On Tuesday evening, I conducted my first interview.
Actually, it was more of a consultation than a real interview and we spoke mostly about my research project, leaving no time to discuss the list of questions I had brought with me. Still, it felt good. It felt like a milestone, or better said a breaking of ground.
My application for a research permit, as well as my submission for the ethics committee, are temporarily on hold. July and August are slow months in Morocco, and the people and institutions upon whom I depend for these applications are on vacation or recess until September. This means that my project itself, too, is necessarily on hold. I’m starting to feel quite useless – not to mention restless. I’ve been in Morocco for about nine months now, and still haven’t managed to get my project started. First there were grants to wait for, then the American IRB; now it’s the Moroccan authorities. I know that these months have been valuable time that I’ve definitely needed for preparation – the participant-observation and language training I’ve done will certainly help me hit the ground running once I do get started. But still, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m idly sitting here, twiddling my thumbs and wasting grant money, while there is so much that needs to be done.
And so, in my most recent state of restlessness, I came up with the idea of setting up meetings around Rabat with ‘consultants’: professionals in the field of mental healthcare who will not necessarily act as informants, but whose expertise will nevertheless help me to get a better sense of the infrastructure of care around here. I don’t need a permit to consult with a practitioner, and so this is something I could get started with now. For me, it serves a threefold purpose. First, I hope to consult these people about my own research project. I’d not only like to see what kinds of discussions are prompted by my research questions, but I’d also like some input and perhaps advice on the practical aspects of carrying out this project.
Second, I hope to ask each consultant some questions about the practice of their discipline in Morocco. This will broaden my perspective of what kinds of mental healthcare are available in Morocco and how they all relate to each other, and it will (perhaps, hopefully) elicit a greater spectrum of thoughts on why people believe the things they do about mental illness, and why they do the things they do to deal with it.
And finally, it’s a way both to prove to myself that my French is in good enough shape to conduct an interview, and to keep working on improving it. My cours de communication has proven that what my communicative competence mostly needs is practice, practice, and practice. But rather than hold off on interviewing until my French is ‘good enough’, I think that maybe there’s no better arena for that practice than these interviews themselves.
To make a long story short, this is how I found myself in a stylish and air-conditioned waiting room on a hot Tuesday afternoon at 6 PM, about to be seen by one of Morocco’s most prominent psychoanalysts. The Friday before, I had gathered my courage, picked up the phone, and made an original appointment for Monday at noon. That Monday at eleven, the psychoanalyst had called to reschedule – and so on Tuesday afternoon, I left my French class early and ran across town to the analyst’s office in Centre Ville. I arrived in a bit of a flustered and sweaty state, and was happy to sit down for a few minutes and peruse the available selection of magazines – all of them periodicals in which this psychoanalyst is occasionally featured. After fifteen minutes, the secretary led me in to see the analyst.
We spoke for about thirty minutes, mostly about my project. My four research questions prompted quite a bit of discussion on his part, and I mostly let him speak, trying frantically to write down whatever I could remember without losing my focus on what he was telling me. I wondered for a moment if I should take more control of the interaction, intervene, and make sure we get to all the questions I wanted to ask. This is something I’m uncomfortable with; I know from other interviews I’ve conducted that I wield that power of the interviewer very uneasily. In that sense I lend myself much too easily, perhaps, to the monologue format that so many discussions with Moroccan academics and professionals tend to take, and find it extra difficult to break out of that format.* But I decided it might actually be a good idea to let him talk and get some Moroccan-expert-input on my research questions – and that I could save my questionnaire for another meeting, after all.
And so he brainstormed about my research questions. He had some thoughts about re-phrasing a few of them, perhaps even splitting one into two separate questions. And ‘clients’ at the site of traditional healing? I should just call them ‘patients’, he said; ‘clients’ sounds a bit too commercial.
It is important, he also said, that we do not oppose ‘psychiatry’ and ‘traditional healing’. They are two completely different things, he explained, and in that sense they are not each other’s competitors. A patient seeks completely different things from a traditional healer; he doesn’t come to a psychiatrist with the same questions or the same expectations for treatment. I found this an interesting statement and wanted to ask him to elaborate – because so many psychiatrists do seem to feel the competition from traditional healing. What exactly was the difference between them then, I wanted to ask, and why is it that so many people do see these two forms of healing as competitors? But I didn’t ask those questions – by the time I had noted down the keywords of what he said, he’d moved on to a different subject and I felt it wouldn’t be useful to rewind the monologue.
