Moroccan Mint Tea

“All creatures come into the world bringing with them the memory of justice.”

--J. M. Coetzee, Waiting for the Barbarians

The secret police pulled out their walkie-talkie as I passed them on the street. I was walking from the women's center to a cafe to keep working on a report. As a foreign woman, I don't think I'm very threatening, but Morocco had another round of national protests on Sunday, with calls for decreased corruption, a more democratic constitution, and more economic opportunity, among others. (To hear the demands, check out this moving youtube video--with English subtitles--made before the first round of protests on February 20). Reports of as many as 50,000 people in Casablanca and 10,000 in Rabat, with numerous other protests around the country; police figures are much lower. (This site has photos of the day. Amnesty International also issued a report on the situation and called on the authorities to not use violence.) Most Moroccans I talk to still support locking people up and "giving them the stick" (literal translation), but quietly, in private spaces, some will say differently.

Then there was my taxi ride home. It was 9 pm by the time I finished my work; few women were out, though men were still sitting in cafes and roaming the streets. I notice and carefully monitor my surroundings, walking with purpose as I search for a taxi. Taxis are shared, so when I get in, there's already a middle-aged woman sitting in the front seat next to the driver. A young man gets in after me, sitting next to me in the back. We start driving. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the guy staring at me--from about a foot away, since he's in the seat next to me. I glance at him a couple times to see if he'll stop. He reluctantly turns away when I look at him, then turns back. I get stared at every day, so I've learned how to tell apart the different types. This stare was persistent, sizing me up. I'd never want to be alone with this guy.

The staring goes on for about five minutes before I get fed up and ask “Malak?”--"what's wrong with you?"

Him: “Huh?” 

Me: “Andik shi mushkil?” ("Do you have a problem?") 

Him: [Drawing out the no] "Noo, I don't." 

Pause. He's still staring at me.

Him, to me this time: "Do you have a problem?"

Me: [Giving a fake smile] Nope.

Meanwhile the driver and the woman in the front seat are turning around to look. The driver asks the dude what’s going on. He replies that it's nothing, then asks the driver to let him out.

As soon as he leaves, I explain:

Me: “Kan kyshoof fiya.” (He was staring at me.")

The woman nods immediately, “shrab" (alcohol).

Drugs and alcohol are the explanation for a lot of problems here. Still feeling very uneasy and so just wanting someone to support me--I go with it. "Yeah, he did smell bad." The taxi driver jumps back in: "But you said he was looking at you?" I respond, "Well, both. He was acting weird and he kept staring me down." It's time for me to get out, so I close with “God forbid"--thinking of all the things creepers do--and "at least it's all ok now.” They smile at me kindly and I get out to walk home, saying an extra hello to the dudes who hang out in my neighborhood. The way things work here, females have to have a male protector, or multiple. Women who stick up for themselves are seen as insolent, obviously bad women--and of course that only gives creepers all the more freedom to do what they want to do.

What's even more frustrating is the number of Peace Corps and Fulbright officials who--when given reports about these female-specific dangers--brush them off or don't put the topic in our discussions (for example, by including it in the Morocco orientation). Recent Peace Corps murders only prove that we're doing something wrong here. If only people didn't have to die for an issue to be taken seriously...

And then I came home to find my landlady freaking out, even more than when we had tea and invited a female friend and two male friends over for tea. The males were the problem. There's a general perception here that, if a man and a woman are left together in a room, they will necessarily have sexual relations; so at least in Fez and the rural areas, platonic male-female relationships are rare (I haven't spent enough time in Rabat or Casablanca to be able to compare those cities). No, this time it wasn't male guests; it was a little girl.

My landlady beckons me into her house, has me sit down while her two young grandkids sit and watch. "A neighborhood girl came today, she wanted you to help her with her homework. She could be a thief! And just wait--if you help her once, she'll come back again and again, and never stop. She'll bring her mom and her friends!!" I'm surprised. "Oh...that's it? I thought it was a big problem. Did you tell her sorry, that we're busy?" My landlady replies, "Yeah, but did you tell her she could come ask you for homework help?" Me, pausing as I think: "Well, I told some neighborhood girls they could come running with me...but I don't think I said I'd help with homework." My landlady starts yelling again: "See! Liar!"

