Amma has a new phone, a gift from her father. Apparently phones are Moroccan teenagers’ mp3 players. She and Yunus have been swapping songs between their phones for the past few days through Bluetooth (‘Bluetoot’). Now that she clearly has a fair amount of songs on her phone, she’s inseparable from it. Day and night she is listening to music, and usually singing and dancing along with it, seeming not to care that the rest of us can’t hear a thing. She listens to it when she’s doing homework, when she’s in the kitchen helping out, even when she’s watching TV or talking to her grandmother or aunts. My parents would have told me long ago to turn off the music, but no one here seems to mind at all. But then again, everyone in the family plays around with their phone day and night. Even Khadija, who is indeed illiterate (but who is going to school – this morning she came back and proudly showed me a paragraph she had written), has a phone that she carries with her everywhere.
So I am not the only one whose phone is a lifeline.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Stigma
A productive day. Taking care of business felt so good I felt like I was walking on air, felt like I was bigger than Rabat – until I had my first Moroccan Arabic (also called ‘darija’; pronounced DArizya) class today and realized how far I have yet to go.
I went to the ATM to get huge amounts of money to pay for my stay with the host family, and then stopped by the Dutch cultural center, the NIMAR, basically to show my face and let them know I’m back. Last summer they were incredibly helpful and inviting, and I spent a lot of time in their limited but relevant library reading up on Moroccan history and on the healthcare system. There is an American center in Rabat as well (the MACECE), but they’ve told me explicitly they cannot/will not offer me any assistance, because I do not have an American passport. Apparently it does not matter that I study at a US university, or that I’m a permanent resident. But I digress. At least there’s this Dutch center, and the administration there has indicated it is wiling and able to help me with contacts, research permission, and the like. Which is why I had to go and tell them I’m back, and that I might (hopefully) actually need their help with all that pretty soon. It turns out that the director is in the Netherlands at the moment, but I talked to someone else for a while, a woman who coordinates migration studies, and spent a wonderful hour in the library on their wireless connection – which meant internet access on my very own computer.
On the way back home for lunch I bought today’s edition of Le Monde and spent another wonderful hour on the couch finally catching up on world affairs. That might be the thing I miss most, being here – access to the news, being up to date on what’s going on, with the presidential campaigns, and with the markets. I hate it that I’m missing the debates, missing Palin’s gaffes, missing SNL renditions of those gaffes, missing the shifts in public opinion. There is a news broadcast here in French, but my host family is not necessarily interested, and they are so loud that I usually can’t make out what the newscaster is saying above the conversation going on around me.
This afternoon I had my first class. And despite what the first sentence of this post might suggest, it was great – but it was also a wakeup call as to how much work I have ahead of me. I seem to understand a fair amount, at least when the Arabic is spoken slowly, but producing it myself doesn’t quite go as I’d wish. My tongue is not used to the sounds anymore, it doesn’t roll out smoothly yet.
The class was basically unstructured; Ilyas, my teacher, mostly asked me questions and kept a conversation going, writing words I did not know on the board and explaining in Arabic what they meant. I’m curious to see if this will be the basic gist of all classes to come. It made me feel a little lost; I like structure. I want grammar explanations, verb conjugations, tenses, systems, regularity. I want to know what a word is, grammatically, so I can conjugate it, play around with it. This may be difficult to provide with a language like Moroccan Arabic, because it’s mostly a spoken language. But of course I’m sure I could ask for more systematized grammar explanations if I need them, and I have my own grammar book for reference.
The conversation was interesting though, and useful. Ilyas asked me what I was doing in Morocco, and I explained – as far as was possible, substituting a lot of French words for the Arabic I didn’t know – the basic gist of my research: a comparison between psychiatry and traditional healing in Morocco. He in turn wrote on the board all the key terms of my research in Arabic, so I now know how to refer to psychiatrists and various traditional healers by their appropriate local names. Then he asked me precisely the questions that basically constitute my main research problem: why do people choose one over the other? I gave him the socio-economic reasons (because those I knew how to explain in Arabic): because they don’t have money they go to a healer rather than a doctor, or they do so because there is no doctor in the area. But, Ilyas said, people with money avoid psychiatrists, too. Apparently, as he explained, this is because when you go to a psychiatrist, you are labeled as crazy (‘hmaq’). This does not happen when you go to a healer, because that’s labeled as ‘culture’. This is interesting. Because much of the literature I’ve read features prejudice too, but toward the other side: people (should) seek psychiatric help, because healers are part of a backward tradition, they’re unscientific – and those who visit traditional healers are thereby backward and ignorant, too. Of course this is all literature with a particular agenda. They are ‘performing modernity’, as Professor Zhiri said at my proposal defense. They are part of a Morocco that looks toward a European modernity as the ideal. What Ilyas’ comments suggest, at least, is that the amount of money you have does not determine your outlook on what is an acceptable part of culture and what is not. Having money does not automatically mean you ascribe to a modernity that favors psychiatrists over religious healing. I wonder if there is an automatic connection between that choice and any other factor. Education, maybe? And if so, how is education related to wealth? Or piety? Because as much as it may be culture, these traditions of ‘religious’ healing are strictly forbidden by Islam.
Another interesting thing he mentioned: apparently people do visit psychologists (tbib n-nafsia) with increasing frequency, basically because of the exigencies of modern life – stress, burnout, and so on. Apparently these psychologists prescribe antidepressants (‘antidepressor’ in Moroccan Arabic). There is no stigma attached to this kind of therapy. But a psychiatrist, that’s a different story. So there is a third category of practitioner here. I need to figure out exactly what a ‘psychologist’ is under the Moroccan definition, and how such a person is different from a psychiatrist. A ‘tbib’ is a doctor – is this really a medical doctor who just doesn’t work with the real ‘crazies’, or is a psychologist just called ‘doctor’ because he or she works as a clinician? And if something requiring antidepressants isn’t ‘crazy’, then what is?