Getting down to more methodological issues, he asked me if I’d been to my chosen site for traditional healing yet. No, I said, feeling a bit sheepish. But, I assured him, I was planning to very soon. Upon which he smiled, and a bit sarcastically asked me if I’d given any thought yet to how I’d get access to the place. According to him, the site has been “récupéré par la religion,” reclaimed by religion. This means not only that its new, more orthodox, framework has narrowed the site’s offer of traditional treatments and thus led its renown and reputation as a site for healing into decline, but also that I, as an (assumed) non-Muslim, will never be allowed to enter. I’d have to don a headscarf and prove myself by reciting the shahada** or fatiha,*** he said, suggesting its hopeless impossibility with the tone of his voice. A day later, a new friend said exactly the same things, though in a very different tone of voice. “Why not?” she encouraged, “We’ll try, and we’ll see what happens.” She’s right, and I guess I’m overdue for a visit to this site, but I do think I need to think about the possibility that I may need to find another site for my research. First of all, I don’t know that I want to fake being a Muslim to get in somewhere that I am not allowed to go, regardless of whether I agree with that rule (in Morocco, non-Muslims are not allowed inside mosques. The Hassan II mosque in Casablanca is the only exception). It brings up a lot of personal and research-related ethics-questions that might be better to avoid. And secondly, if this new recuperation by religion really has narrowed its offer of treatments, it may not be as good of a fit for my project, anyway.
As the psychoanalyst commented on my methodology and research questions and I frantically tried to write down what he said, I found myself a little resistant to the changes he suggested making. It’s not that he uttered any criticism – but I realize at these moments that I get a little resistant to any thoughts of changing my project. I’ve worked so hard on polishing and molding the proposal into its current shape, that the idea of deconstructing it again and putting it back together in a different way scares me a little. I know that projects are fluid and intangible things, even if proposals aren’t, and I know that most likely I’ll leave Morocco in two years with a very different project than the one I describe in my proposal. But still. Right now, the proposal is all I’ve got, and I don’t want to let it go just yet.
Nevertheless, I’m going to swallow that resistance. Input from Moroccan experts is exactly what I need – and none of the suggestions so far have been all that radical. And looking back on the interaction as a whole, I think I’m satisfied. Before I left I asked him if he’d be open to an actual interview about psychoanalysis at a later date, to which he assented – and assured me that he’d be more than happy to suspend his usual monologue format and just sit and answer questions (and thus assuaged all my frustration about not having asked follow-up questions; I’ll have my chance to revisit all those subjects, with the help of a tape recorder). Some explanations went better in French than others (explaining the point of person-centered interviews took some work. I hardly know how to explain that in English), but I think I made myself mostly understood.
But mostly? Mostly I was just proud that I had done this. That I had finally managed to do something research-related, and that I pulled it off.
* I was kind of surprised that even this man engaged in that kind of monologue. Aren’t psychoanalysts supposed to listen, rather than speak? But then again, this is a psychoanalyst who writes books and blogs about his viewpoints…
** the shahada is the profession of faith: “I attest that there is no God but Allah and that Mohammed is His Prophet.” Conversion to Islam consists of reciting this phrase three times in the presence of a witness. The shahada is also the concent of the five-times-daily call to prayer, and is recited at particular moments throughout life, though I do not know exactly when.
*** the fatiha is the first verse of the Qur’an.
Showing posts with label grants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grants. Show all posts
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Thanks, Prins Bernhard!
Last Wednesday, my morning was brightened with a very unexpected piece of good news: I am the recipient of another grant.
This time it’s a Dutch cultural foundation, The Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds to be exact, and they’re giving me a lot of Euros to cover my living expenses in Morocco. Needless to say, I’m grateful, excited, and relieved. It means that I can afford to employ a research assistant, and that I can indulge in the occasional extra trip home.
But most of all, I love the idea that my research is now being funded by American as well as Dutch institutions. Working at the NIMAR has strengthened my self-identification as a hybrid. It hasn’t weaned me away from my Americanness as it drew the Dutchness that had floated to the deeper recesses of my sense of self closer to the surface. To the contrary: it’s helped me realize that to have one foot firmly planted in each culture is to have an identity based on the concept of ‘both’, rather than the notion of ‘split’. I am considered to be as Dutch as the colleagues that hail from Nijmegen or Zeeland – while simultaneously being accepted in all my Americanness. And suddenly, feeling fully Dutch is not a contradiction in terms with feeling fully American. I notice that it changes my comportment. I no longer mind mixing English idioms through my Dutch. I don’t mind not knowing a particular commercial that has my co-workers squirming on the floor with laughter, and I don’t mind messing up when I join the others in singing along with a Dutch classic. While there have been times when I concluded that two halves make less than a whole, I am of the conviction, lately, that in fact it’s two wholes that make an enriching mix.
