According to the 2000 census, roughly twenty-six percent of American households in America were designated as "one person" households. And worldwide, single person households account for nearly twelve percent of total households.
In Morocco, however, to live alone is unheard of. A son may live with his mother into his forties, or an unmarried sister may live with a married sister. I have seen an instance of up to four generations living together in a family compound. Other have commented on the situation on other blogs, and so anything that I say is merely further commentary on a subject that gets addressed on Peace Corps blogs every few months.
I like to tell people that I need my own place because I have sensitive ears and require "s-ifsti", which is Tamazight for silence. For the past four months, I have lived with two wonderful host families whose kids are awesome and sweet (if not a little mischievous), wives with wonderful culinary skills (even when you realize you are eating a certain animal body part that should not be named), and husbands who truly care about their wives (in America, there is a prejudice that Muslim countries have no respect for women - this cannot be further from the truth). To live by myself again after that time may seem strange. A disclaimer: yes, I lived with my father before coming here, but he was out of town a lot and though we would occasional talk and eat together, for the most part we just minded our business. From some women, I have already gotten the looks of pity with assurances that I will not go a day without bread and questions from men about my marital status, to which I wish I knew how to reply, "No sir, not me, I guarantee it. There must be more than this provincial life."
Though Moroccans are more abrupt about it, America is truly no different. There is a prejudice against people who live alone. How many news stories about serial killers and kids who shoot up schools speak of the "loner" personality? When I think of people who are alone, I think not of Columbine and serial killers, but of Greta Garbo and Emily Dickinson. People who enjoy their own company do not necessarily have to be sociopaths, do they?
Likewise, most people tend to confuse being alone with loneliness. Loneliness comes from not wanting to be alone. This can result in the type of person who jumps from relationship to relationship, or from friend to friend. This is the type of person scratches the surface of superficiality - they surround themselves with as many people as possible so as to avoid having to deal with the one person they do not wish to - themselves.
Aloneness, on the other hand, is merely the pleasure one takes when one knows oneself. One is able to plumb the depths of one's own consciousness and being and see within themselves the attributes of infinite numbers of people. Current psychology states that most hatred and prejudice - like racism and homophobia - come from an unwillingness to look into oneself and see those same characteristics within.
There is nothing wrong with being alone. But if you begin to feel lonely, just look inside the universe of yourself. Fly over the plains of your psyche; swim through the ocean of your subconscious; hike along the mountain trails of your imagination.
To those who wish to find relationships, just ask yourself why you want it? Do you want to be in a relationship because you are scared of being alone? I hate to tell you this, but if that is the case, then finding a partner under those pretenses will only serve to make you lonelier. Without having the opportunity to be alone and learn who you are in depth, how will you know how to do that with another person? Every time this discussion comes up, I always like to conclude with selections from one of my favorite sutras; Khaggavissana Sutra, which means Rhinoceros Horn:
For a sociable person
there are allurements;
on the heels of allurement, this pain.
Seeing allurement's drawback,
wander alone, a rhinoceros horn...
As a deer in the wilds,
unfettered,
goes for forage wherever it wants:
the wise person, valuing freedom,
wanders alone, a rhinoceros horn...
In the midst of companions
-- when staying at home,
when going out wandering --
you are prey to requests.
Valuing the freedom
that no one else covets,
wander alone, a rhinoceros horn...
If you gain a mature companion,
a fellow traveler, right-living and wise,
overcoming all dangers
go with him, gratified,
mindful...
We praise companionship
-- yes!
Those on a par, or better,
should be chosen as friends.
If they're not to be found,
living faultlessly,
wander alone, a rhinoceros horn...
"There's no way
that one delighting in company
can touch even momentary release."
Heeding the Solar Kinsman's words,
wander alone, a rhinoceros horn...
Transcending the contortion of views,
the sure way attained,
the path gained,
[realizing:]
"Unled by others,
I have knowledge arisen,"
wander alone, a rhinoceros horn...
People follow and associate
for a motive.
Friends without a motive these days
are rare.
They're shrewd for their own ends, and impure.
Wander alone, a rhinoceros horn.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Life in the South, Life in the Middle East; No Difference For Me
One Song
What is praised is one, so the praise is one too,
many jugs being poured
into a huge basin. All religions, all this singing,
one song.
The differences are just illusion and vanity. Sunlight
looks slightly different
on this wall than it does on that wall and a lot different
on this other one, but
it is still one light. We have borrowed these clothes, these
time-and-space personalities,
from a light, and when we praise, we pour them back in.
~Jelaluddin Rumi
It's funny to me, how the Peace Corps was adamant about how Muslims proselytizing to me was a form of harassment. It goes to show that most Peace Corps volunteers must be from the Northeast or the West Coast. I am from the South, and am quite familiar with proselytizing. In fact, I once spent an evening at a fair talking with a man about Leviticus and Romans while my friends went in and rode the rides. It is a normal part of life. People in the South expect you to be Christian; if you aren't (even if you say you are, sometimes...) they will tell you that you need to become a Christian (or their type of Christian...)
My friend Princess Leia and I discussed this. She so happens to be from Colorado, an area of America that has a lot of Evangelicals, and the Family Research Council, in particular, a group with which whose work I am fairly familiar. As a woman, I don't think she is as often "harassed" about converting to Islam as the men are, but I still find it funny that they use the word harassment.
