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.

"Number One"

Last fall, a new Moroccan movie was released that, according to Femmes du Maroc at least, had everyone talking. The magazine itself devoted a lengthy article to this new film, “Number One” (this is not a translation; I’d transcribe its Arabic title as ‘Namber Ouane’), most of it a rave review.

As a movie about the consequences of the new Moudawana (the new Family Code of Law*) for the relationship between men and women, my interest was piqued. I waited and waited for the movie to come to theaters in Rabat – but I was out of luck. Time passed, and the day of my departure to the United States finally arrived before the movie did. Back at home, I crossed my fingers for six weeks in the hopes that Number One would still be showing at the Rbati theaters when I returned. Of course, as luck would have it, by the time I arrived back in Morocco, the movie had come and gone, and I had missed my opportunity…

Then, last weekend, a wonderful turn of luck handed me a DVD copy of the film, and I finally saw for myself what Femmes du Maroc had raved about. And it was everything I was expecting.

“Number One” is a propaganda film, first and foremost. Its message lies right on the surface, conveniently etched out in stark colors and so concrete that you’ll be sure to get the idea even if you sleep through most of the movie. It is a neon-advertisement-version of Moroccan reality, the before-and-after of an infomercial.

The movie tells the story of a middle-aged, middle-class man stuck in the middle of a power hierarchy. Feeling put down psychologically by his wealthy boss, he is a despot to the people he considers below him on the scale: his wife and his employees – seamstresses at the clothing factory where he is a manager. The story takes off when, literally overnight, he changes his ways. He becomes friendly, gentle, and respectful – and finds that not only the women around him, but also he himself is much happier this way.

“Number One” is funny, it made me laugh – but it is mostly the way in which this story is told that makes this movie endlessly fascinating to me. First of all, there is the fact that although the movie clearly tells the story of the changing relationship between men and women, it suggests that the societal confusion surrounding the moudawana has led to a bouleversement (I love that word), or complete upheaval, of hierarchies in general. The film is full of references to and illustrations of other power inequalities. The main character, Aziz, is a tyrant not only to his female employees, but also to the male parking guard who works for him, or the young man selling nuts on the street. Moreover, it seems that Aziz acts the way he does out of a frustration that stems from the fact that he himself is stuck at the low end of yet another hierarchical relationship – that with his boss, who spends his days barking orders over the phone at a suddenly very humble Aziz.

Aziz’ overnight change comes with a radical upheaval of the power relationships in which he is involved. We see that he becomes more friendly to his wife and more understanding to his employees, but at no point does this shift in hierarchies become more clear than at the moment that Aziz, in a first attempt to reverse this new situation, visits a fqih.

Technically, originally, or officially, a fqih is simply a man learned in the Qur’an who can guide others in matters of theology and religious practice. In practice, there are many fqihs who have become much more than that; they have added an expertise in magic to their repertoire, and may more aptly be considered a kind of ‘sorcerer’. Fqihs are always men, and it is important to know that these sorcerer-fqihs are usually quite marginal figures. Sorcery lies very much beyond all that is considered Islamically orthodox, and it is thus not something that is commonly accepted in Morocco. Those who choose to devote themselves to this practice thus often find themselves on the social, economic, and political outskirts of society.

The fqih in this movie is no different. He resides in a shack in the “bidonville des voleurs,” the slum of thieves. Aziz enters the neighborhood in his nice suit and briefcase; an appearance that inspires fear in his employees, but scorn and mocking among the slum’s residents. To make matters worse, he must admit to a shady figure on the street that he, the important factory manager, is seeking help from the fqih, a resident of this slum (and from the shady figure himself, because Aziz is quite unable to find the fqih on his own). “Ma kathshemsh,” the figure breezily tells Aziz as he leads him down a winding alley, ‘don’t be ashamed’: members of parliament, governors, even ministers come to consult the mighty fqih.