I hadn’t expected to be eligible for a Dutch scholarship. Sure, I have a Dutch passport, but I’ve been educated abroad, and even my dissertation project has no relation to the Netherlands. This grant’s seeming lack of eligibility requirements seemed almost too good to be true, and I sent in my application with a fair portion of reservations. But here I am, two months later, the new recipient of a considerable sum of money. My American self has been accepted as Dutch enough all over again.
And in any case, if this research is an extension of myself (and considering that my relationship with this project first blossomed in the summer of 2007, it certainly feels as though it is), it seems only fitting that it be the hybrid I consider myself to be; that both American and Dutch funds come together to facilitate this project.
This grant – all of them (never thought I’d be able to speak of grants in the plural!) – means validation. It means that, despite the initial string of rejections, my project is worth funding, after all.
This time it’s a Dutch cultural foundation, The Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds to be exact, and they’re giving me a lot of Euros to cover my living expenses in Morocco. Needless to say, I’m grateful, excited, and relieved. It means that I can afford to employ a research assistant, and that I can indulge in the occasional extra trip home.
But most of all, I love the idea that my research is now being funded by American as well as Dutch institutions. Working at the NIMAR has strengthened my self-identification as a hybrid. It hasn’t weaned me away from my Americanness as it drew the Dutchness that had floated to the deeper recesses of my sense of self closer to the surface. To the contrary: it’s helped me realize that to have one foot firmly planted in each culture is to have an identity based on the concept of ‘both’, rather than the notion of ‘split’. I am considered to be as Dutch as the colleagues that hail from Nijmegen or Zeeland – while simultaneously being accepted in all my Americanness. And suddenly, feeling fully Dutch is not a contradiction in terms with feeling fully American. I notice that it changes my comportment. I no longer mind mixing English idioms through my Dutch. I don’t mind not knowing a particular commercial that has my co-workers squirming on the floor with laughter, and I don’t mind messing up when I join the others in singing along with a Dutch classic. While there have been times when I concluded that two halves make less than a whole, I am of the conviction, lately, that in fact it’s two wholes that make an enriching mix.
I hadn’t expected to be eligible for a Dutch scholarship. Sure, I have a Dutch passport, but I’ve been educated abroad, and even my dissertation project has no relation to the Netherlands. This grant’s seeming lack of eligibility requirements seemed almost too good to be true, and I sent in my application with a fair portion of reservations. But here I am, two months later, the new recipient of a considerable sum of money. My American self has been accepted as Dutch enough all over again.
And in any case, if this research is an extension of myself (and considering that my relationship with this project first blossomed in the summer of 2007, it certainly feels as though it is), it seems only fitting that it be the hybrid I consider myself to be; that both American and Dutch funds come together to facilitate this project.
This grant – all of them (never thought I’d be able to speak of grants in the plural!) – means validation. It means that, despite the initial string of rejections, my project is worth funding, after all.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Grounding
Lately, life has been carrying me along too rapidly for me to take any time for reflection, it seems. I have been back in Morocco for more than two months, but it feels as though no more than two weeks have passed. I have utterly enjoyed every minute of these two months, but I have realized that without a bit of time for private reflection, I lose my sense of grounding. My sense of control, my sense of where I am in all this ‘world’ and ‘life’ around me, and my sense of what I am doing there.
It is not the first time that alone time has been hard to find here in Morocco. But despite the intensity of social interaction with my host family last fall, I was always ‘alone’ in my head, in a way – because none of those relationships were based on personal connections, I was able to maintain a kind of observer’s distance, which perhaps means that I was always in a reflective mode. This time around, the social interaction that dominates my days, evenings, and nights, is entirely personal. I am wholly involved in the relationships I have built up, and they have swept me up in a current of activity and interaction so deep I have a hard time reaching the ground with my toes.
Nevertheless, some changes have occurred lately in my situation here – some planned, some by surprise – that have created a greater sense of grounding, and I am hopeful for a greater sense of solidity and control.
First of all, I have moved out of the NIMAR apartment. I now live by myself in a studio on a busy street lined with cafes. I miss living with Fatima but love the space I now have to myself, the satellite TV I can watch in bed until late at night, and the bathroom I don’t have to share with anyone. I love waking up with the smell of croissants floating up from the cafés below, and I love playing host to Fatima, Farid, and other friends. I even love having responsibility for a household now – I love having to be organized enough to take out the trash when it needs to be taken out, pay electricity bills when they are due, replacing the tank of propane when I am out of gas.
