Epilogue and Prologue

Last major experience of Morocco:

The flight from Casablanca to New York was late. I sat in the terminal and listened as people tried to find out what the holdup was. The employees couldn't say. It was supposed to leave at 12:25, but it was now 1:00, and so we were given coupons for free lunch at the cafeteria. The schedules said that it would now leave at 2:10. At 2:10, we arrived back at the terminal, only to learn that they only put a time because it was required, and that they had no idea when things would be fixed. This did not make any of the passengers happy. I stepped into the middle of the crowd.

"Look," I said, "If they were cancelling the flight, they would have told us. There is nothing we can do, so we may as well just calm down and wait."

The passengers sat down, and I started conversations with them. I learned that there was another Peace Corps volunteer on the flight, who had served in Gabon in the 1980's. There was a married couple who worked as nurses but moonlighted as travel writers. There was a buyer form Korea, and there was a business man who needed to travel through America and was going to drive from New York all the way to Indianapolis. It was interesting learning of these people.

Another hour passed, and we learned that the other flights were going on as scheduled. Many of us asked why we couldn't take those, but then I mentioned that it makes more sense to just keep one group of passengers waiting than to simply shift the times for everyone. They eventually agreed. I took out my laptop.

"Okay," I said, "Why don't we listen to the sweet and sultry vocal stylings of Mrs. Billie Holiday?"

We played the music for a while. But as six hours rolled by, many of the passengers couldn't take the wait any longer. Before I knew it, we were marching down the terminal, chanting our demands of information. People yelled, people surrounded offices, and the employees went into hiding. And then we were surrounded by the Moroccan police officers. I pulled lightly on the shoulders of some of the Americans nearby.

"We may not want to be near this right now." I said.

But the police officers simply directed us back to our terminal. Oddly enough, the moment the protesting started was the moment the airplane was fixed. We learned that the first airplane had malfunctioned, and they found a second one, but it, too, malfunctioned. Our flight was seven hours late, but fortunately, I had such a long layover in Raleigh that everything balanced out in the end.

First major experience of America:

I stood in line at the customs in JFK in New York City. All of the side conversations are in English, and I can understand them all. The ability to hear things in one's native tongue is very emotional when you haven't been able to in a while. It was also relieving to realize that I didn't have to put effort into listening anymore, and the ability to understand came naturally.

I had wondered when I would have my breakdown, the moment that I realized that my Peace Corps service was truly over. As I stood in line, a commercial came on the many televisions that hovered above me. Americans, all smiling. A Hispanic woman in a wedding dress in front of a fountain; a young shirtless boy swinging from a tire swing in the Midwest. Two brothers looking off from their porch in the South. A Muslim women in hijab smiling in New York. This was it. This was the moment when my throat shut, it became difficult to breathe, and the tears formed on my eyes. I trembled as I watched the faces flash on the screen. There are so many different faces in America, there are so many different voices. But the all say the same thing. The smiles say "freedom". The voices say "freedom". We are so many different things, but we all have this in common. This is our culture. Freedom. Freedom of expression, of religion, of belief, of speech, of assembly, of self identity, of making whatever you want to be of yourself. This is America, not religion, not race, not sexuality. Freedom. This is the UNUM to the E PLURIBUS. This is what is meant; we are physically immigrants, but we are spiritually home. We are many, but we are one, combined through the action of the recognition of freedom. I cried in the terminal, and the tears fell from my face to the passport that I held in my hand.

First major experience back home:

I returned to Pensacola, and had set up a dinner and drink session with some friends. We ate at Red Robin, and I ordered a drink. The ability to drink in front of other people in public is now always a little strange to me. The portions in America are ridiculously large, the amount in a restaurant in America is almost as much as what is served at an Amazigh wedding. I am going to have to learn how to eat enough for two to three people, I guess. We finished, and two of my friends had to leave because they had to get up early to go to work. Work I thought, getting up early? Crap... I continued to the bar with one of my friends.

When I was young, Emerald City was considered the fun club to go to, and The Roundup was the place where the old people went, "where the trolls went", as we would say. I expected to be able to go into the bar and see my friends sitting at the same table they always sat at, and I would order a Cape Cod and we would catch up. This did not happen. I walked in, and all of the faces were new. All of the faces were so young to me. Nobody recognized me, either. I managed to find one face, the bartender, who was happy I was back. But the friend and I went into the main room and watched the show. They have drag performers here.

I watched as one of the performers appeared that I knew. But she performed a new song, Candyman from Christina Aguilera. She used to sing Whitney Houston and other big voices like that. The crowd was polite, but it wasn't the same as she used to receive. Then another, younger performer appeared. Tiny, thin, and young, she walked around the stage to Katy Perry. The crowd went wild.

"What is this?" I asked.
"Well," my friend said, "This is a college town. These are the students. This drag queen is at the college, and she brings in a new crowd."
"But Penny Holiday?" I asked about the older performer.
"She even had to buy a new dress. Its competitive now."
"Where is everyone we know?" I asked.
"They go to The Roundup now."
"What?"
"Yeah. They don't want to be around the young college kids anymore. They just want to sit and relax with the locals."

That's what we call it now. The Roundup is no longer where the trolls go, but where the locals go. I'm not a troll, I'm a local, who just wants to relax. I know I'm young, but I have lost my youth. I'm older, it's true. But when did it happen? When did my friends shift from the techno music and dancing of Emerald City to the laid back, older atmosphere of The Roundup? I left Pensacola at the border age, the hazy period where I was neither; but now, upon my return, I find that I am now firmly in the latter camp.

I am older. I am not cynical, but neither am I naive anymore. But having this experience has turned me into somewhat of an outsider now. My friend noticed this.

"Why don't you change your blog from "me graves in morocco" to "me graves in america"? You seem to have a different view than everyone else."
"Maybe I will," I said, "Maybe I will."

The Lessons Learned

I am about to be on my way to Rabat. I will be back in America by the end of this week. I have reached the end of my service in what is known as ‘medical separation’. This pains me because I just started English classes and the association I helped start is just getting off of the ground, but it is necessary for my health. I remember, when I first arrived, that I would write my blog as a series of lessons. Though they aren’t fully lain out that way, I was able to cull a series of lessons from them, which I will share with you, dear reader. They aren’t in any order of importance.

Lesson 1: Do not be afraid to ask questions. Asking questions is how we learn about things. It does not make us stupid; it makes us curious. We have been taught to be self reliant, but this is a lie; everything is interdependent; everything relies on one another. The best thing to do in order to relieve ourselves of doubt is to be willing to ask question.

Lesson 2: Do not be afraid to answer questions. One of the kindest things you can do to help someone is to open their eyes to knowledge. If many people ask you many questions, it can get tiresome, but understand that they ask you the question for a reason. On the flip side, do not be afraid to say ‘I don’t know’ if you do not know the answer. To pretend you know the answer is even worse than lying, because then it becomes a lie that you believe, as well.

Lesson 3: Just because someone gives you an answer you do not like does not mean they did not understand the question. I wrote about this in March of 2010. So many people in life assume that the things they believe are automatically correct. Therefore, when they ask a question of someone, they tend to expect a certain answer. When someone with a different worldview does not give the expected answer, the asker is upset. Learn how to learn answers.

Lesson 4: Words are powerful. I remember writing about the power of words in April of 2010. During the election of 2008, people threw around the word ‘madrasa’ to describe Obama in an attempt to paint him as un-American. This is a tool that people use to keep us fighting one another, to make us sound foreign to one another. The truth is that we all share the same values deep down; we simply use different sounds. These values may sound different when we use the sounds of our mouths, but if we listen to the sounds of our heart, we will see that they all sound the same.

Lesson 5: In May of 2010, I wrote of how we are more powerful than we think. A few years ago, I had never left my hometown, with the exception of vacations with family and the occasional trip with friends to New Orleans. It was not expected for me to last this long here, but I did, and I have created wonderful things here, and have witnessed Moroccans create wonderful things here, too. On the flipside, it is important to understand that even though we are more powerful than we think, we do have limitations. Events have become stressful for me, to the point where I am not effective as a volunteer. Rather than let pride force me to stay, and not provide the best that I can, I am left to admit that I have reached the end. There is nothing wrong with this.

Lesson 6: The more we speak, the more likely we are to start saying things we will regret. It is strange how easily that right speech is undermined by idle chatter, gossip, and complaining. It is important to understand and control what you say, even if that means remaining silent most of the time. To speak only when necessary is itself necessary in order to reduce the likelihood of negative speech.

