Leaving on a jet plane
I am leaving this country in seven days. In seven days a year of my life will be left on the other side of the ocean and I will return to a place where people will not understand me when I say things like "schnoo?", "bizeff" and "inshallah"- convenient Moroccan vernacular that has warmed its way into my everyday speak. In seven days I will be around people who, although they may know me incredibly well, will still have no clue exactly as to what I have experienced this year. And, despite their best intentions and efforts, they will never be able to really understand the changes that have taken place inside of me because of this year away. I can show them my pictures and share my journal entries, but this experience is uniquely mine, which is both a phenomenal and isolating realization.
In seven days I am going home, but I am not sure how I will fit into that home anymore. I have undeniably changed this year because of the people and places I have encountered and the adaptations a year away from the familiar and convenient has forced me to make. I like the changes I see in myself. I am friendlier, more open-minded, more flexible, more independent and ironically also more comfortable being dependent. I can communicate more aptly in Arabic and French. I know a good deal more about Morocco, obviously, and a bunch of other topics like poverty, Islam, development, and gender relations. I have developed a love and knack for travel, an ability to communicate nonverbally, and a special affinity for being out of my element and charmingly awkward when language and cultural barriers are just too tough to crack!
But I right now, with one foot in Morocco and the other getting ready to board a plane for the United States, I am anxious about how my experiences this year and their effects on me will manifest in my life from here on out.
If my life were a book, I think this chapter would be my favorite so far. It is that pinnacle point in the storyline where the protagonist enters a situation in one state and emerges with a new outlook and previously unknown strengths. In this chapter there have been new characters who markedly influence the growth of the protagonist. There is humor, hardship, and discovery. There are encounters that cause the protagonist to confront her own stance in the world. She is forced to ask herself what she believes on certain issues and how that defines who she is and how she interacts with the rest of the world.
I think what really unnerves me about going home is that I am closing this new chapter that I have just started and no one at home will really be able to read it and understand it. However, despite the fact that this experience is uniquely mine and that this chapter is largely illegible to others, I believe it is an experience that will stick with me. People might not know the stories of how these changes came to be, but they will see this renewed protagonist and in that way my experience will last.
On an academic level, I cannot imagine my education without this time abroad. For two years I learned about and discussed Islam, Middle Eastern politics, cultural imperialism, development, and other issues in a classroom among other academically-minded people who are predominately, like me, American. I watched Arabic language DVDs on repeat until my eyes were bleary and the voice of the DVD’s main characters Maha and Khalid were continually ringing in my ears.
My education up until my abroad experience was excellent, but it was not complete. Those two years, I believe, were preparation for this one. I was given a springboard of the knowledge and tools I needed to take what I had learned into "the real world" (in my case this happened to be Morocco) and test it and build on it. It was a chance for me to see if what I was learning "made sense" beyond the classroom. Although I did take traditional classes here as well, my time here in general was an opportunity to learn in a new way that involved more than just reading, writing, and discussing but encompassed my whole life entirely. I learned walking down the street and bargaining in the souk. I learned talking to people on trains. I learned living with my host-family. In short, I never stopped soaking up knowledge. I saw things I did not understand and I asked about them. The more I learned the more I realized I did not know and the more I asked…the cycle was addictive.
Like I said, I cannot imagine my education without this year abroad, but I can also not imagine a year abroad without the base of my university education, which fueled my fire to learn so much about the world in the first place. They compliment one another beautifully.
On a last note, it has been humbling to be "an immigrant" so to speak in a new country. At times I was treated the better for being an American and at times the worse. Often I felt ridiculously childish, as if I had regressed from being a 21 year old independent woman to a bumbling child who could hardly order a sandwich at a café or carry on a conversation past a few sentences. But, as so many people do in this situation, I adapted and became very comfortable being a little uncomfortable. Gradually, I picked up the culture and customs of my new environment and little by little I did a better job of blending in. I went from blatant outsider to outsider who can at least get around and speak the language and who people came to respect and accept.
I have come to believe that one cannot ever truly and fully integrate and belong entirely to a culture that is not one’s own. This is not, however, a negative thing. I think one can adapt, learn and grow from living in another culture. One can pick up new customs and take on new outlooks. But to lose oneself entirely in another culture, I believe, is both nearly impossible and also unhealthy. The reason I have learned so much from this year abroad is that I have been able to look at my own culture and beliefs from a new perspective. I have not traded them in unquestioningly for those of another culture but rather have been able to reevaluate my views, values and habits through experiencing another set far different from my own. I have grown and my perspective on so many things has become deeper and more complex by virtue of exposure to another way of living and thinking.
In seven days I am leaving Morocco. I am leaving friends, memories, and experiences. I am leaving a culture that, though once unknown, has over the months become familiar and comforting to me. I am leaving all of this behind; however, in seven days I am opening up the next chapter of my life. I am returning home but it is not a backwards move at all. I am sure that all the events, people, places and changes that have made this chapter so amazing will stick with me. I hope someday to come back to Morocco, but until then, I also hope I can in some way carry with me everything Morocco has meant to me and everything it has done for me on an academic, social and personal level.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Simple Life
For the past two months, staring up at me in our program itinerary in big black bold letters, were the much-discussed words “Village Stay.” I had heard horror stories about how no one escapes contracting some crippling intestinal parasite during the week, about how you will need nose plugs for the bus ride back because no one has seen a shower in seven days, about how for one week we must venture into a world without e-mail, television and- heaven forbid- Facebook! The village stay was a thing to be at once feared and eagerly anticipated.
On Saturday morning, we boarded a bus and headed east of Casablanca about three hours. Then, reminiscent of an earlier village expedition, we crammed some 15 students into the back of a cargo van and set off along a dusty unpaved road snaking over green hilly pastures. When we arrived in our village and nervously stumbled out of the van we were greeted by more of less the entire village standing anxiously in a cluster waiting to collect their mystery Americans who would share their homes for the week. We were the first group of Americans ever to stay with these families.
The village we stayed in is Arab as opposed to Berber, the original North African inhabitants who speak a different language called Tamazight. The village population is around 300. In some form or fashion nearly everyone is related, which made for some confusion when both my friend Sam and I were told we were living with Mustafa Faiz family of four! Turns out we were cousins. Actually I was cousins with about half a dozen of our peers!
The families stood excitedly on one side. The anxious students on the other. It was like picking teams for grade-school kick ball- the quiet chatter and nervous laughter. The roll call came…I grabbed my backpack, a two days supply of bottled water and a roll of toilet paper and approached the collection of curious villagers to shake hands with my Mustafa…and the journey began!
She’ll be falling off a donkey when she comes!
In one of my favorite movies the main character spends a summer in the Greek Isles enjoying a forbidden romance. In one scene she glamorously rides a donkey up the narrow stone streets, passing by blue and white villas as the azure sea sparkles below. Let me right now dispel this mythical image! Donkey riding is not in the least bit glamorous!
Before I knew it, my Mustafa- who shall from henceforth be known as my Baba or simply Baba- had flung my three year old sister on top of the donkey and was grabbing my arm to hoist me up as well. Baba is a rather a wisp of a man despite his vigorous lifestyle and I was sure that with my backpack on I had Baba by a good fifteen pounds at least. This coupled with the fact that there was no stirrup for support and that I had to maneuver some remarkable acrobatics to swing one leg high enough to straddle the donkey made for an interesting mount.
Once atop this donkey I quickly discovered that there was no “handle” to speak of and that the only thing within my grasp was the small child in front of me, who seemed ridiculously as ease with the whole situation. I was not sure if I was expected to hold her so that she did not fall off or if really in my efforts to “secure her” I was just looking for something to cling to while our donkey clopped up the uneven hillside.
With my legs flopping and hanging awkwardly six inches from the ground, a three year old in my lap, a thirty-pound sack on my back, and Baba at our side, I bumped merrily along to our house on top of the hill. I actually laughed out loud a few times as I pondered the situation and looked forward to more moments of hilarity and cultural exchange to come. Let the learning begin!
My family and village life
What do a cardiologist, an imam, and a sheep herder have in common? Me!
My most recent father, Mustafa, is 42 years old and grows wheat and herds sheep. My mother Aisha is 33. She was born and raised in the closest big town which has 60,000 people but moved to the village when she married Mustafa at age 18. I am not sure how much schooling she has had. Their 3 year-old daughter, Nohila, is one of the most beautiful children I have ever seen, with a mop-head of dark brown curly hair and big brown eyes.
Next door to us live Mustafa’s brother, his wife and their brood of nine children and one grandbaby. We spent most of our time together, including meals.
Our house is a stone/clay building with three rooms. All the floors are stone, though some have been covered by carpets. In the middle of the three rooms is a small courtyard with a single olive tree in the middle. The kitchen has a small fireplace where Aisha cooks bread, a gas burner to heat tea and tagines on, a very low round wooden table, and a place for sacks of animal feed, dishes and other kitchen essentials. When she cooks, Aisha either squats incredibly low or else sits on a small plastic stool only six inches off the ground so that she can knead the bread in the dish on the floor. I learned to make seven types of bread this week.
Our meals consisted of lots of bread, roasted vegetables, the occasional chicken (which I watched go from alive and clucking to roasted and savory- a first time experience!) Every meal was accompanied by lots of tea loaded with sugar as was every visit by friends and neighbors. People do not use tooth brushes either although there is a natural plant that they chew to clean their teeth.
The other two rooms of the house are fairly interchangeable. Both have stacks of blankets in the corner, mats on the floor, and a pile of pillows. We spent a lot of time on the floor-eating, sleeping, watching the small black and white TV, and weaving. The women sit behind the loom for a good chunk of the day, when they are not washing, cooking, and tending to the animals. Aisha’s day was a constant string of tasks from 6 am until bed time around 10. The carpets and blankets these women weave are intricate, colorful and truly beautiful. In the U.S. they would sell for at least 50 dollars each but in the weekly souk in the nearby town each one goes for between 6 and 12 dollars.
The men meanwhile spend most of the day outside, herding and farming. The drought plaguing Morocco these past few years has been placing a lot more pressure on these families. We had discussions with both the village men and women separately and both expressed hopes that their children would be educated and find work in the city or abroad as agriculture is no longer that viable.
Education, it seems, is by and large valued by the villagers though it is unfortunately not as readily accessible. The village has a primary school but the nearest middle school is too far away to commute. Families must either find financial means to pay for space in a dormitory, send their kids to family members in the city, or move to the city themselves if they hope to continue their children’s education. While some families find the means to do this others unfortunately do not.
Girls in particular are more likely to be kept at home to weave and take care of the house. Some are also married young to older men. An extreme example is the case of my friend Erika’s host mother who was born in 1988, after most of the students on our program! She has a four year old and an infant. The marriage age is going up though and the number of children per woman is going down. Women can access birth control at a nearby clinic. As a rule of thumb births occur at home, unless complications arise, in which case the hour long commute to the hospital often complicates matters further.
There is no running water in the village but a dozen wells provide the community with water carried to the house, I might add, by our dear friend the donkey! There were of course no toilets and without going into too much detail I would just like to say that I became very familiar with the great outdoors! We washed our hands before meals though no soap was used. Surprisingly, as a whole people seemed relatively healthy except for a few cases of the common cold.
Religious sentiment in the village is mixed. There is a mosque but I never saw my family praying. During our open group discussions one man said “Those who do not pray our not ours. They are not Muslim!” Obviously others disagreed with his perspective. The women expressed a desire for literacy classes so that they could learn to read the Koran.
I talked a lot with my mother throughout the week. We giggled over misunderstandings and taught each other bad words in our different languages. We talked about marriage, life in America, our lives as women in general. Despite language barriers I grew close to her in our week together. She expressed so many times to me that I was like family and that she hopes I can return and bring my parents with me.
I don’t know what I was expected to take away from the week exactly. But it certainly wasn’t pity. Perhaps I do feel a slight gratitude at having landed where I am in life due to the accident of birth. By American standards these people live in poverty. But at the end of the day, they are meeting their needs. They are fed, clothed, love one another and seem happy. I speak only for my host-family here as I know there were other more difficult family and economic situations in the village. I do hope that those who seek more-education, more opportunities, lives different form those they currently lead- that they are able to access those things. Their community center is attached to a larger organization that is working to realize those goals.
One of my best friends and mentors often says "There are so many ways to live your life." That is really what was echoing in my head as a rounded out my village stay and prepared to head back to Rabat.
A couple reflections and anecdotes from the week…
In the Spotlight
I realized how ingrained culture is in each of us as I grappled with the fact that personal space did not exist in this place and that was simply not ok with me. Being the first group of Americans in the village already put us in the spotlight. I answered a series of questions daily about America, which I actually did not mind so much. “Do you have mountains/sheep/rain/etc in America?" "How do you make your bread in America?" "Will you marry an American or a Moroccan?" "Is medicine in America cheap?"
