Spend the Last 10 Days of Ramadan in Morocco, AKA the Land of the Awliya

A woman who is dear to my heart, and with whom I quickly felt an affinity towards when I met her in Fez, runs an Arabic language school in Fez that is doing a special program this Ramadan. The program, which runs from the 9th until the 19th of September,is called, "Ramadan with the Saints of Morocco" and it looks amazing Masha'Allah.

In addition to the lessons and visiting of sites, there is the opportunity to have a session with the Fez singers who recorded Qasidah al-Burda for the CD compilation Shaykh Hamza Yusef translated.

Darr-Sirr, a website devoted to Sufism in Morocco writes that:

Al-Maghreb al-Aqsa (present-day Morocco) has long been one of the most important crucibles of Islamic mysticism. Moroccan religious and intellectual movements often created ebb tides of intellectual and cultural influence that flowed toward the Muslim East.

Some people are uncomfortable with the term "saints." It is not to say that they are infallible, but a bold claim is being made that there are certain people whose piety is so much in abundance that it becomes manifest in their person and touches those around them and that even after their death there is benefit in remembering them. Sidi Ahmed Zarruq (d. 1484 c.e.) said that "The inner essence of the slave is known through his outward state."

A knowledgeable Islamic scholar from the Uk once said that it is the sign of a living religion that it can produce righteous people.

This is all to say, Go to Morocco, attend this amazing program in Ramadan and give your Iman a chance to really thrive insha'Allah. All of the contact information is on the flyer pasted above ( If you click on it, it will enlarge), but in case it is still not clear for you, the contact email is: info@sacalfez.com and the telephone number is : +212 674566458.

May Allah give us all the secret of Sincerity and a Good Ending. Ameen.

The Jar That Does Not Fill or, Going Crazy over Morocco

A call from a dear friend in Morocco yesterday morning re-ignites within me the hope of return. I got off the phone and started to make a mental note of all of the things that have changed or are changing in Morocco since I was last there. Not big things like the upcoming elections in June, but personal things which have effected the lives of people with whom I was close. I count two deaths (a sister, a father) May Allah have mercy on them, one wedding, one engagement with a wedding scheduled in a month God-willing, and then my thoughts trail off.

Every time I return to Morocco it looks different and my eyes need time to readjust. Now I think about how even my friends will look different, having married or carried within them the new pain of losing their only sister or their beloved father so suddenly.

To the honest, I have been keeping up with Morocco a lot on another blog that I started and that I invite you to, its called reading morocco. I guess that I have moved from writing about my own experiences there to listening to what others have to say. I am especially interested in what Moroccans themselves are producing in the way of blogs, short stories, and commentaries about their country and feel grateful to be able to read them in Arabic, French and English. (If only i could read a Berber language!)

Anyway, I came across this interesting short story written in the 1940's by a Moroccan named Ahmed Bennani. It is called The Jar That Does Not Fill, and is about an American in Fes. I like the feeling of being looked at and and summed up by Moroccan eyes when generally so much written about Morocco is the product of us Americans summing up Moroccans ( generally without an adequate knowledge base). I am pasting the story below and hope that you enjoy it.

THE JAR THAT DOES NOT FILL
Ahmed Bennani 1940
Translated into English by
Jilali El Koudia

This is Najjarine Market in Fes. The season of tourists has come, and so dealers of antique objects are getting ready, exhibiting their goods on their shop windows. They arrange them in magnificent order, preserving their ancient look in order to attract the sight of the expected tourists.

One morning, as they were absorbed in their work, a strange-looking Westerner emerged in the main street. His height indicated that he had come from the land of skyscrapers. He was walking slowly and staring at everything round him, contemplating the simple, ordinary objects. He gives you the impression that he was walking in the museum of the marvels of the world, which suggested that it was his first visit to this Eastern land, full of mysteries and marvels as Europeans and Americans imagined it.

He is the kind of tourist merchants impatiently awaited, for he would spend a great deal of money on simple goods, especially if he was told they were antique or associated with the life of a sultan. As soon as they saw him, they started inviting him in their shops, tempting him and addressing him in a language that sounded almost English. The American would accept the invitation and look carefully at what they offered him, such as worn-out rugs, old copper utensils, cracked pottery and other various goods with strange shapes and colours. The attraction of these objects depended on how much rust and dust they had collected! The American would smile with appreciation, produce a notebook from his pocket to take notes, then he would leave.

