Obsessive Compulsive Rant (spare me, I'm in a Women Studies course that talks about these things all of the time)

It's important for an American to go to Morocco or any foreign country with knowledge of the societal issues back home. Why? To avoid passing judgements embedded with cultural superiority similar to the arguments made by the "western" colonizer. I admit, I grumble and mumble about the things I deal with in Morocco, but I am critical of American society as well (just not in the blog...)
I've listened to conversations held by Americans, as observers, on the subject of Moroccan women's oppression. For instance, many remark on how their Moroccan host mothers seem to be at the beck and call of their husbands, the sisters of the house are constantly working too, and the men just sit around watching T.V. without lifting a finger. The next moment they talk about their own issues with American men and discuss their participation in American "hook-up" culture from an interior perspective. There seems to be little or no cross-cultural analysis made to deepen their understanding of patriarchy's pervasive effects. Women are also oppressed in the United States of America, but in slightly different ways.
For instance, the concept of beauty defined and dispersed by American popular culture is extremely derogatory towards women. The only message I seem to get from MTV is that women are sexual objects and they look better if they emphasize their adornments. The fact that misogynistic terms actually exist in our vernacular is enough to prove that American women are oppressed. Why are sexually promiscuous men seen as "pimps" as if it's a good thing? And why are sexually promiscuous women described as "whores"? They are the same behaviours. The discrimination is based on gender normative assumptions. And I could go on and on with examples to prove my point.
Essentialism and exceptionalism are best avoided in this conversation. I recognize that my satiral blog can be seen as ethnocentric and demeaning. That, of course, was not my intention. I am sarcastic about nearly everything... it is part of my blog writing voice as well. That does not mean that I cannot try other voices and that is precisely what I've opted to do. You'll just have to bear with me through the parts that you think are too heavily theoretical or philosophical. 
I also would like to point out that I do not believe Moroccan society is any more or less oppressive of women than American society. My host family is full of empowered independent women working their way up the economic ladder with relative ease. My host sisters have the same hopes and ambitions as any American girl their age. One of them wants to be a banker, the other one already has a prestigious position in the government. Now if that isn't progressive and enabling of women, I don't know what is. The Moroccan government is five steps ahead of the American government in that sense because it seems like women's participation in government is much more encouraged than in the United States. Remember how the media treated Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin? Whether you agreed with them or not, they were painted as villians. It's a hostile world for women in American politics and they have much higher expectations than any male politician.
I'll continue reflecting. That is all.

Clarification

I want to make sure that I am understood. I have had many disconcerting experiences with men here, but that does not mean that all of my experiences are negative. It also does not mean that this is a "Muslim" or "Middle Eastern" problem. I have avoided using any associations with Islam since I consider myself a Muslim and have a very positive view of my religion. I also do not believe that Morocco is the only country with women's issues. I could experience similar types of harassment in Italy, for instance. I make sure to stand up for women's rights in all contexts. I tried to address the rape culture that pervades many facets of American society on my own college campus.

The feminist voice is rather loud here. This is due to a number of tactics used to push their agenda into the political realm through associations, gender theory (the most famous sociologist, Fatema Mernissi, comes from a well-known and respected family), and the use of ideology to pressure lawmakers into reforming laws. All of that aside, women still have issues here that cannot be ignored (nor should they be ignored in any context ever). I will avoid listing all of my experiences so as not to give you the wrong impression, but instead I'd like to tell an experience in which a wonderful man has helped me out:

He attached specific directions to the invitation, but somehow I was still unable to find his house. Joe, our program director, arranged a Wednesday night dinner with his Tunisian wife for our entire group. The plan was to meet up with some other students at the art gallery and share a cab to his house. I waited for a good half hour before deciding to go by myself. I hadn’t heard from my friend, I didn’t live too far away from his house, and I certainly didn’t want to be late. Luckily being late was not an option for me when the directions I was given were wrong and no one in the vicinity knew where it was. I hopped into a cab and drove away from Joe’s house, but at the time I didn’t know, I was just following directions.

The cab driver dropped me off at Hotel Oumlil. I paid the driver and jolted down the dark sidewalk, following the directions I was given. I felt a bit uneasy since I kept finding unlit streets and hoards of lurkers wherever I went. I even walked down an avenue of trees, reminiscent of the pathways that lead to chateaus. But I kept on reassured myself that I would find it.

Somehow I ended up back where I started. I stared down at the directions for a good five minutes. What? Then I directed that same question in French to the closest guard. The street is this way, he pointed. So I went this way. I asked the next guard if I was going in the right direction. No, he said. It’s that way. Oh, I wonder why the other guard told me it was this way… So I went back down that way and asked a different guard. He didn’t know which street I was talking about, so I looked around for street signs, which were nowhere in sight.

I was about ready to send off smoke signals when a benevolent and friendly man walked my way. Where is this place? I asked him, slightly shoving the directions in his direction. Oh, he said. I’ll go with you. And he did go around with me for a whole two hours. We asked every single person who could help us where we were going. We received a slew of misleading directions and as a result, meandered back and forth down the same streets. After a while, we had no idea which was way was left and which way was right. I feel like that’s a problem for me normally, but tonight was especially knotty.

I gave up. Thank you, thank you, I kept repeating to my new friend. At least I wasn’t alone. I got home safely that night and slept very well to boot. Each day teaches me something new about Morocco. I learned that sometimes people will misdirect you and you have to figure out your own way. I also learned that some Moroccans will go to the ends of the Earth to do something good for you when you really need the help.

random recollections and reflections

There’s this interesting phenomenon, which isn’t unique to Morocco (nor is it a problem amoung Muslims), but it comes up time and time again called “blame the Jew.” I noticed that some Moroccans like to point out people’s races, their class, and their religious background. It’s not taboo here and you won’t be called racist or prejudiced for making comments, even if they are. Every time Jihane talks about her one Jewish friend, she always emphasizes that he’s Jewish. “You know, the Jewish guy...” She also always points out when people have a different skin colour. “That black person…” and I have to come up with completely neutral responses to mask the thoughts that are buzzing inside my head. I prefer not to explain my feelings towards such statements since they’re influenced by my academics, many musings, and my real world experiences.

Back to “blame the Jew.” I was having some conversation with a Moroccan friend of mine one day about Middle Eastern politics and the word "yahoud" crept into the conversation. She explained to me that all of the Jews hate us, so we should hate them too. I then responded that that was far from the truth and I have many Jewish friends back home who have a variety of opinions on the Palestinian-Israeli conflict and love Muslims as well. “NO WAY!” she bursted out in a high-pitched squeal. It’s if her whole life she believed the world was flat and I had just told her it was actually round. “It’s true,” I said. She then had me explain what I meant and I listed individuals I knew who have diverse opinions on the matter. I even youtubed something to show her the evidence of activist groups in America. Making the smallest bit of difference by changing one opinion helps. I like chipping away at the top coat of paint.

I’ve traveled three times in the past four weeks and each time that I leave Rabat, I have had to retrieve my suitcase from atop the highest cupboard in the house. Yes, it is precarious and yes a bit tedious and scary, but it is actually quite amusing at the same time. When I asked if I could put my suitcase in a safer place, I got a long la (no) and a rationalization that there is simply no where else to put it without making the apartment look cluttered. So in order to get my suitcase down, first Jihane or la bonne (the maid of the week – we’re still trying to find one that’s trustworthy and reasonable) will grab a chair from the kitchen and wedge it in the corner of the room in front of my closet door. Then someone brings a cushiony footstool and places it on top of that. We usually look for a volunteer who will climb the Tower of Pisa, broom in hand, and beat my suitcase to death until it falls off the top of the cupboard. Somehow this is an effective method and a great family bonding experience. Everyone usually ends up on the floor laughing or crying by the end of it.