They tell everyone to just say things like, "I have my religion, you have yours." or the rather innocuous statement, "I believe in God." and leave it at that. Of course, Princess Leia and I both know that seldom works. I usually end up discussing some topics with the locals here about it, but my language isn't quite able to create a meaningful dialogue yet.
I bring this topic up not for some surprise announcement of calling myself Muslim, but I do want to point out some of the cultural similarities that I have seen, especially since I come from an area of the South known as the Bible Belt.
Where I'm from, everyone has this idea that everyone in the Middle East stops whatever it is that they are doing five times a day, fall to the ground and pray to Mecca. This is decidedly not true - of the four months I have lived here, I have seen maybe one or two people do this in public. It is similar to views of the South, I guess. They see "O Brother Where Art Thou" and imagine everyone in the South rushing to the river in white robes, or some other nonsense like that. The truth is, we are both very similar. We wake up, we go to work, we come home, eat, go to bed. And the next day we do the same thing.
Also, here, as in the South, much emphasis is placed on how you look in public. In the South, everyone wants to portray themselves as good Christians, while at the same time, hiding little bottles of liquor in their cabinets. (full disclosure: my family is Catholic, we have no qualms with partaking of the drink...) Without going into detail, we have the same thing here. It's just about keeping everything secret. Just as in the South, great emphasis is placed on abstinence. Just as in the South, a blind eye is turned towards the indiscretions of the men while the women are scorned and turned into outcasts.
I want to point out another issue regarding religion here. In a book I borrowed from the library, "The Soul of Rumi," it says that Rumi, along with Eckhart and St. Francis of Assisi were "lovers of God's presence in humanity, and in existence itself."
One thing that has always fascinated me with the "revealed" religions is how the leaders so often make ambiguous comments regarding their own relationship with the divine, neither admitting nor denying whether or not they have a special relationship that everyone else cannot have.
I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me. ~John. 14:6
There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the Prophet of God.
Why I find these quotes interesting is the fact that, when the Biblical reference is taken in context with the rest of the passage of John, and the statement of Faith in Islam, when taken in context with the rest of the Koran, we are given a very interesting image of the two men. I have always interpreted the bible passage to mean that Jesus and God are one just as Buddha attained Enlightenment. Jesus' salvific powers came not through his personhood but his saviorhood, it is by following his actions that one attains unity with God. Likewise, the Koranic expression is intended to mean the unity of what God is - God is the ultimate, the pinnacle. And Muhammad is the Ultimate Seal, the Last Prophet, not qua Muhammad, but as a symbol of the Ultimate Man, just as the Buddha was not some savior or prophet, but rather, the symbol for the Ultimate Man. This is a universal quality to which all humanity can aspire - regardless of whether one calls himself Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or anything.
That is the beauty of religion - each religion becomes a little hidden treasure chest that anybody can open. Most people do not open the chest because they feel the chest itself is beautiful enough to get them through life. In all religions, there are people who take the teachings at a literal level. And for the most part, this is fine, for now. It is as far as they are able to get in their spiritual life. But for those who have the mental capabilities to look beyond the words and into the spirit of the words, to them, it is as though they are opening a treasure chest filled with riches as vast as space itself.
That is true regardless of whether or not you are a Muslim in Morocco or a Christian in the United States. Truth is a lamp that can guide us through the darkness, but too often we focus on the most mundane of things; who is holding the lamp, what does the lamp look like, etc. Jesus is gone, as is Muhammad, as is Buddha, but the lamp is sitting there right in front of us. It is our job to pick it up and let it shine through the darkness of existence.
"And whosoever, Ananda, either now or after I am dead, shall be a lamp unto themselves, and refuge unto themselves, shall betake themselves to no external refuge but holding fast to the truth as their lamp shall not look for refuge from anyone besides themselves - it is they who shall reach the topmost height!
~Buddha's Farewell Address
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Identifying with Angulimala
Cowherds, shepherds and plowmen passing by saw him taking the road to where Angulimala was, and said: "Do not take that road, monk. On that road is the bandit Angulimala who is murderous, bloody-handed, given to harming and violence; he is merciless to all living beings. Villages and towns and districts are being laid waste by him. He is constantly murdering people, and he wears their fingers as a garland. Men have come along this road in groups of ten, twenty, thirty and even forty from time to time, but still they have fallen into Angulimala's hands."
When this was said, the Blessed One went on in silence. For a second and a third time those people warned him. Still the Blessed One went on in silence.
I am not French. I know nothing of wine, nor of food, of which both the French and American cultures have a bit of knowledge; I have never been one to overtly display meaningless signs of pride, of which, again, Americans and French cultures do quite often. However, when looked at from the perspective of a Moroccan, I suppose that it would be easy to conflate the two cultures; it is said that we both do have many similarities, both with dress and action.
That being said, I am not French. Therefore, I do not know the French language.
I bring this up because it makes the situation which I am about to describe easier to understand. According to many books about living in cultures that differ significantly from your own, the misunderstandings and daily frustrations can easily build up to the point that any small event can trigger an explosion of anger at the unsuspecting local.
It is, of course, all too easy to let the little things cling to our lives. We all have them; the time when you were cut off in traffic, the time you had to stay late at work, the time the taxi driver overcharged you for fare; so many little events occur and attach like little seeds that float through the air cling to our hair. For me, it is the constant assumption that I know French. "Bonjour", "ce va?". I know greetings, but I do not know anything else.