The hardest part of all this attention was that I was never alone. I ate with my family, slept with my family, did daily chores with my family. When I wrote in my journal a handful of children looked over my shoulder or stood straight in front of me. I was led outside to go to the bathroom as they were afraid the stray dog might attack me, although it usually whimpered rather than barked. I could not go for a walk in the countryside alone. I was watched, guided, questioned all the time.
At times I was ready to tear my hair out, throw up my hands and run into the middle of the forest like a crazy woman just for a little solace. However, I fought back my individualist tendencies and took a deep breath…several deep breaths. If the roles were reversed, I would stare at me too. I would want to know what in the world made me come from some country across the ocean to this small village in Morocco. I would be curious. I would be concerned.
And the more I thought about it, I was doing the same thing to them. I was in their home, watching their lives, asking them questions. And our mutual curiosity wasn't really such a terrible thing after all. We were all learning, exchanging and growing together- no personal space for a week was a small price to pay for this experience.
Caught Red-Handed
Henna is a sign of celebration and love. Thus I was naturally flattered when my host family offered to "henna" my hands and feet. One night after dinner I got ready for bed, lied back with my feet on a pillow and let Aisha, my mother, go to work with the dark cakey clay substance. My feet and hands were coated in what felt like mud and then wrapped in cloth. It was like wearing surgical scrub shoes and small potato sacks on my hands. She strategically turned me on my side and placed me in the strangest position I think I have ever slept in. My palms were face up and my feet stacked!
All was going according to plan. I drifted off into a relatively comfortable sleep given that I was wrapped up like a roasting turkey in foil! Yet in the middle of the night I jolted awake! My eyes wide. My mind in panic!...I had to use the bathroom!
It was pitch dark outside. The wind was howling. I was sleeping in a room with three other people whom I didn’t want to disturb and I had mud drying on my appendages which were wrapped up like those of a mummy! I tried to ignore it. I told myself I could wait until morning. I didn't want to spoil my henna. -this symbol of love and hospitality so generously given to me by my family. I could be strong. Mind over matter. But alas, I started to dream of lakes and rivers and knew that I had to make a move, caked feet or not! I would leave my henna to the fates!
Don't fret (not that the state of my dyed hands and feet should really concern you at all in the first place!). All turned out ok. My feet are now appropriately red-soled with tiny little scalloped edges on the sides. My palms likewise are a burnt orange and my finger nails are shades of tangerine. The splotches on the pads of my thumb look like giraffe spots and my left hands looks like a kindergartener’s who just stuck his hand in finger paint for a mother’s day art project. And yet, despite it all my host mother oohed and ahhed over the henna, smiled at me, and told me it was “zwayn”- the all encompassing Moroccan word for anything good and beautiful! And you know what? Despite my better judgment I think I just might agree with her. For the next month I’m planning on wearing this gift with pride!
For the past two months, staring up at me in our program itinerary in big black bold letters, were the much-discussed words “Village Stay.” I had heard horror stories about how no one escapes contracting some crippling intestinal parasite during the week, about how you will need nose plugs for the bus ride back because no one has seen a shower in seven days, about how for one week we must venture into a world without e-mail, television and- heaven forbid- Facebook! The village stay was a thing to be at once feared and eagerly anticipated.
On Saturday morning, we boarded a bus and headed east of Casablanca about three hours. Then, reminiscent of an earlier village expedition, we crammed some 15 students into the back of a cargo van and set off along a dusty unpaved road snaking over green hilly pastures. When we arrived in our village and nervously stumbled out of the van we were greeted by more of less the entire village standing anxiously in a cluster waiting to collect their mystery Americans who would share their homes for the week. We were the first group of Americans ever to stay with these families.
The village we stayed in is Arab as opposed to Berber, the original North African inhabitants who speak a different language called Tamazight. The village population is around 300. In some form or fashion nearly everyone is related, which made for some confusion when both my friend Sam and I were told we were living with Mustafa Faiz family of four! Turns out we were cousins. Actually I was cousins with about half a dozen of our peers!
The families stood excitedly on one side. The anxious students on the other. It was like picking teams for grade-school kick ball- the quiet chatter and nervous laughter. The roll call came…I grabbed my backpack, a two days supply of bottled water and a roll of toilet paper and approached the collection of curious villagers to shake hands with my Mustafa…and the journey began!
She’ll be falling off a donkey when she comes!
In one of my favorite movies the main character spends a summer in the Greek Isles enjoying a forbidden romance. In one scene she glamorously rides a donkey up the narrow stone streets, passing by blue and white villas as the azure sea sparkles below. Let me right now dispel this mythical image! Donkey riding is not in the least bit glamorous!
Before I knew it, my Mustafa- who shall from henceforth be known as my Baba or simply Baba- had flung my three year old sister on top of the donkey and was grabbing my arm to hoist me up as well. Baba is a rather a wisp of a man despite his vigorous lifestyle and I was sure that with my backpack on I had Baba by a good fifteen pounds at least. This coupled with the fact that there was no stirrup for support and that I had to maneuver some remarkable acrobatics to swing one leg high enough to straddle the donkey made for an interesting mount.
Once atop this donkey I quickly discovered that there was no “handle” to speak of and that the only thing within my grasp was the small child in front of me, who seemed ridiculously as ease with the whole situation. I was not sure if I was expected to hold her so that she did not fall off or if really in my efforts to “secure her” I was just looking for something to cling to while our donkey clopped up the uneven hillside.
With my legs flopping and hanging awkwardly six inches from the ground, a three year old in my lap, a thirty-pound sack on my back, and Baba at our side, I bumped merrily along to our house on top of the hill. I actually laughed out loud a few times as I pondered the situation and looked forward to more moments of hilarity and cultural exchange to come. Let the learning begin!
My family and village life
What do a cardiologist, an imam, and a sheep herder have in common? Me!
My most recent father, Mustafa, is 42 years old and grows wheat and herds sheep. My mother Aisha is 33. She was born and raised in the closest big town which has 60,000 people but moved to the village when she married Mustafa at age 18. I am not sure how much schooling she has had. Their 3 year-old daughter, Nohila, is one of the most beautiful children I have ever seen, with a mop-head of dark brown curly hair and big brown eyes.
Next door to us live Mustafa’s brother, his wife and their brood of nine children and one grandbaby. We spent most of our time together, including meals.
Our house is a stone/clay building with three rooms. All the floors are stone, though some have been covered by carpets. In the middle of the three rooms is a small courtyard with a single olive tree in the middle. The kitchen has a small fireplace where Aisha cooks bread, a gas burner to heat tea and tagines on, a very low round wooden table, and a place for sacks of animal feed, dishes and other kitchen essentials. When she cooks, Aisha either squats incredibly low or else sits on a small plastic stool only six inches off the ground so that she can knead the bread in the dish on the floor. I learned to make seven types of bread this week.
Our meals consisted of lots of bread, roasted vegetables, the occasional chicken (which I watched go from alive and clucking to roasted and savory- a first time experience!) Every meal was accompanied by lots of tea loaded with sugar as was every visit by friends and neighbors. People do not use tooth brushes either although there is a natural plant that they chew to clean their teeth.
The other two rooms of the house are fairly interchangeable. Both have stacks of blankets in the corner, mats on the floor, and a pile of pillows. We spent a lot of time on the floor-eating, sleeping, watching the small black and white TV, and weaving. The women sit behind the loom for a good chunk of the day, when they are not washing, cooking, and tending to the animals. Aisha’s day was a constant string of tasks from 6 am until bed time around 10. The carpets and blankets these women weave are intricate, colorful and truly beautiful. In the U.S. they would sell for at least 50 dollars each but in the weekly souk in the nearby town each one goes for between 6 and 12 dollars.
The men meanwhile spend most of the day outside, herding and farming. The drought plaguing Morocco these past few years has been placing a lot more pressure on these families. We had discussions with both the village men and women separately and both expressed hopes that their children would be educated and find work in the city or abroad as agriculture is no longer that viable.
Education, it seems, is by and large valued by the villagers though it is unfortunately not as readily accessible. The village has a primary school but the nearest middle school is too far away to commute. Families must either find financial means to pay for space in a dormitory, send their kids to family members in the city, or move to the city themselves if they hope to continue their children’s education. While some families find the means to do this others unfortunately do not.
Girls in particular are more likely to be kept at home to weave and take care of the house. Some are also married young to older men. An extreme example is the case of my friend Erika’s host mother who was born in 1988, after most of the students on our program! She has a four year old and an infant. The marriage age is going up though and the number of children per woman is going down. Women can access birth control at a nearby clinic. As a rule of thumb births occur at home, unless complications arise, in which case the hour long commute to the hospital often complicates matters further.
There is no running water in the village but a dozen wells provide the community with water carried to the house, I might add, by our dear friend the donkey! There were of course no toilets and without going into too much detail I would just like to say that I became very familiar with the great outdoors! We washed our hands before meals though no soap was used. Surprisingly, as a whole people seemed relatively healthy except for a few cases of the common cold.
Religious sentiment in the village is mixed. There is a mosque but I never saw my family praying. During our open group discussions one man said “Those who do not pray our not ours. They are not Muslim!” Obviously others disagreed with his perspective. The women expressed a desire for literacy classes so that they could learn to read the Koran.
I talked a lot with my mother throughout the week. We giggled over misunderstandings and taught each other bad words in our different languages. We talked about marriage, life in America, our lives as women in general. Despite language barriers I grew close to her in our week together. She expressed so many times to me that I was like family and that she hopes I can return and bring my parents with me.
I don’t know what I was expected to take away from the week exactly. But it certainly wasn’t pity. Perhaps I do feel a slight gratitude at having landed where I am in life due to the accident of birth. By American standards these people live in poverty. But at the end of the day, they are meeting their needs. They are fed, clothed, love one another and seem happy. I speak only for my host-family here as I know there were other more difficult family and economic situations in the village. I do hope that those who seek more-education, more opportunities, lives different form those they currently lead- that they are able to access those things. Their community center is attached to a larger organization that is working to realize those goals.
One of my best friends and mentors often says "There are so many ways to live your life." That is really what was echoing in my head as a rounded out my village stay and prepared to head back to Rabat.
A couple reflections and anecdotes from the week…
In the Spotlight
I realized how ingrained culture is in each of us as I grappled with the fact that personal space did not exist in this place and that was simply not ok with me. Being the first group of Americans in the village already put us in the spotlight. I answered a series of questions daily about America, which I actually did not mind so much. “Do you have mountains/sheep/rain/etc in America?" "How do you make your bread in America?" "Will you marry an American or a Moroccan?" "Is medicine in America cheap?"
The hardest part of all this attention was that I was never alone. I ate with my family, slept with my family, did daily chores with my family. When I wrote in my journal a handful of children looked over my shoulder or stood straight in front of me. I was led outside to go to the bathroom as they were afraid the stray dog might attack me, although it usually whimpered rather than barked. I could not go for a walk in the countryside alone. I was watched, guided, questioned all the time.
At times I was ready to tear my hair out, throw up my hands and run into the middle of the forest like a crazy woman just for a little solace. However, I fought back my individualist tendencies and took a deep breath…several deep breaths. If the roles were reversed, I would stare at me too. I would want to know what in the world made me come from some country across the ocean to this small village in Morocco. I would be curious. I would be concerned.
And the more I thought about it, I was doing the same thing to them. I was in their home, watching their lives, asking them questions. And our mutual curiosity wasn't really such a terrible thing after all. We were all learning, exchanging and growing together- no personal space for a week was a small price to pay for this experience.
Caught Red-Handed
Henna is a sign of celebration and love. Thus I was naturally flattered when my host family offered to "henna" my hands and feet. One night after dinner I got ready for bed, lied back with my feet on a pillow and let Aisha, my mother, go to work with the dark cakey clay substance. My feet and hands were coated in what felt like mud and then wrapped in cloth. It was like wearing surgical scrub shoes and small potato sacks on my hands. She strategically turned me on my side and placed me in the strangest position I think I have ever slept in. My palms were face up and my feet stacked!
All was going according to plan. I drifted off into a relatively comfortable sleep given that I was wrapped up like a roasting turkey in foil! Yet in the middle of the night I jolted awake! My eyes wide. My mind in panic!...I had to use the bathroom!
It was pitch dark outside. The wind was howling. I was sleeping in a room with three other people whom I didn’t want to disturb and I had mud drying on my appendages which were wrapped up like those of a mummy! I tried to ignore it. I told myself I could wait until morning. I didn't want to spoil my henna. -this symbol of love and hospitality so generously given to me by my family. I could be strong. Mind over matter. But alas, I started to dream of lakes and rivers and knew that I had to make a move, caked feet or not! I would leave my henna to the fates!