One evening I was sitting alone in the bedroom dutifully doing my homework when I heard the doorbell ring. Little did I know what I was letting into our apartment. “Oh! My sister is here!” Mama Rached informed me. It all seemed fine and dandy at first. A small hijabi woman walked in with her much larger son and sat in the living room like people normally do. I resumed my previous position until the little lady walked in the room. “Come, my son wants to talk to you about religion.” Nervousness crept up my spine. What was I to do? I guess she knew that there was one more Muslim in the house and I thought maybe it was harmless inquiry. So I joined her and her son in the other room. He conducted the entire conversation and asked me why I’m in Morocco and about my background. Then he asked what I thought about Islam in Morocco and I explained it tends to be more conservative than what I practice, for instance, the women mostly stay at home and wear hijab. And he told me I certainly am allowed to have ambitions outside the home but why don’t I wear hijab (the veil)? I told him that I feel it is a personal choice one can make for various reasons, but I hadn’t chose to wear it myself. Then he told me that it isn’t a choice, but women must wear it. It’s absolutely obligatory. I continued to disagree and he asked me if I have ever read the Quran and told me that it’s written in there and I said that my father and I are of a different opinion. He backed off slightly when I mentioned my father, but it was only because I named a higher authority than myself and he told me he wasn’t trying to question my father. Somehow his opinions are more valid than my own. Then his mother chimed in with her social nudging, “It’s obligatory.” I came up with an emergency plan and told them I needed to get back to my homework. A series of inauthentic apologies ensued and I only know they didn’t mean it because they continued to pick at other members of the house that night.

There’s a real law in Morocco that bans non-Muslims from going inside the mosques. We brought this issue up in our Women’s Studies class one day and my professor explained to us that it was a colonial law made by the French to prevent the Christians from converting to Islam and yet Morocco still practices it, but it takes on different meaning today. It’s easy to have distorted interpretations of this law, since they test any person who wants to enter the mosque to see if they’re a real Muslim. They usually ask you to recite verses of the Quran. This brought up questions of Moroccan identity and government. I’ve heard of these people that Moroccans call "more French than the French" and they work in the government. I understand what they meant when I looked at the laws in Morocco. Some of the non-Muslim girls in our group disguised themselves and made it into the mosque anyway. Others planned to memorize some verses of the Quran to sneak through.

There have also been issues with racism in Morocco for some of my friends. There are two girls from different countries in Africa (Ghana and Nigeria respectively) who were brought up in America and then they came to Morocco for study abroad. They're sort of treated as anomolies. They think that those with darker skin tones descended from slaves, so there’s an automatic stigma assigned to them. And there are "black" people here. It’s not like there’s an absence of diversity. That’s why it’s surprising to see men come up to my friend in the street, get up in her face, and call her "black" as if it’s a dirty word. They sometimes use real dirty words for reasons I don't understand.

There’s real importance given to genealogy here. Not too long ago, everyone and their mother could rattle off the family trees of all the wealthy and influential families in Morocco. The culture emphasizes the importance of family ties for the purpose of knowing who to trust and where the wealth is. The other thing is that people want to know if they’re descendants of the Prophet (pbuh). It’s good knowledge to know. I can ask a random man on the train what he knows about so and so and he can tell me something about their family. I have actually tested this, but it’s only happened once, so it’s not a good enough sample to prove my hypothesis or the words that my history professor uttered about such a phenomenon.

*I will post an extensive blog on the good things I've noticed here and explain some of the issues I touched upon in this blog post. I apologize for offending anyone. It's hard not to make light of things that trouble me everyday.

Eid al-Fitr

It’s hard to begin where I left off. I’ve neglected this blog for four weeks and I’m just going to have to forgive myself this time for my poor memory and negligence. I hope you can be patient with me as well. I’ll start with the weekend of Eid.

It wasn’t a complete disaster. I could taste the faintest hint of mint somewhere in the mouthful I gulped down. It was my first time making tea for myself. I had watched my host aunt, grandmother, and mom make it several times before, but the process takes getting used to. You have to boil a pot of water, place a tablespoon of Chinese green tea in another tea pot, pour half of the bowling water in the tea pot and pour it out, then pour the rest of the water in, add mint, and let it sit on the stove and boil again. Then when it’s ready, you have to add what seems like a pound of sugar, pour tea in a cup and back into the pot at least three times before you serve it. Somewhere along the way, I didn’t do something right. I settled for the weak and watery tea that morning.

I knew that once I started shopping for personal items in Morocco, I’d never stop. The only things I had bought up until last weekend consisted of school supplies and a nice satchel from the medina to replace my old bag. But the day before Eid was special and we simply had to get out of the house.

Things were cheap. I bought imitation Coco Chanel perfume for 20 DH, which is about the same price as a magazine I had bought the same day. The trick is, they use a bit of the real perfume and dilute it with alcohol. I’m not sure how they’re able to produce fake perfume in the capital of Morocco, but it happens nonetheless and it’s as good as the original. I also bought a sweater “avec trop de classe,” according to Jihane, and two pairs of nice slacks for approximately 18 dollars. My suitcases are going to be overweight coming home. I can’t believe things are this cheap.  

Since it was the last day of Ramadan, we were still not permitted to eat in the streets and none of us were fasting for various reasons. While searching for a shop to get Jihane’s nose pierced for the third time, we gobbled down cookies in the confined spaces of the jewelry stores. I chugged a pudding cup of juice with difficulty and delight. They sell things in interesting packages here. And yes, I know that’s a lot of times to get your nose pierced. She keeps changing her nose rings before they’ve healed.

Then I bought my first Moroccan magazine because I desperately missed watching the news and reading magazines. I often don’t have time to spend sitting at school with the shaky internet waiting for my news articles to pop up on bbc.co.uk. (Now that I have internet for my computer, there is no excuse).  I kept eyeing this particular magazine called Tel Quel, an avant-garde journal for literature, which was influenced by the social critiques of timeless writers like Immanuel Kant. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for me to buy this sometimes controversial monthly, so I decided to ask and Fatine prompted me to pay the 15 DH for it. She said it’s “trop bon.” I’m eager to devour its contents when I have a chance to do some leisure reading.

Before returning home, Jihane and I had to fetch a goat for the upcoming holiday. Normally Muslims slaughter a goat for Eid Kabir (or Eid Al-Adha) and keep some for the family and then donate the rest to the poor, but they eat goat for Eid Al-Fitr as well. My jaw dropped when I saw the row of hanging goat corpses in front of the butcher shop. I’ve seen hunks of meat before, but not right above my head and it wasn’t such a casual occasion like this. Jihane pointed up at the slender leg descending from a rouge ribcage. She wanted that one. The butcher’s helper ducked under the counter, with much difficulty, and yanked the body off the ceiling. He folded the body like a garment, wrapped it in a bag, and then carried it to our car and placed it gingerly in the trunk.  

He came out of the woodwork and stared at us for a good five minutes before Jihane burst out in anger, “What do you want?” She pierced through his skull with her eyes. He stood there and flailed his arms about, muttering voiceless words. “People are sick here. There are so many insane Moroccans,” Jihane informed me. The man just wanted to provoke Jihane’s anger, it seemed. He certainly lost all of his marbles and maybe that’s exactly what he wanted from us, hence why he waited outside our car for so long. He was admiring the marble-like jewelry we wore around our necks. After that we delivered the goat to Jihane’s father and returned home.

