About pregnancy

Last Friday, Moroccan blogger calabamuse posted an article about the following magazine cover:



This is the November issue of Femmes du Maroc, and the cover prefaces a multi-page feature on pregnancy. Beside the article discussing this particular television personality’s impending accouchement (labor, childbirth), the magazine includes an exposé on the deplorable state of OB-GYN facilities at public hospitals and clinics, advice about how to deal with post-partum depression, a description of a cesarean section, and even a special on fashionable maternity clothes.

I picked up this issue myself last Thursday while shopping at Marjane, and was completely intrigued by the provocativeness of the cover. And indeed, this is the main theme of Calabamuse’s thought-provoking post. The writer suggests that pregnancy, like many other issues relating to sex or the reproductive system, is a phenomenon that makes Moroccan society highly uncomfortable:

The exclusionary and sometimes castigating treatment pregnant women are subjected to is a leading cause of abortion in Morocco where the number of out of wedlock pregnancies have dramatically risen. The pool of medical doctors performing abortions today has grown exponentially. They charge 3000 Dirhams ($391.00). Additionally, an increased number of women, especially in rural areas where medical oversight is minimal and sometimes non-existent, die from standard pregnancy complications.
The message of the magazine’s cover is a loud and clear confirmation of the self: I am pregnant; I am beautiful, and I exist. I agree. In our society, pregnant women need to feel less excluded and be viewed in a more gratifying fashion. For a country like Morocco, where television channels are flipped at the mere sight of a man an a woman kissing, where, in neighborhood foodstuff stores, menstrual pads are stuffed in a black plastic bag to conceal them from the embarassed looks of customers, the idea is outrageous.

Intrigued by this apparently ambiguous regard for pregnancy, I decided to ask around. I used a word that Calabamuse didn’t, and ultimately proved to be too strong a connotation: was pregnancy hshouma, shameful?

Yes, Farid told me, he did think that pregnancy is shrouded in a kind of hshouma, but I needed to be aware that there are two ways to translate this culturally powerful term. Pregnancy is not so much a source of shame, he explained, as it is a source of embarrassment. There are certain topics you simply don’t discuss with certain people, like your parents or your boss, and pregnancy is one of them. It’s a matter of respect, Farid added. As he said this, I suddenly remembered how reluctant Karima, the NIMAR’s housekeeper, had been to discuss her pregnancy in the presence of our director or any other male associate.* Exactly, Farid said. This reluctance wasn’t shame so much as it was just the maintenance of a certain kind of propriety.

A new part-time co-worker at the NIMAR, Aicha, likewise didn’t think pregnancy was seen as shameful. She did, however, remember being told to cover up her pregnant belly in looser clothing when going outside, and she recalled how surprised her parents had been to find out that she had been open about the development of her second pregnancy toward her young son. There did seem to be a kind of discomfort about open manifestations of pregnancy, she concluded. Her environment tended to explain this as a way of avoiding the evil eye.**

These stories do betray a clear sense of ambiguity with regard to the phenomenon of pregnancy. It doesn’t seem to be a source of outright, negative shame, but it certainly makes people uncomfortable. It’s the clear connection to sexual intercourse, Farid explained with slight embarrassment. Pregnancy may be the source of new life, but it is also an unconcealable confirmation of a woman’s nature as a sexual being.

And that, I think, is true for every civilization on earth. I think that pregnancy may harbor that double meaning for almost all of us, because it lies at the heart of the very conflicted way in which nearly every culture deals with human sexuality. Sex is powerful: not only because it is one of our most primal and strongest instinctual drives, but also because it is fundamental to the propagation of our species and civilization. It signifies the glory of future development, but in its sheer primal power can also lead to utter chaos and the destruction of any kind of social order. This is why nearly every civilization has sought to exercise control over its society through the strict regulation of sex.

And let’s not forget the Madonna/Whore complex that torments so many of us. We want to see women as mothers, as the innocent and morally upright nurturers who teach our future generations about right and wrong – but we also want to see women as sexual objects, as the embodiment of sexual desire. Perhaps because we are conscious of the potentially destructive power of sex, we see these two identities as polar opposites that cannot be reconciled with one another – yet they are merged, in the phenomenon of pregnancy.

And so, as curious as I think the abovementioned attitudes toward pregnancy are, I don’t think the ambiguity of it is typically Moroccan, per sé. The way in which it is expressed may be culturally specific, but I’m inclined to believe that this particular stance is one we all have in common as humans who are overwhelmed by the power of their own sexuality. I agree with Calabamuse that pregnancy must be celebrated as something beautiful – but I think a larger problem highlighted by this month’s Femmes Du Maroc is the deplorable state of OB-GYN facilities in the country’s public hospitals and clinics.*** These places suffer from a desperate lack of resources, which results in understaffing, a lack of necessary equipment, and thus a lack of adequate care. Patients are obligated to purchase and bring all necessary materials by themselves: from towels to sedatives to suturing thread, it is the patient’s responsibility to make sure these items are present, because the hospital simply does not provide. Femmes Du Maroc also describes widespread corruption: nurses and other staff provide their services only in exchange for ‘bonuses’ of a few hundred Dirhams. Public healthcare services are officially offered free of charge, but adequate care is thus ultimately received only if one has a considerable sum of Dirhams to spend.

Add to these issues the fact that in rural areas, even such public clinics are few and far between. Obstetric facilities have this in common with nearly every other kind of medical service – including that of psychiatry. Reforming the healthcare system is an important part of Morocco’s development goals, and this month’s Femmes Du Maroc also features an interview with Morocco’s minister of health, Yasmina Baddou, who speaks of everything that’s already been done and who is optimistic about further improvement. I’m hopeful, and curious to see what reforms and improvements will be implemented in Morocco’s healthcare system over the next few years.