Every day he visited the shops and took notes. The merchants were hopeful as he was surely writing down the items he liked with their prices. After comparing these prices, making his choice and about to depart, he would buy the goods and leave the dollar they were after. His visits were frequent, but without buying anything. The merchants were afraid he would leave the city before making any purchase. They wondered what he really fancied. Maybe only rare and old objects. That was not impossible for our skilful merchants. This American was not the first awkward tourist for them to handle, anyway.

One day he arrived, as usual, and a merchant invited him to sit down. He told him:
“I have a ring that cannot even be compared with the ring of Solomon. It has such a marvellous story you would pay just hearing it, before even buying the ring itself. This ring was always on the finger of one of our great sultans, then it was passed on to one of his most beloved maidens. The most amazing part of it are the risks she took in order to obtain the ring. That is…”

The American listened to the story with a smile, then said ‘Thank you’ and left.
One merchant noticed that this American was not carrying a guide-book or a camera as tourists usually did; he had only books and papers. He was probably interested in cultural matters, science and scholars more than anything else. Inviting him to sit down, the merchant said:
“May I crown you? Not with the crown of princes and kings but with the crown of science and knowledge. Let me put this hat on your head. It is heavy with dirt, but if you knew the head it used to crown, you would thank God for the privilege others never had before you. This hat never left the head of the eminent historian Ibn Khaldoun!”
The American looked in the mirror and noticed how distorted and strange his image had become. He smiled and took off the blessed hat to hand it back to its owner. He said ‘Thank you’ and departed.
As soon as the American left the shop, another merchant called to him and whispered in his ear:
“No doubt you’ve heard of Caliph Haroun Errashid. In your country you always associate the East with his name, don’t you?”
The American shook his head and the merchant continued:
“Do you see all these objects that fill my shop? They are not worth this single Eastern robe.”
He opened a large box and produced a green robe. He said:
“You see, our famous caliph used to wear this robe.”
The American felt it, showing appreciation, then he said ‘Thank you’ and left.
After many days, the merchants tried other means to impress the American to yield the dollar they were after. One merchant led him into a further corner of his shop and whispered to him:
“I’ll take you where you will see what no eye has ever met! But let no one see us together, otherwise I’ll be in danger. So, just walk farther behind me.”

The American agreed and they walked out. They passed through many markets and streets till they arrived in a dark and narrow alley where only the murmur of water could be heard and nothing could be seen except the flashing eyes of a cat that escaped to a corner at the sounds of their footsteps. The merchant opened a door and they walked in. Then he shut it behind him and they crossed a hall to a courtyard where the merchant opened the door of a house. He inserted a key in a box and said:
“If my people know I have brought you here, they will kill both of us! What you are about to see is what I have inherited from my noble ancestors. It’s the most precious thing a Moslem can hoard. Look here, what do you see in this box? No, don’t touch it. It’s a sacred object!”

The American stared at it for a long time, then he stood up casting a look around him. Close to him was another marvel: a long rusty sword encased in a frame of glass and surrounded by splendid curtains. The American and the merchant stood silent for a moment, after which the merchant said:
“Now, I see you really appreciate precious objects. If you knew Arabic, you would read what is engraved on this rare sword…”
The American contemplated the marvels around him. He produced his pen and book, took notes, said ‘Thank you’ and left.

He was indeed a strange case! Normally, Americans would lavishly spend money on the most trifling local goods. But this one, although he was shown extraordinary objects, he did not put his hand in his pocket. This merchant had offered him the most extraordinary object, which was the key to his ancestors’ house in Andalusia. And yet, he only scrutinized it, took notes and said ‘Thank you’ with a smile and departed.

One morning, one of those merchants bought a newspaper to see if there was any tourist ship coming. Suddenly, he read something that sent him into a peal of laughter. He shouted to his colleagues and said:
“Do not trouble yourselves. If each of us can offer the most extraordinary objects to entice tourists, still we will not be able to provide what our American friend is looking after, even if we put our efforts together. This newspaper says he is searching for an island! Yes, an island. Look here!”

