Sometimes the littlest things can seem so difficult to get done in Morocco. Buying mouthwash, for instance.
My Listerine is running out, and so I decided it was time to purchase a Moroccan replacement. I looked up the French word for mouthwash in the dictionary (“eau dentifrice”), and armed with that knowledge I went on expedition into the medina. I didn’t expect to find Listerine anywhere, but did not think it would be difficult to find something similar; the numerous “parfumeries” all over the city are stocked full of any kind of drugstore product one might need.
These “parfumeries” are little holes in the wall, tiny drugstores that sell everything from shampoo, shower gel and hair dye to deodorants and toothbrushes, and they have all the big western/European brands.* And with so many Western products, I was sure any of these parfumeries would have what I was looking for. No such luck, however.
Like most other small shops here, a parfumerie is not a place for browsing; everything is displayed behind a big counter. This means that shopping always requires intensive interaction with the shopkeeper, who must be asked to fetch all the products you want to look at, and whom you must then bargain with for a good price. And so, armed with my French word, I stepped up to the proprietor at the first parfumerie I found. “Wash ‘andek de l’eau dentifrice?” I asked in perfect Aransiya.** “Dentifrice? Bien sûr,” the proprietor responded, and pointed to a shelf full of toothpaste behind him. Which brand did I want? No, I told him, not “dentifrice,” but “eau dentifrice.” He gave me a puzzled look, and I repeated myself. “Eau, de l’eau,” I told him. He processed this for a while, and then shook his head. “La, ma kaynsh.” And so I thanked him, left the store, and walked straight to another one, where the exact same conversation took place. This exact exchange took place, in fact, at every single parfumerie I went to. I began to wonder: does mouthwash not exist in Morocco? But hadn’t I seen it in Casablanca? Was I using the wrong word? Or were parfumeries not the place to go?
Back home, I asked Amma and Alma about it. They did not understand me either, until I showed them my bottle of Listerine. Oh, they said, like a “bain de bouche”? Eagerly I nodded, and they urged me to come to the bathroom with them, where they showed me bottles bearing those words on the label. Yes, I said, I think it’s something like that – and took a look at the label. Not what I am looking for at all: their bain de bouche is more of a salt solution than the acidic alcohol rinse I am in search of. All members of my host family are in the process of getting various dental work done – a tooth pulled here, new braces there – and their bains de bouche come from dental prescriptions. I tried to explain what I had in mind precisely: something against cavities, and to prevent bad breath (what is the word for gingivitis in French?). Sort of like what toothpaste does, I said. Alma gave me a puzzled look. “Then why don’t you just use toothpaste?”, she asked me, “why do you not like toothpaste?” No, I said, I love toothpaste; I use both, first toothpaste, then bain de bouche. Ah, she said, with a smile and a wink, “that’s why your teeth look so good.” She finally told me to check at a pharmacy – and then immediately called a pharmacist-friend to ask him if he knew what I was talking about. Alternating on the phone, she and I tried to explain to him what it was that I needed. Eau dentifrice didn’t register with him either, but bain de bouche did. Something acidic, however, he hadn’t heard of. Still no luck.
I was confused. There is no shortage of beauty products in Morocco. If people actually have a bathroom, it is stocked full with deodorants, creams, shampoos, conditioners, fragrances and other products. Why does no one know what mouthwash is? I began to regret my decision not to bring more Listerine with me. Thanks in part to a hyper-vigilant dental office that has a dramatic flair about their care for the health of my mouth, I am a little hyper myself when it comes to my dental routine. I had just sadly resigned myself to a fate of tooth decay when I walked past the Mohammed V medina exit and noticed another parfumerie-looking store and decided to give it one more try. I walked in to what turned out to be an actual drug store – no hole in the wall, but an actual store with aisles that allowed customers to browse the products for themselves. And there, in the very first aisle, next to the toothpaste, stood not just one kind of mouthwash, but four different brands of it. All acidic, all exactly what I was looking for, in my choice of price ranges and brands.
It had seemed so impossible to find mouthwash, and then finally turned out to be so incredibly easy – once I had found the place to go. It seems to work that way with a lot of things here. A lot of everyday transactions seem to be a matter of simply ‘knowing’ – where to shop for what, where to get the best deal, who to talk to when you need something, how best to get from one place to another. This is true for any place in the world, perhaps, and my difficulty probably stems from the fact that I am simply unfamiliar with this culture. But I maintain that there is something different about Morocco. It seems to me that here, there is no way to acquire this knowledge but through trial and error. There is no system; there are no chain stores to rely on (yes, there is Marjane, but this is not the kind of place you go to for your everyday needs), no bus schedules to pick up at the station, no consumer reports to advise you of the best choice of vendor.
And it does not always help to ask a Moroccan. The logic of these things seems so self-evident to them that they have a hard time putting it into words. For instance, asking my host family for directions to somewhere in the city is hopeless. They don’t navigate by means of street names, and when I mention one I am given blank stares. The same happens when I show them a map; they are not used to looking at their city this way, and get confused when they try to work it out. In turn, I am often unfamiliar with the landmarks they navigate by. A complete miscommunication, in other words.
For the same reason, my hopes at flying back to the United States with some authentic Moroccan recipes will most likely remain unfulfilled. My host family is perfectly happy to explain to me how they make certain dishes, but the way they conceive of cooking is just completely different. A fair number of ingredients seem to be taken entirely for granted: I see them putting eggs or butter into their dough, but they are never mentioned in their recipes. Measurements are also different. Again, they seem entirely intuitive: everything is given to me as “shouiya diyal…,” ‘ a little…’. I would need to take a seat in the kitchen one day and observe something being made from start to finish – but would probably mostly be in the way if I did that.
And so learning how these little aspects of daily life work is probably a matter of observation, combined with a lot of trial and error experimentation. And shouiya-bishouiya (little by little) I’m finding my way. At least it’s another interesting ethnographic challenge…
And apparently I am at least starting to look like I know my way: this morning on my way to the internet cafe, a woman stopped me and asked me where she could find a taxi to Temara (a Rabat suburb), in Arabic. And in Arabic, I directed her to the grand taxi stand at Bab Chellah. The few odd bystanders looked at me with as much surprise as I felt myself. That she would ask me, the most obvious foreigner, for directions in Rabat, in Arabic. and that I was actually able to help her. I have to say I'm pretty proud of myself.
* Only some of these products seem to have been produced for the Moroccan consumer; most of it is, I think, contraband destined for the Benelux (the Netherlands/Belgium/Luxemburg) or Germany. That is, they come with Dutch/French or German writing on the back instead of French and Arabic, and have been produced in the Netherlands, France, or Germany rather than Ain Sebaa in Casablanca.
** ‘Aransiya’, or ‘Faranbiya’, is a combination of the words ‘arabiya’ (‘arabic’) and ‘faransiya’ (‘french’), and refers to many people’s tendency to mix a lot of French words and phrases into their Arabic. As an imperfect speaker of either, I have become quite adept at this hybrid language.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
To Go Or Not To Go?
A weekly dilemma has become a part of my routine: To go or not to go to Salé for the weekend.
Alma spends most of her time at Fatima’s house in Salé these days, only sleeping here in Rabat about two nights a week at most. I still think this has something to do with a search for a bit of liberty, but I am also beginning to think that there is some enmity between her and Manal. After this thought came to me about two weeks ago I began to observe their interaction more closely, and realized there is none. They simply do not talk to each other. Manal talks to Fatima but never to Alma, and Alma will speak to her mother but never to Manal. This leads to some strange and roundabout behavior sometimes. Today in Salé, for instance, Alma decided to call her mother in Rabat (Fatima’s house, the family’s second headquarters, is in constant contact with the epicenter). She dialed the number and put the phone to her ear, but as soon as someone answered she handed the phone to Mustafa. It became clear he was talking to his “tatta Manal;”* but when Khadija came to the phone, Alma took it back from him and talked to her mother. I’m taking this as a fairly strong sign that something is indeed going on between them, and I wonder what it is. And is the issue new, or was I simply unaware of it before?
In any case, Alma knows I don’t have class on Fridays, and when she comes by the house in Rabat on Thursday afternoons, she routinely asks me if I feel like coming to Salé. The incentives are laundry and a shower – two very essential things – as well as “gateaux”, because Fatima likes to bake. But the price they come at is a complete lack of privacy and a total sensory overload, and I find my tolerance for these two things decreasing every week.
In Salé, the lack of privacy means that my time is not my own. There is not a single moment in the day that I actually decide for myself what I want to do or not do. There is simply no room; we spend the day (and night) together in the little informal sitting room in the middle of the house. I eat when and what the family eats, sleep when the family sleeps, and watch on TV whatever the family watches. Anyone walking into the sitting room will not think twice about grabbing the remote control and changing the channel, even if someone was already watching something. I am encouraged to do my work if I want to, but this will invariably mean being watched by Mustafa, who wants to know what I am writing on my computer, interrupts me because he wants me to watch a cartoon with him or because he wants to see pictures of my family, or offers his help with my Arabic. I have tried to make use of his homework time by trying to create a sort of communal study-atmosphere, but Mustafa does not have the concentration for this. He simply cannot be quiet when there are other people to have fun with (and this is always the case – how does he ever get any work done, I wonder?).**
Then there is a complete sensory overload. Because it is in the middle of the house this sitting room has no windows to the outside, and so the light is always on, from early morning to late night. Si Mahmoud likes to smoke, so there is always the smell of cigarettes, mixed in with whatever is being cooked in the kitchen (and something is always cooking). But mostly, this sensory overload is auditory. First of all, the television is always on. And when I say always, I mean always. It wakes me up every morning because Alma turns it on as soon as she wakes up, at 5 or 6 in the morning. And it is still on when I fall asleep, because Alma puts it on a timer as she dozes off – which is past midnight, usually. In addition to the television, there is the radio in the kitchen, which is also always on and either plays a tape of Qur’an recitation, or a very staticky radio station. On top of that, someone is always on the phone. These three sources of noise constantly compete with one another, each trying to top the other one. The person on the phone will begin to speak louder in order to be heard over the television, upon which whoever is watching TV will turn up the sound to hear what’s being said – and so on. Then there are random other sources of sound: the television in the boys’ bedroom, Fatima yelling at them about their homework, about taking a shower, about going to bed. The rhythmic thumping of the washing machine in the kitchen. The noise from the street that drifts in through the windows that are always open.
