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My time in Morocco is almost over. It is hard to believe how quickly the time has passed. I know I have grown in some ways-become stronger or wiser, but the truth is that I can't tell yet. I still feel like it was yesterday that I stepped off that bus in a strange new city, crossing the street to live with a family I knew nothing about. The only real way for me to see that time has in fact marched on is to see my little niece TALKING to me on Skype, or hear about the wedding plans of one of my dearest friends. I know that time has passed because so much has happened at home. Being here in Meknes has almost been like an escape from the real world. I know I've done a lot, seen a lot, learned, experienced, and eaten a lot. I've made friends, and I've gained a family. But time? Time seems to have stood still.

One of my most frequently asked questions is, "do you miss home?" Yes. That's an easy one. I always miss home. From the moment I step on a plane to somewhere new, I miss home. The next question, "are you excited to go home", is harder to answer. Yes, I want to go home, don't get me wrong. I miss the people. I miss not having to think when I want to communicate in everyday life. I miss that comfort with the culture that you never realize you have until you are completely out of your element. Yet, even with all of the things and people that make me miss home, I don't know if I'm ready. Of course it should be noted that I didn't feel "ready" to come here either.

This city, this apartment has become another sort of home. It's the little things that make it home: when my host mom covers me with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch; when, despite all odds, I'm able to carry on a really great conversation in French; when my host brother brings home a book in French for me to read-just because he thinks I'll like it. When I leave home, I know I'll be coming back. There is too much I love there to stay away forever. But, as I prepare to leave Morocco, I'm faced with the reality that in all likelihood, I'll never get to live here again. Yes, I will do everything in my power to come back and visit, but living here, with this family and these friends-that part is over. So in that respect, I hope the next week and a half pass slowly.

Three months isn't that long, but it is long enough. It is long enough to adapt. There are times when I'm walking down the street and wonder why everyone is looking at me. I feel so comfortable. I know where I'm going and how to get there. I forget that even though my blue eyes have seen all of these sights before, a lot of these sights still aren't used to seeing blue eyes.

Eventhough I look forward to resuming real life with my friends and family at home, I feel a pang of sadness when I think about leaving here in 11 days.

Food for Thought

Americans are independent, arrogant, fat, work-obsessed, nosy, stupid and rich-or so we've been labeled by the rest of the world. It shouldn't come as too much of a shock. In fact, if you watch American television or films, we make fun of ourselves daily for these very stereotypes. There are many other stereotypes that we attach to ourselves as well. I'm sure it won't take you too long to come up with more to add to my list. As with any stereotype, it isn't exactly true. Yes, we can find examples of all of these traits throughout America and probably even within ourselves, but for the most part, we can shrug them off as being stereotypes and nothing more.

Last Sunday some friends and I went to Kenitra to have a discussion on stereotypes with some Moroccan students. We weren't looking forward to it. I'm sorry to admit it, but it seemed like a lot of extra work and money, and none of us could really imagine much of a benefit. However, our professor was very excited about it, and so on Saturday morning, we prepared our presentation. The next day we took the train to Kenitra.

Our list of Moroccan stereotypes was short-almost nonexistent. Afterall, it isn't a country that a person hears a lot about in the states. To compensate for this, we discussed stereotypes for the Arab world in general. Our only stereotypes for Morocco specifically were about Moroccan men.

The list of American stereotypes from the Moroccan students was much longer and contained many of the stereotypes I listed above. In addition they listed things like, "all American men love football" and "all American women love cheerleading." They showed a clip from "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" and another where a foreigner was asking Americans basic questions that they of course couldn't answer correctly (or even close).

After both sides had given their presentations, we started to discuss. Our professor asked the Moroccan boys in the room how many of them had harrassed a girl on the street. They all raised their hands. None could really give an excuse, but even the girls, who admitted they too were subject to such harrassment, tried to defend that part of the culture while at the same time saying that they wished it wasn't that way.

When we discussed the American stereotypes, I think the Moroccans were surprised that we weren't more defensive. They criticized American television and films for giving the world this view of Americans. We admitted that the stereotypes were partly true and that those who are given the spotlight in our country are often the least deserving. However, we tried to impress upon them that when they watch our films and shows, they should see them as entertainment-not real life. Our real lives in America would never make it past a pilot for the most part. The Moroccans seemed more angry about the way the entertainment industry presented Americans than we Americans were.

After a lunch of sandwiches and pizza and a group sing along, we hopped back on the train. Nothing was really resolved, but we did have a lot more to think about, and we were all happy that we had gone.

The Sacrifice

First of all, I have to apologise for my long absence. I had a wonderful week break from school that I spent travelling around Morocco with an American friend, and as I sent her off to Minnesota, to the cold and the snow, I welcomed my aunt, uncle, and cousins for a weeklong visit. Now that everyone has left, and schoolwork has been caught up on, I can finally devote some time to blogging!

Eid al-Adha is the Islamic holiday that commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. Weeks before, Anne and I had accompanied our family to a farm to pick out a ram for the holiday, but sadly, as the date drew nearer, we realized that both of us would be away from home for the actual holiday. Anne would be in Germany, and I would be in the Sahara with my friend. Both of us were very disheartened.

However, as luck would have it, one of my directors is actually from the Sahara region that Lisa and I would be visiting, and he invited us to spend Eid with his family. So, on Wednesday morning, Lisa and I woke to a wonderful breakfast overlooking the Saharan dunes, and then drove to Rissani to witness the sacrifice.

Every Muslim family, if they can financially afford it, is supposed to purchase and sacrifice a ram on this day. As we drove we saw rams being dragged, carted, and motorcycled to their fate. Like they had some sort of sixth sense, the rams seemed especially stubborn to do as they were told.

We learned that Eid in small villages has stayed very traditional. It is a community holiday, a holiday meant to bring friends and family together. Above all else, it is supposed to be a holiday of sharing. It is not permitted to sell any part of the ram, and a family should donate part of their ram to a family that cannot afford their own. To begin the custom a holy man first says a prayer, and then the sacrificing can begin. If a family does not know how to sacrifice their own, the holy man will perform the sacrifice himself.

The ram's feet were tied, and several men held the struggling animal on his back on the dusty ground. The man with the knife gripped the ram's head and ran the knife across its throat. Blood gurgled out, staining the hard, dry ground red. The men backed away quickly, as the ram struggled to breath. He gave a large thrust of his body, actually moving several feet to the side, and spraying blood everywhere. Then he lay motionless, defeated. It was the first time I had ever watched an animal die.

Immediately after, the body is strung up by a hind leg, and the head is cut off. The men in the family begin to undress the sheep, peeling its skin off in one piece, like pulling off a sweater. In fact, it reminded me greatly of how my parents used to say "skin the bunny" when they would change my clothes when I was little-only it seemed more morbid this time around. The women burned the head and feet. Every part of the ram would be used in some way or another.

After the skin was taken off, sprinkled with salt, and left in the sun to dry, they cut open the sheep. Organs poured out. As the family disected the animal, I wished I had paid better attention in biology lab. Organs were cleaned with water and separated into different basins, depending on how they would be used.

When the work was done, we had tea and cookies, and shortly after, we were brought ram skewers hot off the grill. The family sat around talking and joking. This is the holiday everyone comes home for. Neighbors are constantly stop by, and the family is so large it is hard to keep everyone straight.

Lisa and I voyaged into the desert by camel to camp that night, but everyone else in those villages was staying up late ,munching on ram, visiting friends, and laughing with family.