* Two months ago, Karima gave birth to a baby boy. When I and a few other female NIMAR co-workers went to visit her and her family, she never talked about how the actual labor and birth had been. We didn’t ask, but amongst ourselves did speculate about how it had been. I remember finding this surprising. This is the kind of thing Dutch women talk about readily, but clearly not something Karima wanted to discuss.
** According to the literature, individuals in transitional phases are particularly susceptible to the gaze of the evil eye. Newborn babies, newlyweds, and pregnant women are often cited as examples. The evil eye can be seen as a kind of curse that can lead to all kinds of malaise. If caught, it can be fought off in a variety of ways, including herbal concoctions or counter-spells. A shouafa, or medium, can often help.
*** At the time of writing, Femmes Du Maroc’s website did not yet publish the article. But here is their website.

Dreaming in Morocco

In lieu of a written post, I'm going to present you with a visual today. This was sent to me by Hatim, my good friend from Fes. I'm grateful to him for sharing it with me, and will now pass it along to you.

This is a short film entitled "Dreaming in Morocco." It was made in 2007 by Pamela Nice, an independent filmmaker from Minnesota. Hoping to dispel the stereotypes (and perhaps ignorance) that we in the West often hold about Arab youth, Nice interviews a set of young adults in Morocco about their dreams and aspirations. The individuals featured in this film come from all walks of life, and thus showcase some of the incredible diversity that renders Morocco such an intriguing country. The film does not delve into the societal and political issues that confront these youth as they pursue their dreams, and as such does little more than scratch the surface of the true complexity of life in Morocco - but it's an interesting, well-made, and thought provoking film nonetheless. Enjoy!

'Authentic' Moroccanness

Today’s post on The View from Fez pointed my attention toward a travel article published yesterday in The Guardian. In this piece, author Stephen Emms defends Casablanca against those who argue that the city, with its grand boulevards, 20th century architecture, fast pace, and skyscrapers, is not truly ‘Moroccan’.

In response to these critics, Emms points to the authentically ‘Moroccan’ aspects of Casablanca that lie hidden beyond this “westernized” exterior: 

“Yes, there are the tower blocks, and the five-star hotels, and the businessmen swarming around Place Des Nations-Unies, but the old medina, which dates only from the 19th century (although its ochre walls are older), spirals with timeless neighborhood life. Slip past stalls flogging teapots, watches and jewellery, all blinding in the glare of the sun, and you will discover pencil-thin alleys and tiny squares, where bleached towels cling to window sills and old men inch past in white djellabas, the shuffle of their slippers syncopating the sizzle of squid in oil. … The elegant “new medina,” called Quartier Habous, a layout of Provençal-style squares and arches built by the French as a place for Muslims to live and trade, is a clean and inviting souk selling anything from oil paintings to art deco statuettes. But even here, the “real Morocco” is nearer than you might imagine – just over the railway bridge is Rue Taroudant, from the dusty stalls of which dangle dried chameleons, hedgehogs, and live baby tortoises. “No photos!” the bearded sellers cried in unison as I whipped my camera out; these are ancient charms, after all, with their own magical powers.”

Emms here paints a stark contrast between ‘old’ and ‘new’ – between ‘western’ and ‘Moroccan’. It is precisely in the complexity of this juxtaposition that a former US Embassy worker, interviewed by Emms for this piece, finds Casablanca’s authenticity. “It’s the real deal,” she says, “like Marrakech was more than 10 years ago.” However, Emms himself seems to wonder what this mix of old and new, modern and traditional, really means for Casablanca’s status as an ‘authentic’ Moroccan city: 

“Does Casa's roving eye to the future negate its past? Its art deco and neo-Moorish heritage certainly isn't as valued as you might expect: the Hotel Lincoln, opposite the Marché Central, collapsed earlier this year, and there don't appear to be any plans to salvage it. Other buildings on and around Boulevard Mohammed V (which boasts some of the most dazzling period architecture) languish unloved, as does the Parc de la Ligue Arabe. But perhaps there's something honest about such disregard - should Casablancans have to bow to their colonial past? And anyway, isn't Morocco's "real" past more than represented, as I discovered, in the medinas and back streets?” 

I am impressed with the appreciative way in which both Emms and the people he’s interviewed speak of Casablanca. However, I don’t think I agree with the way in which Emms defends Casablanca’s status as a ‘real’ Moroccan city – and by extension, what he implies about what constitutes ‘authentic’ Moroccanness.

As much as Emms acknowledges, and even appreciates, the complexity and the dynamic juxtapositions that dominate modern Moroccan society, he ultimately concludes that what is truly ‘Moroccan’ lies in the country’s traditions – represented in this article by crowded medinas, jellaba’d men, and haggling for dried chameleon in dusty souqs. And that, I think, is dangerous. It superimposes one pair of polar opposites – old versus new – on top of another imagined polarity: Moroccanness versus Westernness. It creates a binary view of the world that may simplify matters, but ultimately blinds us from the complexities of reality, and minimizes a people’s agency in defining its own sense of authenticity.

First of all, associating ‘authentic’ Moroccanness with tradition, or with the past, brings up some logistical problems of definition. To start with, how do you really separate tradition and modernity, or distinguish foreign from native? Where do you draw the line between ‘authentic tradition’ and ‘foreign invasion’ – which historical influx of foreign peoples ended true and pure Moroccan culture and opened the door to foreign influence? Was it the French? Or was it the Andalusian Muslims who returned during the Reconquista? Was it the Arabs, perhaps, or even the Romans? If Morocco’s authenticity lies in the past, how far back do you have to go to find it, exactly?

Moreover, are ‘tradition’ and ‘modernization’ that easily separable? Is Morocco’s current development a manifestation of purely Western influence, and have Morocco’s ‘traditions’ remained completely untouched by outside influences? Can we really say that Casablanca’s skyscrapers are purely western, the likes of which you’d find in France, England, the United States, while the old medina of Fes has remained pristinely Moroccan? In other words, how ‘foreign’ is Morocco’s modernization, and how ‘authentic’ have its traditions remained? I think this simple juxtaposition of ‘modern’ versus ‘traditional’ blinds us to the complex reality of Morocco – the unique brand of development that has given a distinctively Moroccan flavor to Casablanca’s modernity, and the dynamic adaptation of old traditions to current circumstances. Imagine the distinctly Moroccan patterns of hierarchy and social organization that may structure a company housed in one of Casablanca’s high rises, or the traditional carpenter in the Fes medina whose work has reached a wider audience through the website he’s been able to create with a laptop and wireless internet.

