المغرب - ١
I.
"Ending one chapter in our lives, beginning another" – the conventional phrasing used during life-altering events, equating the span of one’s life to a book in all its perfectly chronological order. We are taught that our lives work in clear-cut phases, a series of endings and beginnings. That even if some paths may fork and branch out, the progression is always linear across time. But no one ever articulates the reality in which our lives are often a warped mess, held by some kind of constant one continually attempts to understand by lingering in their own chaos while simultaneously reflecting on the big picture. Often when we try to put an end to something, remnants of the past still leak into our future decisions without intention. And those remnants are all red markers that tell us to look back at the things we would rather forget. They continually force us to return to the roots and intricacies of the past, and resolve those blanketed struggles that yearn to be exposed.
Looking at the chaotic change of interests I have made in the most recent years, I shifted from my dream of being a musician to pursuing the path of a doctor to a neuroscientist, and now finding myself quite satisfied with anthropology. A particularly difficult and sensitive passion I decided to turn away from was music. I realized early on that I was physically incapable of doing any better at violin, that I had reached my threshold which proved to be inadequate in the entire sea of competition. So I spent my time searching for something else that would click – something that I could do best. Anthropology was forgiving and granted me the opportunity to seek a new path towards my personal success. People had encouraged me that even if I could not make it as a music professional, it would still be possible to maintain the practice as a hobby.
A hobby.
After 17 years of schooling and hard work, it ended up becoming just a hobby. Never mind about my personal feelings about music, there was a new career path waiting for me and any kind of dream to pursue music had gone out the window.
The number one most essential thing I forgot to put on my refined packing list for Morocco was my violin. My first few weeks in Morocco were not the best. I was in an unfamiliar country, stuck with a small group of unfamiliar individuals I could not connect well with, and I found myself in an extremely low emotional point without the outlet of music to channel my negativity. I searched frantically throughout the city of Rabat for a violin of adequate quality with little or no cost. I started with the weekly open mic sessions at Café Renaissance. After a chain of exchanges and conversations with musicians there, I met a young Moroccan woman (Y) in her oasis of a shoe-making studio in the neighborhood of Oulja. Over steaming coffee and biscuits, she told me of her whole-hearted embrace and love for music, and I the bittersweet tale of my pathetic history with it. A week or so later, Y contacted me, urging me to play for the one-year anniversary of her studio. I was reluctant and uncertain, but her pleading eyes, along with her sister’s quiet nudges convinced me to at least try. I spent all week before the event, practicing until my fingers fell off. It had to be perfect. I was not allowed to mess up.
The day had come, and despite understanding how casual this event was along with the fact that I would probably never see these visitors again, my irrational fear had overwhelmed me. But I powered through, step-by-step. I forced myself to stand and command this cursed piece of wood that rested in my hands. And I played. And I messed up.
Finishing my last note, I felt something different in the air, a mixture of serenity and gratitude. I wanted to hate myself so much for performing so poorly with such a simple piece, but the sweet exchanges I received from various audience members afterwards prevented me from doing so. Some just wanted to tell me it was lovely, others said it made them want to pick up their old rusty violin, and others still telling me I had “breathed life” into that abandoned instrument again. And Y herself was so giddy with excitement, repeatedly thanking me for sharing.
I was so selfish for wanting to keep this to myself. And I was stupid for internalizing the idea that music was something that solely aspired for perfection.
My social circle within the Moroccan youth community started to grow mainly through my consistent attendance of the open mic. What drew me to this event was in part the good music, but mainly the atmosphere of the place. Set up in an old European-style café with sky-high ceilings, wood paneled floors and glass chandeliers, the air is thick with a mix of cigarette smoke and damp seaside air, splashed with a warm scent of roasted coffee beans. Within the 200-person audience there is varied activity – some excitedly greeting one another with hugs and cheek kisses, others staring intently at the stage while sipping their coffee. As most open mics are, those that took to the stage were equally outstanding and hilariously terrible. Still, I admired the engagement with the arts this community had despite the lack of resources. So much talent was shining through these people who were mainly untrained musicians, learning from the internet and each other. With so little job opportunities and establishments to support non-science fields, I was witnessing a rich population of dedicated youth, determined to pursue their dreams despite the constraints of their society.
Moroccans are easy to be friends with. More than anything, they love to have a conversation (with the exception of a few). From one person to another, through regular attendances and lively interactions, my network of friends had expanded, mainly consisting of musicians, artists, and other like-minded people. Out of all these people in my network, I connected on a deeper level with an active member of the music community, O. Perhaps as a second calling to revisit music after Y was O, who continually pushed me to understand for myself why I had given up, and questioned if I truly did sever ties from something so seemingly integral to my identity. Even though O had many struggles with finances and personal life, he was keen to sticking with his passion in music. Most people pursue a conventional career for a better shot at landing a well-paying job (although even the most educated medical student has the slimmest of chances). But O made a definite decision to sacrifice himself to music, despite his country’s bad economy and job market. Over the development of my relationship with O, I watched him struggle, yet always finding sanctuary in music. It was as if it was his religion, his own savior. I started to see that all of my musician friends here were braver than I, dedicating themselves to the one thing they loved most, despite their skill level or politically institutionalized issues. And in turn, I found myself coming to terms with music as well. Why did I have to be perfect at it? Was it something in my musical history that made me so self-conscious and self-loathing? Was I actually done with it as soon as I left conservatory?
I thought about sitting in A's Berlin apartment indulging in Brahms over wine and German chocolate, singing with some fellow backpackers on the rooftop of my hostel in Kathmandu, learning shamisen from an old man in a small Japanese village, and yapping for eons with O about Jazz and contemporary classical music in a smokey cafe in Rabat. I analyzed the twitch of my left hand that was crying to touch any violin nearby. I thought about the degree of desperation I felt for finding a violin in this new foreign country, only for the sake of relieving this itch and releasing the heavy emotional burden I had been carrying all this time.
After so many years, I finally started to digest the reality that although my choice of path has changed, every step I attempted to take in the opposite direction has repeatedly led me back to square one. That is one thing Morocco has taught me.
