Tafilalt Part III: the Sufi Zawiyya

Our last visit Saturday night was equally out of the ordinary. We drove to another qasr around dusk. It was off the "main road" and seemed nearly deserted from the outside, aside from a young girl tending her sheep. We walked through a narrow passage into the qasr and into a room beautifully painted and decorated -- the main room of the Sufi zawiyya Sidi al-Ghazi. Moustafa, the round and jolly son of the blind old sheikh who later joined us, greeted us in his white djellaba and cap. He has been friends with our professors for several years and particularly likes visitors (which is not necessarily common to all Sufi enclaves). Until the great flood last fall, about sixty-five students studied Qur'an and Sufi recitation at the zawiyya, but now they are struggling to raise enough money to repair the damage. Moustafa was joined by two sons, one in his early 20s and one a very small boy, a quiet man in his mid-30s, and a very friendly older gentleman with a handsome walrus mustache. We sat on the floor with cushions around the perimeter of the room. The walls were hung with genealogies: one showing the group's Sufi lineage, the other the family lineage. In the middle of the ceiling, which was painted with delicate florals, was a large hole (covered when it rains)... every so often, we caught a glimpse of the women, joining in the festivities from the roof, peering down at us. But if we acknowledged them, they suddenly disappeared.



While on our first round of tea, Moustafa asked us all to introduce ourselves, what we were studying, etc. in Arabic. Then, on the second round of tea, he invited questions about their group and their practices. Dr. Shoup told us later that the zawiyya would like to offer to small groups of "cultural tourists" the same kind of evening we had with them, but no one there speaks any language but Arabic, and they have not been able to keep up the website that an AUI student created for them because they must go to a cybercafe in Rissani (not within walking distance, and none have cars) in order to update it -- in addition to the language difficulty. Moustafa explained that students at the zawiyya memorize the Qur'an in as little as 3 or 4 years, and that they begin learning the particular style of recitation along with the alphabet, right from the beginning. (He said that their style differs from others in large part in the voweling, which changes the rhythm of the chanting to a certain extent.) The only question he was hesitant to answer was an inquiry into precisely what means they use to achieve "annihilation" or a kind of spiritual loss of consciousness... the man next to him, began to explain, but Moustafa actually cut him off, genially, and gave a more theoretical answer. (Our prof thought this was because the woman who asked the question is a veiled American convert, and her type of hijab is associated with conservative Islamists, who often frown upon Sufism.) The first course of food was then brought out, called "medfuna" (which means "buried") -- it is basically bread stuffed with nuts, onions, meats, and some other tasty things I couldn't identify. We broke off into conversation for awhile, but soon the men began reciting some Quranic verses and later some lulling poetry composed by the founder of the zawiyya.

Unfortunately, the evening was interrupted just as it was getting started by the news that a neighbor who had recently had an operation was faring poorly, and although it was against university rules, the Sufis begged our AUI driver, Aziz, to take the man to the hospital in Rissani. There is only one ambulance in Rissani and you have to go find it if you want it to come get someone. After the commotion, dinner was brought out, and the low tables were rolled to where we were sitting on the floor. Between the 12 of us we had four full roasted chickens, which we ate with the fork of Adam. In other words, you hold a piece of bread in three fingers of your right hand and grab hold of a piece of meat. Accompanying this were sauces of various kinds. The zawiyya had also gone to special effort to get sodas for us (which are so much more interesting in Morocco than in the U.S. -- two of my favorites are Schweppes Citron and POMS apple soda). Afterward, we had more heaps of watermelon.


And then the recitation began in earnest. The men took out drums and tambourines and began beating in soothing rhythm. Each recitation had a slow, definite beginning that worked its way up into a throbbing frenzy. The "music" isn't so much songs as repeated patterns with escalating intensity -- the words would repeat but the beat would grow and morph. Everyone, sprawled on the floor in stuffed contentment, was tapping their feet, nodding their heads, or murmuring along.