And secondly, I have been awarded a grant! After three rejections, I finally, finally have a (conditional) award. I will receive this grant only on the condition that my research obtains human subjects approval, and quite a few questions remain to be answered before such approval will be granted, but still – it is such a relief, such an honor, to finally receive a positive response to my grant proposals. And such an exciting (but also a little scary) thought that I will actually be able to begin this research!
I feel lucky, and need to allow myself more often to realize how happy I am these days: I am living in a city I am in love with; I have a beautiful apartment in that city with everything I need; I have the opportunity to start the research project I have been dreaming about for so long, and I get to do it all while spending half of my week in the warm environment of the Dutch institute. And that sense of grounding – I’ll get there, too.
It is not the first time that alone time has been hard to find here in Morocco. But despite the intensity of social interaction with my host family last fall, I was always ‘alone’ in my head, in a way – because none of those relationships were based on personal connections, I was able to maintain a kind of observer’s distance, which perhaps means that I was always in a reflective mode. This time around, the social interaction that dominates my days, evenings, and nights, is entirely personal. I am wholly involved in the relationships I have built up, and they have swept me up in a current of activity and interaction so deep I have a hard time reaching the ground with my toes.
Nevertheless, some changes have occurred lately in my situation here – some planned, some by surprise – that have created a greater sense of grounding, and I am hopeful for a greater sense of solidity and control.
First of all, I have moved out of the NIMAR apartment. I now live by myself in a studio on a busy street lined with cafes. I miss living with Fatima but love the space I now have to myself, the satellite TV I can watch in bed until late at night, and the bathroom I don’t have to share with anyone. I love waking up with the smell of croissants floating up from the cafés below, and I love playing host to Fatima, Farid, and other friends. I even love having responsibility for a household now – I love having to be organized enough to take out the trash when it needs to be taken out, pay electricity bills when they are due, replacing the tank of propane when I am out of gas.
And secondly, I have been awarded a grant! After three rejections, I finally, finally have a (conditional) award. I will receive this grant only on the condition that my research obtains human subjects approval, and quite a few questions remain to be answered before such approval will be granted, but still – it is such a relief, such an honor, to finally receive a positive response to my grant proposals. And such an exciting (but also a little scary) thought that I will actually be able to begin this research!
I feel lucky, and need to allow myself more often to realize how happy I am these days: I am living in a city I am in love with; I have a beautiful apartment in that city with everything I need; I have the opportunity to start the research project I have been dreaming about for so long, and I get to do it all while spending half of my week in the warm environment of the Dutch institute. And that sense of grounding – I’ll get there, too.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Change of Plans...
My departure is rapidly approaching: only two days remain of this three month period in Morocco – this period that had seemed so long when I was on the other side of it, back in September.
This fact compels me to look back and examine what I’ve done with my time here. Unequivocally, I can say that these past three months have been an absolute success. I may not have gotten two of the three grants I had applied for, but I have obtained research permission at the hospital, gone through a very intense and deep familiarization with Moroccan family life, vastly increased my command of both French and Moroccan Arabic, made new friends, learned a lot about myself – but most importantly, I have come to genuinely love this country and to fully appreciate being here. This, in all honesty, I had not expected. My love-hate relationship and frustration have, by grace of a newly discovered sense of comfort and freedom, made way for serious contentment. I know that Morocco can make life very difficult for very many people. I know that Morocco has its dark sides. I know that I will continue to meet with frustration as I continue my relationship with this country. But I also know that I’ve discovered that there is room for me here, that it is possible to be myself here. I’ve discovered that I can lead the life I want and find the things I need to be happy, right here. I know that I can live here comfortably and pleasantly for a number of years, while I do my research.
With all of these reflections in mind, I had been growing steadily more melancholy as the days raced on and the moment of my departure rapidly approached. Especially because it was completely uncertain when I would be able to return, I really, really did not want to leave – to abandon everything I had begun to establish here. And also because it meant no more blog... this blog, that has been my lifeline these three months, would have no more use.
