CBC News - World - 20,000 U.K. war vets in prison system

CBC News - World - 20,000 U.K. war vets in prison system

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Related to the Grossman readings. The end result of the execution of warfare is the destruction of the minds and lives of thousands of veterans, which in turn has probably affected exponentially more victims (i.e. family members, friends, etc).

Chefchaouen: Blue City of Celebrities

            The following story is about celebrities.  Forget Hollywood, its too soon for Bollywood, and Cannes is still a sea away.  In Morocco, celebrities roam free, aren’t hassled by the paparazzi, and their stage is not the screen, but the town square.

            This is not just any town square either, but the centre of life in the serene town of Chefchaouen, nestled comfortably in the cradling foothills of the Rif Mountains.  The Rif Mountains, due east of Tangier, are a world away from the maddening crowds of the cities—offering those who venture into their depths a view of Morocco distinctly different than anywhere else.  Perhaps it is the predominantly Spanish influence, along with the mountains, that have kept this region more remote.  Whatever it may be, the Rif Mountains are one of Morocco’s prized possessions, with Chefchaouen being the aquamarine heart of the region.

            Situated on the sun-filled southern face of the hills, Chefchaouen’s blue-washed Medina has a unique Mediterranean feel, reminding one of the whitewashed towns of the Greek Isles with a North African twist. 

            Gone are the blue seas of the Mediterranean, in their place the rolling green hills of the Rif, speckled with signs of life, as if Allah had designed the view himself.  Mosques are scattered throughout, their minarets easily discernable from miles away.  Comfortably set amid this landscape is the bustling, yet quiet, town of Chefchaouen, its sky blue buildings forming the theatre which surrounds the stage that is the old town square. 

            The square itself is appropriately the size of a large stage—the set pieces, a centuries old Kasbah (fortress) and a large mosque,  act as constant reminders of the setting. 

            The VIP section of the theatre is lined with restaurants and cafes.  So sit back, order up a tall mint tea, and prepare to witness the ongoing conversation that is constantly abuzz in the town square, the stage upon which daily life is acted out.  Bringing us full circle to the actors, and not just any celebrities, but local celebrities.  Local celebrities are the charming, scary, hilarious, and otherwise entertaining personalities that one comes across while traveling.  As luck would have it, Chefchaouen—set in the Hollywood Hills of Morocco—is chalk full of them.

 

            Glancing to the right, you may start to distinguish a darkly clad, hunched over figure, shuffling at a turtle’s pace into the square.  The features—wrinkles, wide eyes, and a rebar cane—become ever more clear as this ancient-looking man makes his way onto the stage, and towards a seat centred in the square, directly underneath the Kasbah, which seems modern compared to the figure now perched in front of it.  This man is Slow Walker, aptly named for his record-setting square crossings, which average about 10 metres a minute.  Taking his time to get settled, Slow Walker’s unpredictable nature is what draws people in.  One minute a crazy old man, bantering nonsense to anyone close enough to listen, though if offered a kind glance he is quick to return one, leaning on his rebar cane, shrouded in a Djellaba as baggy as the folds of skin on his face.

            As Slow Walker continues his drawn out entrance, another figure comes into view, contrasting Slow Walker in dress, but matching him in demeanour.  Enter Mother Theresa/ET, fondly referred to as MoT/ET by fans.  The unique name refers to this old lady’s cunning similarity to Mother Theresa, with a hunch and shuffle similar to Slow Walker’s, while simultaneously resembling Steven Spielberg’s ET on Halloween, bundled up in all white garb.  If one were not familiar with Chefchaouen’s local celebrities, they might believe that MoT/ET and Slow Walker were involved in a lengthy race, as both characters make their way to and fro about the square, spending more time shuffling than sitting.

            No sooner have these 2 central characters shuffled by, when an array of celebrities pass through, looking for a few dirhams (Moroccan currency), offering a friendly smile as they ply their various trades to the audience.

            Leading this parade of players are the music men, 2 traditionally dressed townsfolk, march past each table—drums a banging and rattles shaking—pleasing some while distracting others.  Once you become a familiar face on the scene though, the music men are happy to continue past you to kindly welcome newcomers to the show.

            They are swiftly followed by necklace man, who has an uncanny knack for carrying armfuls of necklaces, representing the Chefchaouen chapter of an organization that has members spread throughout cities, towns, and beaches worldwide.  With a monopoly on the café market, necklace man spends almost more time sitting with audience members in the front row than on the stage itself.  A true celebrity, he is an incredible socialite, chatting it up with any and all, especially those who care to take a look at his wares.