Lesson 7: I spoke in May and June of 2010 about my first bus experience with another volunteer. I was charged for her seat, too, because the bus driver assumed that we were married and I was paying for both of us. I did not understand the language, and so I assumed that he was just trying to rip off the foreigner. I have learned since then that people are not like that. People in the world are inherently good, and rather than assume the worst in everybody, it is far better to assume trust, and only be proven wrong. This allows your heart to be more open.

Lesson 8: There is a difference between being alone and loneliness. most people tend to confuse being alone with loneliness. Loneliness comes from not wanting to be alone. 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.

Lesson 9: Bureaucracy sucks. However, it is necessary. I know that when I return, I will have to get my license renewed, but after living in Morocco, where it took me two weeks to get signatures and stamps back in October 2010, I think I can manage a Florida DMV.

Lesson 10: 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.

Lesson 11: Princess Valencia Carmina is a perfectly legitimate name for a camel. Likewise, Queen Elizabeth Montanegro is also a perfectly legitimate name for a gecko that climbs into your apartment every night and likes to climb in your hair, and Oh-My-F*%king-God-It’s-Going-To-Kill-Me is a perfectly legitimate name for a camel spider the size of your hand that makes you shriek and run out of your bedroom and keeps you awake until 4:00 AM because you’re too scared to walk past it in order to get into your bed.

Lesson 12: In January of 2011, during a New Year’s in the desert, I said, “During the day, we have the illusion of a blue covering above us. We have the same thing on a cloudy night. But on nights like this, we have no protection from it. The infiniteness of it all. When we can’t see it, then we can pretend that all of our little fights that we have over religion, race, sexuality actually mean something. But now, looking out at these things, these lights, and knowing that it is so great a distance that it would be impossible to reach them, nobody can help but realize just how petty and stupid all of those fights are. But the funny thing is that even though mankind has been able to look up and see all of this, they continue to do it.” What I want to say is that our differences are pettier than we think.

Lesson 13: ‘Success’ is a very loaded term. We think of success in monetary values and in figures and facts. The truth is, success is mainly ineffable and experiential. I have learned that such little things can be successes: picking olives with your village all day, climbing a treacherous mountain to go to a wedding, discussing Buddhism to a Muslim, traveling from town to town working at festivals, and eating a lunch a Moroccan has provided, even if you aren’t hungry. These are all successes in their own way. They opened me up to new experiences. The same can happen anywhere. Go sing karaoke, go backpacking, take up a hobby you were interested in but never had the time. Any attempt is a success.

Lesson 14: The Ayacana Sutra is the story of the Buddha being requested to teach. The analogy of the lotus was used. We are each both the Buddha and the lotus. We all have something to teach the world, just like the Buddha. Likewise, we need to wait until we are ready to teach, like the lotus that has arisen out of the pond and opened its petals. Take a deep breath, you have time. Don’t worry.

Lesson 15: Facebook is going to become a necessary evil. Everyone is on Facebook, and without a Facebook, I will not be able to communicate with people in the future. Employers are looking more and more at Facebook accounts, so I will need one, of a Linkedin account, or whatever the devil they call it is nowadays. However, since this is now necessary, you may as well learn how to control yourself when expressing yourself. The internet’s memory is very long, as is our regret at an unwise action.

Lesson 16: The ability to express oneself should be sacrosanct. In June of 2011, I wrote of individuality, and I have to admit that the ability to be myself and be understood has been a source of stress for a while. I am an individual, a unique one, at that. I have learned that I value that ability very highly, much more so than I did before I left.

Lesson 17: I cannot comprehend how people can expose themselves to only one point of view and then claim that as ultimate truth. I cannot understand the so-called "Real American" who never leaves their hometown and waves little plastic flags made in China at Independence Day parades, without even questioning what their responsibilities are to continue to contribute to the ideals of equality, justice, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Lesson 18: Freedom is the ability to control one's own destiny, without barriers placed by a foreign entity. I have learned that everything and everyone that I have been taught was a foreign entity is, in fact, simply a potential extension of who I am. Even my ego is a foreign entity, and beneath all of my so-called personality is an emptiness.

Lesson 19: After my trip to America in August, I have learned to always have a backup plan. This reduces stress, and the likelihood that you will end up vomiting on a train at 9:00 PM in Marrakech. This also reduces stress when you call your mother from a payphone in Los Angeles telling her that you won’t make it home, only to have the phone cut off mid sentence.

Lesson 20: You cannot save everyone. You cannot help everyone. You cannot force help on people who don’t want it, and it is arrogant to believe that simply because some people in the world do not live like Americans, then they must be miserable and in need of our help. People are generally happy in their lives, and the amount of material things that they have plays no part in that. In truth, it is those who have many things that can sometimes be the most miserable. Like the Buddha and the lotus, you teach when you are ready, and others learn when they are ready.

Lesson 21: It is all right to know when to quit. It is wise to learn when your journey has reached the end. I have learned that lesson, painfully, by trying to force myself to deal with my emotions on my own and letting my pride get in the way of my health.

Lesson 22: This one,perhaps, is the most important lesson that I have learned. Without it, none of the other lessons are able to be learned. The final lesson is this:

Know yourself. Because if you don’t know yourself, then how can you be yourself? If you don’t know yourself, then how can you love yourself?

So that’s it. Twenty months, twenty-two lessons learned. I think that’s good enough. “me graves in morocco” is reaching its conclusion. I believe it is a good one, and one that I will always look back on with an overall sense of happiness. There may be an epilogue when I return; we will see. I have missed my family, and I have missed life in America. I have missed being able to fully be myself. But I would never change anything, I especially will never forget nor regret the time spent here. So, I wish you peace, love, and all of that, but I just need to remember to offer a little of that to myself, sometimes.

Love,
me graves

Silence and Sound

I went to the youth center to teach my morning Engish class. Most of them are beginning English, so for my first lesson, I decided to teach pronouns. I listened to them echo my words: I, you, he, she, it, we, you, they, me, you, him, her, us, you, them, my your, his, her, its, ours, yours, theirs. They say the words, their eyes are glazed over. It hadn't quite connected that these words are used to describe things and the subject pronouns are the English verb "to be". The verb "to be" has no Arabic equivalent, so I try to break it down into simple sentences for them: I am a teacher, you are a student, the teacher is me, this is my book, this is our classroom. I thought of how religions would use old languages; the traditional Tridentine Catholic Mass used to be spoken in Latin, but the feeling of saying words one does not know makes one uncomfortable, so they changed it in the 1970's, Buddhist practices are in Sanskrit. We have the translations, but saying the words in the old language rings hollow at times. This is the meaning behind sounds being so silent. In a way, it feels like a thick sheet of glass has bene placed between the speaker and the listener, an unpassable chasm and spreads between the divine and the mundane. The class finished, and I hoped that at some point, the connection would sear itself into the minds of my students.

When the class was over, I sat outside of the youth center and listened to the sounds around me. The sound of people speaking a language they did not know was replaced by the sound of the wind in the trees, and small birds flying overhead. It is autumn, and a cool wind finally began to blow through Errachidia. As I sat there, I wondered how these seeming small sounds can become so loud. I sat and waited for the other two volunteers to come. We had promised the week prior to go to the house of one of my students for lunch. It was now 11:30, and neither of them had shown up. One of the volunteers hadn't called me in a few days, while the other had said an hour earlier than he would show up. The student asked me where everybody was, and I answered I do not know. My phone beeped and I read the message from the volunteer. HEY ON SECOND THOUGHT I THINK IM GOING TO SKIP LUNCH HAVE FUN. I had no money on my phone, so I asked him to at least call the other volunteer to see if she could come. He did so, and later I received a message saying that she didn't want to come. I left the youth center with five men who speak only Arabic and French. The two volunteers who cancelled spoke Arabic, while I spoke only the dialect that none of them really knew.

I sat in a large room, ten by twenty feet, painted green and adorned with red couches. Now it was my turn to listen to words that I did not understand. I emptied my mind and tried to pay attention to the sounds that left their lips. I was able to guess that they were speaking of Gaddafi, of Libya, and of other places in Africa. I could offer nothing to the conversations, and so I remained silent and listened. We went through courses of salad with tuna, chicken, beef with plums, a plate of fruit, and finally a dish of cold couscous with buttermilk. I have returned to vegetarianism, and so the host had made a special plate of vegetable couscous for me to eat. He kept apologizing to me, but I simply replied "no problem." He was able to understand that much of the dialect. Because I could not contribute verbally to the event, I decided to focus my attention on eating the bites slowly. The rice in the salad had a hint of lemon in them, the tomatos had acquired the sourness of the onions. The couscous wrapped around my teeth as I tried to chew, the baked carrots were sweet, and the cucumber had become tart. The pomegranate seeds exploded as I bit down on them. The buttermilk couscous dish provided a strange taste of both sour and savory. Finally, after my host apologized to me yet again about meat, I replied in my dialect, "No, the kindness of your heart is as large as the ocean." Someone tried to translate, but it didn't connect. In Morocco, I learned, feelings are felt through the liver, not the heart.