I had no desire to keep going. I thank my landlady for taking care of it and say I need to get to bed, it's been a long day. As I leave, I ask her grandchildren how their studies are going (thinking of all the times they've come to our house asking for help with English and French homework). They say fine, and she jumps in "Oh, Marwan, didn't you need help with that exercise?" He looks at her for a second, then says he finished it. I wait for someone to laugh, to see the irony, but she just starts talking about the importance of locking doors. 

As a side note, I think I know which little girl came by. She's about 10 years old, wears a headscarf, and politely greets me on the street.

Sadly, there's a lot of mistrust in the air here. I think it's a product of a tough environment--starving neighbors who would steal from you to live tomorrow, jealousy and anger (justified) at the inequalities that exist, and uncertainty about who's a secret policemen. After being mugged and dealing with daily sexual harassment, I'm certainly more suspicious. Another Fulbrighter told me about a theory of trust: That some communities, like the Middle East, have very high trust for people in their in-group but very low trust for anyone outside of it. (I would guess that this contributes to nepotism.) Others, in the Western world, tend to have a middle level of trust that extends to everyone in society, enforced by the rule of law; so less difference between and in-group and an out-group. I'll ask for the source on that one to make sure I'm quoting it right...

And one last comment: The amount of hypocrisy in the world perplexes me. I've had Moroccans tell me in one sentence to "watch out for those blacks" and then in the next: "Yeah, you poor Americans have to worry about racism. We don't have any of that here." This is exactly why free and open dialogue is so important. I need it too--because without it, we'd never get called out on our idiocies. 

*The top photo is from the protests Sunday in Rabat. I'll let you figure out for yourself what her shirt says.

Photo Credit: http://www.larbi.org/post/Live-manifestations-du-20-mars-au-Maroc

Chers ami-e-s ,

Très bonne année 2011 .

Que du bonheur , de la santé , de la joie et de la sérénité .

Que cette nouvelle année nous permette de concrétiser nos rêves et nos désirs.

Qu’elle puisse transformer nos faiblesses en forces ;

Qu’elle puisse apporter beaucoup d’amour pour nous et autour de nous et ainsi nous porter tout au long de

L’année dans une fantastique allégresse .

Tous mes meilleurs vœux

My dear friends,

[Here’s to] a very good 2011.

 To happiness, health, joy, and serenity.

 That this new year will allow us to achieve our dreams and our desires.

 That it would transform our weaknesses into strengths.

 That it would bring much love for us and around us, thereby carrying us throughout

 the new year in fantastic joy.

All my best wishes.

-E-mail from a Moroccan friend (my translation)

I will say, my life sounds pretty glamorous right now. I started 2010 in London and began 2011 in Spain. In the interim I lived in Morocco, visited various countries in Europe and the Middle East; I even got to go home to the good ole’ US of A for Christmas. I learned how to speak a new dialect of Arabic, improved my French and practiced some Spanish. I made friends with people from around the globe, Moroccan and Italian and Jordanian and Swedish and Palestinian and Dutch and Aussie and Kiwi. If all that’s making you jealous, never fear: 2012 will see me settling into a predictable 9-5 (or 6...or 7...) routine back in the States. I’ll be speaking English and taking 14 days of vacation a year. You know what that means: I get one more year to live it up. So here we go.

In the next year, I will finish my Fulbright in Morocco; I have three more months here. I will start writing for a policy website to get some of my development thoughts into the bigger world. I will become fully conversant in French. I will move to Syria (visa permitting) and learn the Syrian dialect, as well as become fluent enough in Modern Standard Arabic to turn on Al Jazeera and understand. I will go back to the US and sign up for my first full marathon; enough of these halves. I will learn to cook. 

I will be better at living in the moment. Even on the days that aren’t good days, I will remember that at least I’m living. I will be spontaneous.

I will manage my time better. I will be on time. I will learn when I should follow my inner perfectionist and when to accept good enough as good enough. I will be more zen. 

I will be more generous. Tithing means giving 10% of your income to charities; this past year, I was only at 3%. How much do I really need to live on? Especially when others don’t even have enough to live?

I will keep up with the news. I will sing in the shower and dance when I’m alone in my room. I will stay optimistic. I will keep fighting for my ideals, even when it gets tiring. I will find inspiration. I will take breaks. I will keep dreaming.

