Graduate school approval record northeastern university

Preface

Long before I set out with a research agenda to study water resources management, I had heard stories about Figuig. Since I first met Hamid in France while we were both working and studying, I learned much about his homeland of Morocco, and even more of his birthplace deep within the Sahara. He maintained strong ties with his family, who were deeply rooted in the culture and traditions of Figuig. As we spent time and eventually a life together, I was aware early on of our ties to Figuig.

This distant Oasis, surrounded by desert, described as a child’s playground with lush vegetation and palmieries, pure springs that brought water from the distant Atlas and filled holding pools, rivers, and canals, highlighted many stories. A walled city with character defined by generations of inhabitants, with a rich tradition of story telling routinely piqued my interest. My imagination, however, never prepared me for the intrigue that would develop upon a visit to Hamid’s birthplace a few years back, after years of marriage and two children in tow.

While I was certain the city was special, as I found his anecdotes about his childhood endlessly amusing, I had underestimated the value of this special place in my own life. As I set out for the first time with my family to visit the Oasis I was not prepared for how much this Oasis would teach me about how history and culture, in the context of their environment, shape communities.

Immediately upon arriving in Figuig with Hamid (who had not visited for twenty years), and our two children, I could appreciate how a man who had left the community at the age of nine with his family, still identified himself as “from Figuig”. He had lived in Casablanca since he was 10, spent years in France, and subsequently settled in the United States. But our stop at a Nomad tent for casual conversation in a mixture of Berber and Arabic, the native languages of the region that Hamid was translating over tea on a stop along the long road through the desert he seemed so familiar with, made me begin to think he really is from somewhere very different from any place I had known.

When we arrived at the guard post at the entrance to Figuig, Hamid proceeded to engage in conversation in Berber with the two gentlemen, who after only a few minutes, welcomed him home with his new family. This welcome would continue as we entered the city and were immediately met by a cousin, after believing no one was aware of our impending arrival. While we were easily spotted, as few visitors walk the streets of the covered city, even fewer fair blonde women and children venture this far into the Sahara, by the time we arrived at our destination people were calling on us to visit with them and share a meal at their homes.

The scene was one out of a movie I hadn’t seen before. The streets were covered, and smelled of history. The walls were made of clay, along each street was a canal that was interrupted occasionally by a dam made of cloth rags that I learned was used to switch the flow into a home or farm. The system and the life it supported was fascinating. I immediately prompted more investigation, and we followed it to the community baths, farms with holding pools, and eventually the main spring, Tzadert. While we could see water surging from a number of canals the actual well was heavily protected by high walls and heavily secured doors. The site was phenomenal. With only a brief walk through the city we could immediately appreciate the relevance of the water source.

After visiting the Tzadert, we wound our way back through the farms surrounding the city, following the canals that marked our way. A number of farms in the area were abandoned as family’s moved away or sought to establish themselves in newly developed areas of the Oasis. Eventually the streets led us through a maze of walled properties, where we soon happened upon a relative’s farm. After knocking on the door, and calling through the cracks a friendly gentleman greeted us enthusiastically and invited us to step in. The dry desert, and dirt streets and clay walls gave no indication of the life that existed beyond the gate.

A lush garden of date palms, pomegranates and plums, in a menagerie of fruit trees and vegetable gardens were positioned within a grid of irrigation canals with a water holding pool in the center. Hamid’s aunt Fatima, clothed in unremarkable casual clothing, with her hair held back in a kerchief, met us soon afterwards. She immediately led us through the garden, cautioning us to stay on the path and not turn any stones or sticks so as not to disturb any snakes or scorpions, to an area that contained fruits ready for harvesting. Ripe yellow pomegranates were ready for us to try. They were unlike any I had ever tasted. Our children searched for more, as she encouraged them enthusiastically. The joy of having outsiders appreciate the fruits of her labor was palpable. While we picked and peeled, and tasted, she filled her skirt with extras that she would later pack up for us to enjoy and carry on our journey out of the desert along with other gifts from her garden.

With sticky fingers and yellow fruit dye on our clothes and skin from the ripe pomegranates, we made our way back to the well that brought life to the garden. It had already been tapped with a designated amount of water for the day so we weren’t able to see its power, but could wash our hands in a small collection pool, where the kids took off their shoes and played for some time. I was in awe of the intricacy and crude sophistication of the water management system. I continued to ask questions as Hamid interpreted rich conversation. The language, Berber, has remained a powerful trace of his heritage. Our interest in the life of the city and the water system that sustained it was equally matched by the residents of the community. Each person we encountered would eagerly show us how the water, and its corresponding technology and its application supported a vibrant community.

Hamid’s cousins spoke French, and so I was able to converse directly for some time about life in Figuig, and their studies and work beyond the desert. As we were only able to allocate a couple of days to the Oasis this trip, we set off in the afternoon to tour Hamid’s family home ( that looked as if it had not changed since its construction), and the rest of the city, and most memorably, the water system that supports it.