Several hours after we had arrived, sometime after midnight, we left the zawiyya. The air was dry and cool, and the alley dark except for the light from the lonely bulb above the squat toilet in the corner of an empty courtyard.






I didn't sleep that night. When we returned, a little after 1am, I went for a swim with two of my friends in the hotel pool. The sky was completely black, and floating on my back, I could make out every constellation.

to be continued...

Tafilalt Part II

The sickness that has been plaguing probably the majority of foreign students here has finally hit me, so I have a little time to write while recovering in bed.

Near the irrigation channel, we walked around the perimeter of a walled "qasr" village. They are built with rammed earth, pise, which helps keep it cool inside. They are built to last about a hundred years. Two curious local boys, Mohamed and Said, began following us and taking pictures of us on their camera phones -- pictures of us taking pictures of their village. (I spoke to them a little in Arabic and found out that they didn't speak any English, so they couldn't understand anything that our professor was saying, but were just hanging out.) Prof. Shoup then pointed out to us a well outside the qasr. Because it's not inside and it is highly frowned upon for women to be venturing out, and little boys are thought to be too unreliable, it is very young girls who are sent to fetch the water. This has a negative impact on girls' education. As we walked past the village to an abandoned dam, we attracted another posse of children. When I asked a few of the girls to take a picture with them, they said no -- in contrast to Egypt, there is a major aversion to photos here, even without people in them. Apparently, many poorer Moroccans believe that tourists are taking photos to show the backwardness or quaintness of their culture. I also spoke to another small boy, perhaps 6 years old (and he spoke good French), who repeatedly asked me for a pen. Little did I know that this was not just a peculiar interest of Ismail's, but that nearly every other child we encountered in Tafilalt would also ask for pens. (If pens failed, candy was second.) "Stylo? Bonbon?" was everywhere.


Our next stop was Sijilmassa, a ruined city now disappearing into the sand that was once an enormous metropolis. It dates from about the 8th century and was the "port" city to Saharan trade, a garden city, the Marrakech of its day. A lot of gold was minted here, but none has been found: like all archaeological sites in Morocco but Volubilis, it is not guarded, and people have been nightdigging at Sijilmassa for centuries. We first saw the crumbling walls of a mosque built by the Alaoui (current) dynasty, which comes from this region and built the mosque atop two older mosques and a patrician home; the visible remains are of a structure built as late as the 17th century, long after Sijilmassa had ceased to be a real power. Adjacent to it was the madrasa, where there were pieces of ceramic and the hint of students' cubicles.



Our final visit of the morning was to a museum inside a restored palace of the sultan, dating to the beginning of the 19th century and taken over by the French as the home of the commander in the 20th century. The people who live in the nearby village are still the descendants of the palace slaves, including the extremely kind elderly caretaker, and are extremely proud of their heritage. The palace is furnished only very lightly now, but we explored the courtyard layout typical of traditional Moroccan homes. We passed through the servants' sitting area, separated from the reception room with a curtain so that the slaves could be listening to be called but always out of sight. Our professors also pointed out the difference in Alaouite and Sa'adian architecture (as we saw in Marrakech): the Alaouites' style was much more subdued, and painted stucco in pastels to cool the eye. There were a few miscellaneous exhibits at the museum, including a pretty wild display of "traditional" wedding clothes of various regional groups, a few manuscript boxes (which are buried by nomads in the desert), and a display of Jewish paraphernalia. The Star of David here is called the "sign of Solomon" and is used by both Jews and Muslims, and was in fact on the Moroccan currency until the founding of Israel; the symbol of Judaism is instead a pair of lions. At the end of our visit, the toothy caretaker in his white djellaba and cap met us with tea and nuts.

(In the foreground is my professor; the caretaker is pouring the tea.)