And finally, there is a clock. A religious-looking clock, with lots of Qur’anic calligraphy on it, but every hour on the hour it plays a little Western tune with one of those primitive cell-phone tones. It is a different tune every hour, but always something well-known: the happy birthday melody, “row, row, row your boat,” and a few others that stick in your mind like none other. During the day, I don’t hear it – it would be hard to, with the television, radio, and conversation going all at once. But at night, this clock keeps me awake. Whenever I finally doze off, there it is again, at 2 AM, 3 AM, 4, 5… Even my earplugs don’t keep out that intrusive, haunting, monotonous sound. When Alma mentions going to Salé, this clock is the first thing I think of. I don’t sleep in Salé because of this clock, and in combination with all the other sensory input, a weekend at Fatima’s house never fails to give me a serious headache.
There is a lack of privacy and a sensory overload in Rabat, too – but the big difference is that at the latter location, I can retreat to that room upstairs that I share with Amma. It is not my own, but it is quiet(er), and it is a refuge from observation, attention, questions, interaction. All my things are there, and I can do my work in peace. I am finding more and more, as the weeks pass, that I need to have that option. I need to be able to excuse myself, even if it’s only an hour a day, to be alone and escape for a bit; to close my eyes, to be alone with my computer, to listen to the silence, or my iPod – my own choice of sound. And I cannot do this in Salé. There is nowhere to go.
I am developing a sense of guilt about this. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, I don’t want to just send off my laundry and have them do it all for me, and I don’t want the family to think that I don’t like it in Salé – even if that is the truth. I love Mustafa and Yunus, I very much like Si Mahmoud and Fatima, and there are things I do like about their house – the shower, the fact that they often have Duo Penotti at breakfast, for instance. But it is simply too exhausting, and it becomes more difficult to bear each weekend. I dread the headache I know I’ll get, and I dread the intolerance the lack of space brings out in me. I have decided that the only good excuse is that I have places to be during the weekend. Meetings with friends, appointments. Saying I have to go to an internet café won’t work, because those exist in Salé, too; saying I have work to do doesn’t register either, because they do not understand why I’d need peace and quiet for that. This time I told them I had to go back to the “markez hollandi,” the Dutch center.
It will be difficult, however, to turn down the offer every weekend. I will just have to deal, I think.
* I am not sure where this word ‘tatta’ comes from. The Moroccan word for maternal aunt is ‘khalti’. Perhaps tatta comes from the French, ‘tante’? I have never heard it used before by anyone else.
** My time is not my own, and neither is my body; the family overrules any indications on my part that I’ve eaten enough, for instance. I am told that cold feet and hot showers are the cause of my headache, I am told to put on more clothes when they decide it is cold, and Mustafa even runs over to help me button up my cardigan when it takes me more than a second to do it myself.
Alma spends most of her time at Fatima’s house in Salé these days, only sleeping here in Rabat about two nights a week at most. I still think this has something to do with a search for a bit of liberty, but I am also beginning to think that there is some enmity between her and Manal. After this thought came to me about two weeks ago I began to observe their interaction more closely, and realized there is none. They simply do not talk to each other. Manal talks to Fatima but never to Alma, and Alma will speak to her mother but never to Manal. This leads to some strange and roundabout behavior sometimes. Today in Salé, for instance, Alma decided to call her mother in Rabat (Fatima’s house, the family’s second headquarters, is in constant contact with the epicenter). She dialed the number and put the phone to her ear, but as soon as someone answered she handed the phone to Mustafa. It became clear he was talking to his “tatta Manal;”* but when Khadija came to the phone, Alma took it back from him and talked to her mother. I’m taking this as a fairly strong sign that something is indeed going on between them, and I wonder what it is. And is the issue new, or was I simply unaware of it before?
In any case, Alma knows I don’t have class on Fridays, and when she comes by the house in Rabat on Thursday afternoons, she routinely asks me if I feel like coming to Salé. The incentives are laundry and a shower – two very essential things – as well as “gateaux”, because Fatima likes to bake. But the price they come at is a complete lack of privacy and a total sensory overload, and I find my tolerance for these two things decreasing every week.
In Salé, the lack of privacy means that my time is not my own. There is not a single moment in the day that I actually decide for myself what I want to do or not do. There is simply no room; we spend the day (and night) together in the little informal sitting room in the middle of the house. I eat when and what the family eats, sleep when the family sleeps, and watch on TV whatever the family watches. Anyone walking into the sitting room will not think twice about grabbing the remote control and changing the channel, even if someone was already watching something. I am encouraged to do my work if I want to, but this will invariably mean being watched by Mustafa, who wants to know what I am writing on my computer, interrupts me because he wants me to watch a cartoon with him or because he wants to see pictures of my family, or offers his help with my Arabic. I have tried to make use of his homework time by trying to create a sort of communal study-atmosphere, but Mustafa does not have the concentration for this. He simply cannot be quiet when there are other people to have fun with (and this is always the case – how does he ever get any work done, I wonder?).**
Then there is a complete sensory overload. Because it is in the middle of the house this sitting room has no windows to the outside, and so the light is always on, from early morning to late night. Si Mahmoud likes to smoke, so there is always the smell of cigarettes, mixed in with whatever is being cooked in the kitchen (and something is always cooking). But mostly, this sensory overload is auditory. First of all, the television is always on. And when I say always, I mean always. It wakes me up every morning because Alma turns it on as soon as she wakes up, at 5 or 6 in the morning. And it is still on when I fall asleep, because Alma puts it on a timer as she dozes off – which is past midnight, usually. In addition to the television, there is the radio in the kitchen, which is also always on and either plays a tape of Qur’an recitation, or a very staticky radio station. On top of that, someone is always on the phone. These three sources of noise constantly compete with one another, each trying to top the other one. The person on the phone will begin to speak louder in order to be heard over the television, upon which whoever is watching TV will turn up the sound to hear what’s being said – and so on. Then there are random other sources of sound: the television in the boys’ bedroom, Fatima yelling at them about their homework, about taking a shower, about going to bed. The rhythmic thumping of the washing machine in the kitchen. The noise from the street that drifts in through the windows that are always open.
And finally, there is a clock. A religious-looking clock, with lots of Qur’anic calligraphy on it, but every hour on the hour it plays a little Western tune with one of those primitive cell-phone tones. It is a different tune every hour, but always something well-known: the happy birthday melody, “row, row, row your boat,” and a few others that stick in your mind like none other. During the day, I don’t hear it – it would be hard to, with the television, radio, and conversation going all at once. But at night, this clock keeps me awake. Whenever I finally doze off, there it is again, at 2 AM, 3 AM, 4, 5… Even my earplugs don’t keep out that intrusive, haunting, monotonous sound. When Alma mentions going to Salé, this clock is the first thing I think of. I don’t sleep in Salé because of this clock, and in combination with all the other sensory input, a weekend at Fatima’s house never fails to give me a serious headache.
There is a lack of privacy and a sensory overload in Rabat, too – but the big difference is that at the latter location, I can retreat to that room upstairs that I share with Amma. It is not my own, but it is quiet(er), and it is a refuge from observation, attention, questions, interaction. All my things are there, and I can do my work in peace. I am finding more and more, as the weeks pass, that I need to have that option. I need to be able to excuse myself, even if it’s only an hour a day, to be alone and escape for a bit; to close my eyes, to be alone with my computer, to listen to the silence, or my iPod – my own choice of sound. And I cannot do this in Salé. There is nowhere to go.
I am developing a sense of guilt about this. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, I don’t want to just send off my laundry and have them do it all for me, and I don’t want the family to think that I don’t like it in Salé – even if that is the truth. I love Mustafa and Yunus, I very much like Si Mahmoud and Fatima, and there are things I do like about their house – the shower, the fact that they often have Duo Penotti at breakfast, for instance. But it is simply too exhausting, and it becomes more difficult to bear each weekend. I dread the headache I know I’ll get, and I dread the intolerance the lack of space brings out in me. I have decided that the only good excuse is that I have places to be during the weekend. Meetings with friends, appointments. Saying I have to go to an internet café won’t work, because those exist in Salé, too; saying I have work to do doesn’t register either, because they do not understand why I’d need peace and quiet for that. This time I told them I had to go back to the “markez hollandi,” the Dutch center.
It will be difficult, however, to turn down the offer every weekend. I will just have to deal, I think.
* I am not sure where this word ‘tatta’ comes from. The Moroccan word for maternal aunt is ‘khalti’. Perhaps tatta comes from the French, ‘tante’? I have never heard it used before by anyone else.
** My time is not my own, and neither is my body; the family overrules any indications on my part that I’ve eaten enough, for instance. I am told that cold feet and hot showers are the cause of my headache, I am told to put on more clothes when they decide it is cold, and Mustafa even runs over to help me button up my cardigan when it takes me more than a second to do it myself.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Cultural Relativism: Also Ma Kaynsh, It Seems
I have been surprised at the general lack of interest in the United States that the people around me have displayed so far – because four years ago in Fes, that was so different. It’s disappointing in one sense – in the same way that I think it’s disappointing that people in the US and Europe are not more interested in what goes on in countries like Morocco; more simple knowledge of these issues would do so much in furthering better communication between these parts of the world. But at the same time I’ve been a little relieved. In Fes, I often found myself having to defend the US, or the Western world in general, to prejudiced belief after prejudiced belief. I always tried to react diplomatically, by trying to convey to these people the same sense of cultural relativity that I was trying to bring to my impressions of Morocco. Not every American agrees with the president’s policies, I would explain; the Western world does not lack values and culture, it just interprets them differently; we have more in common than you think, and there is more variation between Western countries than you think. But it never worked; I don’t think I was ever able to convince them that the West was not what they thought it was.
