Eid al Adha and Ovine Sacrifices

(Since I've left the States, blogger has never worked properly and thus there are often gremlins that alter my text. For instance, several functions do not appear to work and adding photos is a task in and of itself. I don't always have time for proofing and formatting is a haphazard process, so I'm doing my best.)

This post does not contain any photos of dying, butchered, or otherwise dismembered animals.

Eid al Adha is one of the most important days on the Islamic calendar, and thus it's a major holiday in Morocco and across the world. Apparently, in the US, some people think it's heresy for Best Buy to acknowledge an event that up to a billion people celebrate. Based on my limited conversations with Moroccans, the number of sheep I saw in Rabat, and the nature of the sacrifice, I don't believe that a current of opposition to sacrificing animals is running with any noticeable force, in case anyone is curious. In fact, national television showed Mohammad VI slitting the throat of an immaculate ram on the nightly news program.

Thanks to the generosity of a Qalam wa Lawh staffer, Loubna, I was set-up with a host family for Eid al Adha with Loubna and her husband Hassan. The day started early with an 8:30 pick up near my apartment, followed by another stop to retrieve Feriha, an Indiana ME Studies PhD student. I purchased a pretty cake yesterday and brought it with as a token of my appreciation and an attempt to contribute something. Hassan and Loubna, along with Hassan's family, secured two sheep for the sacrifice and meal. The sheep are expensive and it's not easy adding two guests into a family event with little notice, so I am appreciative of their kindness.




I won't belabor the issue with grizzly details of the killing, caping, or gutting. A butcher ran the knives and efficiently killed five sheep, and there was nothing approaching cruel practices. (One could object that the entire process is cruel and thus relative cruelty or concern for suffering is inconsequential. I might disagree.) There was no chanting, laughing, or any boisterous mirth. It was reverential, especially if you compare it to US slaughterhouses. In fact, I would characterize it as businesslike. Following the sacrifice of five sheep, the group moved downstairs for tea and cookies. Of course, what's a better post-slaughter snack?

A freshly butchered animal doesn't move from knife to oven in one fell swoop, so we did not consume the bulk of the meat. Loubna and her mother-in-law prepared the liver, heart, and, possibly, gall bladder along with fresh bread. The eating was spread over several hours and finished with a lemon chicken with a cascade of french fries. The liver is wrapped with fat and grilled as brochettes (aka shish kabobs) along with the heart. I enjoyed the heart and most of my fatty liver was a delight, but a few a pieces tasted a bit unusual. Overall, especially with fresh baked bread, Loubna's cooking left me quite satisfied. What I presume was a gall bladder (they weren't sure about an English translation), was prepared on the stove with cumin and a couple of other spices that I could not place. Although Loubna cooked it thoroughly, it retained a spongey consistency. I followed Hassan's lead and cut a piece of bread in two and fashioned a sandwich of olives and organ. The olives' flavor along with the spices of the gall bladder merged amazingly and was, by far, one of my most favorite meals of the day.

In some ways, I regret missing the chance to eat the head and hooves. Feriha wanted to leave by four and I could not arrange another ride, plus I was stuffed and I found the prospect of continued eating daunting. In fact, as I write this the next morning, I'm still not hungry. Loubna, Hassan, and Hassan's family welcomed me and seemed to enjoy having us present. At one point, someone even handed me a two or so year old girl to hold after meeting me for all of twenty minutes. I'm thrilled to celebrate Eid as this was most likely a once in a lifetime opportunity and a cultural event that is hardly available to me in the States.

Thanksgiving at the American Club in Rabat

The day before Thanksgiving, a staff member at Qalam wa Lawh, Malaika, popped her head into my classroom and asked if I wanted to eat a Thanksgiving meal at the American Club for a paltry 120 Dirhams. I wavered for a couple of seconds and then replied in the affirmative, and she instructed me to e-mail my passport number and name to an embassy contact for security clearance. Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, however, it seemed questionable if the meal would become a reality. Thanks to Malaika's decision to pick us up and appear at the door, we transferred through the security doors and entered the green, pretty compound.