After a short siesta, we were off on another adventure to another qasr. We briefly walked through the village association, Assidi Touhami. It is an unusually successful example of an initiative to improve grassroots involvement in education and development in villages throughout Morocco. While some have not gotten off the ground, Assidi Touhami has accomplished 100% attendance of girls at school. This is quite a feat in a region where there is a 90% illiteracy rate for women. Legal literacy classes are also offered to women. The local postman and I believe head of the association, was educated outside, and has been very open to visitors like my professor. He is a member of the Maghraoui family, which has lived here for over a thousand years and produced the regional princes in Berber times. There are in fact only 4 family names in this village, suggesting that all these families have been here for centuries. At the entrance of the qasr sat all the crusty village elders. Each of us shook the hand and delivered an "as-salaamu aleikum" to each one before following Mr. Maghraoui inside the gate. It was immediately much cooler and much darker (in fact, it was hard to see anything at all). There were drainage channels in each of the "roads", through which people led their donkeys or (occasionally) passed by on their mopeds. We saw almost no one, though, except for small children, many of whom were little girls headed out to get water. Mr. Maghraoui demonstrated to us a salty well (which we all drank from!), now used for animals, etc. Then he brought us to his own home, the first Moroccan home I've been inside since I arrived. We were led through an entry room with rammed earth floors and walls, a TV, a basin to catch the rain, and mats and pillows for sitting. The next room, where we sat for an hour or so, was the formal living room for entertaining guests. There was a large TV, traditional cushioned bench seating with brightly colored cushions, several bouquets of vivid fake flowers, and several shiny teapots. We were immediately brought almonds and delicious biscuits, and later copious amounts of watermelon. Mr. Maghraoui also poured the tea in front of us, so we could see how it is done: it is a veritable art here, poured back and forth between the cups and the pot, and always poured vertically. After awhile, the females among us were allowed to go meet the women of the family, who stayed hidden from the male visitors. Mrs. Maghraoui and her five children were sitting on the cushions in the entry room watching a soccer match: Morocco vs. Togo. The mother wore a colorful outfit, more or less western in style, inside her own home. She and the children were all very sweet to us, but we were very frustrated by our limited ability to communicate in darija -- we were more or less reduced to asking about the children's ages and the cats. But the opportunity to go inside the qasr, and especially to meet the women of the family, was extremely rare.

This photo was taken in the Maghraoui living room.



TO BE CONTINUED...

Trip to the Tafilalt Oasis

This weekend I had the chance to go on another fabulous field trip with my Contemporary Issues in North Africa class. The city where we stayed, Erfoud, is located along the Ziz River in eastern Morocco, very close to the Algerian border (which is closed). On the way there (it's about a 5.5-6 hr drive), we stretched our legs at a Berber tent rest stop on a cliff overlooking another, healthier, oasis... our professor explained that a healthy oasis has three levels of foliage: palm trees, fruit trees, and ground crops. It was a sliver of green amidst miles and miles of dusty brown.

Erfoud was built by the French, but there isn't much there today. Our hotel, creatively named The Tefilalt, was in some ways less chic and certainly much emptier than the one in Marrakech, but overflowing with rich carpets, tapestries, and fountains. After dinner, we went for a walk around the city. The population is supposedly around 34,000 and many desert movies have been filmed there, but it seemed much smaller -- there weren't more than a couple major streets. The town has really capitalized, though, on the Tuareg myth (my professors' biggest pet peeve). The Tuareg are a tribe, sometimes called the "blue men", are a nomadic Saharan people living in the inner Sahara, largely in West Africa and to a certain extent in Algeria. There have never been any in Morocco. But locals (not just in Erfoud) caught on to tourists' expectations, and have now begun dressing in flamboyant Tuareg costume, opening Tuareg stores (dozens of them in Erfoud), and even displaying Tuareg artifacts in local museums, claiming they were found in the area. While on our walk, we came across a buoyant procession in one of the streets and asked someone what was going on... it was a wedding. The bride was carrying a sort of lace-covered box on her head, and there were men in colorful attire playing long horns. Lots of the people in the parade didn't seem to know the newlyweds, and there were lots of miscellaneous children dancing wildly, so we didn't see anything wrong with joining in for awhile. As we peeled off to find a cafe (which, again, are really only for men here), we managed to attract a parade of very small children that followed us all the way back to our hotel.

