Morocco has a desert landscape not unlike my home in southern Utah. When I visited different parts of the country a few weeks ago, I was reminded how blowing sand makes its presence known through tiny grains that find their way into everything — eyes, ears, nose — especially when hot winds come from the east.
Spring is the best time to visit Morocco. The Atlas Mountains — still snowcapped in places — stand as sentinels protecting coastal cities like Agadir and Casablanca from both winds and skyrocketing temperatures. And winter jasmine is still blooming even though it’s too early for the argan fruit that grows only in southern Morocco. Goats climb trees to eat this delicacy and women cooperatives will grind the kernels to produce highly prized argan oil.
I’m fortunate that I’ve been able to visit diverse locations around the world frequently. While overtourism is a huge issue in popular locations around the Mediterranean and the Asia/Pacific area, so far Morocco is relatively unscathed by its influence. It retains its historical charm and traditional ways for many while struggling to improve its economy and standard of living for all.
When we told neighbors we were going to Morocco, some were unsure about the difference between Morocco and Monaco, similar in name but quite different in almost every other way. Monaco in Europe has the highest per capita income of any country in the world, around $275,000, while North Africa’s Morocco has a more limited per capita income, around $5,100.
In Monaco, 90% of the population identify as Catholic, while in Morocco, more than 99% of the population is Muslim. There isn’t a Latter-day Saint congregation in Monaco, but there is one in Morocco, with about 100 members in the country.
Having lived in Africa for more than eight years, going to the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca feels a little like going down the street to the St. George Tabernacle when I am home. They each have their own charm, aura and spiritual appeal.
Ramadan just ended in Morocco, a holy month based on a lunar calendar, where Muslims fast from sunup until sundown. There are special foods that are prepared during Ramadan to help sustain participants during the daylight hours. Zmita, similar to a combination of granola and oatmeal, is a high-energy, fiber-based breakfast food that is hearty and substantial, but too crumbly for me. Going for the snacks instead, I load up on chebakia — a sesame and honey cookie — to take home for friends and neighbors to try one of the country’s seasonal flavors.
While I am devoted to my own faith, I greatly admire the conviction expressed through fasting and prayer during Ramadan. This is what I suspect Swedish theologian Krister Stendhal might call “holy envy.” As we learn from others’ faith traditions, it deepens our understanding of our own faith practices.
With a new war in the Middle East, there may be a tendency to demonize others with a non-Christian religious tradition, especially to lump all Muslims into one big bucket and label them.
That would be a mistake. While convenient, labeling others masks their individuality. None of us wants that. We all want to be recognized “one by one” for who we are as people, not things.
President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, acting president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, noted several years ago that when “we see others as enemies, we look for the worst in them and the best in us.”
If we instead focus more on the “life experiences and hopes we have in common,” the apostle continued, “it should not be too hard to get along with individuals, communities, and nations — regardless of where we live and regardless of what our backgrounds or life circumstances may be.”
He then referenced the human tendency throughout history to think of ourselves as being the “good guys” — the “heroes of the story” — while labeling those who think and behave differently as the “bad guys.”
In this way, President Uchtdorf said, “We judge our side by our good intentions, and their side by their bad actions.”
Traveling to a foreign place like Morocco, even vicariously, can diminish such tendencies, break down barriers and reveal our common humanity. For instance, when getting lost in a medina, the old, historic part of a city with narrow, winding streets, there is something that instantly connects us when strangers offer help and directions. We then see others as they really are, not as how they are portrayed in the media.
My Moroccan friend Youssef has three children, including one at the local university. “I want them to get a good education so they can get a good job,” he told me. “I want them to meet as many Americans as they can to see how others live, how they prosper based on their efforts … I want that for my children.”
Sounds just like what I want for my children and grandchildren; and now, my first great-grandchild, too.
To experience Morocco is to understand the concept of “barakah” — a sense of divine blessing or grace. You feel it in the hospitality of passersby on the street and see it in the resilience of Kasbah walls on a hillside that have survived Portuguese, Spanish and French invasions.
Morocco isn’t just a place to visit; it’s a place to cherish. It’s a place to see not only others in a new light but ourselves as well. Like the stones of the Tangier Kasbah, you may arrive with sharp edges, but leave smoothed by the wind, the seaside and the resilience of ordinary people.