We found our way upstairs to the bar to order a drink. Shockingly, they sell Sierra Nevada Pale Ale! Sierra Nevada in North Africa!!! The American Club is home to a variety of American and European activities, including the Rabat Hash House Harriers meetings, yet I'm still amazed that they sell Sierra's Pale Ale. We all ordered one and quietly sipped the four or so dollar bottle of beer and watched Eddie Murphy's The Nutty Professor on the Armed Forces Network. We polished off our drinks and went to the patio to order our plate of Thanksgiving vittles.

The meal came with unsweetened iced tea, which pleased me considering that nearly all teas served here are saccharine overload. As you can see from the plate, they provided the standard, iconic meal. Turkey (or ham), cranberries, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, stuffing, and corn pudding. I can't explain the cherry on top of the turkey and gravy. Once you factor in that you're in North Africa eating a Thanksgiving meal, it's difficult to criticize the cooking, flavoring, or overall composure of the meal. I would even go so far as to say that it was good meal that left me filled and content. And if that isn't the point of a Thanksgiving meal, what is?


The meal finished off with a slice of pumpkin pie. The crust was edible, but not the best. Still, it's pumpkin pie in North Africa and beggars can't be choosers. Overall, the experience was relaxing and without pretension or the demands of laboring over a turkey and mounds of sides. I miss Kate and my family, but I was able to skype with all of them and relax after a demanding week of Arabic training for the first time in fifteen months in a classroom setting. We all went around the table voicing what we're thankful for, and it's a new experience for me realizing what I take for granted in life and the multitude of options and possibilities available to me as an American and in my life. Piquant cliches such as "distance makes the heart grow fonder" cause my stomach to turn ever so slightly. At this point in my life, I am thankful for how fortunate we've been despite the past two troubling years to have loving, supporting family and friends. Tomorrow marks the half way point of my trip, with ten days of class remaining, and I can't be happier to return home.

Arabic in Morocco, Qalam wa Lawh, and the Fits and Starts of Learning Arabic

Note: I’m writing these entries in a word document and the format does not always transfer as easily as I prefer. I opted to stay around the apartment this weekend to study in advance of an exam and a ten minute presentation next week. I want to say a special thanks to John Willis (who may not read this due to the fact that he’s in India currently) for all of his consult and advice through the years. He was an indispensable part of my graduate education, along with a few select other members of the CU faculty, and CU is fortunate to have him as a faculty member. His capacious intellect, wit, and commitment to improving the graduate experience deserves praise that he might not normally receive through standard channels.

I completed my first week of Arabic at Qalam wa Lawh (QL) in Rabat. In the months leading up to my departure, I reviewed my book and grammatical structures and prepared as best as I could at home. Fifteen months, however, is a long time to not use Arabic and I was rusty. Once I hit the ground I’ve found my planning useless. The classes are structured entirely different from those I thrived in at Chicago or those I observed at CU. Instead of a heavy focus on translation, reading aloud, and grammar—all taught in English—QL privileges oratory/spoken with very little to no attention to translation or reading aloud. For instance, we spend two hours every morning speaking, then move on to grammar after a tea break.

My speaking is moving forward, even if through fits and starts. I’m pleased that I’m able to strengthen my poor ability to engage with people on the most minor questions, and I grasp why they emphasize spoken as part of the immersion experience. Part of me, however, wants to build on my translation and grammar skills. That side stems from the nagging historians’ training that I cannot seem to shed. Nevertheless, I’m taking it all in stride and working diligently at home. Thirteen days of class remain thanks to Eid al Adha. When I return home I will write a lengthy appraisal of the state of my Arabic as well as the school at large, but here’s a sketch.

