this." I said.

After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to the same room as yesterday. In that room, we were greeted by yet another older man. After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to yet another room.

I find it odd that people here are able to be frustrated with my memory of their language, and yet they can speak three languages but not remember that two foreigners walked into their offices repeatedly the day before.

In the final room, there was a new guy. This man looked friendly, as though he was happy that he had a source of income. We told him our story of the day before, about the number of taxi rides we took, about the traveling back and forth to get everything correct. We handed him our forms, but he hands them back.

"Did you know that this one is only a photocopy?" He asked.
"Yes," I said, "Because the Department of Health gave us the photocopy and kept the original for their files."
"I need an original."

The PCV and I smile. It was the type of smile you give when you don't know what else to do. It was the type of smile you give when you need to keep your teeth together.

"You two look really friendly." The man said, "I like you."
"Of course," We said.

taxi ride #7
"Do you think we should mention to the Department of Education that we all are in the same commune?" The PCV said.
"I don't think we are."
"Well, the forms all say the same commune."
"It has to be right," I said, "Why would he write the wrong one on there? The previous guy just forgot to update it from the previous form."

We look at each other, certain only in our uncertainty.

We arrived at the Department of Health and walked back to the office, where we were greeted by the same women from the day before. We show her the photocopy form.

"Oh, this is a photocopy." She said.
"Yes," I replied, "You made the photocopies and kept an original here. Now we need an original."
"Why would we keep a copy?"
"I don't know," I said.

My voice had taken on a new form this day; it was as though every time I opened my mouth, not only words came out, but pieces of my soul. I felt an empty feeling with each repeated word.

"Well, let's look for it."

She looked for it for a while, and then we gave her an idea.

"Can't you just stamp this one again?"
"No."

After a few more minutes of looking, I stand up.

"Is there any reason why you can't?"

She comes over, takes the paper, and has an idea. She fold the bottom of the paper where the stamp was, photocopied the original, and stamped the form.

"But now the stamp from SIAAP over the corrected commune is photocopied."
"That won't be a problem."

taxi ride #8
"Are you sure we shouldn't have gone to SIAAP just to make sure?" I asked.
"Do you really want to do that?" She asked.
"Does it matter at this point?" I replied.
"No." We both said.

We arrived at the Department of Education, where we simply walk through the front gate without speaking to any of the secretaries. As we make our way through the breezeway to the back room, we are stopped by the first man, who we told our story again.

"Oh, he won't be able to sign those." The man says.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"He's not the delegue."
"So," The PCV said, "The guy we've been speaking to... the guy whose been giving us all of this hassle... isn't even the guy who would have been able to help us in the first place?"
"I'll take you to the delegue."

We walk through another building into a large room. The delegue takes our forms. The PCV and I look at each other and sigh. Our journey was near its end. I felt a little like Dorothy as she stared through the woods at the Emerald City.

"Why is this commune written on here?" The delegue asked.

Damn poppies.

"What do you mean?" The PCV asked.
"Your town isn't in this commune. Actually, none of the towns on this form are in the commune written here."
"So," I asked, "The guy at SIAAP just wrote down a random commune on our form?"

The delegue made a list of the communes that each town goes into, and told us to go to SIAAP to get it corrected. Only then can he sign the form.

taxi ride #9
"It's 11:30 AM." I said, "I hope we have time to do this today. Everyone leaves at noon."

We stood at the entrance to SIAAP. Our wrinkled and dirt covered forms, photocopied to near oblivion and covered in the blue ink of the stamps, rest in our hands. We walk into the main room, where a new man greeted us. A man who hadn't yet heard our story; a man whose ears had not yet been tainted with the events of the past two days. We hand him the forms and explain that we need the new communes written on it. We point to the room where we knew the whiteout was so we would save time. The man shakes his head. By this time, the words spoken became a blur, and meaningless string of syllables. Needless to say, I managed to pick out two verbs in the sounds. I heard the verb "to go back" and the verb "to start over", but the PCV and I simply stare back at each other and point to the commune section of the form. It was unfathomable to think that we would start over. We knew what that meant. But he didn't budge, so we turned around and left SIAAP.

Albert Einstein once said that "Bureaucracy is the death of all sound work”. Javier Pascual Salcedo said that “Bureaucracy is the art of making the possible impossible”. To people whose dealing with bureaucracy go no further than the DMV, these quotes are mere words. But I have learned the actual truth of them. Here we were, two PCVs, working over 2 days in order to get one stamp placed on three pieces of paper. Hidden within the words of Einstein and Salcedo were the bitter scissors of bureaucrats whose only joy in life seemed to be to hack away at the blooms of our progress.

taxi ride #10
"Mission abort?" I asked.
"Mission aborted." the PCV replied.

We arrived at the bus station to go home. As we sat in the bus and looked around, our eyes met.

"So, let's recap." I said, "Everything that we have just done. Every event... every taxi ride... every conversation... every moment of being led through rooms and breezeways and halls... all of that. And what do we have to show for it?"

We held up our forms that at this point were nothing more than pieces of tattered paper, and laughed uncontrollably in the bus. The Moroccans stared at us, unsure of why the two Americans were laughing so hard. The bus filled with the laughter of the defeated souls, the twisted utterances of two souls lost in the labyrinth of bureaucracy, the final breaths of the idea that was once to go into town and get one stamp placed on three pieces of paper.

Bureaucracy Part :1

I had a fellow PCV stay at my house for the past two days because we needed to go into town in order to get a document signed by the delegues of the Department of Health and Education. In order to teach at the school, we need to get signed permission by both departments. This is a good thing, as it makes sure that the schools know that it is not simply some stranger coming into their schools and talking to the children. We woke up early on Thursday at 9:00 AM. We already had the stamp of the Department of Health, and all we needed was the stamp from the department of Education.

taxi ride #1
"Think we'll be done by noon?" I asked.
"Sure, I mean we need a stamp," she replied, "It can't take that long to get a stamp, can it?"

We walked into the Department of Education with our forms in our hands, where we were greeted by an older man. After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to a room. In that room, we were greeted by another older man. After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to another room. In that room, we were greeted by yet another older man. After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to yet another room. Finally, we were sitting at the desk of an angry looking man, the type of man who, in a country with a 10% unemployment rate, seemed angry that he had to wake up in the morning just so that he could sit in an open office next to a breezeway all day. Both the PCV and I were smiling, our minds filled with what we would do for dinner to celebrate getting our objective done. We hand him our papers.

