I got home from Morocco about a week ago. Thank you for your readership...I leave you with this last piece and the hopes that this blog will continue when I return to Morocco someday...inshallah! Thank you again!

I stare with wonder at the henna that covers my hands. So intricate and elegant, this work of art was presented as a farewell gift from my host family. For over an hour, Sefaa, a female family member poured over my hands, as though lost in her seemingly unbreakable concentration. As I sat on the couch in her house, it felt like only a few days had passed since she was creating a similar masterpiece in celebration of the end of Ramadan. This time, as the cold henna paste formed patterns on my palms, I let my mind sift through memories made across these past three and a half months. Honing in on particular days and moments, I tried to transport myself back, to recall the faces and the places.
While my mind had no trouble conjuring up visions of anxious introductions, momentous Moroccan celebrations, and casual family dinners, my heart quickly became overwhelmed as I navigated through this sea of memories. As I watched myself meeting my host family or nervously taking part in the first of many couscous Fridays, it felt as if I was watching someone else. Unsure of her new surroundings, this other version of me looked so out of place; her face always betraying the inner belief that she was a true foreigner in an undiscovered land. Although I found myself smiling in sympathy at her, I also grew envious of her as I knew she still had so much time to experience the many marvels of Morocco and its people.
Traveling further along the timeline of my stay, I found myself traversing the dunes of the Sahara from atop a camel. An excursion throughout which I remember questioning whether or not I was dreaming, my trip into the desert stands as a surreal yet revealing experience that turned my attention inwards. With nothing but silky sand and a calming silence surrounding me, I lingered on ideas and questions that are prone to get smothered in the context of life back at school. How vast the world felt in that instance and how small, yet vital did my existence seem. I can recall how I likened myself to a grain of sand, so incredibly tiny in the midst of the endless dunes, yet just as significant as every other grain of sand. The lessons of the desert and its caravanning nomads were shrouded in humility and on a deeper level, offered encouragement to those like myself, who sometimes fear insignificance in a world that often feels so very big.
As I looked back on the last month of my Moroccan adventure, I was surprised to see how differently I appeared. Having shrugged off the trappings of the nervous, young foreigner, I looked like a cheerful young woman at home in the medina. I watched myself stopping in the street to embrace friends of my Moroccan family and offer a friendly wave to my favorite shopkeepers. Exchanging greetings and news in the Moroccan dialect, this new version of me made it seem like years had passed since those first few days in Rabat. How strange it felt to realize that this individual standing before me in my mind would soon be returning to another home in another country on the other side of the world.
Before I had time to dwell on my imminent return to America, I felt my little sister tapping me on my shoulder and directing my eyes towards the finished henna design that now stretched across my hands and up my wrists. Jostled out of my imagined journey back across time, I marveled at the beautiful sight before me. I thanked dear Sefaa and walked home from her house with my sister for the last time. Back at my house, after exclaiming how beautiful the henna looked, Mama Hafida explained that for her, the gift of henna was meant to be a reminder of a place that not only desired, but expected my eventual return. The next day, as I said goodbye and placed the front door key in her hand, she reminded me that Morocco would be here forever, always waiting to welcome me back with open arms and of course, lots of couscous. I can only hope that I make it back to see that remarkable woman and her beautiful family.
On the plane ride home, within the dainty henna flowers and their petals, I saw Morocco in all its charm and complexity; I saw scenes from Marrakesh, Fez, and my beloved medina in Rabat. I recognized the faces of my family, my teachers, and the many friends I have made. I saw women working to change stale perceptions and I watched young university graduates search for much needed employment. I observed the people of urban Morocco struggling to understand their rural compatriots and overcome differences in heritage and language. I saw a country on a journey much like my own; a journey of discovery, self-awareness, and hopeful progress. I drew comfort from the fresh understanding that just as I had witnessed Morocco’s quest for positive growth and development, Morocco had observed me as I sought to experience its diverse culture and discover my own place in the society that surrounded me. Even when the henna fades and time places me further and further from my experience in Morocco, the lessons and memories I received will live on within me, urging me to continue to work for cross-cultural awareness and celebrate the many gifts it can bestow on all of us as citizens of this diverse and ever-changing world.

I have literally spent the last 2 days eating non-stop. I don’t say this in that cute way that we sometimes do back home after we gorge ourselves on something like Thanksgiving Dinner. In fact, the makeshift Thanksgiving I shared here on Thursday with some friends pales in comparison to Saturday and Sunday’s events. Although it was delicious and I ate a considerable amount of chicken, stuffing, and apple pie, it was like the warm up lap before the real event. Right, so let me just restate this; I mean, literally, under the watch of my traditional Moroccan household, I have not stopped eating. If you don’t believe me, ask my jeans!
