Jill Pearlman

To peer through the window, being Jewish, while the dominant culture celebrates its religious holiday; Christmas is the familiar scenario, but Ramadan a whole different thing. Three Ramadan weeks in Morocco, lunching in front of people who had woken at 5 to eat, then starved themselves of food and drink until a voice wails that it’s time to eat dates and the best soup ever, harira, and of course pray; then eat more around 11, be happy, and sleep until just before sundown when the whole thing happens again.

A deeper understanding began to seep in. Ramanan always comes up in conversation, but with a deep glow, not complaint It’s a holy month, accepted as things strange, given, apart. In Fez, spirituality permeated the medina, a humility in the air. I began to wait dreamily for the chanting, soft, twining with the birds and blossom scent; I began to imagine it could be a religion of peace. What if that peacefulness twines into your soul, if you approach people with that humility, neither commandeering nor servile; if you have a sense of human place. Not because you’re parched, but just thinking broadly.

I saw hipster girls listening to recorded chants of the Koran, saw some seventy shop workers in Marrakech lay out either mats or cardboard in the open air of Jemaa Fna to pray, tried to return a rental car but the attendant was busy breaking his fast and praying. Tried to buy a dress, but the seamstress was holding down the fort while the shopkeeper was praying. And now, Sunday and Monday Eid, the celebration, the close, the sigh.