Don't fret (not that the state of my dyed hands and feet should really concern you at all in the first place!). All turned out ok. My feet are now appropriately red-soled with tiny little scalloped edges on the sides. My palms likewise are a burnt orange and my finger nails are shades of tangerine. The splotches on the pads of my thumb look like giraffe spots and my left hands looks like a kindergartener’s who just stuck his hand in finger paint for a mother’s day art project. And yet, despite it all my host mother oohed and ahhed over the henna, smiled at me, and told me it was “zwayn”- the all encompassing Moroccan word for anything good and beautiful! And you know what? Despite my better judgment I think I just might agree with her. For the next month I’m planning on wearing this gift with pride!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
An Unexpected Adventure with the Peace Corps
“You’re going where?” These were the first words out of the mouths of nearly all our host families when they heard our weekend destination. “Taza is…..schwaya zwayn.” they’d try to say as convincingly as possible, careful not tear apart our fragile travel egos. In Moroccan Arabic schwaya means so-so and zwayn, perhaps among the most overused utterances in the language, is used to describe something that is good/pretty/tasty/healthy/etc. Although, by the amused and slightly disapproving looks on their faces, I gathered that popular opinion in Morocco said Taza was in fact not so zwayn after all. Our academic director told us that in his 15+ years with the program, only one other student group had gone to Taza.
Nonetheless, Taza was within a six hour train ride and, according to our faithful Lonely Planet, this unremarkable city was “a handy base” for exploring the mountains of the Eastern Middle Atlas and nearby caves and national parks. Perhaps the blasé city of 160,000 itself would not be anything to write home about, but we were craving some great outdoors and were willing to suffer the drudgery of a ho-hum city to get it.
When I got off the train in Taza late Friday night, my friends were huddled around a tall twenty-something blue-eyed man speaking glorious unaccented American English! It is funny how quickly my ears perk up to this now! Beside him, a small middle-aged woman was chatting in an unmistakably authentic Midwestern accent. The mother and son duo were from Fargo, North Dakota. The son, a recent college grad, was in his first six months of Peace Corps duty. He focuses on small business development in Taza, working with the artisans of a small craft center to develop and market their trade. His mother’s enthusiasm at being in Morocco visiting her son was enormous!
It was the mother-son pair that had spotted my group and struck up the conversation. I have observed an interesting tendency of human nature while abroad. In my “real life” (aka-the one I led before I fell madly in love with travel and the one to which I am schwaya reluctant to return), I have just about as much in common with someone from North Dakota as I do with a zookeeper from New Zealand…for example. However, across the ocean, suddenly a random guy and his mom from North Dakota become my compatriots! We chat, exchange contact information and make plans to have breakfast and go hiking together the next day! In Morocco we are instantly linked.
Saturday was an amazing day but turned out to be only the precursor to the pinnacle experience of the weekend. We met our new friend Paul and his enthusiastic mother for breakfast and continued on to the mountains with them for a hike. That evening we met the pair again for dinner, this time with a new character in tow.
Mike is also a Peace Corps volunteer in the Taza area. Morocco has some 160 Peace Corps volunteers. Taza, a city of 160,000, is the most populous station for any of the volunteers. The Peace Corps is only located in two Arab countries- Morocco and Jordan. Morocco volunteers are under intense security restrictions and consequently has a higher volunteer drop out rate than other countries. Aside from frequently reporting their whereabouts to both American and Moroccan authorities, the volunteers cannot travel together in groups larger than five at a time, which is considered a terrorist target. They are also forbidden from visiting the Western Sahara, whose sovereignty is a point of contention between Morocco and the Polisario independence movement.
While Paul is in the city, Mike, a specialist in the environment, is stationed a good hour van ride up a she’ll be comin’ round the mountain type of road (i.e. hairpin turns and nerve-wracking drop-offs). Only 500 people live in his village. No one marries into the village and the entire population is the result of five extended families and, I imagine, a slew of intermarriages. Mike’s village is Berber, the original inhabitants of Morocco before the Arab conquest. Their first language is, thus, a Berber, or Tamazigh, dialect. Their second language is Moroccan Arabic, which Mike has come to speak proficiently in his year long stint in the village. Fusha, or standard Arabic, is a stretch for the villagers, and only two people in the village speak French.
Only two hours after meeting us, Mike invited all eleven of us to visit his site the next day and to spend the night in his village- again proof of the bonds of nationality and travel camaraderie. Whether it was the fact that Mike lives alone in a remote village speaking Moroccan darija constantly and needed some company, or that he was so excited to show us what his Peace Corps work entailed, or the fact that Mike was genuinely an amazingly friendly and hospitable guy- we were eager to accept the invite.
The adventure began after breakfast Sunday morning when Mike informed us that our transit van would not be able to make it in to town to pick us up and we would have to trek uphill a good half hour to meet the van. The gendarmes (Moroccan police) get a kick out of pulling over drivers and asking for exorbitant bribes which multiply based on how many passengers are in the van and, I suppose, how grumpy that particular gendarme is feeling that day. So, to avoid a particularly notorious stretch of road, we would have to meet our van up the mountain a ways.
Hidden behind a large white gate sat a wide and boxy blue van with one middle seat and two make-shift wooden benches in the cargo area in the back. On the windows hung blue curtains, which we pulled shut whenever we passed a questionable authority to avoid the bribes. All eleven of us piled into the van with our two drivers, who were friends of Mike and, not to worry, reliable and safe!
We curved up the mountain side and watched the “so-so” town of Taza get smaller and smaller below us. An hour into our journey we stopped at the Friouato Caves, purported to be the largest caves in all of North Africa, although the villagers in Mike’s site will tell you that just over the mountains there are even bigger ones that remain unexplored. There are some 520 steps carved into the cave walls leading down to the hollows. The small framed circle of clouds and blue sky in the cave roof contrasted to the increasingly dark and narrow rocky depths below. When we got to the narrowest pass- the one which required a guide, a head lamp and a heck of a lot of guts- I balked. Evading the law in a transit van in rural Morocco was enough adventure for me for one day. I didn’t need to get wedged in between two rocks in a dark tunnel to boot! In retrospect, my fears were a bit irrational-small children and old women were also venturing into the tunnel- but like I said, I was getting my thrills in other ways!
When we finally arrived in Mike’s village later that evening he showed us around the small houses and led us on a long hike, giving us some background on his work, the community, and his “environmental schpeil”…There are a couple times in my life when I have literally felt I was on top of the world. Watching the sunrise in the Swiss Alps was the first. Standing on top of the mountains an hour outside of a random Moroccan town, nearly blowing over in the gusts of wind, and watching a beam of sun Biblically break through a grey cloud cover was the other.
We walked past a barren patch of grass with half-dead branchless trees. “The villagers use this for firewood.” Mike told us. “It’s technically illegal to take down green wood. So, they tear down branches, wait until they’re dead and dry, and then come back for them. It’s also forbidden to take wood from this area, but they really don’t have a choice. The women are overworked, so they can’t go far away to get their wood. They’re raping the forest, but they have no choice. It’s hard to realty be concerned about the environment when you need to put food on the table.”
Mike also told us about the inefficiency of the Moroccan Environmental Ministry he works with. Plagued by nepotism, unqualified persons with no environmental background are often promoted to high up positions in the ministry because of their fathers/friends/cousins and other connections. The ministry is “reforesting” the area by planting pines and eucalyptus, both of which are non-native to the area and drain ground water sources while their roots systems squeeze out other plants.
Mike also told us about some of the other problems facing the villagers. Once, a man came to Mike’s house with his finger split down the middle, black and blue in a week-old bandage. A week earlier the man had accidentally cut it with an ax and had only received one shoddy stitch for the bribe he had had to pay the nurse. The wound had not been washed. Traditionally, wounds are packed with plants. Mike instructed the man to wash the wound with soap and water and, fortunately, the shoddy stitch held it long enough for the finger to heal.
Education is another challenge facing the villagers. Down in the valley is a primary school, but the nearest middle and high school is far too far for the villagers. Not to mention the fact that children, especially girls, are occasionally kept at home in order to take care of household duties. Mike knows one family whose 45 year-old daughter was never educated, never allowed to marry, and continues to manage the family household.
So, while Mike is here to engage the villagers in projects to protect the environment, he is realizing more and more that problems of poverty, education and health are inseparable from problems of the environment.
That night the twelve of us worked together to make home-made tortillas, chop vegetables, and prepare a chicken for a makeshift taco night in the middle of the Berber Middle Atlas. While we were listening to music and cooking a couple of Mike’s neighbors dropped by to get a glimpse of the mythical eleven Americans who appeared in Taza! Word of our presence had spread quickly in and around Taza. Even before we met Mike, people in cafes and on the streets in town were referring to us as “Mike’s friends.” We were headliners.
Mike told us that his neighbors who had dropped by would think that we Americans were crazy! The men in our group were cooking for one thing! And our meal consisted of multiple dishes and plates instead of the one staple common plate of rice the villagers eat. They’d be talking about us, Mike assured us, for the next month at least!
After dinner we had smores, and in the morning Mike made us banana pancakes. We climbed in the back of our transit van, closed the curtains around us, and journeyed back down the mountain to catch our train. Along the way, I talked to Mike a little more about his experience. “I would recommend the Peace Corps hands down,” he told me. “I don’t know that my actual projects have really taken root. But I am trying to get people to think outside the box a little bit…and as far as a cross-cultural exchange it has been a definite success. There are good days, challenges and bad days…but I can say that, even now in the middle of my experience, it is worth it. And if you ask me ten years down the road I will say the same.”
So, for all those who laughed at our decision to go to Taza for the weekend I say this- you never know what experiences await you, who you will meet and where the road will take you. I have spent many weekends traveling around Morocco, but this was undoubtedly the most unexpected, the most eye-opening and the one that left me with the most to think about-hopefully it will give you all a little food for thought as well.
Nonetheless, Taza was within a six hour train ride and, according to our faithful Lonely Planet, this unremarkable city was “a handy base” for exploring the mountains of the Eastern Middle Atlas and nearby caves and national parks. Perhaps the blasé city of 160,000 itself would not be anything to write home about, but we were craving some great outdoors and were willing to suffer the drudgery of a ho-hum city to get it.
When I got off the train in Taza late Friday night, my friends were huddled around a tall twenty-something blue-eyed man speaking glorious unaccented American English! It is funny how quickly my ears perk up to this now! Beside him, a small middle-aged woman was chatting in an unmistakably authentic Midwestern accent. The mother and son duo were from Fargo, North Dakota. The son, a recent college grad, was in his first six months of Peace Corps duty. He focuses on small business development in Taza, working with the artisans of a small craft center to develop and market their trade. His mother’s enthusiasm at being in Morocco visiting her son was enormous!
It was the mother-son pair that had spotted my group and struck up the conversation. I have observed an interesting tendency of human nature while abroad. In my “real life” (aka-the one I led before I fell madly in love with travel and the one to which I am schwaya reluctant to return), I have just about as much in common with someone from North Dakota as I do with a zookeeper from New Zealand…for example. However, across the ocean, suddenly a random guy and his mom from North Dakota become my compatriots! We chat, exchange contact information and make plans to have breakfast and go hiking together the next day! In Morocco we are instantly linked.
Saturday was an amazing day but turned out to be only the precursor to the pinnacle experience of the weekend. We met our new friend Paul and his enthusiastic mother for breakfast and continued on to the mountains with them for a hike. That evening we met the pair again for dinner, this time with a new character in tow.
Mike is also a Peace Corps volunteer in the Taza area. Morocco has some 160 Peace Corps volunteers. Taza, a city of 160,000, is the most populous station for any of the volunteers. The Peace Corps is only located in two Arab countries- Morocco and Jordan. Morocco volunteers are under intense security restrictions and consequently has a higher volunteer drop out rate than other countries. Aside from frequently reporting their whereabouts to both American and Moroccan authorities, the volunteers cannot travel together in groups larger than five at a time, which is considered a terrorist target. They are also forbidden from visiting the Western Sahara, whose sovereignty is a point of contention between Morocco and the Polisario independence movement.
While Paul is in the city, Mike, a specialist in the environment, is stationed a good hour van ride up a she’ll be comin’ round the mountain type of road (i.e. hairpin turns and nerve-wracking drop-offs). Only 500 people live in his village. No one marries into the village and the entire population is the result of five extended families and, I imagine, a slew of intermarriages. Mike’s village is Berber, the original inhabitants of Morocco before the Arab conquest. Their first language is, thus, a Berber, or Tamazigh, dialect. Their second language is Moroccan Arabic, which Mike has come to speak proficiently in his year long stint in the village. Fusha, or standard Arabic, is a stretch for the villagers, and only two people in the village speak French.
Only two hours after meeting us, Mike invited all eleven of us to visit his site the next day and to spend the night in his village- again proof of the bonds of nationality and travel camaraderie. Whether it was the fact that Mike lives alone in a remote village speaking Moroccan darija constantly and needed some company, or that he was so excited to show us what his Peace Corps work entailed, or the fact that Mike was genuinely an amazingly friendly and hospitable guy- we were eager to accept the invite.