When we got home that evening, my host mom and aunt had tea and sweets waiting on the table as usual. This time my host aunt had made cupcakes, but they were no ordinary cupcakes. They were upside down with the bottom carved out and filled in with chocolate chips. The cupcakes didn’t have any frosting, but if you turned them over, you could recognize them immediately. She made another set of cupcakes the next day… still upside down, but with frosting and sugar sprinkles.  It was delightful to taste something slightly familiar and foreign at the same time.

The first half of Eid day was a disaster. For one, I had to eat a raw potato, consume lots of useless medicine, and drink some unsettling tea. The whole morning till mid-afternoon I was plagued with an overwhelmingly upset stomach. I prefer not to give the gruesome details, but I’m sure it was a result of drinking some not so fresh hot chocolate.

When I recouped a bit and gained most of my strength back, Jihane and Fatine took me out of the house. People don’t do much on Eid-Al-Fitr because they’re so tired as a result of fasting all month. It’s a time to spend at home with family and comfort food, as if we didn’t gain enough weight during the month. That night, however, we did something completely new. I met some of Jihane’s other friends at a café and we went back to one of their houses for an impromptu dance party. We shared all genres of music and let loose. I welcomed the change of pace with my hands waving in the air. 

My host mom invited this woman over for the last night of Ramadan and she decided to stay for three days after that, completely uninvited. I kept asking my host family if they knew her and all of them shook their heads, but let her invade in on their personal space nevertheless. They wouldn’t forget their manners for a moment, but chose to complain in the bedroom instead. “She says the most random things and she never stops talking.” I learned that she doesn’t have any family or friends who are very privy to her. We all felt bad for her, so we let her join in on our séance, eat meals with us, and tell us far fetched stories about her supposed life. I enjoyed her mostly because I got on her good side and she told stories in the most fascinating way. It didn’t matter whether anyone heard her or not, she trudged through her stories and only stopped for sips of tea. She also had the most bizarre dance moves I have ever seen. I saw more body parts shake than I have ever wanted to see.

The next day I met up with some friends at a café in Hiariad (affectionately known as diarrhea). I met some Moroccans with very good English skills and we talked about Moroccan myths and superstitions as well as good American films and novels for a long while. I learned that the reason why I’m not supposed to whistle in the house. Apparently it means I’m calling the devil and he’ll probably come. Then I also learned that many Moroccans will not take a shower at night because they believe the hot water that goes down the drain will disturb the Jinn (or genies) living below them.  Now I never know when to take a shower since my host mother refuses to let me take a shower before I leave the house. She’s convinced that the reason I’ve been sick so much is because I wash my hair, blow dry it, and then go out all day. I either risk getting a cold in the morning or waking the demons at night.  

Another Moroccan myth speaks of this malevolent female jinni that traps men by seducing them with her overpowering beauty.  And women are often associated with evil charms in this country. That’s often an excuse given for why they should be covered up, for they may prevent a man from living a pious life. Of course, she’s at fault for his dirty thoughts.

The girls seemed to be as amused by these myths as Afshan and I were and we begged for more until it was time to leave. Our next challenge was to find a taxi that would stop for us and be willing to take us where we needed to go. Lo and behold, there was a queue of taxis waiting to take us home. We got in the taxi closest to us unaware of the ensuing consequences. The taxi driver in front of us confronted our taxi driver, which resulted in a fiery dispute between the two.

 “What is going on?” Our Moroccan friends were watching with nervous smiles on their faces outside the taxi. “Well,” they said. “This taxi driver is mad because he has been waiting for a long time for someone to come and you got into this taxi and he just came so the other guy is mad and he is picking… It’s picking a fight? Yes, he is picking a fight with this driver.”  They did their best to explain the cultural nuances and said that if we really felt uncomfortable, we should get out of the car.  So of course we did. There was a point where the driver’s body odor got too intense for me. He kept reaching over me to wave his arm angrily at the guy outside the car. We got home safely that night, but we were a bundle of nerves the entire way home. 

Mes Betises

I make mistakes pretty frequently. I struggle with French grammar after a long day of listening to three languages and adapting to each. I try to make sense of my thoughts in French and most of the time the word is right in the back of my mind, but it simply won't surface. This isn't unique to me, of course. But it explains the constant humming of my mind and why my personality exhibits a similar duality to that of the culture of Morocco. I am engaged in these different spheres constantly and it's both exhilirating and tiring.

The other faux-pas I make are cultural. For instance, it's bad juju to whistle inside a house and since I am mostly conservative on the streets, I never whistle, but at home I let down my guard. I constantly forget that whistling is not permissible, but it's because I'm like a bird, I sing all of the time and it seems unnatural for me to contain these songs.

I was unable to fast for half of Ramadan due to constant illness. This isn't abnormal for me, but it's mandatory to make up for the days that I missed somehow. I can do that through charity, community service, and fasting after I get better. I've chosen to give charity since I'm afraid I'll become ill again and won't be able to make up for most of the days I missed. So the way that I do this is give a nice tip to the benevolent taxi drivers. I was under the impression that they work long hours and don't make a lot of money, since they're constantly tired and they tell me that they're trying to manage, most of the time. Plus I feel grateful for the nice taxi drivers.

I brought this up with my host mother and Jihane. They both tut-tutted me for not knowing better. They told me I should be giving money to the blind or crippled people in the street. Then I explained that in Pakistan, the poor people inflict wounds upon themselves to incite sympathy. I was also informed by my program not to give money to the beggars on the streets for various reasons. I was afraid that they might use that money for alcohol or drugs instead of food or clothing. I felt like this was a rational fear. I mean if I could cook all of the time and distribute food, I would, but this simply isn't accessible for me. So I explained my rationale to them and they agreed that yes, there are scheming people in Morocco and maybe next time we can figure out other ways to give charity together. I happily agreed.

I'm sure a long list of other mistakes will come up in the next few months and I'm excited to share them with you so you can laugh with me.

Apres moi, le deluge...

The spirit of Eid (or Muslim Christmas) must be in the air. The taxi driver was humming a little tune all the way to my stop. There is a glow on everyone's faces as they walk down the street. And even though my family stopped stuffing me like an Eid goat (or Thanksgiving turkey), they're still mass producing food for the upcoming holiday.

They make these adorable little cookies and chocolates in the shape of hearts and roses as an independent business undertaking. They're not funded by anyone and they don't have their own shop, so they work at home. This past week, they've been selling their treats to women in the community and pocketing "gateaus" for themselves. My sister was eager to purchase the pound of chocolate she placed delicately on the scale. And of course, they gave me several to try, which were nothing short of delicious.

The first day they had people over to view their selection, I was very confused. There was a woman standing outside our door with a lost look on her face and at first I walked past her, then I turned around and asked her if she had a problem. She said no, I'm just waiting for my friend. Mostly the confusion came from not being accustomed to seeing women near our apartment. We have an abundance of men at all times though.

Unfortunately the street life in Morocco renders me cold and expressionless in public. I've grown so desensitized to the taps on my shoulder and the long speeches given to me in Arabic by someone who wants money. We were advised to ignore them because if we give money to one, then they'll all come running. It's also important not to show any sign of insecurity so remaining expressionless is crucial, otherwise you'll attract all sorts of unwanted attention and the majority of it comes from men. If you go to any of the tourist sites, you'll often encounter two or three pesky henna artists. One girl from our group was grabbed and forced to pay for a blob of henna that a lady dropped on her hand. It's crucial to have a sense of humour about everything as well.

For instance, I'm used to people butchering my name in the United States all of the time. But I definitely didn't think it would happen here being that my name is Arabic. It happens anyway. My name is spelled Anishah, Anissa, Hachmi, Hachim, and the list goes on. They use "ch" instead of "sh" here and I'm not really sure why since they have the "sh" letter in their alphabet.