The next morning, we headed out early as usual, making our first stop in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. Prof. Ross showed us a line of deep, wide holes in the cracked earth, part of a thousand-year-old irrigation system called "khtara". Water is gathered at a mountain base and carried by means of this network to the fields in dry places such as this. It was invented by the Kharaji, who ruled Morocco until the Murabitin came in 1070 and imposed Maliki Islam. (The Khariji were proto-Shia and the sect to which Moulay Idriss belonged. With a relatively open and meritocratic approach to religious authority, Khariji Islam was very appealing to the Berbers; Maliki Islam, in contrast, made it very difficult for Berbers to convert because Maliki adherents did not have to pay most taxes.) During the Neolithic Age, this region was extremely fertile, with all sorts of lakes and fauna. Date palms and camels, now ubiquitous, were brought relatively late (although before the Arabs).

Our next stop was the new sort of irrigation structure, sleek and concrete but very ineffective because its channels are open to the elements, resulting in major evaporation. Water rights here are inherited, like everything else. This gave Prof. Shoup the chance to talk to us about social classes in this region, which are rigid castes. The top two classes are the only ones that may inherit land, while the lower two may not. Even if a member of one of the upper classes sells to a member of the lower, he must pay a fine and the land returns to the original owner as soon as the immediate buyer dies. Paradoxically, the lower classes are in many instances now more educated, since the elite did not want its children educated at the schools established by the French. This has enabled many "haritin" (second lowest class) to work in Europe: yet when they return home with flashy clothes and big cars, they are still nothing. The classes are also reflected in women's apparel. The more color and embroidery found on a woman's dress, the poorer she is. The highest women wear unadorned black. Almost all the women we saw (and we didn't see many -- they don't go out) were wearing a loose black cloth around their regular clothes which they held across their faces with a hand. Sometimes not even a single eye was visible.

to be continued...

The Last of Marrakech and the Model Arab League

Sunday morning, we had time for only one last stop before we left Marrakech. This was the Agdal Gardens, first built by an Almohad emperor in the 12th century and, according to our professor (maybe one of you can disprove him) perhaps the oldest continuously used garden still in its original form. It's about 1.5 square miles in total and still used by the royal family. The spot we visited was a large pool with many carp and a small, somewhat poorly maintained structure that kings have used for entertaining overlooking acres of fruit trees. There was also a half-built concrete pavilion from the 1970s in which the king lost interest before its completion -- could almost have been mistaken for an old ruin from a distance. The picture, taken right after I discovered the sepia feature on my camera, is of the first pavilion.




We then began the epic van ride back to campus, stopping for lunch (choice of meat tajine or meat tajine) at the unusually nice rest area, complete with clean bathrooms, a trickling fountain, and a playground, in Beni Mellal, a region notorious for its drug cartels connected to Italy.

***

Yesterday (Wednesday), our program held a "model Arab League," which actually meant that we all gave oral presentations in Arabic about members of the League (mine was on Syria). Then each class selected the best, in our case a classmate of mine from Princeton, to present to the whole program: beginning, intermediate, and advanced. One of the beginning classes has a teacher from Yemen, so two students from that class also dressed up in Yemeni wedding attire.

