November seems to be the month of holidays. About a week and a half ago, Morocco commemorated the Green March with a bank holiday. This past week, all schools were closed for a week of mid-semester vacation. And yesterday marked the 52nd anniversary of Morocco’s independence (Istiqlal) from France.
These holidays mean that everyone is home from school or work, and apparently there is television programming devoted to the event being commemorated. My family watches none of this, however. On the day of the Green March, I myself was not home, and so missed the king’s televised speech – in which, for the first time ever, he directly linked Algeria as culprit to the issue of the Western Sahara. Yesterday I was home, and curious to see how the media would be commemorating independence. Ilyas had mentioned documentaries and historical features about the war for independence, about the king’s return from exile, and so on. But apparently no one in my family is very interested in any of this. The television was on, as always – but on the international channels that broadcast the Turkish soaps. And I am not quite comfortable enough to play remote control-commando in the way that others do.
But that evening I got my chance – with no one home, I eagerly sat down to watch the Moroccan news in peace (I think this might have actually been the first time that I was able to watch the entire program, without being interrupted!). As reporters recounted the events leading up to independence in 1956, we were shown actual footage of the then-king, Mohammed V, returning to Morocco, of him meeting with president Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, of him speaking to the people. It was impressive – all these things I’ve read about, to see them taking place, in moving images, from that time.
Otherwise, in the context of the day-to-day life that goes on in this house, there was little to mark the occasion of a holiday. The day passed as any other. No one mentioned the event, no one called anyone on the phone, there were no especial visits from or to friends. No parades, no festive atmosphere on the street. I don’t mean to imply that any holiday in the US or Holland is such a huge special occasion, but what I am missing here is even a certain sign of awareness that something is being remembered on a particular day. In comparison to this, the ‘eid that marked the end of Ramadan was a much bigger occasion – people actually wished each other a happy ‘eid, and there was the calling of family and there was the visiting of friends. But I remember, even then, being surprised at the sense of anti-climax that I had. I had expected much more. Some kind of tradition or custom. Any kind of un-ordinary activity to mark the occasion. But maybe I am biased. Maybe I am just expecting more because all of this is new to me and my senses and anticipation are heightened. Maybe the issue is that I was expecting a performance, not real life.
Still though, I anticipate the upcoming ‘Eid Kbir, or ‘Eid l-Adha, with unabated curiosity.* This has to be a big deal. Sheep will be slaughtered, inside the home – this cannot go by without comment or special custom, right? No one is entirely sure when this ‘Eid will be – it all depends on a moon sighting, of course – but it will be taking place about three weeks from now. Incidentally, the news tonight featured a brief report on the upcoming holiday: with three weeks to go, the sheep-markets have opened, and the race to buy a sacrificial animal at a good price has begun. When will ours arrive, I wonder? And where will it be kept?
* This is the most important of the Islamic holidays, and marks the occasion when Abraham almost-but-didn’t sacrifice his son to god. Incidentally, Muslims believe this son was Ismail, not Isaac – and that the Arabs are descendants of this Ismail.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
A Sunday Interlude
Yesterday afternoon, the host family and I went on an outing to a park of sorts. Manal had identified it as “la forêt” beforehand, and what it was, basically, was a green area by the side of a busy road heading east away from Salé. There were trees, indeed – trees that had lost all but a few dried up leaves – and some open spaces in between. It looked like it had once been lushly grassy, but was now more of an old carpet whose green had been worn away in places by heavy traffic. And indeed, everywhere, there were parked cars, and other people who had decided to spend their Sunday in the outdoors. They stood around, leaned on their cars, or sat on the tablecloths they had brought. They were eating lunch from plastic containers, drinking tea, taking their afternoon nap. Some had brought entire mattresses with them, others a whole stove, and made their tea from scratch. A few had even brought tents, and had constructed for themselves a little home-away-from home out there in the green.
