Place Jamaa el Fna

In my Feminist Rant post, I mentioned how originally I thought I would wait to share my thoughts on being a woman in Morocco until after an inevitable more extreme experience. I should have waited until after Marrakech.

I really loved my time in Marrakech, and luckily the experience I will relate did not overshadow the rest of my time there (which is for a separate post). But it’s especially personal. Marrakech’s most well known attraction is the Place Jamaa el Fna, a large square between the Koutoubia mosque and the souqs (markets) of the medina. It was declared a World Heritage site because of its street performers and rich storytelling traditions. After a month without theatre, I was dying to see some performances and it was probably what I was looking forward to the most. When

Hannah and I arrived around 7pm, the performers weren’t quite in full swing yet, but there were other fun things to look at (and pay money for if you wanted a photo), like snake charmers, musicians, and monkeys. After looking around a little, we downed some 25 cent amazing orange juice from one of the many stands, then spent some time shopping in the souqs before grabbing dinner at one of the many restaurants that sets up in the plaza just before sunset, all of which are super cheap (we had good food and sizable portions plus tea for about $5). After our dinner, as we wandered around trying to decide on another stand to get tea, we were attacked by the many men employed to get people to choose their restaurant. They’re pretty intense, and despite “Non, j’ai mange” (No, I ate) they would say, “second dinner!” Marrakech was much more intense (about 50 times) than Rabat when it came to catcalling, but luckily it was more creative, and sometimes amusing, like the many times we had “Fish and chips!” called out to us because they thought we might be British. Usually it was comments in French or English about us being pretty girls or some variation. But the one that really got me was when I stubbornly kept walking and refusing a guy trying to get me to go to his restaurant (they literally get in your face, you can’t ignore them, one guy almost body slammed Hannah). As I walked away he said, “Oh my god, nice boobies.” I was pissed; he had crossed a line. And all I could think was, “how could he possibly think that would get me to change my mind and go to his restaurant?” Of course my mother is much wiser and I need to cool off and not let these things get to me. When I told her that story, her response was, “Of course he said that, it was all part of his power game. You were turning him down, and it was his way of putting you down too.” Duh.

But no, this is not the incident to which I am referring. After tea, we went to look more closely at the performances going on in the middle of the plaza. I was excited; this is what I had come to see! But I was a little disturbed…despite many other women milling around, I noticed that all of the large circles (50 to 100 people at least) forming around the acts were 99% male. I tried to push these concerns out of my mind and focus on the performances—nothing was getting in my way! Upon sighting a man standing on top of another man’s head, we made our way over to the outskirts of that circle. While trying to find a space between the heads to view the performers, I noticed that a man was standing uncomfortable close behind me, pressing against me. We couldn’t really see anything, and so after a few minutes decided to try another circle. But as we turned to go, both Hannah and I each felt a guy grope our “derrieres,” if you will…it was too dark to tell who did it. Neither one of us particularly appreciated that, and so we decided to leave.

We may have joked about how it was the PG version of sexual assault, but the more I think about it, the more I get really angry. This was not some harmless catcall. I was taken advantage of (albeit not in a terribly harmful way) in a place where I had every right to be, and what’s more, while trying to enjoy something I had been looking forward to and really wanted to see. It was all too clear why women were avoiding those circles, something I knew in the back of my mind but didn’t want to pay attention to or believe. The next night we went back, but we didn’t even try to watch the performances in the circles. I am still upset that these men dictated what I could and could not experience because I am a woman.

"YOU HAVE TO GO TO FEZ."

As I pack to leave for Marrakesh tomorrow, I think I should probably write about my last trip, to Fez, first. I should begin by saying that (or thanking, rather) Ryan McKittrick, my boss as the literary intern at A.R.T./my soon to be professor told me literally about twenty times before I left Boston, "Sara, you HAVE TO GO TO FEZ AND MARRAKESH!!!" in this really intense voice with a scary look in his eye. So since I was worried that he would never speak to me again/fail me in class if I didn't go, I arranged to spend a weekend there with Hannah, the other intern at AMIDEAST.

Ok, I should back up. When I arrived in Morocco and met with Joe, the country director for AMIDEAST, I was worried I might have too much free time on my hands outside of French lessons. Luckily, he really needed another intern for the summer. So I'll write more about that later, but there are two others, Hannah and Michael. Hannah is a rising junior religion major at Princeton from Durham, NC, and Michael is a rising senior anthropology/Arabic major at Bard. We all get along pretty well, and Michael actually studied abroad last summer in Fez and last fall semester at AMIDEAST in Rabat, and his Moroccan Arabic is pretty good. Hannah's French is about on par with mine.

