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.