As the conversation continued, I began to imagine what it must have felt like to be Catholic in the 1960's, knowing that something divine was taking place, but that I had no way of understandingt it. The chasm between myself and the Arabic speakers grew; the sheet of glass grew thick. I have been trying to learn Arabic, but knowing how little time I have left here, and how much energy I used learning the dialect, makes concentrating on it difficult, at best. The sounds once again took on the characteristics of silence, and my mind kept telling me to simply smile and look around the room, tilting my head occasionally as though I had managed to understand a word or phrase, saying "mm hmm", laughing when others laughed. There are so many other characteristics to communication beyond the mere sounds of words. The lunch completed, we made our way back to town.

Tonight, I teach a yoga class. The exercise classes are not as successful as the English classes. I have yet to have a student express interest in either yoga or pilates. I have learned, instead, to be satisfied in the aloneness of the room, the meditative bamboo flute music I play usually permeates the room, but occasionally I hear the sound of birds outside, and when the wind picks up at night, I can understand that the earth is sighing, as though to say, "This is simply how things are."

An Event

The woman sits at the corner of the market, holding a child. The child is crying, and the woman is holding out her hand, asking for dirhams. Footsteps on concrete. Men call for items from the vendor. They walk by her, looking up into the sky or focusing on their cell phone conversations. Children play in the street outside as rain falls lightly on the concrete. They kick a plastic soccer ball back and forth. The baby continues to cry. Someone walks into the market and passes the woman. Apples are bought, as are cheese and bread. Someone walks by the woman, stops, then turns around, goes to the vendor, and buys milk. Footsteps past the woman with the crying child. The bag of milk is dropped. The woman tries to thank the person, but he places a finger over his mouth, telling her not to make a big deal out of it. The person walks away as the woman rips open the plastic bag of milk and feeds her chlid. The crying stops. Someone walks away, feet crashing against the pools of water that have formed on the street.

Pillars, a Double Sestina

1. Declaration

Sunrise. Shadows are dissolved by the light.
Colors seep back into the valley, just
like paint on a blank canvas. A living
canvas, this pastoral, evoking peace.
And I am buried beneath it; a kind
of death, I suppose. Like shadows, the way
they all simply disappear when the real
world reemerges from its sleep. Each one,
each shadow, retreats into Earth’s loving
embrace. Darkness, it seems, can never last.
But light does not seem to be eternal,
either. How do you want me to answer?

Is there a question that I must answer?
Is the answer related to the light?
Is this the same light that came from the last
night, and the night before that? I have just
one question. If I can have just this one,
I will agree to become the living
embodiment of your truth, the same way
water will reflect all things, when at peace.
Like sky over ocean, an eternal
reflection of each other, in loving
union. The truth we share will be that kind.
The question: how do I know which is real?

2. Prayer

After the bombings, I was told that real
Muslims know fighting is not the answer.
“My Lord is Most Merciful, Most Loving.
It is man who turns away from the light.
Even the word Islam translates to peace.”
I nodded, looked to the sky, to the last
of the evening light. I have been living
here for over a year, and I think, just
as when I first arrived, people are kind.
All people can be kind. This eternal
truth - that when people see themselves as one,
they know that they can act no other way

than with loving kindness - it is that way.
“Prayer," he said, “Is how to join the real
light of God. To join in that eternal
bond.” Then, as if to serve as an answer,
A child gives money to a beggar. Just
a dirham, but still an act of loving
kindness. Today, it is nearing the last
days of spring. The summer will bring the light
of longer days. I watch as, one by one,
children riffle through the various kinds
of ice cream. They will only be at peace
once they find what it is that they want. Living

here, I see it is the same as living
in the US. One child stands in a way
that says my father doesn’t have that kind
of money to buy ice cream, but the real
parallel appears when she holds the light
ice cream. Her friend sees, and the eternal
reaction she makes is one of loving -
she pays for it. The girls smile. This answer
to a question that finally brings peace -
all acts of kindness are prayers. Each one
is a desire to see each other just
as we desire to see God. Joined, at last.

3. Alms

And the first of them will say to the last,
“Because you did not care for the living,
you will endure punishment.” There is one
man who sits in the same place on the way
to souk and asks for money. The answer
I always hear is “May Allah be kind.”
Everywhere I turn is an eternal
line of beggars. I know that they are real
people. (At least, I act as though I just
treat them like they are real.) It gives me peace -
the thought of them is too heavy. A light
heart is needed to continue loving

life, and a loving God in a loving
world would not allow injustice to last.
But still, at times, between moments of peace,
I see them in my mind. Countless living
people, lying in dirt. This is the real
world, the world that I have allowed. This one
world is made by us all. This is the kind
of world that we want, and in this way,
we say, “Poverty is how we see light
in ourselves. With no possessions, we just
have ourselves and Allah.” As I answer
the beggar, I accept this as eternal,

For how can I support this eternal
line of people suffering? What loving
can I commit to them all without just
raising my arms in defeat - in one last
show of forfeiture? I know of no way
to remedy their problems and bring peace.
Sometimes, I feel I can’t bring even one
instant of hope to those who are living
in this world. My thoughts become an answer
to those unable to see that the light
within all of them is still just as real
as the light in us. May Allah be kind.

4. Fasting

It is the leaving behind of these kind
of things so that, once we reach eternal
life, we are prepared to embrace the light.
The things that we believe we are loving
today - fine clothes, physical things, living
in comfort and without want - these are just
distractions from attaining lasting peace.
Because God is both the first and the last,
all else are simply shrouds that hide the real
nature of things. We attach an answer
to them, not knowing they are in the way
of the answer. All things are part of one

existence - God’s. Upon learning this, one
finds it is easy to give up the kind
of things that others think are the answer
to their problems. One sees the eternal.
Seeing that nothing of this world will last,
one gives up these things and chooses the light,
instead. We learn how to love others just
as God does. It is a kind of loving
insofar as they are nothing, the way
one loves the refraction of light from real
jewels. The complete spectrum of living
is within it, and to know it brings peace.

5. Pilgrimage

“You must accept the religion of peace
before you learn the details,” is what one
man said to me while riding to Fes. “Real
faith comes before you know something.” That kind
of belief seemed impossible. Loving
the knowledge that I can know the answer
for questions is needed, for me, as light
is needed by life. And for eternal
questions related to ways of living?
I could not even understand the way
that mindset works. But then, during a last
call to prayer, I lost consciousness just

before dawn. I dreamed that I was standing just
before a black stone. I remembered peace,
watched white sails as they would float on the way,
surround the blackness, and were absorbed, one
by one, into the black, the eternal
hole that was once just a stone. Which was real,
I thought, and how can I know the answer?
I awoke to see light. It was the kind
of brightened light that takes place at dusk’s last
moment, meaning the dream I was living
had lasted but a moment. But, loving
that moment, when black joined white, dark and light

were joined in loving embrace, and the light
and all things, just as they were, were at peace.
At last, I thought, I could see those living
that way. It was never about the one
right answer, but the right kind of question,
whose real answer lies in eternal black.

The Water Hole

A group of volunteers came to Er Rachidia to celebrate and spend time together. However, throughout the course of the weekend, we found it necessary to go to the watering hole in a nearby tourist attraction, Meski. As we stepped out of my apartment to head to the taxi stand, we immediately felt the intensity of the heat against our faces. After a few months of temperatures well over one-hundred degress Farenheit, we had gotten used to the dead heat of day, but there was something different about this heat. I could feel the coming humidity of a possible storm. It was this heat that left the streets of Er Rachidia empty for most of the summer.

The taxi ride was pleasant. As I finished my cigarette, I let the wind stamp out the butt and I placed the remnants in my backpack; I refuse to be an inconsiderate smoker who throws the butt onto the ground. We passed village after village for a few minutes, and at each entrance a small water fountain greeted us. These are the fountains that people typically use to clean their hands, feet, and faces for ablutions. The villages all lined the east side of the street, the deserts leading up to the Atlas Mountains lined the west side. Camels walked through the bushes alongide mules and children. In the taxi, most of the volunteers sat in the back. I sat up front with my sitemate. I turned to him and noticed that his eyes were moving back and forth, as though he were trying to read something with his mind.

"You're thinking of something." I said.
"No, not really." He replied.
"All right, then."

