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Morocco:
Window to Understanding Islamic Culture

"No matter where I go in the world, traveling renews my faith in humankind, as well as in myself. It is a journey of remembrance back to my original self, the one who is wholly connected to all beings and nature."  Barbara Sansone, Travelers Tales, 1998

By Barbara Sansone, Original World View

Swirling dervishes, calls to prayer, walled cities and veiled women colored my imagination as I prepared for my first Moroccan journey. I hadn't yet learned the words medina and mederssa, although kasbah, with its exotic ring, was one I had.

But before I can begin to share Morocco with you, I feel I must share how I came to choose this place and this particular focus.

From as far back as my memory goes, I have been fascinated with faraway places and the people who live there. As a very young girl I even imagined myself a missionary – not that I wanted to convert anyone – it’s just I heard that these missionaries lived in places so different from ours, often quite remote, and worked to help the local people.

Over the years, travel became not a luxury but a necessity for my life and well-being. I would buy a ticket and hop a plane, always solo. Although I usually carried a guide book, mostly my path was created a day at a time by intuition and the people I would meet along the way. One thing for certain, I made friends – really bonded – with local people and learned that, we are all more alike than we are different.  

In 1997 I launched my own travel company, focusing on authentic travel experiences in India and surrounding countries.

After 9/11 many of us had to re-examine our lives and our choices. Bookings for 2001 and 2002 were all cancelled. What should I do? Should I go find a job? What would that be? Or, should I wait it out with my business, hoping the world would get back to "normal" sometime soon? I could not walk away from all that I had put into the creation of my company, yet we all know the world did not (and still hasn’t gone really) go back to any state of harmony and peace.

During this time of reflection and panic, I came to realize my true vision and mission behind all the things I had been doing pretty much all my life both professionally and personally. What I wanted to continue doing was to create vehicles that would foster understanding between people of different cultures. The intention of the journeys was always that.

First, I decided I would expand my offerings to destinations outside Asia. I launched a second company in January, 2003, that offers journeys all over the world to places that would be difficult for travelers to go on their own. As always, the trips have a focus on and offer opportunities for authentic interaction.

From this clarification, came the idea for a journey to learn about Islamic culture. Islam is the least known and most misunderstood of all the major world religions in the West. I had created Buddhist journeys, Hindu journeys and Jewish heritage journeys; it was time for one about Islam.

After preliminary research on the Net, and development of a draft itinerary, I cashed in my meager stock holdings from my "retirement account", all $3,000 of it, and bought a ticket. I arrived in Casablanca, Morocco, in mid-April of this year to walk the path I was creating for those who would follow me.

Driving with Mohammed

I met Paula Jeane, a former Peace Corps volunteer, who would later escort our small group and be instrumental in helping out with one of the centerpieces of the journey: a forum where local Muslims and our group would have opportunity for social interaction, as well as discourse.

My driver, Mohammed (just about every man's name in Morocco is Mohammed) traveled with me across the country. I will forever remember his patience and friendship. Each day's schedule was grueling as I covered a two-week itinerary in seven days, including doing hotel inspections and meeting with key resource people, as well as taking time for ample photography.

After visiting the only mosque in Morocco open to non-Muslims, I left for the country’s spiritual center, Rabat, where I met with Moroccan Farah Cherif of the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning. I found her on the Net during my research. Her vision matched mine exactly, so we had a wonderful time sharing our thoughts on how we could create an experience for westerners where they could meet local Muslims face to face and we could all learn about each other first hand.

My plan included an orientation at the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning, where I learned about greetings, manners, the Islamic veil, tribal dress, food, daily life in Rabat and Arabic 101. The following day was a full-day program, "Getting to Know You – Dialogue with Moroccan Muslims," facilitated by Paula, with introduction and coordination by Farah, (who has an MA in Comparative Religions).. I wanted to find out what Moroccan Muslims thought about Americans, as well as offer opportunities for westerners to learn about Muslims.  

After meeting with Farah, I strolled around the lovely Oudayas Kasbah, overlooking the mouth of the Bou Regreg River and the Atlantic Ocean. The main entry is the Almohad gate built by Bab Oudaia in 1195. Inside are winding, narrow streets with faded colors and rich textures. Most of the houses here were built by Muslim refugees from Spain. There are great views over the estuary and across to Rabat’s neighboring city, Sale, from the viewing platform. Next to the viewing platform is one of the oldest mosques in Rabat, built in 12th century and restored in the 18th. 

I enjoyed a seafood meal at an outdoor cafe overlooking the sea. One thing I had been worried about was the food, since I don't eat lamb. My only conception of Moroccan food was that it was almost all lamb. Boy, was I ever wrong. First, seafood was abundant, fresh and really tasty. Second, French restaurants seemed to outnumber Moroccan outside the medinas (old walled cities). So I discovered that I love Moroccan food – at least some of it – like the fantastic slow- cooked clay pot stews called tajines, as well as brochettes of vegetables and pastilla, a sweet chicken pie in a fine pastry shell.

