Zakah. Pass it on.

The crackle of the Ezan sounded harsher in Marrakech than it did in Istanbul. Somehow the call to prayer felt more prosaic, less like an invitation to a dreamy otherworld as I lay in the riad bed. Somewhere above me doves were waking up on the roof, and out across the city devout Muslims were unrolling prayer rugs. I wasn’t one of them. No, I was rolling myself up in a plush purple quilt, quite willing to let the sun rise without me.

Having traveled to Marrakech for three days of experiences before hitting the road for surf camp on the coast, I was spending more time under this purple plush than I had expected. These experiences screamed with intensity and after spiced couscous lunches, Brett and I generally found our way back through the winding streets and in our solid wooden door for a long process-it-all nap.

Marrakech was a city of blinding white stone plazas, mopeds, snake-charmers, twisty roads melting into sunlit stucco, veils of heat and veils of silk. It was a Muslim city, and therefore a city of Zakah – the giving of alms – one of the five pillars of Islam.

 I had little knowledge of Islam or Zakah upon arrival, though I understood a few basics about the prophet Muhammed and the pilgrimage to Mecca from my 9^th grade “Introduction to Religion” class. I also knew the post 9-11 backlash against Muslims had been awful, that I loved the sound of the call to prayer, that I thought it was a lovely thing to watch my star player bravely refuse to take a day off from practice when Ramadan overlapped with our tennis season. 

Like in every other big city I’ve visited, people begging filled many of the urban crevices of Marrakech. But there was one key difference. People were giving money to the people begging. Each coin dropped into each hand fulfilled a bit of the command for Zakah, and each giver walked away blest, as the gift blessed the person in need. Those without sat patiently, and those with, shared. What an amazing sight to see. Though we couldn’t claim to be practicing Zakah, Brett and I began to carry pocketfuls of chang so we could participate in this gentle practice of sharing.

One day as I slipped out of the shaded buzz of the souks, I found myself in a sunlit courtyard, dark-hued rugs draped for sale across a huge wall on one side. On the other side, olive vendors proffered jars of green beauty – olives stuffed with garlic, almonds, onions, dusted with herbs, swimming in rich olive oil. Tourists, locals on mopeds, even the occasional wooden cart or pony flowed through the courtyard. Two young children were working the area, trying to sell three punching balloons dragging behind them on long strings.

The older girl was not so old that she had to cover the long wave of dark hair falling down her back. Her shoes reminded me of the kind of shoes you can buy at Walmart, except the way they look years later on a dusty card table at a rummage sale. As I watched from an olive counter, she spotted a young couple just entering the courtyard.

 The man and woman walked near each other but did not hold hands. Each licked a dripping ice cream cone. They separated. As the woman browsed the wares in the courtyard, the man looked up to see the older girl approaching, her blue punching balloon extended toward him.  How could she be so bold? A man in his mid-twenties, with his girlfriend, could hardly have need for a punching balloon. Yet the young girl seemed unafraid, and soon, though she still had possession of her punching balloon, she was licking a dripping ice cream cone. His ice cream cone. Zakah. As I peeked through the crowd, I saw her younger sister licking one of her own, the young woman’s. Zakah.

Sharing an ice cream cone is so simple. So is sharing an arm. The next day as I fended off the constant calls of the stall owners to “step inside. Just for a second. Very good price. Very nice. Very lovely” I got stuck in a crowd stuck in an alley. We were near the sweetest souk, where merchants reigned on high from above neatly balanced piles of nougats, pistachio cookies, and colored taffies. What was the hold-up? A donkey tugging at a high-piled cart filled most of the lane, so the flow of human traffic was limited to one person across. No easy thing for a crowd this size. No easy thing for an older blind man trying to make his way home. Pressed against the entrance to yet another shop, I watched a younger man give his arm to the older man, calling ahead for the busy shoppers to make way for them as they passed the donkey cart. The way parted, and the old man slipped safely through. I expected the young man to go with him, assuming it was his son or nephew. But no, shaking his head worriedly, the young man went back the other way to his stall. He just wanted to help, and he worried that he couldn’t help the old man – a total stranger – any more. Zakah.

These days it seems almost all the public discussion about Islam can be summed up in a few broad strokes – people afraid of terrorism, condemning a religion, people afraid of hate, condemning condemnation. There is so much more to know than this, so much more to learn. I don’t claim to have that knowledge, only a few experiences that opened a window to something more. How might life in everyday America change with the addition of Zakah? Last week as I left the grocery store unwrapping an ice cream bar, I kind of hoped I would see someone who needed it more than I did. I looked, but no lonely child appeared. I plan to keep looking. Zakah. Pass it on.   