During the second hour of class, we read an article from a magazine that was clearly ‘performing modernity’. A reporter had decided to go undercover and expose the hoax that is shouafat – seers. People visit these mediums for any number of problems, ranging from medical to social to psychological. The treatment can involve all sorts of things: sacrifices (chickens, goats – “it’s a whole animal farm,” Ilyas said), concoctions of spices and everyday pantry items, protective amulets, the works – and of course, payment in money or kind to the shouafa (pronounced ‘shuWAfah). This particular reporter went to about five different shouafat, citing the same troubles for all of them: she was in love with a married man who wouldn’t leave his wife, her new boss didn’t like anything she did, and she was generally unlucky. And basically, the proposed treatments included all of the possibilities mentioned above. We didn’t finish the piece, but I think the fact that treatment varied so much was (part of) the reporter’s proof that all this shouafa-business was BS.
I went to the ATM to get huge amounts of money to pay for my stay with the host family, and then stopped by the Dutch cultural center, the NIMAR, basically to show my face and let them know I’m back. Last summer they were incredibly helpful and inviting, and I spent a lot of time in their limited but relevant library reading up on Moroccan history and on the healthcare system. There is an American center in Rabat as well (the MACECE), but they’ve told me explicitly they cannot/will not offer me any assistance, because I do not have an American passport. Apparently it does not matter that I study at a US university, or that I’m a permanent resident. But I digress. At least there’s this Dutch center, and the administration there has indicated it is wiling and able to help me with contacts, research permission, and the like. Which is why I had to go and tell them I’m back, and that I might (hopefully) actually need their help with all that pretty soon. It turns out that the director is in the Netherlands at the moment, but I talked to someone else for a while, a woman who coordinates migration studies, and spent a wonderful hour in the library on their wireless connection – which meant internet access on my very own computer.
On the way back home for lunch I bought today’s edition of Le Monde and spent another wonderful hour on the couch finally catching up on world affairs. That might be the thing I miss most, being here – access to the news, being up to date on what’s going on, with the presidential campaigns, and with the markets. I hate it that I’m missing the debates, missing Palin’s gaffes, missing SNL renditions of those gaffes, missing the shifts in public opinion. There is a news broadcast here in French, but my host family is not necessarily interested, and they are so loud that I usually can’t make out what the newscaster is saying above the conversation going on around me.
This afternoon I had my first class. And despite what the first sentence of this post might suggest, it was great – but it was also a wakeup call as to how much work I have ahead of me. I seem to understand a fair amount, at least when the Arabic is spoken slowly, but producing it myself doesn’t quite go as I’d wish. My tongue is not used to the sounds anymore, it doesn’t roll out smoothly yet.
The class was basically unstructured; Ilyas, my teacher, mostly asked me questions and kept a conversation going, writing words I did not know on the board and explaining in Arabic what they meant. I’m curious to see if this will be the basic gist of all classes to come. It made me feel a little lost; I like structure. I want grammar explanations, verb conjugations, tenses, systems, regularity. I want to know what a word is, grammatically, so I can conjugate it, play around with it. This may be difficult to provide with a language like Moroccan Arabic, because it’s mostly a spoken language. But of course I’m sure I could ask for more systematized grammar explanations if I need them, and I have my own grammar book for reference.
The conversation was interesting though, and useful. Ilyas asked me what I was doing in Morocco, and I explained – as far as was possible, substituting a lot of French words for the Arabic I didn’t know – the basic gist of my research: a comparison between psychiatry and traditional healing in Morocco. He in turn wrote on the board all the key terms of my research in Arabic, so I now know how to refer to psychiatrists and various traditional healers by their appropriate local names. Then he asked me precisely the questions that basically constitute my main research problem: why do people choose one over the other? I gave him the socio-economic reasons (because those I knew how to explain in Arabic): because they don’t have money they go to a healer rather than a doctor, or they do so because there is no doctor in the area. But, Ilyas said, people with money avoid psychiatrists, too. Apparently, as he explained, this is because when you go to a psychiatrist, you are labeled as crazy (‘hmaq’). This does not happen when you go to a healer, because that’s labeled as ‘culture’. This is interesting. Because much of the literature I’ve read features prejudice too, but toward the other side: people (should) seek psychiatric help, because healers are part of a backward tradition, they’re unscientific – and those who visit traditional healers are thereby backward and ignorant, too. Of course this is all literature with a particular agenda. They are ‘performing modernity’, as Professor Zhiri said at my proposal defense. They are part of a Morocco that looks toward a European modernity as the ideal. What Ilyas’ comments suggest, at least, is that the amount of money you have does not determine your outlook on what is an acceptable part of culture and what is not. Having money does not automatically mean you ascribe to a modernity that favors psychiatrists over religious healing. I wonder if there is an automatic connection between that choice and any other factor. Education, maybe? And if so, how is education related to wealth? Or piety? Because as much as it may be culture, these traditions of ‘religious’ healing are strictly forbidden by Islam.
Another interesting thing he mentioned: apparently people do visit psychologists (tbib n-nafsia) with increasing frequency, basically because of the exigencies of modern life – stress, burnout, and so on. Apparently these psychologists prescribe antidepressants (‘antidepressor’ in Moroccan Arabic). There is no stigma attached to this kind of therapy. But a psychiatrist, that’s a different story. So there is a third category of practitioner here. I need to figure out exactly what a ‘psychologist’ is under the Moroccan definition, and how such a person is different from a psychiatrist. A ‘tbib’ is a doctor – is this really a medical doctor who just doesn’t work with the real ‘crazies’, or is a psychologist just called ‘doctor’ because he or she works as a clinician? And if something requiring antidepressants isn’t ‘crazy’, then what is?