The paper opened with a long article headed by the photograph of that strange tourist. It ran thus:
“This American is the famous scholar Thomas, a member of the American Scientific Association. He was sent to Morocco by this association to search for Atlantis, an island that scientists and philosophers believed to be a lost paradise. So far no one has been able to locate it. As far as they know Plato mentioned it in one of his books, describing it like the gardens in the other world, happy, comfortable and peaceful. Recently, special attention has been given to this subject by the aforementioned association, since one of its members undertook a research which left a great impact on scientific circles. In this research he mentioned that the inhabitants of Atlantis used to confine mad people in its lunatic asylums to spend the whole day filling perforated jars. The more they poured water into them from above, the more they leaked from the bottom, and thus the jars were never filled. In this way they were kept busy from committing any crazy acts. They were unaware of the holes in the jars, but anyone who discovered such holes would show that he was sane again and so he was set free. Scholars believed such a practice had perished until the recent publication of a book on Morocco. In this book it was said that in Sidi Fridj asylum in Fes there was a perforated jar similar to those the Atlantis people used to have, which indicated there were remnants of Atlantis in Morocco, or in such other neighbouring islands like the Canary Islands.”

Such a story had a great impact on the members of the Association, and so they agreed to send the author of the research to Morocco to investigate the subject. This was how the scholar Thomas came to Fes. As we saw, every day he would pass through the market of ancient goods on his way to the asylum where he spent the whole day searching and comparing what he read in books with what devices were contrived to cure mad people, such as chains, straw sticks, the jar and other objects. He would stand for hours, reflecting on the jar that was never filled. He bent over it and listened for a long time. Sometimes he looked at it from near and sometimes from distance, contemplating it like an inspired artist or a philosopher equipped with precision, analysis, comparison and deduction. Not content with the naked eye, he put on big glasses, which gave him a haughty air of science and knowledge. At first the guardian of the asylum prevented him from approaching the mad men lest he should be harmed. But gradually the patients got used to him, and so he remained among them in safety.

On returning to his hotel, Thomas would spend several sleepless nights, filling pages to send telegraphic messages to the American Scientific Association. He wrote such valuable findings about the island in codes which only the members of the Association could decipher.

Everyday Thomas received numerous telegrams and letters from leading newspapers, cinema firms, radio stations in America, asking him to provide them with the result of his discovery. They were also ready to send messengers to receive his declarations or take photographs of the area where the Atlantis people used to live. In the meantime newspapers in America were now and then dropping hints that the world was about to witness a very serious discovery, referring to the findings of Thomas.

Days went by when Thomas’s message stopped reaching the American Association. The members waited for a long time, then they sent him telegrams, but he did not reply. They got in touch with the representative of America in Morocco urging him to send them back information about Thomas. The representative looked for him in the hotel, in the markets and finally he went to the asylum. From there he rushed to the post office to send away the following message: “Found Thomas the scholar in Sidi Fridj asylum in Fes lost among the mad men filling the jar that will never be filled.”

Reading "A House in Fez "

It had not been my intention to post on this blog until I was back on Moroccan soil, but I came across this book that was published recently about Fes ( use a “z” if you like) and could not resist picking it up. After reading A House In Fez by Suzanna Clarke , I thought it might be good to post a review of it on this blog, because it still gets reasonable traffic although I haven’t posted in more than 4 months and because really someone needs to “unpack” this book and limit the damage it could do to those unfamiliar with Morocco.

I don’t know if you all know about the latest trend of foreigners buying houses in Morocco, specifically the old cities of Marrakech and Fes. They rehab them and often to turn them into guest houses for foreigner tourists or vacation houses that they visit once a year for a month. Most Moroccans that I know find it to be a problematic development, and many refer to it as neo-colonialism. But westerners offer fast cash and many Moroccans do not feel that they are in a position to turn this money down. A House in Fez is written by an Australian woman who visited Morocco on vacation with her husband and decided soon after to buy a house in Fes with the intention of eventually living there permanently

In beginning the book, I felt as if maybe I could relate to Mrs. Clarke, when she wrote things like, “ It was a country where we both felt more alive than anywhere else, our every sense engaged.” But as the book unfolded, and she took us on her more than a year journey of finding the right house and all the hassles and logistics of actually rehabbing it, I found myself wishing more and more that she had waited to write this book until she had actually lived in Morocco for a substantial period of time, really learned about the people and their culture, and dare I say, even learned to speak Darija ( Moroccan Arabic). I know that all these things are not necessary in order for her to write about her own personal experiences in Morocco, but when you are coupling a personal narrative with “facts” about a place and the religion and culture of that place, you should actually know something about that place.

I am not trying to nit-pick, God knows we all are deficient in our endeavors, but books like A House in Fez put inaccurate information out in the world that takes decades to correct. Like what? Well consider page 37 when she is talking about religious programming on Moroccan television and explains that it is a way for women to :

“ keep up with a service from which many were excluded. Only women past child-bearing age are permitted to go to mosques in Morocco, and then they worship in a separate area, behind the men. Young women must avoid any contact that might lead to sexual attraction, and therefore pray at home.”