Marrakech Continued

We walked through the Djemaa al-Fna, the great market of Marrakech, on the way to our next destination, but I'll come back to that later. Our destination was the Ben Youssef Medersa, a school for Maliki Islamic law built by the Sa'adians in the 16th century. It continued to operate until the 1950s. Students would typically begin their studies at age 12, stay 5 to 8 years, and be able to practice law upon graduation. The building was centered around a large open courtyard with a pool in the center and exquisitely roofed chambers off to the sides. The stucco work on the walls and roofs was intended to remain unpainted except for tiny green accents. The professor would sit in one corner of the courtyard (the "zawiyya"). Since many of the students came from out of town, the upstairs was used as a dormitory. The rooms were loft style, and pretty small, but many had beautiful views overlooking the courtyard.


Nearby, we stopped at the nearby Qubba, just about the only surviving example of Almoravid (the founders of the city) architecture in Marrakech. It was built around 1100 and there is some question as to its function. It is a kind of pavilion, far below the current ground level and decorated in lovely arabesque; all around it are the remains of latrines and a giant cistern.


We were given free time in the afternoon, so my friend Grace and I decided to go on an adventure to Jardin Majorelle, the private gardens and home of Yves St. Laurent. It was a beautiful idealization of everything a sophisticated European would imagine Morocco to be. We were protected from the intense heat by a cool canopy of palm trees, bamboo, exotic flowering shrubs, and eye-popping gazebos. There was a lily pond bordered by every possible breed of furry cactus near the house itself, which was bright cobalt blue.



After leaving the garden and getting questionable directions in French, we headed off in foot in search of a bookstore where we could buy Arabic children's books. Eventually we found one, and we had a great conversation in Arabic with the bookstore owner, who was eager to recommend stories to us and teach us new words. Then, in the early evening, we met up with our classmates at the Djemaa al-Fna. By this time, the plaza had become crowded with snake charmers, henna artists, water guys with garish costumes, orange juice stands (we became good friends with #38), shoeshines, and monkeys on leashes. Leading off the main square are labyrinthine passages of shops, like the Khan al-Khalili in Cairo but seemingly much bigger and more confusing. There were lots of tourists of course, but we ran into our professor and he brought us to an open area swarming with (mostly old) Moroccan women in abayyas haggling over piles of used clothes they had laid out on the ground. Professor Shoup explained that this was the old market for slaves brought up from the Sahara -- it operated until 1905. The shop he brought us to was that of an elderly magician whose shelves were stocked with bizarre wooden objects, bones, and beaded knickknacks. He's in the business of selling charms, which several of my classmates bought. While they were engaged in that, I struck up a conversation with the jolly bearded owner of the shop next door, who was sitting outside with his friend. He seemed really pleased that we were learning Arabic, and taught us the words for various parts of the face ("my beard, your beard, my beard, your beard.") After that, Prof. Shoup brought us to a reputable silver shop owned by some Berber friends of his. Many of their pieces were old medallions typically worn on the face. In my attempt to talk to the shopkeeper in Arabic, I accidentally mispronounced the word for allergies, coming out instead with a derogatory term for Africans. The man thought it was hilarious, but it was pretty embarrassing! After shopping here and at a spice store nearby, where the proprietor insisted that we smell everything he had to offer, including a black seed that is traditionally used here to cure snoring but left my nostrils black for two days, we headed back to the square for dinner. It had come alive, swarming with people. Miraculously, dozens and dozens of makeshift restaurants had been set up where there were none before, and we sat down at a communal table to kebabs and pastilla. By the time we finished it was 9 or so, and the performances had begun -- some were gnaoua musicians and others dancers. We took our leave after an unimpressive transvestite dancer heckled us for money. Here are a few pictures from the Djemaa al-Fna, although it's hard to capture the exploding color and bustle!









to be continued...

أكثر من مراكش

Something else I forgot about the day we left for Marrakech. At the end of Arabic on Friday, a man with an entourage walked into our classroom and began shaking everyone's hand as were were packing up our things. I had a little Arabic conversation with one of the guards and found out that he was the Tanzanian ambassador to Morocco.