I turned back to the road, held my hand out, and left the force of the wind raise and lower it. My hand sliced through everything - the trees, the houses, the camels, the children - until it finally sliced through the pillars that marked the entrance to Meski.

The watering hole is within the valley of Meski, and it required us to travel down a steerp set of stairs that had been carved into the valley rock. We paid the five dirhams to get in, and we found a place in the shade to sit where the owners had drilled metal beams into the side of the valley for a tarp. My sitemate had just returned from America, and he had brought back with him some bacon, so we all decided to have BLT's for lunch that day. Knowing Islamic policy on pork, we made sure to sit in a corner where nobody could see us.

"Who all is going to go swimming?" Someone asked. The men raised their hands, as did most of the women. I didn't like the idea of taking my shirt off in front of large groups of people, so I decided to stay beneath the tarp. One of the women in the group was wearing a two-piece swimsuit. The people of Meski, being used to living in a tourist town, are used to this sort of thing. Nonetheless, it didn't take long for all of the men, who were dressed in no more than two inches worth of clothing, to notice this woman swimming. I looked around the watering hole, at the men, as they stared at her. To be honest, however, the same thing happens in America, but because the men and women are intermingled, it doesn't get noticed as often. Men naturally stare at women. Men can't help themselves, it is hardwired into their brains to look at women this way. I then noticed the women who stared at the female volunteer. The women of thew village all wore long dresses, complete with long sleeve shirts, neck coverings, and wide-brimmed hats. Knowing the culture's desire for light-skinned people, I could think of two reasons for this. The women here are simply trying to avoid as much sun as possible, and they don't want to be looked at that way. I remember a Moroccan once saying that she doesn't feel like a prisoner wearing the hijab. It is when she shows her flesh that men treat her like an object.

I sat there, watching the others play in the water, and opened my book of poetry. I took a drag fom my cigarette and began reading "The Gift", by Sharon Olds.

If I could change one physical thing
about myself, I would retract those tiny
twilit lips which appeared at the mouth
of my body when the children's heads pressed out

I read the words, took another drag of my cigarette, and looked out at the watering hole. The female volunteer didn't notice the men looking at her, or, if she did, she din't make it look like she cared. This is what it's like to live wholly within one's element, I thought to myself, thinking back on the last time I had ever felt like that. It was when I was writing. Hours could pass, and I wouldn't even notice the sun's light creeping along the edge of the desk.

A few moments later, the volunteers came up to me. They had finished swimming and had decided that it would be a good time to try to get home, before everone tried to rush home. We climbed the stairs to the main road and found a taxi right away. The humidity of the coming storm had passed, and the skies were completely blue.

Later that night, the others were sitting around the parlor, enjoying themselves, and I went to the other room to have a cigarette. I took out another cigarette and watched as the trails of smoke twirled up through the middle air shaft, into the night sky. They snaked around the metal gratings of the rebar; free of any shape, they could get around anything that tried to hinder them in their attempt to escape the ventilation shaft. My sitemate came up to me.

"You're thinking of something." He said.
"No, not really." I lied.
"All right, then."

A quick note

I decided that I would spend this Ramadan in America. Since this blog is dedicated to my service in Morocco, I decided to not publish any blog entries while I was in America. I have just returned to Morocco, where I will begin a new part of my service, the concluding few months, in which I will be in a new site, with new responsibilities. I look forward to describing to you all new observations that I will be making from a fresh perspective.

Love always,
me graves

This Shouldn't Have Been This Difficult

I fasted for Ramadan last year. A month without eating or drinking during the day, and at night, the food consisted of sweets and candies and juices that served to provide energy for the next day. Everything is closed all day, and throughout the night, people wander the streets. Nobody works during Ramadan. Needless to say, I decided to travel to America this year. Knowing the way things work in Morocco, I decided that the best route to take would be the 8:30 CTM bus directly from Er Rachidia to Casablanca, and then to wait in the airport for about 8 hours until my flight was to leave at 6:30. I have been waiting in airports before, so this was no problem, and it would be welcome to know that I got there in time. I walked to the CTM station and bought my ticket. It was July 26th.

"Hello. I would like to buy a ticket to Casablanca on August 2nd."
"August 2nd is during Ramadan. You're traveling?"
"Yes. To America."
"Okay. Here's your ticket."

I went home, glad that I would be able to make it to America so easily. The day came, and I made my way through the street to the CTM station half an hour early. My suitcase dragged behind me, and my laptop banged against my side. I made my way to the CTM station, where I saw two men who sat in front, occasionally beginning to nap. I walked into the CTM station and asked them when the bus would arrive.

"What bus?"
"The bus that goes to Casablanca this morning at 8:30."
"There is no bus that goes to Casablanca today."

I showed them the ticket that I had bought the week before. They laughed to each other and pointed at me and to the ticket. I realized that I was on the verge of a blackout, I began to get tunnel vision, my breath suddenly stopped, and I began to mutter to myself without realizing it, something about the two men who stood in front of me and various methods that they needed to be destroyed. I had to get out of the CTM station, and fast. I found myself walking from the CTM station to the souk bus station. There was a reason why I preferred to ride via the CTM station instead. Souk buses don't run on schedules, bus simply begin their journey with a final destination in mind. It may stop at any village or city, or it may simply travel straight through. It may travel the direct route to the final destination, or it may simply meander through cities in the opposite direction, depending on who got on the bus at the time. I had to take a bus from Er Rachidia to Marrakech, and then find a way to Casablanca myself. This souk bus in particular, in order to get to the northern city of Marrakech, had to first travel southwest to Beni Milal, and then northeast to Marrakech, making what could have been an eight hour trip into a ten or eleven hour one.

I'm happy to say that the bus did leave Er Rachidia on time. However, due to the fact that a lot of people were so tired due to not eating during Ramadan, they had to stop for longer periods of time at the cities they stopped in. For instance, a stop in Midelt, which usually lasts about fifteen minutes, had to last about forty-five minutes so the driver could take a brief nap. What should have been a half hour stop in Beni Milal became an hour and fifteen minute nap break. I looked at my watch in Beni Milal and realized that had they not changed their mind about the CTM bus (they are apparently allowed to simply change their mind as to whether or not a bus does or does not have to work.) I would have been nearing Casablanca at this time. Instead, I found myself traveling to the other side of the country in order to find a way to get to Casablanca. I realized that I had to take a train from Marrakech to Casablanca if I were to get there at all. I checked the times and realized that the last train leaves Marrakech at 9. I had a few hours to get there, and at least would be able to get to Casablanca at around midnight, which would give me a little time to rest in the airport.

I felt that, until I discovered that sunset would occur a half an hour outside of Marrakech at 8. The bus stopped at a small cafe outside of Marrakech and everyone got out, eager to devour the food prepared. Granted, the food was delicious, but I couldn't eat very well knowing that due to the complete unaccountability of travel schedules, I may not be able to get to America at all. We had reached almost 12 hours on what could have been a ten hour trip, or a seven hour trip had the CTM buses ran. I managed to shove some sweet food and soup down and ran back to the bus.

I finally reached Marrakech at about 8:45. I had fifteen minutes to get to the train station. I ran out of the bus station and to the taxi stand, but I found that surprisingly, this series of taxis were in strike. Why they were on strike I do not know, but what I did know was that I was beginning to black out again, and I needed to get away from these people as soon as possible, otherwise, my actions would lead me to a place I really did not want to go. Luckily, I found a cameo, a tricycle type vehicle with the equivalent of a red rider wagon attached to the back. I threw my stuff into the back and hopped in. The man was wearing a New York hat, and I immediately felt like Indiana Jones traveling through the streets of Tokyo.

"Short round, get me to the train station, now!"

I threw dirhams at him, and in my fantasy, I imagine him shouting, Okay Dr. Jones, hold onto your potatoes! The traffic was heavy in the city, and the driver dodged the traffic and wove into and out of the cars. We ran through red lights and stop signs in order to get to the train station. I looked at my watch. It was 9. I heard the sound of a whistle and leapt out of the cameo. My roller suitcase was upside down, but at that point I didn't care. My laptop banged against my side, and my stomach began to turn on itself. I reached the platform just as the train began to roll out of the station. Normally, if a train starts to move, that means it was missed. But in Morocco, One only missis the train once it has finally left the platform. I sprinted to the nearest door, pulled it open, threw my laptop into the train, and then my suitcase, and then I pulled myself into the train just as the platform dropped from my feet. For a moment, one foot dangled outside the train,but I pulled my body into the train, fell to my knees, and threw up sweets and soup all over the floor. I knew that I would finally get to Casablanca with a little time to spare.

