Understanding the word

One thing that I thought a lot about while I was traveling was religion. Both in Nepal and Morocco religious expression felt more public than it does here in the States. In Nepal this took a number of different forms. In the hills in the central and southern parts of the country, i.e., not in the Buddhist Himalaya of the north, I would see people with assorted red tikas on their forehead every day. Often this meant that they had gone to a temple that morning. In Kathmandu, in particular, there were little temples and shrines on nearly every block it felt, with well loved idols covered in tika powder, marigolds and such. In Hetauda, the women of the family that lives downstairs from Tiffany would go out into the front yard every evening to light candles and ring bells at their small altar.

In Morocco, of course, there was the call to prayer five times a day: Four in the morning, noon, five in the afternoon, and eight and ten o'clock at night. I would often see men--rarely women--going into or coming out of a local mosque shortly after the call. One thing that was particularly striking to me about Morocco was the form the religious art takes in that part of the world.

First off, it was very photogenic. Here are a couple examples of beautiful lighting in a couple of shrines in Meknès, the first city I went to in Morocco.

I quickly noticed that the art is very focused on the written word. Here are a couple of examples, one from a shrine in Meknès and another from a medersa or (religious) school in Fez, where I spent my last couple days in the country.

Of course, there is more to the art than just the written word. There is clearly quite a bit of tile work, involving various geometrical patterns and the occasional floral motif, as well. In the medina or old city in Fez there are dozens of fountains that act as public water sources. They are often quite beautifully embellished with lovely tile work. Here is a nice example.

I went to the ancient Roman city of Volubilis, which is known for its beautiful in-situ mosaics. I felt like I could see some continuity between the ancient Roman art and the more-recent Islamic art. Muslims, however, in stark contrast to the Romans never depict humans or animals in their art for fear of idolatry.

And finally, Islamic art and architecture does occasionally incorporate other symbols, especially the crescent moon, but also in Morocco, in particular, the pentagram, which is an important symbol there--a bit more on that in a future post. Here you see both of these symbols in a mosque in Fez.

In the end, for me, though, most striking was the role of the written word in Moroccan religious art. Walking down the alleyways of the medina in Fez, I saw all kinds of framed writings and men carving Koranic verse.

And again, this was in such stark contrast to Nepal, where religious art and expression is so much more physical, visceral, base. In Morocco it felt austere and abstract.

What's the point? I wrote in a previous post that one reason why I choose to travel--to Morocco, in particular, but more broadly, as well--is to cultivate within myself more compassion, including--perhaps especially--for people who look or think differently from me. Another aspect of this, another reason I choose to travel I am realizing, is to understand myself. Who am I? One way I can tackle this question is by trying to understand who I am not. What does it mean to be a Portlander, an Oregonian, an American? What does it mean to be a Moroccan? Any insights I can gain into the latter may help me to answer the former.

It is straightforward enough to read a no smoking sign written in a foreign script.

Harder to understand the meaning of a place you may not enter. (Non-Muslims are forbidden from entering mosques in Morocco.)

These words that I am so fascinated with in Islamic art, what do they say? Of course, they are verse from the holy Koran, and I imagine they must speak to good and evil, right and wrong, believers and infidels. I bet they allude to stories, hundreds or even thousands of years old. The foreign or exotic holds such an appeal for me, as no doubt it does for many people, the world over. But to what extent is this infatuation due to ignorance, naïveté? I have this belief that I may be able to gain a better understanding of myself, of my place in the world by reflecting on these foreign people and places, these things that are not part of my (European, Christian) heritage. What if these foreign, exotic words spoke about intolerance, bigotry? Would I be so enamored still? Do I have higher standards for words I can understand, English words, than for these words that I cannot read, that do nothing more than evoke a feeling in me?

The other day I started reading a short history of the Balkans, where my friend Iva, who I am staying with while I transition back into the real world, grew up. It's fascinating to read about this crossroads between East and West, between Christendom and the Muslim World. But this is such an academic approach to this question. Somehow I crave this in-you-bones level of knowing. But I know I will never know the Balkans--or Morocco, or Nepal--in that way, the way that someone who grew up there, with those sounds and smells and tastes and stories knows it, unless perhaps I devoted my entire life to that quixotic pursuit. Will Iva ever know the USA as I do? What if she is married to an American and lives here for another 60 years? And if she did succeed in gaining this understanding, would that benefit her in any way? Would she somehow be more satisfied or fulfilled in her life? That is my (rhetorical) question of the day.