I rode home from Tazzarine with Princess Leia, and we had made it to Er Rich, the final larger city before our villages. I needed to buy a marker to finish my poster for the clinic. I went to a small store near the bus station. I found the two pens that I needed and headed to the front. I asked him for the price and thought he said 6. I hand him a 10.
"No. More."
"Oh." I said, "so stash?" (stash is Tamazight for 16.)
"No. Seize." (which is French for 16.)
By this time, I don't know what to think. I know that seive is French for 16, but he said that it wasn't 16. After having to deal with the weekend of people constantly greeting me in French, I continued to speak in the language that I do know, Tamazight.
"Okay, so do you mean stash (16) or sttin (60)? It has to be one of those numbers."
"Sttin."
By this time, a rage was beginning to fill inside of me; why are you doing this to me? I don't know French, stop trying to tell me different numbers.
"Okay, one more time; is it stash or is it sttin?"
"It's stash, yeah, it's sttin."
Finally, I throw the pens onto the table and tell him that he doesn't even know how to count.
"No, I can't work with you. I'm done. I want my money now."
I reach out to take the 10 dirhams, but he pulls back.
"Give me my money."
"We can work something out."
"No, we can't because you don't know how to count."
Finally, I reach over the counter, grab his hand and clamp onto it tightly until I can reach into his palm and yank out the 10 dirhams in his hand. I then walk away and was angry until I returned home for much needed sleep. I don't know why these little things keep building up inside of me, I don't know why I let these little things attach to me so easily; I'm sure that being in this culture increases their effectiveness immensely. I just don't know...
The Moroccans know only of French people who look like me. Americans never come here. They have every right to assume that I am French. We all make these assumptions in America, too - we see a skin color and we know they are "African-American". We see the way a man walks and we know his sexual proclivities. We see how someone dresses and we know so many things about them - respectable businessman, tree-hugging liberal, militaristic conservative.
I must keep in my consciousness this fact - people make assumptions based on what we see. It is a simplification process of our minds so that we can focus our minds on other things instead of having to focus on who this person is that we see. We want - we need - to put people in these little boxes so that we can go on with our lives with as little resistance as possible. These assumptions become a form of violence against each other; they become an act of preemptive defense that allows us to judge those we do not even know. Those seeds that once alighted onto your shirt enter your mind and bloom into thoughts, ideas, and total schemas as to who this person is in front of you. You know what they are going to do; you know what they are going to say, and you have to prepare yourself. It is the easier thing to do. It is easier to assume they fit into that box...
It is easier to assume that man in the business suit is more trustworthy than the long haired man with the peace symbol t-shirt...
It is easier to assume that the person who looks like us is more like us than the person who doesn't...
It was easier to assume that the guy at the counter wanted to rip me off...
Day by day, O Lord... maybe, day by day. I have always liked the story of Angulimala. If a man who once murdered 999 people and strung their fingers around his neck like a mala can learn to control his actions and attain Englithenment, then maybe I can at least learn to stop projecting onto people nefarious deeds of which I have no evidence. Maybe I can, one day, finally accept the difficulty of doing so, even if that means having to slow down my own life and my own mind so that I can focus on each person as a person.
When this was said, the Blessed One went on in silence. For a second and a third time those people warned him. Still the Blessed One went on in silence.
I am not French. I know nothing of wine, nor of food, of which both the French and American cultures have a bit of knowledge; I have never been one to overtly display meaningless signs of pride, of which, again, Americans and French cultures do quite often. However, when looked at from the perspective of a Moroccan, I suppose that it would be easy to conflate the two cultures; it is said that we both do have many similarities, both with dress and action.
That being said, I am not French. Therefore, I do not know the French language.
I bring this up because it makes the situation which I am about to describe easier to understand. According to many books about living in cultures that differ significantly from your own, the misunderstandings and daily frustrations can easily build up to the point that any small event can trigger an explosion of anger at the unsuspecting local.
Tradition tells that in one of his former lives he had been a powerful spirit, a so-called yakkha, who used his superhuman strength to hurt and kill living beings to satisfy his appetite for human flesh. In all his past experiences that are reported in the Jatakas, two traits are prominent in him: his physical strength and his lack of compassion. This was the dark heritage of his past which broke into his present life, submerging the good qualities of his early years.
It is, of course, all too easy to let the little things cling to our lives. We all have them; the time when you were cut off in traffic, the time you had to stay late at work, the time the taxi driver overcharged you for fare; so many little events occur and attach like little seeds that float through the air cling to our hair. For me, it is the constant assumption that I know French. "Bonjour", "ce va?". I know greetings, but I do not know anything else.
I rode home from Tazzarine with Princess Leia, and we had made it to Er Rich, the final larger city before our villages. I needed to buy a marker to finish my poster for the clinic. I went to a small store near the bus station. I found the two pens that I needed and headed to the front. I asked him for the price and thought he said 6. I hand him a 10.
"No. More."
"Oh." I said, "so stash?" (stash is Tamazight for 16.)
"No. Seize." (which is French for 16.)
By this time, I don't know what to think. I know that seive is French for 16, but he said that it wasn't 16. After having to deal with the weekend of people constantly greeting me in French, I continued to speak in the language that I do know, Tamazight.
"Okay, so do you mean stash (16) or sttin (60)? It has to be one of those numbers."
"Sttin."
By this time, a rage was beginning to fill inside of me; why are you doing this to me? I don't know French, stop trying to tell me different numbers.
"Okay, one more time; is it stash or is it sttin?"
"It's stash, yeah, it's sttin."