I then realized that most other volunteers tell me to travel just before Ramadan instead of during it. Now I knew why.

Rolling Blackouts

1. Blackouts

I was making the final adjustments to my vacation schedule the other night when it happened. The lights went out, the wifi internet stopped working, and the music that usually plays every night in the street went silent. What was strange was that it would happen at around the same time every night; the power would go out for about fifteen minutes starting at eight o'clock, come back on for another fifteen minutes, go out again for half hour, and then remain on for the rest of the night. For some reason, however, I had connected the power outages with the construction that had been going on.

In hindsight, it should have been obvious that wasn't the case since they usually stop construction work around seven, but it never occurred to me that the power company would just choose certain parts of the city to not have power for a specific period of time. I talked to Dipesh about it, and he told me that they were called rolling blackouts. I had heard of the term before, but I wasn't familiar with the actual meaning of it, nor had I connected it with what was happening.

In America, we take for granted that, so long as we pay our electric bill, any time we flip a switch there will be light. But this was the first time that I had actually experienced the fact that electricity, as with other forms of energy, is finite and has to be measured out. We understand this in America - that we need oil for cars, coal and other catalysts in the creation of energy, but there is enough energy in America so that it is always available. For now, at least.

This night in particular, I was making final preparations for my vacation to Los Angeles to be with David. The plan was that we would stay at his parents' house for the month of August, except I would fly home at some point for the week. The power had turned back on when I got the message.

"Marcus, I have some bad news."
"What is it, David?"

lights go out, internet dies.

"Shit."
"What is it?" Dipesh asked.
"David has some bad news."

We waited for fifteen minutes. The lights came back on, and after a few minutes, the internet started working on my computer again.

"What is it, David?"
"We can't stay at my house for August."
"What do you mean?"

lights go out, internet dies.

"Damn it!"
"What?" Dipesh asked.
"We can't stay at David's parents' house. I don't have the money to stay anywhere else."
"These blackouts seem more frequent tonight. I wonder why."

We waited for half an hour. I lazily pick up a cigarette and light up. I know it's a terrible habit, but fortunately, the stress is only here, in Morocco, so I will stop when I return to America. Finally, the lights came back on, and the internet started to work again.

"What do you mean we can't stay at your parents' house? An extended motel would end up costing us another 2000.00 dollars."
"I know, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do? You aren't mad at me, are you?"

lights go out, internet dies.

"Oh damn it!"

I know that there are numerous sources of renewable energy - wind, solar, hydro - but so far, none of these energies are taking off in America. It is only now that the country is doing anything serious about mileage standards on vehicles. Apparently, most Americans seem to equate the fact that we have a responsibility to not destroy the earth and keep it habitable with socialism. I bet that if rolling blackouts were to return, we would find a huge market for these other energies within moments. The lights came back on, as did the internet.

"No, of course I'm not mad at you."
"Are you sure?"

I began to type.

"No, it's just that we're having rolling blackouts, so I don't know when-

Lights go out, internet dies.

"..."
"You're simply accepting it now?"
"May as well."
"You do realize that you've lit up a cigarette about every time the internet went down, right?"
"Shut up, Dipesh."

By this time, the brief exchange that should have taken about five minutes has gone over the course of over an hour. A friend, Princess Leia, once gave me a piece of advice; no matter what else life throws at us in America, we'll always be content with the fact that it's not happening in Morocco. It's true, I can no longer think of anything that could happen in America that would make me very frustrated. Traffic jam? Meh, I was driving too fast anyway. Long line at the grocery? I'm just glad they know how to make lines and go in turn. Taxes? That means I get to use the interstate, the library, the police, the firemen, and the EMTs. The lights come back on and the internet works.

"I'm sorry, there are blackouts."
"I have great news! I talked with a friend and you can stay with her."
"That's great. Okay. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
"Bye."

I turn off my computer and stare at the wall. I shuddered to think about what would happen to the developed world if, heaven forbid, an electromagnetic pulse were to erupt from a nearby supernova that would cause electronic devices to fail. Much of the developing world would be able to get along just fine, but as for America, Europe, and the rest of the developed world, most of our lives are dictated by electronic devices. All of our money is electronic, placed in banks, stocks, and other bytes of information that float around. If the power went out, we'd be left with basically nothing. And our farms are based on electronic devices now, except for small family farms. It would be so disastrous for us if that were to happen. I think I am going to reread my old boy scout manual at some point to refresh myself, and perhaps look into properties where I can learn to grow my own vegetables.

You know, just in case.

Three Things I Didn't Expect to Miss

1.) Cheese: I never realized how delicious cheeses are, but after sampling some Spanish cheeses earlier this year, I now look upon my selection of cheeses in Morocco, and, well... this is how I begin to feel.



When I go to Los Angeles and back home next month, I will have to go to a wonderful little shop that I know that sells Parmigiano Reggiano, just the popular parmesan cheese from Italy, but still, delicious, especially when paired with a nice, dry Pinot Grigio.

2.) Personal automobile: Obviously, since my driver's license expired, I will have to get that renewed before any driving takes place. I miss this because it is a freedom that many people in America take for granted. The automobile industry has contributed greatly to the American identity, I feel, because it instills a sense of freedom. We have the ability to travels great distances, to see so many things, because we have access to individual cars. Just to be able to go see some friends back home.

3.) World of Warcraft: My name is Ikeene Stridersoul. I am a tauren druid whose goal is to destroy the Mauderon of Desolace to avenge my mother's death, and to find the rare glomsblood to make the elixir that she was hoping to make for my father. I will use my alchemy and herbalism skills to make it so that my father will love me again.

Roleplaying is something that I definitely think is the strangest thing that I miss. But I love it.

Patriotism and Freedom: Definitions, Pt. 2

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Patriotism and Freedom: Definitions, Pt. 1

The association that I have formed with a group of Moroccans held its first event on July 4th; the event was a look at the history of Independence Day and our continuous relationship with Morocco. Morocco, being the first country to recognize America as a sovereign nation, is an especially important relationship that America has, due to it being an Islamic state, it being close to Europe, and its unique position as a syncretic country that combines the cultures of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. As I studied the history of Independence Day, and our subsequent relationship with Morocco, I began to ask myself what it meant to be proud of one's country, and what it meant to obtain freedom. I wrote an article exactly one year ago about about being a liberal patriot, and I feel that it defines what I believe to be the American culture, but I didn't expand on how I actually define patriotism or freedom.

I have never been the type of person to be "proud" of a America just because I was born there, I need to know the why. From what I have always seen, most Americans show their patriotism during Independence Day parades, waving plastic American flags that were made in China while military personnel walk by. To many people, making any criticism of America, and even more so its military, is equivalent to treason, and an almost hanging offense. But do we really appreciate our veterans? According to the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans,

The U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) states the nation’s homeless veterans are predominantly male, with roughly five percent being female. The majority of them are single; come from urban areas; and suffer from mental illness, alcohol and/or substance abuse, or co-occurring disorders. About one-third of the adult homeless population are veterans...

VA estimates that 107,000 veterans are homeless on any given night. Over the course of a year, approximately twice that many experience homelessness. Only eight percent of the general population can claim veteran status, but nearly one-fifth of the homeless population are veterans.

With numbers like these, one would think that any self-respecting country would devote resources to combating this social ill; after all, our veterans sacrificed their lives, limbs, and mental stability just so we could wave our flags. But with every budget debate that has occurred, rather than using our wealth to help those who have made these ultimate sacrifices, we instead sacrifice them so that we can keep our taxes low. When given a choice, social services have always been the first so-called "entitlements" to go - mental health facilities, substance abuse programs, housing programs for the poor - all of these programs that actually help these veterans are instead sacrificed in support of trickle down economics, the belief that the fewer taxes rich people pay, the more money trickles down to the poorest of Americans. I cannot fathom how anybody can claim to be patriotic only to support politicians who would rather let veterans die on the streets rather than establish a decent living wage, housing, and health programs to ensure that they are treated with the dignity and respect that they deserve.