But above all, the association of ‘authentic Moroccanness’ with traditions from the past is a dangerous one. By relegating Moroccanness to “timeless” traditions and picture-perfect scenes from the old medina, we deprive Morocco of a present – let alone of a future. It is the same process of thought that legitimated French colonial rule in the first half of the twentieth century. Our perception of authentic Moroccanness is a nostalgic image of medieval Arab life that we seek to preserve by freezing Moroccan culture in time and characterizing all development as ‘foreign’, and therefore invasive. It is an Orientalist process of thought that deprives ‘real’ Moroccan culture of any belonging in (or compatibility with) a modern, developing world.

This is not to say that Morocco’s medinas and traditions should not be preserved. They should – they are a part of ‘authentic’ Moroccanness that should not be forgotten. It is also not to say that foreign (Western) influence was not invasive. It was. What I mean to say is simply that we should not so starkly oppose tradition and modernity, or past and present, and attribute ‘authenticity’ to a single pole on that binary scale. Cultures, like human beings, are living, breathing, porous things, and change is a fundamental strategy of survival. Cultures, like human beings, adapt to their ever-changing environment. No culture has ever been static, and no society has ever developed in complete isolation from foreign influences. It may not always have been the pervasive, imperial, and certainly destructive, influence of the West – but foreign influence has always been a fact of life. 

The notion of authenticity is ultimately a difficult one that brings up more questions than it does answers. I think that a certain tension between past and present may be inherent to the state of postcoloniality, with national identity and notions of ‘authenticity’ stuck in the middle. How do you determine what is ‘real’ and what is ‘foreign’? What parts of history constitute the foundation for national identity, and which have been written by alien conquerors? To what extent should ‘foreign’ influence be resisted, and can (should?) traditions always stand the test of time? And who has the authority, anyway, to determine the answers to all these questions? Questions of what is ‘authentic’ are persistently and consciously present in the Moroccan public consciousness. There is a palpable preoccupation with the issue of how to define the relationship between ‘tradition’ and ‘modernity’, and nearly every political or social issue becomes a pretext for debates about the value of each for Moroccan society and identity. These are not debates that will be resolved any time soon, and I’m sure notions of ‘authenticity’ will be discussed for decades to come. But I don’t think this means that authenticity is lost, or under threat of extinction.

I don’t think that change, dynamism, or foreign influence have to undermine any culture’s status as ‘authentic’ or ‘real’. What makes a culture ‘authentic’ is not its resistance against foreign influence, but simply its particular way of developing, its reality and meaningfulness for the people whose lives it frames. What is authentic is every society’s particular way of making sense of change, of foreign influence; its way of processing, internalizing, mixing new elements with what’s already there to create new meanings, new realities. In its very combination of incredible modernity and development with a high premium on the preservation of tradition, Morocco is, in every sense of the word, authentic. Morocco is a living, breathing culture in the flux of constant change and development. Casablanca, in all its economic enormity and modernity, is as much an example of true Moroccanness as Fes is in its preservation of traditions. And it’s time that we all not only recognize, but celebrate this unique kind of authenticity.

The Moudawana, Five Years Later

The New York Times published an article today about the status of women in Morocco, five years after the radical reforms of the Moudawana (the Family Code of Law) came into effect. This article is the latest in a small collection of others published about the same issue, and largely presents the same conclusion: while great headway has been made toward elevating the status of women in Morocco, much remains to be desired.

The articles’ authors note a discrepancy between imposed law and applied reality, and mention that the legal changes made are not far-reaching enough: women still inherit only half of what men do, for instance, and single mothers still have no legal rights. More reforms are needed, they therefore argue.

As much as it is true that the new body of Family laws leaves certain issues unchanged, I agree with those who think that the disparity between the law and its real-life application is a more pressing issue that needs to be dealt with, before we start talking about further reforms. Five years after the new laws came into effect, issues continue to plague their mise en pratique. Because the new code of law was not accompanied by sufficient efforts to re-train Morocco’s legislative body, judges and courts were mostly left to figure out how to apply the new procedures on their own. Divorce procedures, marriage contracts, applications for citizenship, and custody battles therefore continue to be plagued by legal inconsistency and uncertainty.*

Likewise, efforts to educate the public remained insufficient. Of course, the means to create awareness are limited, among a public with a high rate of illiteracy. But the result is that many – both men and women – have little sense of what the new laws really entail. And in that sense, the failure of the Moudawana to unambiguously live up to its promise of radical change points to deeper issues that plague Moroccan society.

First of all, the insufficient efforts at public education reveal (and probably reinforce) another dimension of the big divide between center and margin in Morocco. The new law was passed by the parliament in Rabat. Its written form, as well as those publications that discuss it, are accessible to and read by the educated citizens of Morocco’s larger cities. Francophone women’s magazines make an effort to answer readers’ questions about what has legally changed. But very little of it all penetrates the margins – by which I mean both those geographical areas far removed from the epicenter of government, as well as those communities far removed from any sense of power, through lack of money and lack of education. The result? Those women who stand to gain the most from these new laws – impoverished, uneducated, illiterate women in rural regions – are the least aware of their new rights, and continue their lives much as they used to. And how can you effect real, applied, change, when it impacts only a small proportion of the population? There is very little point in enforcing change from the top, if it is not accompanied by an effort to reach down toward the public, to help it understand the new legislation and facilitate its real-life implementation.


(This cartoon appeared in TelQuel, the francophone Moroccan version of Time or Newsweek. The dialogue translates into "Informing myself about the Moudawana reform? That's a bad idea, I might no longer be against it!")