This week was full of brouhaha and hilarity. We had our first tempest and deluge, which left much of the city without power for a day or two, maybe more. But my rainy day experience was one to remember. A 10 minute drive took us an hour through the unrelenting downpour to school. When I finally made it there, all of my friends looked like they had just gone swimming. Many of the girls used their shawls as skirts since their jeans were too soaked to walk in. Most people had trouble finding a taxi that morning as all the taxi drivers refused to sail atop the newly formed rivers.

And when I got home our power was still out in half of the house. We were bathing by candlelight and cooking by flashlight. We heard a lot of noise beneath our window so Jihane shined my flashlight over the crowd. There were several men outside trying to fix a refrigerator and they needed a flashlight to do it. I'm not sure how they were supposed to figure out if it was working or not because the power was out, but I volunteered my flashlight and didn't get it back until the next day when they decided to come back and return it.

"Hurry, hurry! Get your shoes on!" Jihane scooted her grandmother and me out of their apartment. The fire alarm only made me more confused. Where was the fire? Jihane said there was a fire downstairs due to the flooding and faulty power lines. This wasn't the bad part. The bad part was getting Haja, the grandmother, down the five flights of stairs with the light from our cellphones. Whoever designed this building wasn't thinking of poor Haja walking up and down the stairs with a bandaged knee. We stopped at the second flight and couldn't make it all the way down. So we just waited for the alarm to stop and for our power to be restored. It's possible the fire was bogus. That night we sat around candles making faces and singing songs until we were too tired to wait for the lights to turn on.

This week also consisted of the night of Laylat Al Qadr, the night that the prophet (pbuh) received the first revelation of the Quran. In Morocco, many women dress up in their best djellebas and go out on the town. Fatine and Jihane were showing me photos of when they were little and would dress up like queens for this special night. They kept telling me they were going to put me in wedding clothes with a faux crown, but they decided to save me the embarrassment. I can always play dress up on Eid.

There's this concept of "I'm more Muslim than you" here coupled with much proselytizing. Everyone is constantly trying to assert their religiousity in small ways. For instance, I am always asked if I pray or fast. Also I am sometimes asked to recite Surahs from the Quran. One time I did it for my host aunt's husband and he said that I'm a Muslim short of a veil. I've noticed that people will break out into Quranic recitatations on the street, in taxicabs, and at home just because. I suppose since I'm quite reserved about my spirituality, it sometimes catches me off guard. My non-Muslim friends keep coming to school with stories about Moroccans trying to prove to them that Islam is the only true religion. They feel like they're doing a service to my non-Muslim friends.

I have thought of America as being on the right side of the political spectrum, but I didn't realized how socially conservative we are as a culture. I don't think the concept of personal space holds much importance here. There is no room that is off limits to anyone, of course, I live in a household of girls. It would be different if there were men in the house. Even when someone is using the bathroom, it is okay to walk in and retrieve something or help a family member wash their back while they're taking a bath. There is no place on the face that is off limits to kiss. My host mom kisses me on the mouth and I see women kissing each other in public all of the time, but it's platonic. And we all share everything with each other. It's a very warm culture.

One day I came home from school after having a very long and tiring day. The best way for me to release all of the built up stress is to vent or to cry. I felt it was easier to cry in this situation since I was tired of expressing myself in foreign languages all day everyday. But there wasn't a private room for me to cry in, so my whole family saw me and thus commenced the sob fest. They kept asking me if I had a problem with one of them or if I was angry. And I repeatedly replied that I was just overwhelmed by fatigue, stress and work. It was a hard thing for them to grasp that my tears were not those of an anguished soul, but of a person who couldn't express stress or release it in any other way. They all began to cry themselves and I had to reassure them that I was going to be okay. I just needed to adjust. I've become a member of their family and I think this was the moment when I finally realized just how much I matter to them.

The last few events have no particular place in time, since my brain has lost all concept of when and why. I don't believe that's a bad thing. It means that I'm really living and absorbing every moment each day.

I remember one day I was sitting on the divan sipping fresh tea and reading some thick historical text when I heard this scratching on the wall behind my head. I turned around and saw nothing, so the first thought that occurred to me was that a ghost must be visiting. I chose to ignore it to see if my new friend would give me some clues. Then I heard a soft cooing of a bird. I asked my mom if there were pigeons in the wall and she nodded her head and said yes, they live there. Well, I've heard of a rat infestation, but I've never heard of a winged rat infestation. It's still comforting to hear the slight ruffling of feathers above my head as I work.

There are rarely ever men in our house and when there are, the atmosphere changes. I've noticed that when family friends bring their husbands, the men will sit very quietly next to their wives with stern looks on their faces. The conversation floats around their heads, but it feels like there is an elephant in the room. When my aunt's husband comes to visit, he will utter a word here and there, but it's as if he ignores the existence of the other family members in the room. I've heard from some of my friends that this is a common occurrence and women will care for the men of the house like kings. It seems my mother would never cater to men because they're men, but she will prepare special meals for all of her guests.

I've had another interesting taxi experience to add to my long list of escapades. I get in a cab to go home from school one day and I went through the usual question and answer process about where I'm from, what religion I practice, and what languages I can speak. Then the taxi driver asked me a new line of questions and required a new set of demands I was not expecting. "You are not allowed to leave Morocco. If you had come to Morocco a few years earlier, I would have married you to my son. But you it's too bad he's already married. You must marry someone though and stay here. I will find you a nice Moroccan." He gave me his phone number and told me to call him at some point to get coffee and find out if he's found any fine suitors for me.

The last story I'm about to tell is not easy to stomach nor is it an extremely common occurrence. My Moroccan friend Adil was driving home a little before ftour when he was stopped by a couple of armed men in the street. They threatened him with knives and took all of his possessions except his car. They also managed to cut his arm somehow and I'm not sure of the details since Adil was too shaken up to explain. This is why we have been cautioned to stay off of the streets and get home an hour before ftour time. There are a lot of muggings that occur during that hour and Jihane believes that's why we had the massive thunderstorm. God is apparently angry with all of the sinners who are roaming the streets during Ramadan. I can see the connection. The earth has a funny way of expressing its fury. Even so, I am vigilant and aware of the crazies lurking around each corner.

(And as I was writing this blog entry, a lurker was around the corner. I heard this strange meowing coming from somewhere in the house. Being the jumpy person that I am, I yelled HEY! to try to scare whatever it was away. I thought it was a person who had crept up on to the balcony and was trying to get my attention. I brought a hard pillow with me and snuck around the corner. It meowed again and I struck whatever it was. Jihane fell on the floor laughing hysterically at my paranoia. She was the creepy cat in our house.)

It's All a Blur

I've managed to spend the past week and a half trying to post my blogs and so I haven't written updates in a while, even though a lot has happened. Now I can begin writing regularly, as long as the internet and time permits.

Last weekend, I went to my host sisters' grandmother's house on their father's side. For the first half of the visit, I sat and stared at some Arab soap operas. The second half (after ftour), I was teaching everyone how to Bollywood dance. I also became best friends with the youngest member of the family, a little girl of 5 years old. She ran around the house telling me what everything is in French, except for the things she didn't know, but she asked me over and over what they were. "Qu'est que c'est?" she'd ask. Her mother told me to say "Baraka," when I felt overwhelmed by her energy. She loved touching my face and holding my hand.

That night, the young ladies of the house took me to Sale to sit by the water and sip tea. On the way there, I consumed some street vendor escargot. I'm not sure what was going through my head that told me it was okay, but I have been sick for a week from it. Fortunately, antibiotics are cheap here and the doctor's visit was covered by my health insurance. But the walk was gorgeous. We took millions of photos of the boats and the lights shining on the water.