Finally, I throw the pens onto the table and tell him that he doesn't even know how to count.
"No, I can't work with you. I'm done. I want my money now."
I reach out to take the 10 dirhams, but he pulls back.
"Give me my money."
"We can work something out."
"No, we can't because you don't know how to count."
Finally, I reach over the counter, grab his hand and clamp onto it tightly until I can reach into his palm and yank out the 10 dirhams in his hand. I then walk away and was angry until I returned home for much needed sleep. I don't know why these little things keep building up inside of me, I don't know why I let these little things attach to me so easily; I'm sure that being in this culture increases their effectiveness immensely. I just don't know...
Now Angulimala took up his sword and shield and buckled on his bow and quiver and he followed behind the Blessed One.
Then the Blessed One performed such a feat of supernormal power that the bandit Angulimala, going as fast as he could, was unable to catch up with the Blessed One, who was walking at his normal pace. Then he thought: "It is marvelous! Formerly I caught up with even a galloping elephant and seized it; I caught up with even a galloping horse and seized it; I caught up with even a galloping chariot and seized it; I caught up with even a galloping deer and seized it. But yet, though I am going as fast as I can, I am unable to catch up with this monk who is walking at his normal pace." He stopped and called "Stop, monk! Stop, monk!"
"I have stopped, Angulimala. Do you stop, too."
The Moroccans know only of French people who look like me. Americans never come here. They have every right to assume that I am French. We all make these assumptions in America, too - we see a skin color and we know they are "African-American". We see the way a man walks and we know his sexual proclivities. We see how someone dresses and we know so many things about them - respectable businessman, tree-hugging liberal, militaristic conservative.
I must keep in my consciousness this fact - people make assumptions based on what we see. It is a simplification process of our minds so that we can focus our minds on other things instead of having to focus on who this person is that we see. We want - we need - to put people in these little boxes so that we can go on with our lives with as little resistance as possible. These assumptions become a form of violence against each other; they become an act of preemptive defense that allows us to judge those we do not even know. Those seeds that once alighted onto your shirt enter your mind and bloom into thoughts, ideas, and total schemas as to who this person is in front of you. You know what they are going to do; you know what they are going to say, and you have to prepare yourself. It is the easier thing to do. It is easier to assume they fit into that box...
It is easier to assume that man in the business suit is more trustworthy than the long haired man with the peace symbol t-shirt...
It is easier to assume that the person who looks like us is more like us than the person who doesn't...
It was easier to assume that the guy at the counter wanted to rip me off...
"I have stopped, Angulimala. Do you stop, too."
Day by day, O Lord... maybe, day by day. I have always liked the story of Angulimala. If a man who once murdered 999 people and strung their fingers around his neck like a mala can learn to control his actions and attain Englithenment, then maybe I can at least learn to stop projecting onto people nefarious deeds of which I have no evidence. Maybe I can, one day, finally accept the difficulty of doing so, even if that means having to slow down my own life and my own mind so that I can focus on each person as a person.
Who once did live in recklessness
And then is reckless nevermore,
He shall illuminate the world
Like the full moon unveiled by cloud...
O let my enemies but hear a discourse on the Doctrine,
O let my enemies follow the Buddha's Teaching,
O let my enemies consort with such a kind of men
As serve the Doctrine because they are at peace...
"Non-harmer" is the name I bear
Who was a harmer in the past,
The name I bear is true today:
I hurt not any one at all...
But now I rest and rise in happiness
And happily I spend my life.
For now I am free of Mara's snares —
Oh! for the pity shown me by the Master!...
The Master has been served by me full well,
And all the Buddha's bidding has been done.
The heavy load was finally laid down;
What leads to new becoming is cut off.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Life Negating Gape Into the Void - A Wedding Story (3 of 3)
Go To Part 1
I saw their white fur above the tops of the mountains in front of me. They barked a howled at each other, and I wondered if they had the means to reach me before I could get up and run into the tent, as though being under the canvas provided a magical barrier against them. Fortunately, they weren’t interested in me, but instead just at chasing each other. I sighed and went back to the tent, where I finally managed to drift off to sleep at about 5 o’clock in the morning.
I was woken fifteen minutes later by the Rays, and he said that it was time to go back to the town. The sun was just about to appear, and the rooster at my head had decided to scream out right next to me. We got up and made our way out of the tent, and into the desert.
By the time we made it to the mountain pass, we saw the wedding party return. The first thing I noticed was the bride, dressed in a red veil. I immediately thought of Blinky, the ghost from Pacman. I wasn’t able to take pictures of the wedding because the wedding guests thought I was from the military, the irony of which still entertains me.
We let the wedding party pass, and they called for us to follow. I watched as the Rays began to walk forward a few steps, and I immediately feared that we were about to have to start the whole process over again. Another tear came to my eyes, but fortunately, he came back and we continued on our way. It was at that time that I noticed my hands refused to open, and when I tried to unclench them, it hurt. I then realized that throughout the 48-hour period I had only had about two cups of water. So, let us go through the checklist so that we can understand the precariousness of the situation in which I found myself.
- Exhausted from no sleep in 487 hours. Check.
- Dehydrated and dizzy. Check.
- Walking precariously along the mountainside. Check.
- Shoes that have no traction over the smooth rocks. Check.
- Eyes blurry and nose and throat closed from allergies. Check and Check.
- Sudden onset of vertigo. Check and Mate.