The adventure began after breakfast Sunday morning when Mike informed us that our transit van would not be able to make it in to town to pick us up and we would have to trek uphill a good half hour to meet the van. The gendarmes (Moroccan police) get a kick out of pulling over drivers and asking for exorbitant bribes which multiply based on how many passengers are in the van and, I suppose, how grumpy that particular gendarme is feeling that day. So, to avoid a particularly notorious stretch of road, we would have to meet our van up the mountain a ways.
Hidden behind a large white gate sat a wide and boxy blue van with one middle seat and two make-shift wooden benches in the cargo area in the back. On the windows hung blue curtains, which we pulled shut whenever we passed a questionable authority to avoid the bribes. All eleven of us piled into the van with our two drivers, who were friends of Mike and, not to worry, reliable and safe!
We curved up the mountain side and watched the “so-so” town of Taza get smaller and smaller below us. An hour into our journey we stopped at the Friouato Caves, purported to be the largest caves in all of North Africa, although the villagers in Mike’s site will tell you that just over the mountains there are even bigger ones that remain unexplored. There are some 520 steps carved into the cave walls leading down to the hollows. The small framed circle of clouds and blue sky in the cave roof contrasted to the increasingly dark and narrow rocky depths below. When we got to the narrowest pass- the one which required a guide, a head lamp and a heck of a lot of guts- I balked. Evading the law in a transit van in rural Morocco was enough adventure for me for one day. I didn’t need to get wedged in between two rocks in a dark tunnel to boot! In retrospect, my fears were a bit irrational-small children and old women were also venturing into the tunnel- but like I said, I was getting my thrills in other ways!
When we finally arrived in Mike’s village later that evening he showed us around the small houses and led us on a long hike, giving us some background on his work, the community, and his “environmental schpeil”…There are a couple times in my life when I have literally felt I was on top of the world. Watching the sunrise in the Swiss Alps was the first. Standing on top of the mountains an hour outside of a random Moroccan town, nearly blowing over in the gusts of wind, and watching a beam of sun Biblically break through a grey cloud cover was the other.
We walked past a barren patch of grass with half-dead branchless trees. “The villagers use this for firewood.” Mike told us. “It’s technically illegal to take down green wood. So, they tear down branches, wait until they’re dead and dry, and then come back for them. It’s also forbidden to take wood from this area, but they really don’t have a choice. The women are overworked, so they can’t go far away to get their wood. They’re raping the forest, but they have no choice. It’s hard to realty be concerned about the environment when you need to put food on the table.”
Mike also told us about the inefficiency of the Moroccan Environmental Ministry he works with. Plagued by nepotism, unqualified persons with no environmental background are often promoted to high up positions in the ministry because of their fathers/friends/cousins and other connections. The ministry is “reforesting” the area by planting pines and eucalyptus, both of which are non-native to the area and drain ground water sources while their roots systems squeeze out other plants.
Mike also told us about some of the other problems facing the villagers. Once, a man came to Mike’s house with his finger split down the middle, black and blue in a week-old bandage. A week earlier the man had accidentally cut it with an ax and had only received one shoddy stitch for the bribe he had had to pay the nurse. The wound had not been washed. Traditionally, wounds are packed with plants. Mike instructed the man to wash the wound with soap and water and, fortunately, the shoddy stitch held it long enough for the finger to heal.
Education is another challenge facing the villagers. Down in the valley is a primary school, but the nearest middle and high school is far too far for the villagers. Not to mention the fact that children, especially girls, are occasionally kept at home in order to take care of household duties. Mike knows one family whose 45 year-old daughter was never educated, never allowed to marry, and continues to manage the family household.
So, while Mike is here to engage the villagers in projects to protect the environment, he is realizing more and more that problems of poverty, education and health are inseparable from problems of the environment.
That night the twelve of us worked together to make home-made tortillas, chop vegetables, and prepare a chicken for a makeshift taco night in the middle of the Berber Middle Atlas. While we were listening to music and cooking a couple of Mike’s neighbors dropped by to get a glimpse of the mythical eleven Americans who appeared in Taza! Word of our presence had spread quickly in and around Taza. Even before we met Mike, people in cafes and on the streets in town were referring to us as “Mike’s friends.” We were headliners.
Mike told us that his neighbors who had dropped by would think that we Americans were crazy! The men in our group were cooking for one thing! And our meal consisted of multiple dishes and plates instead of the one staple common plate of rice the villagers eat. They’d be talking about us, Mike assured us, for the next month at least!
After dinner we had smores, and in the morning Mike made us banana pancakes. We climbed in the back of our transit van, closed the curtains around us, and journeyed back down the mountain to catch our train. Along the way, I talked to Mike a little more about his experience. “I would recommend the Peace Corps hands down,” he told me. “I don’t know that my actual projects have really taken root. But I am trying to get people to think outside the box a little bit…and as far as a cross-cultural exchange it has been a definite success. There are good days, challenges and bad days…but I can say that, even now in the middle of my experience, it is worth it. And if you ask me ten years down the road I will say the same.”
So, for all those who laughed at our decision to go to Taza for the weekend I say this- you never know what experiences await you, who you will meet and where the road will take you. I have spent many weekends traveling around Morocco, but this was undoubtedly the most unexpected, the most eye-opening and the one that left me with the most to think about-hopefully it will give you all a little food for thought as well.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Harassment
I hesitated to write this entry-to write it anywhere other than my own private journal that is. I am afraid to share this story because I feel it might invite negative preemptive judgments about a culture and country when, in truth, the story I am about to tell shouldn’t reflect on either of these in particular. Instead, I really just want to raise an issue that deeply distresses me- not only in Morocco but globally. Morocco, for me, just happened to be the context in which it most blatantly confronted me. Also, I was hesitant to right this entry for fear that my mother, in a rush of motherly love and/or feminist zeal, would either put me on the next flight back home or would herself right a personal letter to the King of Morocco about women’s rights, which I suppose might not have been such a bad thing. Anyway, now having been forewarned and beseeched not to judge to rashly a culture and a place I have grown to love, please read this account. And try if you can to remember that it is not Morocco, its culture or even the people in this story who are to blame but something far more complex and dispersed in our world.
As many of you know, I am an avid exerciser. It is a constant in my life, a stress reliever, my escape and preferred method of staying sane! As Moroccan cuisine is plentiful, delicious and frequently-served and as I am finding that my free time seems to abound here, I decided to take a long walk with three of my female American friends today. We donned our conservative workout attire. Our knees were covered. We wore t-shirts. Then, we departed for a fast-paced walk/run along the sea.
I could handle the honking. Men of all ages and in all types of vehicles for whatever reason felt the need to respond to our presence with drawn out car-horns and thumbs up out the window as they passed by. It was annoying, yes. It made me angry, yes. But aside from the intrusion on our conversation as we walked, the horns did little to impede on our excursion.
I could even tolerate the commentary. Again, men of all ages from 9 years old to sixty simply couldn’t help themselves from blurting out a “Bonjour les belles!” or “Run! Run! Run!” We were whistled at as well. Some men yelled out ridiculous phrases like “My bike is fast!” or “You like sport!” Others felt it necessary to let the world know, just in case it wasn’t obvious enough, that we were Americans. A group of four white-skinned blond haired jogging women do not exactly fit the description of your average Moroccan female.
It was when the commentary became crude and when the harassment became more physical and when the perpetrators became younger that I really became mad at the world. I could more or less ignore lesser incursions but these slapped me in the face. As we were jogging down the hill to the beach, a dozen ten to thirteen year-old boys stormed us. They ran with us for at least two minutes, yelling things both obscene and benign. They tugged at our arms.
The next assault came thirty minutes down the shore from a group of similarly aged boys. First came the light-hearted shouts, then the cruder insults and then- what really ruined my afternoon and has left me terribly unsettled-came stones.
I don’t mean to be too dramatic. My sense of black humor grabs onto the phrase “we were stoned,” but I don’t mean to either make light of those words or to ignore the underlying currents of what happened today. Humor is simply one of those tools people use to cope when they don’t or can’t understand certain things.
The rocks the boys threw were aimed low. A couple hit my calf. Despite my strongest efforts to ignore the harassment and the oncoming rocks from the brood following us, I finally turned around, seething with frustration and anger, and yelled in French for them to stop. They did, but I was still seething. I was hurt, not physically thank goodness, but emotionally. What is wrong with a world in which men, no matter how old, think it is ok to treat women this way? What is wrong with a world where children can learn patterns of behavior that encourage hatred? Why can’t four American girls in work-out clothing simply walk along the beach in a country they have traveled to in order to learn without being turned into objects of lust, play, hate, etc?
I don’t have answers to these questions. In fact, the more I think about this ordeal I only find more and more questions. For example- Would it be better or worse if these young boys understood the gravity of what they were doing as a political, sexist act or if they were simply imitating behavior of older men? Who or what can we blame as a source of all this? Because I certainly cannot pinpoint one cause for sure. And what if I could? What would I do?
Again, please do not judge Morocco on this story. Please do not judge Islam. Do not judge men in general and do not even judge the men in this story. I honestly do not think judgments can come from this ordeal-only frustration and sadness at what is, and commitment to figure out how, if possible, it can change.
Meet the Parents
I have spent one week with my Moroccan family now and unfortunately still feel like an awkward, mute and confused fly on the wall probably 90% of the time. They speak rapid-fire Moroccan Arabic which might as well be an entirely separate language from Modern Standard Arabic as far as I am concerned. I pat myself on the back for asking for more coffee in darija (the Moroccan dialect) or understanding when a family member asks me how classes were. Baby steps! There are about a dozen people who are in and out of the house and my efforts to map out a family tree in my head have proved pretty fruitless thus far. By the end of my two month stay here, Inshallah (God willing), I hope to figure out the who’s who of this dar (house).
My father is an imam-That certainly is an odd sentence for the great-grandchild of immigrant Russian Jews to write. My father is, by my estimates, anywhere between seventy and eighty years old. He is a small man who wears a small white cap, glasses and a long djellaba. His hands shake when he pours water and he moves slowly. After dinner he sits outside the kitchen smoking. In the evenings I sometimes hear him praying in the salon outside my room. He preaches in the small mosque right around the corner. We don’t speak much but I think he likes me. We often exchange “La Bes?” (how’s it going?), and yesterday he told me he liked my pajama pants, which by the way are bright lime green, fleece and dotted with purple flowers! I had also just learned the word for pants so I was thrilled to recognize the word in an actual sentence!
My mother is equally aged and feeble. She only speaks darija so we do not speak much either. Every morning we sit together in silence for fifteen minutes while we eat a breakfast of coffee and bread with honey. I have made small efforts at communication and do my best to smile quite a bit.
The rest of the family is somewhat of a mystery as far as who is whose sibling/father/child/etc. Majida, the youngest child is somewhere around 30 I would guess. She speaks English but I prefer to answer her in French or Arabic when I’m not too tired. Then there is Bouchra who I think is another sister in her thirties. There is a forty year old man as well who appears to be a cousin of some sort. He speaks French, and though we don’t speak much, he makes efforts to include me in conversation occasionally. Miriam is another thirty-something year old, possibly a cousin. She is one of my favorites. She is very warm, smiles a lot and always asks about school.
Mohammed, or Mimo as he is called, is someone’s plump eight-year old. He doesn’t live with us but might as well because he is here all the time. The other day I helped him with his English homework and, hopefully, also won over some of the family members with this gesture-I can’t stress enough how much awkwardness I feel I exude. Any progress on integration into the family is much desired! Naima, the eighteen year-old maid is also one of my favorite people in the family. The fact that she has lived here as a maid since she was five years old deeply unsettles me. One could say that her life here in Rabat is likely better than a life she might have had in an impoverished rural village, but when I think about my life at eighteen compared to Naima’s the world seems terribly unfair. She is treated like any other member of the family for the most part; however at dinner time it is Naima who brings the food to the table after, I gather, a day of cooking and cleaning.
My house is a traditional median house. In the middle is a courtyard which, if it weren’t for a tarp overhead, would be open to the elements. This morning three small birds had found there way in and were hopping around the tiled floor. Surrounding the courtyard on three sides are three sitting rooms/salons (bit al-glass in Moroccan). A typical Moroccan sitting room is long and narrow, has a nice carpet on the floor and is surrounded by backless couches on all sides. The couches double as beds at night. I was given my own room, which is really a sectioned off area in one of the salons.
At meal time the family pulls a table up to the couches and, when they are full simply reclines. My mother, in fact, sleeps right where we eat and eats our ten o’clock dinner in her pajamas.
The Moroccan dining style has brought the food coma to a whole new level! It is impossible to eat lightly here. Bread is the utensil of choice, so each bite from the common plate in the middle of the table is accompanied with a carbo-load. Atkins dieters should stay away from Morocco for sure. There are always only two glasses of water on the table which we all share. So far, though, I am the only one who drinks at meals. Typically lunch is around 1-2 and bread and tea or coffee is served at 6. At 10 o’clock my family eats a light dinner. Each mealtime the entire family bombards me with “Kool-y” or “Mange!” (eat) I could have a mouthful of potatoes, a piece of bread in my hand and a cup of soup in front of me and I would still be urged to eat! Meat is always pushed my way as well. It is out of politeness, I know, but I have been diligently trying to ward off the force-feeding by mastering the Moroccan phrase for “Thank you. That’s enough. I am full.”