I will stop following some of the stereotypically “feminine” traits that society taught me: I will be better at accepting compliments. Humility is a virtue, but if someone gives a genuine compliment, the appropriate response is “thank you.” I will feel comfortable owning a room, walking in and taking charge. I will be more selfish. I will say “no” more often. I don’t have time for everything. And that brings me back to an earlier point: I will be on time. 

I will take care of my personal safety. I will be more aware of my surroundings; I will get better at reading people. I won’t trust someone until he/she has given me a reason to do so. I will take taxis more often in the evening and at night. I will keep running on my own during the day.

I will dive into the world and get my hands dirty experiencing what it has to offer. I will embrace opportunity and weather trials. I will learn. 

And now that you know my resolutions, you can help me live up to them. Seriously though, call me out. I’ve always subscribed to the theory of tough love.

Here’s to an excellent 2011. I wish you all the best.

PS: If you want some words of advice for the year to come, check out this video (hint: sunscreen):

PPS: The headline photo shows some New Year’s Eve champagne on the main square in Sevilla. Spaniards also celebrate by eating 12 grapes, one for each chime of the clock at midnight; the champagne proved to be a bit more picturesque.

~Abraham Lincoln

Do you ever have moments where you stop and realize you've changed? Ten months in Morocco (ten months? really?) means that I know how to catch a taxi quickly and pay the right price. I don't gasp when my taxi driver scrapes the side of another car or creates a new lane of traffic. I've stopped gawking at the camel head hanging up in the market, and I ignore the catcallers with the best of the Moroccan women. I know to always carry with me (1) hand sanitizer and (2) toilet paper. And if there's a squat toilet, a ceramic hole-in-the-ground, I know how to aim.

 If I get in a taxi, tell the driver where I want to go, and he says "inshallah" (if God wills it), I know that he means that only Allah really knows the future--not that he won't try to get me there. I know that when I enter a room of Moroccans, especially older Moroccans and regardless of whether I've met them before, it's rude not to go around and greet everyone.

I miss my tea if I don't have it for breakfast, and (for better or worse) I've come to love malawi, the greasy, tortilla-like bread you can buy on the street for about 25¢ a round. When I see loud arguments on the street, I know that it’s very likely they’re still friends (though fistfights are a different story; I've seen many of those as well). When someone (for example, the Moroccan teacher in my French class) tells me that I'm going to hell because I'm not Muslim, I understand that--at least most of the time--it's because they're genuinely worried about my soul's future. (And it's not only Muslim conservatives that believe this about people outside their religion.)

I've learned to chill out. For example: You only brought two pairs of jeans to Morocco? And you just lost one in Turkey? Good thing you still have the other. And it's an even better thing that you have money to buy another pair of jeans if you really need them. More importantly, you didn't lose a limb or a loved one or your life...so really, no big deal.

I've (mostly) stopped caring if people stare at me on the street. I know that I stand out, and that some people will gawk at me because of it. Minorities in the United States/other countries around the world always face gawking and stares; it's only because I've always been in the majority group that I've never before had to deal with this. (Excluding my travels in Singapore, Nicaragua, etc--other places where I was also in the minority.)

I've also decided that, while I've done a lot to learn about Morocco and integrate into it, there are some things that I'm going to keep doing my way (which may or may not be synonymous with the American way). A mundane example: I walk fast. I have places to go.  I've tried slowing down to smell the roses, but once I'd smelled them, I was back to walking fast. 

I've learned that, around the world, people like to blame the victims. We call the poor lazy and stupid, but we don't give them adequate nutrition for their brains and bodies to work. We get mad at a young boy for not studying hard enough, but then we, the adults in his life, call him lazy and stupid and wait for him to flunk out. We say that a woman "deserved it" if she was wearing a short skirt but don't punish the guy who gave "it" to her, nor do we do enough to question a society that too often values women for their bodies rather than their skills or intellect. We call prostitutes disgusting and ignore the men that pay them for their labor. [And, if you're Saudi Arabia, you call all Moroccan women sluts and use that as a reason to ban them from doing the lesser Hajj in Mecca. Never mind that (1) very few Moroccan women are prostitutes, (2) as the guardians of the Muslim holy sites in Mecca and Medina, Saudi Arabia should be living up its responsibility to allow Muslims to practice their religion by performing the Hajj, and (3) your own Saudi men and their oil money are what fund these same women.]