This weekend, the largest holiday on the Muslim calendar took place. Referred to as Aid Al Adha, this two day event is centered around the slaughtering of a sheep by each male head of household in observance of the story of Abraham and the ram he was sent by God to sacrifice in place of his son. In the lead up to this auspicious occasion, the prospect of finding that perfect sheep, buying it, and bringing it home to await the slaughter plunged the medina into a frenzy of activity and excitement. Last week witnessed streets becoming dotted with sheep pens, bales of hay, and of course, my personal favorite, the establishment of professional knife sharpeners on most corners. Move over Sweeney Todd! As families exchanged news of the ever-shifting price of sheep and children ran around the streets yelling howlee, howlee! (sheep in the Moroccan dialect), anticipation seemed to completely envelope the medina. My three year old nephew started getting excited over a week ago-last Saturday, he ordered that we visit the “howlee” in a pen down the street. On Thursday afternoon, I had a bit of a surprising, personal encounter with the mayhem when I turned around to talk to a friend who I thought was just behind me and instead came face to face with a teenage boy who had a sizeable sheep slung across his shoulders. “Anduck, Anduck!” (Watch out!) he yelled as he darted around me and sped down the road.
As my father and my two grown brothers are each required to slaughter a sheep every year, three sheep moved into my house on Friday. As they arrived in the very early hours of the morning while I was still lost in sleep. As soon as I woke up, my sister asked me if I wanted to come down to visit the sheep! I thought to myself, ‘Of course I want to stare into the eyes of the darling sheep that I am going to watch get slaughtered tomorrow-wahooo!” It actually wasn’t that momentous-the sheep just stared back at me seeming to say, “Yeah we know what we’re here for, it happens every year lady!” In all seriousness though, I appreciated that, unlike some families, mine was very low-key about the sheep once they got here. A friend’s family made it all a bit much by treating their sheep as part of the family and even allowing it to hang out in the living room with them while they were watching TV! Thankfully, as I spent most of my Friday watching Eid bread be made at my aunt’s house and running to and from the public oven with my sister and cousin, I had no time to attach myself to any sheep. Eid khobz (bread in Arabic) is a delicious version of the khobz we eat everyday that includes a yummy blend of sesame seeds, fennel, and a variety of spices. We baked a ton of it at the oven and from the looks of the packed out oven, so did everyone else in the medina! When I eventually got home on Friday night, my mother told me to go look in the store-room at the back of the terrace. I opened the door and what did I find…a skinned sheep carcass hanging from the line. Totally confused as I thought all the killing was to take place Saturday morning, I looked to my sister for an explanation. She smiled and explained that they had to kill one sheep Friday night in honor of the Hajj (the pilgrimage Muslims make every year to Mecca). It was quite a sight! I think the real effect was felt, however, when my mother placed a howlee tagine on the table for dinner that night. Yum! After dinner, my sister and I played some solitaire, jammed out to some Moroccan tunes, and after she politely asked if she could sleep in my room, we hit the hay, quite exhausted.
When my sister woke me up in the morning, the house was buzzing with children, grandchildren, and various family members. My friend Chelsea, a student also studying at the centre, is my Aunt’s host student-so naturally, I refer to her as my cousin. As she has already moved out of her homestay in order to focus on an extensive study she is doing on diabetes in Morocco, she no longer had a family with which to spend Eid. Chelsea is probably my closest friend here and I was really hoping to share the weekend with her. Before I could even bring up the idea of Chelsea spending Eid with my family and me, Souad proposed the idea. Love my sis-I swear she can read my mind. Of course, Mama Hafida was all too pleased to welcome yet another person into her household-she proclaimed that Eid was the most important Moroccan experience and it was absolutely necessary for Chelsea to come for it! So, around 8:30, Chelsea walked in the door and after greeting all the family, asked me if I was ready for all the killing. I remember chuckling somewhat nervously and nodding in the direction of my camera. After breakfast and my mother’s return from the Eid morning prayer at the mosque, we gathered on the terrace to await the slaughter. As my father is too old to be able to skillfully kill the sheep with one cut as Islam requires, my older brother-in-law, Mohammed, took on the task. It really wasn’t that hard to watch, although there was a lot more blood than I expected. As soon as the sheep was killed, Si Mohammed washed around the neck and let it bleed out. In the background, all the women were pouring tons of the water on the terrace, swishing the blood towards the drain and doing an impressive job of removing any remnants of the slaughter. Si Mohammed then cut off the head, broke its legs and hung it from the line before skinning it and disemboweling it. Chelsea and I took lots and lots of pictures, but I think I will spare you as I am not sure who is a bit queasy at this point! The slaughtering of the next sheep was bit rougher as it kicked quite ferociously for a while after its throat was slit. There was a bit of nervous tension for a few minutes as they were unsure whether or not the animal had died after the first cut. This would have been a problem in terms of the Islamic rules concerning the slaughtering of an animal. They are supposed to suffer as little as possible. Not to worry though, another brother of mine explained it was dead despite the erratic movements. The third sheep went quietly with little show. The routine of killing and skinning by the men and the cleaning by the women was staggeringly impressive-everyone seemed to know their specific task and went about it quietly and quickly. Only five minutes after the last sheep, the terrace was pristine with the exception of the intestines that my incredible sister was cleaning. Talk about being a tough little cookie with an iron stomach! At this point, Chelsea and I figured we would go down to my room, take a breather, get some work done, and perhaps stay out of the way of all the men and women. However, Baba wasn’t having any of that-as soon as he saw us looking out the window at my uncle’s house across the street, he motioned for us to come over. Yeah, saw two more sheep get slaughtered-totally no big deal at this point. I was most impressed by all the children, especially the young girls who seemed totally chill throughout the whole thing. They asked us to take their picture with the heads and next to the dead sheep and we willingly did so.
