solar panels, wells, streams, friends, and sinkholes

Visiting a village where Ron & the team set up a solar panal so that...

The family's water could be pumped out of this well and then down to the school nearby. They also did a handwashing lesson that day with the grubby little school kids.

Waiting for tajine near the stream below a waterfall nearby.

The stream runs between fun little hut restaurants.

A few years ago, I told you about our friend, Fatima Ezzahara's wedding. Here she is visiting with her little one-year-old, Janat. It was so fun to see them again! She is having a hard time in Germany where she says "I wish the Germans were like Americans, but they are very unfriendly!" I told her we have our share of unfriendly people too :) But I do wish someone would befriend her.

A week ago, we went on a 5 1/2 mile hike through a forest, past a lake, an old crater, and to this crazy sinkhole. Thomas, sitting next to me in the picture, found this place a few years ago. They had hiked on the flat ground near this many times, and finally noticed that the normally huge cedar trees were very short in one area. Coming closer, they discovered a massive cliff-ringed hole - at least 200 ft deep - with the cedars growing out of the walls of it (which is why they looked short). Apparently there is one route to the bottom that is mostly safe that I was hoping to try, but with all the kids along (Ron's too), it didn't seem to smart to do it yet. Ron took the youth group here the next week and made it to the bottom and came back up with ropes - alive :)

My Sister, Part II

(Several entries ago, I described a nanny/maid who was being treated almost as a slave. Here is an update about the situation.)

What would you do if someone you knew was treating another human being like a slave? Appeal to the employer's conscience? Remind her of a person's basic human rights? Confront her with a mediator?

We were pondering all these questions as we handed the situation over to university officials a few weeks ago. Not long after, one called me back and said, "Here's what we are going to do - I'll talk with the employer and tell her that an unhappy nanny could be dangerous - she could go psychotic, she could kidnap the children, she could hurt them - so the nanny should be sent home as soon as possible."

I resisted the urge to burst out laughing - or crying.

I had thought through dozens of confrontation scenarios, but I sure hadn't considered the psychotic maid approach! So that's why I can never seem to figure out the Moroccan style of communication! Never direct, but round-about, convoluted, and face-saving at all costs. That's why Americans are considered rude in so many cultures. We say what we mean, by golly.

The conversation happened and the employer agreed that the maid should go. Whew! Step one accomplished!

But the employer had made the issue into a Christians vs. Muslims issue - the last thing we need around here.

And during that next week, the maid was not allowed to leave her house or speak to anyone. The curtains were always closed and no one saw her for days except a few glimpses when she peeked out. I realized with a sickening feeling that I was not going to be able to say goodbye and that I had no way of even knowing if she was OK. Her employer held all the cards and one bad move - me getting caught in the house - could ruin everything for the maid.

Those of us from western cultures nearly went crazy. Why can't we just march in there and confront? Why can't we remove the maid from the situation? How is it OK for someone to hold another hostage and not be in trouble for it? Why do we have to sneak around like spies just to catch a glimpse of our friend? Working within the framework of another culture is confusing.

But as that long week drew to a close, we found out to our joy that the employer had bought a ticket for the maid to go home! I wrote a goodbye letter to the maid, contact information, some verses, and some money from the church and sent it in with the housing manager who was going in to fix something in the house.

Less than a week after the conversation, a Moroccan friend of ours happened to see the employer and maid leave for the airport and rushed out to give a gift to the maid. "Don't give anything to her," protested the employer, "she's a Christian - you won't get any points to get to heaven for helping her." But our Muslim friend insisted on giving the maid a gift anyway.

Since then, we have heard nothing from the maid. What if her employer found and confiscated my letter? What if she was dumped in the desert somewhere? I was very uptight about all this until last week when I had a sudden feeling of complete relief and peace about the situation - as if God were telling me I no longer need to worry - the maid - my sister - has made it home.

Berber wedding

The under-the-stars-in-the-freezing-air-dancing-to-high-pitched-chanting-while being-squeezed-on-either-side circle

The women's room - full of warmth and music

The lovely bride, Hedda, with the girls

Caught in the act! These boys spent the evening sneaking into the women's house and then getting kicked out by the bride's father. Some things are the same no matter where you are!

What do you say to a 16-year-old bride? “Don’t do it!” Or perhaps,“May you reproduce soon!” Sigh. Well, there’s not much you can say. It is comforting to know that this is a ‘love marriage’ – the couple chose each other and we’ve heard he is a good man. I’m hoping that what my friend, Asmaa, says – “All Berber men beat their wives” – is just prejudice coming from an Arab. They are saying the bride is 18 for legal purposes, but we know she’s either 16 or 17. Her mother doesn’t think it’s too young. She’s my age – and is a grandmother.

I’ve been to two Arab weddings where the bride keeps coming out in different outfits and the music is different, but this was our first Berber wedding. The family had rented a generator and the normally pitch-black village had electricity for this one night. A band had also been hired and when we arrived, people were standing around in the near-freezing air in a huge circle, crunched shoulder to shoulder, swaying and bobbing to the music while making a praying motion with their hands. I smiled and look up at the glistening stars. I was more at home here any day than on the snobby AUI campus.

Arabic music I like – it’s rather lilting and interesting. In Berber music, however, one group chants a high-pitched phrase and the other group repeats it . . . ad nauseam. To us it all sounds like the same song and could quite possibly lead to insanity. But I did catch some meanings here and there - songs of blessings, songs about drinking tea and coffee, and one about telephone numbers (who knew?).

