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.