So the three of us went to Fez together, Hannah and I sharing a hotel room and doing more stuff together, Michael staying with friends and doing some fieldwork and research. Fez is HOT this time of year...well over 100 degrees F, but we were lucky that it rained the first night we were there and cooled off our first day a bit. We stayed at an Ibis Hotel, which is always right next to the train station and easy to find...and more importantly, has AIR CONDITIONING. Hannah and I were all kinds of excited about that. It was the first time I really slept well in awhile, since Rabat had a really hot week before I left.

Our first night there Hannah and I went to this restaurant in my trusty Lonely Planet guide book, Le Kasbah in the medina. I thought it might be hard to find but it was literally right there when we went in the main gate to the Medina, Bab Bou Jeloud. It had a great view and good food at decent prices, but what was funny was how we were surrounded entirely by tourists...and I actually saw a couple with their own copy of Lonely Planet. That's one of the things that struck me immediately about Fez, the tourism atmosphere. There isn't much of that in Rabat, so in a way I felt less out of place in Fez.

View from our restaurant the first night, Bab Bou Jeloud

Saturday morning at 9am we met our tourguide Driss at the hotel and spent the next four hours or so with him. The medina (old city/market area) in Fez is a maze, and it's also where most of the city's sights are, so if you want to be able to find them you really need to get a guide. With Driss we went to the palace first, where we saw the most amazing and beautiful gates. It was close to the Mellah, or Jewish quarter. Fez used to have huge Jewish population, but now there are only about 250 families there. After walking through the Mellah, we made our way over to the Medina.

I don't think I can fully recount everything we saw there in the next three hours. But we were able to see the inside of a mosque (non-Muslims are banned from entering most mosques in Morocco), saw a man painstakingly hammering away an intricate design on a brass plate, men weaving fabric, and my favorite part, the tanneries. It was really amazing to watch how these men treated and died leather the same way their ancestors had hundreds of years ago. 850 families share the same space in the medina, which is hard to imagine. All the dyes they use are completely natural. We also learned about the different types of leather and succumbed to buying some products ourselves. I bargained two purses down to almost half what they started at my second day there (and thank goodness Moroccan friends later told me that was a decent price).

Fez is also known for it's blue on white pottery (sometimes with other colors, but traditionally without). This is because blue is the color of Fez. Green is the color of the prophet Mohammed, and that's why the Bab Bou Jeloud is blue on one side and green on the other. Fez pottery is absolutely gorgeous, in my opinion. I can't tell you how much I wanted to buy more, but it's pretty heavy and I don't have enough room in my suitcases. It's not terribly expensive, either. I got two small beautiful bowls as gifts for people, at 20 dirhams each...about $2.50 each. Morocco in general is mind blowingly inexpensive for me...a 10 minute taxi ride to AMIDEAST from the apartment in Rabat costs about 12 dirhams or $1.50, less than a one way ride on the T in Boston!

Hannah and I had lunch with Michael at this great ex-pat hang out place, Cafe Clock, but I'm afraid we weren't the best lunch partners, we were so exhausted from the day we could barely make conversation. We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening either indoors in the air conditioning or by the pool, going out only to get something to eat quickly.

The next day Hannah and I ventured on our own to see the Jewish cemetery and synagogue. After leaving the cemetery we were plagued by this hustler we couldn't seem to lose (I mentioned him in my last post), but it was worth putting up with him bugging us on the five minute walk to the synagogue once we got there. Michael's guide book that he loaned us mentioned a "very enthusiastic caretaker" who is happy to show you around the Ibn Danan Synagogue, and that was exactly what we found. He was the cutest little man, and so sweet. He showed us around the fairly recently restored small synagogue, which was originally built in the seventeenth century. He spoke to us in French, and upon discovery that we were Jewish exclaimed, "Shalom!" The walls were covered with photos of other synagogues around Morocco, and he showed all of them to us, along with the torah in the ark and the rather rank and green looking mikva.

It was a good trip, and as I began to read my guidebook on the way back, I got even more excited for Marrakesh. So Ryan McKittrick, if you're reading this...thank you!

In case you didn't see my facebook photo album, here are a few other favorite photos:
They kind of made us try these on. I had dresses like the one I'm wearing when I was little.

My guidebook talked about how some people get "Fez neck" from craning to look up at the beautiful ceilings.
Fassis love them some fountains, and so do I.

View from the medersa/mosque.

Close up of one of the palace gates.

The Jewish cemetery.

Sara in Fez, summer 2009...

Sara in Fez, summer 1989! With my dad on the right and my godfather Walter on the left.