From my use of language you may have already guessed that something about this situation has changed. And indeed, over the course of one weekend, a sudden and unexpected opportunity radically changed everything…
Because I have been offered a temporary job – an internship, really – at the Dutch cultural center in Rabat! From February to the middle of May, I am going to help organize a Dutch-Moroccan conference in honor of the 40th anniversary of the two countries’ labor migration agreement – the agreement that lies at the foundation of the Netherlands’ current relationship with Morocco. Not only is this right up my alley – I have been doing research on Moroccan migrants in the Netherlands for years – but it is the perfect way to spend more time in Morocco as I wait for more grants to come in. It will allow me to continue studying French and Arabic, to continue solidifying my relationship with the Clinic in Rabat, it’s going to look great on both CV and grant applications, and most importantly: I get to come back! And all that while being paid… honestly, it can’t get any better than this. I am so, so incredibly excited…
And I am no longer sad to leave! What I thought was going to be a separation of indefinite length, has become a six week vacation… They will be six busy weeks – much will have to be done before I come back here (grants, IRB…) – but a great vacation nonetheless, with the prospect of more Morocco-fun in February…
This also means I get to continue with this blog – so stay tuned for new posts in about a month and a half!
This fact compels me to look back and examine what I’ve done with my time here. Unequivocally, I can say that these past three months have been an absolute success. I may not have gotten two of the three grants I had applied for, but I have obtained research permission at the hospital, gone through a very intense and deep familiarization with Moroccan family life, vastly increased my command of both French and Moroccan Arabic, made new friends, learned a lot about myself – but most importantly, I have come to genuinely love this country and to fully appreciate being here. This, in all honesty, I had not expected. My love-hate relationship and frustration have, by grace of a newly discovered sense of comfort and freedom, made way for serious contentment. I know that Morocco can make life very difficult for very many people. I know that Morocco has its dark sides. I know that I will continue to meet with frustration as I continue my relationship with this country. But I also know that I’ve discovered that there is room for me here, that it is possible to be myself here. I’ve discovered that I can lead the life I want and find the things I need to be happy, right here. I know that I can live here comfortably and pleasantly for a number of years, while I do my research.
With all of these reflections in mind, I had been growing steadily more melancholy as the days raced on and the moment of my departure rapidly approached. Especially because it was completely uncertain when I would be able to return, I really, really did not want to leave – to abandon everything I had begun to establish here. And also because it meant no more blog... this blog, that has been my lifeline these three months, would have no more use.
From my use of language you may have already guessed that something about this situation has changed. And indeed, over the course of one weekend, a sudden and unexpected opportunity radically changed everything…
Because I have been offered a temporary job – an internship, really – at the Dutch cultural center in Rabat! From February to the middle of May, I am going to help organize a Dutch-Moroccan conference in honor of the 40th anniversary of the two countries’ labor migration agreement – the agreement that lies at the foundation of the Netherlands’ current relationship with Morocco. Not only is this right up my alley – I have been doing research on Moroccan migrants in the Netherlands for years – but it is the perfect way to spend more time in Morocco as I wait for more grants to come in. It will allow me to continue studying French and Arabic, to continue solidifying my relationship with the Clinic in Rabat, it’s going to look great on both CV and grant applications, and most importantly: I get to come back! And all that while being paid… honestly, it can’t get any better than this. I am so, so incredibly excited…
And I am no longer sad to leave! What I thought was going to be a separation of indefinite length, has become a six week vacation… They will be six busy weeks – much will have to be done before I come back here (grants, IRB…) – but a great vacation nonetheless, with the prospect of more Morocco-fun in February…
This also means I get to continue with this blog – so stay tuned for new posts in about a month and a half!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Time Flies
I am realizing that I only have three weeks left to go here. Time has flown by, and it is difficult to believe that I will be heading back to Chicago so soon. I react to this idea with mixed feelings. On one hand, there are reasons why I cannot wait to leave: the comforts of home, seeing my family, snow, indoor heating, showers every day, being able to cook again, have a glass of wine when I want, being master of my own schedule, and privacy.
But there are so many reasons why I want to stay. There is so much left to do, and I need so much more time. To learn Arabic, to further get to know Morocco, to reach a deeper level of comfort with this city and its daily rhythm, to find my niche. To start my research. Apart from the language frustration (see previous post), I feel as though I am making inroads. I am beginning to establish myself here, and I want to keep going on this wave. I hate the idea of leaving just now that I have made contacts – what if they forget about me?
And I am sorry above all that I have to leave Morocco, just now that I am for the first time truly becoming comfortable here. Just now that, for the first time, I was actually enjoying myself with a sense of freedom.
At the same time, I am also beginning to realize how much more time I need for preparations before I can actually start the research. I may have gotten research approval at the hospital, which was hurdle number one to get over, but I clearly need further language study – both French and Arabic – before I can comfortably interview people. Sure, I could devise a list of questions right now, but it will take a while before I can actually understand how people answer my questions, and before I can improvise follow-up inquiries on the basis of what they say. Then there is IRB approval, money, the standardized diagnostic interview protocols that I need to obtain. I even need better recording equipment – mine apparently only records up to two hours of material – not convenient if you want to do a full day of interviews.
