Living with a Muslim Family by Benjamin Ergas

5:30 am in the morning, and I could hear: "Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar … Ashhadu an la Ilah ila Allah … Ashadu an Mohammedan rasul Allah … Haya ala as-sala … Kaya ala as-sala." The words came from afar, and made little sense to me. "Assalatu khairum minannaum."

This was a wake-up call like none others. Filling in the nearby empty streets at dawn, pressing into our bedrooms to pierce through the ends of our dreams, the voice of the Mu'azzin… waking us up every morning with a call forever printed in my mind. High up in his minaret, our Mu'azzin would sing the Fajr prayer, a selection of Qur'anic verses, a daily reminder of allegiance to Islam.

Those early calls made me realize that this religion defined and fueled a Muslim's entire life. I experienced this fascinating culture for a month some years ago. Four weeks spent in Morocco, not as a tourist like one year earlier in Egypt, but as a a family guest. This was a way of scratching the surface of the country's skin to capture below a better understanding of a society radically different from mine, a way of getting up close and personal with Islam - or at least as much as I would probably ever be.

The Sidi Hida family represented a microcosm of the Moroccan society: devoted respect to Islamic teachings, middle class background, loyalty to King Hassan II, and very young (half of the population is under 20 years of age). Members lived in a modest farm on the outskirt of Marrakech. The father, a jellaba-clad retired civil servant, headed a clan of five quasi-unemployed children aged seventeen to thirty-two. The farm was a one-level structure consisting of a reception area, decorated with a displayed copy of the Qur'an and a portrait of Kind Hassan II, a dining room and TV lounge with knee-high tables, and finally four small bedrooms on the side. Surrounding the farm was a relatively large piece of land with pockets of shade, dozens of sheep, and a smaller wooden structure for the shepherd. And beyond the terra cotta walls of their land was the family's shabby neighbourhood. Although poor, this family was lucky to own a farm with land, unlike most lower and middle class Moroccans who lived in cramped cement buildings.

Adapting yourself to a new set of social and religious customs is sometimes a delicate exercise. The adjustment is particularly critical if you live with 'locals' . So, I applied myself to the task with an initial stage of acute observations - particularly at dinner time when the whole Sidi Hida family assembled for several hours. Mistakes were inevitable in a society where every move has a religious or superstitious connotation. I made the faux-pas once to blow subtly on the hollow of my spoon to chill my boiling harira soup: unbeknownst to me, this was an insult which brought bad luck to the family. Another time, I shocked my hosts by daring to take a slightly more attractive piece of lamb on the other side of the common centered dish (there is no individual plates or portions served), the ultimate transgression of social etiquette. I had also learned quickly that refusing to eat less than what seemed to me like three people would deeply offend the mother, that saying "baraka" to her at the end of the meal was a simple way to win her sympathy, and that refusing the traditional attaya (even if it meant missing my train, which is what happened) would have been an insult. Arab hospitality, though at times overwhelming, was evidently a feature of their culture and one not to be dismissed. So awareness and acceptance was essential to gain their trust and affection, and understand their psyche. It was rewarding, eventually, to navigate relatively smoothly in what appeared to me initially to be a total minefield.

I shared my bedroom with the eldest of the two brothers, Abderhamen. A fit and mature twenty-four year old guy, he was on his way to replace his frail father as the head of the Sidi Hida family. Self-disciplined and determined, Abderhamen had studied English at the American Language Center, and worked in two jobs to provide income for the family. His long-term goals were not aligned with traditional expectations, but his ambitions were constrained by his social class and the rigidity of Morocco's administrative set-up - a reality which millions of young, dynamic people had to face. He was hostage of limited career options locally, and unable to obtain a visa to gain work experience abroad without bribe or connections.