Feminist Rant

There are times I wish I had a t-shirt that read:

Dear Moroccan Men,
Please stop looking at me like I’m a piece of meat.
Salaam,
Sara

Although to be honest, having something printed on my chest for them to read probably would not alleviate the problem.

I thought I would wait until after an inevitable more extreme experience to write something about being a woman in Morocco, but I’ve found so far that the little daily ordeals are what I find most difficult. Everyday in Morocco, I get blatant leers from men on the street. Coming from someone whose friends often need to point out to her that a guy is taking notice in social situations, I feel like this says a lot. I am so sick of it, being constantly objectified.

According to Mohamed Chtatou (a wonderful man and feminist too), sitting in sidewalk cafes and admiring women as they go by is Morocco’s biggest national pastime/sport. I was complaining to our family friend Imane, and she laughed knowingly, saying, “Of course they look at you, that’s what you’re there for! In their minds, you were put on this earth for them to admire, like a cake in a bakery window.” Fundamentally, there is nothing harmful in what most men here do. They are not hurting any women or violating them. Technically. But as a woman, it definitely hurts your pride to be incessantly objectified.

In addition to the looks I get (and I dress pretty modestly here), I also frequently get “bonjour!” “salut!” (both mean hello or hi) and “ca va?” (how are you?) from random men as I walk places, either by myself or with Hannah, the other AMIDEAST intern. If I’m with Michael, the third intern, this does not happen as much. In fact, when we were in Fez, Hannah and I were walking back to our hotel from across the street where we had run to get some bottled water, and a man holding the hand of his little boy said “Ca va?” and gave us each the once over as we walked past him. For shame.

Sometimes they get creative, and I am able to laugh to myself, which helps me from getting too worked up about these things. The first time I was legitimately catcalled here, some guys in Rabat’s medina yelled to Hannah and me, “Girls…I like your small asses!” I had to bite back a smile…my ass may be many other adjectives, but it is definitely not small. That boy would really benefit from learning some more descriptive vocabulary words.

But other times it’s annoying on the verge of a little threatening, like when guys hiss at you. Or like when this guy followed Hannah and me through the Mellah section in Fez, trying to get us to go with him as a guide or something. Ignoring him did no good, as he waited outside the synagogue for us and then followed us down the main road at a distance before we caught a taxi back to our hotel.

I know it’s not dangerous, just annoying. But the more I think about it, the more it upsets me because of the larger implications it has on the status of women in this country. I wound up sitting next to a nice Moroccan student on the train back from Fez named Hind, who was very chatty. She did most of the talking French, and I’m not really sure how she wound up on the subject, but she was wearing the hijab (headscarf), and told me that she did it for herself (Chtatou’s reaction was “they all say that”), but how when she goes out in public, she dresses differently than she would at home. She was wearing long sleeves and a long skirt in unbearable heat, and she said that at home she would wear short sleeves, but if she goes out in public and wears clothes with more coverage she won’t get unwanted attention from men. For her it seemed like an obvious solution, and I think luckily for the sake of keeping things amiable between us, my French skills wouldn’t accommodate what I wanted to say: that she should be able to go out wearing whatever she wants to without worrying how men will think of her much less treat her. It’s an issue of respect.

I’ve noticed that men I don’t know, but whom I interact with here in a customer sense don’t treat me that way. For instance, taxi drivers or men running little roadside stands called hanoots (I don’t know if I spelled/transliterated that correctly) never give me the once over or try to talk to me in a way that implies anything beyond genuine friendly conversation. Why? Because as a customer, they have to treat me with respect. It’s interesting how even just a small relationship with a woman changes the way she might be treated. Similarly, Hannah and I have talked about how it seems like a lot of the young men here don’t really get that much socialization with women. Which makes sense, since at a certain age and in certain circles women and men are either segregated or young women are held in contempt if they go out without a chaperone. But maybe that’s adding to the problem. By denying men the ability to develop platonic friendships with women, society denies them the ability to develop a healthy appreciation for them too.

I know I might be overreacting. But I continually think about these things as I go about my daily life in Morocco. So I would appreciate your thoughts, feel free to comment. In fact, a lot of you have been telling me that you’re reading my blog, and thank you…I would appreciate your comments so I don’t feel like I’m talking to nobody!

Cultural Confusion: A Weekend in Ifrane

I had been told that Ifrane was fairly quiet and there wasn’t much to do there, but my father’s good friend Driss had invited me to spend the weekend with them. My interest was piqued by memories of a photo or postcard my mom had sent me a few years ago when my parents visited, of a college campus that looked just like a Swiss chalet. So I decided to go.