Well all that I can say to that is WOW. I wonder where Mrs. Clarke got this information and how it is that after visiting and living in Morocco for as long as she did that she never saw young women answering the call to pray and entering the mosques, especially in Ramadan. I can only imagine that this information came from some other ex-pat who was “filling her in” on how oppressed the poor Moroccan woman is. As someone who has lived in Morocco I can attest to the fact that all believing Muslim women are welcome in the mosque, and yes we do pray separately, but not necessarily behind the men – sometimes on top of them on another level or next to them. We do not feel slighted for not praying with the men, anymore than the men should feel slighted for not praying with us.

This is just a taste of the inaccuracies that the Western reader will swallow whole without question while reading A House in Fez. Later in the book the author mistakes Joseph whom Christians couple with Mary the mother of Jesus (Peace be upon him) for the Prophet Joseph (Peace be upon him) of Egypt in retelling a conversation going on between her Moroccan workers in the house.. (page 217) Fact-checking is not over-rated.

The author is also fond of referring to certain Moroccan Muslims as “fundamentalists,” her definition seems to be a man who will not shake her hand (page 124), and she attributes the oft present police road checks in Morocco to post 9/11 concern about “fundamentalists” instead of perhaps noticing that Morocco is an authoritarian police state. She admits to a soft spot for “Sufis” but her recounting of Sufism is the “folk” kind that I must admit can be found in Morocco and not the rigorous self –denying, Shariah-abiding kind that would seem familiar to most knowledgeable Muslims.

She also falls into a stereotypical classification of Muslim women in the book. We can tell immediately that she admires the young girl Aisha who wears tight, seductive clothing. When she introduces us to her female engineer who has “streaked hair and heavy eyeliner”( page 121) she follows up the description of her with “ needless to say, she also had a forthright manner,” BUT later when we are introduced to two women who will help her with other things in the house, we are told immediately that they both dress “ in traditional style.” Then immediately she describes one of them, Fatima , as being “ the more assertive of the two.” (page 138) Her assumptions on the level of a woman’s assertiveness or forthrightness based on how they dress are in themselves oppressive.

Throughout the book we get glimpses of the author’s guilt about buying the old house from poor Moroccans who themselves could not afford to repair it. She seems to assuage herself (and probably some readers too) by quoting someone who tells here that the money she gave the owner is the most that he will have in his entire life. And then in case you still didn’t get the point she includes a picture of the old blind Moroccan man clutching the stacks of dirhams in his lap. I thought the picture rather tasteless.

Another way that the author assuages her guilt is to use a rationale that I have heard from other well off Brits and Australians who buy houses in the old city. They are assisting in the cultural preservation of the city. But if Fez is an ancient Islamic city, what can people who either know nothing about Islam or who are often hostile to Islam, contribute to it?

An observant reader will realize that the author does not know what she is talking about in a lot of cases , and I am not saying this to be cruel or critical. The idea to write a book about her experience was no doubt tempting at the very least to help pay for the rehab and travel costs, but Mrs. Clarke knew so little about the culture and language that I felt while reading that this was the kind of book I might write if thrown into Buddhist Mongolia at this very moment.

I just wish that at some point she would have just said, “ I didn’t understand,” but not chalk this misunderstanding up to how “different” Moroccans are , but instead to how much of an outsider she allowed herself to remain. In the reading group discussion guide at the end of the book ( and I generally avoid books which contain these) she says:

“ In some respects we have gained an understanding of Moroccan culture, but the differences between our mindset and that of traditional Moroccans is vast."

Forgive me for finding this comment offensive, especially when she does not show us one Moroccan of an equal social status that she befriended during her stay.

At some point , one must ask why then is she there? She alludes to the fruit in Morocco being fresher than that of her native Australia, and a slower pace of life. But I really wish that she could have said openly in the book what expats say amongst themselves, IT IS A GREAT INVESTMENT! They are taking advantage of Moroccans’ poverty and the relatively low cost of living to ensure their own financial futures.

I could go on and on about problematic passages in this book that I fear is only the first in a string of what I foresee to be “ I bought a house in the old city and fixed it up” paperbacks. I apologize for any excessive harshness in this post, but we must not accept sub par rushed narratives like this to keep defining our culture(s).