 

            Intermission comes in no time, the stage having presented a constant scene of conversation, which slows somewhat as the afternoon wears on.  Act II, full of more celebrity encounters will begin as the afternoon fades into evening.  Before it begins though, it is time to get up and stretch, heading through the winding blue aisles of the Medina to the concession stand, run by yet another celebrity, Nut Man. 

            Nutman’s celebrity status—and the reason for the long cue at intermission—is solely due to his fantastically delicious nuts.  Unlike anything else in Morocco, or perhaps the world, Nutman’s nuts are handled with meticulous love and care, pan simmered over a piping hot fire, the sweet aromas floating out of his shop and into the surrounding streets for everyone to enjoy.  One can’t help but be lured in by the sweet and salty smell, so strong you can almost taste them.

            The hunger only grows as you finally reach the “counter”, a bouquet of beautiful nuts—roasted, toasted, and ready to serve.  A rainbow of flavors—red, brown, yellow, pink, green, orange—beckons the taste buds, as Nutman stands poised with scoop and scale, truly dedicated to this labor of love.  So sweet, so sumptuous his nuts, that a band of bees sits feasting on them, harvesting sugar fit for their queen.

            Carefully then, Nutman gathers a medly of his best, weighs them up, and graciously provides for your enjoyment, a perfect snack.  Munching on Nutman’s nuts as you sit down to another mint tea, it is easy to see how his celebrity and legend have grown, as nuts this good are hard to come by.

 

            Munching away, the bright hues of the afternoon slowly fade to gold, the Kasbah bathed in the soft spotlight of the sun, its red walls a clowing amber, setting the scene for yet another evening performance on this stage of life.  Currently in the midst of the holy month of Ramadan—were Muslims fast from dawn to sundown—the square comes alive in the minutes before sunset, the actors moving to and fro, excitement building in the air as they prepare to break the fast.

            Back and forth, forth and back they move, from shop to shop, making time to stop and talk.  The climax of the show, a captivatingly chaotic performance full of careening cloaks and constant conversation, perfectly encapsulates the zest for life that Morocco is known for, and which keeps audiences coming back night after night.  Young and old, men and women, the social hub of Chefchaouen is alive and full of energy, families headed to houses of friends or relatives to celebrate, feast, and enjoy each others’ company.

            The celebratory atmosphere drifts through the air, which has faded to dusk, the laughter and cheerful voices rising as the feast draws near.  As if on cue, the air fills with a chorus of seemingly omnipresent voices, those of the Muezzins as they call out to the masses, beckoning the faithful to prayer, and the hungry to feast.  These beautiful, guttural utterances flow through the darkening sky, pouring out from minarets large and small, raining down on the streets below.  And so Act II comes to an end with a flourish, the Muezzins barely finished their songs of devotion as the actors rush to their mosques and then home, eager to fill their empty stomachs with food and drink, and their homes with more laughter and discussion.  And so ends the scene, the sun has set, the song has been sung, and the stage empties, the curtains of /darkness drawn shut on another memorable performance.  

           

            It was after one of these performances, relaxing in the square late in the evening, with only men still socializing, that we were able to go behind the scenes, where we were to enjoy a relaxing massage, or so we thought…

 

                                                THE HAMMAM

 

            The hour was late, the square was bare, and the air quiet but for a few men left conversing in the cafes.  Having headed out for a mint tea (what else?) nightcap, we were approached by yet another local celebrity, Mohammed III who was of no relation to his holiness the Prophet, nor as famous as a Mohammed still to come.

            Introducing himself and taking a seat, we quickly started discussing Morocco, our views, and our questions.  Realizing that locals are quite often the best source of knowledge on social and cultural questions, we soon asked about a Moroccan institution we had heard so much about, yet had remained a mystery to us—The Hammam. 

            Hammams are public bathhouses, where men and women gather (at separate times of course) to bathe, socialize, and take a load off.  Arriving in Morocco, we had read and heard much of these hammams, as they are a central aspect to Moroccan life.  The Islamic Hammam supposedly dates from the time of the Prophet Mohammed, adapted from the Romans and Greeks.  Hammams have become an important aspect of modern day life in Morocco, little having changed over the centuries, with the hammam acting as a place to socialize and discuss family, politics, and life in general.

            Aware of the history of hammams, and their ongoing social importance, we were eager to experience first-hand a bathing experience Moroccan-style.  Having lost ourselves in the Fez Medina in search of one such elusive bathhouse, we were happy to hear our friend Mohammed happily proclaim that there was a hammam just around the corner. 