In a more general sense, I think that the lack of education and awareness also makes that the general public (urban as well as rural) does not know what to make or think of the reformed Moudawana. With only a vague sense of what the new laws really stipulate, many see the new code mostly as a dangerous threat to traditional values and social order.** Originally pushed for by feminist movements and other liberal progressive groups, the new laws are seen as representing the victory of modernizing and secularizing tendencies in Morocco. The entire issue of Family Code reform thereby remains stuck in (and representative of) the deadlocked debate-turned-struggle between ‘tradition’ and ‘modernity’, and inspires fear and hostility in those who perceive it as a threat to their conservatism.

The new Moudawana is both cause and result of a shift in the foundations of Moroccan society. Government efforts at socio-economic development, modernization, and globalization have occasioned an intensive and sometimes highly emotional debate about the relative value of tradition and modernity. Within that debate, these two concepts, or better said, ideologies, are often starkly opposed to one another. Each has its adherents, and each of these two camps is so worried about the dire impact of the other’s dominance, that neither is prepared to make any compromises on its ideals. The result is a deadlocked debate in which ‘tradition’ is portrayed as the polar opposite of ‘modernity’, and open communication seems to get a bit lost. As much as the King attempted to involve representatives of all ideologies and sympathies in the drafting of a new law, the reforms of the Moudawana are mostly seen as the triumph of modernity and secularism – and many conservatives and Islamists felt (and feel) disenfranchised, overruled, or ignored.

As much as, again, I agree that additional changes must be made, I also think that radical reform simply may not always be the most effective way to push for change. Not if it creates hostility and thus throws up barriers that hinder effective communication and collaboration. People don’t like change, even if it’s inevitable. Sometimes, it is much more efficient to be patient, take it slow, make an effort not to completely do away with the past, and ease into a new status quo. It makes those resistant to change feel validated in their concerns. Pushing too hard, too fast, only incites greater conflict and protest.

Yes, there is a ways yet to go toward equalizing women’s status. But right now, I think that what is holding it back has less to do with legal rights than it does with public opinion. Radical legal reform is not necessarily effective if it gets too far ahead of the public mind.*** There is no point in adding new laws to ensure women’s equal share of inheritance, if women in rural areas have not even become able to claim their right to divorce. This does not mean that we should give up on change. But it does mean a greater openness to conservatives’ sentiments, individuals’ fears, a greater effort to find a middle ground between different ideological desires, attempts to ease into change at a pace that is comfortable for everyone – and a willingness to make other social changes that make the implementation of new family laws a bit easier (combating illiteracy and corruption, perhaps?). An effort, simply, not to make a large proportion of society feel disenfranchised and brushed aside. Do this, and perhaps you’ll find much more goodwill and openness to real, meaningful dialogue about the future of society and the place of women in it.

In order for this dialogue to take place, greater openness is needed, as well as a greater and more systemic effort at public education about what these new laws really imply: how they relate to Islam (how they may coexist peacefully with religious values), what their impact will be on the structure of the family, and how it affects the status of men. Fears and concerns must be openly and respectfully addressed. Only then can the population begin to process the changes that have been made – and only once that has been done, is it going to be useful to begin discussing additional reforms.



* add to that the persistent and widespread problem of corruption…
** Yes, of course, the new Moudawana does make a lot of changes to the traditional status quo. But I think that there may be more room for a continuation of traditional values within the new legal situation than many people assume.
*** I do not think this is always true, in every situation. There are times and places when radical reform is necessary. But within the context of a deadlocked societal debate between two camps with equal power, it simply doesn’t serve anyone to make half the population feel disenfranchised. No matter how wrong you may think that other half is.

Knowledge and Education

One of the tasks that have befallen me in my new position as official NIMAR staff member is the development of a semester program in social sciences. It’s the latest addition to the in-house study abroad programs we offer to Dutch students (currently we have only programs in Arabic), and its inaugural run is to start this fall.

In its most basic set-up, this semester consists of a five-month program, divided up into four phases of about four weeks each. The third of these phases is an independent research project, for which the students will spend the first two phases preparing – by way of lectures on all aspects of Moroccan society, Arabic classes, and workshops on research methods and other matters of practical concern. The idea is to have these various classes taught by Moroccan researchers and professors, as a way to truly submerge our students into the Moroccan world of social science.

Since the research project is to be independently designed and carried out by the student, it’s mostly the first two phases of the program that my co-developer Cynthia and I have been working on. Now that it has been a year since I last taught my undergrads in San Diego, I’m apparently brimming with ideas. I’m dreaming of intimate seminars à la the University of Chicago, democratic debates, field trips to relevant Moroccan institutions, and exchanges with local students. I want to design a curriculum that’s heavy on student participation and casts the teacher more in the role of a guide than that of a lecturer.

Except where I’m the dreamer, Cynthia is the realist. At first I found it a little frustrating that she’d often put the brakes on a new idea I had – but I soon realized she’s right. After ten years in Morocco, she knows the resources and tools we have to work with in a way that I don’t. She knows that it’s all very nice to dream of democratically run seminars and teachers-as-guides, but in the end, the Moroccan educational system just isn’t ready for it.

Basically, Moroccan professors are lecturers. They teach by presenting material to a group of students, who write it all down and then attempt to reproduce it on a test. There is no culture of debate, no habit of questioning.

I think this is why. It is always true (in my opinion) that knowledge equals power and authority. But sometimes, that power exercised by virtue of knowledge makes it seem as though this is the only knowledge that is valid. Knowledge thus becomes synonymous with ‘truth’. Translating this to a classroom setting, this means that ‘truth’ is possessed by the teacher, and that his or her relationship to the student is skewed along a very steep power differential. There is no room for discussion in the classroom, because truth is not to be questioned. Learning, then, is simply a matter of receiving and absorbing. It is never about exchange and sharing.