And so this time around, I decided that if met with such negative opinions about my part of the world, I would no longer try. I would shrug it off, avoid discussion, and let it be. Luckily, I had not had to worry about this at all – until a week ago, perhaps. Noureddine, Amma’s father, seems to have embarked on a campaign of sorts to convince me of the superiority of Morocco and/or Islam. His first comment had some appropriate context. It was on one of the rare occasions that I was watching the international news, and the stock market dives of the day were just being reported when he arrived. “You know how this can be fixed?” he asked me. I looked at him expectantly. He seems to be a man who knows something about economics; I believe he has some kind of business in Rabat’s trendy neighborhood, and I was curious to hear his insight. But then it came: “Americans just need to read the Qur’an,” he said. And to add force to his argument: “Even someone in the US said that.” He went on to prove to me the divinity of the Qur’an by listing a variety of scientific or natural phenomena it accurately describes – his point being, I think, that the Qur’an’s view of the world is accurate and can therefore be taken as a guide for all aspects of private and public life.*
The next time he came over he asked me point blank, “so, are you going to become Muslim?” For this particular question, I always have an answer ready: “in sha’llah.” It’s the perfect hedge; I don’t offend anyone by saying no, I don’t make any false promises, and it usually leads to some laughter and a change of subject.
Then two days ago, Noureddine brought up the economy again, out of nowhere. He had just been looking at the book I was reading – Jalil Bennani’s new publication about the history of psychoanalysis in the Maghreb; nothing to do with the markets, in other words – and suddenly began. This time he had a theory about the cause of the economic crisis: American Jews had extracted about 300 million dollars from the markets in order to send it to Israel.** This subsequently led to what promised to be a general argument about how Morocco is superior to the Western world because it still focuses on the family and community, while we are fragmented individuals. Luckily Manal nipped it in the bud by disagreeing with him, and before he could answer dinner was served.
All these times I have shrugged like I had planned. I say things like “bisahh?” (‘really?’) and hope he will change the subject. But I have to admit that it is upsetting me a little. Why is he telling me these things? What kind of reaction is he looking for by telling me – a westerner – how inferior and wrong my part of the world is? Does he want me to feel bad, to agree with him, to express a wish to become a part of his culture? Which would never be a real possibility – becoming Muslim is a technical possibility for anyone, but I could never become a Moroccan. I could never even lead an integrated life here; I’d always be different, always be made to feel different by precisely the kinds of attitudes he was displaying right then. How does this kind of behavior fit into Morocco’s famous ethos of hospitality?
Or does he want me to disagree, to argue with him, to make him prove his point? There is no point in doing that – he won’t convince me that he’s right, and (judging by my experiences four years ago) I certainly won’t be able to convince him that the West is not all bad. And so I won’t. I’ll keep shrugging, avoiding the discussion. But it makes me silently mad sometimes. It makes me mad that I work so hard to be the anthropologist, to understand Morocco within its own moral framework, to appreciate its different view of things and to recognize a certain universality of moral values and human pursuits underneath it all – and that I am met with these kinds of blanket statements and prejudices about ‘the West’. It makes me mad that I am expected to embrace Morocco – because if I don’t I am a ‘racist’ and I prove everyone right about the ‘evil’ west – but that no one is required to reciprocate that openmindedness at all. And it makes me mad that I am asked to account for some lack or depravity in my cultural background that only exists because people apply their own very culturally specific moral understandings to a world they do not understand. I know this is not a Moroccan problem. There are people in the US and Europe who are just as prejudiced and ignorant about the Arab world. But it bothers me. It bothers me that people can’t be bothered to look into things a little, to have an open mind. To think about what goes on in other people’s worlds – not just in other countries, but in other classes within their own society, as well. It bothers me so much that sometimes I want to throw my own efforts at understanding and relativity by the wayside, and tell Noureddine about everything that I think is wrong with Morocco, or with his religion.
But no one will ever get anywhere with that kind of closed-minded attitude. Sadly, sometimes I worry that if we keep being faced with this kind of prejudice, people who do interest themselves in human & societal variation won’t, either. But, coming back to the topic of yesterday’s post – the elections – I have a little hope again, after what happened two nights ago, that ultimately those who couldn’t care less about the rest of the world may be in the minority. And I need to remind myself that Noureddine is only the first such person I have met here, in more than a month. Hopefully he will be the only one.
* This is a common approach to Islamic proselytism. There are books full of converted scientists’ testimonies to the Qur’an’s scientific accuracy. Yes, the Qur’an may mention that pregnancy lasts 40 weeks, or that one can find both salty and sweet water on earth. But personally, I am not sure this proves anything other than the fact that at the time the Qur’an was recorded, those nomads in the Arabian Peninsula must have been a curious and observant people.
** I am aware that there is a general mistrust of Jews in the Arab world, but I had thought that this prejudice would be a little mitigated in Morocco. Moroccans always talk so proudly about their country’s (formerly) large Jewish population and the amicability between Moroccan Jews and Arabs (even though no one actually knows any Jews, and most of this community has in fact migrated to Israel). Clearly not everyone feels that openminded – I was fairly shocked by Noureddine’s statement.
And so this time around, I decided that if met with such negative opinions about my part of the world, I would no longer try. I would shrug it off, avoid discussion, and let it be. Luckily, I had not had to worry about this at all – until a week ago, perhaps. Noureddine, Amma’s father, seems to have embarked on a campaign of sorts to convince me of the superiority of Morocco and/or Islam. His first comment had some appropriate context. It was on one of the rare occasions that I was watching the international news, and the stock market dives of the day were just being reported when he arrived. “You know how this can be fixed?” he asked me. I looked at him expectantly. He seems to be a man who knows something about economics; I believe he has some kind of business in Rabat’s trendy neighborhood, and I was curious to hear his insight. But then it came: “Americans just need to read the Qur’an,” he said. And to add force to his argument: “Even someone in the US said that.” He went on to prove to me the divinity of the Qur’an by listing a variety of scientific or natural phenomena it accurately describes – his point being, I think, that the Qur’an’s view of the world is accurate and can therefore be taken as a guide for all aspects of private and public life.*
The next time he came over he asked me point blank, “so, are you going to become Muslim?” For this particular question, I always have an answer ready: “in sha’llah.” It’s the perfect hedge; I don’t offend anyone by saying no, I don’t make any false promises, and it usually leads to some laughter and a change of subject.
Then two days ago, Noureddine brought up the economy again, out of nowhere. He had just been looking at the book I was reading – Jalil Bennani’s new publication about the history of psychoanalysis in the Maghreb; nothing to do with the markets, in other words – and suddenly began. This time he had a theory about the cause of the economic crisis: American Jews had extracted about 300 million dollars from the markets in order to send it to Israel.** This subsequently led to what promised to be a general argument about how Morocco is superior to the Western world because it still focuses on the family and community, while we are fragmented individuals. Luckily Manal nipped it in the bud by disagreeing with him, and before he could answer dinner was served.
All these times I have shrugged like I had planned. I say things like “bisahh?” (‘really?’) and hope he will change the subject. But I have to admit that it is upsetting me a little. Why is he telling me these things? What kind of reaction is he looking for by telling me – a westerner – how inferior and wrong my part of the world is? Does he want me to feel bad, to agree with him, to express a wish to become a part of his culture? Which would never be a real possibility – becoming Muslim is a technical possibility for anyone, but I could never become a Moroccan. I could never even lead an integrated life here; I’d always be different, always be made to feel different by precisely the kinds of attitudes he was displaying right then. How does this kind of behavior fit into Morocco’s famous ethos of hospitality?
Or does he want me to disagree, to argue with him, to make him prove his point? There is no point in doing that – he won’t convince me that he’s right, and (judging by my experiences four years ago) I certainly won’t be able to convince him that the West is not all bad. And so I won’t. I’ll keep shrugging, avoiding the discussion. But it makes me silently mad sometimes. It makes me mad that I work so hard to be the anthropologist, to understand Morocco within its own moral framework, to appreciate its different view of things and to recognize a certain universality of moral values and human pursuits underneath it all – and that I am met with these kinds of blanket statements and prejudices about ‘the West’. It makes me mad that I am expected to embrace Morocco – because if I don’t I am a ‘racist’ and I prove everyone right about the ‘evil’ west – but that no one is required to reciprocate that openmindedness at all. And it makes me mad that I am asked to account for some lack or depravity in my cultural background that only exists because people apply their own very culturally specific moral understandings to a world they do not understand. I know this is not a Moroccan problem. There are people in the US and Europe who are just as prejudiced and ignorant about the Arab world. But it bothers me. It bothers me that people can’t be bothered to look into things a little, to have an open mind. To think about what goes on in other people’s worlds – not just in other countries, but in other classes within their own society, as well. It bothers me so much that sometimes I want to throw my own efforts at understanding and relativity by the wayside, and tell Noureddine about everything that I think is wrong with Morocco, or with his religion.
But no one will ever get anywhere with that kind of closed-minded attitude. Sadly, sometimes I worry that if we keep being faced with this kind of prejudice, people who do interest themselves in human & societal variation won’t, either. But, coming back to the topic of yesterday’s post – the elections – I have a little hope again, after what happened two nights ago, that ultimately those who couldn’t care less about the rest of the world may be in the minority. And I need to remind myself that Noureddine is only the first such person I have met here, in more than a month. Hopefully he will be the only one.
* This is a common approach to Islamic proselytism. There are books full of converted scientists’ testimonies to the Qur’an’s scientific accuracy. Yes, the Qur’an may mention that pregnancy lasts 40 weeks, or that one can find both salty and sweet water on earth. But personally, I am not sure this proves anything other than the fact that at the time the Qur’an was recorded, those nomads in the Arabian Peninsula must have been a curious and observant people.