On to medieval Fez

Next we drove to Fez, perhaps the most beautiful of all Arab cities. Fez maintains a life still rooted in medieval times. The medina is an extraordinary maze of winding, twisting lanes, alleys and cobbled streets that suddenly open to spacious plazas where one might find coppersmiths, or a marketplace, or furniture builders or just a lonely donkey waiting for its master to return. I walked about, mesmerized with each turn. The passage ways were so extremely narrow, only about 24 inches across in some cases, that it was hard to imagine how they came about. Were the people that much smaller centuries ago? Although I am only 5'3'' and 110 pounds, there were a few passages where both my shoulders touched the walls on both sides of me as I made my way through. Luckily these were only for short distances.

It is a bit odd for a woman to be traveling alone, but no one showed any disrespect. I did get quite a few stares, however. The people are generally shy and don't meet your eye when walking past. Men and women both wear a traditional hooded robe called the jellaba. It is worn over the clothes as outerwear. Although the pant leg underneath is visible a bit as they walk, women are never seen without this outer garment. The jellaba comes in cottons, silks and fine soft wool. Women who are very traditional will hide their faces – Berbers traditionally drape a long white cloth over the entire head; strict Muslims wear a veil. It is, however, not uncommon to see men in western clothes minus the jellaba.

I kept trying to ditch Mohammed inside the medina so I could have experiences without my shadow guardian angel. I wanted to make small talk with the merchants and bargain without any help. God help me, I am a poor bargainer, but it is the vehicle for relating to locals. I bought some figs and some dates for snack food. In the midst of a crowded bargaining session by the cloth bolts, I turned to see Mohammed standing behind me. "Aren't you afraid of getting lost." he asked calmly. "No," I responded with a sheepish smile. "Why, do you have a good sense of direction?" he implored. "No, I said plainly. “I figure I will find my way eventually. I am not afraid."

When I stop to think about all my travel experiences, I have always had a very comfortable feeling – a sense of belonging wherever I am. It does seem that, if you need help, a kind soul magically appears. Language or cultural background is never a barrier and the genuine concern for your well-being, the generosity of spirit, touches my heart deeply. It is in these moments – beyond the glories of the monuments and exotic sights, that I remember how truly we are all connected.

Of all the visions in my mind, the one I was perhaps most excited to see in reality were the Berber people. I have always sought out indigenous peoples whenever traveling for myself. There is a fascination for me about people who, in an unbroken lineage spanning several centuries, maintain their traditions.

About 50% of the Moroccan population is Berbers and the other 50% is Arabs, although it’s often difficult to make a distinction between the two groups as they have melded their ways and religious practices somewhat over the centuries. Berbers are considered to be descendants of an ancient race that has inhabited North Africa since Neolithic times. Ethnic Arabs came to Morocco with the first Islamic invasion in the 7th century. They mixed with the indigenous Berbers, who in turn were significantly "Arabized." So what I learned is there are Berbers who are Muslims and Arabs who are not Muslims. I was also learning how many misconceptions I had.

Tea in a cave

We drove just outside Fez to the small, picturesque village of Bhalil, which you won’t find mentioned in any tour books (I tried to look it up when I got home but was unsuccessful). Bhalil originally was settled when nomadic Berbers began taking shelter in caves while searching for herbs to feed their livestock. By the 14^th century, several Berber families decided to settle in the caves permanently and Bhalil was born.

I was invited inside one family's cave for tea. The husband (named Mohammed, of course), his wife and all their children were born and raised in this small village. The interior of their cave was immaculate and painted all white. The natural nooks and crannies served as shelving for pots, dishes and the silver tea set (part of every dowry, I was told). The man of the house was lively and fun. Although he had no formal education, he spoke very good English, as well as French and German. He had learned them from the few travelers who managed to find this remote place. (I forgot to mention that we had left our car and walked a short distance into the village – Bhalil forbids cars in the village. This aspect alone made it paradise for me!)

My host, Mohammed, set up a one-burner device on the table and lit a fire to boil water. The woman of the house entered the room shortly, carrying a silver tray with a Victorian-era silver tea set, complete with sugar bowl and creamer. The fabulous aromatic peppermint tea never tasted as flavorful as in Morocco, and in this case was perhaps the best ever for me.

Mohammed placed some herbs in the silver pot, poured the almost boiling water and performed a fancy pouring ritual, holding one hand high and the other low as he poured back and forth between the pot and one drinking cup. His face lit up with a broad smile and a twinkle in his eyes as if he were doing this for the first time. He caught my eyes without missing a beat, watching for signs of my delight. This was done, he assured us, to enhance the flavor. Just plain pouring would never produce the same results.  

