top custom html 2As the mist began to rise above the dusty paths of the outskirts of the "Ancienne Medina" of Casablanca, I was dreaming of the impassioned sermon made by the Imam last Friday: His gray-black beard spilled over his pearl white djellabah and beads of perspiration streamed down his face as his hypnotic voice told the story of his rebirth as a Moslem soldier, having been a mercenary in the trenches in Southeast Asia. I assumed the "julus" position, half-sitting, halfkneeling in the back row, my eyes following his every gesture. I was afraid to blink, not wanting to miss the intense emotion of the moment. I leaned forward, intent on absorbing every detail, my hands clutching the sides of my striped djellabah...bottom custom html 1
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