During the second hour of class, we read an article from a magazine that was clearly ‘performing modernity’. A reporter had decided to go undercover and expose the hoax that is shouafat – seers. People visit these mediums for any number of problems, ranging from medical to social to psychological. The treatment can involve all sorts of things: sacrifices (chickens, goats – “it’s a whole animal farm,” Ilyas said), concoctions of spices and everyday pantry items, protective amulets, the works – and of course, payment in money or kind to the shouafa (pronounced ‘shuWAfah). This particular reporter went to about five different shouafat, citing the same troubles for all of them: she was in love with a married man who wouldn’t leave his wife, her new boss didn’t like anything she did, and she was generally unlucky. And basically, the proposed treatments included all of the possibilities mentioned above. We didn’t finish the piece, but I think the fact that treatment varied so much was (part of) the reporter’s proof that all this shouafa-business was BS.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
ZemZemZemZem
Tonight we – Khadija, Alma, Fatima, Amma, Mustafa and I – went to visit that friend who had returned from Mecca. Driss, another one of Alma’s/the family’s friends, drove us there in Fatima’s car, but waited downstairs at a coffee shop while we went up. Upstairs, this woman’s sitting room was full of women (is the social world divided by gender after all, and is my host family just an exception?). Visiting Moroccans is a lot like going to a family gathering in the Netherlands. When you arrive, everyone sits in a circle on couches or chairs around a coffee table, and you have to make the rounds and greet everyone individually. This woman’s coffee table was full of cookies in all shapes and sizes (though I didn’t see the ones we made). The host took each tray and went around with it, urging us to take more and more. But here’s where this is different from the Netherlands: in Holland, you take one cookie and that’s it. Here, you pile your plate full of them, and still the host will tell you to take more.
Before we were served cookies, the host went around with plate of dates and a tray of what looked to me like shot glasses with a transparent liquid in it – I was confused; what else would you serve in glasses like that but vodka, or gin? But Alma told me: these are dates and water from Mecca, and it’s tradition to bring some back and share it with guests. The water is blessed; a shot of it is believed to bestow blessing on the drinker as well. So when you drink it, you make a special request to God; because of the water’s power that request will have particular force. I’m not sure if telling someone about the request invalidates it, but very selfishly, I wished for my research here to go well.
This water comes from the spring at Zemzem, which is one of the stops on the pilgrimage to Mecca. It’s the site where Hagar (apparently she’s called Hajar here, with a soft, French j: ‘hazyar’), Abraham’s slave who gives birth to his son Ismail (Ishmael), finds water after she’s been banished to the desert.* I double-checked this with Alma, who was so impressed that I knew this that she told everyone around her three times in a row that I knew the story better than she did. In the car on the way back to the Medina, she and Mustafa asked me what other prophets’ stories I knew. We went over Mohammed, obviously, and Yusuf (Joseph – does the Bible also claim that he was more beautiful than anyone else in the world? Apparently that is the crux of the Muslim version: that he had been given 99% of the human beauty in the world, and the rest of humanity had to share the other 1%). Then we got to Jesus, and the conversation I had dreaded came up: do I believe in Jesus? Am I religious? I hate answering this question because I don’t want to lie, and I don’t want to say something that they won’t understand or accept. At first I hedged again. Did I believe in Jesus? Well, I said, Catholics do. Oh, they responded, are you Catholic? Well, I said, … my family is Catholic. And then came the moment of truth (or rather, of lying); Alma asked me, are you Catholic? And I said yes. Because I think it’s better, in their eyes, to be a part of a defined religion than to float amidst abstract beliefs of your own, and if I admitted to having my own version of spirituality, I fear they might not be as open toward me anymore. If you’re Christian, at least they can categorize you as someone who believes in the same God they believe in, even if you’re wrong in believing that he had a son. You’re cousins in religion, so to speak, part of the same tradition. But if I try to explain my own views, I'm afraid it'll sound like an instant dismissal of what they believe in. And because those beliefs are precisely what I’m interested in, I want to make sure they remain willing to share those beliefs with me – which means no dismissal, even if that means lying. Though maybe it wasn’t a complete lie. Culturally speaking, I’m more catholic than anything else.
And I don’t dismiss what they believe in. I have a different worldview, but I still respect theirs – it’s just a different way of looking at the same basic values, as far as I’m concerned.
*Incidentally, Muslims believe that while Jews descend from Abraham’s son Isaac, they themselves are descendants of Ismail, his first son by Hajar. They also believe it was Ismail, not Isaac, whom Abraham was asked by God to sacrifice.
Before we were served cookies, the host went around with plate of dates and a tray of what looked to me like shot glasses with a transparent liquid in it – I was confused; what else would you serve in glasses like that but vodka, or gin? But Alma told me: these are dates and water from Mecca, and it’s tradition to bring some back and share it with guests. The water is blessed; a shot of it is believed to bestow blessing on the drinker as well. So when you drink it, you make a special request to God; because of the water’s power that request will have particular force. I’m not sure if telling someone about the request invalidates it, but very selfishly, I wished for my research here to go well.
This water comes from the spring at Zemzem, which is one of the stops on the pilgrimage to Mecca. It’s the site where Hagar (apparently she’s called Hajar here, with a soft, French j: ‘hazyar’), Abraham’s slave who gives birth to his son Ismail (Ishmael), finds water after she’s been banished to the desert.* I double-checked this with Alma, who was so impressed that I knew this that she told everyone around her three times in a row that I knew the story better than she did. In the car on the way back to the Medina, she and Mustafa asked me what other prophets’ stories I knew. We went over Mohammed, obviously, and Yusuf (Joseph – does the Bible also claim that he was more beautiful than anyone else in the world? Apparently that is the crux of the Muslim version: that he had been given 99% of the human beauty in the world, and the rest of humanity had to share the other 1%). Then we got to Jesus, and the conversation I had dreaded came up: do I believe in Jesus? Am I religious? I hate answering this question because I don’t want to lie, and I don’t want to say something that they won’t understand or accept. At first I hedged again. Did I believe in Jesus? Well, I said, Catholics do. Oh, they responded, are you Catholic? Well, I said, … my family is Catholic. And then came the moment of truth (or rather, of lying); Alma asked me, are you Catholic? And I said yes. Because I think it’s better, in their eyes, to be a part of a defined religion than to float amidst abstract beliefs of your own, and if I admitted to having my own version of spirituality, I fear they might not be as open toward me anymore. If you’re Christian, at least they can categorize you as someone who believes in the same God they believe in, even if you’re wrong in believing that he had a son. You’re cousins in religion, so to speak, part of the same tradition. But if I try to explain my own views, I'm afraid it'll sound like an instant dismissal of what they believe in. And because those beliefs are precisely what I’m interested in, I want to make sure they remain willing to share those beliefs with me – which means no dismissal, even if that means lying. Though maybe it wasn’t a complete lie. Culturally speaking, I’m more catholic than anything else.