Now let me get back to my other blog, Al-ghurba.

Fes to NYC and Saying Bislaamah to this Blog

There is a grey area where yesterday and today meet.I spent yesterday morning running final errands and then the afternoon buying last minute gifts in a game I called "10 minutes in the Fes medina," because leaving everything to the last minute felt like that was about all i had. I got most of the things on my list just as the call to prayer for Asr was called. I made a final entrance into the Qarawiyin mosque and in the women's ablution area ran into a friend i had meant to call to say goodbye but had not gotten around to doing it. We said a long goodbye and then I went upstairs greeted the mosque with some prayers and offered the Asr prayer by myself because in the old medina the congregational prayer for Asr is delayed for about 30 mins after the call to prayer and I was on a tight schedule.

I was finally done packing and dropped off my things at the friend's house who would be taking me to the airport in the morning at about 9 at night. Then I went quick to do the rounds of saying goodbye to a bunch of people i had left to the end. One friend gave me a silver bracelet as a present and two tupperware dishes filled with Moroccan pastries for me to share with friends and family. I could not imagine how i could fit them in my luggage but i also could not imagine refusing them. I left their place teary-eyed and go to another family's house. They had been waiting for me to eat a final dinner with them. When I sat before the table and saw it laid out in the typical Fessi fashion with the main dish surrounded by smaller tapas like dishes, i burst into tears. I ate what I could and made a quick exit, but not before they hand me a bag of homemade sweet breads and dates they want me to break my fast with in the airport in New York City.

Then I went to say goodbye to some of my Muslim American friends, our goodbyes are less emotional because in a few weeks or months we will all be back in the US and in contact God willing.
I finally make it back to my friends house at about 1 am. We catch up with each other a bit in the kitchen and she asks me if I want to attend the morning part of the Tarawih prayers that start at 3:30 am. I tell her yes, but when she wakes me up to get ready I am a muddled exhausted mess. I also realize that my flight is an hour earlier than i thought and so we don't have much time after the dawn prayer to head to the airport. I tell her to go to the mosque without me, I will pray at her place and try to get myself together.

At the airport I have an extra bag. When I try to pay for it with credit card they say that the machine is down and I can only pay in cash. They want 1,500 dirhams I only have about 800 on me and my friends did not bring any cash. The woman at the counter is insistent on 1,500 cash even though i offer to pay in casablanca where their machines will be working and i ask to speak to a manager.

Finally my friend's husband remembers that he has a police officer friend who works security at the airport. He goes to find him and comes back with him to the counter. When the police officer friend realizes that the only problem is one of having cash, he pulls out a small plastic bag full of Moroccan dirhams and asks us how much i need. My friend's husband takes it from him and promises to pay him back and i promise to pay my friend's husband back and he says not to worry about it. At this point i burst into tears. I think it was all the tears I had been holding in throughout the last week of emotional goodbyes. My friend tries to console me by telling me that things are working themselves out. She tells the woman at the counter that I am just emotional because I have not had my fill of Morocco and don't really want to leave.

I say goodbye to them and get on the plane for Casablanca. Then a few hours later I am on a plane bound for New York City. On the place the Moroccan stewardesses debate about whether I am Moroccan or not. One of them asked me if i am "bint arRabat" a girl from Rabat, she feels like she has seen me before in Rabat. I tell her that I did live there years ago and we later realize that we lived in the same neighborhood. The other stewardess calls me a Moroccan American. I think its a funny title for me, but somehow fitting.

I just about pass -out from exhaustion on take off and wake up about four hours later. I look up from my seat as a man is walking down the aisle and realize that he is Shaykh Hamza. We are on the same flight back to the US, Masha'Allah. I can't think of a reason to bother him and just sit in my thinking it is cool that we are on the same flight.

Our plane lands about three hours later. I go through immigration, and am given a dry "welcome home" by the customs official and go to pick up my luggage at the baggage claim before i go to my connecting flight. I go up to Shaykh Hamza this time and give my Salaams and ask how he is doing. He asks me if i have a cell phone because his is not getting reception. I apologize for not having one. He remembers me from the gathering in Fes and calls me by my name, a trademark of his manners and consideration.

Then he asks me if i have a luggage cart, I guess that he sees me carrying all my stuff and looking a bit out of it. I tell him that I am a bit confused , he tells me to watch his bags while he goes to get me a luggage cart. I must tell you that I have listened to and attended many of Shaykh Hamza's talks and lessons but I never felt that he had benefited me in my life as much as in that moment when I was so disconcerted, tired, and fasting( i decided not to take the traveler's dispensation and break the Ramadan fast). May Allah reward him with Paradise for that seemingly small but great kindness. Ameen.