The bathroom situation, after much pre-move in dread, has turned out ok. Many of my friends’ homes have a Turkish toilet (aka-hole in the floor) and no hot water. Showers for them mean a bucket of boiling water and a wash cloth. Our family has a Western toilet and even a showerhead with hot water. I am, as far as I know, the only one who makes use of it though because the others in the family scrub down weekly at the local hammam. I have yet to venture into the public bathhouse, but I have heard from some of my brave American peers that it is worth the initial embarrassment for the immaculate feeling a two hour shower and exfoliation can give you! I will work up the nerve soon!
After week one in my host-family I still feel more like a misplaced visitor than a family member. There are small breakthroughs- laughs shared, vocab words learned, dishes washed together. Little by little I hope to become more comfortable and communicative. For now, I am going to revel in my awkwardness I suppose. Everything is an experience!
I hesitated to write this entry-to write it anywhere other than my own private journal that is. I am afraid to share this story because I feel it might invite negative preemptive judgments about a culture and country when, in truth, the story I am about to tell shouldn’t reflect on either of these in particular. Instead, I really just want to raise an issue that deeply distresses me- not only in Morocco but globally. Morocco, for me, just happened to be the context in which it most blatantly confronted me. Also, I was hesitant to right this entry for fear that my mother, in a rush of motherly love and/or feminist zeal, would either put me on the next flight back home or would herself right a personal letter to the King of Morocco about women’s rights, which I suppose might not have been such a bad thing. Anyway, now having been forewarned and beseeched not to judge to rashly a culture and a place I have grown to love, please read this account. And try if you can to remember that it is not Morocco, its culture or even the people in this story who are to blame but something far more complex and dispersed in our world.
As many of you know, I am an avid exerciser. It is a constant in my life, a stress reliever, my escape and preferred method of staying sane! As Moroccan cuisine is plentiful, delicious and frequently-served and as I am finding that my free time seems to abound here, I decided to take a long walk with three of my female American friends today. We donned our conservative workout attire. Our knees were covered. We wore t-shirts. Then, we departed for a fast-paced walk/run along the sea.
I could handle the honking. Men of all ages and in all types of vehicles for whatever reason felt the need to respond to our presence with drawn out car-horns and thumbs up out the window as they passed by. It was annoying, yes. It made me angry, yes. But aside from the intrusion on our conversation as we walked, the horns did little to impede on our excursion.
I could even tolerate the commentary. Again, men of all ages from 9 years old to sixty simply couldn’t help themselves from blurting out a “Bonjour les belles!” or “Run! Run! Run!” We were whistled at as well. Some men yelled out ridiculous phrases like “My bike is fast!” or “You like sport!” Others felt it necessary to let the world know, just in case it wasn’t obvious enough, that we were Americans. A group of four white-skinned blond haired jogging women do not exactly fit the description of your average Moroccan female.
It was when the commentary became crude and when the harassment became more physical and when the perpetrators became younger that I really became mad at the world. I could more or less ignore lesser incursions but these slapped me in the face. As we were jogging down the hill to the beach, a dozen ten to thirteen year-old boys stormed us. They ran with us for at least two minutes, yelling things both obscene and benign. They tugged at our arms.
The next assault came thirty minutes down the shore from a group of similarly aged boys. First came the light-hearted shouts, then the cruder insults and then- what really ruined my afternoon and has left me terribly unsettled-came stones.
I don’t mean to be too dramatic. My sense of black humor grabs onto the phrase “we were stoned,” but I don’t mean to either make light of those words or to ignore the underlying currents of what happened today. Humor is simply one of those tools people use to cope when they don’t or can’t understand certain things.
The rocks the boys threw were aimed low. A couple hit my calf. Despite my strongest efforts to ignore the harassment and the oncoming rocks from the brood following us, I finally turned around, seething with frustration and anger, and yelled in French for them to stop. They did, but I was still seething. I was hurt, not physically thank goodness, but emotionally. What is wrong with a world in which men, no matter how old, think it is ok to treat women this way? What is wrong with a world where children can learn patterns of behavior that encourage hatred? Why can’t four American girls in work-out clothing simply walk along the beach in a country they have traveled to in order to learn without being turned into objects of lust, play, hate, etc?
I don’t have answers to these questions. In fact, the more I think about this ordeal I only find more and more questions. For example- Would it be better or worse if these young boys understood the gravity of what they were doing as a political, sexist act or if they were simply imitating behavior of older men? Who or what can we blame as a source of all this? Because I certainly cannot pinpoint one cause for sure. And what if I could? What would I do?
Again, please do not judge Morocco on this story. Please do not judge Islam. Do not judge men in general and do not even judge the men in this story. I honestly do not think judgments can come from this ordeal-only frustration and sadness at what is, and commitment to figure out how, if possible, it can change.
Meet the Parents
I have spent one week with my Moroccan family now and unfortunately still feel like an awkward, mute and confused fly on the wall probably 90% of the time. They speak rapid-fire Moroccan Arabic which might as well be an entirely separate language from Modern Standard Arabic as far as I am concerned. I pat myself on the back for asking for more coffee in darija (the Moroccan dialect) or understanding when a family member asks me how classes were. Baby steps! There are about a dozen people who are in and out of the house and my efforts to map out a family tree in my head have proved pretty fruitless thus far. By the end of my two month stay here, Inshallah (God willing), I hope to figure out the who’s who of this dar (house).
My father is an imam-That certainly is an odd sentence for the great-grandchild of immigrant Russian Jews to write. My father is, by my estimates, anywhere between seventy and eighty years old. He is a small man who wears a small white cap, glasses and a long djellaba. His hands shake when he pours water and he moves slowly. After dinner he sits outside the kitchen smoking. In the evenings I sometimes hear him praying in the salon outside my room. He preaches in the small mosque right around the corner. We don’t speak much but I think he likes me. We often exchange “La Bes?” (how’s it going?), and yesterday he told me he liked my pajama pants, which by the way are bright lime green, fleece and dotted with purple flowers! I had also just learned the word for pants so I was thrilled to recognize the word in an actual sentence!
My mother is equally aged and feeble. She only speaks darija so we do not speak much either. Every morning we sit together in silence for fifteen minutes while we eat a breakfast of coffee and bread with honey. I have made small efforts at communication and do my best to smile quite a bit.
The rest of the family is somewhat of a mystery as far as who is whose sibling/father/child/etc. Majida, the youngest child is somewhere around 30 I would guess. She speaks English but I prefer to answer her in French or Arabic when I’m not too tired. Then there is Bouchra who I think is another sister in her thirties. There is a forty year old man as well who appears to be a cousin of some sort. He speaks French, and though we don’t speak much, he makes efforts to include me in conversation occasionally. Miriam is another thirty-something year old, possibly a cousin. She is one of my favorites. She is very warm, smiles a lot and always asks about school.
Mohammed, or Mimo as he is called, is someone’s plump eight-year old. He doesn’t live with us but might as well because he is here all the time. The other day I helped him with his English homework and, hopefully, also won over some of the family members with this gesture-I can’t stress enough how much awkwardness I feel I exude. Any progress on integration into the family is much desired! Naima, the eighteen year-old maid is also one of my favorite people in the family. The fact that she has lived here as a maid since she was five years old deeply unsettles me. One could say that her life here in Rabat is likely better than a life she might have had in an impoverished rural village, but when I think about my life at eighteen compared to Naima’s the world seems terribly unfair. She is treated like any other member of the family for the most part; however at dinner time it is Naima who brings the food to the table after, I gather, a day of cooking and cleaning.
My house is a traditional median house. In the middle is a courtyard which, if it weren’t for a tarp overhead, would be open to the elements. This morning three small birds had found there way in and were hopping around the tiled floor. Surrounding the courtyard on three sides are three sitting rooms/salons (bit al-glass in Moroccan). A typical Moroccan sitting room is long and narrow, has a nice carpet on the floor and is surrounded by backless couches on all sides. The couches double as beds at night. I was given my own room, which is really a sectioned off area in one of the salons.
At meal time the family pulls a table up to the couches and, when they are full simply reclines. My mother, in fact, sleeps right where we eat and eats our ten o’clock dinner in her pajamas.
The Moroccan dining style has brought the food coma to a whole new level! It is impossible to eat lightly here. Bread is the utensil of choice, so each bite from the common plate in the middle of the table is accompanied with a carbo-load. Atkins dieters should stay away from Morocco for sure. There are always only two glasses of water on the table which we all share. So far, though, I am the only one who drinks at meals. Typically lunch is around 1-2 and bread and tea or coffee is served at 6. At 10 o’clock my family eats a light dinner. Each mealtime the entire family bombards me with “Kool-y” or “Mange!” (eat) I could have a mouthful of potatoes, a piece of bread in my hand and a cup of soup in front of me and I would still be urged to eat! Meat is always pushed my way as well. It is out of politeness, I know, but I have been diligently trying to ward off the force-feeding by mastering the Moroccan phrase for “Thank you. That’s enough. I am full.”
The bathroom situation, after much pre-move in dread, has turned out ok. Many of my friends’ homes have a Turkish toilet (aka-hole in the floor) and no hot water. Showers for them mean a bucket of boiling water and a wash cloth. Our family has a Western toilet and even a showerhead with hot water. I am, as far as I know, the only one who makes use of it though because the others in the family scrub down weekly at the local hammam. I have yet to venture into the public bathhouse, but I have heard from some of my brave American peers that it is worth the initial embarrassment for the immaculate feeling a two hour shower and exfoliation can give you! I will work up the nerve soon!
After week one in my host-family I still feel more like a misplaced visitor than a family member. There are small breakthroughs- laughs shared, vocab words learned, dishes washed together. Little by little I hope to become more comfortable and communicative. For now, I am going to revel in my awkwardness I suppose. Everything is an experience!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Back in Morocco
Week One:
Salam Alaykum Yet Again
Six weeks after packing up my new Berber blanket, Marrakechi kebab skewers and Al-Kitaab Arabic books to head back state-side, I am once again back in the land of mint tea and multilingualism. That feeling of eager anticipation before such an adventure never gets old. Waiting at the gate at JFK, I conjured up images of dessert dunes, steaming chicken tajines, and bustling medina souks. I knew to an extent what was awaiting me- in the previous four months in Morocco I had traveled much, eaten well, and befriended many. However, no matter how many stamps happen to be marked in my passport, I doubt I will ever feel anything but exhilarated at the prospect of travel and the possibility of people, places, cultures and experiences ahead of me.
Rabat is a welcome change from the small Middle Atlas mountain town of Ifrane where I spent last semester. For starters, Rabat and its twin city Salé tip the scales at 1.6 million inhabitants. Rabat is also coastal, buzzing with diplomats, and a far better fit for a cultural junkie like myself. I have decided that, after life in D.C., city life is certainly my cup of tea. I will be living inside the medina (old city) walls with my host family, which is not exactly Greenwich Village or DuPont Circle. However, I think the busy markets and twisting streets full of soccer balls and motor bikes, among other items, will keep me entertained and on my toes. I am also hoping my family entrusts me with the tasks of shopping at the corner bakery and grocer so that I can learn my way through this maze and get chummy with the neighbors!
Our “school” is called the Cross Cultural Center for Learning It is an Andulusian house built in 1875. A few of the narrow and intricately tiled apartments turned classrooms were built to house one of the wives of the house’s owner and her children. In the Center’s annex building down the street, one of these similar small classrooms-approximately the size of a horse stall- is my Arabic classroom. Including me, there are only two students in my class, which takes the student-teacher ratio to a new extreme! Also, if I may blow my own horn for a moment, I would like to point out that my classmate is Sudanese and grew up speaking Sudanese Arabic. That I tested into this class makes me simultaneously a little bit proud and a little bit scared out of my mind for three and a half hours daily of mile-a-minute native speaker Arabic. I am, however, incredibly excited for the benefits of this cozy educational experience.
On the third and fourth floor terraces of the Center you get a bird’s eye view of the medina’s rooftops and are in perfect earshot of the five daily calls to prayer. The prayer callers at the different minarets each have their own rhythm and style of singing that weave together in a not quite harmonious melody but still beautiful combination of sounds. There is always one guy who is late and is wrapping up his call nearly three minutes after the rest of them! Perhaps it is inappropriate of us (“haram” in this neck of the woods) but we can’t help but laugh at his lack of punctuality.
The first week is wrapping up and tomorrow I leave the safety of forty other students, orientation leaders and a hotel to go live with my new family. The real challenges and leaps forward with linguistic and cultural understanding I am sure are about to sky-rocket.
