{Hawli}

Today was the first day in the past week I have not woken up to the sound of a sheep “baaing” on the roof. In fact, the thousands of sheep on the terraces of many homes in the Medina and throughout Morocco have finally been silenced in preparation for Hawli, or the celebration of Eid as referred to by Moroccans. My host family and I have dubbed the holiday in French, “la fête de mouton,” though I doubt it was much of a party for the 7 million sheep that were sacrificed yesterday…

This short video, made by my friend and classmate Shirley Chan, does a great job of explaining the significance of the ceremony. 

This was our hawli, our ram. I came home from school one day, went up to the terrace to say hello to my host-mother, and saw this guy trying to eat the paint off the wall. Apparently, he had successfully chewed to bits the extension cord used to power the radio.

This is where the magic happens.

My host mother spent all night baking hawla, or an array of small cookies made for Eid. She didn't go to sleep until 6am, only to then wake at 8:30am!

Khobz, or bread, bakes in the ferrane (oven). Regular khobz rests on the bottom shelf, while a special type made for Eid is on top. 

My younger brother, Soulaymane (1.5), helps Maman (Nadia) with the cooking. 

After the kill, the hawli (ram) is skinned and gutted. 

lungs and esophagus

the liver and the heart

Baba (Mohammed) cut up pieces of the liver and lungs, wrapped them in fat, and pushed them onto a kabob.

 the final product (honestly wasn't sure I could eat it after watching the sacrifice and gutting, but it was cooked to perfection and smothered in delicious spices)

It’s hard to believe I’ve already been in Morocco for almost three weeks. Though I am still often overwhelmed by the constant stimulus of being in a foreign country, I am more comfortable with my surroundings each day. Everyone at the CCCL has been so kind and welcoming, regularly checking in with students to make sure we are adjusting at a healthy pace. I am learning my way around the Medina much faster than I expected — I was able to make my way back to my house from the CCCL after following the route with my host-mother just once. The Medina, meaning “the old part of the city” in Darija, is an intricate maze of very historic homes, small shops, and a produce market. While it’s not very big per say, a map of the Medina does not exist, and if it did, it would have to be changed quite often due to the multiple restorations always taking place. 

the CCCL (Center for Cross-Cultural Learning)

Mama Doha, our homestay coordinator, taught students how to make the famed Moroccan dish, couscous. Here's another amazing video shot and edited by Shirley Chan. 

I moved in with my host family on Thursday, September 1st. My host mother’s name is Nadia, my father’s Mohammed. I have three host siblings; Mouad (14), Omaima (10), and Salaymane (1.5). They are all wonderful. I have been speaking French almost exclusively with them all, except for Soulaymane, who has his own special baby language. Every once in a while my host father will ask me a question in his native Berber tongue, Amazigh, patiently waiting for a response as I blink back at him with a blank face. I’m throwing more Darija (Moroccan Arabic) and Fus’ha (classical Arabic) into the conversation as I learn more at school. We are learning the two languages simultaneously in our daily 2-3 hour course. Needless to say, it has been quite confusing and very difficult. 

We’ve also dived right into our journalism courses. We are lucky to have academic director and journalist Anna Jacobs along with renowned international journalist, Aida Alami, whose pieces are often featured in publications like The New York Times and The Washington Post, as our guides. Last week was exhausting. Some days, we were at the CCCL for up to 11 hours learning about the history of journalism in Morocco and its current political climate. We also had our first writing assignment on food, which required us to expand our comfort zones and collect at least 3 interviews. Between the cultural/language barrier and Moroccan suspicion of the media, this was not an easy task. Many interviewees were reluctant or unwilling to provide their names, ages, or any information, despite us telling them we were American students interested in learning and writing about Moroccan cuisine. Additionally, the Moroccan daily schedule is incredibly different from what I'm used to. Many families don’t prepare dinner until after 10pm, meaning us students don’t get to sleep until well after midnight, and have early school mornings Mon-Fri. Although it’s hectic and I’m not sure I’ll ever feel well-rested again, it’s also very exciting and I know it’s all necessary preparation for our ISPJ period, where we will be living, conducting research, and writing all on our own for 5 weeks. 

Is she not the prettiest princess you've ever seen? Her kaftan was made by my host mother, who has three certificates in artisanship. She also crochets, sews, and decorates baskets. 

 After drying out in the sun for a day, the meat was cut up and roasted on kabobs. Next to the kabobs are the brains, roasting over the coals. I did not partake in eating this particular delicacy. 

Tajine with lamb accompanied with salades and khobz

I’ve already made so many incredible memories and forged what I hope are lifelong connections with my host family and students at the CCCL. I’m adjusting to life in Morocco quickly. I’ve got all the songs on the kids channel Soulaymane likes to watch memorized. I can now drink the tap water without heading straight to the toilet (not that it’s unsafe, just treated with different chemicals. However, there are moments, especially on days like Hawli, it’s hard not to ask myself, “Is this happening for real?” As I walked through the streets of the Medina today past smoldering sheep heads, feeling the eyes of loitering men watching my every move, I had to stop and process. This is new and strange for me, but this is simply the way things are. I’ll take the time to feel my feelings when I need to, but I’ve found accepting reality is much easier when I don’t isolate myself from the situation. Thankfully, there are also many moments scattered throughout my days that remind me things here are not so different from my life in the United States. Last week, I went shopping for school clothes with Oumayma, my host mother, and her sister in an Old Navy-esque outlet store. At dinner the other night, Soulaymane bopped his head along to Rihanna’s “Work” and Mouad proceeded to know every word to the following Drake song. Before bed last night, Oumayma sang “Let It Go” in French after she recounted every princess story she’d ever heard (a very musical family indeed).

I am safe, I am happy, and I have consumed more lamb in the past 36 hours than I thought was possible. 

عيد مبارك

Eid Mubarak Said!