This past week has been very difficult at times. I realized I've really started missing modern conveniences like toilet paper, easy-to-use cellphones, access to internet, and western showers. My family does typically use toilet paper, but we run out so quickly and we haven't had it in a week or so. In terms of the shower, though, we use buckets and benches in a bathtub to get clean. It's not foreign to me, but it is difficult. I also keep running out of minutes for my phone because they charge money to check your voicemail, to get text messages, and everything else in between. The internet is always going to be unstable too. Fortunately, these things don't hinder my experiences too much. I still love it here and marvel at how sweet everyone is.

This morning, my grandmother and I made smoothies together. But the catch is, neither of us can understand each other so we communicated almost entirely through non-verbal means. She would hold her hand in a cup to her mouth to indicate that the smoothie needed water and I would use the little Darija words I know to respond. For instance, I know the words or expressions for milk, water, enough, refrigerator, thank you, it's all good, and this. My grandmother is amazing though. She woke up early to help my mom make food, despite her bad knee. She starting making mint tea for me before I even woke up.

I was hoping to prepare ftour for them tonight for all the nice things they've done for me, but it seems like it's much harder to cook during Ramadan. The hours of the shops are all messed up (making it hard to go out and buy cooking supplies) and they turn the power off at random times so that they can use that electricity to help build a tramway in Rabat. I've noticed that the tramway is actually going to hinder transportation more than aid it, since its tracks are located in the middle of the street and it cuts down the number of driving lanes. Plus, our kitchen is a bit small for more than one person. After Ramadan, I'll get to share some of my treats with them. I am already starting to plan a Thanksgiving meal.

Les Classes

My first week of classes was exhausting. I am taking five classes and gallivanting with friends at night. I know that after this week, I will make some adjustments to my schedule, but it was a entertaining week nonetheless.

Monday morning, I had my first Modern Standard Arabic class. It feels like a review for me at this point, but the work will catch up with me. I am still learning arbitrary phrases for my Darija class. I can ask questions but I won’t understand any of the answers. I like the irony. On Tuesday, I had my Islam, Gender and Society class. I am in love with it already. It will probably feed the ideas of this blog because I don’t want to keep summarizing my days here.
I also switched French classes during the week, since at first I was taking an “advanced” course, but it felt like I was in high school again. Now I am taking a French literature class and learning about Moroccan history and culture through novels. And the grand finale for the week is my three hour long Islam and the West history course. It’s going to be a fantastic semester. I promise I’m not being sarcastic.

Both my history and women’s studies professors are kind of famous and know every well-known person in Morocco you can think of. My history professor is an established academic and he’s lived in Tunisia, Morocco and spent time in other places around North Africa and the Arab world. He reminds me of my high school history teacher because he is just as witty, sincere, and good at telling stories.

He told us that water is more expensive than oil here because a Spanish company controls the water and electricity. That’s why some of our families limited our shower time to two or three times a week. I once asked my host mom permission to take a shower and she told me that this is my home and I shouldn’t have to ask to take a shower. Then I mentioned how Amideast advised me to be conscientious and courteous when it comes to shower taking. She then laughed and told me not to worry about it, that there are some families who make a big deal out of banal things. I still ask anyway, just in case.

We spent the whole class telling stories. One of my friends told us about this one day when she was carrying around her host brother’s baby during a family outing and people on the street kept touching the baby and kissing it. Apparently that’s very normal. People like physical contact as a form of communication. Every time I come home, we all exchange kisses and hugs. Jihan and Fatine do the same with their friends and even with people they don’t know, but so does everyone.

Most young people smoke and speak French, because it’s the cool thing to do. They also rave about House music and American Hip Hop. My host sisters listen to Usher, Aaliyah, and TLC. Sadly, the American students who learned FusHa (Egyptian Arabic) can’t use it here because hardly anyone understands it. French is necessary here.

I can’t remember which events happened on what days, so I’ll ramble a bit about this past week (I know, I already started doing that). My Moroccan mom keeps insisting I invite my friends over for ftour one day. I told her that I have 28 American friends here and everyone in the room gasped. “Maybe you can invite 10 the first day, 10 the next, and then 8 more,” she said. Of course, I’m going to try to make it as easy as possible for her, but I’m just grateful for her sweetness. She even thinks the hair on my arms is cute. I definitely think I have the best situation possible.

Another interesting thing about family time is that there often seems to be about eight boisterous women and one uncomfortable man sitting in our living room for ftour. My family is very social and constantly has guests over. The guests are fascinated with me too. They try to figure out where I’m from and keep saying “Zweena! Zweena!” the word for pretty.

There’s also this man Berja who has a symbiotic relationship with my host mom. He cleans her car and watches over it at night, and she feeds him and gives him money every morning for his help. He always has a huge grin on his face and remembered my name right away. When we’re trying to find a parking spot on their street, he comes running over to remove the little gate that marks our spot.

Since their apartment sits over a restaurant in the city, we have to walk past the costumers of Monsieur Brochette when we come home each night. They’re all middle-aged men interested in watching the street life and talking. Moroccans like to stare in general.

(Some completely unrelated side note: I keep seeing the same lanky Moroccan man with glasses everywhere. All he needs is a red and white striped shirt and a hat. I’m very intrigued by this.)

One day I decided that it would be best to take a taxi instead of asking Jihane to drive me around. They kept insisting I do that, but I don’t want them to think they have to wait on me. And some really good stories come from taxi experiences. I got to the taxi corner and asked if someone could take me to “Macdonald’s, Adgal,” if I told them I needed to go to Amideast, they wouldn't know what I was talking about and if I gave them a street name, they'd be even more lost. So I told them the nearest landmark, which I hadn't stepped foot in yet. The taxi drivers sitting on the corner just smiled and told me to take one of their cars. They seemed to get a kick out of my confusion. “Monte!” He opened the door on the driver’s side for me. I kept telling him, no I can't drive, I don't have an international license. Finally he gave up on teasing me, and took me to school.

It seems we go out almost every night with Fatine and Jihane’s friends. We hop around from café to café, but one night they took me somewhere completely different. They took me to MacDonald’s. “Do you like MacDonald’s?” They asked me in their thick French accents. I told them that in the United States, it’s mostly fat people that frequent MacDonald’s and that I wasn’t the biggest fan of their food. But of course, MacDonald’s has its own flavour everywhere. Morocco is the only place in the world that sells the McArabia. I have yet to try this exotic and mysterious sandwich. Even its name makes it sound luscious.

When we got to MacDonald’s, I was hit by a flashback of all the nights I went to MacDonald’s in Pakistan. Yes, people dress up to go out to MacDonald’s here. In fact, they even attend wedding parties at MacDonald’s. We strolled up to the entrance of the restaurant and there was a traditional wedding swing sitting outside and a band playing funky music. We had to wait for an hour it seemed, just to order some food. And people were sitting with their significant others as if it was some fine dining experience, but it looks like a regular old McDonald's. "La classe maximum," as they say here.

On Thursday night, we celebrated Afshan’s birthday at T.G.I.F’s. She’s a close friend of mine from outside Philadelphia and we always speak in Indian accents to each other. This time we actually got to try American food and boy, were we homesick for it. Moroccan food is amazing, but the thing is we have a lot of the same things every night for ftour. It was nice to have some variety and the waitresses at T.G.I.F. were incredibly nice.

I told my family that T.G.I.F. means Thank God It’s Friday, but I explained it to them in French and they repeated over and over in English and Darija. They were in cahoots over it. My host sister even made it her status on Facebook. I guess they had a hard time believing it’s an all-American restaurant because Friday is the holy day for Muslims and they asked me if it’s a Muslim restaurant, but I explained to them Friday is just the day our weekend starts.