Here are a few fun facts I’ve learned in my first week:
* The highest building in Rabat is 19 stories.
I saw university graduates demonstrating on the main avenue of Mohammed V protesting the government’s failure to find them jobs. Unemployment is a huge social epidemic here.
* The McDonald’s in Rabat opened up at the sight of the former Soviet Cultural center- yet another victory for capitalism?
* Each Muslim country in the world is allotted a certain number of visas by the Saudi embassy each year for the Hajj. Apparently, the lines at the Saudi embassy in Rabat get pretty long come Hajj time.
* There is a high school inside the palace gates for children of royal officers. And, we got to drive through the gates and around the palace.
* In a pretty unsuccessful effort to seem less intrusive, the French colonial regime passed a law forbidding non-Muslims from entering Moroccan mosques. Prior to that, mosques had been a safe-haven for victims of all faith seeking refuge, such as persecuted Jews.
* Although the Algerian-Moroccan border is supposed to be closed, industrious low-profile merchants in border towns train their donkeys to travel over the border with smuggled goods and return home to reload. Those are some smart…donkeys!
Drop-off:
On the early morning of the second day of our program, I sat aboard a bus with forty nervous American students, tracing and retracing in their heads the bus’s meandering route from our hotel. “Jillian Slutzker,” the ominous call came from the front of the bus. I took a deep breath, stepped forward, and took the twenty dirhams from our academic director’s hands. “Are you ready?” He asked. “Got your walking shoes on?”
Armed with twenty dirhams in emergency cab fair and the sole instructions of “observe clothing and make sure to find your way back to the Cross-Cultural Center in two hours”, I stepped off the bus. As thirty of my peers and my life-line of group leaders pulled away, my feelings of sheer panic abated and my super powers kicked in. “I can do this,” I told myself. “I can’t be more than three miles away from the Center. I have a functional, if not first-rate, sense of direction. And, I love people and clothes!” Given that I was alone, essentially lost or bound to be, and wearing-as I discovered two blisters later- pretty shoddy walking shoes, I was absolutely ready. I was ready to be the best observer of Moroccan clothing that I could be and ready to turn on my internal GPS and find my way around Rabat!
The observation itself didn’t take long. ‘Note to self-some women cover their hair. They also wear jellabas (long robes). There are business men in suits, children in Western kid’s clothes, and old men in small white caps.’ No huge surprises there. Thus, after thirty minutes of wandering, I gave myself a new mission-find the ocean.
It took a good half an hour, but alas I succeeded! Like a just-hatched baby turtle on a Discovery Channel documentary, I sniffed out the sea like it was my job! I walked atop the hill above the sea, taking in the hillside Graveyard of Martyrs (from the war for independence),which was washed by the tide, and the panorama of Rabat sprawling behind me. The walled old city, or the pre-colonial medina, contrasted to the taller and ornate buildings of the Ville Nouvelle, .built between 1912 and 1956 by the French. Across the river branching off from the ocean stood the city-scape of Salé, the twin city of Rabat.
I stopped to watch the mammoth waves crash down on the rocky inlet, thinking to myself that surfers (surfers in general and particularly those in Rabat) must have a death wish. These waves would make Malibu’s best, brightest and most bodacious of surfer dudes tremble in their trunks. You should, however, probably take this comment with a very very large grain of salt. I am, after all, a girl whose boogey boarding repertoire is limited to hip-deep water! But, suffice it to say, Rabat waves can be pretty colossal!
My second thought as I stared out at the waves was this: if I ever really got homesick and could somehow make it past those killer waves, I could theoretically swim back to somewhere in Georgia. One of my academic directors had actually pointed out this fact- the geography that is. I don’t think he would really advocate the swimming. I really don’t count on executing this contingency plan though so please don’t worry. I loved Morocco last semester and am just as excited for this one. However, it is a slight comfort to know that, although I am a couple thousand miles east and a few cultures removed, home is just across the water.
Finally, after my two hour trek of people/clothing watching and strolling above the beachscape, I safely returned to the Center. I was weathered and blistered but also much more confident in my ability to navigate the city that will become my home these next few months. What is more, I still had the 20 dirhams in emergency cab money in tact! (That’s a good two cups of mint tea.)
Aside from my earth-shattering observations of Moroccan clothing, I came to this conclusion on my drop-off. I think everyone should, at one time in their life, be dropped off by a bus in the middle of a foreign city with the simple task of observing and wandering. You might be surprised what a little confusion and alone time can do for your comfort, confidence, understanding, and practical sense of direction. I know now that if I get lost again (highly likely), I can always find my bearings!
Friday, November 9, 2007
I am a blogging slacker. I have come to terms with it and I think you all should too. Believe me- not writing pains me just as much, in fact most likely infinitely more, than not reading about my Moroccan escapades pains you. The good news is it has been an action-packed five weeks. The lack of “bloggage” is not at all indicative of a lack of blog-worthy events. In fact, just the opposite is true. Somewhere in between the Mediterranean-hopping, midterm-cramming, and deep cultural contemplations, blogging got shoved to the backburner. But I am back in the game as they say! My head is spinning with musings at such speeds that my fingers can’t type fast enough! So here we go. I will do my best to sum up the most noteworthy moments of this last Moroccan month without writing an epic. Wish me luck!
Madrid
Si, si…I am well aware that Madrid is in fact not in Morocco and I am supposed to be recapping my Moroccan experiences here. However, my trans-Mediterranean jaunt has been one of the highlights of my trip and this blog entry is not complete without it!
If I had to sum up the weekend in one word it would be “connection.” If I could use three I would also say
‘tapas’ and ‘sangria’…but let’s stick to the first. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, my trip to Madrid showed me the value, stamina and outright fun of human connection.
I traveled with my friends Natalie and Kayla, both international students like me at Al Akhawayn. One of Ramadan’s many assets is that its end entails a five day weekend and a prime opportunity for cheap transcontinental travel! Though I half-lamented not being in Morocco for the Aid feast which brings the holy month to a close, I was nonetheless thrilled at the chance to jet off to Spain. I was looking forward to a little dose of Europe, not to mention a respite from multilingual communication. My Arabic and French skills, although far from proficient, are a hot commodity in Morocco and at times boost my popularity as a travel buddy. My Spanish vocab on the other hand, consisting of ‘taco’, ‘burrito’ and ‘hot tamale’, gave me an excuse to sit back and let someone else do the talking!
Before we set off, Natalie wor
ked up the nerve to call her father’s former Spanish exchange student, now a successful middle-aged oil advertising executive living in Madrid. Somewhere back in the mid 1970s a high-school Spanish boy from Madrid named José decided to complete his senior year of high school in a small Wisconsin town. Meanwhile, an all-American Midwestern family decided to open their home to an international student. Hence- José meets Bob. Some thirty years later Bob will send his oldest daughter Natalie off to Morocco. Natalie will find a cheap flight to Madrid. Bob will remember how much he liked José and tell his daughter to call him. José in turn will remember how Bob taught him English, played soccer with him, and during that year in small-town Wisconsin became like a big brother. And, because of an international connection forged between two adolescent boys three decades ago, José will pick Natalie and her friends up from the airport, leave them the keys to his apartment for the weekend, buy them groceries, and call up his twenty-something year old neighbors to show the girls around Madrid. The connection web begins…
We met Miguel and Alex after they came home from playing football- not the beer-belly macho American variety mind you but the all-consuming phenomenon that is sweeping the rest of the world save the U.S. “What time do you usually go to bed?” They asked us. “Are you okay staying out until 5 or 6 a.m.?” I laughed. What kind of crazy night-owl insomniacs stay out until 5 a.m.!? Well, as it turns out, just about every Madridian between the ages of 14 and 45!
For “dinner” we ate plates of tapas at 11p.m. My friend Becca, a Knoxville native like myself who is studying in Madrid, met us for dinner and brought her friend Megan along. I will not name names but I daresay that the next in a series of connections began to form that evening. Let’s just say that this chance meeting between our Spanish guides and our friends may have inspired an international romance or two. Or, if nothing else, they gained some new Spanish friends to show them around the city.
Later that weekend, Natalie called Rachel, an old high school friend who now lives in Madrid. After a semester abroad in Madrid two years ago, Rachel did what most of us would only dream of doing. She stayed. She fell in love with the city, presumably the language as well, and had the courage to up and transfer her credits, her clothes, and essentially her life to this foreign city. Although she only had a couple years of textbook Spanish under her belt then, Rachel now speaks like a native, lisp and all! The only thing that betrays her nationality is her blond hair. I was impressed by her sense of adventure and sense of self. She really proved to me that we can write our own stories and to a certain degree make life unfold as we wish it to.
Ok, now back to the theme here…It turns out that Rachel had interned at the very same office that Becca is currently working for in Madrid. The two girls bonded over work gossip about the staff of Hot English, a Madrid-based English language magazine aimed to teach Spaniards English. Perhaps it is a small coincidence that Becca should happen to intern at Rachel’s former post; however, when I thought about all the coincidences and chances and connections spanning continents and decades in just this one weekend, I couldn’t help but be amazed. That I should meet Natalie, that Natalie’s dad should keep up with a long ago friend from Spain, that one of this man’s neighbors should spark a connection with a friend of a friend from Knoxville, and so on and so on….Walt Disney was on to something. We don’t need singing dolls in lederhosen and magical boat rides to tell us that the world is in fact pretty small if you let it be. Human connection is a powerful thing. It can span continents and time. It builds on itself. A friend of a friend of a friend counts for something. In fact, it counts for quite a lot. I think connections make the world worth traveling. The sights are amazing, yes, but it is the people who really make the experience!
That said, I think I will devote just a little space to the actual sites and sounds of the city.
I was surprised by the architecture of Madrid. The post office could easily be mistaken for a palace. The winding pedestrian streets and large plazas invite street performers, which were bountiful on this “Columbus Day” weekend. In Spain, Columbus is somewhat of a national treasure, having “discovered” the Americas for the monarchy in the fifteenth century. In a single day we stumbled upon musicians, salsa dancers and countless human statues who take the saying “stay in character” to heart. These human statues paint their skin gold or silver, which makes for an interesting to and from work commute I imagine. They hold their poses so well that telling the difference between a real statue and one with a pulse requires intense scrutiny. Of course they will move for a coin in the coffer or a photo op if the price is right, but most of their job is to sit still and look lifeless.
We visited the famous Prado Museum where we saw tons of Francisco Goya paintings among others. We pushed our way through the meandering and crowded street market of El Rastro. We lay in the sun on the grass in El Retiro Park. In Morocco, grass is a prized and rare possession and lounging in it is a faux pas. As you can imagine, we were delighted to bask in the Spanish sun! We ate long leisurely meals of paella and sangria! We even ate Indian food…not so easy to come by in Morocco either.
The weekend was what I would consider a vacation. Studying and traveling in Morocco is an experience, an amazing one at that, but not a vacation in my book. My trans-Mediterranean trip was a perfect way to wind-down before gearing up for midterms.
Exporting Racism
I guess I expected some anti-Semitic comments in Morocco. I have heard that “no Jews died in 9/11 because they all knew about.” In fact, some go so far as to claim Israel orchestrated the attacks. I have also heard that Jews always have ulterior motives, not matter how long you’ve known them or how benign they may seem. As you can imagine, this is all news to me!
It is not these anti-Semitic comments and blatant fallacies that surprise me though. What deeply shocks and worries me is the image that Moroccans seem to have of African Americans. Along with blue jeans, Coca-cola and Brad Pitt, I fear that America is exporting racism.
I have had three encounters that have led me to this startling conclusion. One night while I was having dinner with my Moroccan friend in her room, the conversation turned toward American culture and society. My friend is applying for graduate schools in the States and had tons of questions about what to expect. “Is it true,” she asked, “that the black people in America are bad? Because my sister’s friend was raped by black men in America. And, I think they are bad people who do bad things.” She proceeded to tell me about the crime and that she was afraid of black people because of what she had heard. “What do you think Jill?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. I was angry- not at her of course but at my own society. I was angry at a society that is structured so that one group is given a raw deal from the beginning, which stacks the odds against them. I was angry at a media system which thrives on bad news and at an entertainment industry that sells “ghetto” images. It is no wonder that someone half-way around the world who has never set foot in America would think that black Americans are bad. The news tells them that. The movies tell them that. And one account from a trustworthy source, a sister’s friend, can confirm this misconception.
“No.” I told her. “Black Americans are not bad. There are always people who do bad things. White people, Chinese people, Arabs…but the group as a whole is not bad because of those actions.” I wanted to explain more, but how do you encapsulate centuries of emotionally-laden social and economic history in a sound-bite? I regret that I might not have gotten through to her. “Still,” she responded. “I think these black Americans are not good.”
On another occasion, the Arabic word for “race” was written in a story we were studying in class. As our professor usually does with unfamiliar vocabulary, he constructed a sentence using the new word. The sentence was more or less, “Americans don’t like people whose race is black.” Again, I was floored. Here, a very educated man who had even spent time teaching in the U.S. was propagating this idea of undisputed racism in America. “Maybe that was truer in the past,” we told our professor, “but not anymore.”
