Tarmilat

Yesterday evening, T and I went with a group of members of the University Christian church and a few sociology students to the nearby village of Tarmilat. Not more than a ten minute drive outside Ifrane, Tarmilat is really just a collection of houses (like the one pictured at right) in which about 24 families live.

Apparently, these families were brought there decades ago to be sheepherders for the rich families of Ifrane. While some of the villagers now have their own flocks of sheep, they still have no legal rights to the land on which they live – they're basically squatters.

Members of the church became interested a few years ago in helping the villagers of Tarmilat. To make a long story short, the village women were taught how to make rugs, blankets and other handicrafts out of the wool of their sheep.

Soon after we arrived in Tarmilat, with the rock-covered hills all around us covered in gentle rose-colored light from the setting sun, the women of Tarmilat laid out their handicrafts for us to look at and, they hoped, to purchase.

These are the blanket that T and I purchased.

When it grew dark and cold, we were invited inside one family's home for a meal. As you can probably tell from looking at the pictures of these houses, they are extremely simple. A person of normal height can only stand up in the middle of the house. The house we entered had no furniture except for a china hutch at one end. Next to the hutch was a tall pile of wool blankets. The floor was covered with rugs. T asked someone what the families do in the winter, and she pointed out a place in the ceiling where a hole could be made. The families build fires under those holes and use pipes to carry the smoke out of the houses. Most of the homes don't have electricity, although some families are using the money from selling their wool blankets to install solar panels. The community also now has a couple of literate women and even a schoolhouse.

I wish I had taken pictures of the meal they served us. It seemed incredibly extravagant, especially given the surroundings. It began like a traditional ftour meal, with dates, melwi, and chebakia. That was followed by whole roasted chickens, which, I was told (and I had to take people's word for this) were delicious. After that, the women brought out giant plates of steaming couscous and pumpkin. Everything was served on small, round tables, around which people gathered, sitting on the floor. We all ate from the same dishes, with our hands. It was the closest T and I have yet come to eating a traditional Moroccan meal, Moroccan style. (For those of you worried about the idea of a bunch of poor Moroccan women feeding rich Moroccan students and Americans, please note that we paid the women for the meal.)

After the meal, we put our shoes back on and exited the house. We were greeted by a breathtaking autumn night. The sky, unobstructed by buildings or trees, undimmed by electric lights, was the clearest, most beautiful night sky I have ever seen.

I left Tarmilat wondering how best I could cognitively represent or conceive of the lives of its people. The common responses of pity or romanticization are clearly too simplistic. What are their lives really like? How do they feel about living in their rock and tin houses, cooking their meals over open fires? What dreams do they have for their sons and daughters? And with a university with great wealth so close by, what is the responsibility of this university community to Tarmilat? These are the things I wondered about on the van ride home, in the dark.