That night we also had a dance séance because my sister refuses to go out with her friends without me. First we went out to get some escargot from a vendor on the street. Little kids were gathered around ooing and ahing at the buckets of snails on the table. We got back home and Jihane switched on some Hip Hop. She showed me some sweet moves then her aunt and mom slipped in and danced their bellies off. We’re planning to have a bigger séance next time with some of my friends too.

The late nights and early mornings sort of blur for me because I usually go to bed late and wake up early to eat sahour. I discovered that there’s actually a cannon that shoots off each morning to wake people up for sahour. I was startled by it one night and Jihane burst out laughing then explained it to me. Another night, Jihane was standing over me laughing hysterically because I was talking in my sleep. I woke up, but I couldn’t figure out what was going on. She told me the next day that I was gurgling and mumbling random things. I never knew I was that crazy. Now I guess it’s confirmed.

Friday was a day of firsts. After school, my host family took me to the hammam, or the traditional Moroccan bath. It was simultaneously the coolest and strangest experience I think I’ve ever had. It was like we were packing to go to the beach for the day. We brought towels, extra clothing, sandals, and a “slip” (underwear) to wear at the hammam.

Many Moroccans feel that the best place to get clean is the hammam, so they go there at least once a week. There is a very specific process to taking a bath at a hammam too. First you soap up, then a woman comes over and scrubs your body with a rough glove (she peels a whole layer of your skin off) next you soap up again and go through some of the steps several times. The bath is like a sauna, so I had to leave it several times to breathe in some cool air. I was told not to get a massage there. Apparently they pounce on your back because that feels best.
My experience was interesting, to say the least. We were there for two hours, just until ftour and I couldn’t understand anything anyone was saying because most of the time women were speaking to me in Darija and the room echoed.

Friday was also the first day I had authentic Moroccan couscous from a tagine. That meal was made for a king and unfortunately I had this intense cankersore on my mouth, otherwise I would’ve eaten a lot more than I actually did. Early this week, their cousin in Los Angeles told me that grandma was complaining about me eating so little. She asked me if I would like them to make some biryani or some extremely spicy food. I just told her that I’ve been eating more than I do at home and maybe it’s not as much as most Moroccans during Ramadan.

That night Jihane’s friends were occupied with other people for the first time. So I called some of my friends and we all had a good time together playing pool and foosball. The hot chocolate soothed our tender throats and calmed us down after a long week. I also got another marriage proposal, but I told him I was already married to some other Moroccan.

Le Weekend

I wrote extensively about my first week in Morocco, since every day there seemed to be a new surprise. The weekend brought more notable things. My family kept making me eat more than is humanly possible. “Kuli kuli!” They would say and place little cakes, bread, pizza without cheese, and assorted meats on my plate. In Morocco, people actually gain weight during Ramadan because they eat so much. Many families have ftour and then hours later at midnight they eat a substantial dinner. It’s like Thanksgiving every day.

Also my family likes to give me things. Occasionally they’ll ask me if I think something’s pretty and usually I say "yes" to be cordial. Well, that "yes" means something else to them. Saying "yes" is how I received a pair of earrings, a ring, and a bracelet. That was a loaded "yes." They also dress me up in their clothes, spray me with their perfume and offer to wash my back when I take baths. I’ve gotten my eyebrows and hair done by both of my sisters. Sometimes when they talk, their voices become very high-pitched and they start saying things like “Wili wili!” which I figured out is something they do when a bad thing happens, like if they drop a cup.

On Saturday afternoon, I met Jihane at a salon. She wanted these long curly extensions. I think she’s secretly a rock star. The hairstylist kept switching between languages to a point where we couldn’t understand him. He was incredibly facetious and kept us on our toes. I played along with his jokes and made a new friend.

That night, everyone at Amideast met for ftour at T.G.I. Friday’s and we were all expecting to get steak and mashed potatoes. Turns out we ate exactly the same foods we have everyday for ftour, but we got our first homework assignments and met our teachers. There were some French hipsters at the restaurant that kept talking to some of us, hair over their eyes, cigarettes in hand at 12 years old. When I came home that night, everyone rushed to the door and told me they missed me.

On Sunday, Jihane and I went to their other house near the ocean just to pick up a bag of sesame seeds and trays for cooking. I couldn’t help but take pictures of the place because a description wouldn’t do it much justice, even though it’s simple, their other house is so distinctive. Some woman walking with her family yelled at me for taking pictures of their street. We were advised not to take pictures of people because it’s offensive, but I try skirt around it. I also asked Jihane if it’s normal for people to have more than one house and she said yeah. I figured she was speaking for the more affluent people of Rabat.

On our errand run, the car ride was insane. There were people who wanted to race with us, people trying to pick us up, and a huge fight in the street which blocked traffic. It’s pretty normal for crowds to gather on the streets of Morocco because people love a spectacle. And it just so happens that fights break out all of the time.

Jeudi

Thursday morning we dragged ourselves out of bed for Rabat survivor. Yes, they were making us go on a scavenger hunt all over Rabat during Ramadan. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. We went to Tour Hassan to count the number of windows around the tower. Since none of us could figure out what was a hole and what was a window, we asked the guards, but they gave us arbitrary numbers. There was a man covered in gold plates and bells from head to toe. I was tempted to take a picture of him, but I was advised not to since most people want money from you for taking their photos.

The Casbah wasn’t far from Tour Hassan. We walked through the beach to our next destination and marveled at the multi-coloured boats along the shoreline. The vibrant blue and white walls surrounded us, but we weren’t sure which way to go to reach the gardens of the Casbah. We passed cats sleeping in trees, a place to stop and admire the view of the city whilst sipping tea, and at last we came upon the verdant gardens, which sorely lacked flora.

The medina is a different sort of place altogether, especially if you go to the old medina. During the day, it was easier to observe what really goes on in the medina. It’s like going back in time to ancient Arabia, the exotic world of the orient. I could see where the western films, artists, and writers got their material, even though it was highly exaggerated at the same time. The alleys are narrow and decorated with little shops for tourists. Each store has more stuff than it has room for. Enter any of them and you’ll see rows of wooden camels, paintings, tagines of various sizes, tea sets and miscellaneous things. A beggar with one eye and a Quran in hand will most likely approach you mumbling gibberish. It’s hard to ignore the whistling and stares that follow you along the street.

Our next task was more challenging. We had to find two of three movie theatres in Rabat on foot. We asked two unthreatening ladies for help and they walked us to the entrances of two adjacent theatres. Kindness is a staple of Moroccan culture. People will sacrifice their time and energy just to take you to a place you could easily find yourself if any of the maps made sense. They gave us their email addresses and asked us to get dinner with them sometime.

Near the end of our scavenger hunt, we had to take the number three bus back to Amideast. No one understood our darija when we asked where the bus was. Most people in Morocco just tell us to speak in French, probably because of our darija incompetency. But we finally found it in the scorching heat.

“Asalaamu Alaikum,” I said to the woman peering curiously at me. A smile spread across her face and she asked us where we came from. I told her about my Pakistani- American background. “I love Pakistan!” she cried in darija. She promptly invited us for ftour and as a thank you gift we gave her the shbekia (sweet dessert) we had bought that day.

“Anisah! Your family is here.” Rached came in looking for my bags. Finally, I was moving in with my host family. Najat Rached is my new Moroccan mother. She dresses very elegantly and modestly with her hijaab. Najat is the director of a school and a caterer for parties and weddings. She has spent the last few months trying to find a place to set up her catering business with her sister, Khadeeja. I also met one of my host sisters named Jihane, a 20 year-old beauty. She dresses more fashionably than most Americans and she can dance. She also loves to learn languages. Right now she can speak French, Arabic, Darija, Italian and some English. Both of them kissed me on the cheek and embraced me. My host mother asked specifically for a Muslim girl and she welcomed me as a daughter in her home.