"I can't sign this." He says, "Your town isn't in my province.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"Yes," He continued, "Your town is in the new province.
"No it's not," I said without any hesitation, "I am south of the new province."
"No, you're in the new province." He said, handing me back the paper.
"Look," I said, my voice getting higher, "My town is in your province. The delegue of Health said so. My bosses said so. Everybody that I have spoken to says so. Are you telling me that everyone else is wrong?"
"Your town is in the new province." He said.
"Come on," the fellow PCV said, "Let's go back to the Department of Health to fix this."

taxi ride #2
"Well, what do we do?" the PCV asked.
"That man is lying to us, or he simply didn't want to do his job." I replied.
"So, we'll go to the Department of Health and tell them what he said."
"Sure."

We enter the Department of Health, where we are greeted by a woman, who tells us to sit down.

"How can I help you." She asks.
"We have a little problem," I said, showing her the form, "We have to-"
"You need to go to the Department of Education," she said, "We already signed this.
"Yes, you did," I said, "The problem, however, is that the man there won't sign it because he says my town is in the other province."
"Oh," she said, "Yeah, it is."
"I haven't told you the name of my town yet."
"Oh."

I told her the name of my town and where I would teach. By this time, another man walked into the room and overheard our discussion.

"If your town is in another province, then you have to go there to get a signature." He said.
"Thank you," I replied, "But my town is in this province."
"Oh," he said, "Yeah, your town is."
"I know." I said.

I handed him the paper, and he points out the problem.

"Yes, all towns listed here are in this province, but someone wrote the wrong commune beneath them."

I thought back to the week before, when we originally got the forms with the other volunteers. I remembered that the group of volunteers before us were the group from the commune that was now on our forms.

"So," the other PCV said, "We need to go back to SIAAP to get the commune corrected?"
"No," The man said, "You need to go to this province."
"But we are teaching in this province. The commune written down is a mistake."
"Oh, well okay. So why didn't the man at the Department of Education sign it? The towns are all in this province."

The PCV and I turn to each other. It was now 11:00 AM.

"Okay, so if we go back to the Department of Education and the man says again that my town is in the other province, what do I do?"
"He won't do that because your town is in this province."
"Just in case," I said, the form trembling in my hand, "Just in case he does give me a problem, who should I call?"
"I don't know." The man says.
"Is there someone here I can call?"
"Oh, we don't talk to that Department." The woman said.
"What about me?" I asked, "Can I call if there is a problem."
"We don't have a phone here for that."

The PCV and I looked at the corded phone on her desk 7 inches away from her hand, and then we look at the phone on the desk next to her.

"How about that phone," I asked, pointing to the phone 7 inches away from her, "Can I have the number which calls that phone right there?"
"No."
"Okay." I said, and walked out.

taxi ride #3
"Okay," the PCV said, "We'll call someone in case he gives us the same problem."
"Sure," I said, "I'm sure that will help."

We walked into the Department of Education with our forms in our hands, where we were greeted by an older man. After telling him what we needed to get done and telling him we were just here and knew where to go, he led us to the same first room we came to when we arrived earlier that morning. In that room, we were greeted by another older man. After telling him what we needed to get done and what room he needed to take us to, he led us to the same second room that we went into the first time. In that room, we were greeted by yet another older man. After telling him what we needed to get done he led us finally to the room in which we needed to go. I turned to the man who led us there.

"So," I said loud enough for the man who denied us the first time to hear, as well as the people in the breezeway, "My town is in this province. I was right when I came here the first time that my town is in this province?"
"Of course." The man says.

I turned around, walk into the room, and smile at the man whose anger seemed to only increase.

"I just wanted to make sure," I said.

We handed him our forms, and he looked over them.

"I can't sign them." He said.
"The commune?" The PCV said in a prophetic voice.
"Yeah, all of the towns are in this province, but the commune isn't."

The PCV and I look at each other, take the forms, and get up. It's funny, we weren't angry; we were taught that this is what Moroccan bureaucracy looks like. After much searching, I managed to find an artist's rendering of the process of bureaucracy



taxi ride #4
"I say we just buy whiteout and rewrite the name of the commune in it." the PCV said.
"No, I'm sure they'll need to do something official to it. We have to go."

We arrive at SIAAP, where we tell our story to the man in charge. We show him our papers, and he tells us to wait a minute while he gets what he needs to fix the problem, leaving us alone in the room.

"You know," I said, "I'm surprised we aren't angry about this."
"Yeah," She replied, "I think it's because we're in the Moroccan flow of time now. When things get done they just get done. Or not."
"It's almost noon," I said, "Everyone's about to leave for the day. We'll have to come back tomorrow and finish this.
"Yeah, I mean after this we're so close. All we need to do is take the corrected form to the Department of Education first thing in the morning."

The man comes into the room with his hands empty. He walked to his desk, rummages through it, and pulls out a bottle of whiteout. The PCV and I look at each other, our faces contorting so that the laughter doesn't burst out of us. After he covers up the first commune, he writes the name of the other commune on top of it. The PCV and I look at each other, but are relieved when he pulls out a stamp to make his work official.

As we leave SIAAP, we both look at each other and laugh uncontrollably as we walk down the street to hail a cab.

taxi ride #5
"All right," We said, "We'll try again tomorrow."

Tonglen in Tenghrir

I sat on top of the roof of the volunteer’s house, facing the morning sun. The others had not yet awoken, and I did not want to waken them with my music. I always find that if I start the day with my fifteen minute song “Om Mani Padme Hung" that I downloaded from buddhanet.net, I have a good day. I opened the iTunes, and turned it on. As I sat down on the plastic rug that the volunteer keeps on the roof, I already began to feel the plastic ridges dig into the side of my foot as I sat in the half lotus posture. Whereas most Pure Land practitioners of Zen face the West when meditating or performing prostration in order to face Amitabha’s Pure Realm, I tend to face East, in the direction of the Pure Land of the Medicine Buddha.

