Culture

My mother told me once that no matter where you are people are people. It's no revelation, but it's something I remind myself constantly while in Peace Corps. Despite intimidating differences in culture, the people I interact with experience life the same way I do. My fears, my desires, my hope, my sadness, and my happiness cycle through all individuals that share this planet with me. People are people.

When culture gets in the way, I begin to think I'm different. I think I am the only person in the world that ever gets depressed. I think I am the only person in the world that understands joy. How can I relate when I can hardly communicate? How can I understand a life devoted to prayer and salvation? Culture digs deeply into the fabric of society. The subtlest mannerisms and the most powerful paradigms are learned by the population as they grow up. There is no escape from culture. There is also no late access. You can only be born into the club. I can't be accepted if I don't behave accordingly. I have to be very careful. I am an impostor.

Then the idea of culture falls apart. I think about it too much, and I can no longer even define it. Something is not right. I look deeper, past the cultural shell, and the human spirit emerges. I see emotions in people's eyes. Deep sadness hangs over some while triumph bursts from others. The human experience is too intense to be divided according to culture.

Life is a beautiful struggle. Culture provides coping mechanisms to lessen pain and reveal the beauty. I may not understand how it works, but I realize that the local culture is just trying to help people be alive. I incorporate certain local values into my personal culture from time to time, to enrich my human experience. I hope this action is being reciprocated, and that I am helping others appreciate their journey. After all, this is my duty as a human being.

The Immigrant II

I saw him wandering the streets just like me. The garden had been our meeting point, but it was closed. I knew I would see him if I just hung out outside long enough.

Hicham wasn't with a friend like I thought I heard. Instead, he held hands with a toddler, his son Abdel Rahman. This changed Hicham's appearance entirely. I tend to disassociate with the rest of my community. We usually hung out in my apartment, in my miniature American world. It always surprised me to remember that he has extensive family in town. This would be my first time meeting Hicham the father. He beamed with paternal pride.

I lifted Abdel Rahman to my side and he didn't care. Hicham said he was getting over a cold, but he seemed full of curious energy. He was still young enough to realize that the world is a miracle. Even though he could only speak individual words, it felt like his comprehension of Moroccan Arabic was better than mine. He walked balanced, and even could break into a clumsy run. Abdel Rahman was whatever age it is that a toddler reaches maximum cuteness.

"I have news," Hicham said as we settle into a corner of the garden that remained open. He tried to begin his next sentence in English too, but settled for French. "My family is back together now. My son and my wife, we all live together." His life was full of sudden twists.

Not long ago Hicham was living in Bulgaria. In an attempt to discover a sense of freedom in Europe, he had spent four months in a prison set-up specifically for illegal immigrants. In that time he witnessed gut-wrenching tragedy, while becoming well acquainted with racism. With some foreign interference he was allowed to return home. In his first months back, he was trying to reroute his life. At first he talked of traveling to Malaysia where "people love Arabs," but now he seemed very focused on his wife and Abdel Rahman.

It came as a relief. I always encouraged his adventurous spirit, his quest for freedom, with a guilty conscience. Hicham's philosophy, was inspiring and deep, but always overlooked his fatherly responsibilities. "He is your new adventure now," I referred to Abdel Rahman. Hicham smiled in agreement and we watched the movements of the garden.

Already in April, the earth baked during the day, but in the morning shade, the garden felt like a paradise. Why do I spend so much time inside? I was a little out of touch with the breeze and the sunshine. Watching pedestrian traffic captivated me. I was living in the most beautiful place on earth.

"I have work now," Hicham grinned. This too was news. He had been searching in Casablanca for a security job. He also had it in his head that he could work as an actor for commercials. Hicham has a certain charm, and he seemed convinced he could network his way into a comfortable lifestyle. In the past he used to work as a guard for the presidential palace in the capital, but at 250$ per month he could barely afford transport costs to the palace. "I work right here in this garden. In the mornings I water the plants and clean up garbage. I take breaks in the flowers and greet friends passing through." I congratulated him, proud to see him develop some stability to his life.

A small group gathered across the walkway. They tied their dog to a bench and congregated at a table belonging to a cafe. Abdel Rahman clutched his dad's leg in fear. "Dog," he pointed to the over-sized puppy, much younger than he was. He let go of the fear after a breath. Then, he approached the dog cautiously. From ten feet, the dog shifted his position, sending Abdel Rahman running back to us squealing with adrenaline. I explained that this kind of dog was good and he didn't need to be afraid. Again he approached the dog, getting a few steps nearer, before kicking his legs into panicked run back to our bench. "Taxi," he yelled suddenly distracted by the street. He returned his focus to the dog, again creeping closer. On his fourth attempt to get a close look at the dog, he talked to the owner, pointing at the dog trying to communicate important information. Now multiple parties intently watched a toddler discover a dog. But, this time, to everyone's surprise, the dog lunged and snapped at Abdel Rahman. Tears stained his panicked run as he reached for the arms of dog's owner. The show was over. Hicham went to recover his son.

Abdel Rahman had soiled his pants. Hicham took him home and dropped him off with his mother. Then I had him over for some coffee. In my house, away from family, away from judgmental opinions, he let himself escape. He let himself be free without shame. He discussed his dream of immigrating to Malaysia.

Beards

"This guy is a terrorist. He looks like Ousama Bin Laden," Muhammad joked with Aissam, who rolled his eyes politely. Aissam wore a white djellaba, his stomach protruding, his muscular hands attached to a wide frame. He displayed a spectacular black beard. Most locals don't grow full beards. Facial hair has shifted towards western fashions. Still, many continue to be very serious about their beards. Shaving the mustache and growing the beard is Muslim tradition.

"Why don't you have a beard?" I asked Muhammad, who is also very devote.

"It's not necessary in Islam, but some people like them."

Aissam disagreed, "excuse me, but to be a true Muslim you need to grow a beard. These were words from God."

Muhammad shook his head. For a second they hesitated, then the conversation leaped forward and I my comprehension couldn't keep up. However, like most my interactions, I could feel the emotion besides the gibberish. A debate ensued. Are beards a necessary Muslim male attribute? I had expected a simple explanation. Clearly, the opinion on Muslim facial hair is not universal. Both men argued passionately. Emotions verged towards anger only to cool off and wait for the next flare of pride. I spectated, admiring the Moroccan spirit.

Then the battle halted. Aissam said the American equivalent of "well, look who it is." Were they expecting someone? I figured the debate was over because both men had exhausted their arguments. Instead, the lesson was just beginning. The unofficial judge of the debate walked into the shop. He too had a full beard, mostly white. Warmth radiated from his smile as he greeted us. His confidence made him seem taller than he really was. He was the Imam of the neighborhood mosque, the spiritual leader of Muhammad and Aissam.

"Excuse us. We were talking about a certain subject and were hoping you could enlighten us."

They presented the debate, and the Imam assumed his role as religious instructor. Again, I was unable to decipher the diction, but I could feel a change in the mood. It was no longer a debate. The students stopped fighting and listened intently. They nodded, murmuring an occasional "yes." The Imam appeared to have an effective solution to the confusion. They thanked the Imam for his wisdom, and described how the debate begun, pointing at me.

The Imam turned to me graciously. "Tu comprends Francais?" I told him I did understand French and he continued his rhythmic speech. "The beard is required in Islam. There are more important things in Islam than growing a beard of course, and many Muslims adopt to follow different fashions. With globalization you see the beard becoming less popular. If you are a Muslim, though, you should grow a full beard. Even though the beard is not that important, it is required." Then he asked me if I understood.

"Je comprends."