Back at the house, Mama and my sister in law had prepared brochettes of sheep liver wrapped in fat. As a consequence of my mother back home and her eating habits while I was growing up, I love liver. Once I unwrapped the fat and dipped the barbecued liver in cumin and salt, all there is to say is DELICIOUS. I definitely couldn’t keep up with the Moroccans around me, but I think I ate enough to satisfy Mama Hafida. About two hours later, we all sat down to a lunch of bread and incredibly fresh meat. I think Chelsea and I struggled a bit as we just weren’t hungry at that point. Needing a bit of a break, we decided to meet some other students and take a walk. The medina streets were completely dead except for groups of boys burning sheep heads over large cauldrons. It was a bit uncomfortable to be walking amongst all those crazed boys-I mean, boys, fire, permission…bad combination. They seemed particularly aggressive with us that day…no worries though as ignoring them soon put a stop to it. The trickiest part for me was keeping my lunch down as I saw huge stacks of sheep skins lining the streets. Yeah…not so much. Chelsea referred to it all as the apocalypse… “Think about it Katherine, fire, smoking heads, dead skins all over the place, crazed men…it’s like the end of the world!” In a way it could be construed like that I suppose. We stalled for a bit at our friend’s apartment and ate some cereal and milk;-I think we knew going home would only mean more meat. Oh, how naïve we were. Once home, dinner wasn’t just more meat…it was intestine and stomach with a side of bread. Mama Hafida figured out pretty quickly that we weren’t down for that…she generously pushed it away from us, leaving us with meat and sauce, which although still quite hard to eat at this point, was doable. An hour or two after dinner, I was all too happy to fall into my bed, watch a movie with Chels, and get some sweet sleep.
As a result of the constant burning of heads and such in the street, I woke up with a sore throat and a bit of a cough. Not to worry though, bread with coffee, a couple of hours playing footie and walking on the beach while breathing the ocean air soon cured me of all that. While we were out, the family spent the morning eating kefta and brochettes of meat with bread. We returned for lunch-couscous with sheep’s head. Don’t worry, Souad told Mama Hafida to prepare couscous with plain old meat for us as she knew we wouldn’t be too excited about eating the sheep’s head. And of course, as I love couscous a lot, lunch was glorious. Chels and I probably ate until we looked at each other and agreed that physically, we might be in danger if we ate another bite. I spent the rest of my afternoon studying, traversing the still dormant streets of the medina, and braving the short rainstorm that descended on the medina in the late afternoon. Thank God the rain held off until after the day of slaughter. When I got home, I was again treated to brochettes of meat that, although delicious, were hard to stomach after all the other food. Still full of children and the noise that comes with them, the house wasn’t exactly ideal for getting some reading and relaxing done. Instead, my sister and I escaped to my room to watch a movie in French that I think we both partly understood. At last, as everyone started to head to bed, the house grew quite and I could finally let sleep overwhelm me. Who knew a weekend of watching sheep killings and eating nonstop could be so exhausting. As I was on my way to sleep, I thought about how extraordinary Moroccan children are. For them, Eid is like Christmas is for me and other English kids-their biggest holiday, time off school, all the family, and a big meal. Just as I used to get so excited for Christmas as a child, they do the same for Eid. There is a stark difference however: whereas I always knew that Christmas meant new toys and lots of stuff for me, Eid leaves the children here with nothing more than a full stomach and memories of another holiday spent with family and friends. I’d say my siblings and cousins have a pretty impressive and accurate idea of just what is worth getting excited about in life. Eid Mubarak my dears!