Driss and my dad are old friends (I think my dad even taught Driss when he was in the Peace Corps) and have worked together for the past few years until Driss was hand-picked by the king to become the president of Al Akhawayn University in Ifrane back in January. Driss and my dad share a sort of Stanislavski/Danchenko relationship, without the souring years later…they have been known to stay up late talking about ideas related to their field. I’ve met Driss several times and really like him, but I had never met his wife, Keltoum, whom I was told in advance is a very quiet but nice high-powered dentistry professor in Rabat.

I drove up with Keltoum in a chauffer-driven Audi, arriving in Ifrane about 2 and half hours after leaving Rabat. Ifrane is on par with elevation in Colorado, a mile high. The whole weekend felt a little bit like Waiting for Driss, who was so busy with commencement activities and board meetings that really the only time I got to see him was Sunday at breakfast. I think that’s why on the drive back he wanted me to spend the rest of the day and the night with them in Rabat.
Keltoum was very nice though, although quiet in the literal sense…I sometimes had a hard time hearing what she was saying, not to mention deciphering the French!

On Saturday morning when I met her outside to go to the souq (market), she was talking with a friend and began to introduce us. The woman, Melika, said, “Sara! I know you! I’ve known you since you were this big! I’m Dahbi’s wife.” I hadn’t seen Melika since I was seven, but know that we spent a lot of time with their family (she has two kids my age and an eleven year old daughter now) when we spent the summers here. I had seen Mohamed Dahbi, the Dean of the School of Humanities & Social Sciences at AUI, back in November when he was in DC for a conference with my dad. I finally got to re-meet his daughter Miriam, who is a few years younger than me, but I’ve heard a lot about her over the years, and she was really nice.

There really isn’t much to say about the town; its quiet and small. About 10,000 people live there, with more visitors during the winter ski-season. What was more fascinating to me was the campus. Also quiet and small, but it’s completely different than any other place in Morocco. In fact if it hadn’t been for the mosque on campus and a few architectural things, I could have been anywhere but Morocco. It was quite liberating to feel like I could walk around, by myself, wearing whatever I wanted (within reason, obviously, but a tank top would have been fine for once). It was the first time I felt completely comfortable being by myself in public in Morocco.

Why? Because AUI is an anglophile university. It is the only university in Morocco where the courses are taught entirely in English, and it follows the American four-year curriculum. As a small, private university it has become one of the best schools in the country since it was created just fifteen years ago, and many of the students are quite wealthy. I was lucky that I just so happened to be visiting during their commencement weekend, and the ceremony was very interesting. It was similar to any American graduation, but instead of cap and gown the graduates wore nice suits, with a ribbon attached to their lapel signifying their school. There was a large screen where speeches given in English were written in French or Arabic, and vice versa. This was so the families could understand, since they didn’t all speak English. Interestingly, there was a great amount of recognition and thanks given to the parents and families, multiple times. This made sense since Morocco is such a family-centric country, but I also found out it’s because in Morocco the parents are the ones who pay entirely for their children’s education.

There was a party that night for the commencement, and Miriam invited me to go, but I had a terrible headache. Maybe it was because I had been out in the heat at the souq without a hat. Maybe it was because of the altitude. But after life in Rabat, the traditional souq that morning, and the American-like atmosphere on campus, I think maybe it was because my weekend in Ifrane left me culturally confused.

Le Troisieme Soir

In Morocco, Muslims mourn the death of a loved one for three days. During that time, friends and family will come and visit, but on the third night, they congregate en masse to sit together, pray, and in the wee hours of the morning, eat a large meal. Since I had been told that in this culture you should show support in difficult times by being present, when Mohamed and his wife Soundousse gave me the option of accompanying them to his brother’s house or staying at home, I accepted their invitation. Soundousse told me there was going to be a lot of people there and I think she was concerned it might be weird for me, but I really wanted to show my support since they have been so kind to me and have really accepted me as part of their family.

To be honest, I didn’t really know quite what to expect…but a three-story house filled with people—I think at least 75 if not 100—was much bigger than I had imagined. I should have realized that Moroccans were going to approach commemorating the end of a life in a similar fashion to they might celebrate the start of one, like when I’ve attended weddings. Large scale, lots of people, and a big meal very late at night. We arrived somewhere between 6:30 and 7pm, and didn’t leave until about 1:30am.