** I am aware that there is a general mistrust of Jews in the Arab world, but I had thought that this prejudice would be a little mitigated in Morocco. Moroccans always talk so proudly about their country’s (formerly) large Jewish population and the amicability between Moroccan Jews and Arabs (even though no one actually knows any Jews, and most of this community has in fact migrated to Israel). Clearly not everyone feels that openminded – I was fairly shocked by Noureddine’s statement.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
"McCain'sh": Obama-Mania in Rabat
One of the things I have missed most here in Morocco is a sense of connection with the outside world. It has been difficult to keep up with world news here, and I have felt a little out of the loop, especially with regard to the US presidential campaigns, which I had been following closely. And so this feeling of distance became especially acute with yesterday’s long-awaited elections. This was such a historic moment, carrying with it such huge possibility and promise, and I wanted to be part of it. I am not allowed to vote in the United States, but I felt involved. I live there, I identify with the country, I love it, and its future affects mine. I contributed to Obama’s campaign, I watched his speeches, listened to those of McCain as well, and would so much have liked to follow the election results live, as they came in.
Sadly the 6-hour time difference, the rain* – which messes with the satellite reception – and my host family’s predilection for Turkish soap operas made that a virtual impossibility. I watched Al Jazeera International when I could, and caught a glimpse of Obama casting his vote, but by the time polls closed it was storming too hard and time to go to bed. I felt strangely lonely, somehow; Manal and Khadija – the only ones home yesterday – did not realize it was election day, did not know who Obama was, and kept switching the channel from Al Jazeera to their soaps. Why was I watching the news when we could be catching up on what happened to the Turkish girl who got pregnant out of wedlock? No one shared my excitement – but when I explained to them what was going on they did show genuine interest, and they asked me all about the two candidates. They understood this was important to me, and at 7 this morning Manal actually came to wake me up because she had turned on the TV to check the election results, and had heard Obama had won. I already knew at that point – my parents had called me at 4.30 this morning to share the good news – but it touched me, the fact that she had thought to do that for me – and it made my mood today brighter yet.
Right now I cannot stop smiling. I am so incredibly excited, relieved, hopeful and proud at the news of these elections. I still wish I could have been in Chicago, at the epicenter of the action, but I had my own private moment of involvement as I sat in an internet café, sipping coffee and watching the video of Obama’s amazing victory speech on CNN. As I listened to him speak, and as I watched footage of celebrations all over the US, people with tears in their eyes at the historic weight and hope of these results, I felt pleasantly swept up by this current of emotion.
This afternoon Manal called me downstairs so urgently to see something on TV that I worried for a second that the results had been reversed. But nothing of the sort; the Moroccan news was simply reporting on the US elections, and Manal had thought I would be interested. The story included a brief report on Americans voting at the embassy in Rabat. The reporter interviewed two Obama-supporters who had made themselves T-shirts bearing the slogan “McCain’sh” – a creative use of Moroccan Arabic, as they themselves explained. “Ma kaynsh” in Moroccan Arabic means ‘he/it isn’t here’, or ‘there isn’t’, and its pronunciation sounds pretty much like ‘McCainsh’. A joke, then: ma kaynsh McCain – as president!
* It has been raining non-stop for at least two weeks. It has by now crossed the line from a useful blessing into completely debilitating. The country simply cannot absorb it all. The north has flooded; two weeks ago all train traffic to Tangier had stopped (it is up and running again now), and thousands of people from there to Nador have been displaced, their homes and businesses ruined.
Sadly the 6-hour time difference, the rain* – which messes with the satellite reception – and my host family’s predilection for Turkish soap operas made that a virtual impossibility. I watched Al Jazeera International when I could, and caught a glimpse of Obama casting his vote, but by the time polls closed it was storming too hard and time to go to bed. I felt strangely lonely, somehow; Manal and Khadija – the only ones home yesterday – did not realize it was election day, did not know who Obama was, and kept switching the channel from Al Jazeera to their soaps. Why was I watching the news when we could be catching up on what happened to the Turkish girl who got pregnant out of wedlock? No one shared my excitement – but when I explained to them what was going on they did show genuine interest, and they asked me all about the two candidates. They understood this was important to me, and at 7 this morning Manal actually came to wake me up because she had turned on the TV to check the election results, and had heard Obama had won. I already knew at that point – my parents had called me at 4.30 this morning to share the good news – but it touched me, the fact that she had thought to do that for me – and it made my mood today brighter yet.
Right now I cannot stop smiling. I am so incredibly excited, relieved, hopeful and proud at the news of these elections. I still wish I could have been in Chicago, at the epicenter of the action, but I had my own private moment of involvement as I sat in an internet café, sipping coffee and watching the video of Obama’s amazing victory speech on CNN. As I listened to him speak, and as I watched footage of celebrations all over the US, people with tears in their eyes at the historic weight and hope of these results, I felt pleasantly swept up by this current of emotion.
This afternoon Manal called me downstairs so urgently to see something on TV that I worried for a second that the results had been reversed. But nothing of the sort; the Moroccan news was simply reporting on the US elections, and Manal had thought I would be interested. The story included a brief report on Americans voting at the embassy in Rabat. The reporter interviewed two Obama-supporters who had made themselves T-shirts bearing the slogan “McCain’sh” – a creative use of Moroccan Arabic, as they themselves explained. “Ma kaynsh” in Moroccan Arabic means ‘he/it isn’t here’, or ‘there isn’t’, and its pronunciation sounds pretty much like ‘McCainsh’. A joke, then: ma kaynsh McCain – as president!
* It has been raining non-stop for at least two weeks. It has by now crossed the line from a useful blessing into completely debilitating. The country simply cannot absorb it all. The north has flooded; two weeks ago all train traffic to Tangier had stopped (it is up and running again now), and thousands of people from there to Nador have been displaced, their homes and businesses ruined.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Margin versus Center - Part 1
One of the main reasons for my endless intrigue with Morocco is a fundamental sense of duality that colors its society, history, and culture. As I familiarized myself with the country through visits and readings, this duality began to stand out as though it had been written in red ink, and it became the main theme in the background research paper I wrote about the place of mental healthcare in Morocco. A few days ago in class, Ilyas characterized this duality in a way I had not come across before, but which perfectly captures its gist: he called it a contradistinction between center (“l-markez”) and margin (“l-hamish”).
This juxtaposition between center and margin truly runs through all dimensions of this country’s existence, and in a sense it is the connecting thread that binds them all together into a single nation. The most straightforward distinction – and very likely the basis of all other juxtapositions – can be identified geographically. On the one hand there is the arable, temperate Morocco of the coastline and valley; on the other, there are Morocco’s vast mountainous and/or desert regions – border zones that offer natural protection to the valley, but themselves have little to offer but the cruelty of nature. This geographical opposition has engendered a duality in a variety of other dimensions – such as a fairly deep socio-economic divide. Much more inhabitable and fertile, all major cities and most of the country’s infrastructure were built in the valley. The valley has thus always functioned as the center of Morocco’s economic production and prosperity, while rough rural areas contributed relatively little – and had even less. Geography even led to a political divide: Dynastic power always emanated from and focused on the coastal valley, where good infrastructure facilitated the extension of centralized rule throughout the region. The geographical margins, on the other hand, were often simply too rough and unreachable for the sultan’s rule and were run mostly by tribal convention. And finally, geography led to an ethnic and linguistic divide – between the powerful Arabs who controlled the cities, and the proud tribal Berbers, who preferred to isolate themselves in the margins, safe from centralized power.
The French exploited this duality in their colonial policy, hoping thus to rip Morocco apart – to divide and conquer. Appealing to the Berbers’ lack of loyalty to Arab power, they emphasized the ethnic, linguistic, and cultural differences between them, aiming to turn Berber tribes into French allies. What finally thwarted these efforts was sultan Mohammed V’s appeal to religion. In many ways, religion can be considered the single unifying factor in Morocco.* Since the 17th century, the center and margin – the Arab valley and its tribal hinterlands – have stayed together despite the inability of the sultanate to extend its political power to the mountains and deserts, by grace of the ruling dynasty’s status as Charifs (descendants of the prophet Mohammed).** Where the sultan’s political power could not reach, his status as religious leader was always respected. And in those areas where political power was weak, it was often the Sufi brotherhoods who came to play a role of political leadership.
Religion is still a unifying factor. It remains a very important aspect of Moroccan identity – something one may not ordinarily expect from a country where about 99% of the population is of the same faith. Nevertheless, a sense of duality still exists. Geographically, economically, politically, and culturally, there is a center – the coastal valley, its major cities, people with education and means – and a margin – the mountains and deserts, the poor and disenfranchised; those who simply live at too great a distance (either geographically or socio-economically) to either benefit from government services or influence them in any way.
Another duality that has become prominent since the Protectorate period is one of language. The French have in a way greatly complicated and confused the linguistic situation in Morocco; and the way in which king Hassan II’s postcolonial regime dealt with what the French had left behind mostly deepened this confusion. There remains a distinction between Arabic (center) and Amazighi (a term used to denote Berber languages as a collective), as well as a distinction within Arabic between Darija (colloquial Moroccan Arabic) and Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic). Despite the fact that the former is by far much more widely used, it nevertheless counts as marginal – because it is unofficial, not real, ‘lawless’, ‘polluted’. Fusha on the other hand is the language of literacy, of education, of system, and thus of power – as such, it is very much the ‘center’.*** This is a problem, because it pushes all those who have not enjoyed enough education to have command of Fusha even further into the socio-economic margin.