And it's funny how all of this becomes inter-twined, because if we gave those same prostitutes other job opportunities, if we valued them for things besides a pretty face and body, they probably wouldn't choose to be prostitutes. If we gave the poor their health, good education, a chance to work hard and give their children a better future, we'd have the American dream and hopefully happier families. Whether or not that dream really exists for all Americans, it inspires many to try to immigrate to the United States every year.

I've realized that the real blame lies on those with the power and authority to effect change. The problem is that these people often prefer to sidestep the responsibility, and it's always much easier to displace the blame onto a scapegoat. It takes a brave individual to risk his/her personal safety in order to point out what's really going on—and these people often pay for the truths they tell. Examples include Aung San Suu Kyi in Burma, a popular opposition party leader who has now served a total of 14 years under house arrest, or the 2010 Nobel Peace Prize winner, Liu Xiaobo, in China, who is currently serving an 11-year prison sentence because he called for greater democracy.

I’ve learned that people respond to incentives. And I'm not just saying this because I'm economics major. People have reasons for why they do things, and the reasons may not always be clear or entirely rational or even known to the individual making the decision, but they exist. I once found myself getting mad at a student here (not someone I know well) because she essentially asked me to do her English homework. I told her that I’d sit down and help her do it herself. I started asking her questions in English. No reply. I asked the questions slowly in English. Still no reply. Eventually, I realized that this student, after years of English classes, couldn’t speak a word of it. Moreover, I found out that the teacher didn’t really care—that he comes to class, speaks entirely in English without checking for student comprehension, then gives out assignments and calls the students stupid when they don’t know how to reply. Only the students with money to hire a private tutor actually learn English. Now, I don’t agree with cheating, but in this case it was the symptom of a problem rather than the source of it.

Incentives also influence us on a deeper level. I vividly recall a discussion I had one day with my dad and sister about human nature. My dad asked us: "Do you think people are inherently good or bad--or just neutral?" As an effervescent optimistic, I jumped in, saying what I wanted to be true: "I think they're good." My younger but wiser sister waited for me to finish before saying, "No, I think human nature is neutral. It all depends on the environment where someone grows up." At age 10, she already understood John Locke and the concept of tabula rasa. My dad agreed with her while I stubbornly stuck to my original statement...but I've since come around. On the positive side, I've seen what it means to a teenage girl to have someone believe in her value as more than some man's future wife. Suddenly she starts studying more and caring less about the boys that try to distract her from the studies. On the negative side, I've also seen how violence spreads. Kids that face abuse at home then go out on the streets and hurt animals, throwing rocks and worse--not all, but some. They grow up to abuse their wife or their kids, or both--not all, but enough.

Philip Zimbardo, the Stanford professor behind the Stanford Prison Experiment (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_prison_experiment), has written a book called The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil. I have yet to read it (it's on my list), but I've heard him describe the book. The thesis is that evil behavior is a product of the system in which it develops--not just the result of an individual's genes or personality. Zimbardo uses this thesis to explain both the Stanford Prison Experiment and also the acts of torture perpetrated at Abu Ghraib. None of this removes accountability or individual responsibility from the equation--perpetrators of evil must be punished, both to keep them from perpetrating more evil and to discourage others from following their example. However, it does imply that we should be more thoughtful about creating systems that discourage evil and encourage good. It also implies that special praise goes to the heroes who, for whatever reason, resist evil. Zimbardo talks about the different kinds of heroes in his book as well; he’d probably be able to classify Aung Sun Suu Kyi and Liu Xaobo.

On a lighter note, I've also learned that most of life's lessons can be found in a taxi. Example: After getting the usual marriage question from a taxi driver one day, I gave my usual answer about how I have things I want to do before I marry. His response, “Ah, but life goes fast.”

It certainly does... I'm glad I'm spending part of mine here in Morocco.

*This picture is from a recent trip I took to the Sahara desert.

It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world and moral courage so rare. 

 ~Mark Twain

I understood, but some things don’t need words—it was obvious what was going on. It was 8 am, and I was inside my house, brushing my teeth and getting ready to go to my Arabic class. As is the case in the medina qadima (the old city), our windows open right onto the street, so we hear every coming and going as if it were happening inside the house.