In other words: there are good reasons to go home. I’ll consider it not as a step back, but a necessary new stage of research preparation. How about that?
I will be sorry to leave this blog, though. It’s been my lifeline these past few months.
But there are so many reasons why I want to stay. There is so much left to do, and I need so much more time. To learn Arabic, to further get to know Morocco, to reach a deeper level of comfort with this city and its daily rhythm, to find my niche. To start my research. Apart from the language frustration (see previous post), I feel as though I am making inroads. I am beginning to establish myself here, and I want to keep going on this wave. I hate the idea of leaving just now that I have made contacts – what if they forget about me?
And I am sorry above all that I have to leave Morocco, just now that I am for the first time truly becoming comfortable here. Just now that, for the first time, I was actually enjoying myself with a sense of freedom.
At the same time, I am also beginning to realize how much more time I need for preparations before I can actually start the research. I may have gotten research approval at the hospital, which was hurdle number one to get over, but I clearly need further language study – both French and Arabic – before I can comfortably interview people. Sure, I could devise a list of questions right now, but it will take a while before I can actually understand how people answer my questions, and before I can improvise follow-up inquiries on the basis of what they say. Then there is IRB approval, money, the standardized diagnostic interview protocols that I need to obtain. I even need better recording equipment – mine apparently only records up to two hours of material – not convenient if you want to do a full day of interviews.
In other words: there are good reasons to go home. I’ll consider it not as a step back, but a necessary new stage of research preparation. How about that?
I will be sorry to leave this blog, though. It’s been my lifeline these past few months.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Today's Egg is Better than Tomorrow's Chicken
I heard today that my application for a Wenner-Gren grant was rejected. This means that I cannot come back to Morocco in January and will have to postpone my research until March at least, when I hear back from the second grant I applied for – and in which I have now lost a little faith.
Perhaps needless to say, I am disappointed and sad. Because I am beginning to feel, for the first time since I first formulated this project, that it might actually be possible to do this research. I am finding leads and making my first inroads into the worlds of psychiatry and traditional healing. I am afraid, now that I don’t know when I can come back, that there is no use investing in anything here now. Even if I make contact with psychiatrists; even if they are enthusiastic about my research; even if they want to actually help me; even if they give me permission to observe treatment – what will they say when they find out I don’t actually know when I can start doing all this? That I don’t actually have anything organized on my side of the practical matters – money, research permission, and such? Will they completely forget about me and my project, once I leave? Will I have to start over when – whenever – I can come back?
I am also disappointed and sad because I feel as though I failed. I explained the situation to Amma this afternoon and felt it boiling up in me. When she heard I couldn’t come back to Rabat because I didn’t get the money I had hoped for, her response was that in Morocco, no one gets grants. People pay for things themselves. Couldn’t I just do that? I tried to explain to her that research costs too much for me to pay on my own – that it would take a lot of time working and saving to be able to afford that. But what I couldn’t explain is that it’s not even just the money. Secretly – apart from the worries I mentioned in the previous paragraph – a part of me is a little relieved that I get to take a break for a few months. However, apart from money a grant is also (maybe even more so) about endorsement of your research. It’s a CV-booster. And being rejected – it feels like a committee of anthropologists decided my research wasn’t good enough, not interesting enough to invest in. And that makes me feel as though I failed. Failed at precisely the thing I have everything invested in.
I know it doesn’t work that way. I know it’s not the project per se – I know the issue is probably mostly that I haven’t found the right way to formulate the project, the right words to sell it with – though I need to keep reminding myself of this.
But it’s no use dwelling on disappointment, or on sadness. And when I take a step back and assess the situation, it’s really not that bad. As much as I always run, run, run, focusing on the next step on my to do list, I am not actually in a hurry – to do this research, or to get my PhD. Why rush it? What actual deadline do I need to meet? What lies ahead of me after the PhD that cannot wait?
And when I begin to picture the short-term alternatives, it doesn’t look that bad at all. At this point, my applications can only get better, right? I need to see this rejection as constructive criticism – they gave me detailed enough comments to actually be helpful. And other than that, the immediate future suddenly lies wide open. For a job, a project – anything interesting. And it could be anywhere. Chicago? San Diego? Maybe even Amsterdam…
I’m taking this as a reminder to stop rushing ahead and focus on what I have right now. And that’s what the title of this post refers to. ‘Today’s egg is better than tomorrow’s chicken’ – “beida diyal l-youm hsan min djaja diyal ghda” – is a Moroccan proverb, and it means something like “it’s better to rely on the little things you have today than trust in the large promises of tomorrow.”