The Medersa

Hidden deep in Marrakech's alleys, so deep that you have to tip a few people just to find it, is the Ali ben Youssef Medersa, a sixteenth century school for Koranic studies.  We spent a couple hours wandering its halls, peeking into students' rooms, and gaping at the immense courtyard, bordered by intricately carved cedar and stucco walls.

This is a recreation of a student's room -- they were small and reminded me of monks' cells.

On the far side of the courtyard is the prayer room.

A closeup of the intricate carving

My Wife in Marrakech

There was something about Betsy that seemed to work with Marrakech.  Of course, she's always photogenic, but I really liked a few of these shots:

Colors of Marrakech

The Heart of Marrakech

You might say all paths in Marrakech lead to Jema el Fnaa. At least for its many visitors. Here, in the main square, you can have your hands and feet coated in fine henna print, drink fresh orange juice or nibble a slice from a pyramid of spice cake, watch a snake charmer, storyteller, or acrobat, or just wander through layers of cooking smoke, sunlight, and people. Tom, Brett, and I preferred to watch the wonders of Jema el Fnaa from a safe distance. Each of our Marrakech days ended at our rooftop terrace table in Cafe Argana, from which safe distance we could admire belly dancers and sunsets alike.  

The Souks

There is Jemaa El Fna, the main square in Marrakech, with its snake charmers and belly dancers.  Then there are the souks, still touristy, and still overwhelming, but somehow more palatable.  There are still men reaching their hands out to you, begging you to look in their shops, or begging you for a few spare dirham.  But somehow it's different in the souks.  Somehow the souks breathe culture instead of tourism, color instead of blinding light.  Tourists and locals merge in a maze of smoke and stone.  The locals know you are foreign, and they know it unabashedly, and they make you come to them on their terms.  There are no signs to tell you where you are.  There are no shop names or street titles.  There is just a labyrinth of alleys, ever narrowing, inviting you to get lost.  Shops and merchants spill out onto each other, and then onto you, as you try to squeeze from one to the next, dodging the mopeds and donkey carts.  There are no grids, no "perpendicular."  There are curves and slits, cobbles and weaves.  There are people reaching for you, wanting to sell you a carpet for 1000 dirham, OK maybe 400, well if you're going to walk away, then you can have it for 200.  Then you turn around to indicate interest, and the price goes back up.  There are people dyeing fabric on the spot, until their arms are stained deep red, inviting you onto their roof to get a view from above.  There are woodcarvers, creating stringed instruments out of gourd-shaped blocks of wood.  There is a whole row of olive stands, where a bag full of olives costs you 84 cents.  There are men in kaftans meeting in front of mosques.  There is a man carving skewer handles with his toes, as he rapidly turns the rod back and forth with his hand using a bowed instrument.  He sees you watching and offers you a free ornament, a wooden ring dangling around a rod, which he just carved on the spot.  These people will not come to you, but if you come to them, they will show you their livelihood, and they will be smiling the whole time.  Especially as you happily hand them 200 dirham.  

Marrakech

Walking through the streets of Marrakech, you must always remain aware of your surroundings. Each moment of attention is shared in many directions, split from your consciousness by a hundred details demanding awareness. 

You listen for the sound of an approaching motorbike, legs flexed and ready to spring to the side when two silken ladies swoop by with a roar. You watch from your bit of street stone as a man pushes through with a laden cart, warning the crowd ahead of his approach with a repetitive chant. 

You notice alleyways drifting in every direction, sunlight smashing onto dull reds or brushing pinks and oranges. You wonder what is through that blue door or that crumbling archway. Maybe later you'll find out. Maybe tomorrow. 

You smell the good. You smell the bad. Mint tea vapors thread the air, combining with the smell of compressed heat and people in action. 

You take an extra big step to avoid a bird skull and then twist to follow the movements of a tiny white kitten. Five men invite you into their shops, "just to look", "good price." You are tempted by the paintings. By the spices. By the rugs. By the pottery. By the kitten.

Perhaps, if the time is right, you hear the call to prayer, humming with static, played from the minarets crowning the edges of the medina (the old city). You tug a bit at the scarf around your neck - lovely but hot - a nod of respect towards the modest dress in this Islamic city. 

Stacks of bread in low glass cases and oranges piled on juice stands appeal to you. Too bad behind the street food lies the threat of a stomach parasite. Your stomach rumbles, but it will have to wait for food cooked at high heat for long periods, food obtainable at any cafe in the main square of Jema el Fnaa.

You arrive at the square, squirming out from the final alley in the maze of souks, out of chaos into chaos. Darting away from a snake charmer, you feel a monkey reach out and brush your shoulder. You speed up, hiding in the crowd, half-blinded by sun on white stone. At last you see it, Cafe Argana, its rooftop terrace beckoning, its chicken couscous and ice cream sundae almost as welcome as its atmosphere of relative peace. 

Walking in Marrakech is an overwhelming delight. You'll be ready for that afternoon nap when you leave Argana...