A bigger problem, however, is the divide that has developed between French and Arabic. Upon independence, Morocco was left with a societal infrastructure that functioned mostly in French. This language was kept in place until 1973, when king Hassan II announced a project of ‘Arabization’ (“ta‘rib”), in the hopes of unifying the country and affirming its Arab heritage. Arabization entailed replacement of French with Arabic in all public- and government institutions. But this did not occasion the huge transformation that Hassan II may have envisioned when he came up with this plan. Those with means actually spoke very little Arabic, having lived in Francophone circles for most of their lives. They had enough money to send their children to Francophone schools abroad, and enough power to resist Arabization in their Moroccan realms of functioning – higher education, and government. French thus remains dominant in all day-to-day government affairs, and all university departments teach in French – except the departments of Arabic, Islamic studies, and some areas of law.
This means that a linguistic divide appears, further distancing the average person from these institutions of power. Anyone of average or little means attends Morocco’s public schools, where Arabization has taken effect.**** They thus enjoy their education in a combination of Fusha and Darija, learning French as a foreign language much like a student in the Netherlands would.***** Looking through the entrance requirements for Mohammed V University as listed on its website [find link], I did not see a French language-examination listed anywhere. I therefore don’t think public school graduates are categorically barred from a university education in any way, but the fact that this education takes place in French makes it that much more difficult for someone coming from a public school to succeed in higher education.
The divide between Arabic and French also entails a communicative barrier between government and population. Indeed, there seems to be very little communication of government affairs to the public (Ilyas also mentioned in passing that Moroccan politicians are appalling public speakers). The king, supreme political power, speaks fluent Arabic, French, and apparently even Spanish (I often wonder, does he speak Darija at home with his wife and children?). He is highly visible, but hardly ever speaks to his people. Each night, nearly half of the news broadcast is devoted to reports of Mohammed VI at yet another inauguration of some development project. We are treated to shots of the king looking, with a blank expression, at posters explaining the project at hand; of the king walking down a red carpet with enthusiastic crowds cheering in the background; or of the king making his way down a row of officials, each of which eagerly reaches down to kiss the king’s hand (it always strikes me how he seems to forcefully pull his hand back each time, as if he’s disgusted by the gesture).
Newspapers report on the king’s speeches – most recently at the opening of the new parliamentary session a few weeks ago. But apart from these rehearsed and ceremonial occasions, the king never speaks to his public. In fact, Telquel (the Francophone Moroccan equivalent of Time magazine) published an article two weeks ago on the fact that the king has, as of yet, never granted a single interview to a Moroccan journalist. He has been interviewed for Time, le Figaro, El Pais, Ash-Sharq al-Awsat – but never for a Moroccan publication. Even the Moroccan journalist who had been part of the Ash-Sharq al-Awsat team was subtly kept back as his Saudi colleague was invited to carry out the interview.
Arabization had been meant to unify the country (though I wonder if socio-economic unification was ever part of the motivation; political unification seems to have been more important), but ultimately only deepened the already existing divide between center and margin, adding a new dimension to its influence over Morocco. Why is it that not more effort is made to bring the two sides together, to integrate margin with center? Are the mountains and deserts truly too impenetrable to ever establish any kind of order and system there? Does the center lack means to undertake this – admittedly huge – endeavor? Or is it something else?
I venture to suggest – without making any definitive claims about why the margin remains marginal – that there is a certain dimension of Freudian psychology involved. Stay tuned for the next post.
* Even though here, too, a duality could be identified – between orthodox and heterodox practices, for instance. This, however, may be more aptly characterized as a distinction between ‘religion’ and ‘culture’.
** This is the Alaouite dynasty, which has been in power continuously since the 1600s (despite colonialism; the French technically left the sultan in power), and of which Mohammed VI is the latest ruler. The title of ‘sultan’ was replaced by that of ‘king’ after independence.
*** Because the ‘center’ not only denotes that which has the most power or dominance. It also represents the ideal, the country’s view of itself as it should, ideally, be. But I want to save that idea for the next post.
**** Public schools in Morocco are free – an admirable gesture from the government to offer education to anyone (anyone for whom a school is actually within reachable distance, and who can miss their children’s extra labor force at home). Nevertheless, public education does not get you very far – its quality is sub-par in comparison with the expensive, francophone private institutions attended by those with money.
***** Although it may be unfair to compare these two countries. Moroccans are exposed to French much more intensively than most Dutch high school students are. I asked Amma what languages are spoken in her high school classes, and she mentioned that French pops up outside of her French classes quite frequently, especially in her science classes. This is not surprising, perhaps – if all science at university and research level communicates in French, Darija equivalents for many of its technical terms may simply not exist.
This juxtaposition between center and margin truly runs through all dimensions of this country’s existence, and in a sense it is the connecting thread that binds them all together into a single nation. The most straightforward distinction – and very likely the basis of all other juxtapositions – can be identified geographically. On the one hand there is the arable, temperate Morocco of the coastline and valley; on the other, there are Morocco’s vast mountainous and/or desert regions – border zones that offer natural protection to the valley, but themselves have little to offer but the cruelty of nature. This geographical opposition has engendered a duality in a variety of other dimensions – such as a fairly deep socio-economic divide. Much more inhabitable and fertile, all major cities and most of the country’s infrastructure were built in the valley. The valley has thus always functioned as the center of Morocco’s economic production and prosperity, while rough rural areas contributed relatively little – and had even less. Geography even led to a political divide: Dynastic power always emanated from and focused on the coastal valley, where good infrastructure facilitated the extension of centralized rule throughout the region. The geographical margins, on the other hand, were often simply too rough and unreachable for the sultan’s rule and were run mostly by tribal convention. And finally, geography led to an ethnic and linguistic divide – between the powerful Arabs who controlled the cities, and the proud tribal Berbers, who preferred to isolate themselves in the margins, safe from centralized power.
The French exploited this duality in their colonial policy, hoping thus to rip Morocco apart – to divide and conquer. Appealing to the Berbers’ lack of loyalty to Arab power, they emphasized the ethnic, linguistic, and cultural differences between them, aiming to turn Berber tribes into French allies. What finally thwarted these efforts was sultan Mohammed V’s appeal to religion. In many ways, religion can be considered the single unifying factor in Morocco.* Since the 17th century, the center and margin – the Arab valley and its tribal hinterlands – have stayed together despite the inability of the sultanate to extend its political power to the mountains and deserts, by grace of the ruling dynasty’s status as Charifs (descendants of the prophet Mohammed).** Where the sultan’s political power could not reach, his status as religious leader was always respected. And in those areas where political power was weak, it was often the Sufi brotherhoods who came to play a role of political leadership.
Religion is still a unifying factor. It remains a very important aspect of Moroccan identity – something one may not ordinarily expect from a country where about 99% of the population is of the same faith. Nevertheless, a sense of duality still exists. Geographically, economically, politically, and culturally, there is a center – the coastal valley, its major cities, people with education and means – and a margin – the mountains and deserts, the poor and disenfranchised; those who simply live at too great a distance (either geographically or socio-economically) to either benefit from government services or influence them in any way.
Another duality that has become prominent since the Protectorate period is one of language. The French have in a way greatly complicated and confused the linguistic situation in Morocco; and the way in which king Hassan II’s postcolonial regime dealt with what the French had left behind mostly deepened this confusion. There remains a distinction between Arabic (center) and Amazighi (a term used to denote Berber languages as a collective), as well as a distinction within Arabic between Darija (colloquial Moroccan Arabic) and Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic). Despite the fact that the former is by far much more widely used, it nevertheless counts as marginal – because it is unofficial, not real, ‘lawless’, ‘polluted’. Fusha on the other hand is the language of literacy, of education, of system, and thus of power – as such, it is very much the ‘center’.*** This is a problem, because it pushes all those who have not enjoyed enough education to have command of Fusha even further into the socio-economic margin.
A bigger problem, however, is the divide that has developed between French and Arabic. Upon independence, Morocco was left with a societal infrastructure that functioned mostly in French. This language was kept in place until 1973, when king Hassan II announced a project of ‘Arabization’ (“ta‘rib”), in the hopes of unifying the country and affirming its Arab heritage. Arabization entailed replacement of French with Arabic in all public- and government institutions. But this did not occasion the huge transformation that Hassan II may have envisioned when he came up with this plan. Those with means actually spoke very little Arabic, having lived in Francophone circles for most of their lives. They had enough money to send their children to Francophone schools abroad, and enough power to resist Arabization in their Moroccan realms of functioning – higher education, and government. French thus remains dominant in all day-to-day government affairs, and all university departments teach in French – except the departments of Arabic, Islamic studies, and some areas of law.
This means that a linguistic divide appears, further distancing the average person from these institutions of power. Anyone of average or little means attends Morocco’s public schools, where Arabization has taken effect.**** They thus enjoy their education in a combination of Fusha and Darija, learning French as a foreign language much like a student in the Netherlands would.***** Looking through the entrance requirements for Mohammed V University as listed on its website [find link], I did not see a French language-examination listed anywhere. I therefore don’t think public school graduates are categorically barred from a university education in any way, but the fact that this education takes place in French makes it that much more difficult for someone coming from a public school to succeed in higher education.
The divide between Arabic and French also entails a communicative barrier between government and population. Indeed, there seems to be very little communication of government affairs to the public (Ilyas also mentioned in passing that Moroccan politicians are appalling public speakers). The king, supreme political power, speaks fluent Arabic, French, and apparently even Spanish (I often wonder, does he speak Darija at home with his wife and children?). He is highly visible, but hardly ever speaks to his people. Each night, nearly half of the news broadcast is devoted to reports of Mohammed VI at yet another inauguration of some development project. We are treated to shots of the king looking, with a blank expression, at posters explaining the project at hand; of the king walking down a red carpet with enthusiastic crowds cheering in the background; or of the king making his way down a row of officials, each of which eagerly reaches down to kiss the king’s hand (it always strikes me how he seems to forcefully pull his hand back each time, as if he’s disgusted by the gesture).