Maybe it was a combination of the allergies, the exhaustion, and the dehydration, but at that moment, I felt like I was flying. It was a moment later that I realized that I wasn’t flying, but rather, I had slipped and was sliding to the side of the mountain. I stopped sliding just as my shoes reached over the edge of the mountain. As I sat there, I had realized that what once had begun as an adventure in testing my limits had become merely a life negating gape into the void.
As I released myself from my stupor, I saw a small child, who stood above me for a moment and then ran away when he realized that I was alive. And so the three of us – me, the Rays, and the child, made our way back to town. As we crossed the river, I heard a splash, but didn’t really care to turn back. The Rays and I made it to the outskirts of our city when he turned around and asked me where the child was. I turned around and saw that it was just the two of us. We called out for a few minutes but then continued on our way. My first thought was, I’m sure someone will find him, inshallah.
I made it back to my house at 8 o’clock in the morning, popped a Benadryl, and passed out. Second goal of Peace Corps attained.
I saw their white fur above the tops of the mountains in front of me. They barked a howled at each other, and I wondered if they had the means to reach me before I could get up and run into the tent, as though being under the canvas provided a magical barrier against them. Fortunately, they weren’t interested in me, but instead just at chasing each other. I sighed and went back to the tent, where I finally managed to drift off to sleep at about 5 o’clock in the morning.
I was woken fifteen minutes later by the Rays, and he said that it was time to go back to the town. The sun was just about to appear, and the rooster at my head had decided to scream out right next to me. We got up and made our way out of the tent, and into the desert.
By the time we made it to the mountain pass, we saw the wedding party return. The first thing I noticed was the bride, dressed in a red veil. I immediately thought of Blinky, the ghost from Pacman. I wasn’t able to take pictures of the wedding because the wedding guests thought I was from the military, the irony of which still entertains me.
We let the wedding party pass, and they called for us to follow. I watched as the Rays began to walk forward a few steps, and I immediately feared that we were about to have to start the whole process over again. Another tear came to my eyes, but fortunately, he came back and we continued on our way. It was at that time that I noticed my hands refused to open, and when I tried to unclench them, it hurt. I then realized that throughout the 48-hour period I had only had about two cups of water. So, let us go through the checklist so that we can understand the precariousness of the situation in which I found myself.
- Exhausted from no sleep in 487 hours. Check.
- Dehydrated and dizzy. Check.
- Walking precariously along the mountainside. Check.
- Shoes that have no traction over the smooth rocks. Check.
- Eyes blurry and nose and throat closed from allergies. Check and Check.
- Sudden onset of vertigo. Check and Mate.
Maybe it was a combination of the allergies, the exhaustion, and the dehydration, but at that moment, I felt like I was flying. It was a moment later that I realized that I wasn’t flying, but rather, I had slipped and was sliding to the side of the mountain. I stopped sliding just as my shoes reached over the edge of the mountain. As I sat there, I had realized that what once had begun as an adventure in testing my limits had become merely a life negating gape into the void.
As I released myself from my stupor, I saw a small child, who stood above me for a moment and then ran away when he realized that I was alive. And so the three of us – me, the Rays, and the child, made our way back to town. As we crossed the river, I heard a splash, but didn’t really care to turn back. The Rays and I made it to the outskirts of our city when he turned around and asked me where the child was. I turned around and saw that it was just the two of us. We called out for a few minutes but then continued on our way. My first thought was, I’m sure someone will find him, inshallah.
I made it back to my house at 8 o’clock in the morning, popped a Benadryl, and passed out. Second goal of Peace Corps attained.
The Life Negating Gape Into the Void - A Wedding Story (2 of 3)
Go To Part 1
“Where’s the wedding?” I asked, looking across the desert and seeing nothing.
“Oh, it’s somewhere.” the man said.
My first thought was oh, so is it like Narnia where you only find it if you aren’t looking? I hope it was the allergies, but a tear formed in my eye as I looked out into the vast valley of death in which I found myself. The sun was beginning to set – it was almost 6 o’clock. In the distance, I could hear the sound of drums. The wind had picked up by now, and it was stronger than any wind I had felt before; it was so strong that it actually pushed me back. We managed to make it to the wedding party by 7 o’clock. A canvas tent set up – a three-hour walk from any sense of civilization. The packs of wild dogs, obviously sensing mammals with an aversion to a Darwinian sense of self-preservation, surrounded the tent.
Inside the tent (technically, as there were no actual walls to the tent), the women and men were singing and performing the traditional dance, where they stand in a circle and bang a drum while they sing out and women respond. I watched as they all banged the drum and moved their waists back and forth. Then I noticed one of the women looking at one of the men as he thrust his pelvis forward, and then I realized that we have a similar thing in America – we call it grinding. The difference, of course, is that in America, the men and women do it to each other, whereas here, the men have to do it with each other in a big circle.
As the evening wore on, I realized that the wedding party wasn’t even here. The groom, yes, but the bride was still down in the town. I still haven’t quite figured out why we had to have the tent set up in the middle of the desert, away from all sources of water and all sources of potential help. What if, say, someone was dehydrated or had accidentally strangled a child for banging the drum so close to my ear for an hour that I couldn’t hear anything else? These questions remain unanswered.
As 3 o’clock in the morning rolled around, the groom finally set off on his horse to get his bride. And the dancing slowly came to a close. Finally, I thought to myself, though it is early morning, I can finally go home. The Rays lays down to go to sleep.
“Hey, I don’t have my allergy medications.” I said. “I can’t breathe, and so I can’t sleep.”