I am naturally awkward around him, and don't want to bother him anymore, so I take my cart and go to another place in the line to collect my luggage. We bump into each other a few more times before he runs for his flight to California and I walk slowly to the waiting area of my gate because I have a few hours until I fly to Chicago.

And so, I guess this is where this blog ends , here at terminal 2 of the JFK International Airport in New York City where I am still waiting for my connection flight to Chicago. My North African adventures ended for the time being.

I thank everyone who read this blog from all over the world and all the Moroccans who through their kindness, generosity, and even stern guidance are helping me to become a better more conscious human being. I am grateful for the Fulbright grant which allowed me the time to spend a year studying a topic I am highly interested in and to the fellow Americans I befriended in Morocco. Thank you to all my American friends and family who took care of administrative things in my life for me in the States when I was away. I appreciate everyone's patience with me in an endeavor that was originally intended to be just for friends and family but has gone beyond that. Please excuse any errors on my part and believe me when I say that they were not intentional.

I am just starting the idea of a new blog called al Ghurba which i think will deal with the ideas of double consciouness, feeling out of place and living in that "third space" where you slip in and out of cultures. This seems more in keeping with how my life as an American convert to Islam from an African-American background who digs all things Moroccan. God willing it will be of some benefit.

In Morocco, when something is finished, whether it is a heated discussion or the painting of a wall, people will say, " okay now ask God to put Peace and Blessings on the Prophet"

So here I go( taken from the text of the Dala'il al Khayrat):

O Allah, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the drops of rain, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the leaves of the trees, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the foam of the seas, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the rivers, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the sand of the deserts and wastelands, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the weight of the mountains and rocks, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the inhabitants of the Garden and the inhabitants of the Fire, bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the righteous and the dissolute, and bless our master Muhammad and the family of our master Muhammad in quantity as great as the alternation of day and night.

And all Praise is for God, the Lord of the Worlds.

The Easy of Morocco is the Important Easy or Breaking Fast with Shaykh Hamza

By this time tomorrow I should be at the Fes airport boarding a plane for Casablanca from where I will take a plane to New York , God-willing. I have spent a lot of time over the last few weeks trying to prepare mentally for this separation from Morocco.

Last week I made a special prayer and asked God to let my last week in Morocco be filled with the company of righteous, pious people and to allow me to get the most blessings out of my last days here. Soon after that I found myself in the company of a very well known Sufi shaykh, i was able to spend a few days with him and his family and really benefited from his advice and guidance. I thought after meeting him, well, this has been the answer to my prayer.

Then,the day before yesterday as I was leaving a person's house in the old city, they said to me, " Shayk Hamza will be here tomorrow." I kind of froze in confusion inside the doorway. I asked if by here, they meant Fes or the actual house we were standing in. They said that they meant the actual house. I asked if I could come and they said, yes. ( I guess that was the point of them telling me , hugh?) So, i walked out of their house with the kind of butterflies in my stomach one associates with romantic love and not the awe struck admirational brotherly version that I hold for Shaykh Hamza, May God give him longevity and well being. Ameen.

So - to make a long story short ( because this is one my last posts from inside Morocco and I still have some packing to do) I was finally told later in the evening that Shaykh Hamza would be coming to break fast at that person's house and that I too was invited. I jumped up almost immediately to get ready and take a cab to the old city. Then I scoured the few little stores that were open for some food stuffs to take to the house. I was really annoyed with myself for having no present for the Shaykh.

I was able to procure some bananas and plums and a few cartons of milk. Being able to locate milk in Morocco in Ramadan so close to the time to break fast was nearly a miracle because so many people make milk-based drinks at breaking fast time that generally all the stores are sold out by the late afternoon. I had to go to 3 stores before i found someone who had any milk.

I got to the house and the women folk were busy making the breaking fast meal. I pitched in where I could - taking the skin off of blanched almonds, peeling avocados, carrying heavy pots to the stove, putting glasses on trays,holding trays, etc. As the time to break fast neared, I went to sit with the three other women who are also invited guests. The call to prayer was given and we broke our fasts, pray the sun-down prayer and then begin eating.

