A Very Merry Christmas Eve

Moroccan Witchcraft is kind of a heavy topic. It's extremely secretive and hidden, its sometimes considered shameful and against God. Moroccan Witchcraft and the research of the culture surrounding it has brought Becca and I to many frustrating and confused moments. Why is it so hidden, why is it such a secret? How on God's green earth are we going to find Moroccans willing to talk with us, let alone be recorded, let alone be photographed talking about this subject? On top of that how were we going to find a practitioner of Moroccan Witchcraft, something that is considered illegal against the state and the Islamic faith, to talk to us?

We started interviews a few days ago. The first people we found willing to talk to us about this were academics. Professors of culture, sociology, and Islamic studies filled us in on both their professional knowledge as well as their own stories they've heard and been told throughout life.

... blah blah blah, cool, interesting, but not that interesting. Until...

This morning Becca and I rolled out of bed, checked every piece of equipment we possibly could. Lenses, batteries, charging everything, clearing space on SD cards, CF cards, so on. We walked down to the ocean near the cemeteries, where we met our translator. We waited. Waited. Our translator made a few calls. Then two women across the street waved to the three of us. And across we went. Words were exchanged in Arabic, we shook the women's hands. Salam Alaykum. Wa Alaykum Salam. Finally we asked our translator what was going on, what was the plan, what were they talking about. "Okay you can stay here, take photos, they will try to get a Shawafa to come out of the cemetery," he told us. (Non Muslims are not allowed in Muslim cemeteries, so we needed to get the Shawafa to come out to meet us.) We stood from the top of the hill looking down shooting photos with our telephoto lenses. We now understood the Shawafas are sometimes just women who sit in these cemeteries, waiting for people to stop by and "talk."

We watched as one of the women we met went down to talk to her. We watched as she called our translator from inside to tell him the verdict. She was refusing to come out. So a beautiful Moroccan woman adorned in hijab and all began to look like she was deep in thought. She spoke in Arabic with our translator. Finally, "have you showered today? Are you clean?" we were asked. "Uhm, well last night, like I showered and then slept," Becca lied. "And you?" our translator looked at me. Oh crap, if anyone knows me at all you know that me and lying do not go well together. "Uhm, yeah, same." To which the Moroccan woman rambled again to our translator. Then, "are you clean though?" "Yeah, I mean we're clean..." Becca said. For a solid thirty seconds I thought perhaps the woman was just offended by us, maybe I stunk, oh Jesus, I stink don't I, oh Lord. I swear if I don't get to talk with this Shawafa because I stink, I will pray to deodorant and never miss another shower the rest of my life as long as I live. Then, our translator just turned to us and said... "you aren't going to get it, you aren't going to understand." Becca and I just looked at each other until Becca said "ohhhh that kind of clean." To which our translator said something about a certain type of cleaning related to after women have intercourse. Yes this does go on my top list of awkward things that have had to be translated to me through a male Muslim in a foreign country... Poor guy was very uncomfortable, but credit to him he really stepped up today from being so reserved and came through for us, helping us out every step of the way.

We were going to be taken inside. Inside the Muslim cemetery to meet the Shawafa.

"Could you cover your hair, it'd be best." Becca and I were so prepared for this moment. The moment in this Muslim country we'd be asked to cover our hair. Yet here we were fiddling with secretive, hidden camera equipment and setting audio recordings to the right levels and walking into this holy land that was not our own, and now we are whipping out scarves and desperately panicking to throw them on. Hold on hold on. We're in a frenzy as I try to explain to our translator this isn't something we do everyday, we aren't good at this... The beautiful Moroccan Woman looks over, and says, "that's good, no problem, no problem, it looks good." And bless her soul, was that all the English she knew in the world it was just enough to set me at ease and let me realize this group of three Moroccans surrounding the two American girls were there to help, support, and protect us, none of them had to be there, but they welcomed us not just in their country, their culture, but on their holy land to explore a secretive, hidden, part of their culture. Her few words of English pushed me forward.

There she was. All dressed in red. A friend next to her, our translator, these other two women helping us, and me and Becca. It was quite the scene. I felt like such a journalist, like a local team had been developed around us to help us tell this woman's story. And to do it with my best friend, it was a really special moment. We were invited to sit down. Our equipment was welcomed, but no photographs of her face were allowed. I had a man next to me, her friend, and the two women helping us behind me, who after my first shot tapped me from behind to see it, and they approved. I shot her feet, her hands, as much of her body as I could from my one angle. We ran an audio recorder, meanwhile the group behind me chatted away in LOUD Arabic just over my shoulder, Becca, and our translator worked hard to hear the conversation with the Shawafa and plan what question would follow. Question after question we learned so much, so much we'd been seeking to hear first hand.

We did it. We made our way to a Shawafa. After months of planning, contacting, researching, calling, reading, discussing, presenting on Moroccan Witchcraft, here was one form, a Shawafa, sitting right before our very eyes. If accomplishment could be an emotion I was experiencing it in that moment.

We were so nervous sitting down we sat uncomfortably until Becca, our translator, and my feet were all asleep. The beautiful Moroccan woman offered to take our photograph with the Shawafa; the Shawafa faced us in the photograph so you can only see the back of her head, still so worth it.

And that is the story of the day I met a Shawafa.

I'm just radiating with journalism happiness now.

So, at this same time, today is Christmas Eve and it's my first Christmas away from home, and family. If anyone knows me even an inkling you know that home is my holy land and my sacred place. Nothing is better than being in the Mitten, Otis and Oliver on each side of me. Being away today was hard. Having not heard my dad's voice in over a week is beyond what I can typically handle, again if anyone knows me even at all you know that nothing can get between my *practically, (and sometimes literally)* hourly phone calls to my dad.

But here is the thing people: we are talking the most awesome combination of photojournalism and anthropology and world travel and foreign language and religion and cultural exchange possible, that I sacrificed home for. And me, being about one of the most dorky humans on this planet, if I could've wished for any gift this Christmas, it would've most definitely been to meet a Shawafa here in Morocco. Today on Christmas Eve, I met a Shawafa, interviewed her about her life and photographed her. I'm going to go ahead and say even in Africa, in a country where Christmas isn't celebrated, far from home, far from my family, far from the food I'm craving and my own bed and my dogs and my big sister and my everything I had the most Merry Christmas Eve I possibly could have ever dreamed of.

And let's be real, what is more Christmas-y than the Facebook group we have between all the students on the trip (appropriately titled "Shawafas and S#%!) sharing Christmas themed YouTube videos and laughing our butts off? Can't beat that.

Tomorrow we have the day off and most of us our headed by train to Casablanca for the day. Should be a relaxing and fun day trip, followed by dinner with everyone back in Rabat, and our Secret Santa exchange at night. Becca's mom packed us Christmas stockings to open up in the morning, and when I remembered that we finally get to open them earlier today I nearly cried tears of joy.

Merry Christmas Eve everyone! Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, Feliz Navidad, Happy Day, Happy Night, Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings to all feeling festive this time of year! From Morocco to wherever you may be!