Newspapers report on the king’s speeches – most recently at the opening of the new parliamentary session a few weeks ago. But apart from these rehearsed and ceremonial occasions, the king never speaks to his public. In fact, Telquel (the Francophone Moroccan equivalent of Time magazine) published an article two weeks ago on the fact that the king has, as of yet, never granted a single interview to a Moroccan journalist. He has been interviewed for Time, le Figaro, El Pais, Ash-Sharq al-Awsat – but never for a Moroccan publication. Even the Moroccan journalist who had been part of the Ash-Sharq al-Awsat team was subtly kept back as his Saudi colleague was invited to carry out the interview.
Arabization had been meant to unify the country (though I wonder if socio-economic unification was ever part of the motivation; political unification seems to have been more important), but ultimately only deepened the already existing divide between center and margin, adding a new dimension to its influence over Morocco. Why is it that not more effort is made to bring the two sides together, to integrate margin with center? Are the mountains and deserts truly too impenetrable to ever establish any kind of order and system there? Does the center lack means to undertake this – admittedly huge – endeavor? Or is it something else?
I venture to suggest – without making any definitive claims about why the margin remains marginal – that there is a certain dimension of Freudian psychology involved. Stay tuned for the next post.
* Even though here, too, a duality could be identified – between orthodox and heterodox practices, for instance. This, however, may be more aptly characterized as a distinction between ‘religion’ and ‘culture’.
** This is the Alaouite dynasty, which has been in power continuously since the 1600s (despite colonialism; the French technically left the sultan in power), and of which Mohammed VI is the latest ruler. The title of ‘sultan’ was replaced by that of ‘king’ after independence.
*** Because the ‘center’ not only denotes that which has the most power or dominance. It also represents the ideal, the country’s view of itself as it should, ideally, be. But I want to save that idea for the next post.
**** Public schools in Morocco are free – an admirable gesture from the government to offer education to anyone (anyone for whom a school is actually within reachable distance, and who can miss their children’s extra labor force at home). Nevertheless, public education does not get you very far – its quality is sub-par in comparison with the expensive, francophone private institutions attended by those with money.
***** Although it may be unfair to compare these two countries. Moroccans are exposed to French much more intensively than most Dutch high school students are. I asked Amma what languages are spoken in her high school classes, and she mentioned that French pops up outside of her French classes quite frequently, especially in her science classes. This is not surprising, perhaps – if all science at university and research level communicates in French, Darija equivalents for many of its technical terms may simply not exist.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Cleanliness & Purity
Last night was the night – the momentous occasion of my very first visit to a hammam: the Moroccan public bath house. Now that everyone is done fasting and life has settled back into its normal routine, the hammam is back on schedule, apparently. As I may have mentioned, Moroccans usually visit the hammam about once a week for a thorough bathing session. Men and women bathe separately, of course; some hammams have separate spaces for men and women, others simply divide the days of the week or hours of the day between the two.
There is a hammam close to my host family’s house in the medina, but last night we visited one in Salé, where we had been all day to do laundry. Alma announced the plans to me in the morning – probably because she knew I would be wanting to take a shower. She originally told me we’d go the next morning, but at 9 PM that night, as we were sitting in the living room enjoying a “gâteau” that Fatima had just made, Alma decided we’d go that very same night. And so I gathered my gear and off we went, both of us with our arms full.
A visit to the hammam takes a fair amount of equipment and material. This is what you bring:
* 1 or more large plastic buckets (it should carry a volume of at least 20 liter or about 5 gallons)
* A plastic stool to sit on
* A plastic sheet to put underneath the stool
* 1 or more small plastic bowls
* Soap, shampoo, a razor – your choice of products, creams, soaps.
* A washcloth made of very abrasive fabric
* Slippers
* Clean underwear
* A big towel
* A smaller towel or some kind of terrycloth cap for your hair
* Pajamas – two layers, preferably
* A warm coat
I have never seen a hammam that actually identifies itself to the passer-by with a sign on its door. This one too was unidentifiable from the outside, but for the little shop where we bought our tickets. The man behind the counter had everything available that one might need in the hammam. It reminded me of the travel size toiletry-section at Target: baskets full of one-serving size packets of shampoo, conditioner, soap, bubble bath, facial masks, henna, you name it.
With our tickets (10 Dirhams each, or about a dollar, which was more than I had expected for something that is so commonly done) we entered through a big metal door lined with rubber – to keep in the heat, and keep out the cold – to find a group of women lounging on and under blankets with a plate of food. These are the proprietors, who take your ticket and welcome you inside. We passed them and entered the dressing room – a large seating area that could have been anyone’s sitting room but for the fact that the couches along the wall were made of plastic rather than cloth. This area is both reception and exit; it is where you undress and where you lounge around after your session. Surrounded by women packing themselves into layers of warm clothing, Alma and I undressed. “Enlevez tout,” she told me with a naughty look, ‘take it all off’. “Wakha”, ‘Ok’, I tried to say very nonchalantly, which made her laugh. It did feel awkward for a moment, even though she did not seem to share that feeling. I am not generally averse to undressing in locker rooms – as long as I am not the only one – but the self-consciousness I am never quite able to shake is heightened here in Morocco. I feel so visible so much of the time: I am stared at on the street, called after, and even at home I am constantly observed – when I eat,* when I write in Arabic, when I type on my computer, even when I am just reading. And as I undressed in that dressing room, I became overly aware for a moment of how different I looked from all the other women there, with my pale skin and blondish hair. But strangely enough, the attention I get everywhere else did not occur in the hammam. No one cared, no one stared. We were all naked, and my foreignness did not seem to matter. Another great and unexpected paradox, in other words: at this moment of greatest physical exposure, I felt strangely private and anonymous. If only because of that, the hammam is a place I’d like to return to.
From the dressing room, another metal door led into the bathing area. Hammams typically consist of three consecutive areas of increasing heat. There is no process of stages in one’s bathing session; you simply pick your most comfortable climate, and take a seat. The rooms in this hammam were rectangular, and the floors were slanted so the water flowed away into a gully running down the length of the room. The faucets – one for cold, one for hot water – were located at one end of the room, surrounded by a sea of buckets. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages were seated along the wall in various stages of the bathing process, all stark naked. Some still wore underwear – as Alma and I did – while some did not. After a quick survey we found a spot close to the faucets, and as I began to put down our things, Alma got in line to get water.
This, then, is what you do in the hammam:
* Pick a spot and install yourself: lay out the plastic sheet, place your stool in the middle, and your collection of products next to it.
* Get in line to fill your buckets: splash through the water running to the drain, jumping over the buckets piled up by the faucet.
* Once full, drag your buckets back to your sitting area and take a seat.
* First step in the cleansing process: pour some henna powder into one of the small bowls you brought, and mix it with a little water to make a paste of sorts. Add some “sabon bildi”, ‘traditional soap’ – a dark substance the consistency of honey. Take this mixture, and rub it all over your skin. From the feel of it, this is a kind of scrub. Apparently it has no coloring effect; Alma actually mentioned that people use it to get rid of their suntans. Not something you need, she told me laughing. Rinse, lather, repeat.
* Step two: take the washcloth you brought, and start scrubbing. This is where the real work comes in. The idea is to scrub so hard that you produce dark grayish-brown bits of dead skin all over your body. This is the dirt you are washing away. This stage is, apparently, the reason why women go to the hammam in pairs: I guess someone else will scrub your skin harder than you yourself would. All across the room, women lay stretched out in front of a friend who went to work on their skin until it was scrubbed raw. Alma and I did the same. Fatima and Khadija joined us at this stage, and while I continued work on my own skin, Fatima and Alma took care of Khadija. All in all I think we spent at least 30 minutes on this section of the proceedings; at the end of it my skin felt worn to threads, and was red as a fire truck. I am not sure pale, sensitive skin can take this much of a beating – the day after, as I am writing this, my back still tingles with rawness. Alma sensed that my skin reacted to this differently than hers, as well: “ta peau va disparaître!” she exclaimed to me as she scrubbed me hard.
* When you are done, rinse – dip a small bowl into the big bucket and pour the water all over yourself. If your skin can take it, scrub it a second time and rinse again.
* Step three: Wash your hair, lather up your entire body with soap – using another abrasive scrubbing cloth (if your skin can take it), shave, etc. This is also the time when your underwear comes off; wash this as well.
* Once again, rinse. Also rinse off your bottles, soap dishes, bowls, buckets, stools. Put everything, as well as your soaked underwear, in an empty and rinsed-out bucket.
* If you came with someone, one of you will run back to the dressing area and get your towels. Wrap yourself up, and leave the bathing area.
* Lounging in the dressing room, take your time relaxing and drying yourself off. Get dressed, making sure to cover your entire body with at least two layers of clothing so you don’t catch “l-brd,” – the Moroccan version of a cold. As I put on my own pajamas, I watched a girl across from me put on layer after layer of pants, shirts, overcoats, and then a jellaba. Fatima, Khadija, and Alma did the same, and Khadija expressed some concern when she noticed I was dressed so lightly. Oh, don’t worry, Alma told her – she had brought me a big coat to wear that she zipped me up in. Fatima wrapped my head – still in a towel – in a headscarf, and off we went.
As soon as we came home I yanked off my headscarf, annoyed at how it blind-sighted me – but was immediately told to keep it on, because what if I caught l-brd! This is something Moroccans seem to worry about a lot; especially now that it is getting colder outside it is mentioned quite often. Fear of l-brd does not lead anyone to think of closing a window. Even in pouring rain and severe wind, most windows remain open. But no one will ever walk across a bare tile floor without slippers, for instance – not because the floor may be dirty, but because you might catch cold through your feet. In the same way, a Moroccan will walk around draped in towels for hours after a shower or hammam session before getting dressed – because to expose your naked body to the open air even for a second is risking a cold.