I get the sense that it is a general tendency in this country to equate ‘knowledge’ with ‘truth’. I notice the imprint of this idea on a lot of people I meet – who see knowledge as something either to be transmitted or absorbed, rather than something to be shared. I feel it with the university students I have befriended, who never seem to really get what I mean when I talk about plans for an exchange of ideas between Dutch and Moroccan students – why didn’t I like their idea of inviting a professor who could really teach our Dutch students everything they wanted to know? I notice this tendency also with the researchers I’ve met, who have real trouble confidently presenting their research project and findings to others. On paper, they seem like wonderfully ambitious people with equally lofty research questions – but once asked to present their plans in public, they explain what they do in soft mumbles and stutters and it is as though their work instantly dissolves into a pile of ashes in the palms of our hands.

I notice it, too, among the holders of PhDs who have teaching positions at a university – and whose idea of a discussion seems to be a monologue. They have completed the transformation from student to teacher, and now possess all the authoritativeness of the more powerful knowledge-giver. Once they hear that I am an anthropology student, even the linguists and political scientists insist on explaining to me everything I need to know about anthropology.*

And finally, I notice it in the comments I pick up from other foreigners here. In the laments, for instance, about how difficult it is to really connect to Moroccan women. Not only because their lives are so different but also because it’s so hard to have a discussion with them – either they indicate that they don’t know enough about a topic to discuss it, or they cannot accept your view on something when they’ve learned something else as being true. I’m reminded also of a comment made by the University of Amsterdam psychologists who were here for the workshop at the Clinic. They’d been so relieved at the psychiatric residents’ active participation, because when the researchers had tried to conduct a workshop here before they’d all been completely mute. The difference, we all realized, was this: Dr. Chikri (the Clinic’s director) had attended this first workshop. He had answered every single one of their questions, and his residents had remained demurely silent in their seats. During this most recent workshop, the residents had been liberated from their subordinate positions by a budget meeting that claimed Dr. Chikri’s presence – as a result, they had been free to participate, and eagerly did so.

Basically, it seems as though there is no middle ground here between ‘knowledge’ and ‘ignorance’. There is only one version of the truth, and in every ‘exchange’ of thought there is always one person who possesses it, and one person who does not. This makes any plans for democratic seminars and discussions a little unrealistic.

An additional problem is the state of social science as a discipline. Departments of sociology and political science are hard to come by (anthropology being entirely nonexistent), and often hide deep within the recesses of a larger ‘faculté des lettres et des sciences humaines’ (the actual ‘sciences sociales’ here mostly refers to the disciplines of law and economics). To give you an example: Cynthia and I recently paid a visit to a research laboratory for psychopathology. It was a single room with a few empty desks, where a sole professor shared his coffee with us as he explained that there are but two departments of psychology in the country (one here in Rabat, and one in Fes) and no more than fifteen psychologists. Fifteen. The problem, he explained, was that anyone with any ambition packs up and leaves the country in search of greener academic pastures. The talented people pursue an education abroad, and once they’ve tasted academia there, Morocco is “like a cold shower,” as he put it.

A Dutch demographer, in Rabat for the conference on labor migration that Cynthia and I organized, complained of the state of research. “There is so much data!” She exclaimed to us in desperation, “but no one’s doing anything with it!” She herself had begged to be allowed to use this data, stored at a national demographic institute – and after countless letters and official stamps, her permission had been granted. She was hoping to set up a collaborative project with local researchers, but found it very heard to motivate her Moroccan colleagues.

It’s possible (likely, even?) that this underdeveloped state of the social sciences has something to do with the view of knowledge that I described above (and perhaps a little also with the limitations on political freedom?). Without a tradition of questioning, it’s difficult to really do any social scientific research – and it’s no surprise that the talented researchers wish to do their work elsewhere.

In any case, this dearth of academic individuals makes it difficult for us to recruit any potential teachers for our program. Add to this, as a third limiting factor, a language barrier. As much as I do think Morocco is beginning to realize the necessity of English for the realization of its global ambitions, the language of academia in Morocco still and stubbornly remains French. Unfortunately, this is not a language most Dutch students speak, but there is no more than a handful of faculty in Rabat who speak sufficient English to lecture in this language. Cynthia and I discovered during our meetings with other foreign educational institutions in Rabat that, likewise faced with this barrier of communication, they often partner with the same few Moroccan professors we often collaborate with. No wonder they are always so strapped for time…

The thing is – education is not unimportant in Morocco. To the contrary: I think both the public and the government realize that education is the key to development and to a better future. Both make investments in education. But the problem is that this investment is made pragmatically – in the areas with the highest rate of return. People and funds flow not toward universities, but toward private institutes of higher education, all with acronymed names like ILCS, IIHEM, HEC, or ENCG, that teach management, IT, and marketing. It becomes a vicious cycle from here, of course – more money means better teaching methods, which improves education, which attracts more students, which in turn brings in more money. It leaves very little for the universities, that are part of the public education system that the government offers to its citizens at no charge, and that, suffering from a lack of funding, have no choice but to stick with outdated teaching methods and a dearth of resources.**

So what to do? It certainly has to do with money – universities will never be able to stimulate the development of research if there are no funds to do so. But it’s also about changing the definition of ‘knowledge’ – about democratizing it, making it available to everyone and recognizing the fact that it’s within everyone’s reach (money is one way in which to ensure that availability, of course). And finally, I think institutes like the NIMAR have a responsibility here, too. Because the vestiges of imperialism are also implicated in the underdevelopment of academic research in former colonies like Morocco. After all, imperialism used the knowledge-as-truth concept in support of its mission: it used the power of scientific research to validate its subjugation of other peoples, and cast colonies in the role of subjects, of knowledge absorbers (knowledge about ‘civilization’, in this case) and never knowledge producers. Perhaps it is our responsibility, then, to make a concerted investment in the development of ‘indigenous’ research in these countries (to use a very colonial word). By initiating and stimulating collaborative projects between Moroccan and European or American researchers, for instance. As that Dutch demographer suggested, and as we realize given the limitations of Moroccan social science, this may be difficult. But it must be done, and in order to do so, we have to meet it halfway.