“Oh no.” he said, and he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
I looked around and saw that everyone else was asleep. I decided to stand outside under the stars – I watched as shooting stars fell one after the other, and let the silence come over me. The stars blinked furiously, and I imagined for a moment about the lives on the other planets around those stars, about how somewhere, someone could be looking out right now and wondering if, perhaps, they wondered if there was someone looking out and thinking the same thing. As I looked into the tent again and watched the faces of the men and women, at how happy they were, I thought of how peaceful, how purely content. I guess it could be worse, I thought to myself.
And that’s when the packs of dogs came in.
Continue
“Where’s the wedding?” I asked, looking across the desert and seeing nothing.
“Oh, it’s somewhere.” the man said.
My first thought was oh, so is it like Narnia where you only find it if you aren’t looking? I hope it was the allergies, but a tear formed in my eye as I looked out into the vast valley of death in which I found myself. The sun was beginning to set – it was almost 6 o’clock. In the distance, I could hear the sound of drums. The wind had picked up by now, and it was stronger than any wind I had felt before; it was so strong that it actually pushed me back. We managed to make it to the wedding party by 7 o’clock. A canvas tent set up – a three-hour walk from any sense of civilization. The packs of wild dogs, obviously sensing mammals with an aversion to a Darwinian sense of self-preservation, surrounded the tent.
Inside the tent (technically, as there were no actual walls to the tent), the women and men were singing and performing the traditional dance, where they stand in a circle and bang a drum while they sing out and women respond. I watched as they all banged the drum and moved their waists back and forth. Then I noticed one of the women looking at one of the men as he thrust his pelvis forward, and then I realized that we have a similar thing in America – we call it grinding. The difference, of course, is that in America, the men and women do it to each other, whereas here, the men have to do it with each other in a big circle.
As the evening wore on, I realized that the wedding party wasn’t even here. The groom, yes, but the bride was still down in the town. I still haven’t quite figured out why we had to have the tent set up in the middle of the desert, away from all sources of water and all sources of potential help. What if, say, someone was dehydrated or had accidentally strangled a child for banging the drum so close to my ear for an hour that I couldn’t hear anything else? These questions remain unanswered.
As 3 o’clock in the morning rolled around, the groom finally set off on his horse to get his bride. And the dancing slowly came to a close. Finally, I thought to myself, though it is early morning, I can finally go home. The Rays lays down to go to sleep.
“Hey, I don’t have my allergy medications.” I said. “I can’t breathe, and so I can’t sleep.”
“Oh no.” he said, and he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
I looked around and saw that everyone else was asleep. I decided to stand outside under the stars – I watched as shooting stars fell one after the other, and let the silence come over me. The stars blinked furiously, and I imagined for a moment about the lives on the other planets around those stars, about how somewhere, someone could be looking out right now and wondering if, perhaps, they wondered if there was someone looking out and thinking the same thing. As I looked into the tent again and watched the faces of the men and women, at how happy they were, I thought of how peaceful, how purely content. I guess it could be worse, I thought to myself.
And that’s when the packs of dogs came in.
Continue
The Life Negating Gape Into the Void - A Wedding Story (1 of 3)
The pageantry surrounding the wedding always amazes me. The traditions, the colors, the partying – all of these things contribute to an atmosphere that is always detached from reality.
I started to go to the wedding at 3 in the afternoon. The Rays and I went to the bride’s house the day before, so it wasn’t too far away – the next town over. Since it was hot, I decided to wear just my undershirt while walking. I was carrying my camera and a nice shirt, and tea and sugar for gifts. I explained to the Rays that in America, we try to make sure we look as nice as possible, hence me carrying the shirt so it doesn’t get sweaty in the 100 degree heat. We cross the river leading to the town, and as we reach the house, I put on the shirt.
Inside the house, there are two rooms – one with women dancing and singing, and one with men sitting around doing nothing. We obviously have to go to the latter. Let me explain something before I continue – I haven’t cut my hair in a while, and it is getting a bit long. While I’m sitting there, a woman comes in and greets everyone, and comes to me and kisses me. A little confused, I look up at her and her eyes widen and she backs away. She yells out in Tamazight, and the men in the room laugh. She had said that with my hair, she thought I was a woman. The Rays notions for me to leave the room, and we head to the front of the house. That’s sad, I thought, I had always imagined the wedding to be more elaborate than this. As we head out of the house, the Rays asks me if I’m ready.
“I guess,” I said, and we started walking the other way.
“Wait,” I said, “Where are we going?”
“To the wedding.” He said, pointing to the top of a mountain that looked like Mount Crumpet from the Grinch.
Apparently, they had set up a tent ON THE TOP of the mountain. We head out, me in my nice shirt and camera, while still holding the gifts. Let me be clear – there is no elevation in Florida. I haven’t climbed a mountain since I was a child. This mountain was about 2 kilometers high, the path of which wraps around the mountain in a path that is approximately one foot wide and turns the 2 kilometer height into a path of about double the distance. We have picked up a third man on the way.
Walking back and forth, looking over the edge of the mountain into the valley below, I hear the sounds of the kids screaming on the mountainside. I love that sound, I thought to myself, there’s something peaceful about the way they scream that just seems so natural. I don’t know why they use such a misleading word for it, but one would think that a baby goat would have a better name than kid. Anyway, as we travel up the mountain, I have to stop – my legs are burning and I’m at the point where my teeth hurt and my heart is pounding out of my chest.