Lastly, an American friend of mine was talking to a Moroccan student who casually said something along the lines of “Black Americans are pretty lazy, don’t you think?” Needless to say she was shocked, as much by his supposition that she too thought this than by his actual words.
What kind of influence does our country have on the world? Do we even realize that along with hamburgers and Coke the world is digesting our polluted past and ongoing racial issues? It is more dangerous, I think, for a Moroccan to be prejudiced against black Americans than for a white American to racist. A white American at least can interact with black Americans. There is a potential there for change of heart, maybe only a small window, but change is nonetheless possible. On the other hand, across the Atlantic, the only interaction Moroccans will likely have with black Americans is through the television, the internet, music and the movies. They can take their conspiracy theories and misconceptions and live in world that confirms them rather than challenges them. I can make my speech about everyone being equal, about the influence of media, etc….but is it enough? I doubt it. I am deeply afraid that America is exporting racism.
Marrakech
This famed city of Morocco lives up to its reputation. It is touristy, slightly overpriced, and incredibly crowded. Yet despite all that, its snake-charmers, posh night clubs, fresh orange juice stands, and intricate
medina make the city well worth the nine hour train ride from Meknes. Marrakech is in Southern, Morocco where temperatures even in November are in the 70s.
Djemaa el Fna, the big square at the center of the medina, was our reference point for the weekend. The 220 foot tall minaret of the Al Koutoubia Mosque nearby made it easy to recognize. The square is the largest one in Africa and a UNESCO world heritage site. During the day, the square is crammed with snake charmers, henna artists, performers in jellabas, fruit vendors, spice merchants, and monkey trainers. Wide-eyed tourists in tank tops and shorts meander through the chaos, no doubt paying too much for their Moroccan souvenirs. Of all the cities I’ve visited, Marrakech boasts the most blatant tourists! At night, the square resembles a county fair à la Moroccain. Huge white tents with long picnic tables take over the area. Smoke coats the night sky as kebab-vendors cook fresh meats and tajines for hungry tourists. After dinner one night, we hit up one of the tea stands for tea and dessert that is distinctly marrakechi. I couldn’t tell you the name of it but a tiny sip of that tea will clear up a stuffy nose in an instant. If cinnamon, menthol, wasabi, black tea and sugar got together the outcome might
be akin to this tea. I don’t think I am really doing it justice though. The accompanying dessert falls into the love it or hate it category. I, being a rather undiscriminating and very adventurous eater, loved it. Its consistency is less than cake and more than pudding. It is not exactly sweet either but tastes a little bit like gingerbread without all the sugar. It crumbles in the spoon and sort of melts in your mouth.
Our days were mostly spent winding our way through the medina, chit-chatting in Arabic with shopkeepers, and honing our bargaining skills. I mus
t say that my stick-to-it ability has much improved and when the time calls I can bargain with the best of them! My friend Katie cracked me up every time! “How much is this?” she’d ask in Arabic. The shopkeeper would reply and no matter his answer, every single time, Katie’s face would contort in a look of disgust that said “No sir, you are not taking me for a ride.” Then, in a high-pitched mocking yet sing-songy voice she would retort the price, scoff, and motion for us to leave. That is when the shop owner would swoop back in and lower his asking price. I mourn for the unsuspecting tourists whose key chains and t-shirts cost as much as scarves and pottery.
Our hotel was in the middle of the medina with a roof-top terrace overlooking the city. On night we sat up there as the sun set and listened to the c
all to prayer echoing from dozens of mosques around us. The calls created a melody. It wasn’t in sync but it was lulling in a way. For that minute or so, we all quieted and just listened. I reminded myself of where I was, what a unique experience I was having, and how my life is shaping up to be a pretty remarkable journey.
Cat-calls and Crossing lines
Inevitably, walking around the old city in a group of seven American girls elicited some cat-calling. For the most part it was benign.
“Oh you have beautiful eyes. Want a Moroccan husband?”
“The Spice Girls!” (I must have heard this one a half a dozen times)
“How many camels? How many camels?” (Sorry boys, this girl is not for sale and for an entire camel farm!)
And my favorite- When we would politely decline a marriage proposal or an invitation into a shop in Arabic some wise guys would reply in accented English, “I don’t speak Arabic. I am American!”
A couple of times the banter passed friendly and become unnerving. Walking through the ville nouvelle of Marrakech one night, two different sets of men on motorcycles followed us. They were shouting vulgarities and I felt at once disgusted, indignant, saddened and afraid. Another night we were walking along the beach in a town called Essaouira, which we visited after Marrakech. Two different men trailed behind us, not saying anything but certainly making their presence known. I know that these behaviors and attitudes are not unique to Morocco. I don’t blame Moroccan culture. All over the world women hear these same comments. All over the world women are disrespected. It is not solely because we are American that we drew so much attention, although that is certainly part of it. I don’t know if there is an answer to the issue.
I think my friend Natalie may have inadvertently come up with a cure for unsolicited attention. After lounging in the sand at the beach for a while, we decided to walk back to our hotel in the medina. Natalie apparently caught someone’s eye and as she approached he said, “Oh you have such nice eyes. How many camels?” When she passed him and he saw her from the back, he said in a rather appalled tone of voice, “Oh! You are so sandy!”
We laughed the whole way back. It seems a sandy bottom is enough to deter even the most vociferous of pursuers!
Madrid
Si, si…I am well aware that Madrid is in fact not in Morocco and I am supposed to be recapping my Moroccan experiences here. However, my trans-Mediterranean jaunt has been one of the highlights of my trip and this blog entry is not complete without it!
If I had to sum up the weekend in one word it would be “connection.” If I could use three I would also say
‘tapas’ and ‘sangria’…but let’s stick to the first. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, my trip to Madrid showed me the value, stamina and outright fun of human connection.I traveled with my friends Natalie and Kayla, both international students like me at Al Akhawayn. One of Ramadan’s many assets is that its end entails a five day weekend and a prime opportunity for cheap transcontinental travel! Though I half-lamented not being in Morocco for the Aid feast which brings the holy month to a close, I was nonetheless thrilled at the chance to jet off to Spain. I was looking forward to a little dose of Europe, not to mention a respite from multilingual communication. My Arabic and French skills, although far from proficient, are a hot commodity in Morocco and at times boost my popularity as a travel buddy. My Spanish vocab on the other hand, consisting of ‘taco’, ‘burrito’ and ‘hot tamale’, gave me an excuse to sit back and let someone else do the talking!
Before we set off, Natalie wor
ked up the nerve to call her father’s former Spanish exchange student, now a successful middle-aged oil advertising executive living in Madrid. Somewhere back in the mid 1970s a high-school Spanish boy from Madrid named José decided to complete his senior year of high school in a small Wisconsin town. Meanwhile, an all-American Midwestern family decided to open their home to an international student. Hence- José meets Bob. Some thirty years later Bob will send his oldest daughter Natalie off to Morocco. Natalie will find a cheap flight to Madrid. Bob will remember how much he liked José and tell his daughter to call him. José in turn will remember how Bob taught him English, played soccer with him, and during that year in small-town Wisconsin became like a big brother. And, because of an international connection forged between two adolescent boys three decades ago, José will pick Natalie and her friends up from the airport, leave them the keys to his apartment for the weekend, buy them groceries, and call up his twenty-something year old neighbors to show the girls around Madrid. The connection web begins…We met Miguel and Alex after they came home from playing football- not the beer-belly macho American variety mind you but the all-consuming phenomenon that is sweeping the rest of the world save the U.S. “What time do you usually go to bed?” They asked us. “Are you okay staying out until 5 or 6 a.m.?” I laughed. What kind of crazy night-owl insomniacs stay out until 5 a.m.!? Well, as it turns out, just about every Madridian between the ages of 14 and 45!
For “dinner” we ate plates of tapas at 11p.m. My friend Becca, a Knoxville native like myself who is studying in Madrid, met us for dinner and brought her friend Megan along. I will not name names but I daresay that the next in a series of connections began to form that evening. Let’s just say that this chance meeting between our Spanish guides and our friends may have inspired an international romance or two. Or, if nothing else, they gained some new Spanish friends to show them around the city.
Later that weekend, Natalie called Rachel, an old high school friend who now lives in Madrid. After a semester abroad in Madrid two years ago, Rachel did what most of us would only dream of doing. She stayed. She fell in love with the city, presumably the language as well, and had the courage to up and transfer her credits, her clothes, and essentially her life to this foreign city. Although she only had a couple years of textbook Spanish under her belt then, Rachel now speaks like a native, lisp and all! The only thing that betrays her nationality is her blond hair. I was impressed by her sense of adventure and sense of self. She really proved to me that we can write our own stories and to a certain degree make life unfold as we wish it to.
Ok, now back to the theme here…It turns out that Rachel had interned at the very same office that Becca is currently working for in Madrid. The two girls bonded over work gossip about the staff of Hot English, a Madrid-based English language magazine aimed to teach Spaniards English. Perhaps it is a small coincidence that Becca should happen to intern at Rachel’s former post; however, when I thought about all the coincidences and chances and connections spanning continents and decades in just this one weekend, I couldn’t help but be amazed. That I should meet Natalie, that Natalie’s dad should keep up with a long ago friend from Spain, that one of this man’s neighbors should spark a connection with a friend of a friend from Knoxville, and so on and so on….Walt Disney was on to something. We don’t need singing dolls in lederhosen and magical boat rides to tell us that the world is in fact pretty small if you let it be. Human connection is a powerful thing. It can span continents and time. It builds on itself. A friend of a friend of a friend counts for something. In fact, it counts for quite a lot. I think connections make the world worth traveling. The sights are amazing, yes, but it is the people who really make the experience!
That said, I think I will devote just a little space to the actual sites and sounds of the city.
I was surprised by the architecture of Madrid. The post office could easily be mistaken for a palace. The winding pedestrian streets and large plazas invite street performers, which were bountiful on this “Columbus Day” weekend. In Spain, Columbus is somewhat of a national treasure, having “discovered” the Americas for the monarchy in the fifteenth century. In a single day we stumbled upon musicians, salsa dancers and countless human statues who take the saying “stay in character” to heart. These human statues paint their skin gold or silver, which makes for an interesting to and from work commute I imagine. They hold their poses so well that telling the difference between a real statue and one with a pulse requires intense scrutiny. Of course they will move for a coin in the coffer or a photo op if the price is right, but most of their job is to sit still and look lifeless.
We visited the famous Prado Museum where we saw tons of Francisco Goya paintings among others. We pushed our way through the meandering and crowded street market of El Rastro. We lay in the sun on the grass in El Retiro Park. In Morocco, grass is a prized and rare possession and lounging in it is a faux pas. As you can imagine, we were delighted to bask in the Spanish sun! We ate long leisurely meals of paella and sangria! We even ate Indian food…not so easy to come by in Morocco either.
The weekend was what I would consider a vacation. Studying and traveling in Morocco is an experience, an amazing one at that, but not a vacation in my book. My trans-Mediterranean trip was a perfect way to wind-down before gearing up for midterms.
Exporting Racism
I guess I expected some anti-Semitic comments in Morocco. I have heard that “no Jews died in 9/11 because they all knew about.” In fact, some go so far as to claim Israel orchestrated the attacks. I have also heard that Jews always have ulterior motives, not matter how long you’ve known them or how benign they may seem. As you can imagine, this is all news to me!
It is not these anti-Semitic comments and blatant fallacies that surprise me though. What deeply shocks and worries me is the image that Moroccans seem to have of African Americans. Along with blue jeans, Coca-cola and Brad Pitt, I fear that America is exporting racism.
I have had three encounters that have led me to this startling conclusion. One night while I was having dinner with my Moroccan friend in her room, the conversation turned toward American culture and society. My friend is applying for graduate schools in the States and had tons of questions about what to expect. “Is it true,” she asked, “that the black people in America are bad? Because my sister’s friend was raped by black men in America. And, I think they are bad people who do bad things.” She proceeded to tell me about the crime and that she was afraid of black people because of what she had heard. “What do you think Jill?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. I was angry- not at her of course but at my own society. I was angry at a society that is structured so that one group is given a raw deal from the beginning, which stacks the odds against them. I was angry at a media system which thrives on bad news and at an entertainment industry that sells “ghetto” images. It is no wonder that someone half-way around the world who has never set foot in America would think that black Americans are bad. The news tells them that. The movies tell them that. And one account from a trustworthy source, a sister’s friend, can confirm this misconception.
“No.” I told her. “Black Americans are not bad. There are always people who do bad things. White people, Chinese people, Arabs…but the group as a whole is not bad because of those actions.” I wanted to explain more, but how do you encapsulate centuries of emotionally-laden social and economic history in a sound-bite? I regret that I might not have gotten through to her. “Still,” she responded. “I think these black Americans are not good.”