When we arrived Faris and Sourour scampered off with the many kids and Mohamed told me to go with Soundousse. We went to the second floor, which had a kitchen (there was also one on the first floor), a bathroom, and two very large salons where the women were sitting. I was the only one not wearing a jellaba, the ankle length robe with a pointy hood, and one of about four women not wearing a headscarf. It felt ok though, since everyone seemed to know that I was not Moroccan and staying with Mohamed and Soundousse, but I did feel a little weird since I had asked Soundousse if what I was wearing was okay, and felt like I stuck out a lot and it was not that respectful. Some of the men set up a giant stereo in the window facing the street, and played a recording of the Qur’an; later they chanted into the microphone downstairs themselves. All the women sat around, giving bissous (the kisses on the sides of the cheeks) to almost everyone when they came in, including me. I sort of found it interesting, how some women will kiss multiple times on the second cheek, and tried to figure out why they did that with some people and not others. To be honest, the whole night was a bit of an anthropological study for me. I also realized that I never really see Moroccans hug each other…in fact I have yet to be hugged, really, since I arrived. I could use a hug, not gonna lie.

So basically I just sat there for 3 hours, occasionally talking to a couple of Mohamed’s adult nieces who were very nice, sipping mint tea, and trying to not let the women force-feed me croissants. I was saving myself for the delicious smelling tagines, and I even thought I caught a whiff of my favorite dish, bastilla, but alas I was wrong…and dinner was not served until 12:45 am. There were a few incredibly adorable three year olds who were sticking close to their mothers, and this one three-year old, Jihad, was such a little flirt, at one point he just sat next to me for about ten minutes for no reason, then ran back to his mother and would smile at me sheepishly whenever I looked at him.

One of these cute kids was in the hall, and she was trying to get me to do something, but didn’t speak French and didn’t understand that I couldn’t understand her. However, thanks to her, a girl closer to my age poked her head out of the kitchen and motioned for me to join her inside.

Upon entering, I finally found my demographic—a group of about seven girls, between the ages of 15 and 23, as it turned out. They completely took me under their wing and took a great interest in me. Not all of them spoke French, but I hit it off well with one girl (whose name I can’t remember and I feel terrible) who was my age and seemed to understand my level of French and was just really nice. There was some confusion at first…some of them thought I was French, and told me that I have a French face (I said, “thank you, I think?”), and wanted to know which of my parents was Moroccan or French. We moved to the balcony and it felt like I was the cool new girl in elementary school, and everyone wants to be her best friend, as three of them all said, “Sara, sit by me!” It was a little hard at times when they all talked to me at once, but they decided I was “tres gentille” (very nice) and other good adjectives I can’t remember. Another girl I got along well with, a 19 year old student also named Sara, told me she loved English and wanted to practice, but she couldn’t understand my American accent and wondered if I could try speaking with a British one! Which then made sense why they had told me that I sounded like an American movie star…since maybe that’s the only time they hear American accents!

Somewhere in there, it was difficult to tell, but I realized some of the girls were asking me about something having to do with the word praying, which all the other women were doing in the salons, and had begun to read from the Qur’an. At first I explained that I didn’t pray, but later when they pushed and asked what religion I was, I finally told them that I was Jewish. I couldn’t really tell from their reaction whether I should have said that or not. One girl, the one who had originally motioned for me to join them who was in her teens, kind of had an “oh jeez!” expression and said something in Arabic as she got up and left. The girls were laughing though, so I was confused. I asked one if there was a problem, and she assured me there wasn’t. Later, a Moroccan friend of my dad’s told me that I might have been the first Jewish person they’d ever met. I explained to the girl next to me—I’ll just call her my translator friend, since I almost felt like that’s what she was, especially with the girls who didn’t speak much French, only Arabic—that I’m not religious. However this just opened up the door to them, making them think that it would be easier to convert me! Joe, AMIDEAST’s Morocco country director, explained to me later that I should have said I don’t really practice, and they would be more likely to lay off. So I had to explain to my translator friend that I’m not religious, but that the traditions are important to me and it’s also an important part of my family. She was very understanding, relayed this to the girls, and at one point as everyone was talking at once turned to me and said in French, “I’m defending you!” I was quite relieved.

At some point in there the mother of two of the girls, Mohamed’s sister, came out onto the balcony and upon discovery that I was unmarried and single decided that I was going to marry her son (as long as I convert to Islam, of course). She then brought her admittedly very attractive son out and pointed to him asking me, “Is good, no?” in English. Little did she know, her son had teased me in the kitchen and tried to talk with me as I followed the girls out to the balcony. As we were leaving he asked me, “Do you have a facebook?” Seriously? Even in Morocco guys are using facebook to express their interest. What is this world coming to, I say.

When it finally came time to eat, everyone got their own small loaf of bread, and large plates of chicken and beef were placed in the center of the table, and the women just went at them. I joined in, but they still decided that I needed a plate and utensils. Older women I didn’t even know then proceeded to throw pieces of chicken onto my plate and tell me to “Mange!” whenever they caught me between bites.

Drifting off at 2:30 am, I knew I was going to be tired the next day…but the experience was well worth it.