            Honing our developing sixth sense for “friends”, we proceeded with caution.  Proceeding with caution became somewhat of a common occurance as various opportunities presented themselves on our travels—proceeding being the best way to open yourself up to the experience, having faith in your instincts which can often reward you with experiences of a lifetime.  Trusting this instinct, we followed Mohammed to the hammam, as he seemed genuine and truly wanted to show us a side of Morocco that few foreigners take time to experience.  We would not be disappointed, as what followed was a glimpse behind the scenes, into a private yet extremely social aspect of Moroccan society.

            And so, thanking Mohammed as he wished us all the best, we entred the hammam, completely unaware of what we were about to experience, leaving ourselves open to the moment, ready for anything, or so we thought…

            It had been organized with the owner that we would not only get to bathe, but would be treated to a massage.  At 12:30am, what could be a better night cap than a hot steam and a nice massage.  Two massage options were offered, one involving a scrubbing gloves that peeled off dead skin, the other being a more physical treatment, which we believed would be a take on the familiar deep tissue massage.  We chose the latter, blissfully unaware of the surprise our bodies were in for. 

            Having agreed upon our “treatment” we were introduced to our helper, who was to guide us through the whole process, and proved to be a great help throughout.

            One may at this point be wondering, as were we, what the “dress code” in a hammam is.  Keenly aware of the men around us, we quickly discerned that bathing suits were a must, saving us from a potentially embarrassing situation had we entered the bathing area in our other, more liberal suits.  Close one.

            And so we headed into the bathing area, which was separated into three distinct rooms, varying in temperature, and strategically arranged to maximize the bathing experience.  Passing through a doorway, we entered into a cool vaulted room, lined with tiles, three spouts sprouting from one wall, a constant flow of clod water splashing down into a large basin below.  Benches lined the walls, sud shrouded men perched upon them, dousing themselves with the icy cold water, sealing in the heat and envigorating their senses, smiling to us as we passed by into the middle chamber.  The heat hit us immediately, a noticeable change from the cool room, but not as hot as the distant chamber.  This far room, which we never had a chance to enter, was visible through an open doorway, and it was immediately apparent as to the source of the heat so strong it was pouring into our chamber.  Similar to the initial cool chamber, this “hot” room contained another 3 spouts directed into a large basin, a constant flow of piping hot water creating a steam room, in which patrons sat sweating and sizzling, basting their bodies for a thorough cleansing. 

            Our helper quickly got to work, directing us to remain in the “warm” middle room.  As we began to develop a slight sweat, he ran to and fro, gathering buckets which he filled with water—some from the steaming hot pond in the steam room, some from the icy shallows of the room from whence we’d come, blending them together to get the water temperature just right.  While he was busy with this, we sat transfixed by the scene of movement and chatter around us, having arrived at a time when the hammam was full of youths.  Horsing around, laughing and splashing each other, the rooms were full of activity, leaving us on the sidelines.  Surveying the room, it became apparent that we were in the central scrubbing area, as there werew shower stalls at each end, and a wide open space used primarily to rub dead moistened skin off with a roughly textured glove.

            This space also proved to be the massage area.  In this case, the word “massage” turned out to be entirely open to interpretation, our idea being a far cry from the beating our bodies were about to receive.  More of an assault on the joints and limbs than the relaxing experience on would hope for, this was one for the books.  Lucky enough to go first, I played the part of the unassuming foreigner quite well, completely shocked as my body was pushed, pulled, battered, beaten, and almost broken.  This VERY physical massage stretched all extremities, seemingly to the brink of breaking them, my limbs contorting in ways I hadn’t thought possible.  Possible yes, intended no.  The agony was startling, my facial expressions articulating the pain that my voice couldn’t adequately profess.  This process of joint jarring acrobatics involved moves similar to Greco-Roman wrestling, an interesting way for men to bathe each other to say the least.

            Having contorted and cracked by my body into a pretzel and then back again, I was finally freed, doused in hot water, and though still recovering from the schock of my massage, actually felt quite good.  After watching Eric’s equally painful experience, happy to be a spectator, we were ushered into the initial room we had entered from—the cold room.  The proceeding shock of cold water had nothing on what we’d just been through, refreshing our bodies, closing up not only our pores, but also a bathing experience like no other.  Full of insights and injuries, we meandered through the alleys and paths of the medina, inebriated with joy and excitement at the adventure we had just been through.  The beauty of life, a normal evening for some people can be the experience of a lifetime to others.