And I don’t dismiss what they believe in. I have a different worldview, but I still respect theirs – it’s just a different way of looking at the same basic values, as far as I’m concerned.
*Incidentally, Muslims believe that while Jews descend from Abraham’s son Isaac, they themselves are descendants of Ismail, his first son by Hajar. They also believe it was Ismail, not Isaac, whom Abraham was asked by God to sacrifice.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Sickness & Culinary Experimentation = Bad Combination
The old man – Lahcen – is like a phantom presence in the house. I forget he is there, except for the two minutes a day that he comes out of his room to go to the bathroom. He takes about two steps a minute, dressed in his long-sleeved kaftan (a sort of shirt-dress that comes down to just above his ankles), a little knitted cap on his head, and his socks. He holds his dark, misshapen and wrinkled hands in front of him and thus struggles to the bathroom. No one helps him. The rest of his day and night he passes sitting or lying on his bed in his room, watching Moroccan public television. He hardly interacts with any other member of the household. He says little, sometimes calling out a name, and no one speaks to him – except when they walk into his room to turn down the television. The interactions never sound friendly. He yells (I’ve even seen him kick Alma for turning down the sound), and they yell back. They treat him like an angry old man, which he probably is – but I wonder what came first.
I went to Marjane tonight with Khadija, Manal and Mustafa – a big supermarket right on the edge of town that sells everything from industrial-size grocery items to clothing and appliances. I notice that the prices say very little to me. Everyday items range from 12 to hundreds of dirhams, but I have very little index for it. When I calculate how much something would be in dollars, everything seems immensely cheap – very roughly, you take off a zero and get the dollar amount, and for some reason that process seems to make everything dirt cheap in my head. I have to remember, first of all, that the dollar isn’t worth that much anymore at all. And second, that to a Moroccan these prices are much steeper. I don’t know how much because I am not sure of the average monthly salary here, but a cheap washing machine - something that I’m pretty sure is a serious purchase in any country – is about 2500 Dirhams. To think that I spent half of that on minutes for my phone without a second thought…
I think Khadija is illiterate. After an aisle or two at Marjane I began to realize she was asking Mustafa for the price of everything, though it was printed clearly on every shelf. I guess in a sense it’s not surprising that she cannot read; she must be at least 70 if her fifth child is 42 (Amma gave me the lowdown: her father is oldest, then Fatima. Then Manal, then another sister who lives in Marrakech, then Alma, then two boys who are in Italy and the UAE, respectively) – and 65 years ago, in the middle of the protectorate period, the average Moroccan girl did not routinely go to school.
I am getting sick, I think, which is unpleasant. My nose is congested, I have a headache, and that feeling that my head is about to explode from sinus pressure. I wonder if it’s something going around – Khadija and Alma have both been complaining of headaches. I know I am sensitive to these things when I am stressed and exhausted – and I guess I am both. I feel a lot better, but this week – the voyage, the adjustment to being here, the stress of being a guest in strangers’ house – has been tense, and the sleeping schedule has been erratic to say the least. First of all Moroccans seem to sleep very little (which becomes a lot more doable because of all the lounging around and napping after lunch that is done), and sleeping together in one room does mean that I wake up whenever anyone else gets up – like at 4 am, to pray/eat. This they don’t do quietly. The light is turned on, people talk – I wake up.
Anyway, I hope it passes by without doing too much damage. If I take it slow tomorrow, maybe it will get better.
As luck would have it, though, my host mother seems to have chosen these same few days to serve meals that feature, shall we say, less conventional animal products. Yesterday I was given liver for lunch, for dinner that evening at 11 pm, Khadija served what I think was the foot of a cow, and tonight around the same time, she gave us what I think came from some animal’s spine. Only the shape of the bones gives me any clue as to what all this is, and on the plate I saw what I really suspect were vertebrae. I am trying to get away with eating as little as possible, despite continued urgings to ‘khoudi, kouli’ (‘have some, eat’) – when I am feeling under the weather, unfortunately I am not at my most culinarily adventurous. My host family loves this stuff though – the meal is not over until all these weird bones are sucked clean of all juices.
I went to Marjane tonight with Khadija, Manal and Mustafa – a big supermarket right on the edge of town that sells everything from industrial-size grocery items to clothing and appliances. I notice that the prices say very little to me. Everyday items range from 12 to hundreds of dirhams, but I have very little index for it. When I calculate how much something would be in dollars, everything seems immensely cheap – very roughly, you take off a zero and get the dollar amount, and for some reason that process seems to make everything dirt cheap in my head. I have to remember, first of all, that the dollar isn’t worth that much anymore at all. And second, that to a Moroccan these prices are much steeper. I don’t know how much because I am not sure of the average monthly salary here, but a cheap washing machine - something that I’m pretty sure is a serious purchase in any country – is about 2500 Dirhams. To think that I spent half of that on minutes for my phone without a second thought…
I think Khadija is illiterate. After an aisle or two at Marjane I began to realize she was asking Mustafa for the price of everything, though it was printed clearly on every shelf. I guess in a sense it’s not surprising that she cannot read; she must be at least 70 if her fifth child is 42 (Amma gave me the lowdown: her father is oldest, then Fatima. Then Manal, then another sister who lives in Marrakech, then Alma, then two boys who are in Italy and the UAE, respectively) – and 65 years ago, in the middle of the protectorate period, the average Moroccan girl did not routinely go to school.
I am getting sick, I think, which is unpleasant. My nose is congested, I have a headache, and that feeling that my head is about to explode from sinus pressure. I wonder if it’s something going around – Khadija and Alma have both been complaining of headaches. I know I am sensitive to these things when I am stressed and exhausted – and I guess I am both. I feel a lot better, but this week – the voyage, the adjustment to being here, the stress of being a guest in strangers’ house – has been tense, and the sleeping schedule has been erratic to say the least. First of all Moroccans seem to sleep very little (which becomes a lot more doable because of all the lounging around and napping after lunch that is done), and sleeping together in one room does mean that I wake up whenever anyone else gets up – like at 4 am, to pray/eat. This they don’t do quietly. The light is turned on, people talk – I wake up.