QL is situated in the Souissi neighborhood. When I walk to school every morning I pass numerous embassies and I often see plenty of non-Moroccans. The school building is fantastic, and, thus far, the instructors and staff proved remarkably kind and patient. My hopes for the school were low, and with expectations of that little weight it’s easy to impress. However, even if I entered with moderate expectations I would express the same opinion. As I’ve mentioned in status updates and in e-mails, the students formed cliques and some have no interest in anything more than a fleeting hello. I was annoyed at first but I’ve come to terms with it and understand that some of this is the product of design and part of it’s natural. I will add photos later of the pretty school garden and impressive building with a kitchen, dining area, patio, computer lab, and comfortable classrooms. In general I’m quite impressed.

Moroccan Arabic, darija, sounds like a collage of syllables entering a blender running coolly on high. Due to France’s colonial presence in Morocco, my pearly white skin, and my longer hair, people speak with me in French. I don’t know a lick of French. If I reply in broken and hapless Arabic, I receive quizzical glances with an occasional look of slight understanding. Often, Moroccans who know fusha, Modern Standard Arabic (MSA), correct my mistakes or offer a suggestion. They approach this pleasantly and I would describe these interactions as funny and filled with smiles. No one glares at me for botching word order or butchering their language. I found that if someone can decipher what I am trying to say, they want to help and patiently explain their suggestion.

Some of you will question why I am bothering to share this recounting of my struggles with Arabic on a street level. I have not felt any animosity as an American or a Westerner, and generally I would depict interactions as welcoming. Due to negative stereotypes, I feel that it’s my responsibility to communicate the story of my first couple of weeks in Morocco. And it’s one that I can describe as comfortable and smooth.

Rabat and Apartment Photos

I always enjoy a photo of doors, paths of light, or disparities in dark and light, a particular style that characterizes Edward Hopper's oeuvre, and it comes through in how I snap photos (with no intention of imitation). The first three are of my apartment bed room.

Ever wonder what "stop" looks like in Arabic?

Meals in Morocco

The transition from a word document to the blogger compose box was not easy and thus the formatting is off.

So what have I been eating? Mostly sandwiches or shwarma, which is somewhat similar to a doner kabap, with chicken and lamb, and always served with fries. This shwarma is closer to a panini, but I’m not about to lecture anyone on proper names for their food. I tried a Sicilian pizza topped with tuna and olives. Eh, ok with a delightfully refreshing citronade.

The big ticket item is the tajine. Thus far, I’ve eaten two wildly different tajines. It’s is

considered a Moroccan national dish and it varies. The first was a kefta meatball tajine

delivered to me in a steaming ceramic pot of sweetened tomato soup/base covered

with an egg and cheese topping kefta meatballs absorbing the flavors of the tomato

and spice. My second tajine was a delicious chicken, carrot, and potato dish cooked in an olive and citrus sauce.

I wish my experience with couscous was overflowing with superlatives. The two dinners were decent, yet not as rich as the tajines. I cannot chart too much difference between good couscous grains in the states and what I’ve consumed here. The photos is of a beef dish with stewed potatoes, carrots, and onions. I ordered a grilled chicken couscous the night before, and the chicken brochettes were a step above the rather bland beef.

I also scarfed down some fried eggplant, fish with cilantro, and a ball of potato rolled with a sweet, herb dough. I am eyeing a snail soup that I will try before leaving. Breakfast thus far consisted of bread, jam, butter, tea, and orange juice. It took several days to return to form and eating three meals again, which dipped to one a day.

The tea is saccharine overload with hints of mint served burning hot. It’s taken a bit of time to adapt to the café culture of Morocco, and more time is in order for a khawajjah such as myself. At an amazing cafe, Comedy, I sat down for journal writing and an opera cake, which is the photo you see at the left. Decadent does not adequately describe the sweet, soft layers of chocolate ganache with the subtle hints of coffee. The hostel denizens have been a motley assortment of folks from anarchists to globe trotting kids. All have been incredibly friendly and a nice Libyan fellow has been kind enough to speak slowly and engage me with in Modern Standard Arabic. More updates are coming along with continued saltiness from your reporter on this corner of Africa.

Assorted photos of Casa and Hasan II Mosque