Before I began, I looked around me. I was surrounded by buildings made of mud and cement, topped with wrought iron balcony railing. Every building was unique and of different heights. I imagined for a moment that they were like the people of the city; they were different sizes and contained within them different things. Animals yelled in the distance. I am told that in Pure realms, every begin within that realm always sings mantras. Ravens cawed in the distance - I imagined they called out o-o-o-m. Donkeys cried on the streets - I imagined they called out ma-ni-i-i-i. Doves and other birds chirped in their nests they had made on the roofs - I imagined they sang pad-me. The people in stores called out - I turned off my ability to interpret and imagined they all said hung. I was ready.

I closed my eyes and began to breathe through my nose. I imagined the other volunteers as they slept downstairs. As I breathed in, the dark energy within them emerged from every pore of their body as black smoke. It traveled through the rooms, up the stairs, and onto the balcony. It began to form a black pearl in front of me. Every being, regardless of where they appear to be on the path, is on the path to Buddhahood. I imagined the people in the buildings next to me, still asleep, and soon, the black smoke seeped through the plated glass windows, snaked past the wrought iron bars in front of the windows, and floated through the air and onto the balcony, where it joined with the black pearl in front of me. People were already awake in the city; I imagined the line of men as they leaned against the walls that lined the major streets of the city; I imagined the women as they towed their children through the souks. I imagined the children as they threw stones at foreigners and played soccer. Black smoke emerged unnoticed form their nostrils, floated through the streets like fog, climbed the walls of the volunteer’s house, and joined the black pearl.

I imagined that my consciousness leapt through the sky. Above the country of Morocco. Throughout Morocco, black smoke rose through the air and formed a black pearl. I saw Mauritania and Algeria and imagined they they, too, formed black pearls above them. Country by country was slowly becoming a Pure Realm in which the practice of compassion could flourish. May all beings have happiness and the causes of happiness. The black pearls of North Africa joined together to form one pearl. May all be free from sorrow and the causes of sorrow. All of Africa, from Morocco to Lesotho, from Egypt to South Africa, was freed of the black smoke of dark energy, the black smoke itself formed black pearls, and they joined together as one. May all never be separated from the sacred happiness, which is sorrowless. I looked north, towards Europe, and saw that a black pearl had formed above it, as well. I looked east and saw Russia, the Middle East, and Asia, slowly purified of its dark energy. Across the ocean, Australia and North and South America, too, had black pearls that floated above them. May all live in equanimity, and live believing in the equality of all that lives. My consciousness fell through the air and landed back on the balcony in Morocco. I watched as eight black pearls floated through the streets and landed on the balcony. They, too, joined the pearl in front of me.

I imagined that within my body, my seven chakras began to turn and work together; my crown chakra glowed like the full moon over Casablanca; my third eye chakra glowed like grains of sand in the Saharan sun; my throat chakra glowed like the valley that I live in; my heart chakra glowed like a freshly opened flower; my solar plexus chakra glowed like a spinning whirlpool in the hot springs; my naval chakra glowed like the waves of the Atlantic; my root chakra glowed like incandescent atoms. They all worked together and sent white light throughout the ten directions. I breathed out and watched as the black pearl disintegrated into nothingness.

Some people ask whether or not simply imagining people being enlightened really has an effect on children in South Africa. I like to imagine that when I look around, and see that everyone around me is on the path to enlightenment as well, it changes the way I treat them. That, in turn, can sometimes change the way that they treat others, also. The effects expand like ripples in a lake, and throughout time, everybody is affected. Even if the timeline extends beyond the borders of my own life, I like to think of these things as eventually happening. One day, this universe, too, may become as I imagine it. One day, this universe will be no different than Amitabha’s Western Pure Land or Medicine Buddha’s Eastern Pure Land.

Until that day comes, I remain here and imagine that the crows caw om, the doves chirp mani, the donkeys cry padme, and the people call out hung.

The Wedding Festival: "So a Buddhist walks into a tent..."

I rode the transit bus up to Imilchil, where the Wedding Festival took place. As I looked out past the weeping willows that lined the dirt road and the aspen trees that lined the gardens that each family owned, I looked out at the crooked rocks of the mountains. As the dust rose from the street, I looked out at the mountain closest to me and saw that the rocks created a combined red and orange color. The mountain behind it was purple, and behind that was a blue mountain. Behind that, I saw the peaks of the final mountain, grey in the distance. Finally, the mountains that remained disappeared into the mists and clouds of the sky, which themselves formed more mountains that hovered above me.

“The interesting thing about the aspen,” Princess Leia said, “Is that they are all one tree.”
“Really?” I asked, “I can make a poem about that. Something that connects the aspen tree and the families here. The families don’t move far away, and by being close, that makes them stronger.”
“Yes,” Princess Leia said, “But if something happens to one tree, it messes up all of the others.”
“I see.” I said, “Then the analogy is apt.”

Once a year the people of the various mountain tribes in the Atlas Mountains converge at a special meeting place for the Imilchil Moussem. This special meeting, which takes place in September, is primarily a massive souk where 30 000 or more Berbers gather to sell and trade their possessions. However, the gathering is not merely an exercise in financial expertise - it is also the place of the largest wedding fair in the country. The tradition was started when officials during the colonial area insisted that Berbers assemble once a year to register births, deaths and marriages.

We continued to the Wedding Festival, where we and some other volunteers were scheduled to give blood pressure tests. Not knowing how to test blood pressure, however, left me with the job of keeping children occupied through the day. I laid out a sheet of paper on the table, set out colored pencils, and let them take over from there. I decided that I wanted to make the lessons have an organic feel, so I waited until they drew something related to health – a man smoking a cigarette would lead to a discussion on why not to smoke, or a soda can would lead into a nutrition discussion – all in all, that portion went exceedingly well.

Throughout the festival, however, it became clear that the white Americans who knew the Berber languages and Moroccan Arabic were the center of the show. Our tent was deluged with countless Moroccans, mostly men, throughout the entire festival. Some of the people think it was only for the fact that there were women at the tent; however, I do believe that a good portion of them had good intentions.

Another fact about Moroccan culture is that they have no concept nor need for lines. When in a public setting, there is no such thing as first come, first serve. The order in which one is helped is determined by how hard they can shove through everyone else. This isn’t considered rude, and usually, when an older person or women appears, the strong men will usually work to push that person up to the front. Nevertheless, in order to keep some semblance of order, there were always two people standing at the entrance to the tent. Of course, to stand against a tide of Moroccan men is as foolhardy as trying to stop the ocean by standing on the beach. The Moroccan men slowly pushed their way further and further into the tent, until all of the volunteers were pressed against the back wall. I had remember something that Princess Leia told me while walking through the kilometer length souk. She told me that I needed to be more assertive. So, I took a large step forward, cupped my hands around my mouth, and shouted.