Ultimately, though, even this almighty fqih (who himself spares no words in expressing his unprecedented and unsurpassed power) admits to be completely powerless in the face of the force that has brought about this change in Aziz’ comportment. And that brings me to two other fascinating elements of this story: the allusion that there is a mighty female power that can ultimately overrule even the most tyrannical man, and the form this power takes – a chouafa.

A chouafa (pronounced shoe-waah-fah) is a kind of medium. She is always female, and in many ways the counterpart of the sorcerer-fqih. As someone who communicates with spirits and other supernatural forces, a chouafa can be consulted to divine what has caused the problems in your life, and will offer solutions that range from magic spells and curses to herbal concoctions and ritual sacrifices. Much like the supernatural figure of Aicha Qandisha, a chouafa represents the danger and mystery of female power. Chouafat are thus often considered a threat to the normal social order and, like the sorcerer-fqihs, find themselves on the margins of society.

Nevertheless, this marginality prevents neither Aziz’ wife from seeking a chouafa’s help in enchanting her husband, nor Aziz himself in seeking a fqih’s supernatural remedy. It illustrates the ambiguity of power that affects the Moroccan social order (and all other social orders alike, probably) – our dependence on great power, and our simultaneous fear of its destructive force.** This is an ambiguity that the movie tries to provide a new solution to, I think. Aziz’ story is meant to suggest that rather than fear such power we’d be better off to accept it – in the end, we’re all subject to female power, whether or not we respect women – but also that this power is much easier to exercise and maintain when it is accompanied by some respect for those at whom it is directed.

The last element that fascinated me about this movie is the fact that Aziz immediately interpreted his change of behavior as an illness or affliction. Of course, in the movie, it was – an affliction directly caused by a chouafa’s herbal concoction, mixed into Aziz’ evening meal. But the point is that Aziz, not knowing how he’d contracted the problem, immediately sought the help first of a fqih, and then of a psychiatrist. He immediately pathologized his anomalous behavior, his deviance from the social norm. More specifically, he pathologized what he seemed to consider a loss of masculinity: nervously, he faced the doctor and uttered his fear: “have I become a homosexual?” The doctor laughs and shakes his head, to Aziz’ great relief. They settle on another, less noxious diagnosis: “syndrome de la moudawana.”

What really struck me was the movie plot’s similarity to what Vincent Crapanzano argued, years ago, in his “ethnopsychiatric” ethnography of a mystical brotherhood in Meknes (The Hamadsha, 1973). When you are truly possessed by a jinn, Crapanzano explains, complete exorcism is no longer a possibility. The jinn is with you for life, and so the best you can do is to establish a symbiotic relationship with it, thus reaping the benefits of a connection with the supernatural. Though marginalized by mainstream society because of the erratic behavior the jinn causes you to exhibit, the therapeutic process of communicating with the jinn – facilitated by this brotherhood of men who have themselves been possessed – is simultaneously an induction into a new community, of those with a certain kind of supernatural power.

The exact same thing happens to Aziz. He is ‘possessed’ by respect for women (literally – the chouafa’s magic has taken possession of him by ingestion), and learns from the fqih and psychiatrist that there is no way he can be completely exorcised. He ultimately finds that he can reclaim a sense of power and status not by ridding himself of his new behavior, but by embracing his new reality. He may have lost the respect of a few friends, but he has gained that of a new social group.

Modernity, tradition; power, danger; male, female; healthy, pathological – if there’s anything this movie shows, it’s that these binary sets are inextricably related, and a shift in one balance tips that of the others…


* the family code is a body of law that governs all relationships and acts that pertain to the family – such as marriage, divorce, and heritage. Previously based on Islamic law, the moudawana was radically reformed in 2003, and is now based on civil law. Most of the changes to the family code come down to an unprecedented increase in women’s rights.
** It never stops to intrigue me that our preoccupation with power – something that is probably very primal in our nature – is so often projected onto our experiences of the relationship between genders. Though most likely, this is also perfectly natural, given the fact that that relationship is one of the most central and important in our collective lives as human beings.

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.