* It has made me realize, though, that I need to stop introducing myself as a student. I do this because in the US I am called a PhD student. In most other countries, however, you are considered a researcher in this stage of your academic training. I’m trying to get used to presenting myself as such. It still always feels a little bit like fraud, because I haven’t actually started my research yet…
** This in many ways maintains the divide between rich and poor, since only the former can afford the superior education of private institutions, and thus only those who already have money have access to the better and higher paying jobs.

Controversial Media: The Issue of Heritage

** This is a long one... Sorry!**

Morocco has a well-developed tradition of printed media. One can find a newsstand on nearly every street corner, and each of these sells dozens of newspapers, weekly journals, and monthly glossies – all in one’s choice of either French or Arabic. And this is not counting the international publications that are also available. Among this rich selection are at least five or six different Moroccan magazines aimed especially at women.

I particularly like a Francophone magazine called “Femmes Du Maroc.” I buy it primarily as a good and entertaining way to practice my French, but it actually publishes a lot of interesting articles. It features the same range of topics that other magazines discuss, but seems to ask intelligent and tough questions that others ignore. For example: this month, FDM published an article about the growing trend of looking for love by placing personal ads online or in the paper. The same topic was featured in the Ramadan-issue of Femina, a newer magazine. A Femina contributor tried out this new trend by placing an ad of her own, and then wrote an article reporting on her experiences – her transition from skepticism to (temporary) addiction, her conclusion that this ‘new trend may work for certain people, but it’s not for me’, and final disclosure that she had met her own soul mate through more conventional ways. In Morocco as in the Western world, the practice of meeting people through personal ads is growing in response to changing lifestyles and increasing individualism, but not quite accepted as fully legitimate as of yet. With that last sentence, the Femina reporter ultimately ascribed completely to the public’s skepticism and fear of new things, without ever questioning or even addressing any part of it. Femmes Du Maroc, on the other hand, published a 10-page feature on this new practice. It included a reporter’s experiences with an ad of her own, placed specifically for the purpose of this experiment (lacking any strategically mentioned feelings of skepticism), but also an in-depth analysis of the language used in these ads and a theorizing, through that analysis, of what these ads say about Moroccan society and the changes it is going through. Their conclusion: placing personal ads seems like a sign of modernization. Not only is it a sign of greater individualization, but it also suggests that people are taking fate into their own hands, no longer relying on parents or other traditional ways of finding a spouse. But a deeper investigation of the actual ads shows that those who place the ad present themselves as well what they’re looking for in such a way that it only perpetuates idealization of the traditional rules of male-female interaction. Modernity on the surface, but not in practice! Traditions simply jazzed up by a coat of modernity – and a confirmation, through this very untraditional medium, that Morocco is not yet ready to let go of its conservatism.

Of course, I am only comparing two magazines here, and am only looking at a single issue of each. But I get the sense that, where Femina leaves any social issue completely unquestioned, FDM boldly exposes Morocco’s cultural and social complexes.

Because this month, FDM also discusses another issue that I believe is quite controversial: that of “héritage” – inheritance. In fact, nearly a quarter of this month’s content is devoted to this topic; it includes background articles explaining the issue, testimonies from Islamic scholars, sociologists, first-hand accounts of readers who have dealt with the issue, and activist pieces calling for change.

Trying my best to be succinct, the issue of héritage is this. When the Family Code of law was drastically reformed in 2004, laws on inheritance were one of very few things left unchanged. Whereas most of the family code is now based on civil law, inheritance rules remain founded upon the shari‘a, or Islamic law. They were left untouched because inheritance is one of the few issues for which the Qur’an itself outlines explicit rules; and anything mentioned explicitly in the Qur’an cannot be interpreted loosely because it is believed to be God’s literal word.* Taken directly from the Qur’an, this, then, is the basic law on inheritance: a woman always inherits half of what a man does. Upon a father’s death, his male children will inherit a proportion of his wealth that equals twice that inherited by his daughters. Also, a woman cannot inherit on her own: if a man had no sons, his money does not automatically go to his daughters. In these cases, male kin must first be found. Once a male heir has been established, no matter how far removed on the family tree, his daughters (and wife) may inherit – but again, an amount always half of that inherited by the male heir(s).

Contesting these rules is very controversial – because contesting anything stated in the Qur’an is controversial. Nevertheless, some groups do call for inheritance laws to be changed, and FDM is apparently one of them. The entire span of its discussion about this issue unanimously argued in favor of reforming héritage. It was not only interesting that they did so in such a direct and forceful way (the issue being as controversial as it is), but it was also interesting how they did it.

Because not once did anyone question the holiness of the Qur’an, and not once was the concept of Islamic law rejected wholesale. What they did instead (and this is why they featured testimonies by experts on Islamic law) was appeal to established algorithms of Islamic legal logic, call attention to the existing traditions and methods of Qur’anic interpretation (“ijtihad”, pronounced ‘ij-ti-HAD’),** and remind the reader directly of other issues that prove the Qur’an need not always be taken on its literal word.***

The basic gist of the argument made by FDM is that the law on inheritance no longer serves the purpose it was designed for – and that it is not only accepted practice within the tradition of ijtihad to interpret Qur’anic verses according to the logic behind them rather than their literal content, but that it is also accepted practice in Islamic law to always question the rationale of certain rules, and to change them if that rationale is no longer relevant. FDM claims that Qur’anic rules of inheritance were originally meant to protect women financially, in a time when they did not contribute to society economically and depended fully on their male kin. Men were given more of the inheritance, but also expected to use that money to care for their female dependents. The fact that women were given anything in the first place was a major improvement – at the time, women commonly didn’t inherit anything (and apparently, women still don’t inherit according to Jewish inheritance laws?). It makes sense, FDM claims, to divide the inheritance according to individuals’ economic responsibilities. This was the basis for the distinction between men and women’s parts; it has nothing to do with gender per se. In other words: women received half not because they were women, but because they had no economic responsibilities.