“Can we please just try to make a line of people? Please?”

Suddenly, everybody looked at me as though they had just witnessed the rudest event in their lives. I looked at the other volunteer who stood as the guard.

“Is it asking too much that we put a little bit of order to this?”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he replied, “They’ll so it how they always do it.”

I looked at the Moroccans, who all still stared at me. I decided that now was a good time to go to lunch. I ducked out of the back of the tent and walked down the road. I didn’t shout out of anger, but out of a desire to see some order. And yet, I found myself trembling. I knew that I was experiencing the physical sensations of anger, but I refused to allow myself to feel that in my mind. I was certain that what I did was not done out of anger, and yet my Catholic upbringing forced me to feel guilty about what happened. I sat down at a nearby tent, where I ordered a half kilo of chicken, and went over to the corner of the tent and sat down.

A few moments later, a group of men sat down next to me. Being Moroccan, it was only natural that the strangers would begin to talk to each other.

“Bonjour.” One of the men said.
“Oh no,” I replied, “I’m not French. I’m American.”
“Oh yes. Very good.” He replied in English.
“You speak English?” I asked.
“And you speak Berber?” he replied.

We continued on for a moment in Berber, the three other men simply listening. Again, being Moroccan, the subject turned to religion. Of course, being interested in pursuing a Divinity Masters when I return to America, I jumped on board. Unlike most of the other volunteers, I am enthralled with the concept of proselytization. I grew up in the South, which is known for its numerous churches and proselytization attempts.

“Are you Catholic?” he asked.

I’m not sure what was a more discomforting theory; the theory that here was a man who could correctly guess the religion of a white person’s childhood, or the fact that my Catholic guilt has somehow created a physical characteristic. However, here I was, sitting high in the Atlas Mountains, discussing religion with four Berber men. During training, we were advised to tell people that we were Christian when asked this question. I could make this an easy conversation.

“No.” I said, “I am a Buddhist.”

The first man’s eye widened, and I wondered if I had made a mistake. But instead, he simply turned to his three companions and started talking about Japan and China, and I knew that they knew what I was. Of course, they had probably never met a Buddhist before. The questions continued.

“You’re Buddhist? As in Asia?”
“Well, Buddhism has spread throughout the entire world.” I said.
“I see. So, when do you pray?”
“When I see the sun and when I see the moon.” I said, trying to be as poetic as possible.
“Oh, so you pray to the sun and moon?”
“Oh no. I mean when I wake up and before I go to sleep.”
“You know, there is a saying in the Koran,” he said, “People pray to the sun, but it disappears. Then they pray to the moon, but it disappears, as well. Allah stays always.”

Okay, I thought to myself, don’t be poetic. Just try to explain it. You have one shot. You can do it. I knew I had to give them a good impression of Buddhists. I found that being the first representative of a faith is stressful. This is especially true when you don’t yet have the words for such phrases as “I vow to abstain from partaking in harming living beings,” or, “taking things not freely given,” or “Right Intention”.

“How do you pray when you wake up?” They asked.
“I pray when I wake up, may all people have happiness, and may all good things that I do spread out into the world.”
“And when you go to sleep?”
“May all people have happiness, and may all good things that I do spread out into the world.”
“And when you eat?”
“May all people have happiness, and may all good things that I do spread out into the world.”
“I see.”
“I do that because I understand that all things are one.”
“All things come from Allah?”
“Well, from what you believe, yes. But look,” I tear some pieces of bread, “Imagine these being good things. This is giving charity. This is helping someone with chores.” I then moved the pieces of bread away from me and in front of them. “When I do something good, and give it to you, it becomes part of you. What is good in me is now good in you because we are one.”

The men nodded their heads. We continued to muddle through some phrases and terms, and finally came up to another concept.

“Have you ever heard of the fitra?” I asked, naming a Sufi concept.
“Yes.”
“In Islam, every human has within them a divine nature called fitra, correct?”
“Yes.”
“In Buddhism, every human has the ability to become Buddhas. It is called Buddha nature.”

I wanted to use the finger pointing to the moon analogy,. But I remember my last attempt to use an analogy of the moon.

“In Islam, Allah is like a light that lights on everything. Everything has this divine nature. Because that divine nature inside of us is the same as Allah, it leads one naturally to Allah, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Everything comes from Allah, therefore everything is naturally light, and not darkness. Things that we do that seem bad are only so because when we act in that way, we are actually turning away from God. We think we see darkness simply because we turn away from the light.”
“Yeah,” the man said, nodding, “That’s right.”
“Buddhism is the same.” I said, hoping to get it right. “Our Buddha nature is like a light within us that guides us to an even greater light.”
“Well,” the man said, “Buddhism has a lot of what Islam has. But not everything.” He held his finger up as though he needed to specify that he wasn’t relenting, but that my explanations satisfied him for the time being.

I finished my meal, and left the tent to go back to work. I felt proud of myself – I didn’t given in and simply say I was Christian. I stood up for who I was and what I believed, and I did it in a way that, rather than being adversarial, was based in a spirit of mutual respect. I felt the Buddha would be proud of me. And that’s when I remember that it had been a week since I actually performed my morning prayers. Of course, when I realized that, the Catholic guilt quickly picked up the slack, rising in my body like the dust rose above the tents surrounding the mountain in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere, I thought, is a perfectly fine place to be.