“Can we stop for a break?” I ask.
“Sure, we can catch our breath.” The man says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
A six year old child walks by, leaping from rock to rock. Unless, the Amazigh people have perfected the art of teleportation, I had to assume that he started from where we were. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I am dragging behind while this older man is able to drag on his cigarette, or a six-year old child is able to walk up this mountain without any problem.
After about an hour and a half, we finally make it to where it is leveling out. I am so proud of myself for having done that and I couldn’t wait to see the wedding party. I reach the top of the mountain – and see a vast stretch of desert before me.
Continue
I started to go to the wedding at 3 in the afternoon. The Rays and I went to the bride’s house the day before, so it wasn’t too far away – the next town over. Since it was hot, I decided to wear just my undershirt while walking. I was carrying my camera and a nice shirt, and tea and sugar for gifts. I explained to the Rays that in America, we try to make sure we look as nice as possible, hence me carrying the shirt so it doesn’t get sweaty in the 100 degree heat. We cross the river leading to the town, and as we reach the house, I put on the shirt.
Inside the house, there are two rooms – one with women dancing and singing, and one with men sitting around doing nothing. We obviously have to go to the latter. Let me explain something before I continue – I haven’t cut my hair in a while, and it is getting a bit long. While I’m sitting there, a woman comes in and greets everyone, and comes to me and kisses me. A little confused, I look up at her and her eyes widen and she backs away. She yells out in Tamazight, and the men in the room laugh. She had said that with my hair, she thought I was a woman. The Rays notions for me to leave the room, and we head to the front of the house. That’s sad, I thought, I had always imagined the wedding to be more elaborate than this. As we head out of the house, the Rays asks me if I’m ready.
“I guess,” I said, and we started walking the other way.
“Wait,” I said, “Where are we going?”
“To the wedding.” He said, pointing to the top of a mountain that looked like Mount Crumpet from the Grinch.
Apparently, they had set up a tent ON THE TOP of the mountain. We head out, me in my nice shirt and camera, while still holding the gifts. Let me be clear – there is no elevation in Florida. I haven’t climbed a mountain since I was a child. This mountain was about 2 kilometers high, the path of which wraps around the mountain in a path that is approximately one foot wide and turns the 2 kilometer height into a path of about double the distance. We have picked up a third man on the way.
Walking back and forth, looking over the edge of the mountain into the valley below, I hear the sounds of the kids screaming on the mountainside. I love that sound, I thought to myself, there’s something peaceful about the way they scream that just seems so natural. I don’t know why they use such a misleading word for it, but one would think that a baby goat would have a better name than kid. Anyway, as we travel up the mountain, I have to stop – my legs are burning and I’m at the point where my teeth hurt and my heart is pounding out of my chest.
“Can we stop for a break?” I ask.
“Sure, we can catch our breath.” The man says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
A six year old child walks by, leaping from rock to rock. Unless, the Amazigh people have perfected the art of teleportation, I had to assume that he started from where we were. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I am dragging behind while this older man is able to drag on his cigarette, or a six-year old child is able to walk up this mountain without any problem.
After about an hour and a half, we finally make it to where it is leveling out. I am so proud of myself for having done that and I couldn’t wait to see the wedding party. I reach the top of the mountain – and see a vast stretch of desert before me.
Continue
Friday, June 4, 2010
Oil Spill: Who Do We Blame?
Whose fault is the oil spill, really? BP is the operator and the developer of the Macondo Prospect, but Transocean owns the Deepwater Horizon drill platform, which, in turn, Hyundai built in South Korea. The Minerals Management Service (MMS) approved the project itself and originally required the blowout preventer but backed out when drilling companies questioned the need for it due to cost.
Politically, this event tested the convictions of the conservatives, who all howled on about how regulations were destroying businesses and the government needs to stay out of the way, only to demand that the President take over the company after the event occurred to score political points. Then there are the libertarians who claim that the federal government needs to be small enough to drown in a bathtub, only to wonder where the government is when events like this happen. Then there are the liberals in congress who do not have the backbone to stand up for their beliefs to force these things. The oil lobby in Congress (which gives money to BOTH parties) probably had an influence on regulatory policy that contributed to this event.
Speaking of policymakers, what about the fundraisers who influenced voters to vote for these policy makers through misleading ads and misconstruing of the facts? What about the mainstream media(MSM) figures whose slogans include “Drill, Baby, Drill”, “Every Attack on Obama is Racism”, or some other useless platitude spewed because people are unable to think about these issues through their complexities?
Now we are getting somewhere, people. Make no mistake – I am not saying this out of anger or resentment. This is truly an environmental disaster, which will lead to an extinction of life and a way of life. The Gulf Coast fishing industry is dead. This is going to have an effect on the economy in ways most people are not even fathoming yet. Who knows what will happen if the oil keeps going? So, whom do we blame? Do we blame BP, Transocean, Hyundai, South Korea? Do we blame the lobbyists, the fundraisers, the MMS or the MSM? Do we blame Republicans, Democrats, conservatives, libertarians, liberals? The blame rests on you.
All of us are implicit in this – all of us have the blood of animals, the blood of the victims of the accident itself, and the blood of the people who have no livelihoods on our hands. This is our world. We all helped create this world – we wanted a world of cheap gas without having to worry from where it came. We wanted a world where we can live out in the middle of nowhere so we can drive a Hummer or SUV a half an hour just to go to the grocery store. We wanted a world with constant air conditioning. We didn’t want to pay anything to help establish alternative energy that could reach the general market. We didn’t want to have to go through years of a few cents in extra taxes so that in the future we could live on renewable energy.