After covering herself with a large white cloth, with only one eye visible, we set off with Fatima into the walled city. We wound our way through the cool, dark streets, dodging bicycles, mopeds, and donkeys while being greeted by children intrigued by the “Romans” who entered their world. Interestingly, Figuig’s ability to protect itself from invaders throughout history was of significance in daily life. The story of the Roman invaders infiltrating the city nearly two thousand years ago is present in the culture even today. Foreigners are more present in the community than when Hamid called this home. Children are still heard, however, telling their friends and siblings that “the Romans are coming,” as in our case, myself and our two children, as non-Moroccan outsiders are referred to as “Eromian” (Romans in Berber). When Hamid was young, visitors were even fewer, residents traveled less and fear of the unknown led to a tradition of running away while announcing to those within ear shot that “the Romans are coming.” Curiosity has since replaced fear and many approached, mostly the children, to banter in the few words they knew in French. We were followed occasionally, but innocently, to learn why we are there and where we are going.

Eventually, we turn a corner and Hamid searches over a door for a key that remained hidden in the same place since his last visit. It’s still there. It is very heavy and very large, perhaps 8 inches long and 3 inches wide. Its appearance was what one would imagine in story books as the key to an ancient city. Our children carry it to the heavy door and begin to insert it into the strong lock, but from another entrance to the house we are greeted by some children and a couple of adults who are living in the home. They are somehow related, but as lineage is so important, most of the people we will meet on this trip are related to Hamid in some capacity. There is to a large, extended family who gather at the entrance. They all seem to know Hamid, he remembers only a few. We enter the house, where we immediately find ourselves in a cool, dry, courtyard. There are children sleeping on mats by the entrance to one of the many rooms downstairs. A distant cousin who is living in the house with her family offers us tea. As is custom, we accept. In the meantime they invite us to tour the house.

We are shown the donkey’s room, a storage room, the kitchen, and stove and then make our way up to the next level overlooking the courtyard. There are a series of dark, cool rooms. These, Hamid recounts, are bedrooms where each of a number of families would have occupied a number of years back. There is a birthing room where women are cared for during labor, and a bathroom (with minimal luxuries), and a series of locked doors. We move onto the third floor and find a similar arrangement and then climb the stairs to the roof where the family would sleep in the evening on hot summer nights. Mats and rugs were piled along the wall that would be pulled out to cushion the clay floor for a good night’s rest. The house, according to Hamid has been unchanged, but is in disrepair as most of the family have built new homes or moved to urban areas beyond the Sahara.

We descend to the courtyard for tea and conversation and then make our way back to the family farm where we are fed couscous with kale and spices, a specialty of Figuig. We then retire to the roof where we have hand made rugs and wool blankets awaiting us under the stars. The night is cool and clear and we sleep soundly until sunrise, when, surprisingly, we are awakened by a few drops of rain, a rarity in the region.

Unfortunately, our schedule requires an early departure, but not until we are brought to the well to experience the force of the water that brings life to the farm and the community. The water is cool and clear, and refreshing. Its force is remarkable and its power to give life to the community intoxicating. I finally begin to understand how our lives, so distant from this thriving Oasis thousands of miles away, have been shaped by it.

From the day I met Hamid I knew he was from Figuig. I didn’t know what or where it was, but experienced the strength of its culture through him for years to come. Though we were young, the pull of the community he left as a child molded a sense of value unlike any I was used to. Though I was immediately drawn to his wit, wisdom, and character, I was also deterred by an unexplainable guardedness. As we became closer and years passed where we shared the excitement for difference, yet sincerity, the prospects of marriage brought powerful traditions into play. Despite their eagerness to send their children off to study and gain experience abroad, Hamid’s parent’s expected, as the culture demanded, that he marry only within the Ksar of Zenaga in Figuig. The foray into years of hostility towards each other for not supporting one another’s wishes, began there. I must admit, for years I silently wished that he wasn’t from Figuig. It felt exclusionary and not accepting of our differences. It just wouldn’t leave us alone.

It wasn’t until our visit, after years of marriage, and two children, and an accumulation of knowledge from graduate work in a field I enjoyed, that I would realize how this Oasis put our past in its place. Despite travels around the world and through different cultures I knew, at the first sight of Figuig along the horizon, there was something special about the place that drew my attention and pitted understanding against my hesitation to embrace the community. Its culture and traditions resonated within and beyond is borders, despite its geographical isolation. The vibrant oasis in the middle of the Sahara desert had a story to tell. The water that bred life into the land and community was sure to be the storyteller. The survival of this community in harmony with its environment was sure to have valuable lessons to offer us in an age of scarcity and environmental crisis. The crude sophistication of the water system and the strength of the community drew me to learn more of success and failure in water resources management. I finally understood how heritage and property supported the community and that I had a place in the history of this community. The value of learning from a successful system and a palpable commitment to its success could offer valuable lessons in searching for an answer to the problems of water today. It is with this inspiration that I determined to return with a research agenda and learn more about this particular system.

And so, in June 2005, I did return to Morocco for a month of interviews. Most took place in Figuig; through I also interviewed government officials in Rabat and Casablanca. The trip was followed by additional phone interviews and follow-up conversations after our return. This dissertation is the result of my research on the importance of understanding Figuig’s law, society, and culture through observation, interviews, and primary and secondary data as it relates to the challenges and complexities of water policy in a Moroccan Oasis.