Sonnet: aynna da d ligh s souk,‭ ‬da yash ghalgh

I chose a Shakespearean Sonnet for this poem. The Shakespearean Sonnet is typically used whenever the topic regards love, both obtained and unrequited. This love, however, is more of a universal love that I write about.

aynna da d ligh s souk, da yash ghalgh

da d tddugh souk ku simana,
nnag da ssagh lhwayj afad ad snugh imnsi.
welakin,‭ ‬wi lhwayj ur ghursn lma3na
aynna ur tlit da didi.

gan ghas lhwayj.‭ ‬lhwayj azrqi,‭ ‬lhwayj azggagh‭;
mddn da msawal d da tiddrn ldunitnsn,
ur da sin hat da yash‭ ‬taghufigh.
kulshi da t3ayad am‭ ‬digi‭ ‬tillas.‭ ‬welakin,

aynna da tfrrajgh mddn,‭ ‬da tighiygh ad inniygh
tayri digsn alnsn.‭ ‬okan‭ ‬digi‭ ‬tillas‭ ‬ur da yi tbrrsh
d t3ayadgh‭ ‬3mmrgh s asid awd. da 3llmgh
hat aday ad inniygh tayrinsn d ad tswargh‭ ‬tayrinsh,

kulu ldunit da t3ayad‭ ‬digsn‭ ‬ibayn
sg kuyan asidnsn n tayrinsn.

Translation: While Here at Souk,‭ ‬I Think of You

I come here to souk every week,
where I buy things in order to make dinner.
However,‭ ‬these things have no meaning
while you are not here with me.

They are only things.‭ ‬Blue things,‭ ‬red things‭;
people speak to each other and live their lives,
not knowing that I am missing you.
Everything‭ ‬becomes like darkness in me.‭ ‬However,

while watching people,‭ ‬I am able to see
the love in their eyes.‭ ‬Then the darkness‭ ‬in me doesn‭’‬t hurt
and I become filled with light again. I learn
that when I see their love ‬and I imagine your love,

the whole world becomes clear
from everyone‭’‬s light of their love.

Ramadan Challenge: The Clinic

caveat: the power in my site went out. These have been posted at a later date.

I decided to start going to the clinic a week early. Not doing anything in my house was beginning to take its toll. Throughout the month, I had done two main activities; writing my novel and reading Buddhist scriptures. I enjoyed the silence the days gave me; In America, during my days off, I would sometimes go the entire day without speaking a word. But I knew that I wanted to start early. I have only eight more weeks until in service training (IST), and I wanted to get a good handle on the situation at the clinic before I go back.

I had created two main posters to teach to the women when they go to the clinic. The nurse had told me that the women go on Wednesdays for vaccinations and pregnancy checkups. Using that information, I decided to create two projects; one with five basic health lessons and one for a pregnancy meditation to reduce stress. The nurse told me that I would talk to the women while they waited in the clinic.

In reality, regarding the situation at the clinic, I had told the nurse that I would start going after Ramadan, but after repeated knocks at my door of people telling me that the nurse kept telling them that I never came to the clinic, I decided to go the week early. The nurse told me that on Wednesdays he opens the clinic at 8 in the morning, so try to be there early. I woke up early on Wednesday morning, packed up the lessons with the speech and my laptop, and hiked the one and a half miles to the clinic. I arrived at 7:45, where I saw the locked doors to the clinic. I sat on the steps and waited. The nurse, who lives next door, awoke and opened the doors to the clinic at about 8:30.

I went inside and opened the lesson posters I had made. Though he liked the first poster, he was confused about the meditation poster. He pointed out the words that I wrote on the poster and said that I wrote them wrong. I replied that I would make sure to tell my host family that they don’t know how to write their own language.

Throughout the day, women came into the clinic. However, I didn’t think that there would be a pack of children with each of them. All of my prepared speeches were based on me talking to the women. The women, actually, went inside with the nurse and I was left with the children. On my first poster, four of the five lessons were addressed specifically to pregnant women. The only lessons that I could really give was in regards to the healthy foods. So my elaborate five lesson plan turned into an introduction on the benefits of twenty types of food to children.

The nurse came back into the waiting room with the women and told me to talk to them all about the other poster. I began to talk and made sure that I tried to stay with the speech as much as possible. Throughout most of the speech, though, the nurse and the women kept laughing at each other, and the children just stared blankly at me. The nurse told me that I spoke with an American tongue. Had I not been upset, I would have replied that I see with American eyes and smell with an American nose, too.

The nurse closed the clinic at around 11:30 and invited me to break the fast with him that night. He actually wanted me to eat with him right then because since he was diabetic, he didn’t have to fast. I told him I was fasting, and that is when he invited me to break the fast that evening. His wife told me that since my landlord owns a big field to pick figs and peaches for them before I returned. I said yes and went home.

I returned at about 6:30 that evening with figs and pomegranate in hand because the peaches were gone. I was let into the house, the call to prayer took place, and we sat down to eat. During the conversation, the nurse pulled out his pipe, stuffed it with marijuana, and offered me some.

“No thank you,” I said, “I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, you gave it up for Ramadan?”
“No, I don’t smoke period.”
“Oh, but you smoke cigarettes?”
“No, because I’m a health teacher.”
“Oh, well the previous volunteer used to smoke. Some of the children in our village saw him in another town.”
”Well, I don’t smoke.”
“But yes,” The nurse said as he turned to his wife, “Everybody loved him. He knew four languages; Spanish, English, and French, and he learned our language quickly.”
“Doesn’t he know German, as well?” I asked.

This has become my standard response to every time someone complimented the previous volunteer on his language skills.

“I’m sure he knows German, too.” I continued, “Maybe Italian, too.”
“Maybe. Everyone loved him, didn’t they?” he said, taking a puff, “Not you. You’re worthless.”
“Yes,” his wife agreed, “You’re worthless. You don’t know anything.”

In America, people invite guests to a dinner party, only to insult them the entire time. It’s called a roast. However, in America, they usually tell the person being roasted so that they can have a chance to write a rebuttal speech. Also, in Morocco, people in the villages tend to throw around those two sentences regularly. I normally don’t go a day talking to people without hearing “You’re worthless,” or, “You don’t know anything,” at least once. I hear it multiple times on days that I’m very sociable. I wonder if that has made me enjoy the silence of Ramadan even more.

“You know I only open the clinic Tuesday through Thursday?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “I remember. You go to Er Rachidia on Monday and Friday for your insulin shots.”

Because I’m not the one who smokes marijuana, I thought, so my memory isn’t shot to hell. But rather than comment back, I finished dinner and said goodbye to my gracious hosts.

It was nightfall as I walked the mile and a half back to my house. I thought about the conversation the nurse and his wife had about me in front of me. It’s strange how flippantly the people her use those two sentences. While I studied psychology, I learned that if you repeatedly tell someone that they are useless, they eventually believe it. If the people here use those sentences so often towards each other, I wonder whether or not it has had an effect on their psyche. I, on the other hand, am actually used to people not having a lot of faith in me.

