As you are likely aware, Friday happens to be the day when most Moroccan families, at least those that live in the medina, make their special Friday meals.  As involved as I am in my research and traveling right now, there is no family in my life where I can go to eat a Friday meal.  Somewhat unfortunate, but there’s always more to the story.  And, in this case, there’s more to the story of Friday than I realized.

One Friday morning not too long ago, I was walking around the medina and noticed a different sort of flurried activity happening.  Friday mornings tend to be subdued affairs in terms of open shops and active running around.  The tourist-to-local ratio rises significantly on Friday mornings.  It seems to be lost on those wandering around that the closed shops, fewer people, and empty streets actually means something.  It takes the tourists until the adhan for dhuhr sounds to realize that maybe they ought to wait it out in a café, restaurant, or hotel.  The cycle will come full circle.

But, I digress.  What I noticed on this particular walk was a bunch of little things.  I saw motorcycles coming out of houses, with the riders going on missions to replace a busted gas canister or such like.  Little boys carried liters of oil back home so that this or that could be fried.  Young women stood in line at the butcher’s shop, buying this or that cut of meat.  Older men transported layers of fillo dough, covered in damp cloths, which would eventually be used to make pastilla, a Moroccan specialty.  Shops closed their doors, emptying the streets of customers.  And, above it all, muezzins practiced their adhan, clearing their throats into loudspeakers and testing microphones.

During my previous time in Rabat, I did not see all of these little bits.  Sure, I knew they existed and logically had to come together to make Friday what it is, but the reality of it all somehow escaped me.  Maybe I got so used to my Friday routine that I assumed it all to be normal.  Maybe I had already categorized these actions into a different part of my personal observations about my experience.  Maybe they did not matter to me.  Whatever the case, it has taken a change of venue for me to recognize the little ways in which each individual has to contribute to the greater feeling of Friday.

And so it is.  It is the little things that build up to the bigger things.  Whether it is the multitude of stitches in a piece of clothing, the experiences that make up our lives, or the Moroccan Friday mood, each and every one is a sum of little bits and pieces.  And yet, it is not just these little bits and pieces.  The aura of Friday is more than just oil going from the shop to the house: it is a mentality.  It is a way of being.  It says: hey world, we’re going to slow down right now.  We’re going to go home and spend time with our families and relax.  And you can wait until we’re good and ready to get back to the business you’d rather we do. 

Fridays in Morocco.  Long may the little bits be a part of the bigger picture.

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