“Do you see the bride? Over there!?” said the girl next to us who had placed me in a dancing sandwich with her friend. Sure enough, scrunched like a tiny butterfly between two of the band members, was Hedda. Draped in thick Berber blankets with mirrors attached, she swayed with the music – her face completely covered.

After a while, she walked into a house and all the women followed. Inside it was warm and cozy. Since our skin is white and our country is powerful, those sitting next to the bride were removed from the place of honor and we were made to sit there in spite of my protests. A few minutes later, tea was brought to only the three of us – not even the bride. Kendra whispered, “Mommy, why are they treating us this way?”

Soon I was asked to be the wedding photographer not because of any talent, but because I was the only one with a camera. One-by-one, women and girls took their turn sitting next to the darling bride who had by now uncovered her face in the presence of women. The women were dressed in every possible combination – from nightgowns, to plaid pastel bathrobes (my personal favorite), to sweat suits worn with aprons, to jeans and sweaters, to sparking wedding finery pulled over layers of grubby sweaters. As is common all through this part of the world, white makeup had been smeared all over Hedda’s beautiful mocha skin so that she would look fairer.

After what seemed like an appropriate time, we snuck out of the house only to get caught by the mother of the bride and shoed into another house this time to eat. Gerald had already eaten with the men – chicken, then lamb with prunes, then dessert cous cous with sugar. But when it seemed the food would never come, we snuck out again, only to be caught again. This time we said we had eaten supper (well, we had . . . at home) and were allowed to leave at 10:30 p.m.

Stumbling over the rocky, moon-lit ground on the way back to the car I compared myself to Hedda at age 16.

I wanted a tan to have her skin color.

She smeared white all over her face to look more like me.

I wanted a boyfriend.

She wants a husband.

I wanted more education and a career.

I’m not sure if she can read.

I planned to travel the world.

Going to the next town is a big event for her.

My possibilities were endless.

She can’t imagine life beyond this stony soil.

In my over-educated brain I assumed the rest of her life will be miserable. But the smile on her face tonight had shown me that I just might be wrong.

October

The girls helping clean up a Christian graveyard where residents of Ifrane originally from Italy & France were buried in the 4os-70s. With last year's heavy snows, many branches had come down and needed to be taken out. The graveyard has also been repeatedly vandalized by people practicing witchcraft. Several weeks ago, it was with a creepy feeling that Karen and I stared into a 6-ft deep hole which had been dug into one of the graves leaving only a few leg bones behind at the bottom. Many other gravestones had been torn apart and strewn around. No crosses remain. The city helped re-fill the graves, and we tried to put things back in order as best as we could as well as plant bulbs and shrubs - breathing prayers all over the place! We found a few more bones, two scorpions, and two charms (a charm written on paper, wrapped around a stone, then wrapped in multiple layers of cloth, foil & plastic). But what I thought was most amazing is that there we were - a group of protestants, catholics, orthodox and Muslims -all working together to clean up a catholic graveyard! At one point, I was working with a Muslim friend who was sweating in the hot sun (sorry, Kansans - I know you're freezing over there), lugging huge stones back to a grave and arranging them around the top. I was touched to see her working so hard to restore a Christian graveyard.

Kendra in her first-ever school program. She is in a classroom with two grades and hers is on the left. This was a program for "Africa Day." While Katrina's class was getting ready for the same program, they talked about the skin color of Africans and then someone asked the question: "But aren't we Africans? Our skin is not dark!" Indeed, North Africa seems like an entirely different continent than sub-Saharan Africa! Also in preparation for the day, Katrina's class colored a map of Morocco - but they did not color the Western Sahara. I do hope her teacher (who is French) doesn't get in trouble - for you are not even allowed to have a map here that does not include the Western Sahara with Morocco.

My all-time favorite art project - painting leaves on windows. Lots of mess, true - but the result is so pretty and it doesn't take up any space or need to be stored!

Our friend, Rachida, doing physical therapy on Fadwa who has cerebral palsy while her little brother, Mohammad, sits still because he has so many clothes on. Fadwa doesn't wear diapers so the house smells of - well, I think you can guess. We go out there once a week, but it doesn't seem like enough. We were hoping her big sister who is 16 years old would exercise Fadwa during the week, but we found out Ito is to get married this weekend. Apparently this is a 'love marriage' - both of them begged their parents. Their new house has already been built. It almost had to come down a few weeks ago because it is made of cement blocks and all the other houses are made of rocks, mud, wood & tin. The latter is allowed because they are squatters on the land. But the city government said the cement-block house had to go because it was too permanent. With our friend Karen, helping, the city was convinced to allow the structure to remain - but they can't build any more. Apparently the government wants all these little villages to be removed and their inhabitants to be moved into towns which will be terribly hard because they all take care of flocks of sheep and goats.

Out for a picnic on one of the many lovely fall days we've had here. The kids are smiling because they are holding skeletons of dogs and cray-fish they found lying around. Nice.

For our book club's discussion on "The Storyteller's Daughter" I made Kabuli pilau - with the help of my mother's recipe.

Then there's Halloween when the kids of the residences met at our house to go trick-or-treating and then had a party here afterward. I think my living room is under this pile of kids! There is so little for kids around here, we look for any excuse to have a party!

Kendra ready to go

Katrina the cat with her buddy, Marwa