A few moments later I hear a familiar voice at the door saying "as Salaamu alaykum, Allahumma Salli ala Syeduna Muhammad" It is the voice that almost any Muslim from America knows, it is the voice of Shaykh Hamza Yusuf. He walks into the room and I cannot help myself from staring directly at him. Then he goes into the adjoining room where the male guests were sitting. I try to bend my ear to hear his conversation , not in order to eavesdrop but hoping to benefit from his knowledgeable talk. I only get bits and pieces and have one of those moments I often get in such situations of wishing I was a man or that there were more knowledgeable accessible women with whom to sit.

After finishing our food we begin a night of prayers ( we pray tarawih there with an amazing imam) and Quran recitation and singing of amdah ( Muslim praise songs) and even read parts of the Dala'il al Khayrat and the Dua' Naciria. There is the ceremonial burning of incense and the dousing of the guests with rose water. After being drenched in it by the host, I think to myself that this will be the last time for a while that I will be able to partake in this refreshing welcoming ceremony.

As the night goes on I try to talk myself into asking to speak to the Shaykh, I pray about it, and then finally ask the host if he can ask Shaykh Hamza for 5 mins of his time. Within seconds ( no exaggeration) the Shaykh walks into the room, and asks my name. I tell him and thank him for all his efforts for the Ummah of Syeduna Muhammad (peace be upon him) and then ask him for a quick piece of advice about my upcoming transition from Morocco to the US that I am spiritually not looking forward to. He says, well you know America is difficult, what is easy here [meaning Morocco] is hard there [America] and what is hard here is easy there. " He is talking about how spiritual matters and really living out the faith is easier in Morocco.But the material living of gadgets and services is easier in America.

He said the "the easy" of Morocco is the important easy. He goes on to comment about the gathering we are attending, saying - you could not get this in America. But he tells me just to go back to the US and surround myself with good people. I ask him to pray for me and then poof - he is back in the other room where new singing begins.

Things go on for a few more hours. We eat a great dinner alhamdulilah and then sometime around midnight people start to leave. The whole night the host had been repeatedly welcoming and then re-welcoming Shaykh Hamza in his home and saying, "Today is an Eid ( holiday), today is an Eid."

As he said that, I thought about all of my friends here in Fes who complain to me that I am leaving before the Eid that comes at the end of Ramadan. I thought well, okay then you did get some taste of another Eid here.

As the night ends the Shaykh is bombarded by people who want a little of him. I don't want to bother him again , but i do have another question for him, because this was such a small private gathering, i say " Shaykh Hamza I have a blog , is it okay for me to write about tonight on it?" "Sure," he says.

" Space is in the Heart " and So is Fes

I have already begun the tearful goodbyes with dear friends here in Morocco. Yesterday was my last Friday in Fes. I was actually in the countryside outside of Fes for a few days so it ended up that I drove into Fes with some friends on Friday morning because I told them that I just had to spend my final Friday in Morocco in Fes. My friend said, well, God willing its not your final Friday in Morocco ever, just for a little while.

So, driving past fields of olive trees I made my last entrance into Fes for a while. I was of course instantly thrown into the slight panic of getting my things together to leave on Tuesday. I went to the electric & water company to pay my last bill and to have them turn off the utilities next week, but it was a bit more complicated than i thought and so I will have to go back on Monday God-willing.

A quick cab to Friday prayer where the mosque is more full than usual because it is Ramadan and people feel that religious vibe more and also, especially for women because they are not expected to cook the traditional Friday couscous lunch, so they flee from the kitchen to the mosque. ( only to go back to the kitchen to cook the breaking fast meals ofcourse).

I meet a friend at the mosque and we say a pre-goodbye and set a date to meet again to say a final goodbye. I run into a family that I met when i first came to Fes last September and havent really seen since. I tell them that I will be leaving soon and get the usual Moroccan guilt talk about how I have not come to visit them in so long. I tell them that I am not sure if there is anytime left for me this time to make it to their place.

As it gets closer to the time for breaking fast in the early evening I head to the old city and visit a family that I am close to, they ask me if i have taken their advice and delayed my trip until at least after the Eid, I tell them no, I am leaving in 4 days.

About a half hour before it will be time for the fast to end, their door bell rings, and in walks one of their paternal uncles with his wife and five kids. This is a totally unannounced visit. But no one bats an eye. This is one of the things I love about Morocco, that 7 people could just drop in to share food with you after you have been fasting all day and your heart just accommodates it.( Of course they brought some foodstuffs with them to add to the table) One of the most beautiful and guiding things I have learned from Moroccans is this accommodation. Years ago a Moroccan woman in Rabat told me, " Space is in the heart, not in the actual physical space."