Changes chez Chtatou

I was in Ifrane this weekend and only just really got back to the Chtatou residence. I'm going to post about that trip and on other things too, but first I think I need to update on what happened when I got back.

Driss, my father's good friend who is the president of Al Akhawayn University in Ifrane (more on that in the next post) was so busy this weekend that I only saw him for breakfast on Sunday. I think that's why he wanted me to spend the night with him and his wife in Rabat when we got back. I called Mohamed Chtatou to let him know that I would be stopping by to get a few things but not spending the night there, and he said that was fine. Which is why I was confused when his wife answered the door and looked sort of surprised to see me.

When I told her that I had called Mohamed, she told me in French, "Mohamed is not here, his brother died yesterday." I was shocked, and so reacted by saying "quoi??" which means "what??" but I think she mistook my shock for language miscomprehension, and so said in English, "Your brother is dead."

Luckily I don't have a brother and I am aware that her English isn't great. Either way, I was pretty shocked and a bit flustered. I grabbed my few things, explaining that I was spending the night with friends to Sourour who was excited to introduce me to her friend who was over playing. I was glad the kids seemed ok, and in fact when I came home today and told Sourour I was sorry again, she said, "why?" When I told her because of her uncle, she said "ah, I forgot!" So I think they're ok. In fact Driss told me that there are some studies showing that kids don't really get the idea of death before they're twelve. It turns out his brother (who was 59 and has kids...the oldest is my age) died of a heart attack on Saturday, totally unexpected.

I wasn't sure if I was going to be a burden though. Driss went to visit Mohamed at his brother's (and I gave my condolences over the phone), and when we had dinner that night I asked him what he thought. Luckily, he said he had had the same idea and that he had asked Mohamed if he wanted me to spend a few nights with them. Apparently Mohamed said that it wasn't a problem and that the kids and his wife were at home. Driss also said that in the Moroccan and Arabic traditions you're supposed to be there and spend time with those in mourning; in fact, it's seen as a bad thing to leave them in their time of need. I'm so sad for Mohamed, he's such a lovely man. But he's made it pretty clear that I should stay. When he came home the first thing he said to me was, "Welcome back! We missed you," and told me that Sourour asked when I was coming back every night.

It's interesting though...I asked Driss how Mohamed was doing, and he said that he was doing ok, he seemed pretty at peace with what had happened. As Driss explained it to me, in the Islamic faith it's a big thing to think of everything that happens as part of destiny, God's will--insh'allah, as they say in Arabic, "God willing." I had originally heard about this approach to life when one of my dad's friends explained why people will cross the street regardless of oncoming traffic and with little worry. If you get hit, he explained, then it was meant to happen. So whatever happens, it's destiny. God's will.

What was even more interesting to me though, is that when I told a few Muslim people at AMIDEAST this, that was basically their immediate reaction. Death happens. Yamina, my French tutor, quoted Sartre, something about how as soon as we're born we're dying. I can't get over how well everyone seems to accept death as part of the life cycle. It also made me think a lot about how having grounded spiritual beliefs like these can really provide solace during difficult times. The idea that "everything happens for a reason" is something often quoted to people going through difficult times, but most people I know don't find much comfort in these words until some time later. It's impressive to see how people really believe this idea and support each other in mourning. Which I will write about in my next post, since last night I spent the night with their family and it was quite the cultural experience.

WWE to Wii

Never in my life did I think I would find myself creating an account on the WWE website (World Wrestling Entertainment) so that I could order merchandise to be delivered in 24 hours. But when my host father Mohamed Chtatou wrote to me the Friday before I left that his son ten-year old son Faris was a big fan and wanted a t-shirt and hat, it had to be done. After all, the Chtatou family is not an AMIDEAST host family. My dad just asked his friends if anyone would be willing to host me for the month, and Mohamed volunteered. So many gifts were in order. I had already filled a fifth of my suitcase with gifts for the family, but was determined to get Faris his WWE gear. Seeing his face light up after a somewhat lackluster initial introduction was totally worth it.

I absolutely adore my host siblings. Faris and Sourour are so precious sometimes I just can’t stand it. I really hope this doesn’t come off as condescending in any way. I know that at 10 and almost 12 they are a little too old for most people to consider cute, but that’s exactly what they are. Photos do not do them justice. I wish it were possible to share the sound of their laughter like I could with a photo. That is so cheesy, but it’s true. Just being around them and hearing their wonderful laughter makes me happy. I know I’m going to spoil my kids if I ever have children, because I just want to buy them presents and candy all the time. Luckily as a foreigner I’m not sure where to get them candy on my own, and asking them might give away the surprise element. (Since writing that I have found where to get candy and purchased lollipops for them.)