Other than two cars, we had brought only a thermos full of hot, black, delicious coffee. We stood around, people watching and chatting, as we drank. Manal and Alma always on opposite sides of the group, both chatting along pleasantly, but conspicuously ignoring one another. Manal, as always, was chatting busily and loudly, either laughing excitedly at things she saw, or denouncing it as ‘hshouma’, shameful. She tends to touch people, pull or prod them, or otherwise make sure that they’ve heard what she’s said.* And as always, Alma was close to Fatima, with whom she seems to share an almost physical bond. Theirs is not necessarily an intense verbal relationship; they don’t talk to one another any more than to anyone else. But they share something that others are not privy to, it seems. Something wholly implicit. Something that means they are not constantly in conversation (because they don’t need to be), but means, for instance, that they sleep on the same sofa section, head to feet, under a single blanket. Their relationship is the exact opposite of that between Alma and Manal. It makes me wonder how the three of them relate to the fourth sister, who lives in Marrakech. What happens to the dynamic when the triangle becomes a square?
Amma and Khadija, the last two of the group, floated in between these three sisters, chatting with each. Khadija is always the automatic epicenter of everything, even if she is not the loudest; she is simply the force of gravity that keeps all others close. And Amma is always there in orbit, joining in the conversation occasionally, but mostly lost in her music, fed to her through the earphones that are always in her ears.
Yunus and Mustafa, meanwhile, had run off with a group of other young boys whose families were also here for the afternoon. They had each brought props: Yunus a soccer ball, Mustafa a deck of cards. Clearly these were great ice-breakers. Later, as I strolled around with the women, I saw them at a distance, both making good use of their items: Mustafa was involved in a game of cards with three others of his age, Yunus wholly immersed in a game of soccer. Si Mahmoud had also retreated: he spent the afternoon in the front seat of his car, the window rolled down, smoking a cigarette while doing the Sudoku puzzles in l’Opinion. Much like he does every weekend, in the kitchen or at the coffee house.
There was music: about 25 meters away from our cars we saw a small crowd surrounding a group of jellaba’d musicians. About 10 men with drums stood there, singing and swaying to their own beat, while a few of them broke into dance: a kind of rhythmic thumping of their feet on the ground, and a lot of shoulder shimmying. It made me laugh to see these old, grey men shake their chest like that; it reminded me of belly dancing. We joined the crowd, and just as I realized I had forgotten my camera, Fatima and Alma asked me simultaneously to take some pictures. I have become the official family photographer, it seems** – and taking pictures was clearly what everyone else was doing. Everywhere in the crowd I noticed hands holding up cell phones, recording the performance. A grey man in white jellaba, the star dancer of the group, made sure to give each photographer a good shot; he would pause in front of each held-up phone and give them an extra-long shoulder shimmy, staring straight into the lens. Manal, who had brought her own camera, actually broke straight through the crowd and took place right in front of the group to get the perfect shot. The grey man gave her an extra-special performance.
Having seen enough of the music, Amma, Alma and I took a turn on the child-size motorcycles and ‘quads’ (they look sort of like tractors, motorcycles with four wheels) that a group of young men had for rent: 4 dirhams for a small tour down the main road leading into the park. We climbed onto one of them, together. Amma insistently assured the proprietor that she knew how to drive this machine, but he clearly did not trust her and hung on to the side of the vehicle for our entire tour, not allowing her sole command over its gas pedal and brakes.
Other than that, it was a place for strolling around through the trees. We walked, splitting off into small groups, chatting quietly – Manal and Alma as far away from one another as they could get. Each person I walked next to would remark to me on the beauty of the place – but it was such a shame that it wasn’t kept cleaner. Indeed, there was trash everywhere. Old plastic bottles, yogurt containers, dirty diapers. Bits of plastic bags clinging to the bushes and plants. Even some worn and abandoned clothes here and there. Yes, I said. It’s a shame. I guess it’s difficult to convince people to take their trash with them. Then they asked me, is it the same in the United States?
This is a question I get often, any time my host family becomes aware that something is an ‘experience’ for me: when I make note of something, comment on something, or when they themselves decide something is interesting for me to see. Do Americans eat meals like I am served here? Do Americans go out like this on Sundays like this? Do Americans have anything like the soap we use for the hammam? Do Americans have grand taxis? Are Americans also worried about high electricity bills?