On another occasion, the Arabic word for “race” was written in a story we were studying in class. As our professor usually does with unfamiliar vocabulary, he constructed a sentence using the new word. The sentence was more or less, “Americans don’t like people whose race is black.” Again, I was floored. Here, a very educated man who had even spent time teaching in the U.S. was propagating this idea of undisputed racism in America. “Maybe that was truer in the past,” we told our professor, “but not anymore.”
Lastly, an American friend of mine was talking to a Moroccan student who casually said something along the lines of “Black Americans are pretty lazy, don’t you think?” Needless to say she was shocked, as much by his supposition that she too thought this than by his actual words.
What kind of influence does our country have on the world? Do we even realize that along with hamburgers and Coke the world is digesting our polluted past and ongoing racial issues? It is more dangerous, I think, for a Moroccan to be prejudiced against black Americans than for a white American to racist. A white American at least can interact with black Americans. There is a potential there for change of heart, maybe only a small window, but change is nonetheless possible. On the other hand, across the Atlantic, the only interaction Moroccans will likely have with black Americans is through the television, the internet, music and the movies. They can take their conspiracy theories and misconceptions and live in world that confirms them rather than challenges them. I can make my speech about everyone being equal, about the influence of media, etc….but is it enough? I doubt it. I am deeply afraid that America is exporting racism.
Marrakech
This famed city of Morocco lives up to its reputation. It is touristy, slightly overpriced, and incredibly crowded. Yet despite all that, its snake-charmers, posh night clubs, fresh orange juice stands, and intricate
medina make the city well worth the nine hour train ride from Meknes. Marrakech is in Southern, Morocco where temperatures even in November are in the 70s.Djemaa el Fna, the big square at the center of the medina, was our reference point for the weekend. The 220 foot tall minaret of the Al Koutoubia Mosque nearby made it easy to recognize. The square is the largest one in Africa and a UNESCO world heritage site. During the day, the square is crammed with snake charmers, henna artists, performers in jellabas, fruit vendors, spice merchants, and monkey trainers. Wide-eyed tourists in tank tops and shorts meander through the chaos, no doubt paying too much for their Moroccan souvenirs. Of all the cities I’ve visited, Marrakech boasts the most blatant tourists! At night, the square resembles a county fair à la Moroccain. Huge white tents with long picnic tables take over the area. Smoke coats the night sky as kebab-vendors cook fresh meats and tajines for hungry tourists. After dinner one night, we hit up one of the tea stands for tea and dessert that is distinctly marrakechi. I couldn’t tell you the name of it but a tiny sip of that tea will clear up a stuffy nose in an instant. If cinnamon, menthol, wasabi, black tea and sugar got together the outcome might
be akin to this tea. I don’t think I am really doing it justice though. The accompanying dessert falls into the love it or hate it category. I, being a rather undiscriminating and very adventurous eater, loved it. Its consistency is less than cake and more than pudding. It is not exactly sweet either but tastes a little bit like gingerbread without all the sugar. It crumbles in the spoon and sort of melts in your mouth.Our days were mostly spent winding our way through the medina, chit-chatting in Arabic with shopkeepers, and honing our bargaining skills. I mus
t say that my stick-to-it ability has much improved and when the time calls I can bargain with the best of them! My friend Katie cracked me up every time! “How much is this?” she’d ask in Arabic. The shopkeeper would reply and no matter his answer, every single time, Katie’s face would contort in a look of disgust that said “No sir, you are not taking me for a ride.” Then, in a high-pitched mocking yet sing-songy voice she would retort the price, scoff, and motion for us to leave. That is when the shop owner would swoop back in and lower his asking price. I mourn for the unsuspecting tourists whose key chains and t-shirts cost as much as scarves and pottery.Our hotel was in the middle of the medina with a roof-top terrace overlooking the city. On night we sat up there as the sun set and listened to the c
all to prayer echoing from dozens of mosques around us. The calls created a melody. It wasn’t in sync but it was lulling in a way. For that minute or so, we all quieted and just listened. I reminded myself of where I was, what a unique experience I was having, and how my life is shaping up to be a pretty remarkable journey.Cat-calls and Crossing lines
Inevitably, walking around the old city in a group of seven American girls elicited some cat-calling. For the most part it was benign.
“Oh you have beautiful eyes. Want a Moroccan husband?”
“The Spice Girls!” (I must have heard this one a half a dozen times)
“How many camels? How many camels?” (Sorry boys, this girl is not for sale and for an entire camel farm!)
And my favorite- When we would politely decline a marriage proposal or an invitation into a shop in Arabic some wise guys would reply in accented English, “I don’t speak Arabic. I am American!”
A couple of times the banter passed friendly and become unnerving. Walking through the ville nouvelle of Marrakech one night, two different sets of men on motorcycles followed us. They were shouting vulgarities and I felt at once disgusted, indignant, saddened and afraid. Another night we were walking along the beach in a town called Essaouira, which we visited after Marrakech. Two different men trailed behind us, not saying anything but certainly making their presence known. I know that these behaviors and attitudes are not unique to Morocco. I don’t blame Moroccan culture. All over the world women hear these same comments. All over the world women are disrespected. It is not solely because we are American that we drew so much attention, although that is certainly part of it. I don’t know if there is an answer to the issue.
I think my friend Natalie may have inadvertently come up with a cure for unsolicited attention. After lounging in the sand at the beach for a while, we decided to walk back to our hotel in the medina. Natalie apparently caught someone’s eye and as she approached he said, “Oh you have such nice eyes. How many camels?” When she passed him and he saw her from the back, he said in a rather appalled tone of voice, “Oh! You are so sandy!”
We laughed the whole way back. It seems a sandy bottom is enough to deter even the most vociferous of pursuers!
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Yom Kippur à la Morocco
When the question of religion arises, I have my light-hearted answer down-pat and ready to go. “I’m Jew-ish,” I say, emphasizing the last syllable and wavering my hand. Heaven forbid anyone get the wrong impression that they are in the presence of a Shabbat-observing, Bat Mitzvahed Talmudic scholar. I don’t mean to downplay my ties to Judaism. I have eaten my fair share of Seder dinners, lit the menorah quite a few times (albeit alongside the Christmas tree), and even attended Hebrew school for a year or two. Yet my “Jewishness” admittedly does not go far beyond the holiday hallmarks of the religion and a general understanding of its theology.
So, when the opportunity to spend Yom Kippur with a Jewish Moroccan couple came my way, I thought it was prime time to assert the first syllable of my identity. For the weekend anyway, I would put the “ish” aside and be a Jew. How many chances will I have to spend the holiest of Jewish holy days in a Moroccan synagogue? This was a chance not only to reconnect with Judaism, but to catch a glimpse of the life of a small, yet culturally and historically rich, community- the Jews of Morocco.
Coincidentally, the holiest of Jewish holy days fell this year within the holiest of Islamic holy months. While I had tried my hand at fasting for Ramadan and surrendered after a mere two days, I would now be giving it another go in the name of atonement for Yom Kippur.
I traveled to Fez with two other American classmates- Danny, who I am convinced knows 
more about Judaism than your average rabbi, and Sarah, about as religious as I am but equally excited for the experience! On Friday afternoon we met our hosts Danielle and Jacques Mamane. Jacques can trace his ancestry to the Spanish Inquisition in 1492 when his relatives fled from Spain to Morocco. Both Danielle and Jacques grew up in Fez. They are now in their mid-sixties and have two grown daughters living in Paris.
more about Judaism than your average rabbi, and Sarah, about as religious as I am but equally excited for the experience! On Friday afternoon we met our hosts Danielle and Jacques Mamane. Jacques can trace his ancestry to the Spanish Inquisition in 1492 when his relatives fled from Spain to Morocco. Both Danielle and Jacques grew up in Fez. They are now in their mid-sixties and have two grown daughters living in Paris.The Mamanes have been Moroccan for centuries, but make a point of distinguishing themselves from Muslim Moroccans. “Our culture is French,” said Jacques. “We speak French and only speak Arabic when we have to.” When the French made Morocco a protectorate in 1912, they gave preferential treatment to the Jews. Now that the number of Jews in Morocco is down from 300,000 in 1948 to only around 7,000 today, due to mass immigration to Israel, I think Jews like the Mamanes feel an even bigger need to guard their community and their unique character.
From the moment Jacques met us at the hotel, I was immediately at ease. Through his broken English, Jacques 
cracked jokes that only a sweet old man can get away with. “In Morocco,” he said as Sarah and I trailed behind Danny and Jacques, “women are always in the back!” He smiled his at us as we piled into the car to go to his house for dinner.
Danielle greeted us with open arms and two French bisous (kisses) on each of our cheeks. She speaks beautiful English and immediately began questioning us about our lives, families, ambitions…”I am not the CIA,” she kept insisting!
cracked jokes that only a sweet old man can get away with. “In Morocco,” he said as Sarah and I trailed behind Danny and Jacques, “women are always in the back!” He smiled his at us as we piled into the car to go to his house for dinner.Danielle greeted us with open arms and two French bisous (kisses) on each of our cheeks. She speaks beautiful English and immediately began questioning us about our lives, families, ambitions…”I am not the CIA,” she kept insisting!
We soon moved out conversation from the couch to the table and sat down with a cup of kosher wine to welcome Yom Kippur and eat our last meal before our day of fasting. Danielle and Jacques, in true grandparent fashion, kept insisting we eat more. “What can I say?” Danielle laughed, “Jewish mothers are the same all over the world.”
Every bite I ate at that table was one to be remembered- from the dozen or so appetizer salads (marinated peppers, baba ganoush, carrots) to the roasted red pepper meat and chicken to the last crumb of chocolate coconut pound cake and cup of mint tea. I later discovered that Danielle is a published chef and has an acclaimed cook book on Sephardic Moroccan cuisine. I do not like to solicit but for your own sake you should definitely order this book- The Scent of Orange Blossoms by Danielle Mamane, Amazon.com. Your taste buds will thank you! The two meals I ate with the Mamanes were the best two I’ve eaten yet in Morocco. Danielle showed us her garden where she grows many of her ingredients.
After dinner Jacques, Danny, Sarah and I went to the synagogue. Danielle stayed home, for reasons which I later discovered. Unless you knew explicitly which street, which color door, and roughly how many paces it is away from the closest landmark, you would never know a synagogue even existed in Fez. The door is purposefully as inconspicuous as possible. Only after entering and climbing the narrow stairs do you see a small Star of David hanging.
At the top of the stairs, Sarah and I entered through a door on the left. We found ourselves in a long narrow section of the tiny sanctuary, partitioned off by a white curtain. About ten other women sat on two long benches, whispering to one another and looking, quite honestly, bored, hot and tired. On the other side of the curtain, two dozen or so older men wearing tallits (prayer shawls) and yarmulkes chanted in prayer. Their voices wove in and out of harmony, responding to the singing recitations of the rabbi. At times though, their voices were simply cacophony, not helped much by the fact that the entire service was in Hebrew. I didn’t recognize any of the melodies, which Danny said was probably due to differences between Sephardic Judaism (Spanish/Middle Eastern) and Ashkenazi Judaism (Eastern European).
Meanwhile, on the other side of the curtain, old ladies gossiped in quiet French. Through the curtain a few pious men turned around to “shhh” the women. Only a couple women had prayer books in their hands and only occasionally looked as though they were following along. Every once in a while the woman stood when they saw the blurred outlines of the men’s figures rising.
The men’s voices never stopped for the two hours of service Friday night and the nearly eight hours on Saturday. “Sometimes,” said Jacques explaining his mysterious disappearances from service, “I just have to go for a long walk. I am like a child. I can’t sit in one place too long!”
In contrast, barley an “Amen” came from the women. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around this dichotomy. Was it inequality? Tradition? Did the women mind that while their men were in prayer they were left so chat in the back of the sanctuary? Danny, the aforementioned Judaism connoisseur, said that in orthodox tradition women are not really required to pray because they are believed to be already spiritually superior to men and closer to God. While I have no problem consenting to women’s superiority (a true product of the “you go girl” era I suppose), I couldn’t quite come to terms with this blatant division of the sexes. I respect the separation of the sexes in synagogue and understand its logic, but why the lack of participation of the women? It made more sense to me now that Danielle stayed at home.
When we got back to the Mamanes on Saturday night, Danielle had another delicious meal waiting for us. After 24 hours of fasting, the already mouthwatering food took on an even deeper delectability. This evening, we were all more relaxed than the one before. Our souls had been cleansed and we had made new connections with one another. The Mamanes treated us like family, inviting us to Shabbat or just for a visit any time we wished. I returned to campus that night with a new family in Fez, a cleansed soul (let’s hope, having spent more hours in synagogue the past two days then the past ten years combined), and a better understanding of such a unique sect of Moroccan society. I had reclaimed a little bit of that first syllable of my religion after all and had a wonderful time in the process!
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