In high school, my English teacher never wanted to look at my creative writings to give me any guidance. Rather than point out that she looked at other students’ works, I took my stories back and burned them in my backyard.

In college, I had professors who didn’t care to debate my ideas, but instead replied with pithy sayings such as, “I don’t know why you’re wrong, I just know that you’re wrong.” Rather than ask for an argument, I learned how to be quiet and write what they wanted to read, rather than tell them my ideas.

Before my banking job and before coming into the Peace Corps, my nicknames at my other jobs included “Princess” and “Trixie”. Rather than swipe back, I learned how to work in the freezers of restaurants, clean salad bars by myself, and put on a smile when I heard my nicknames as they started from the managers and moved down to my fellow employees.

I heard that in the Peace Corps, the people on the medical staff like to make a list of who they think is going to leave as an early termination (ET). I don’t doubt that I’m on that list.

I am fortunate, though, that I have always been just oblivious enough to not really put any import into what people around me say. Looking at my life, I know that I have become successful. I’m in another country, doing my best to teach health to people. I’m obviously already successful at teaching about the benefits of foods. If I can have faith in myself with that, maybe I can have faith that I can learn the language and being useful here. If I can have faith that I could write a novel, maybe I can have faith that it will be published.

And maybe, if I can just keep having faith that, regardless of what people around me say or do, they are inherently beautiful and good people, then maybe I can have faith that eventually, those people will see the same light in me that I see in them.

Ramadan Challenge: Buddhaficiation Fail

caveat: the power in my site went out. This is posted at a later date.

I decided to participate in Ramadan this year, but with my own spin of events. In addition to observing the fasting times, I decided to follow the eight precepts of Buddhism that one undertakes during holy festivals. Those eight precepts are to avoid the following:

1.) Harming living beings.
2.) Taking things not freely given.
3.) Sexual misconduct.
4.) False speech.
5.) Alcohol and drugs.
6.) Taking untimely meals.
7.) Grotesque dancing, singing, music, or movies.
8.) Use of jewelry, perfumes, or high seats.

Numbers two through eight were easy, though I wonder if Beetlejuice and Eddie Izzard: Dress to Kill fall under the grotesque category. My problem was with number one. I can’t even count how many ants I’ve washed down my drain while doing dishes, nor can I imagine how many animals I’ve tread over while stumbling around outside at one in the morning looking for the bathroom. But I had two instances in particular that make me realize that I have a lot of work to do in regards to compassion, loving kindness, and equanimity.

One of the first nights of Ramadan, I had two friends over. I had the windows open to let in fresh air. During the course of the evening, however, the children of the village began to press their faces against my windows. I decided to close the windows. I usually hang my towel on one of the windows in my room so that it, too, can air out. I grabbed the towel as I usually do and flicked it before closing the window. But for some reason, the towel felt like it had weight to it. I closed the window, turned around, and learned the reason for it. On the floor was a scorpion, approximately four inches long, not including the tail. Princess Leia came into my room to discuss the sleeping arrangement and sees the scorpion, too. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling at the time; I knew that I was following the eight precepts, and technically, the black scorpions aren’t deadly, and it was just sort of lying there. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it dead; I couldn’t think of a way to guide it to the front door. Princess Leia, on the other hand, instinctively grabbed the rock that I use as a door stop, crushed the scorpion, and proceeded to ask about the sleeping arrangement.

The second incident took place the day before the twenty-seventh of Ramadan, referred to as the “Day of Power”. No, everybody does not get to finally eat during the day to regain their strength they lost; it is a day of serious prayer, where families try to read the entire Qu’ran in one sitting. I was sitting in my room on a cushion on my floor because of me not using the high seats. Suddenly, I look to my right and see another scorpion headed towards me. Was this a relative of the previous scorpion, ready to fight me to restore his family’s honor? Was this a lover of the previous scorpion, willing to send itself on a suicide mission in order to be with his beloved? I don’t know. What I do know it that I was determined to not kill it this time. I sat quietly and watched it for a while. Finally, the scorpion lost interest in me, turned around, and walked away from me. Of course, the direction it headed was to my bed. I didn’t get much sleep that night, because I kept looking at my bug netting to make sure that it wasn’t trying to climb up into my bed. Fortunately, it didn’t, and I managed to get to sleep.

However, something did wake me up in the middle of the night. I awoke to the sound of scratching on my window. Already unable to calm down, I lifted the net, slipped out of bed, ran across the room and flipped on the light. The scorpion was nowhere to be found. What I did see, however, was a camel spider crawling along my window, losing its footing, and landing on my bug net in the location just above my pillow. I stood and watched as it slowly made its way down the net and onto the floor; its eight protrusions pulling the brown mass of twisted arachnid body towards me. I took this time to curse my family for having me watch Arachnaphobia when I was a small child.

I remembered the night of the scorpion. I thought if I could teach myself to let a scorpion go, then I can let this creature go, too. I continued to stand there for about half an hour and slow down my heart rate, but nothing worked. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I have seen scorpions and spiders like this all of the time, and have been able to let them go. But this was my bedroom. I needed to get some sleep. I know its psychological and that the creatures can get into my bedroom beneath my door, but the fact that I knew it was right there stopped me from sleeping.

I heard a knock at my door and let in my landlord, who was carrying a bowl of couscous. I thanked him, grabbed a spray can of bug killer, and went back to my room. My landlord followed me and watched as I sprayed the spider until it stopped moving. He then shook his head and grabbed something to carry the spider outside. He told me that there was nothing to fear, and that those spiders don’t bite people.

There is a saying attributed to the Buddha that I will paraphrase. In darkness, the fool mistakes a rope for a snake. I couldn’t have known the spider posed no problem, but that shouldn’t have been my concern. I had made a promise to not harm living beings, at least for this month, and I failed at it.

As I watched my landlord continue to shake his head at me, two thoughts ran through my mind. One, the men in my site don’t seem to be scared of anything, and the fact that I do get scared of these things, while they don’t have any emotional reaction, bothers me for some reason And two, I wondered if one of the spider’s family members or lovers would come back to face me like their cousins of the scorpion family did.

