Fes Berber |
Morocco in ColorThis shot was taken at the dyer's sook (market) where materials (mostly wool) are dyed before being sewn into jellebas, kaftans, and other garments. This man had just pulled some thread out of a boiling dye bath (the steam caused the strange, red effect in the lower right of the photo. I asked him, because I had been told, if he used all natural dyes. "Not any more" he replied. This man is a Berber (the original inhabitants of Morocco and other parts of Northern Africa). Though you can't see it here, he has blue eyes. Coupled with his light skin, the eyes are an indication that somewhere along the family line some European blood was introduced. Today, Berbers (reluctantly) share Morocco with the Arabs who swept across North Africa from the Middle East around 700 AD. They eventually conquered much of the Berber's territory before sailing across the Straight of Gilbralter and into what Arabs call Andalucia (Southern Spain). The name Gibralter comes from the bastardization of the Arab Jbel Tarik, or "Tarik's Mountain" (of course all Arab words on these pages will be written phoenetically as the Arab's have their own alphabet which looks nothing like the English). Arabic script is art and much islamic architecture makes use of it as such. Such highly stylized text, with its scripted, sweeping lines often requires deciphering, even for native speakers. Arabic, along with Basque and Mandarin Chinese, is considered one of the most difficult languages to learn. "Arabic is a sea," I was often told by my language instructor quoting, no doubt, some ancient and obscure text. The Koran (or Qu'ran) is the Muslim holy book. It contains verses spoken by Allah (God) directly to the prophet Mohammed. Like most major religions, Islam (which translates as "submission to God's will" is founded on morality. There are some obvious differences in dogma that differentiate it from other major religions but, on the whole it has far more commonalities with than differences from those religions.
Aid al Fitris the most sacred holy day in the Muslim world. As I've already mentioned in the black and white section of this piece, it is a feast day upon which every Muslim family, that can possibly afford it, buys a ram that is then slaughtered by the male head of the household or village. Abderahim, one of my blind students, and good friend, invited me to his house in Taza for the Aid al Fitr activities. Taza is a small mountain town and I was sure to get the real Aid experience (unlike what one might find in more Westernized cities like Rabat or Casablanca). In the morning everyone puts on new clothes and gathers at the town square for prayers and a service by the town Mullahs and other noted religious men. Abderahim had assured me that no one would mind my going and taking pictures so long as I didn't interfere with the prayers or get "too close." This was generally the case in Morocco: I wasn't intrusive with my camera and most folks didn't mind having their picture taken. If I did want a close up of someone, I usually asked. In fact, my camera turned out to be a wonderful ice breaker leading to many interesting conversations and exchanges on American/Moroccan relations, culture, and any number of other topics. Many of my subjects were indigent and told me that I could take their picture in exchange for a little baraka ("blessing" literally, but usually a humble way of asking for a few coins). I was really moved by the power emanating from these mass prayer gatherings, something I had never experienced before. I remember as a boy in church, everyone reciting the Lord's Prayer together; mumbling in the dark about "art in Heaven," staring at the light sliding in through the stained glass windows that turned people's hair green and blue. But as an adult in Morocco, this was something all together different. This was active praying, coordinated prostration out among the hills and trees. Outside, for God to see. In between verses there were no echoing sneezes, creaking pews, or adjusting of uncomfortable suits. Only birds and the sound of the wind through the trees.
The boy in this picture was one of the few who noticed me that morning. I remember thinking, jealously, that going to church outside was really the life for a kid. Then, as with even the most pious of children, the sermon eventually got to him and a few minutes after taking this shot he was stretched out and snoozing under the hot, Moroccan sun.
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