And one thing I can rely on for now is a very sweet Moroccan family that tells me that there will be other grants, “in sha’llah.” They even had some Zem zem water for me to wish on.
Perhaps needless to say, I am disappointed and sad. Because I am beginning to feel, for the first time since I first formulated this project, that it might actually be possible to do this research. I am finding leads and making my first inroads into the worlds of psychiatry and traditional healing. I am afraid, now that I don’t know when I can come back, that there is no use investing in anything here now. Even if I make contact with psychiatrists; even if they are enthusiastic about my research; even if they want to actually help me; even if they give me permission to observe treatment – what will they say when they find out I don’t actually know when I can start doing all this? That I don’t actually have anything organized on my side of the practical matters – money, research permission, and such? Will they completely forget about me and my project, once I leave? Will I have to start over when – whenever – I can come back?
I am also disappointed and sad because I feel as though I failed. I explained the situation to Amma this afternoon and felt it boiling up in me. When she heard I couldn’t come back to Rabat because I didn’t get the money I had hoped for, her response was that in Morocco, no one gets grants. People pay for things themselves. Couldn’t I just do that? I tried to explain to her that research costs too much for me to pay on my own – that it would take a lot of time working and saving to be able to afford that. But what I couldn’t explain is that it’s not even just the money. Secretly – apart from the worries I mentioned in the previous paragraph – a part of me is a little relieved that I get to take a break for a few months. However, apart from money a grant is also (maybe even more so) about endorsement of your research. It’s a CV-booster. And being rejected – it feels like a committee of anthropologists decided my research wasn’t good enough, not interesting enough to invest in. And that makes me feel as though I failed. Failed at precisely the thing I have everything invested in.
I know it doesn’t work that way. I know it’s not the project per se – I know the issue is probably mostly that I haven’t found the right way to formulate the project, the right words to sell it with – though I need to keep reminding myself of this.
But it’s no use dwelling on disappointment, or on sadness. And when I take a step back and assess the situation, it’s really not that bad. As much as I always run, run, run, focusing on the next step on my to do list, I am not actually in a hurry – to do this research, or to get my PhD. Why rush it? What actual deadline do I need to meet? What lies ahead of me after the PhD that cannot wait?
And when I begin to picture the short-term alternatives, it doesn’t look that bad at all. At this point, my applications can only get better, right? I need to see this rejection as constructive criticism – they gave me detailed enough comments to actually be helpful. And other than that, the immediate future suddenly lies wide open. For a job, a project – anything interesting. And it could be anywhere. Chicago? San Diego? Maybe even Amsterdam…
I’m taking this as a reminder to stop rushing ahead and focus on what I have right now. And that’s what the title of this post refers to. ‘Today’s egg is better than tomorrow’s chicken’ – “beida diyal l-youm hsan min djaja diyal ghda” – is a Moroccan proverb, and it means something like “it’s better to rely on the little things you have today than trust in the large promises of tomorrow.”
And one thing I can rely on for now is a very sweet Moroccan family that tells me that there will be other grants, “in sha’llah.” They even had some Zem zem water for me to wish on.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Moroccan Fashion
I am working on another grant application. I am having a hard time finding both motivation and inspiration; after two frustrating other ones, I just can’t find the energy to put what want I want to do in yet another new set of words. I had sort of hoped I could recycle what I wrote for the last one, and which I felt good about, but as it turns out the maximum length of this proposal is about half that of the previous one.
In any case, because this grant is due on November 5, I am spending a fair amount of time at home, upstairs, trying to come up with something to write. I think my host family feels sorry for me that I am at home so much. I catch them saying things to each other like ‘poor girl, spending all day at home working.’ I explained to them as best I could what I’m working on and why it’s taking up time, but still.
I think this is why they keep inviting me out everywhere. And because a) I can’t find inspiration to write this grant, b) going out with women and seeing what they do all day is precisely the reason I’m here, and c) I also think being out is much more fun than working on this thing, I say yes to everything.
So last night Manal showed me where she works. She makes jellabas and caftans, and shares a little shop/workplace with a few others where she makes these garments on order.
A jellaba (pronounced ‘zyell-AB-a) is a kind of coat/dress with a hood on it. It looks like this:
This is daily wear for whenever you go outdoors. Simply slip it on over the PJs you wear day & night in the house, and you’re ready to go. The model is always the same, but they come in all fabrics and colors. Men and women both wear them (although they choose different fabrics and colors). The official national costume for men is a white/cream colored jellaba with a red fez hat and yellow slippers. The king (Mohammed VI) wears this on all national holidays. Here he is with his son, crown Prince Moulay Hassan:
(These shoes, by the way, are also very traditionally Moroccan. They also come in all kinds of colors and fabrics, but the yellow ones go with the national costume).