After tea, the two Mohammeds walked with me around the village which was situated on a small hilltop. We walked toward the top of the hill, passing pale pastel washes on doorways, hand-woven rugs flung over crackled old walls. Not a bit of human waste anywhere to be seen. It seemed a storybook perfect place. People living so harmoniously, so contentedly in this compact, intimate community. A pleasant feeling swept over me. I noticed how relaxed I had become in this short time. We paused for moment at a view spot on top where we could see the crumbled ancient village of cave dwellings etched into the sides of the mountain across the way. This life, in its simple beauty, seemed so much more abundant and peaceful than my chaotic and work-driven, Type-A lifestyle in Northern California.

The municipal colors of Morocco

Next we drove to Marrakesh in the south, which is quite different in feel and architecture than the north.The city has its requisite medina, souqs (street vendor areas), historical monuments and mosques, but they are more African in flavor than the cosmopolitan north. While blue is the color of Fez, green the color in Meknes and white the color in Rabat; red is the color of Marrakesh. All the walls, houses and roads – the earth itself – are blood-stain red. Photo shooting in a landscape like this elicits a delirious high.

Just 30 kilometers (18 miles) from Marrakesh lies the green valley of the Ourika River. From its small beginnings in Berber country, it streams down the slopes of the Atlas Mountains, between t Tlemcen Peak and the Timeskar Plateau. The green landscapes of this valley and the lazy meandering course of the river, combined with the small red adobe Berber villages hanging on the slopes, are enchanting.

I visited the local country market held twice weekly, where butchers and barbers, vegetable, grain and olive oil sellers, blacksmiths and medicine men gather under canvass and reed shelters, with a number of small restaurants scattered around in the open air. I stood for the longest time watching as a bicycle repairman working on a customer's well-worn wheels did so with the utmost care and attention.

My journey was nearing its end as I was about to arrive in Essaouira, a coastal town approximately three hours’ drive from Marrakesh. Here I enjoyed a leisurely pace browsing traditional handicrafts and observing daily life. The hotel was right across from the beach and next to the medina gate. The medina was very small and gave me no opportunity to get lost, although I gave it a good try.

I told Mohammed to take the day off. He protested for awhile, but I assured him I would be fine – there was no chance of any problems in a place this small. Actually I have the poorest sense of direction of anyone I know. I did walk in circles several times around until finally things began to look familiar. The textures and colors were so richly defined here and the pace so nonchalant, I quickly got into the joy of photography.

A stranger’s stunning request

Then, a strangely wonderful “coincidence” occurred. I spotted a young man pounding out rhythms on tablas in front of a shop. "Come in, come in," he motioned. "No, thank you. I am not shopping today." "No you must come inside, just for a moment," he insisted.

To be polite, I poked my head inside and not seeing anything of interest, repeated my decline. "Thank you, but I am walking just now." "Please, you must come in." Reluctantly I entered the small shop where various large glass jars lined the otherwise barren shelves with odd items such as a few roughly made ouds and drums, and various dusty flea market-looking unknowns. "Thank you, I must be going now," I said within seconds. "Sit down; you must sit for a moment. You are always in a hurry."

He gestured to the only chair behind the small desk near the door, and of course I had no choice but to sit. "My name is Muhammad and I am a spiritual person. I am born a Muslim but I believe in the goodness of all religions. Wait, I will show you a book. My friends from America sent me this book." He disappeared into a back room, re-emerging quickly, book in hand. He placed the book in my lap; I stared in silent disbelief at the title: The Essential Rumi.

Muhammad continued his urgent message, " I have marked a passage. Here," he flipped open to a bookmarked page. "Read this." Still speechless, I looked down at the passage, which began, “Not a Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu, Buddhist, Sufi, or Zen. Not any religion or cultural system.” Goose bumps lined my arms as I continued to read.

“I am not from the East or the West, not out of the ocean or up from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not composed of elements at all.

“I do not exist, am not an entity in this world or the next, did not descend from Adam and Eve or any origin story. My place is placeless, a trace of traceless. Neither body or soul.

“I belong to the beloved, have seen the two worlds as one and that one call to and know, first, last, outer, inner, only that breath breathing human being."

The reason I was so astonished was that this man, a total stranger to me, after a chance encounter had somehow sensed that he should show this passage to me. You see, before I left on this trip to Morocco, I had begun planning a documentary about the power of people from different cultures meeting face to face to learn about one another. I had planned to use a quote from The Essential Rumi quote to open the film.

That quote was the very one Muhammad had selected for me to read.

Note: Anyone joining us in Morocco in April 2004, will have the unique opportunity to participate in the film documentary I mentioned above and share with the world your experiences as a traveler – how you feel connected to locals you meet, and specifically what you learn about Islam and about Muslims during this trip.