In international media, most of the articles revolving around American budget debates focus on the fact that so many people are so willing to cut services with the neediest among us. Even when I do force myself to read American media, the same outcome is evident. Most people refer to these programs as "entitlements", as if supporting the least among us is a luxury, not a necessity. From this, I have to conclude that Americans aren't proud of America as a single entity, but are instead proud of themselves for being American. As I stated in a previous blog, America is unique among other countries. Most countries are defined by a common ancestry, religion, race, or some other physical attribute, but America is unique in that what unites Americans is not a physical or religious trait, but an ideal. I believe that ideal is found within the Preamble of the United States Constitution:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence,[note 1] promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

And in the Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness

The fact that an ideal, instead of a religion or physical characteristic, is the link that binds us is both positive and negative. It is positive because it means that all human beings in America, whether they are from Europe, Africa, the Middle East, Asia, or South America, whether they are male, female, or transgender, heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual, whether they are Atheist, Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, or Muslim, are all endowed with the right to those qualities listed in those two statements. It is negative, however, in the fact that it requires Americans to view each other as equals. Sometimes, this can be difficult. It can be difficult for people to see someone who is physically different from him or her to view the other as equal. Racism, sexism, xenophobia, and other traits that serve to separate us from one another are bred into us from an early age. It is biological, and to fight it requires us to fight very dark, very deep-seated negative qualities that reside within us. Many people, I have noticed, cannot fight those dark impulses within them, and so feel no remorse by the fact that there are fellow citizens who experience hardships because they do not feel a connection to them. How many speeches have we heard in America that talk about so-called "Real America", as if there are people in America who don't deserve to call themselves Americans. The truth of the matter is that we are connected. A country is only as strong as its weakest member. We are only as successful as our most downtrodden of citizens. We are only as good of a country as the one who is least cared for. We are in this together. The ability to recognize our unity is what differentiates a country from a simple collection of people.

Living in Morocco, I have noticed a sense of community. I feel that it is made easier due to the physical and religious aspects that they share. Again, it is easier to feel a connection to someone when they share physical and religious characteristics. America is the most religiously, ethnically, and physically diverse country. That doesn't negate the fact that we are all still connected by an ideal that transcends petty physical and religious differences. Americans used to be taught that we are better than that, that we are capable of looking past our superficial differences and seeing, instead, the common qualities that bind us.

Living in a developing country for as long as I have, I am finally able to see this about America. It is this that I hope to bring back to America. I am patriotic. I am proud to be an American, but I am proud of that because I want to strive to see the commonalities that all Americans share. It doesn't matter if you can trace your lineage back to the Mayflower, or if you are a first-generation immigrant. None of these physical characteristics matter. That is the difference that I see. Many people who claim the mantle of patriotism while supporting cuts to the social services for the least of their brethren are not proud of the greatness of America - they are proud only of the greatness of themselves.

Updates on Moroccan Constitution Reform Vote

Moroccans are going to the polls to vote on a series of constitutional amendments and reforms.

The vote, which represents the first constitutional referendum under the king's 12-year rule, has been described by one Moroccan newspaper as "a date with history".

The king himself has described the reforms as: "A decisive historic transition."

"I support the king, he keeps Morocco safe. It is not like Algeria and Yemen, it's stable here," Rachid Aboul-Hassan, a cab driver in the capital, Rabat, told the AP news agency.

"There are problems here, but we are taking small steps, slowly."

Under the draft constitution, the king remains as the head of state, the military, and the Islamic faith in Morocco, but the prime minister - to be chosen from the largest party elected to parliament - would take over as head of the government.

The reforms, the king has pledged, would reinforce the independence of the judiciary, boost efforts to tackle corruption, guarantee freedom of expression and gender rights and make Berber an official language, alongside Arabic.

Read more on some questions regarding the reforms here.

From the Q&A page, a list of key reforms:

1. The king will select a prime minister from the party that wins the most seats in parliament. At present, the king can make anyone prime minister.
2. A reference to the king as "sacred" in the constitution will be removed, though he will remain "inviolable".
3. The prime minister will be the head of government, not the king, and will gain the power to dissolve the lower house of parliament.
4. The prime minister will preside over the Government Council, which will prepare policy before presenting it to the cabinet.
5. Parliament will have more oversight of civil rights, electoral and nationality issues.
6. Women will be guaranteed "civic and social" equality with men. Previously, only "political" equality was guaranteed.
7. The Berber language will become an official state language along with Arabic.

Again, simply posting without commentary. Peace Corps rules, you know.

Some Future Plans in Regards to Peace Corps Activities

Work with the Moroccan-American Association for Human Development and Cultural Exchange (MAAHDCE)

The association that I created with some Moroccans and fellow PCVs will have an event to mark Independence Day. This is going to be a great opportunity to explain to kids the history of the American holiday as well as compare it to the Moroccan Independence Day, which celebrates the return of their king from exile and the freedom from Spain and France. We will also talk about the relationship between America and Morocco going all the way back to the founder. Did you know that Muhammad III was the first leader to recognize America as a new country? Hopefully, this will lead to other PCVs doing cultural events. My hope for this association is that it will become the group for PCVs in the Er Rachidia area to go to when they want to host such an event. Later, I hope that we can partner with the private schools here that teach English with American schools so that they can talk back and forth through Skype sessions.

Work with Dar Chebab Medina in Er Rachidia

As I have stated before, most of my work is in Er Rachidia proper now. Before the summer break, I would hold weekly meetings for the general health club. It made for a very slow work week. In September, I hope to increase that to in between four and five days a week. My hope is to teach conversational English with the current English teacher there two days a week, and then to teach a combination of yoga, pilates, and general health each day. Depending on what I can get, I will do them all over a five day week, or just vary which class I teach on a specific day of the week. I finally feel like I'm useful. I know that people have said that the changes that I am making are far more deep than I realize, but I like the fact that I have a schedule now.

*****
This is coming on a final countdown, sort of, I suppose. I only have 44 weeks left. It's just coming by so quickly, especially when I factor in that I'm sending in a request to travel to America for the entire month of August. When I return in September, it will be only 35 weeks. I hope to visit some friends in Pensacola at some point while I'm in America. It will be great to see how people are doing.

Morocco reforms to cut monarch's powers

Morocco reforms to cut monarch's powers

King Mohammed VI proposes constitutional changes that will whittle down his powers, but keep his role as power-broker.

Morocco's king has announced a series of proposed changes to the country's constitution, including amendments that would strip him of some of his political powers.

The changes, announced by King Mohammed VI in a live address to the nation on Friday, will be put to a referendum on July 1.

"We have managed to develop a new democratic constitutional charter," the king said, adding that the constitution "enshrines a citizenship-based monarchy".

The proposed amendments would provide for the strengthening of the authority of the country's prime minister and parliament.

The prime minister would become the "president of the government", and would be able to appoint government officials - an authority previously held only by the king.

The new "president of the government" would also be able to dissolve parliament, the king announced, another role previously accorded only to Mohammed VI.

The new constitution ensures the prime minister is selected from the party that received the most votes in election, rather than just chosen by the king.

The reforms also strengthen parliament, allowing it to launch investigations into officials with the support of just one-fifth of its members or to begin a censure motion against a minister with the backing of a third, rather than needing the unanimous approval demanded by the current constitution.

The judiciary, which has long been criticised for lacking independence, would be governed by a supreme council composed of judges and the head of the national human rights council. The justice minister would not be on the council.

"We encourage a parliamentary authority that is ready to make sure that parliament makes final legislative decisions," the king said. "This parliament has the ability to question any official in the country."

However, the king would remain a key power-broker in the security, military and religious fields.

The king will continue to chair two key councils - the Council of Ministers and the Supreme Security Council - which make security policy. The prime minister can chair these councils, but only using an agenda set by the king.

Continue reading

I can make a comment neither for nor against this, because I am a Peace Corps volunteer.

Lentils

After a month of somewhat heavy spending consisting of new furniture purchases, I realized that my account had reached zero a few days before the next paycheck. Most volunteers go through this at some point; their account reaches zero before the monthly living allowance comes in, and so they are forced to break out their American debit card to get by. Fortunately, the conversion makes it so that one can purchase enough cheap foods for a month with the equivalent of 20USD. Unfortunately, I had already spent a good deal of money to buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles for August, so the thought of breaking into my American account was less than ideal for me.

I decided to finally use the lentils that I had received from another volunteer. In order to be sure of how to cook them, however, I decided to look up the method of preparation online. I had tried to make lentils before without looking up the method. I had assumed that one lets the water boil, places lentils in boiling water, then lets simmer for a while until done. I needed to be sure, this time, so I looked up recipe after recipe. They all read basically the same: LET WATER BOIL, PLACE LENTILS IN BOILING WATER, COVER, LET SIMMER 15-20 MINUTES. As I gathered what I needed, I was reminded of another volunteer, a young man who is using his time in between teaching at the youth center to become a body builder.

"A few weeks ago, my regimen consisted of eating three cups of lentils a day. They're so easy and cheap to make. You just put them in, wait, and they come out."