Needless to say, this context has completely changed. Not only do women contribute as much to their household’s economy as men do, but Moroccan women often have even more financial responsibilities toward the family than their male relatives. By continuing to apply Qur’anic rules of inheritance in this very different economic context, their effect has become the complete opposite of its original intent: rather than financially protected, women are now discriminated against and put at disproportionate risk of impoverishment. Taking the Qur’an too literally, one expert suggests, can sometimes mean that its fundamental principles of equality and justice are ultimately completely negated.

To me, someone who was not raised with the sense of holiness that the Qur’an exudes for most Muslims, this argument seems to make perfect sense. And apart from the bold statements here and there about uneven power dynamics in Islam and men’s desire to subjugate women, it seems to me a very respectful, logical, and convincing way of making an argument. How could anyone disagree?

But I know there are people who do. And unfortunately, FDM’s long feature does not include a single oppositional voice. I am so curious to hear how FDM’s arguments would be countered by someone in favor of maintaining inheritance laws as they are. What are their arguments, what is their rationale? And where, for that matter, does public opinion lie? How do Moroccans feel about this, and how does this differ between educated and non-educated, women and men, rural and urban populations, young and old, rich and poor? How much is this talked about in family- and social circles? Can I ask my host family how they feel about this issue, or is it too controversial for that?

I tried to get a sense of this by leaving my copy of the magazine lingering around in the living room and noting the kinds of reactions it got. Alma noticed it first and asked me if she could take a look. Sure, I said, do you know this magazine? Alma shook her head. She’d never seen it before, she said. Interesting, I thought, because I see it everywhere. In any case, the large-lettered announcement of the topic on the cover (“héritage: ça peut changer?”) got no reaction. Instead, Alma pointed to the model on the cover and asked me who she was. “I don’t know,” I responded. “Just a model, I think.” Alma then opened the magazine, looked for the fashion section, identified the same model in those pictures, gave them another glance, and returned the magazine to me. A complete anti-climax: she simply did not react at all to the issue I was curious about.

Next was Amma. She, too, didn’t respond to the words on the cover. She did, however, ask me why I had bought this magazine in particular. And the way in which she asked me this made me think she already had her own opinion about it – a negative one.**** I decided to give her a neutral reason, to leave her the option of expressing either approval or disapproval. It’s to practice my French, I told her. She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. She leafed through the issue as Alma had, and then gave it back to me without another word. Another anti-climax. I asked her if she preferred any particular magazines, and she mentioned an Arabic-language one.

Finally I tried it out on Manal, who did have an actual evaluative reaction – though again, nothing to do with the magazine’s articles. I know she knows this magazine because she has stacks and stacks of its issues lying around in her Caftan shop. FDM has a yearly Caftan issue, after all, with hundreds of pictures showing the latest fashions. Oh yes, she exclaimed, I love this magazine. “It has lots of interesting things, look,” she said, and pointed to the sections on fashion and beauty. Nothing, once again, about the issues announced on the cover.

I was left, in other words, without an answer to my question. Not even an acknowledgement of the fact that these things were being discussed in this magazine. Was that a deliberate ignoring, and does their silence mean I should not bring it up – or does it mean there is simply no interest in the topic?

My family’s reaction to the magazine itself also bring me back to the question of how Femmes Du Maroc compares to other women’s magazines. Manal knows this publication, but for professional reasons. Amma knows it, but apparently prefers other magazines. Alma had no idea it existed. Who, then, actually reads Femmes Du Maroc? Who doesn’t, and why? How does that compare to other Francophone magazines? And how does it compare to Arabic glossies? Who reads those? What kinds of issues do those magazines discuss? Would they bring up an issue such as that of inheritance?*****

Do women read magazines at all? Because in fact, I never see anyone in my household reading anything other than the Qur’an. Contrary to what the many newsstands and bookstores in Rabat would suggest, I get the sense that most Moroccans are not habitual readers. I have actually never seen more in the way of books than a few copies of the Qur’an in any the Moroccan households I have visited. There is never a bookshelf, never even a stack of newspapers or magazines on the coffee table. Newspapers are read, but I think that is something that belongs in the coffee house (and thus belongs to men). Children have books, but those are for school. Children also do not seem to be raised with the concept of reading for pleasure. I talked to Mustafa about Harry Potter once, and he was very enthusiastic. Of course he knew Harry Potter, he said, he’d seen all the movies. He had never, however, heard that there were Harry Potter books, as well. And when I offered to give him my French copy of the first novel, he politely declined, telling me he preferred watching it on TV.

Maybe the lack of written media is an economic issue. Most households do not have much money to spare, and a book, as I have discovered, costs anywhere between 50 and 150 Dirhams – which approaches an average day’s pay. Being Francophone and costing 20 DH an issue, I expect that Femmes Du Maroc is not very widely read among any groups other than the upper layer of society. And in that sense its discussions are probably not the best indication of general public opinion. Still though: how contrary to public opinion is it, exactly? And how much weight does it carry among those upper layers, who, in all truth, not only have the money to buy these magazines but also have the power to actually affect Moroccan politics?


* Something thing I have a hard time understanding is how a less literal interpretation of the Qur’an negates its holiness. Why does interpreting its verses in a more abstract way necessarily mean one rejects the idea that the Qur’an is the direct word of God? Taking God’s words for its abstract rather than concrete meaning would not seem to me to make them any less true. Wouldn’t you in fact get at a much deeper ‘truth’ if you looked for the meaning behind the words, rather than stop at their literal meaning?
** There is a very rich tradition of Qur’anic interpretation. However, severe limits were placed on the Muslim community’s freedom to engage in ijtihad in the Middle Ages, as five (4 Sunni, 1 Shi‘a) major schools of Islamic legal thought (fiqh) established themselves as authorities on interpretation. Morocco continues to adhere quite explicitly to the Maliki school of fiqh.
*** A famous example here, for instance, is what the Qur’an says about alcohol. The Qur’an actually abrogates its own rules about drinking. The earliest verses merely forbid Muslims to be drunk during prayer. Later verses then change these rules, becoming increasingly stringent. If the Qur’an can correct itself in this way, this suggests that there is a certain element of rationalization that must be involved in translating any Qu’ranic prescription to reality – a process of deliberating about what the point is of certain rules and how best to realize their intended effect within a given context.
**** Perhaps I had this impression because she had already made somewhat suggestive comments a while ago about my predilection for Telquel, the francophone Moroccan equivalent of Time. “You always buy the magazines that talk about politics,” she observed. I wasn’t sure how to react – is it a good thing to be interested in Moroccan politics? Somehow, I don’t think so.
***** It is so unfortunate that those publications are so much less accessible to me. They are written in Fusha, which I do not read.

