Moroccan Stars – Noah Huffman

The blazing sun finally sets across from the tight-knit houses and age-old storefronts, behind the distant mountains only recognizable by the hazy shadow that sits vigilantly perched upon the endless violet horizon. The air is liberated from its diurnal fever and the sweat that had formed on the backs of men leading donkey-pulled carts through suffocated alleys of the labyrinthine Medina evaporates from their ragged shirts and cracked hands. In every neighborhood, the wooden door to a modest dar opens to be connected to the bustling street where the parochial cafés teem with affable faces ordering coffee and tea. The café owner uncouples the shaded windows as he invites a man or two to sit outside on the street side porch. People stumble in and out of cars and little, red taxis, none able to move through the sea of self-absorbed pedestrians searching for their friends whom they told they would meet for a drink after work. The men outside the café watch the bustle safely from a distance, droning to each other over their daily inconveniences or about the muted soccer match playing on the TV mounted on the otherwise barren wall. They sip their cups of coffee with a cigarette in hand, blowing smoke onto the dusty square. A smile steals their wrinkled faces as they watch shirtless children splash in the tiled fountain, reminding them of when they were young and full of life. But, when the sun goes down, they feel a hint of that same energy that used to belong to them. The cool night brings life back to the city, drawing out men and women from their shaded crannies and cavernous homes. In the dark, the face of each Moroccan twinkles like an earthly star, each one radiating a gratitude like no other: a gratitude to life, to living at this very moment.

Café by Hotel Batha

It is undeniable that the Moroccan people possess a joie de vivre so envied by the modern world. Not far from the café, elongated shadows creep across a sprawling forum flanked by the old city walls and cobbled roads. Retired men sit gathered on a set of stairs, playing a raucous game of chess, hoping to forget about their aching bodies. Preying vendors sell grilled corn, orange juice, and soft serve ice cream to sweltering tourists and hungry children. The men laugh, half-scared, because none of them know which sunset is their last; but they smile knowing that if they died today they would leave this life fulfilled. Birds fly high up above in swirling mobs like an ocean of feathers in a cream soda sky. They fly freed from the tethers of the earth, swooping down to catch stray crumbs and exhausted rodents. The men look up with hope, imagining they might come back here in the next life like a bird, watching their old friends from high up above. The sun sets slowly, not to ruin the moment the worn men wish could last a little longer. As the evening turns into night, the square is transformed into a stage set for musical performers and thousands of ears eager to listen and not worry about what comes when the sun rises tomorrow. They sing and dance along to their favorite songs, celebrating their life, culture, and unity. Flashing lights reveal smiles of hopes and dreams of both rich and poor. Late into the night the music roars, knowing no sleep when there is time to live.

In a square similar to this, some forty miles away, men hold snakes up to wide-eyed travelers and storytellers pay homage to the poets of their ancient Arab past as people gather around with baited breath, waiting for the next installment. Music is played to enthused listeners who throw in grateful dirhams to the drummers and oud players. A man with a wooden flute shows pictures of himself posed with celebrities to a passerby making his way down a wide boulevard that leads to a foreign world full of tall buildings and neon lights. Here, people ebb and flow from upscale stores and ethnic restaurants under streetlights and flashing signs. Some sit in charming gardens, letting their children play while they gossip with their friends. A Ferris wheel turns gently in the distance, and taking notice, a child pulls at his mother’s skirt wanting to go for a ride. Everyone walks slowly, taking everything in: the smells, the sights, the sounds, the tastes. There is no need to rush. There is no immediate purpose to their being out. They are not looking to satisfy their hunger or thirst. No, they are looking for life, for a moment to remember and in which to live. Diners wait in restaurants far past the call of midnight, ordering another tea to complement their conversation. Why go home? Why sleep when life is happening now? Wouldn’t it be sad to miss it? To them, life is a celebration, each moment unique and special from any other before it— or after.

Meknes New City

Meknes Square

There is no doubt that Moroccans celebrate life. On a familiar street, a baby cries swaddled in her mother’s arms. The house is decorated in pink and white lace and suede chairs. Food is piled high upon the tables, arranged with a careful hand and critical eye. Musicians sing and beat their drums to the rhythm of an ancient song that induces a room of dancing and smiles. Chanting and clapping, the room fills with an almost infectious energy that pulls men and women out of their seats. They all wear their finest clothes of silk covered with sparkling jewels and handcrafted lace appliqué. The husband and wife smile, holding their days-old child gingerly. It too is dressed in fine white clothes, upset from its nap with the deafening commotion being created. The trio put on their best smile for pictures. Their excitement and joy are undeniable in their faces, the camera picking up on it all. With a long, sharp knife, the husband approaches the sheep fastened to the living room wall. Blood pools on the floor and the music thunders while the guests cheer wildly. A celebration of life— a new life. They welcome a stranger to this world in hopes their future on this Earth will be one that is blessed. To them, there is nothing more sacred than this life. Every moment that we live matters. We must sacrifice so much to live the best way we possibly can. They do not fear the sheep for a life lived to its fullest makes for one who is not afraid to face death. The noise dies down to only a hum of conversations at the lunch table, all happy to share this moment with each other— a moment I will never forget.

Aqiqah

Silent is the desert whose winds have died and golden sands have cooled. The scorching daylight fades away to reveal thousands of stars, foreign to any urban citizen. Like a painting, they hang high up in the sky as if you could reach up and grab one and bring it back down to Earth. Of these millions of stars and planets, why us, why here? These are questions to which there is no answer. All we have is this life and with it we must do the most. We can only take regret with us when we depart. Regret that we did not enjoy our life, that in the moment we closed our eyes and forgot to look at what sat just in front of us. If we only have this life, why not live it like the Moroccans do? Embrace each moment and find joy in everyday life. Like those men in the café and children in the fountain, like those street vendors and chess players, like those desert lights, I too begin to glow with a gratitude of my own.

Sahara Desert at night