“Ghayr b shweya!” (“Be quiet!”) He was yelling—loud, angry, threatening. I heard her softer steps next to his, and every now and then she would whisper something, in a voice so low and timid I couldn’t make out the words. Whatever she said, he just got louder and angrier, yelling again and again “Ghayr b shweya”, “Ghayr b shweya”, sounding at once both offended (because she had dared to whisper a response?) and condescending (because if she were smarter she wouldn’t be saying anything at all??). I poked my head out the window and saw neighbors up and down the street doing the same. That’s when I got angry that none of us were doing anything, hurriedly finished brushing my teeth, and headed out the door…only to find them gone

That was the start of my day.

Then I headed to my language institute, meeting up with my classmate, grabbing a taxi, and settling in for the 15-minute ride. I noticed the driver’s smiles and eagerness to make conversation. I was there with my friend, sitting in the back away from the driver. He starts by asking how long I’ve studied Arabic, and shortly after that asks if I would marry a Moroccan. I say I’m not getting married for a while. He promptly announces that he wants to marry someone from France. Interesting choice of country; let’s go with it. I ask him, “Do you know someone from France that you want to marry?”

He replies: “No.”

“Then how do you know you want to marry someone from France? Why not a Moroccan?” (And by the way, let me note here the interesting phenomenon of racism by Moroccans against other Moroccans, not just from this taxi driver, but from other men I've met who only want to marry a foreigner and other Moroccans in general who say that, as a whole, Moroccans are not well-behaved or honest or responsible.)

Him: “You know….Moroccans are not good people. Also, I want to leave Morocco.”

“Oh, so you want to use marriage to leave the country?”

“No no no, not just for the papers. Foreigners are just better people.”

“So can you speak French?”

“Um, no.”

“How would you talk to a French woman then?”

“You know, through gestures.”

“I think communication is one of the most important things in a relationship.”

“Well, I’d teach her Arabic.”

He then switches the topic again (maybe he didn’t like how this one was going) and starts asking me if I’m Muslim. I’ve gotten really good at this train of conversation, so I say that I’m not and yes, I have read parts of the Quran and learned about the religion but no, I’m not planning on converting, and I think the most important thing is not someone’s religion but how s/he treats other people. He presses on, saying that the hijab and niqab are beautiful, I should really try wearing them. [Side note: The hijab is the scarf around the head. In the Quran, the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, prescribes it just for his wives. The niqab is the scarf that covers the whole face except the eyes; it was never prescribed by the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, for anyone.]

I’m clearly having fun with this (I’ve started to really enjoy touchy subjects), so I ask him why only women have to wear the hijab. He explains that it’s because otherwise men will stare at them. “But why can’t the men control themselves? Why do the women have to behave differently because the men can't control their own actions?” Again, he responds by changing the subject: “So when are you going back to France?”

We were just pulling up to my school, so it played out like in the movies, with the revelation at the end: “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve visited a couple times, but I’m not from France.” Surprised, he asks where I am from. “America,” I say, handing him the money and hopping out of the cab. If only he knew how much I could never be in a relationship with someone like him.

After that, I proceeded to have a wonderful class session debating male-female relationships and the lack of equality, not just in Morocco, but especially in countries like Morocco. The more mornings I have like this, the less likely it seems that I would ever date or marry a Moroccan, certainly not one who follows the local gender norms. I have met some great Moroccan men, and I know plenty of mysogynistic American men, but there are different gender norms and I prefer the American norm, at least as a starting point.

For every frustrating interaction, I have moments that give me hope. My Moroccan male teacher who joins in our conversations and complaints about the lack of equality. A recent project in Egypt to document sexual harassment on the street (see my last blog post). Efforts in India to change unjust rape laws; women in Afghanistan attaining the freedoms of men by dressing like them (links at the bottom).  The wisdom of fellow female, American Fulbright scholars, who pointed out that men catcall mostly to prove their masculinity to other men (or to their internalized social judge)--because they're too insecure and too afraid to stand up to the catcallers and unjust social norms. (These same women also pointed out that, sadly, the harassment encourage women to be sexist in turn, painting all men as mysogynists because it's too exhausting and too risky to look for the good men among the harassers). The existence of a very few men who are brave enough to stand up to their peers. The many women that face harassment and injustice on a daily basis, and yet find the strength to persevere and the magnanimity to fight hatred without themselves becoming hateful. Two little girls running down the street in my neighborhood, wearing short sleeves and shorts, and at least for now, not being bothered by catcalls from men--having the freedom to just be little girls, and play, and dream.