Their uncle mistakes me for an Arab from the gulf or the Eastern lands at first, but his young son, smells the West on me and asks if i speak French and if i will speak it with him. I tell him in Arabic that I don't want to. My friend jokingly tells him to try English. So, then it comes out that I am American and I become the star of the moment. I get the usual questions about Muslims in America, where I live, if there are mosques, is my whole family Muslim or just some people or just me?

Then the uncle's wife declares that she is going to start covering her body properly in accordance to Islamic law ( meaning wearing the hijab) because when she sees me dressed properly she feels ashamed. She says something along the lines of " look at her , who leaves her native country, her family, etc, and comes here seeking Islam and we who live here in this space act like we are tired of hearing about it. "

The younger kids spend a lot of time just kind of staring at me, they ask me if I am fasting too. I am definitely the most interesting person they have met all day.

We break fast and then head out to the mosque for Tarawih prayers, all the while I am trying to breathe in everything, take in everything in proportions large enough to keep me going through my next few months in America.

After prayer I head to the old Jewish section, the Mellah, which is a good shopping place and try to find a good suitcase to finish my packing. After going to a few shops I am confused and decide to try again the next day.

And then after eating a bit of dinner at my friend's house of chicken cooked with almonds and chickpeas, i fight off their requests for me to spend the night and take that late- night cab home to which I have become so accustomed.

My Imam Goes to France, Shaykh Hamza Comes to Morocco

Some things are making it easier for me to imagine leaving Fes next week when I am due to fly from here to Casablanca to New York City and finally to Chicago if God wills. Amongst these things is the fact that my Quran memorization teacher, with whom I had hoped to go over a few things with before I left, and the imam of my neighborhood mosque, whose voice when reciting Quran in prayer is powerful and focused, have both been sent to France for Ramadan. What a bummer.

They have been sent to France as part of a program the Moroccan government does to support the Moroccan diaspora during Ramadan. Imams are sent to lead Tarawih prayers and even female religious guides(murshidat) are sent to give religious talks to Moroccan communities all over Europe.

So, somewhere in France right now some Moroccan immigrants or even second and third generation French people of Moroccan descent are being moved or being guided by my Quran teacher, Si Driss, and my neighborhood imam, Si AbdesSalaam. Masha'Allah. I was trying to complain about this to one of my Moroccan friends but she wouldn't let me. She said that they ( Si Driss and Si AbdesSalaam) are reaping a great benefit for going there to help out the Muslims in a non-Muslim country. She is right and I was being selfish.

You would think that as a Muslim from America I would have automatically been as compassionate about the situation as she was, but all i could think about was that they would not be back until mid October when I would have already returned to American and so the last time I saw them or prayed behind them a few weeks ago was really the last time. Masha'Allah.

But then the tables turned and I started to see the benefit of this whole sharing imams thing. Because Shaykh Hamza Yusuf of Zaytuna Institute came to Morocco this week and gave a dars (lesson) for the Durus Hassaniya. The Durus Hassaniya are religious lectures that take place during Ramadan in which the King of Morocco invites members of the Ulema ( learned religious class) from around the world to speak to him and an audience of other members of the Ulema on a specific topic.

I was at some one's house on Saturday evening just after the Asr prayer when they turned on the TV and suddenly Shaykh Hamza with his munawwar face and white turban filled the screen. May God Protect him. I was on my way out the door and on the way to another person's house to get ready to break fast so I was not able to catch his talk. When I got to my friends house and asked her to turn on the TV to the Durus Hassaniya, Shaykh Hamza had already finished his speech and was walking up to greet the King and hand him a present of some sort.

There is a website for the Durus Hassaniya where they upload a copy and video of the lectures given. They have just put Shaykh Hamza on the list, but as of yet none of the links to actually hear his speech work. The chart says that the subject of his speech was "Purification (tazkeeyah) and its Importance for the Islamic Ummah." Insha'Allah the links on the site will be working soon or someone will just upload a copy to Youtube or something.

May my Quran teacher and my imam make it safely back to Morocco and Shaykh Hamza safely back to California and may the members of this Ummah still continue to counsel,advise,teach, and be of mutual benefit to each other. Ameen

******
SO, yes , I just found out that Shayk Hamza's talk is now up on Youtube , here is the link . Much thanks to Sadiqur Rahman for posting the message on deenport.

- notetaker, Saturday, the 20th of September 2008