They are just so fantastic. They’re at a wonderful age when they’re grown up enough to be pretty independent, but young enough that they still exude energy in a way they might not once they reach adolescence. The first time I went to the Villa des Arts, an art gallery and arts center around the corner from where we live, it was just with the two of them. It was so fun to see them run around and comment on the art, and it was kind of hilarious how Sourour, the older one, kept touching the paintings and her brother kept telling her to stop. I love that they get along so well, even when they argue it’s not that bad…just now as I was typing, they had a little tiff that turned into the two of them giggling as Sourour playfully tried to get Faris in a headlock. Sourour and I talk more, and she helped me a lot today with some tongue twisters my tutor Yamina gave me to help improve my pronunciation (Le loup lippu lut l’Oulipo). She’s been pretty helpful in lot of ways, actually. She’s actually creating a blog herself, for Stardoll, this online game she and her brother play, and wanted to help me make mine more advanced…but I’m not sure she understands my low technology capabilities. Although, we are friends on facebook, and she just told me that I needed to friend Faris too. Oy vey, my oldest and youngest facebook friends now have 80 years between them! (Hi Zeyda!)

It started out a bit slow with the two of them. I’m actually sleeping in their room, and I felt really bad, because I didn’t know they would be sleeping in the living room so I could sleep there. They seemed totally cool with it though, and now sometimes Sourour sleeps in the extra bed in the room with me. This makes me feel less awkward, oddly enough. After a couple days Faris and I discovered a mutual love for Wii and just like in the movie Casablanca, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. With this knowledge I felt more comfortable starting to talk to Sourour, who as it happens loves theatre! In fact she’s in a play at her French school towards the end of the month, and I’m excited to see it. She tells me that the words are easy to understand…I hope she’s right! One of my first in depth conversations with Sourour was about French grammar. I really struggle with how all nouns are either feminine or masculine, and you can’t always tell. It was nice that she agreed it was “dur” or “hard.”

As for the WWE…I must admit, I watched it with them the other night. And to be honest, it was a great way for me to improve my French…whenever they talked, the French dubbing came a little after the English, so I could understand what they were trying to say!

The things I find myself doing in a foreign country. I definitely did not think that watching WWE would be part of my cultural experience, but there you have it.

Sourour playing Wii

Faris looking all cool for the camera.

"I am a telephone."

The swine flu craze may have died out in the media, but it is alive and well in the hearts and minds of world governments. Upon my arrival in Rabat, I went through a fever detector before continuing on to passport control, only to wordlessly get sent to a room at the back. All Americans had to go into the Border Health Office. I didn’t really understand and was extremely jet-lagged at this point, so I was a tad nervous. As it happened they just wanted to make careful note of my contact info, how long I would be in the country, and give me a paper with information on what I should do if I felt sick. So when the doctor pointed at the number listed beneath the Chtatous’ address and asked me in French, is this your telephone? I replied, “Non, mais je suis un telephone.”

“No, but I am a telephone.”

The worst part is that I did not even realize my mistake immediately. It wasn’t until after he said, “Ah, vous avez un telephone?” while I was flipping to the correct page in my notebook that I knew I had used the wrong verb. A simple one, at that.

I came to Morocco to re-learn French. The last time I took French class was four years ago, and oddly enough the reason I stopped taking French is the reason I wanted to start again. French classes in college didn’t focus on the conversational elements that interested me the most, and I found reading and writing essays on French philosophers somewhat boring and extremely tiresome. But before I even had my luggage in hand, it was evident that I had forgotten much more than I had thought possible.

My frustrations with the language are going to dominate my blog entries here, since it’s so integral to my experience. The first time I met with my tutor Yamina (who doesn’t speak English really) for an hour, I was exhausted after twenty minutes of sheer concentration. It is like that almost all the time here…throw in some jet-lag and you have one very frustrated Sara.
It’s definitely getting better, though. On Sunday I spent the day with some Moroccan family friends who are tri-lingual (French, Arabic, English) and English teachers. It was the first time I really felt like I could converse and fully understand stories in French. Slowly but surely it’s coming back…at least I think so. But that doesn’t mean I’m not prone to a variety of mistakes…

Like Monday, when I went to get allergy medicine at the pharmacy, I forgot the word for medicine. So like many other words when I must resort to franglais (but think it might be the correct word), I frenchified the pronunciation and said, “J’ai besoin du medicine d’allergie,” thinking I said, “I need allergy medicine.” Of course it made perfect sense for the man behind the counter to look all kinds of confused because really I said, “I need an allergy doctor.”