Ramadan Challenge: Emptying the Water

Ramadan is a month of purification, where we release ourselves of the mistakes of our past as well as the fears of our future, and instead embrace the sanctity of now. God, being the author of time and therefore is also being both completely within and throughout time, is that ineffable now; that fluidity which allows for what we call free will.

Imagine our existence as a hot spring in snow. We have within us the ability to take any patch of snow and place it into the hot spring, where it will become fluid, and evaporate into the sky. The hardened snow around us is every potentiality that we can conceive, frozen in a specific point in time. We can take any patch of snow and place it into the hot spring, where it will activate and flow throughout the hot spring. The hot spring, then, is the fluidity of free will, and the potentials that we chose create the water that surrounds us. Once that patch of snow has melted completely and its essence has swum its course, it is then released into the sky as vapor, a mere trace of what it once was, to join with all of the other patches of snow that have been melted. All that we do is connected like that water, and we are in that hot spring; we have the ability to choose from any patch of snow of potentiality from anywhere around us; this is what is meant by embracing the sanctity of now.

I have often wondered what I will do when I return to America. Will I continue working in a health related field, somehow? Will I go to work for the Department of Health and Human Services? Will I study for the GRE and try to go back to school to get my Masters in Psychology? Will I return and live an anonymous life, similar to the one that I lived before I left everything that I knew to come here?

I had spoken with someone back home about what I should do when I return; we will call him Stitch. I want to do something that will bring me alive. Something that won’t drain my spirit as my previous jobs have. I want to heal. I have always felt that need burning within me. At first, I wanted to be a doctor, so that I could heal people’s bodies whenever physical illness took over. However, the idea of simply healing bodies seemed pointless to me. All bodies in this world, in the end, fail us. I then moved toward psychology, so that I could then heal people’s minds. I believed that the power of the human mind could assist in healing the body. It has been shown that many illnesses can be traced back to mental stress. However, even the mind can fall prey to illness, and any attempt to heal the mind was not addressing the root of said illness in need of healing.

This is what brought me to where I am. As I sit here, I begin to think about Ramadan. To go back to the hot spring analogy, Ramadan, then, is the month where we have the ability to empty out that poll of our now-ness, and then look around us, and refill it anew. We have the ability to use our free will to refill this spring with potentialities of pure snow. I look around me as I sit in the hot spring. Above me are the mists of the past, filled with my Catholic upbringing. I feel the water around me of the Buddhist teachings that I swim in. I look around me and see snow of Islam around me.

I told Stitch that I was going to pray. And I feel that I have been doing that. I have always been open to exploring new religions. I am a seeker; that is what I do. I have always felt soothed by the Catholic mass; I miss it. But just as much as I am soothed by the song of Catholicism, I have been intrigued by Islam. Upon further investigation, however, I have come to the conclusion that the theological implications of the creator God concept still force me to appreciate the teaching of the Buddha. Even to accept the fact that there is an author of existence both within and throughout existence implicates it to the nature of the creation. I cannot relegate the questions of theodicy to a simple phrase, nor can muster the strength to go around repeating, “This is the best of all possible worlds.” Even if I were to entertain my own theodicy argument that I made regarding the illusion of time, space, good, and evil, I am then left with the theology of said creator god being as illusory as the ego, which was my original position.

I told Stitch that I wanted to go back to America to continue religious studies. As of now, however, doing it from a Christian perspective doesn’t give me the aliveness that studying the nature of existence through the Buddhist perspective does. And as of now, I cannot see myself converting to Islam. But I hope that, in the end, I will be able to pursue a form of study that allows me to continue my desire to heal. Making people come alive is what makes me come alive.

Ramadan Challenge: Technical Difficulties

For the past few days, the internet has not worked at my site. At first, I was worried that the cause was due to my computer somehow erasing the memory of the password on the modem that I had bought from a previous volunteer. For those who know me, you undoubtedly guessed correctly that the first thing that I did when I received the password on the small slip of paper was to throw it away as soon as I entered it into my computer. Of course, when my modem stopped working, I had assumed that some karmic seed had come to fruition, and my next course of action that would determine my future karma would be to: 1.) Go into town and buy another modem, 2.) Take my computer into town with me and test the modem in another place, or 3.) Throw my modem across my bedroom and stomp around in a comical manner in front of my open windows for the neighborhood kids to see.

Fortunately, both for my karmic bank account and my Moroccan bank account, I chose option two. I went into Er Rachidia and tested my modem at the bus station, where Buddha be praised it worked. This realization carried within it good news, great news, bad news, and worse news. The good news is that there is no problem with my modem. The great news was that I did not have to spend hundreds of dirhams, both on a new modem and purchasing the month of service on said new modem. The bad news was that it meant the problem was with my own site, which is something out of my control. The worse news is that because it is Ramadan, I can probably expect it to be fixed in about another week. Had the problem been my modem, I would have had to buy a new one due to the fact that the previous modem is under a contract in the previous volunteer’s name. I’m sure that everything will work out well in the end.

Ramadan Challenge Day 14: On Poverty

I sat in my darkened house and watched as the clouds shifted position in the sky. It was evening, but the sun wasn't gone completely yet, so I still had a few minutes before the call to prayer in order to break fast. I heard flocks birds in the fig trees near my house, their voices rose through the air like a symphony. I watched as children walked down the path next to my house to my neighbor's house; the women kept their faces to the ground, but the children pressed their faces against my window to peek into the foreigner's house. At first, I found it incredibly annoying; I still do, but I'm used to that, now. Curiosity tends to beat out civility, regardless of what culture one finds oneself.

For approximately the past two weeks, I have always waited until about fifteen minutes before the call to prayer to begin cooking. Usually, I would cook a box of mac & cheese, or a box of jambalaya mix sent from home. But now, I have learned to expect something else. Every night, one of my neighbor's has taken it upon himself to provide food for me during Ramadan. Every night, he arrives at my doorstep and repeatedly calls out my Moroccan name,

"Yunz... Yunz... Hey Yunz... Yunz, Yunz, Yunz... Hey Yunz... Hey Yunz."

Typically, I'm at the door by the time he calls out my name for the tenth time. He presents to me a tray with soup, stuffed bread, and sometimes a sweet bread or dates. The term they use for this is called "sadaka", which means alms giving.