I laid out the tools before me: cup of lentils - check, pressure cooker - check, water - check, laptop to read instructions - check. Apparently, it is approximately 2-1 water to lentils to make sure that the lentils are prepared properly and don't dry out. As the water turned to boil, I slowly poured the cup of lentils into the pressure cooker, covered the lid, set to simmer, and sat down. I imagined what would happen. I remembered the other volunteers lentils.

"Oh, this thing? I just whipped them up and just threw these spices onto them, oh psh-shaw, they're not anything special."

But they were delicious, and he knew it. The lentils danced on my tongue, they swam in the small broth mixture that was left over. They enticed me to grab another spoonful, and the spices delicately combined on my taste buds to create a flavor that I had not tasted since before I had left for Morocco. The first time I made lentils, they drowned in the sludge of water, salt, and pepper that remained from the water. The second time I made them, they ended up dryer than when they were placed in. But not this time. This time, I made sure to compile all of the recipes that I could to get a consensus on how to make lentils. I would make these lentils the best lentils that I could possibly make. All the while, I kept hearing the volunteer's voice, as though he were looking over me.

"Oh, this thing? They're not anything special."

I stood over the pot, and as soon as the fifteen minutes were up, I opened the pressure cooker to check on them. The smell of popcorn immediately burst into the air, and I watched as some blackened lentils dotted the sides of the pressure cooker, and other lentils inexplicably burst and turned into what I can only refer to as pop-lentils. I held another cup of water in my hand, but simply drank it when I realized that nothing would be able to save them. I picked up the pressure cooker, leaned it over the sink, and poured out the water. I would collect the lentils and throw them out once they cooled.

I can't cook lentils. Bless my heart, I try. Oh how I try. I can try making up a recipe, or I can follow recipes to the minutest of details, but I can't make them. It has nothing to do with learning or watching, I physically cannot make them. It is as though the pressure cooker, lentils, and water become tainted when they interact with my pheromones, or maybe I am missing a genetic marker that lists its purpose specifically for cooking legume based meals. But I am incapable of making lentils.

And I'm okay with that. We each have gifts, skills, talents and abilities that make us unique and who we are. I am as genetically incapable of cooking lentils just as Mitt Romney is genetically incapable of showing empathy for the poor or as any Democrat is genetically incapable of having any spine to take a stand on issues, and that's okay, it's simply who I am. I have many other talents that I can continue to pursue throughout my life. We all do, and maybe living life is just about looking into that pressure cooker to realize just how much of a disaster you can make of things sometimes. Sometimes, what you put into the pressure cooker of life will be a book or a play, or maybe it will be a gift at sports, or maybe even the ability to raise a wonderful family. Sometimes, it just ends up being burnt lentils. But that's okay. Just empty the lentils, and try to find another recipe for something you can do, something that's more who you are.

For now, though, I think I am going to get some pizza.

Individuality

"I always find it funny that people will go over to these countries thinking that they're going to improve the lives of these people. What ends up happening is that the villagers teach the American much more than they learn."
"Maybe that's more of the point of Peace Corps now - to serve as a sort of cultural exchange for Americans, except we're the only ones who are exchangable."
"I'm sure you'll be fine." ~from an earlier blog post, "A Conversation at Weatherford's"

I remember first coming here, and thinking to myself that my main focus was on working the first goal of Peace Corps, which is to help local people meet their need for trained men and women. The other two goals, teaching locals about American culture and teaching Americans about local culture, were going to be ancillary. After a year here, I think I am pleased with the work I have done with first goal thus far.

What I hadn't expected was just how much I would be doing of the other two goals. I had no idea just how much of my experiences would be relaying information about America to Moroccans. I had no idea that people would be so interested in how things work in Morocco. I also never knew that my individuality would be questioned so blatantly. Just the other day, I was buying some items to decorate my house. I went into the store and bought some fake long stem flowers with the buds on them, but the vase didn't match it. I saw a smaller blue glass jar that would look interesting.

"You can't buy that." The woman at the front said.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You can't put flowers in that. It's not a vase."
"But I like how it looks."

The woman huffed and turned around, knowing that she wasn't going to win the argument. I stood aghast at how much of a fight she put up. I explained it later on to D_____, as we were painting my parlor room blue. I like the color blue. I have blue cushions to sit on, and I have white tablecloths. I told him that I wanted the feeling that when we entered this room, we were flying in the sky in clouds.

"Most people down here paint their houses red."
"I know, but I like blue."
"Blue is the color used up north."
"Everyone has red. I am not like everyone."
"It looks good. It looks like up north."

D_____, an Anglophile, understands individuality in the same way most Americans know about Europe. They've never been there, they've never actually experienced it, but they read up a little bit on it, so they have a vague idea about it.

"You see, D_____, in America, a house is an extension of one's personality. I am a peaceful person, I am a Buddhist, so I want these things to be apparent in my house."

It's a two-way street, however. In Morocco, the stores all have the same items, and the items with which there is a choice, the choice is limited. The expression of individual personalities is difficult in that regards. But is it the lack of variety that enables the lack of individuality, or is it the collective culture, which focuses on everyone being alike, that makes the need for variety in stores unnecessary? Is the lack of variety also due to the culture of non-materialism, or is it merely economic? There are so many questions, and so few answer that I have still. Obviously, if you ask a young Anglophile Moroccan and an older, more religious Moroccan the same question, you will get a different answer.

Right now, though, I tend to lean towards a combination of the two. The answer, I feel can be answered once I return to America, where these individual options will be readily available to me. I don't really consider myself as ever having been materialistic. Here, however, I do not have access to things, so I am used to not focusing on buying things or diversifying my experiences in food or entertainment. I like to think, however, that I will go back to seeking to carve out an individual identity when I return.

What I have noticed here, though, is that the younger generation is definitely more Western in that regard. The emergence or ska, punk, emo, and other genres of culture are seeping into the kids, and their hair, their clothes, and their mannerisms are reflecting that. People want to be themselves, and so it is possible that the lack of individuality is simply due to lack of things. I feel that there are definitely going to be some major changes to the world once my and the next generation gets into power. I can't wait to see it.

Connecting to People

Tracy left for America the other day. She was a Fulbright student living in Morocco with her husband and two cats. I arrived at her house that night and was greeted by the Moroccan family that she spent time with. It was strange, looking at the house that she had been living in for the past eight months, to see the boxes on the floor, the emptiness of the main salon and the kitchen, and the cats bundled up in carrying cages. tracy had made small boxes of things for everyone who we call, "The Er Rachidia Family", a group of Fulbright scholars, Peace Corps Volunteers, and Moroccans who spend a lot of time together in the Er Rachidia area. I was thrilled when I learned that Tracy had given me what, to most people, would be a few years' supply of American, Asian, and English teas, and to me, would probably be drunk nonstop within a few days.

"I'll try to keep in touch!" I said.
"How?' She asked, "You don't have Facebook."
"We'll send you a message when you get into America." Another Volunteer said.
"Yes."
"Marcus, maybe if you get back on Facebook, one day, we can get back in touch."
"I can send emails."

As I stood to the side and watched as Tracy tearfully said goodbye to each person, I truly felt that we were some family saying goodbye to one of its members. I wondered about my decision to leave Facebook. I still stand by it.
Another thing that I had noticed was the mother of the Moroccan side of our family. She normally was much more energetic, but tonight, she sat silently in the corner of the room and stared off into the distance.

A few days later, I went over to this woman's house. The main salon was slightly smaller than Tracy's, but the paint, though older and more worn, was the same yellowish-gray color. Red cushions surrounded a small wooden table, and kitten wrestled on the floor and nibbled on chicken heads that her son got from the butcher.

"Salam." I said, "Labas?"
"Labas, Hamdullah." She replied, but she still had that strange look on her face.
"Labas?" I asked again, with more emphasis.

She sighed. I watched as she began to pick up small objects to clean up the parlor. Even though she turned away from me, I knew what she was thinking. I know what sadness looks like, and I know what it does to one's face. Sadness softens one's face, as though it wants to fade away and not be seen. It whitens the silhouette and drains it of color.

"Tracy tdu s Merika."
"eyeh." I replied.

She sighed again, held up a small photo book, and then began to cry. She reached down, pulled up the bottom of her headscarf, and then wiped the tears from her eyes. She handed me the book, and I opened it to the picture of her wedding day, where she was leaning against a wall while her husband looked on. As I looked at the photograph, I noticed how their faces, filled with happiness, had more shape than the face of this woman who sat before me. I leaned over and sat the book on the cushion where she normally sat, and watched as the woman's face slowly took shape again. She realized that, in a way, there was always going to be a part of Tracy here, in this salon, in the form of memories that the two of them shared.