Anyway, I hope it passes by without doing too much damage. If I take it slow tomorrow, maybe it will get better.
As luck would have it, though, my host mother seems to have chosen these same few days to serve meals that feature, shall we say, less conventional animal products. Yesterday I was given liver for lunch, for dinner that evening at 11 pm, Khadija served what I think was the foot of a cow, and tonight around the same time, she gave us what I think came from some animal’s spine. Only the shape of the bones gives me any clue as to what all this is, and on the plate I saw what I really suspect were vertebrae. I am trying to get away with eating as little as possible, despite continued urgings to ‘khoudi, kouli’ (‘have some, eat’) – when I am feeling under the weather, unfortunately I am not at my most culinarily adventurous. My host family loves this stuff though – the meal is not over until all these weird bones are sucked clean of all juices.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Cafards!
Tonight I was supposed to go to the hammam, the Moroccan sauna, with Khadija and Amma, but we ended up at Fatima’s house for ftour (the breaking of the fast/breakfast) instead, because Khadija had a headache, and in such a condition all that heat would be too much. After eating, we lounged around in Fatima’s TV-room and watched TV. Usually it’ll be one of the following: music (either videos on an Arab music channel or a live performance on the Moroccan public television; Amma and Yunus prefer the former and then sing along as loudly with Arab rap as they do with Rihanna), or an Egyptian or Turkish soap. I think there's a Mexican soap as well - it's all dubbed into Arabic,so only the style of clothing and sometimes names of characters are an indication. The Turkish ones are identifiable because of the credits (which, unlike the conversation, are left bilingual) - otherwise the tone and look of it all is exactly that of an Egyptian soap, except that ALL men have a mustache. But this one that I think is Mexican seems to be set in 19th century Baja California; it features lots of women in flowing dresses that hang off the shoulder, and men - named 'Manuelito' or 'Juan' - that all look like Zorro and sweep their women away on galloping horses. The characters constantly cross themselves, or gasp "santa maria!" whenever something shocks them. The dynamic between men and women is much steamier in this Mexican story than it is in any Egyptian saga - though any real kiss has been eliminated by the Moroccan censors, of course...
At some point Mustafa came in with a copy of Tom Sawyer, in French. He was showing this to us and then flashed a certain page at Alma, who recoiled in played horror. This was clearly the desired effect, so he came over to me and did the same. It was a picture of a cockroach. I played my part, laughed and acted horrified, and we continued this game for about five minutes. Then Mustafa shared with me that there are lots of cockroaches (‘cafards’, they are called in French, apparently) at his grandmother’s house – where I sleep. This time I was actually horrified. ‘Oh yeah,’ said Alma. ‘You haven’t seen them yet? They come out at night, when we sleep. Lots of them.’
Needless to say, when Mustafa asked if I could sleep over at his house, I had a hard time saying no (but had to – had left my phone and all valuables at Khadija’s house at the prospect of going to the hammam). But I didn’t sleep – I spent the night awake, imagining with anguish hundreds, thousands of cafards waiting for the lights to go out and then racing to the courtyard, practicing their military formations, plotting a coup of the house, then going in search of warm bodies, crawling up the wall, up onto my blanket, onto my face, my arms, my legs…
At some point Mustafa came in with a copy of Tom Sawyer, in French. He was showing this to us and then flashed a certain page at Alma, who recoiled in played horror. This was clearly the desired effect, so he came over to me and did the same. It was a picture of a cockroach. I played my part, laughed and acted horrified, and we continued this game for about five minutes. Then Mustafa shared with me that there are lots of cockroaches (‘cafards’, they are called in French, apparently) at his grandmother’s house – where I sleep. This time I was actually horrified. ‘Oh yeah,’ said Alma. ‘You haven’t seen them yet? They come out at night, when we sleep. Lots of them.’
Needless to say, when Mustafa asked if I could sleep over at his house, I had a hard time saying no (but had to – had left my phone and all valuables at Khadija’s house at the prospect of going to the hammam). But I didn’t sleep – I spent the night awake, imagining with anguish hundreds, thousands of cafards waiting for the lights to go out and then racing to the courtyard, practicing their military formations, plotting a coup of the house, then going in search of warm bodies, crawling up the wall, up onto my blanket, onto my face, my arms, my legs…
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Cookies
The women in my household began their race to catch up with Ramadan today. There are certain circumstances under when you don’t have to fast: when you’re traveling, or sick; and (at least for women) there are circumstances when you are not allowed to fast, for instance during menstruation. But every day that you miss has to be made up by fasting an additional day after Ramadan. I think technically you have until the next Ramadan to do this, but mostly people do it right after ‘Eid. All the women in my household have a debt of 6 days due to their periods; Alma has an extra 10 to go on top of that for reasons I’m not quite clear on. So this morning, they got up again at 4 to eat.* Today I wasn’t the only one not fasting because Yunus and Mustafa were over again with their mother, but Mustafa just informed me that he has school tomorrow, so I’ll probably be eating alone then.
Nevertheless, the cookie-baking went on. I started wondering if maybe the real ‘Eid gets postponed until the first Friday after Ramadan, so I went for it, and asked: is there going to be a big party, or something? Nothing of the sort, it turns out. ‘Eid really was just nothing more than sitting around and calling family and friends. Apparently one of the family’s friends is either going to Mecca or just returning from there, and all the cookies are for her. That explains it.
I asked to help today and made clear that I love to cook – and they grabbed me a chair. They were making very traditional half-moon shaped Moroccan cookies today: an almond-paste filling enveloped by a very thin layer of dough. At first I helped roll the almond paste into little cigars, later on I was promoted to actually roll out the dough and assemble the cookies. Basically you roll out the dough until it’s nearly see-through, and then you roll a cigar of almond paste in it. You press the dough so it closes around the paste, and then you mold it with your fingers until it has a crescent-shape. It took hours – the quantities that are being made are ridiculous. We ended up with two full baking sheets of about a foot and a half by three feet. But it was kind of a bonding moment. It becomes a lot easier to ask questions when I’m participating in these activities,** and it makes me feel like part of their club. This is, as far as I can tell, what most of the day is about: sitting around in PJs, doing this kind of work – cooking, baking, cleaning, eating, resting; and talking during all of it.*** As I said, this is a merry bunch. They make each other laugh constantly, imitating people, singing songs, and so on. Now that they have discovered that I am Dutch, they keep asking me about the Dutch words for every day items they come across, and this leads to a lot of laughter as well. Dutch to them sounds funny (this they have in common with a lot of other people). It all started over some confusion between the words ‘citron’ and ‘limon’. Because ‘limon’ here does not mean lemon; it means orange. ‘Citron’ is the word for lemon. I told them we had the same word in Dutch, and ever since then, Alma has been saying ‘citron’ to me. Today I taught them the words for table and rolling pin – especially the latter they found incredibly funny: deegroller.