The Moroccan French accent varies, and sometimes it has more of a throaty “ch” sound. The other day I was eating with my host mother Soundousse and her friend, when all of a sudden I realized I couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were talking super-fast, and I knew there was a chance it was Arabic, but I honestly thought they were just speeding along in French and I was totally incompetent because I could understand absolutely nothing. After a little while of sitting there wide-eyed and anxious, I excused myself, at which point Soundousse said in French, “Oh I’m sorry, we were talking in Arabic.” To which I sighed relief and told them how much they had scared me.

The craziest thing about the languages here is that Moroccans who speak both French and Arabic can switch between the two within the same sentence without batting an eyelash. Sunday night when our friend Mohamed Ezroura called my host father (and his friend) Mohamed Chtatou (side note: for serious, there are so many friends of my dad’s with the name Mohamed that they are just listed by last name in his phone) I heard him switch between French, Arabic, and English pretty much subconsciously. He says there are studies on why people who do that switch to another language when they do, but they haven’t really been able to figure out what sets it off yet. It’s ridiculous…and I’m also pretty jealous. Right now I’m just looking forward to the day when I’ll feel confident in my verb conjugations.

A Homecoming of Sorts

As I gazed out of the airplane window, the first thing I noticed in my groggy post-nap haze was the color below: beige. It then made sense why that color has always instinctively been in my mind’s eye whenever I think of Morocco—I've only ever been in the country after the rainy season when the land is dry. But after sixteen years, I hoped more than a color would seem familiar in this country, a place I feel more connected to than Israel, the supposed homeland of all Jews.

I spent over twenty hours in cars, airports, and planes before reaching Rabat. I came here for many reasons, the main one being my desire and need to re-learn French. But I came to Morocco specifically because of my family’s connections here. Before I was born my dad spent 2+ years there studying Arabic, in the Peace Corps in Morocco, teaching English, and conducting research for his PhD dissertation. My mom, dad, and I spent the summers when I was three and four years old in an apartment in Rabat when my dad was on a Fulbright research grant and led a group of teachers on a faculty development program. Despite my young age, I have vivid memories from those summers—playing catch with a beach ball in the hall with our maid and learning how to make bread with her; dancing at lavish wedding parties; complaining of the heat and demanding a Fanta Florida (my parents’ impressions also help me remember that one); a summer camp where I was in a play that involved wearing many hats; using my hands to eat the amazing cuisine; and one of my earliest memories—falling asleep at a stranger’s house who was baby sitting me after my parents went out to a July 4th party then waking up before they got back and freaking out because I thought they had abandoned me. Of course all was forgiven since my mom brought me an M&M cookie.

But other than a weeklong trip when I was seven, I hadn’t been back until now. For years my family discussed the idea of sending me to Casablanca to work on my French and stay with our friend Fati, a former Bentley College student who became close to our family when my dad ran their office of International Programs. But the majority of my dad’s friends are actually in Rabat, and as luck would have it, his new job (for the past twoish years) with AMIDEAST is perfect for setting me up with a tutor. Spurred by the need to know French when I take a class on translating plays in the fall as part of my graduate coursework in dramaturgy at the A.R.T./MXAT Institute for Advanced Theatre Training at Harvard, I realized June was the only time between the end of my internship at the A.R.T and the start of classes on July 6th. So I flew over on June 2nd, and will stay in Rabat with the Chtatou family until July 2nd. In the past few days there has been so much that I’ve wanted to write about—the way people drive here, my host family, the role of women, and above all, my frustrations and difficulties with the language. Unlike my previous attempt to chronicle my theatre experiences in London, expect more frequent postings here. Hopefully I can continue to write here when I go to Moscow for three months next spring, during my travels the summer afterward, and who knows what else.

But before I begin to reflect on my time here, it really is essential for any friend or reader to understand just how connected I feel to this place. I may be a foreigner, but there is a nostalgia I feel towards Morocco that is unlike any other I’ve experienced. Perhaps it is because I was so young when we first came here. Perhaps it’s because my dad has always said, “yalla” and “ajee” (let’s go, come on!). Perhaps it’s because my favorite dishes are Moroccan, made on special occasions at home. Or perhaps it’s because so much of the décor in our house is Moroccan. Either way, this trip has been long overdue. As our family friend Fatima Harrak said in an email to me, “Welcome back home, Sara!” It’s an odd sensation when I can barely speak the language, but the people from my past have made it into a homecoming nonetheless.

Three years old, with our maid Embaraka. It's common for most middle-class families to have maids in Morocco, and I remember having a lot of fun with her.

Tearing up the dance floor at a wedding at age three...

...and then falling asleep.

Four years old and still going strong, dancing on tables at weddings. Not gonna poop out this time!...

...oh wait I fell asleep then too.