But Abderhamen was happy. His sturdy faith in Allah mitigated his frustrations. The Almighty one was after all what mattered most to him. His passion for Islam was extraordinary, and certainly a way to get through life's obstacles. To my untrained eyes, Abderhamen seemed to be an exemplary Muslim: spending time with his friend Tafeq singing sections of the Qur'an that they had memorized, praying five times each day (unlike his rebellious brother who would collapse the prayers into one or two!), visiting the local mosque on a regular basis, demonstrating signs of generosity and humility whenever possible, and above all, resisting to worldly vices of flesh and alcohol. Abderhamen was not fanatical; his passion for Islam was not at all politically motivated. I respected his pride in his religion, the discipline which he applied in practicing it and the dignity which he displayed. His detailed knowledge of Islam led us to contrast our respective religions, and debate the Holy Trinity and the oneness of God in Christianity, belief in human responsibility, experience of suffering and death.

I was fortunate to be in Morocco during the first ten days of Ramadan, which marks the beginning of the revelation of the Qur'an to Mohammed. What a feast to experience first hand! For Muslims, Ramadan is an exciting and sacred period to refresh and strengthen links with Allah, a chance to cleanse one's body and soul. The ways that Abderhamen and his family behaved during the days ahead of Ramadan suggested that Ramadan was for them a great time of joy despite its restrictions from dawn to dusk (no food, no drink, no medicine, no smoke, no sexual activities). Before dawn, the mother would wake up Abderhamen and I to have some breakfast (pastries, pita bread and jam, some attaya with mint). During the day, most offices and shops would shut down, significantly affecting for 30 days business productivity! Walking through the neighborhood in the afternoons, I remember feeling like I was in a ghost town. As the day would draw to an end, I would see some Muslims fill in deserted streets and gather around falafel cafes waiting patiently to break the fast. Back home, at dusk, roughly around six o'clock, we would sit in front of the television for the Mu'azzin to declare the end of the day's fast. His calls to prayer triggered in every house, at the same time, the beginning of iftar, the fast-breaking meal, with an intake of that delicious harira soup with wooden spoons. It was quite moving to witness an entire community partaking into this religious feast with so much enthusiasm. There was an astonishing sentiment of togetherness and social cohesion, as well as a profound sense of intimacy with Allah. My month in Morocco allowed me to understand to what degree Islam permeated into the country's Muslim social fabric. Qur'anic teachings prescribe, or at least influence, rules of engagement at every level of the Muslim society. Faith, obedience and gratitude to Allah influences one's choice of words in conversations (e.g. in shah Allah, barak Allah feek), motivates his behaviour (e.g. five pillars of Islam), and drives his calendar (e.g. Ramadan, Aïd al-Adha). The Muslim society consists of a striking osmosis of religion and society that I had never experienced before, with Qur'an at its core - like an anchor. It also reminded me of a controversial observation that de Tocqueville had made in 1844 regarding Islam: the French sociologist blamed the economic and social decadence of Muslim countries to the mingling of religion and political leadership, preventing entepreneurship and economic growth. Tocqueville's insights were apparently not limited to his well publicized 'Democracy In America'.

Muslim values do collide with pre-Islam, Berber set of beliefs. Berber beliefs seemed to serve as an alternative to the traditional religious framework. I found this tension fascinating to observe, and no where was it more evident than in Marrakesh's infamous marketplace, Place Djemaa el-Fna. You could argue that the musicians, snake charmers, watermen and monkeys were there to draw tourists -and it worked quite well. But what intrigued me most were the social performances of storytellers, magicians and vendors of herbs and potions, who only spoke in Arabic to locals gathered in circles around them. Their fame seemed to suggest that magic and superstition coexisted with conventional Muslim teachings. Islam never uprooted those former beliefs, at least not in Morocco.

At night, Place Djemaa el-Fna was filled with food booths... With my Moroccan friends, I would often go there to eat couscous, tajine, kebab and fries. And during the day, I would go with them in the souqs of the medina beyond the central square… a labyrinth of shops with exquisite carpets and rugs, potteries and ceramics, metalwork and woodwork, musical instruments and babouches, and bags of colourful spices. As for those touts and hustlers, they were efficiently pushed away by my Moroccan buddies!

I have been fortunate to return to Morocco half a dozen times since that first visit. My friendship with the Sidi Hida family has been a blessing: it has provided me with an insightful window into the country's intricate socio-cultural fabric - an astonishing hybrid of Islamic and Berber traditions and beliefs. In particular, my contact with Islam there has proven to be valuable in helping me understand the challenges of today's attempts to refashion Muslim states according to Western ideals.