Mustafa hung around the assembly table all day, begging his mother to be allowed to help. After a lot of urging, he was finally allowed to help me roll the almond paste into cigars. He enjoyed this thoroughly, and kept showing me new ways to get the perfect shape. When he saw that I was allowed to assemble the cookies, he begged to be allowed to try that as well. I think I heard someone tell him he couldn’t, because he was a boy. Then he said something to the effect of ‘if I was a woman, I could help you’, to great hilarity of everyone else (of course my knowledge of Arabic is very, very, limited – so perhaps I am wrong about all of this). But apparently, he was finally allowed to try one with what little was left of paste and dough when we had finished – right before we sat down to break the women’s fast, he came to show me the perfect little miniature crescent-shaped cookie. He was so proud.
*I know this because I sleep downstairs in the sitting room with the other women. Long before coming here, when I was trying to decide if I was going to live with a host family again or by myself, I thought that would be the weirdest thing to get used to; I had only just realized that Moroccans sleep in their sitting rooms and that this is why it is impossible to find bedrooms in a traditional Moroccan house. But actually, it’s not bad. I kind of miss reading a little before going to sleep (or watching DVDs…), and I wonder if at some point I will start missing the time alone – other than being in the bathroom, there is not much of that. But then again, I also take a little time each day to write these notes, and that gives me a breather of about half an hour.
**Maybe the dish-washing theory applies to this as well: the idea is that people open up a lot more easily when they’re washing dishes together. It’s something to do with the fact that you’re not looking at each other, but you’re doing something together and you talk to pass the time. In other words: the perfect time to bond. My dad always cited this theory to defend his resistance against getting a dishwasher.
***Many women work, of course, in which case this does not hold up. And even those that don’t go out – shopping, visiting friends, and so on. The women in my household don’t work. Actually, I am not sure about Manal, but Alma doesn’t. I had had a hard time figuring out how old she is, and decided on 25-30, but it turns out she is 42. She is not married, and I wonder how she feels about this. And if there is a reason.
Nevertheless, the cookie-baking went on. I started wondering if maybe the real ‘Eid gets postponed until the first Friday after Ramadan, so I went for it, and asked: is there going to be a big party, or something? Nothing of the sort, it turns out. ‘Eid really was just nothing more than sitting around and calling family and friends. Apparently one of the family’s friends is either going to Mecca or just returning from there, and all the cookies are for her. That explains it.
I asked to help today and made clear that I love to cook – and they grabbed me a chair. They were making very traditional half-moon shaped Moroccan cookies today: an almond-paste filling enveloped by a very thin layer of dough. At first I helped roll the almond paste into little cigars, later on I was promoted to actually roll out the dough and assemble the cookies. Basically you roll out the dough until it’s nearly see-through, and then you roll a cigar of almond paste in it. You press the dough so it closes around the paste, and then you mold it with your fingers until it has a crescent-shape. It took hours – the quantities that are being made are ridiculous. We ended up with two full baking sheets of about a foot and a half by three feet. But it was kind of a bonding moment. It becomes a lot easier to ask questions when I’m participating in these activities,** and it makes me feel like part of their club. This is, as far as I can tell, what most of the day is about: sitting around in PJs, doing this kind of work – cooking, baking, cleaning, eating, resting; and talking during all of it.*** As I said, this is a merry bunch. They make each other laugh constantly, imitating people, singing songs, and so on. Now that they have discovered that I am Dutch, they keep asking me about the Dutch words for every day items they come across, and this leads to a lot of laughter as well. Dutch to them sounds funny (this they have in common with a lot of other people). It all started over some confusion between the words ‘citron’ and ‘limon’. Because ‘limon’ here does not mean lemon; it means orange. ‘Citron’ is the word for lemon. I told them we had the same word in Dutch, and ever since then, Alma has been saying ‘citron’ to me. Today I taught them the words for table and rolling pin – especially the latter they found incredibly funny: deegroller.
Mustafa hung around the assembly table all day, begging his mother to be allowed to help. After a lot of urging, he was finally allowed to help me roll the almond paste into cigars. He enjoyed this thoroughly, and kept showing me new ways to get the perfect shape. When he saw that I was allowed to assemble the cookies, he begged to be allowed to try that as well. I think I heard someone tell him he couldn’t, because he was a boy. Then he said something to the effect of ‘if I was a woman, I could help you’, to great hilarity of everyone else (of course my knowledge of Arabic is very, very, limited – so perhaps I am wrong about all of this). But apparently, he was finally allowed to try one with what little was left of paste and dough when we had finished – right before we sat down to break the women’s fast, he came to show me the perfect little miniature crescent-shaped cookie. He was so proud.
*I know this because I sleep downstairs in the sitting room with the other women. Long before coming here, when I was trying to decide if I was going to live with a host family again or by myself, I thought that would be the weirdest thing to get used to; I had only just realized that Moroccans sleep in their sitting rooms and that this is why it is impossible to find bedrooms in a traditional Moroccan house. But actually, it’s not bad. I kind of miss reading a little before going to sleep (or watching DVDs…), and I wonder if at some point I will start missing the time alone – other than being in the bathroom, there is not much of that. But then again, I also take a little time each day to write these notes, and that gives me a breather of about half an hour.
**Maybe the dish-washing theory applies to this as well: the idea is that people open up a lot more easily when they’re washing dishes together. It’s something to do with the fact that you’re not looking at each other, but you’re doing something together and you talk to pass the time. In other words: the perfect time to bond. My dad always cited this theory to defend his resistance against getting a dishwasher.