It's a strange concept, because I never really considered myself to be the one in the community in need of charity. I came here from America, where even the poorest and most destitute of citizens has access to government programs and would be considered middle class anywhere in the developing world. I make money that is equivalent to middle class here. I'm in the newest house in the community. I have a blender. I have all of these things, and yet, when it comes down to it, there are some in the community who feel I am in need of charity. I went to my landlord's house the other day to break fast with the entire community. One of the people of the village came over to me as I sat by myself

"This is my cousin, and this is my brother, and this is my brother's wife's sister."
"Wow," I replied, "So the entire village is like one big extended family."
"That's right." He said, "Are you sad? Do you miss your family?"
"I miss my family," I replied, "But I'm not that sad."
"But you are?" He asked.
"A little."

It's funny, I guess. In America, when asked who is rich, we usually respond with famous people, sports players, or CEOs. Sometimes, people will say they are rich because they have family, but in America, that reply tends to come from the type of person who only sees their family for holidays. But here, it is different. Sure, people can want things, but they don't let those things define whether or not they are rich or poor. It isn't so much about having some things, but rather being something to someone.

I don't want to make this a post about how pure and honest the Moroccan people are. Moroccans are just like us; there are good and bad ones, there are good and bad habits here, too. It's just that the extent to which my community places the value of family seems jarring to what my culture has led so many of us to believe.

Of course, I believe that both cultures are sides of the same coin. Regardless of whether or not one views having things or people in one's life that defines one's richness, they are both placing the ability to define self worth in reference to external objects. I know my family isn't with me physically, but I can communicate with them online. Even if that weren't the case, I have all of my senses; I am able to watch that sunset, I am able to hear those birds, I am able to feel the wind in this valley, smell and taste the food given to me. My worth is not dependent on who takes care of my or what things I have. My worth is inherent because I exist. We are all inherently worthy.

But there is still a nice feeling when I open that door and see my neighbor with a smile as he hands me the tray of soup and stuffed bread. It makes me feel rich.

Ramadan Challenge: Traveling

A Dialogue

"They say it happens." I said to Princess Leia as we waited in the bus, "volunteers have said that they've seen it personally."
"I'm not saying anything," she replied.
"My blog is about cataloging the universal Peace Corps experience. I mean, 90% true is pretty true when you think about it."

Out the front door, we saw two men begin to push each other.

"There!" I said, "That counts as a fight!"
"Whatever you say," Princess Leia said, and she fell asleep.
"I wonder if I can get away with saying that I intervened and stopped the fight."
"Don't push your luck."

***

A Commentary

Our bosses at HQ advised us against traveling during the early part of Ramadan due to the fact that a lot of fights break out because people aren't used to not having their snack time in the late morning and early afternoon. Personally, I have always found that without food, I am less inclined to express aggression towards people. Then again, I'm not very aggressive to begin with.

So, yes, we traveled for the first time during Ramadan. Up until now, I have kept myself in my house and tried to keep as cool as possible with bathing, and keeping my mouth from drying out by brushing my teeth. Unfortunately, I had to travel at some point of another; it's not like I could get away with showing up at a random person's house every night during Ramadan; my town is more formal than most. Families tend to keep to themselves here more than most other villages. Of course, they are still very very friendly, but the quietness of the village suits me.

In a way, I am glad that no major violence broke out. We were able to go through the town without any incident while visiting other volunteers to discuss an AIDS event that we hope to put on in December.

There is something that I find fascinating about fasting. There seems to be something about feeling the pangs of hunger that makes me want to read my Buddhist scriptures. I know that it is not a good correlation to begin to create, but still, the correlation between suffering and spirituality is the same as the correlation between ecstasy and spirituality. I used to say all of the time back home that God is omni-experiential, the more you feel something, regardless whether it is sadness, joy, or anger, the closer you can become with God. Hell is indifference, not suffering.

Of course, my concept of God seems quite different than most people's understanding. To me, God is not a Being, but the Ground of All Being

***

A Vignette

It had begun to rain by the time the bus finally left the station, but due to the little rain that appeared, and the heat of summer, it didn't cool the city, but merely filled it with steam. Knowing that it was Ramadan, and that everybody that we saw was as hungry as we were, it seemed as though we were leaving a city of hungry ghosts as described in the old scriptures of Buddhism. Faces taut, lips dry, men with slender arms moved slowly to load and unload packages from beneath the bus.

The stones were streaked with rain as we returned from Er Rachidia, Princess Leia following close behind me as I traversed the winding road to my house that had begun to fill with rain. Everybody was in their houses, preparing for the breaking of the fast. As I reached the door of my house, I heard the sound of running water. I looked up. In front of my house, at the edge of the valley, waterfalls had formed, and the water cascaded down the mountainside.

"That explains how the plants around there stay alive." Princess Leia said.

I unlocked the door, and we went inside. We watched an animated movie titled Howl's Moving Castle, in which a young girl is transformed into an old woman by a witch, and while she tries to break the spell, meets Howl, a handsome wizard whose own life is consumed by his desire to remain beautiful. We needed to go to the market the next day, but I didn't want to get only a little sleep, so Princess Leia took a nap.

I tried to watch Ponyo, the story of an underwater creature who falls in love with a boy on land and transforms herself into a human so that she can be with him. I couldn't watch it, though, due to the fact that it was only in Japanese, and I wanted to hear Liam Neeson's voice. I turned off the computer and lie down so that I could listen to the sound of the waterfalls around me in the darkness. I fell asleep and I dreamed that I was traveling beneath the ocean. And then I became the ocean; every creature and entity within the waves swam through me, and I realized that these were creatures who had lived in the depths since before humans existed, and that they would be here long after.

***

Conclude

Christians cause themselves suffering so that they can be close to God. Opus Dei is the first group that comes to mind that practices self flagellation. Muslims also do the same through events like Ramadan, so that they, too, can feel close to God. As a Buddhist, I strive for equanimity, without too much attachment or aversion. I have to express sadness for those who truly believe that there is a culture war with Islam itself. However, given the nature of shifting cultures, I know that one day, the war will be over, and a new culture will have emerged from it; and I truly believe that it will combine the Selfless love of Christ with the Submission to God of Islam and also the Liberal Democratic values of Humanistic Western culture; it is simply the nature of things to combine and reform to its apotheosis. We are always - always - on a journey to God; and regardless of what we think we see, we cannot deviate from that path.