It seems in general as though bathing is seen as a risky endeavor. As a necessary thing, but dangerous, also. Cleanliness and purity are important in Morocco, and this explains the hammams’ importance. Moroccans keep themselves clean as they do their house, and hammams play an important symbolic transitional role in the preparation for big holidays, or returning to normal life after a period of illness. But the hammam itself is also a liminal, transitional space that can be dangerous: in the way that moments of transition always leave you a little vulnerable, exposed. And indeed, according to Marjo Buitelaar (a Dutch anthropologist; she writes about this in “Islam en het Dagelijks Leven, published in 2006), the hammam is heavily involved in the lore on jnoun (spirits) and sorcery. Jnoun love water, and hot water especially so. They lurk in the drains at the hammam, and it is important to take extra care while bathing to avoid angering the spirits. Bathing also renders you particularly vulnerable to the evil eye (going through any kind of transition does, but exposing your body also exposes you to the jealousy of others – a common source for the evil eye). Perhaps this transitional vulnerability also explains the fear of l-brd. Would it also explain the lack of signage outside – does that make it just slightly more difficult for evil to find the innocent bathers inside?
Bathing, in any case, is important, but also dangerous – perhaps this is why it only happens once a week. Afterwards, perhaps as extra safeguard against evil forces (and certainly as sign that it is a special occasion of sorts), it is common for others to wish you “bisahha ou rahha” – to your health and comfort.
All in all, the hammam visit was not unpleasant. It may be a place of vulnerability and exposure, but to me, strangely enough, it was also an unexpected place of anonymity. Certainly something I would be happy to do again – though I might take it a little easier on the scrubbing.
* This continues, unrelenting. When I stop chewing I am instantly told to “kouli!” When I take a bite from one dish, someone immediately asks me, ‘do you not like the other one?’ And unless I have eaten at least four pieces of bread and a whole quarter of a communal dish, I am still told I must have not liked the food.
There is a hammam close to my host family’s house in the medina, but last night we visited one in Salé, where we had been all day to do laundry. Alma announced the plans to me in the morning – probably because she knew I would be wanting to take a shower. She originally told me we’d go the next morning, but at 9 PM that night, as we were sitting in the living room enjoying a “gâteau” that Fatima had just made, Alma decided we’d go that very same night. And so I gathered my gear and off we went, both of us with our arms full.
A visit to the hammam takes a fair amount of equipment and material. This is what you bring:
* 1 or more large plastic buckets (it should carry a volume of at least 20 liter or about 5 gallons)
* A plastic stool to sit on
* A plastic sheet to put underneath the stool
* 1 or more small plastic bowls
* Soap, shampoo, a razor – your choice of products, creams, soaps.
* A washcloth made of very abrasive fabric
* Slippers
* Clean underwear
* A big towel
* A smaller towel or some kind of terrycloth cap for your hair
* Pajamas – two layers, preferably
* A warm coat
I have never seen a hammam that actually identifies itself to the passer-by with a sign on its door. This one too was unidentifiable from the outside, but for the little shop where we bought our tickets. The man behind the counter had everything available that one might need in the hammam. It reminded me of the travel size toiletry-section at Target: baskets full of one-serving size packets of shampoo, conditioner, soap, bubble bath, facial masks, henna, you name it.
With our tickets (10 Dirhams each, or about a dollar, which was more than I had expected for something that is so commonly done) we entered through a big metal door lined with rubber – to keep in the heat, and keep out the cold – to find a group of women lounging on and under blankets with a plate of food. These are the proprietors, who take your ticket and welcome you inside. We passed them and entered the dressing room – a large seating area that could have been anyone’s sitting room but for the fact that the couches along the wall were made of plastic rather than cloth. This area is both reception and exit; it is where you undress and where you lounge around after your session. Surrounded by women packing themselves into layers of warm clothing, Alma and I undressed. “Enlevez tout,” she told me with a naughty look, ‘take it all off’. “Wakha”, ‘Ok’, I tried to say very nonchalantly, which made her laugh. It did feel awkward for a moment, even though she did not seem to share that feeling. I am not generally averse to undressing in locker rooms – as long as I am not the only one – but the self-consciousness I am never quite able to shake is heightened here in Morocco. I feel so visible so much of the time: I am stared at on the street, called after, and even at home I am constantly observed – when I eat,* when I write in Arabic, when I type on my computer, even when I am just reading. And as I undressed in that dressing room, I became overly aware for a moment of how different I looked from all the other women there, with my pale skin and blondish hair. But strangely enough, the attention I get everywhere else did not occur in the hammam. No one cared, no one stared. We were all naked, and my foreignness did not seem to matter. Another great and unexpected paradox, in other words: at this moment of greatest physical exposure, I felt strangely private and anonymous. If only because of that, the hammam is a place I’d like to return to.
From the dressing room, another metal door led into the bathing area. Hammams typically consist of three consecutive areas of increasing heat. There is no process of stages in one’s bathing session; you simply pick your most comfortable climate, and take a seat. The rooms in this hammam were rectangular, and the floors were slanted so the water flowed away into a gully running down the length of the room. The faucets – one for cold, one for hot water – were located at one end of the room, surrounded by a sea of buckets. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages were seated along the wall in various stages of the bathing process, all stark naked. Some still wore underwear – as Alma and I did – while some did not. After a quick survey we found a spot close to the faucets, and as I began to put down our things, Alma got in line to get water.
This, then, is what you do in the hammam:
* Pick a spot and install yourself: lay out the plastic sheet, place your stool in the middle, and your collection of products next to it.
* Get in line to fill your buckets: splash through the water running to the drain, jumping over the buckets piled up by the faucet.
* Once full, drag your buckets back to your sitting area and take a seat.
* First step in the cleansing process: pour some henna powder into one of the small bowls you brought, and mix it with a little water to make a paste of sorts. Add some “sabon bildi”, ‘traditional soap’ – a dark substance the consistency of honey. Take this mixture, and rub it all over your skin. From the feel of it, this is a kind of scrub. Apparently it has no coloring effect; Alma actually mentioned that people use it to get rid of their suntans. Not something you need, she told me laughing. Rinse, lather, repeat.
* Step two: take the washcloth you brought, and start scrubbing. This is where the real work comes in. The idea is to scrub so hard that you produce dark grayish-brown bits of dead skin all over your body. This is the dirt you are washing away. This stage is, apparently, the reason why women go to the hammam in pairs: I guess someone else will scrub your skin harder than you yourself would. All across the room, women lay stretched out in front of a friend who went to work on their skin until it was scrubbed raw. Alma and I did the same. Fatima and Khadija joined us at this stage, and while I continued work on my own skin, Fatima and Alma took care of Khadija. All in all I think we spent at least 30 minutes on this section of the proceedings; at the end of it my skin felt worn to threads, and was red as a fire truck. I am not sure pale, sensitive skin can take this much of a beating – the day after, as I am writing this, my back still tingles with rawness. Alma sensed that my skin reacted to this differently than hers, as well: “ta peau va disparaître!” she exclaimed to me as she scrubbed me hard.
* When you are done, rinse – dip a small bowl into the big bucket and pour the water all over yourself. If your skin can take it, scrub it a second time and rinse again.
* Step three: Wash your hair, lather up your entire body with soap – using another abrasive scrubbing cloth (if your skin can take it), shave, etc. This is also the time when your underwear comes off; wash this as well.
* Once again, rinse. Also rinse off your bottles, soap dishes, bowls, buckets, stools. Put everything, as well as your soaked underwear, in an empty and rinsed-out bucket.
* If you came with someone, one of you will run back to the dressing area and get your towels. Wrap yourself up, and leave the bathing area.
* Lounging in the dressing room, take your time relaxing and drying yourself off. Get dressed, making sure to cover your entire body with at least two layers of clothing so you don’t catch “l-brd,” – the Moroccan version of a cold. As I put on my own pajamas, I watched a girl across from me put on layer after layer of pants, shirts, overcoats, and then a jellaba. Fatima, Khadija, and Alma did the same, and Khadija expressed some concern when she noticed I was dressed so lightly. Oh, don’t worry, Alma told her – she had brought me a big coat to wear that she zipped me up in. Fatima wrapped my head – still in a towel – in a headscarf, and off we went.
As soon as we came home I yanked off my headscarf, annoyed at how it blind-sighted me – but was immediately told to keep it on, because what if I caught l-brd! This is something Moroccans seem to worry about a lot; especially now that it is getting colder outside it is mentioned quite often. Fear of l-brd does not lead anyone to think of closing a window. Even in pouring rain and severe wind, most windows remain open. But no one will ever walk across a bare tile floor without slippers, for instance – not because the floor may be dirty, but because you might catch cold through your feet. In the same way, a Moroccan will walk around draped in towels for hours after a shower or hammam session before getting dressed – because to expose your naked body to the open air even for a second is risking a cold.
It seems in general as though bathing is seen as a risky endeavor. As a necessary thing, but dangerous, also. Cleanliness and purity are important in Morocco, and this explains the hammams’ importance. Moroccans keep themselves clean as they do their house, and hammams play an important symbolic transitional role in the preparation for big holidays, or returning to normal life after a period of illness. But the hammam itself is also a liminal, transitional space that can be dangerous: in the way that moments of transition always leave you a little vulnerable, exposed. And indeed, according to Marjo Buitelaar (a Dutch anthropologist; she writes about this in “Islam en het Dagelijks Leven, published in 2006), the hammam is heavily involved in the lore on jnoun (spirits) and sorcery. Jnoun love water, and hot water especially so. They lurk in the drains at the hammam, and it is important to take extra care while bathing to avoid angering the spirits. Bathing also renders you particularly vulnerable to the evil eye (going through any kind of transition does, but exposing your body also exposes you to the jealousy of others – a common source for the evil eye). Perhaps this transitional vulnerability also explains the fear of l-brd. Would it also explain the lack of signage outside – does that make it just slightly more difficult for evil to find the innocent bathers inside?
Bathing, in any case, is important, but also dangerous – perhaps this is why it only happens once a week. Afterwards, perhaps as extra safeguard against evil forces (and certainly as sign that it is a special occasion of sorts), it is common for others to wish you “bisahha ou rahha” – to your health and comfort.