***Many women work, of course, in which case this does not hold up. And even those that don’t go out – shopping, visiting friends, and so on. The women in my household don’t work. Actually, I am not sure about Manal, but Alma doesn’t. I had had a hard time figuring out how old she is, and decided on 25-30, but it turns out she is 42. She is not married, and I wonder how she feels about this. And if there is a reason.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Eid Moubarak Said!
Transcript of a typical conversation between two Moroccans who run into each other, or call one another to say hi:
[imagine both people speaking at the same time]
A: hello!
B: hello!
A: how are you?
B: how’s it going?
A: all is well?
B: how’s your family?
A: Alhamdulillah [praise god]!
B: how are the children?
A: how’s it going, how is your mother?
B: Alhamdulillah [praise god]!
A: how are the children?
B: bless you!
A: everything is well?
B: bless you! Are you in good health?
A: bless you!
B: how’s it going?
A: how are you?
B: how’s your father?
A: and your brother, how is he?
B: well, good bye!
A: well, good bye!
There is a certain formulaic quality to this; each person rattles this off, seemingly without breathing, and with a big smile. The intonation is always exactly the same, which makes me think it’s said less for meaning than simply because that’s what you say when you run into someone. I’ve heard this about 100 times today because it’s ‘Eid, and calling each other seems to be what ‘Eid is all about. To be honest, I had expected more. In Holland, this ‘Eid is translated as ‘the sugar-holiday’, so needless to say, I was expecting a bit of a feast of sorts, and the cookies I saw being baked in the past two days kind of confirmed my thoughts about this. I woke up expectantly, and waited around most of the day for signs of an impending party – signs of house cleaning, extra cooking, getting dressed up – but nothing. Other than the high number of phone calls, it seemed no different than an ‘ordinary’ Ramadan day, except that we did eat – but no cookies. All in all, an anti-climax.
In lieu of in-house festivities, I went out for coffee with Alma and her friend Zakaria this evening. We picked Zakaria up at the pool hall where he works and walked to the downtown area between the train station and the medina to have coffee at a café. I am loving the time spent outside in the evening. This was something I was never able to do when I lived in Fes; my host family there consisted only of an old man, who for practical reasons couldn’t take me anywhere. First of all because he was too old ever to go out at night, and secondly because the police are vigilant in the Fes medina: when they see a Moroccan man out with a European woman, they immediately jump to conclusions and arrest the man for misleading an innocent girl. Perhaps as a result, I had come to think of evening as off-limits, a time not to be outside – and that severely limited my sense of freedom. Now, it seems, night is when everyone comes alive. During Ramadan at least… but in any case, it’s crowded, everyone is outside, all the shops are open, young and old run around doing their business, seeing and being seen. It makes me feel like I’m on vacation – perhaps because this being outside at night is something I associate with the Mediterranean, site of family vacations when I was in high school.
I am intrigued by this friendship between Alma and Zakaria. In fact, I am intrigued by the dynamic of the male-female relationships I am seeing in general. Here is what I learned from the literature on Arab social relations: in the Muslim world, girls and boys are taught that after a certain age, there is no more casual mingling with anyone one is technically allowed to marry – and this includes first cousins. In some countries this is interpreted more strictly than in others, but even in the most liberal of places, this does mean no more unaccompanied time together, however innocent, no physical contact, and if you are a woman who wears a headscarf, you veil when in the presence of such a man.
Here, in contrast, is what I am seeing.
When I first met Zakaria, Alma introduced him as her best friend. He clearly knows all other family members, so he must be over at the house a lot – and she is on good terms with his brother as well.* But they clearly also go out together, alone. The thing is, they do seem like close friends, which I didn’t think was allowed in Morocco – because she is a woman, and he is a man. The way they interact with one another is exactly what I see between boys on the street, and between girls – a physical closeness without it being sexual in any way. They kiss each other at greeting and parting, they push each other around, touch each other’s arms, and so on. I thought this was impossible in a Muslim country – and am still pretty sure it would be in a more conservative place. But here, no one seems to be at all bothered by it. I wonder if this is unique to Rabat, or to Morocco’s Atlantic coast (assuming that Casablanca, the economic hotbed, would not lag behind Rabat in anything) – I can’t imagine this in Fes.
And then there are Amma, Yunus, and Mustafa. Mustafa is too young, maybe, to be fully counted as a male, but Amma and Yunus certainly are. The three of them are incredibly close, kissing each other, wrestling, sitting close together on the couch, playing with each other’s feet. Again, that kind of physical contact you see on the street between boys and girls,* respectively*, the kind that is in no way sexual. The other day, I even saw Amma enter the bathroom to check on Yunus, who was in there showering and taking forever (as all boys his age do? He came out reeking of perfume). That’s something even Dutch brothers and sisters wouldn’t do at Amma and Yunus’s age. Let alone American siblings.
A guidebook rule I’d read, that only people of the same sex greet one anther with a kiss on the cheek, and that only when they know each other well, is far from reality as well. By women I am kissed at the first meeting. And other than that, everyone greets everyone else with kisses, men with men, women with women, and men with women. And not only if they’re close: at my second meeting I was kissed by Zakaria as well as by his brother (who insisted on doing things the Dutch way – three kisses on alternating cheeks.**)
I wonder if there is a different dividing line then, that dictates the appropriate level of closeness. Instead of gender, it must be something else. Not family, either, I think – Zakaria and Alma are not related. And I of course am not related to anyone – but because I don’t fall into any existing social category as a foreigner, I should not be using myself as an example. Or is it family after all, and is this concept simply applied more liberally to include people who are like family? I’m really intrigued by this – this goes against everything I ever learned, and goes against what most travel guides say.
*This brother works at an expensive Moroccan restaurant close by (the kind that caters to foreigners and makes a performance of its traditional Moroccan meal). Alma, Zakaria, and I went to see him this afternoon. When he heard I was from Holland, he started speaking Dutch to me – the second time this has happened since I’ve been in Rabat. He had studied Dutch in the Netherlands, it turns out, and was at that very moment in charge of a large group of Dutch and Flemish tourists on a tour of Morocco’s imperial cities. As they were eating, he was free to chat with us, and show me around the restaurant, done up in traditional Moroccan style.