Moroccan Masculinity in Crisis

Alma and Manal are not the only unmarried women in Morocco. Apparently, the issue of “l-‘ounousa” is a major social problem. The causes behind it, however, seem to have less to do with women than they do with men.

A major issue, as Ilyas explained in class on thursday, is that marriage has become a lot less desirable for men since the major overhaul of the Family Code (Moudawana) in 2004. Men are threatened by the fact that women now have (almost) equal rights in marriage; unlike their fathers before them, married men now no longer enjoy the privilege of being head of the household, sole decision maker, and lord over a woman who is expected never to say no.

Another issue is that of unemployment (“l-bitalia,” or “l-shoumaj”). Both men and women’s unemployment is problematic (and not just in view of marriage, of course), but again, it is a problem for men more so than it is for women. When men don’t work, they simply cannot marry – because they cannot afford it. This is changing, however, especially in light of l-ounousa. In the past, a man had to be able to offer his prospective bride an income and a house. In return, he pretty much had the guarantee that if he was able to provide these two things, there was a very slim chance the girl was able to turn him down. But with so many women unmarried beyond the respectable marriable age, and thus quite desperate for a man, these requirements have become much less stringent.

When a woman doesn’t work, on the other hand, she is not desirable for marriage. As Ilyas explained, life in Morocco is expensive; especially if you want a good and comfortable life for you and your kids that builds in some promise for the future. In order to afford such a life, a man looks for a woman with her own income to supplement his – to enable them to pay for better schools and better housing, and thereby a better future.

Yet there is a paradox here. Because a woman with money is also threatening to a man’s masculinity. But hold on to that thought – I’ll get back to it in a minute.

Because first I need to mention another factor underlying l-‘ounousa: competition. In part because of the reasons above, there are simply not enough men interested in marriage for all women looking for a husband. It is especially difficult for a woman like Alma, who does not work – she cannot offer a man the supplementary income needed to increase his standard of living. But another factor adding to the dearth of interested men is the dream of a better life in Europe. For the same reason that men look for a woman with income, they look for women who do not actually live in Morocco. Online at the Cybers, they get in touch with women from Europe or from the United States, in the hope of establishing some kind of connection with them. Marriage to one of these women would provide not supplementary cash but papers, and the option of emigration.* Women are beginning to use this strategy as well, but it has long been difficult for them. The issue barring women from marrying foreigners is that there is a very strict rule about religion and children. Fathers dictate religion; this means that a man can marry a non-Muslim woman without consequences for the children, but a Muslim woman cannot in the same way marry a non-Muslim man; her children might very well grow up without Islam. As far as I understood this prohibition was never actually codified by law, but social convention was strong enough to make it virtually impossible. Only now is this beginning to change. Not because religion has become less important – but because the dream of a better life has surpassed it in primacy. **

What all these issues boil down to, ultimately, is the issue of masculinity and the apparent threats to it posed by the institution of marriage. Ilyas confirmed that masculinity is a huge issue in Morocco. Being a ‘man’ means being independent, having honor, and exercising power. It is exemplified by wealth and dominance. This is the reason why women with money are threatening to men; it confers a kind of independence that should belong to the male alone.*** Women’s emancipation in general is clearly a threat. It is difficult for men to live up to the ideal to begin with: between patriarchy and economic underdevelopment it is difficult for men to attain true independence. Now, however, they must compete for status not only with other men, but with women as well. But as I mentioned, there is a paradox here – because as much as a woman with money (or papers) can be threatening to a man’s dominance, it is also his ticket to advancement on the social ladder, which in turn would help him in attaining the ideal of masculinity.

And that is, I think, what the issue with marriage is ultimately about. I think that in some ways, the institution of marriage as it now stands in Morocco constricts men within certain contradictions and paradoxes that can be very dangerous to this already fragile sense of manliness. Marriage requires means, and is in that sense a confirmation of masculinity. But it is also itself a means (through a woman with cash or papers) to attain that ideal – and in that sense may also be a confirmation that masculinity has not quite yet been attained. Marriage confirms male-ness but at the same time underscores one’s imperfect manliness.

And of course marriage creates a small microcosm in which masculinity and feminism compete for legitimacy. Traditionally marriage bestowed supreme power onto the husband, but the family code reform has turned this monarchical system into a democracy in which both parties have equal say. The husband is no longer given his small dominion – in which he was lord, even if he wasn’t able to exercise power in the public sphere – and now has to compete for power even within the house.

It must be exhausting to be a man in this society. And what is there to do about this? Is this an issue that society will simply take a few generations to adjust to? Does the ideal of masculinity just lag a few decades behind the pace of socio-economic reform? Or does this problem run deeper, and therefore need a more hands-on solution?


* As happens everywhere with cases like this, many men abuse the rights of residence conferred by marriage, and lure women into matrimony under false pretenses of true love. Ilyas and I discussed cases in which, once the papers have been secured, the men divorce, return to Morocco, and marry the first girl they find.
** In 2006, apparently 7000 Moroccan women married men from Europe and the United States. This does not include those women who married Moroccans who reside there.
*** This is why it is completely unacceptable, when taking a woman out, to let her pay for herself or, god forbid, for both of you.