They hauled my suitcases into the car and drove home. I learned as soon as I got home that the Rached residence is like a hotel. Their grandmother was staying over after having surgery in Italy on her knee and aunt Khadeeja frequently visits and stays for several days at a time. They have multiple relatives that live in the United States, Italy and Spain and yes, they can interchange between all of the languages, but that’s pretty normal for most Moroccans. Najat also has a helper who they call Habiba; she is treated like a third daughter. She usually just smiles when you talk to her mostly because she’s shy and in part out of respect.

Their apartment is breathtaking. It’s as if the mansion from the Great Gatsby and the palace from Aladin had a child. They have three vibrant sitting rooms lined with cushions and sheer drapes fall down the grand windows with a charming view of the city below. There is also a kitchenette, one bedroom that the two sisters share, and a butler’s kitchen. Fatine, the 22-year old nurse in the gendarmarie, was sleeping in the corner of one of the sitting rooms when we came home. “She works all day and hardly ever takes sahour in the morning,” her mother told me. It is common for Moroccans to take a mini siesta in the middle of the day during Ramadan because usually everyone stays up all night.

That evening, Jihane and I ran some errands before ftour and got dolled up to go out after ftour. Fatine and Jihane wear western clothes, which are sometimes more liberal than anything I would wear. They dress themselves in Italian dresses, designer jewelry, and French perfume. They love house music and 90’s Hip Hop, which is actually quite popular with the youth of Morocco.

Jihane and Fatine’s parents are divorced and we decided to visit her father that night after ftour. He has since then remarried and inhabits a large house with his sizable family. We kept changing rooms every ten minutes. Sometimes it was because of a cockroach, other times it was because there was an older family member in the other room, or someone wanted to watch Arabic soap operas on tv.

I got my first marriage proposal when I was out with Jihane, Fatine and their friends. We went to a café in the city where everyone gathers to smoke, play cards, and drink warm beverages. Inside they had billiards and foosball, neither of which I am very good at, but I enjoyed losing anyway. The whole night different people sat next to me to find out more about me, including my admirer. They spoke both French and English, depending on what they felt was a better form of communication.

Mercredi

The day before we moved in with our host families, they prepped us with worst-case scenarios. Our directors told us that we should expect to take fewer showers than we’re used to and eat at later times during the day. Many families have their dinner at midnight, especially during Ramadan. “They’ll keep putting food on your plate until they understand that you are done.” We were taught to say the word for “I’m full” in Darija and advised to repeat it when we mean it.

Hand gestures are a crucial form of communication in Morocco, just as in many other cultures. We developed our non-verbal communications “vocabulary” with Doha so that if all else fails, we can communicate in a gestural lingua franca. We learned the words for shame, “watch out,” a little bit, and nothing. I think the most interesting gesture is the one for woman: drawing a line from the mouth to the chin with your finger.  It comes from the Berber tradition of female facial tattooing, which enhances beauty and fertility.

After we had gotten our family assignments and profiles, a few friends and I decided to find our residences in Hassan, a nearby neighbourhood. We didn’t get a chance to find my host family’s apartment, but we walked around Tour Hassan, a minaret in an unfinished musjid intended to be the largest one in the world.  There are two hundred half-constructed columns holding up the sky and intricately tiled water fountains every hundred steps you walk. A haunting white Mausoleum sits on the edge of the mosque looking in.

We wanted to try to meet somewhere further away from our hotel that night, so we picked a Moroccan pizzeria in la centre ville close to Tour Hassan. We weren’t quite sure where we were going, but when we asked for directions a woman abandoned her route home to walk us there.

After dinner we rushed around la centre ville, dodging the lacksidasical strollers on the street. The nightlife explodes in Morocco and the revealing clothing comes out of the closet. The parks that were vacant during the day are suddenly spilling over with all kinds of people in djellebas, tank tops, jeans, and hijaabs. 

Mardi

The French placement test made us all feel like fluent French speakers that day, but we were drained from getting little sleep during the past couple of nights. We were free in the evening to roam around ourselves. We traveled together like a pack of wolves in search of food down the streets they told us to avoid.

It wasn’t necessarily a stupid decision to disregard their warnings because none of us felt in danger. But we certainly attracted a lot of attention by walking in a large group during ftour time in the almost abandoned streets. 

“Who told you to walk in a group?” He crept up behind us speaking English. “I think two or three is just fine.” We did what they told us to do. We masked our surprise and walked on. “Oh you don’t want to talk to me? Okay.” He pursued us, asking questions like “Are you powerful like me?” until we crossed the street.

After an hour, we couldn’t find the restaurant we set out for and so we walked back down the dark streets we came on.  We then came to an intersection with a large group of men having their ftour outside. We had passed them the first time and they cawed at us in French “Ca va? Salut!” This time, we weren’t sure which way we had come and so they reassured us of our path, “Yes, you came that way!”

At last we came upon a dimly lit restaurant, which miraculously opened when we approached it. We ordered our first Moroccan Chinese meal in French, which consisted of curry, vermicelli, and various types of seafood.  It was nice to eat on our own time rather than following the clocks of our directors. We dined and talked to the kittens that snuck through the door. 

Lundi

There are no actual traffic laws in Rabat. People could stop at a red light if they feel like it, but most of the time they feel like beeping their horn and giving some rude gesture to the drivers in front of them and the pedestrians that who dare to get in their way to cross the street. This is what I thought at first, of course. But then I learned that it's common courtesy to honk when the light turns green because often the car at the front of the line won't see it. All of the taxi drivers you meet are polite and some even try to get to know you better.

 I walked all the way from Hotel Oumlil to the Amideast office at 8:30 a.m. only to find that when I got there I didn’t need to take the Arabic placement test. I have never taken an academic course in Arabic before. So I had about two and a half hours to kill and I decided to walk back to Oumlil. Which street was I supposed to turn on? I tried to find out where I was by asking three people for directions in French. I understood them all perfectly, but there were three different sets of directions I had to follow and none of the kind people that helped me knew street names. So was I supposed to turn near the palm trees, at the round about, or go straight for a long time? I decided to take a cab.

My first cab experience was definitely memorable. I got in the car, told him where I needed to go in French and got an English response. “You are not Moroccan. Where are you from?” Well, no I’m not. So I responded, “I’m Pakistani.” I wasn’t quite sure if I should say that I’m American due to our notorious reputation abroad, but he was on to me. “So you speak English? How? Do Pakistanis speak English?” And I said, “No, they don’t, but I can speak English because I’m also American.”

“Oh, so that is why you are so beautiful. You are like beautiful rose.  A métisse. You have the beautiful eyes and the beautiful smile…” And he kept going with the compliments. He loved the fact that I’m Muslim and practicing Ramadan. He also kept telling me that he loved Pakistan, though I was used to that response from Moroccans. He then told me that I could practice my Arabic, French and Darija with him as well as ask any questions I wanted. “Do you have a phone number?” I wasn’t comfortable with giving him my phone number so I said I didn’t have a phone. It wasn’t completely false. I was using a pay-as-you-go phone without any minutes. 

He was persistent. “I can give you mine and you can call me sometime. We can get some coffee or tea after ftour. I would love that. Or even if you just called me to ask me questions. I would love that.” He almost missed the hotel because he wasn’t paying attention to the road. “Oh, here is my stop!” I was saved, Alhumdulillah, although I did leave with Mohamed’s number in my purse.