**In Morocco, it’s either two on alternating cheeks, or – and in this case the rule of familiarity does hold – those two followed by one or two more on the same cheek.
[imagine both people speaking at the same time]
A: hello!
B: hello!
A: how are you?
B: how’s it going?
A: all is well?
B: how’s your family?
A: Alhamdulillah [praise god]!
B: how are the children?
A: how’s it going, how is your mother?
B: Alhamdulillah [praise god]!
A: how are the children?
B: bless you!
A: everything is well?
B: bless you! Are you in good health?
A: bless you!
B: how’s it going?
A: how are you?
B: how’s your father?
A: and your brother, how is he?
B: well, good bye!
A: well, good bye!
There is a certain formulaic quality to this; each person rattles this off, seemingly without breathing, and with a big smile. The intonation is always exactly the same, which makes me think it’s said less for meaning than simply because that’s what you say when you run into someone. I’ve heard this about 100 times today because it’s ‘Eid, and calling each other seems to be what ‘Eid is all about. To be honest, I had expected more. In Holland, this ‘Eid is translated as ‘the sugar-holiday’, so needless to say, I was expecting a bit of a feast of sorts, and the cookies I saw being baked in the past two days kind of confirmed my thoughts about this. I woke up expectantly, and waited around most of the day for signs of an impending party – signs of house cleaning, extra cooking, getting dressed up – but nothing. Other than the high number of phone calls, it seemed no different than an ‘ordinary’ Ramadan day, except that we did eat – but no cookies. All in all, an anti-climax.
In lieu of in-house festivities, I went out for coffee with Alma and her friend Zakaria this evening. We picked Zakaria up at the pool hall where he works and walked to the downtown area between the train station and the medina to have coffee at a café. I am loving the time spent outside in the evening. This was something I was never able to do when I lived in Fes; my host family there consisted only of an old man, who for practical reasons couldn’t take me anywhere. First of all because he was too old ever to go out at night, and secondly because the police are vigilant in the Fes medina: when they see a Moroccan man out with a European woman, they immediately jump to conclusions and arrest the man for misleading an innocent girl. Perhaps as a result, I had come to think of evening as off-limits, a time not to be outside – and that severely limited my sense of freedom. Now, it seems, night is when everyone comes alive. During Ramadan at least… but in any case, it’s crowded, everyone is outside, all the shops are open, young and old run around doing their business, seeing and being seen. It makes me feel like I’m on vacation – perhaps because this being outside at night is something I associate with the Mediterranean, site of family vacations when I was in high school.
I am intrigued by this friendship between Alma and Zakaria. In fact, I am intrigued by the dynamic of the male-female relationships I am seeing in general. Here is what I learned from the literature on Arab social relations: in the Muslim world, girls and boys are taught that after a certain age, there is no more casual mingling with anyone one is technically allowed to marry – and this includes first cousins. In some countries this is interpreted more strictly than in others, but even in the most liberal of places, this does mean no more unaccompanied time together, however innocent, no physical contact, and if you are a woman who wears a headscarf, you veil when in the presence of such a man.
Here, in contrast, is what I am seeing.
When I first met Zakaria, Alma introduced him as her best friend. He clearly knows all other family members, so he must be over at the house a lot – and she is on good terms with his brother as well.* But they clearly also go out together, alone. The thing is, they do seem like close friends, which I didn’t think was allowed in Morocco – because she is a woman, and he is a man. The way they interact with one another is exactly what I see between boys on the street, and between girls – a physical closeness without it being sexual in any way. They kiss each other at greeting and parting, they push each other around, touch each other’s arms, and so on. I thought this was impossible in a Muslim country – and am still pretty sure it would be in a more conservative place. But here, no one seems to be at all bothered by it. I wonder if this is unique to Rabat, or to Morocco’s Atlantic coast (assuming that Casablanca, the economic hotbed, would not lag behind Rabat in anything) – I can’t imagine this in Fes.
And then there are Amma, Yunus, and Mustafa. Mustafa is too young, maybe, to be fully counted as a male, but Amma and Yunus certainly are. The three of them are incredibly close, kissing each other, wrestling, sitting close together on the couch, playing with each other’s feet. Again, that kind of physical contact you see on the street between boys and girls,* respectively*, the kind that is in no way sexual. The other day, I even saw Amma enter the bathroom to check on Yunus, who was in there showering and taking forever (as all boys his age do? He came out reeking of perfume). That’s something even Dutch brothers and sisters wouldn’t do at Amma and Yunus’s age. Let alone American siblings.
A guidebook rule I’d read, that only people of the same sex greet one anther with a kiss on the cheek, and that only when they know each other well, is far from reality as well. By women I am kissed at the first meeting. And other than that, everyone greets everyone else with kisses, men with men, women with women, and men with women. And not only if they’re close: at my second meeting I was kissed by Zakaria as well as by his brother (who insisted on doing things the Dutch way – three kisses on alternating cheeks.**)
I wonder if there is a different dividing line then, that dictates the appropriate level of closeness. Instead of gender, it must be something else. Not family, either, I think – Zakaria and Alma are not related. And I of course am not related to anyone – but because I don’t fall into any existing social category as a foreigner, I should not be using myself as an example. Or is it family after all, and is this concept simply applied more liberally to include people who are like family? I’m really intrigued by this – this goes against everything I ever learned, and goes against what most travel guides say.
*This brother works at an expensive Moroccan restaurant close by (the kind that caters to foreigners and makes a performance of its traditional Moroccan meal). Alma, Zakaria, and I went to see him this afternoon. When he heard I was from Holland, he started speaking Dutch to me – the second time this has happened since I’ve been in Rabat. He had studied Dutch in the Netherlands, it turns out, and was at that very moment in charge of a large group of Dutch and Flemish tourists on a tour of Morocco’s imperial cities. As they were eating, he was free to chat with us, and show me around the restaurant, done up in traditional Moroccan style.
**In Morocco, it’s either two on alternating cheeks, or – and in this case the rule of familiarity does hold – those two followed by one or two more on the same cheek.
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