In Buddhism, I have been taught about accepting the inevitable when it comes to relationships. The Buddha taught that one should view all phenomena as though it were a feather landing in your hand. You keep your palm open, so that it can land, and let it remain open, so that when the time comes for it to leave on the next gust of wind, it doesn't poke you or get damaged. There is a part of me that is grateful for this teaching, but sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am unconsciously separating myself from something that is utterly human. I like Tracy, and I hope to keep up emails with her, but I know she has a life to live. We all do. Sometimes, our lives bring us together for a while, and sometimes, it slowly separates us. That doesn't mean that we can't enjoy the time we spent together. I want to make use of every moment that we have. I don't want to live my life assuming that someone will always be in my life. I don't want to take those moments for granted anymore. Any one of us can be separated from one another in a multitude of ways - work, falling out, a move, and yes, even death. Accepting that, I feel that I am accepting a very real part of existence. And it makes me feel as though I am appreciating every moment that I have.

On Being a Man

The summer heat had just rolled into Errachidia. We had just finished a dinner of American salad and Moroccan pizza, and were sitting around the table, listening to Lisa Gerrard. A volunteer sat by the open window, skyping her mother while the rest of us tried to carry on a conversation.

"Who is this woman singing?" A Moroccan asked.
"Lisa Gerrard," I said, "her voice is typically used in movie soundtracks."
"Her voice is really deep and loud," He said.
"Yes, her voice demands that you pay attention to it."

Lisa Gerrard's classical singing voice is considered contralto, the lowest of the female singing voices. The contralto's voice is close in range to a male tenor's voice, and thus, a female contralto's voice can double for men's singing parts, as well. I learned this and thought to myself, Is it because of the deepness of her voice, the sound waves sounding like that is a man, that she is able to command attention? If I remembered correctly, in high school, I was considered a tenor. I never really tried to draw attention to myself in high school, and for that, I was considered to be "off", or worse.

In Morocco, men have to yell. Even in the early morning, they have to yell so that they can sell their wares. Walking through souk, even if someone is standing next to me, the store owner has to scream out as loud as he can, the prices for everything. When at the bus station, I can hear the names of the cities that the bus is driving to from many feet away. It makes sense here because even though there are signs that tell the times that buses are going to different cities, they aren't reliable. It's as though every man is trying to draw attention to himself in some way. I want to tell them all that yelling throughout the entire day, coupled with the constant consumption of tea and cigarettes, eventually destroys one's voice.

Nowadays, my voice is slightly lower than in high school, but I never raise my voice to be very loud. People have described it as "airy", and "soft". Once, I went into a cafe that had other people. There was a woman there, along with some men. There is no concept or order or lines in Morocco, so everyone simply pushes as best they can to get to the front, regardless of who got there first. I noticed that I and the woman were trying to get the attention of the man at the counter while he was focus on on the stream of men who would come in, shout out their order, toss change onto the counter, and then leave. The man at the counter never looked at neither me nor the woman. After a while, I finally decided to lower my voice, which is something that I always hate to do. I shouted out what I wanted. Just like that, it was as though the man at the counter finally saw me standing there. It was as though I finally existed to him. It's funny how having a man's voice is so beneficial for everyday encounters.

Another difference that I have found in my voice is when I try to teach something. I find that when I use the voice with which I am comfortable using, there is hesitation for the men and women I am trying to teach. But when I lower my voice, they seem to understand that I know what I'm talking about. Maybe my real voice just sounds unsure of itself.

This, as well as my body language, is such an important key to interact properly with people. Maybe it is because they see a man, they expect to hear a demanding voice, and they expect to see an aggressive stance. The handshake is also something that I never understood. The handshake is supposed to be an act of friendship, but they way men grip each other's hands, I can't help but wonder if they would rather it be a sign of aggression. Even in America, men subconsciously shake hands as though they are in some sort of death grip competition. In Morocco, when I look at men's hands, I can see the muscles tighten and assume they are just trying to have some sort of strength competition, but when they shake women's hands, there is no tightening. They are actually greeting each other.

Everything about men seems to be designed to allow for them to be noticed in any way possible. Their voice, their body language, their interactions. Men are in most positions of power. Men control much of the economy. Men are more often seen in media as the lone soldier, the lone avenger, the lone hero. In many ways, I hit the genetic jackpot of the white male born in America. Aren't I fortunate?

Parent's Visit, Pt. 2: Errachidia

I arrived at the hotel at nine fifty, and told the taxi driver that my parents would be out quickly, and that they promised that they would be fine this morning. After all, they had only arrived at two o'clock that morning, and who wouldn't want to wake up less than eight hours later after spending thirty-six hours on a series of planes and in a series of airport terminals? I walked through the lobby and into the main courtyard, where the pool greeted me. I looked into the pool for a moment; it was lined with blue tiles and the rippled reflected in them, sending waves of bright yellow cutting across the bottom of the pool.

At the back of the pool was a small cabana lined with drinks that I promised myself I would utilize at some point during my parents' stay. I left the main courtyard and walked down the small walkways covered not with buiding but with roses that had been trained to form an arch overhead. The bushes that lined the walkways were rosemary, and I immediately thought of the year's worth of dinners I had missed from David. The rosemary combines with the roses to form a pungent aroma of sugary and savory. The combination was very successful at keeping flies away, it seemed.

I arrived at my parents' door and knocked. And then I waited.

and waited.

and waited.

Finally, I pulled open my phone after a few minutes of waiting and called some volunteers to ask if they wanted to hang out with my parents at all. The door opened after a few minutes of me standing out there. My mom was disheveled from just waking up. It was the first morning in Paris all over again.

"We haven't even taken a shower yet." My mom said.
"Just put on the same clothes you had on yesterday."
"What?"

It was at this point that I realized the main difference between me, a volunteer, and my mom, a tourist. Fortunately, they agreed, and within a few minutes we were in the taxi with me to get into the town center. Later that afternoon, we met up with D_____, who invited us to his house for snacks and to see the casbah with his family was from. In an hour, we were in another taxi, on our way to the small village outside of Errachidia. We walked through the remains of the casbah. Then, my mom spoke of a dream that she had.

"You know, I had a dream that one of us came across a snake. It was a cobra. So we need to watch out."
"All of the snakes in Morocco are poisonous," D_____ said, "So we may not want to find them."
"Oh." Mom replied.

I had walked over to the edge of the casbah at this point, and looked out an old window at the fields that stretched beyond the horizon. D_____'s family has tilled the soil of this land for generations. I thought. I still find it so amazing at how deep the roots of families in Morocco go. Moroccans can trace their lineages all of the way back to time immemorial. Technically, with the advances of genealogical sciences, anyone can trace their families back to whenever they want. but it's not the same. Yes, my family's roots have been traced back to include Cherokee, Hungarian, Irish, Welsh, and even Roma ancestry, but it's only on a piece of paper; they're names, only names, apparitions of people who once existed and whose commonality I share only by DNA, not by any true family history or true connection.

It is this that I envy with Moroccans, and most other countries, as well. Most other countries are a monolith of one ethnicity or identity, making the search for a family history much easier. America is a combination of races and ethnicities. Don't get me wrong; I'm happy to be American; I'm happy that I live in America, and that I have access to all of the benefits that entails. But America's roots are fibrous; we are spread out thinly and shallowly. The roots of Moroccan identity are like the tap root; they dive deep into the darkness of the earth, making it immovable, sturdy, dependable. It was at this point that I realized that I want that. I want roots. I want to be able to tell my children who we are, where we come from. I want to pass along my granny's quilts, my grandmother's afghans, my mom's chinaware. I want them to have the tangibility of their existence in any object possible.

It was also at this point that I realized that I was being watched.

Technically, it is called the Macrovipera deserti, but most people simply call it the desert adder. I know that this is the species because I was one foot away from its body. Two things surprised the group, which consisted of me, D_____, M_______, my mother, and Joe. One, if jumping backwards were an Olympic sport, I'm now certain that I could at least make some sort of qualifying round. Two, my parents realized that whenever they hear the high pitched shriek of a girl, they can include me in the list of possible sources. In the distance, dogs began to bark in response to the high frequency sound waves emitting from my lips. The snake remained motionless.

"I knew it!" My mom yelled, "My dreams are prophetic."

My grandmother once talked about us being part of the medicine man tradition of the Cherokee. That, combined with the druids of the Celts of Wales, and the gypsy Roma, made me support my mom's hypothesis. However, at this juncture, I felt it more important to simply back away. D_____'s reaction at this juncture, however, was to throw rocks at it to make it go away. Fortunately, I was able to back away from it without it even acknowledging my existence. At that point, I was willing to embrace fully the Irish part of my heritage.