During Ramadan, I noticed that all photo studios had set up these elaborate studios outside, featuring a rich-looking fabric backdrop and an ornate couch. Alma explained to me when she and I passed one together, that it is tradition during Ramadan for parents to have their young children dress up in traditional costume for the first time and officially photographed. And indeed, when we walked past this particular photo studio, we saw tiny little 3 year-old boys in tiny little white jellabas, tiny red fez hats, and tiny yellow slippers. It was too precious for words.
But while adults really will wear a jellaba most of the time they go outside (though not everyone does so – Alma and Fatima almost always wear one, but Manal hardly ever does. And women wear them more than men do), I haven’t seen anyone under the age of, let’s say 25, wearing one on a daily basis.
When men wear white jellabas, women wear caftans. This is Moroccan eveningwear, so to speak. They look like this:
Mostly they come in three parts; a dress of sorts, an overcoat made of a thin lacy fabric, and a wide belt that is worn over the top. But there is much more variation with caftans than there is with jellabas; not only in terms of fabrics (often much more luxurious than those used for jellabas) but also in terms of model or cut. There is a whole fashion industry devoted to caftans, and every year the magazine ‘Femmes du Maroc’ publishes its Caftan-issue, with hundreds of pages of pictures from runway shows that feature the latest models. Designers can be as avant-garde with the traditional caftan-design as they are with Western clothing. Manal had hundreds of these magazines stacked in a corner of her shop, and I spent a fair amount of time looking through them. I think these dresses are beautiful, and I kind of want one – but when would I ever wear it?
In any case, because this grant is due on November 5, I am spending a fair amount of time at home, upstairs, trying to come up with something to write. I think my host family feels sorry for me that I am at home so much. I catch them saying things to each other like ‘poor girl, spending all day at home working.’ I explained to them as best I could what I’m working on and why it’s taking up time, but still.
I think this is why they keep inviting me out everywhere. And because a) I can’t find inspiration to write this grant, b) going out with women and seeing what they do all day is precisely the reason I’m here, and c) I also think being out is much more fun than working on this thing, I say yes to everything.
So last night Manal showed me where she works. She makes jellabas and caftans, and shares a little shop/workplace with a few others where she makes these garments on order.
A jellaba (pronounced ‘zyell-AB-a) is a kind of coat/dress with a hood on it. It looks like this:
This is daily wear for whenever you go outdoors. Simply slip it on over the PJs you wear day & night in the house, and you’re ready to go. The model is always the same, but they come in all fabrics and colors. Men and women both wear them (although they choose different fabrics and colors). The official national costume for men is a white/cream colored jellaba with a red fez hat and yellow slippers. The king (Mohammed VI) wears this on all national holidays. Here he is with his son, crown Prince Moulay Hassan:
(These shoes, by the way, are also very traditionally Moroccan. They also come in all kinds of colors and fabrics, but the yellow ones go with the national costume).
During Ramadan, I noticed that all photo studios had set up these elaborate studios outside, featuring a rich-looking fabric backdrop and an ornate couch. Alma explained to me when she and I passed one together, that it is tradition during Ramadan for parents to have their young children dress up in traditional costume for the first time and officially photographed. And indeed, when we walked past this particular photo studio, we saw tiny little 3 year-old boys in tiny little white jellabas, tiny red fez hats, and tiny yellow slippers. It was too precious for words.
But while adults really will wear a jellaba most of the time they go outside (though not everyone does so – Alma and Fatima almost always wear one, but Manal hardly ever does. And women wear them more than men do), I haven’t seen anyone under the age of, let’s say 25, wearing one on a daily basis.
When men wear white jellabas, women wear caftans. This is Moroccan eveningwear, so to speak. They look like this:
Mostly they come in three parts; a dress of sorts, an overcoat made of a thin lacy fabric, and a wide belt that is worn over the top. But there is much more variation with caftans than there is with jellabas; not only in terms of fabrics (often much more luxurious than those used for jellabas) but also in terms of model or cut. There is a whole fashion industry devoted to caftans, and every year the magazine ‘Femmes du Maroc’ publishes its Caftan-issue, with hundreds of pages of pictures from runway shows that feature the latest models. Designers can be as avant-garde with the traditional caftan-design as they are with Western clothing. Manal had hundreds of these magazines stacked in a corner of her shop, and I spent a fair amount of time looking through them. I think these dresses are beautiful, and I kind of want one – but when would I ever wear it?
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