All in all, the hammam visit was not unpleasant. It may be a place of vulnerability and exposure, but to me, strangely enough, it was also an unexpected place of anonymity. Certainly something I would be happy to do again – though I might take it a little easier on the scrubbing.
* This continues, unrelenting. When I stop chewing I am instantly told to “kouli!” When I take a bite from one dish, someone immediately asks me, ‘do you not like the other one?’ And unless I have eaten at least four pieces of bread and a whole quarter of a communal dish, I am still told I must have not liked the food.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Clinical Ethnography!
Yesterday morning, I was awoken from my restless sleep by the banging of plastic sheets against the outside wall. On the side of the terrace adjacent to the room where I sleep, the courtyard wall does not reach all the way up to the plastic roof. Two vertical plastic panels stretch across this gap, but one of them has become unfastened at one end. When it is windy, like it is today, this panel tends to be pulled back away from the wall with one gust of wind, and then slammed back by the next.
And so I got up a little earlier than I had planned, to get myself ready for my big appointment – with Dr. Chikri,* the director of the psychiatric clinic where I hope to do my research. I was not in the most ready of moods; after a restless night I felt a little on edge, without bread to be found anywhere I left the house hungry, and nervous about the meeting – and about finding the place, first of all – I left too late, forgetting first to brush my hair, then to brush my teeth, then to fetch my keys from my other bag.
But all went well – better than I could have hoped for, in fact. First of all, the Clinic has proven very, very easy to find. The bus I had been told to take stops right by the entrance, and picks up from there as well. It takes no more than 15 minutes – which left me there about 45 minutes early. I had taken a wide window of time: without existing bus schedules, having seen the traffic at that hour in the morning, and not knowing precisely where the clinic (let alone the doctor’s office) was, I had decided to play it safe. Spotting the entrance to the clinic right away, I walked around the area a bit to kill some time and survey what else was around here (mostly outpatient clinics and pharmacies, it seems), then headed back for the Clinic to find the doctor’s office.
The meeting itself went smoothly and perfectly. Sitting across from each other on comfortable couches in the doctor’s large and well-decorated office, I explained to him the basic gist of my research. I had just gotten about halfway through an overview of my research questions when I mentioned that I was interested in exploring what makes people choose for either psychiatry or traditional forms of healing, and he interrupted me with a confident, single word: “ignorance.” So I probed further – was this really the answer to this issue? Absolutely, he said. The entire problem was an issue of what he called “pedagogie sanitaire de masse” – public health education, basically. The Moroccan public is simply ignorant of the appropriate treatment for both physical and mental problems – ignorant also of the dangers of traditional healing practices – and unaware of the medical facilities available to them. Unlike many other countries with cultural healing traditions, not enough effort is made in Morocco to educate the public about issues of health and hygiene. I wanted to ask him more: does he think there is a responsibility here for psychiatry, as a discipline, to help raise this awareness, or is this the government’s job? How would one go about raising such awareness? And what about the other factors I’ve heard or read play into people’s choice for care – such as the issue of stigma, or the simply unavailability of medical care? But the doctor had already urged me to continue my spiel, and I decided there would be time to ask these questions at a later date; I was here now to sell myself.
I think that this perception of “ignorance” among the public explains Dr. Chikri’s interest in my research. Frequent media discussion about the state of psychiatry (and other specialties as well) in Morocco leads me to the impression that the collective discipline is working hard to raise awareness – not only among the public, but within government echelons as well – of the dire state the discipline is in, and the great need for better psychiatric care. Only 350 psychiatrists in Morocco for 300,000 mentally ill, a newspaper headline cried out a few weeks ago. 1900 beds for 100,000 psychiatric patients in Casablanca alone, lamented another, while a third pointed out that psychiatry is accorded a mere 1% of the health department budget.
This means that my research may come at a good time. My project will not be decrying the dangers of traditional healing practices – a strategy often used in these media reports about psychiatry – and this may be a point of debate with the psychiatrists I will be working with, but I am receiving very positive responses so far. Dr. Chikri, on his part, not only gave me permission to conduct extensive research at the Clinic (!) but even mentioned that he would like his clinic to be involved somehow, because this kind of research is important to them as well. For me, this is beyond perfect. Not only do I get to carry out an in-depth clinical ethnography for the psychiatric side of my research, but I also get a certain kind of institutional affiliation and cooperation; something that will, I hope, seriously help strengthen my case with grant foundations, as well as my American university’s human subjects review board.**
And so I floated back to the bus, back to Rabat, and back home to a steaming hot dish of couscous*** – happy, excited, and a little confident again that I’ll actually be able to do this project. All that remains to be done now is prepare interview protocols, work very, very hard to learn as much Arabic as I possibly can, submit an application to the IRB, and hope beyond all hope that the next grant-related news will be positive…
* This name, too, has been changed; from now on I will also refer to this clinic simply as ‘the Clinic’.
** Every university has a human subjects review board, or IRB (institutional review board). A university is liable for any research conducted in the university’s name – and this includes any PhD research like mine. The IRB therefore critically reviews all projects proposed by university-affiliated researchers in order to ensure the maintenance of ethical standards, and to minimize the risk of legal action. For a project like mine, that proposes to interview patients with mental illness, getting approval can be difficult – and means convincingly explaining why the benefits of this research are greater than the potential risks for those involved in participation.
*** The first couscous served at home, incidentally. Now that all women are (finally) done fasting, we have returned to the routine of “sksou” every Friday…
And so I got up a little earlier than I had planned, to get myself ready for my big appointment – with Dr. Chikri,* the director of the psychiatric clinic where I hope to do my research. I was not in the most ready of moods; after a restless night I felt a little on edge, without bread to be found anywhere I left the house hungry, and nervous about the meeting – and about finding the place, first of all – I left too late, forgetting first to brush my hair, then to brush my teeth, then to fetch my keys from my other bag.
But all went well – better than I could have hoped for, in fact. First of all, the Clinic has proven very, very easy to find. The bus I had been told to take stops right by the entrance, and picks up from there as well. It takes no more than 15 minutes – which left me there about 45 minutes early. I had taken a wide window of time: without existing bus schedules, having seen the traffic at that hour in the morning, and not knowing precisely where the clinic (let alone the doctor’s office) was, I had decided to play it safe. Spotting the entrance to the clinic right away, I walked around the area a bit to kill some time and survey what else was around here (mostly outpatient clinics and pharmacies, it seems), then headed back for the Clinic to find the doctor’s office.
The meeting itself went smoothly and perfectly. Sitting across from each other on comfortable couches in the doctor’s large and well-decorated office, I explained to him the basic gist of my research. I had just gotten about halfway through an overview of my research questions when I mentioned that I was interested in exploring what makes people choose for either psychiatry or traditional forms of healing, and he interrupted me with a confident, single word: “ignorance.” So I probed further – was this really the answer to this issue? Absolutely, he said. The entire problem was an issue of what he called “pedagogie sanitaire de masse” – public health education, basically. The Moroccan public is simply ignorant of the appropriate treatment for both physical and mental problems – ignorant also of the dangers of traditional healing practices – and unaware of the medical facilities available to them. Unlike many other countries with cultural healing traditions, not enough effort is made in Morocco to educate the public about issues of health and hygiene. I wanted to ask him more: does he think there is a responsibility here for psychiatry, as a discipline, to help raise this awareness, or is this the government’s job? How would one go about raising such awareness? And what about the other factors I’ve heard or read play into people’s choice for care – such as the issue of stigma, or the simply unavailability of medical care? But the doctor had already urged me to continue my spiel, and I decided there would be time to ask these questions at a later date; I was here now to sell myself.
I think that this perception of “ignorance” among the public explains Dr. Chikri’s interest in my research. Frequent media discussion about the state of psychiatry (and other specialties as well) in Morocco leads me to the impression that the collective discipline is working hard to raise awareness – not only among the public, but within government echelons as well – of the dire state the discipline is in, and the great need for better psychiatric care. Only 350 psychiatrists in Morocco for 300,000 mentally ill, a newspaper headline cried out a few weeks ago. 1900 beds for 100,000 psychiatric patients in Casablanca alone, lamented another, while a third pointed out that psychiatry is accorded a mere 1% of the health department budget.
This means that my research may come at a good time. My project will not be decrying the dangers of traditional healing practices – a strategy often used in these media reports about psychiatry – and this may be a point of debate with the psychiatrists I will be working with, but I am receiving very positive responses so far. Dr. Chikri, on his part, not only gave me permission to conduct extensive research at the Clinic (!) but even mentioned that he would like his clinic to be involved somehow, because this kind of research is important to them as well. For me, this is beyond perfect. Not only do I get to carry out an in-depth clinical ethnography for the psychiatric side of my research, but I also get a certain kind of institutional affiliation and cooperation; something that will, I hope, seriously help strengthen my case with grant foundations, as well as my American university’s human subjects review board.**
And so I floated back to the bus, back to Rabat, and back home to a steaming hot dish of couscous*** – happy, excited, and a little confident again that I’ll actually be able to do this project. All that remains to be done now is prepare interview protocols, work very, very hard to learn as much Arabic as I possibly can, submit an application to the IRB, and hope beyond all hope that the next grant-related news will be positive…
* This name, too, has been changed; from now on I will also refer to this clinic simply as ‘the Clinic’.
** Every university has a human subjects review board, or IRB (institutional review board). A university is liable for any research conducted in the university’s name – and this includes any PhD research like mine. The IRB therefore critically reviews all projects proposed by university-affiliated researchers in order to ensure the maintenance of ethical standards, and to minimize the risk of legal action. For a project like mine, that proposes to interview patients with mental illness, getting approval can be difficult – and means convincingly explaining why the benefits of this research are greater than the potential risks for those involved in participation.
*** The first couscous served at home, incidentally. Now that all women are (finally) done fasting, we have returned to the routine of “sksou” every Friday…
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