This is our price.
Now, we have a choice to make. Do we accept this as the way things are? Do we shake our fists at the television screen for two weeks until the MSM decides to run that story on Lindsey Lohan again? Do we yell at whomever Glen Beck or Arianna Huffington tell us to yell at until we find something else to yell at next? Do we once again, when we are so close to waking up after witnessing yet another disaster of Frankensteinian proportion, fall asleep under the watchful care of our leaders and our media figures, lulling us to sleep with the platitudes of “don’t worry, we’ll fix all of this. Watch this program about the ocean. Watch the sparkles.”
Or do we actually decide that this is not the world we wanted? Granted, any changes we want to make right now can only be cosmetic – we are in a hole that we have dug for ourselves – a 5,000-foot hole. We have created our entire world within that hole. In order to get out of that hole, we have to change everything about ourselves. We have to change not only our driving practices, but why do we build things where we do. We have to change not only our energy consumption, but why do we consume how we consume. Do we really need to live a half-hour away from a market, knowing that we need to go there every week? Do we really need the air conditioning on all of the time? Why did we decide to live in the middle of deserts, knowing that we would use air-conditioning all of the time?
We have to change ourselves, we have to change what we think of community, what we think of housing, what we think of energy, but it cannot happen overnight. We have to think not of ourselves anymore – we are not worth it – and instead think of the children who are not even born yet. We had our chance to create a world where everything is beautiful, and we missed it. Look around you and see the world we have created together. Do we want to give this to our children, or our children’s children?
Maybe I’m an idealist, but I believe in the power of people. I believe that people want to make the world a better place. I believe that we have the ingenuity and the morality to do it. I also believe that we have the courage to do it.
Politically, this event tested the convictions of the conservatives, who all howled on about how regulations were destroying businesses and the government needs to stay out of the way, only to demand that the President take over the company after the event occurred to score political points. Then there are the libertarians who claim that the federal government needs to be small enough to drown in a bathtub, only to wonder where the government is when events like this happen. Then there are the liberals in congress who do not have the backbone to stand up for their beliefs to force these things. The oil lobby in Congress (which gives money to BOTH parties) probably had an influence on regulatory policy that contributed to this event.
Speaking of policymakers, what about the fundraisers who influenced voters to vote for these policy makers through misleading ads and misconstruing of the facts? What about the mainstream media(MSM) figures whose slogans include “Drill, Baby, Drill”, “Every Attack on Obama is Racism”, or some other useless platitude spewed because people are unable to think about these issues through their complexities?
Now we are getting somewhere, people. Make no mistake – I am not saying this out of anger or resentment. This is truly an environmental disaster, which will lead to an extinction of life and a way of life. The Gulf Coast fishing industry is dead. This is going to have an effect on the economy in ways most people are not even fathoming yet. Who knows what will happen if the oil keeps going? So, whom do we blame? Do we blame BP, Transocean, Hyundai, South Korea? Do we blame the lobbyists, the fundraisers, the MMS or the MSM? Do we blame Republicans, Democrats, conservatives, libertarians, liberals? The blame rests on you.
All of us are implicit in this – all of us have the blood of animals, the blood of the victims of the accident itself, and the blood of the people who have no livelihoods on our hands. This is our world. We all helped create this world – we wanted a world of cheap gas without having to worry from where it came. We wanted a world where we can live out in the middle of nowhere so we can drive a Hummer or SUV a half an hour just to go to the grocery store. We wanted a world with constant air conditioning. We didn’t want to pay anything to help establish alternative energy that could reach the general market. We didn’t want to have to go through years of a few cents in extra taxes so that in the future we could live on renewable energy.
This is our price.
Now, we have a choice to make. Do we accept this as the way things are? Do we shake our fists at the television screen for two weeks until the MSM decides to run that story on Lindsey Lohan again? Do we yell at whomever Glen Beck or Arianna Huffington tell us to yell at until we find something else to yell at next? Do we once again, when we are so close to waking up after witnessing yet another disaster of Frankensteinian proportion, fall asleep under the watchful care of our leaders and our media figures, lulling us to sleep with the platitudes of “don’t worry, we’ll fix all of this. Watch this program about the ocean. Watch the sparkles.”
Or do we actually decide that this is not the world we wanted? Granted, any changes we want to make right now can only be cosmetic – we are in a hole that we have dug for ourselves – a 5,000-foot hole. We have created our entire world within that hole. In order to get out of that hole, we have to change everything about ourselves. We have to change not only our driving practices, but why do we build things where we do. We have to change not only our energy consumption, but why do we consume how we consume. Do we really need to live a half-hour away from a market, knowing that we need to go there every week? Do we really need the air conditioning on all of the time? Why did we decide to live in the middle of deserts, knowing that we would use air-conditioning all of the time?
We have to change ourselves, we have to change what we think of community, what we think of housing, what we think of energy, but it cannot happen overnight. We have to think not of ourselves anymore – we are not worth it – and instead think of the children who are not even born yet. We had our chance to create a world where everything is beautiful, and we missed it. Look around you and see the world we have created together. Do we want to give this to our children, or our children’s children?
Maybe I’m an idealist, but I believe in the power of people. I believe that people want to make the world a better place. I believe that we have the ingenuity and the morality to do it. I also believe that we have the courage to do it.
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