Another thing I discovered on Monday was that it is very hard to fast in this Muslim country.  Fortunately there are two other Muslim girls, one from Ghana and the other from India, who I can gripe with about the little difficulties. Everything opens at different hours each day and doesn’t stay open for long. I had to walk around for hours to find places to buy an adapter, a transformer, and shampoo. I was pretty unsuccessful for about four days before my schedule and the shopkeepers’ schedules were aligned right.

About an hour before ftour until an hour after ftour, there are approximately three places in Agdal (and it seemed like in all of Rabat) that are open for ftour. The days when the Amideast program didn’t schedule dinner were interesting. We all wandered in the dark in attempts to find food, like the millions of street cats we saw each day and night.   

The hotel said it offers sahour (breakfast before dawn) to everyone each morning. I can safely say that is a bluff. The hotel forgot to wake us up three times and one of those times we fasted without food. The other two times, we were self-reliant and managed to fill our stomachs with the food we collected from ftour and the hanoot next door.

Despite the problems, Ramadan is generally a wonderful time in Morocco. People are especially sweet and happy and they’ll help you with anything.  For one sahour, my friend and I went down to the hotel restaurant and the chef whipped us up a tray of crepes, cheese, yogurt, fruits of all kinds, and juice. He also gave us an enormous bottle of water for free after he sat down and talked with us in bits of French and Darija. The traditional food during Ramadan is incredible and I am never hungry, only thirsty from walking around under the sun. But the breezes here swiftly lower your hot body temperature. I’m positive that when I leave this place I will go through withdrawal, in part because of the delicious and sugary mint tea.

Monday evening we had ftour at Tagine wa Tangia, a restaurant close to the Medina. After ftour, we walked in small groups along the boulevard of trees resembling Champs Élysées and through the narrow swerving walls of the old Medina. There we saw vendors with heaps of mismatched shoes, tight and loose fitting djellabas, bags of lentils, western clothing, and random knickknacks. Most of the vendors are young men who try to pick up the pretty American girls with their broken English or offer to sell you some hasish. We also encountered a large group of men praying in the street. 

Dimanche: Le Prochain

My roommate, Hannah, and I were extremely late to our first day of programs at Amideast due to our alarm clock that receded in time. Something went wrong with our transformer or we were following Moroccan standard time, which is actually an hour and a half behind the supposed local time. But they forgave us for fitting in with the culture. 

Our first day consisted of a Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, class and I learned little expressions such as how are you and words for food to use with my host family, the shopkeepers and taxi drivers. They’ve certainly come in handy and having such knowledge is sure to boost one’s confidence from all the attention and praise it attracts. Darija draws expressions and words from Arabic, Berber languages, and the languages of the colonial occupiers like French and Spanish.

In the evening, we shuffled on to a tour bus and drove around the city until we reached Chellah, the ancient ruins of the Roman town known as Sala Colonia. In the mid-14th century, a Merinid sultan, Abu l-Hasan, built numerous monuments and the large red gate surrounding Chellah. The Merinids also built a mosque, a zawiya, and royal tombs, including that of Abu l-Hasan. Later, the site was converted into a garden for tourists. Here was the first physical evidence of Morocco’s complex history of occupation and cultural landscape that I encountered. I marveled at the triumphal arcs and Arabic calligraphy on the walls.

The local wild animal is not actually a squirrel or a deer. It is a felis catus, or a common household cat. Actually there are more kittens than cats because most die before they reach adulthood. I bring this up because almost everywhere you look, you will find a cluster of cuddling cats. At Chellah, they gathered around the murky waters of bassin aux anguilles, a holy site for women who believe that feeding boiled eggs to the eels will bring easy childbirth and fertility.

Next we went on a tour of Oulja, visited a carpet souq, and learned how to make pottery the old fashioned way. The man that worked there used his feet to turn the wheel and molded masterpiece after masterpiece with his rough hands. He made the craft look so simple that several girls decided to try it themselves, some who already knew how to make pottery and others who did not.  Each girl took off their shoes, climbed up to the platform, and struggled to form a pot in their hands. The factory was quaint and blue with tagines lining the walls and the kiln was surrounded by trash and sleeping kittens.

That evening we all went to a local family’s home for ftour (the time to break fast) where we consumed dates, harira (a tomato-based soup with chickpeas, pasta, and cilantro), fruits, yogurt, milawi (grilled flatbread), shebekia (honey-covered pastries), and Moroccan crepes dripping with syrup and butter.  The customary ftour also includes various juices, smoothies, and mint tea. After breaking our fast, my friend and I borrowed some djellabas (Moroccan robes) and prayed in a back room near the bathroom.

Once we finished our meals, we took turns sitting with the henna artist and watched her quickly decorate our hands with a syringe. The whole time I discussed similarities between South Asian and Moroccan culture. The likeness is very apparent, even in the chaotic way people drive here. 

Samedi: Le Premier Jour

The saga commenced when our flight to Spain was delayed for more than an hour on Iberia. Their “on time” claims really meant nothing.  Hannah and I came up with a nickname for the airline, “Iberia, more like Lieberia!” The jokes we made the rest of the week were about as clever, but not more so.  The best part about the flight was the attendant who kept speaking to us in Spanish after giving her a number of lost looks. She yelled at Hannah for texting one of her friends an hour before the flight took off. We were on her naughty list. And as always, the flight was restless. It was easy to forget the meaning of sleep after each coffee cup we sipped.

When we arrived in Spain, we had to take a bus to our plane and drag our suitcases up the stairs to the door. I tried to speak French to Hannah on the bus, but we ended up losing our composure and giving our American identities away. I was finally amoung Moroccans. Yes, many of the women did wear veils and the passenger population was diverse in appearance just as I expected. There are even red-haired and blue-eyed Moroccans. They were amused by our switching between French, English and a little bit of Arabic throughout the flight. We were trying on our new Moroccan personas when we clearly didn’t look the part.

The customs man asked me if I could speak Arabic. “That’s an Arabic name,” he said in French. “No I am Pakistani,” I responded. He seemed pleased by this fact and the fact that I am Muslim. The first security guard I showed my passport to guessed my ethnicity right away and I’m still not sure how.  And when we found our luggage, two benevolent men helped us haul it on to a cart. “Wow, you have a lot of luggage,” they said to us in French. I told them that we were going to be in Morocco for four months and they responded with, “Bienvenue!” welcoming us with smiles and nods.  We left customs and walked the cat walk towards the door. The cafés we passed were closed, but Moroccans still filled the seats and sat there watching us.

Finally, Rachid from Amideast found us. We thought we would have to use the confusing pay phone since we arrived two and a half hours late. And another girl, Afshan, from the program met us there. The drive to Casablanca lasted about and hour and fifteen minutes. There wasn’t much to see for about an hour. It was mostly trees, signs in French and Arabic, and cleanly paved road.  

When we got to our hotel room, we spent a few minutes trying to figure out where the toilet flushed and cracking jokes about the bidet. Was there even AC in this place? And wow, were towels really 100 dirhams each? Memories of Pakistan were filling me with strange questions. The toilet did flush, we didn’t have to purchase towels for 100 dirhams because they were actually hiding in the back of the shower, but the AC leaked, providing us with cool puddles of water to step in each time we returned to our temporary home. 

Les Premières Semaines au Maroc

My stomach will give you mixed messages about Morocco. On the one hand, it welcomes the food with delight, on the other, it is overwhelmed by the richness of this new foreign culture, but it will adapt and happily so. I've included some of my musings from the past two weeks here and I hope to go into detail with the things I discover each week. This is a wonderful learning experience for me and I hope that what I share is useful and interesting to you. I realize it is time consuming to read a blog, so I thank you in advance for your curiosity and patience. 

(Pictures will be coming soon. But don't fret, I will not include any of my stomach.)