One more thing I wanted to mention about the ride to Marrakech. The roads were strewn with election litter, as municipal elections were Friday. Morocco has an extraordinarily low voter turnout (in the last parliamentary elections, 3 years ago, only about 25%) -- but one would never know this from the elections' high visibility. Everywhere that we've gone, we've seen charts painted on the outside of walls (often at schools), and after election results came in, these charts were filled in with symbols (recognizable to the illiterate, which hovers around half the Moroccan population) representing the votes received by various parties.



****

After leaving the Sa'adian tombs, we headed over to the ruins of the Badia Palace, built 1578-1594. Once as majestic as the tombs, it was completely stripped when the Alawwi dynasty came to power and moved its capital to Meknes. All that is now left are massive crumbling walls, underground tunnels, plumbing apparatus, and scraps of tile here and there. The main reception court is enormous, with sunken Andalusian orange groves and vast pool basins. The idea behind this kind of garden is that the tops of the trees are at human level, producing chirping birds and sumptuous aromas complemented by the trickling water of fountains. We moved into the apartments reserved for important visitors, now home to storks nesting on the tops of the eroded walls. We then climbed to the top of one of the walls and looked out across the city. We could see minarets and drying laundry, but also a sea of satellite dishes interspersed with the rooftop gardens of riads run by rich Europeans. While the rooftops were once the domain of Marrakshi women, the advent of riads hosting scantily clad tourists have changed the game.




Below is the Kutubiyya Minaret at the center of city, near the Djemaa al-Fna. The ruins of the original mosque for which it was built are to one side; 20 years later, a second mosque was built over a controversy involving the direction of the qibbla (but the second turned out to be worse than the first). The name Kutubbiya came from the adjacent street, which housed many booksellers (the Arab word for books is "kutub").

Not the best of days

Today I was robbed. So the Marrakech news may have to wait a few days while I try to sort out canceling my cards and such.

We went on a class field trip to the weekly souk in the nearby town of Azrou, where we were supposed to be practicing our colloquial Arabic. Unlike the souks of Fez or even Meknes, this was not intended for tourists: most of the vendors, who gather each Tuesday, were selling used clothes, farm tools, or sheep. Their wares were spread out on blankets under makeshift tents, and some had little microphones into which they shouted their deals. My wallet was in my friend's bag, which she was holding carefully in front of her. As much as an hour later, I went to get out my money to buy something at the souk, and we discovered that her bag had been slit up the side with a blade and my wallet removed. My guess is that the thief saw me drop my wallet into her bag right when we arrived at the souk -- in the intense traffic jams of people, sheep, donkeys, carts, and mud, it wouldn't have been terribly difficult for someone to bump into my friend for a moment and slit her bag.

I spent the afternoon in a local Moroccan police station, having a report written up on a dusty typewriter. More details to follow later. Before we left, though, the police chief at the souk introduced us to the two undercover officers who would head up the effort to find my wallet (not for the long-gone money, of course, but my credit cards and ID). Azrou is a Berber town, like many of the places in this region, and it was explained to me that the undercover cops have connections among the chiefs. Then, my professors drove me to the police station, a low, nondescript building in the center of the town. We were passed from office to office explaining the story to various officials. Finally, we were brought to a small room that held two ancient typewriters, the bumper from a decades-old car, various yellowed papers, a foggy window, and a lot of dust. There was already a young woman in the room, explaining her own story (which I couldn't understand) to a man seated at one of the typewriters. There didn't seem to be a need for privacy. Finally, someone showed up to report my problem. The second typewriter was loaded with suspiciously old-looking paper and carbon paper. At first, the officers completely ignored me and spoke only to my professors -- but when Ustaadh Mohamed mentioned that I was an Arabic student, they all stopped what they were doing and were extremely friendly. "We are going to test you!" they said. They had me write the names of myself and my family in Arabic and seemed very pleased. At last a report was produced in Arabic and we said our goodbyes.

Here is a picture I took of the Azrou souk prior to the realization that my wallet was gone: