I Survived Ramadan

I am not a pious person. Unwillingly, though unabashedly, my heart remains sealed to that almighty sealer.  Yet, I have found myself in gardens watered by running streams. I feel blessed, and at times I feel overly blessed. It is as if my petty desires and unspoken prayers have been lavishly given their due. As if God were playing a practical joke on me, mockingly granting my wishes to show the insignificance of my complaints, like some backwards game of Job. I am happy and cautious, anticipating some great turn of luck. And so with these thoughts I had decided (a decision made primarily for other reasons) to fast for Ramadan.

The five pillars of Islam are profession of faith, daily prayer, fasting for Ramadan, alms giving and pilgrimage to Mecca. As I won’t do the first, I don’t do the second, I don’t have the means to do the fourth and (not being Muslim) I can’t do the fifth, it is that third pillar that I have decided to undertake in the spirit of assimilation.
Ramadan has been overall more rewarding than trying. Everybody wants to know if I’m fasting. I tell them I am. They never ask why. This in itself is a cross cultural triumph. The question of my partaking in Ramadan is not asked with suspicion or followed up with incredulity. There is a satisfied pleasure on the behalf of my questioners. The whole experience confirms for me the hospitable nature of Moroccan people and leaves me feeling welcome. Gradually this integration is growing. Whenever I leave my apartment a group of boys shout to me from afar. A month ago their cries were a unanimous “Bonjour Monsieur!” Now, that has morphed into the more familiar “Bonjour Sufjan!” And only today, one of the boys asked if I was from France. I told them I am from America and told them to say “Hello Sufjan” next time. I will see tomorrow if my rudimentary English lesson took hold. Everyday more people call my name when I pass by and with regret I can’t for the life of me recognize or remember who they are. (While it is more than possible I haven’t met many of them)

I will attempt to describe a typical day during Ramadan, but will choose a day where I was particularly active in order to dispel accusations of laziness and to provide an anecdote or two which would be absent in a day of immobility. I wake up at around 11 a.m. I have no alarm clock, but a single fly buzzing in my ear will usually stir me from sleep. I assure you that fly is dead, but others gladly make the sacrifice to fill his position. This day, instead of sitting around and waiting for dinner, (as I said I’m choosing an anomaly), I decide to go for a hike. I walk towards the nearest town, thinking that it will be a suitable gateway to the decently sized mountain separating Talmest from the ocean. My thought is I can climb to the top and be able to view the sea in the far off distance. The way to Sidi Abdjalil (Zaouia) is through the low river. I have to jump across certain parts and on the last leap I fall short, splattering green water on my leg and arm. I take a sip of water and spit it out onto my arm to clean the mud just as a Father and his son pass by. I am more ashamed of drinking water on Ramadan than being caught spitting on myself. I make my way up the mountain and notice a donkey lying on the ground in the woods. Walking up to it I notice it is not asleep and with a shudder carry on. I walk for a while daydreaming and thinking about the past. I remember a time when I was 13 when Michael Heimler came over my house to watch Survivor. On getting to my front door, he started excitedly saying “Survivor, Survivor” in a sing song manner. In a fit of blind range I punched him in the stomach and pushed him to the ground. Unfortunately his fall was obstructed by a woody bramble which pierced him a centimeter from his left eye. The next few hours were spent in my sister Tara’s room dressing his wound…

After a while I decide that it will be at least another day before I see the ocean and turn around to make my return. On the way back I pass a herd of goats eating Argan fruit from the trees. Some of the goats are standing high on the branches. I think to myself how pleasant animals can be when suddenly a group of dogs, trained to protect the goats, pounce at me with menacing snarls. For a split second I am terror stricken but immediately match the dogs’ aggression yelling SEER! (go away) and waving a rock. Once the dogs run I see the Sheppard sitting peacefully on a rock chuckling to himself over the scene.
As I have walked further than I anticipated I get to a curve in the road where I start to question my impeccable sense of direction. I turn back thinking I missed a turn but after only a few steps see the dead donkey who hasn’t moved an inch. I bless his guidance thinking of it as his gift to me for stopping to grieve an hour earlier. I finally get back in time to shower and get ready for a much needed break- fast.

At my host family’s house, we sit and wait for the Muezzin to announce over the Mosque’s loudspeaker that it is time to eat. In the waiting period little jokes are made. “Fin Muezzin?” “Huwa Nes?” (Where is the Muezzin?  He is sleeping?) Once it is heard, we each take a date and saying Bismillah, begin the meal. The break fast consists of dates, fresh figs, soup, fish, cactus fruit, sesame cookies, juice, tea and coffee. Thoroughly satisfied we digest while watching a Ramadan only sitcom called “Always Neighbors” which I dislike immensely, followed by a candid camera show. There are two more meals after this, one at midnight and one at four in the morning, but neither are especially note worthy and as of late I have been going to sleep sufficed by the one meal.

  That’s my Ramadan, and I’ll leave off this blog with one thought: Prejudice is borne of ignorance. If you ever get an opportunity to intimately know people from another culture you realize that culture is merely a dressing. People are the same everywhere. Their hearts, their ambitions, and their intentions are as universal as the air they breathe.

Survivor!