I am never sure how to answer. In part because I always have a hard time answering a question with a simple yes or no – and anything but that takes a while to think about in Arabic. Yes, I always want to say, Americans do something like this, but it’s a little different, because… I am also never sure how to answer because I wonder, what exactly are they interested in? They know I am a Dutch person who lives in the United States. So when they ask me this, are they truly interested in the United States (and if so, why don’t they also ask me about Holland?), or are they simply interested in ‘the West’ in general? And finally, I don’t know what to answer because I am not sure what answer they are looking for. Do they want me to affirm their difference, and perhaps some kind of superiority? Or are they interested in learning about differences and other lifestyles? On my part, I want to give them an honest answer, give a true impression of the United States. But I also want to affirm our similarities, to emphasize those habits, viewpoints, and customs that the United States may have in common with Morocco. To give some kind of sense that there is a certain kind of kinship, grounds for affinity, even. To give my host family the sense that they could understand something about the United States, maybe.
But most likely, I am just over analyzing these questions. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is probably fine, and most likely all that these people are looking for… over-analysis can be exhausting, sometimes.
* She is someone, I think, who is often in need of recognition. She often emphasizes the part she had in organizing something, and always makes sure I know when it was her who cooked something, and how much work it was. She is someone who, perhaps, may have been a little unrecognized, as middle child in a house full of other siblings? Alma is loud as well, but less consciously so. She does not directly ask for attention; she gets it much more automatically than Manal does.
** Whenever we go somewhere, I am usually asked to bring my camera, because they have decided mine is nicer than theirs.
Other than two cars, we had brought only a thermos full of hot, black, delicious coffee. We stood around, people watching and chatting, as we drank. Manal and Alma always on opposite sides of the group, both chatting along pleasantly, but conspicuously ignoring one another. Manal, as always, was chatting busily and loudly, either laughing excitedly at things she saw, or denouncing it as ‘hshouma’, shameful. She tends to touch people, pull or prod them, or otherwise make sure that they’ve heard what she’s said.* And as always, Alma was close to Fatima, with whom she seems to share an almost physical bond. Theirs is not necessarily an intense verbal relationship; they don’t talk to one another any more than to anyone else. But they share something that others are not privy to, it seems. Something wholly implicit. Something that means they are not constantly in conversation (because they don’t need to be), but means, for instance, that they sleep on the same sofa section, head to feet, under a single blanket. Their relationship is the exact opposite of that between Alma and Manal. It makes me wonder how the three of them relate to the fourth sister, who lives in Marrakech. What happens to the dynamic when the triangle becomes a square?
Amma and Khadija, the last two of the group, floated in between these three sisters, chatting with each. Khadija is always the automatic epicenter of everything, even if she is not the loudest; she is simply the force of gravity that keeps all others close. And Amma is always there in orbit, joining in the conversation occasionally, but mostly lost in her music, fed to her through the earphones that are always in her ears.
Yunus and Mustafa, meanwhile, had run off with a group of other young boys whose families were also here for the afternoon. They had each brought props: Yunus a soccer ball, Mustafa a deck of cards. Clearly these were great ice-breakers. Later, as I strolled around with the women, I saw them at a distance, both making good use of their items: Mustafa was involved in a game of cards with three others of his age, Yunus wholly immersed in a game of soccer. Si Mahmoud had also retreated: he spent the afternoon in the front seat of his car, the window rolled down, smoking a cigarette while doing the Sudoku puzzles in l’Opinion. Much like he does every weekend, in the kitchen or at the coffee house.
There was music: about 25 meters away from our cars we saw a small crowd surrounding a group of jellaba’d musicians. About 10 men with drums stood there, singing and swaying to their own beat, while a few of them broke into dance: a kind of rhythmic thumping of their feet on the ground, and a lot of shoulder shimmying. It made me laugh to see these old, grey men shake their chest like that; it reminded me of belly dancing. We joined the crowd, and just as I realized I had forgotten my camera, Fatima and Alma asked me simultaneously to take some pictures. I have become the official family photographer, it seems** – and taking pictures was clearly what everyone else was doing. Everywhere in the crowd I noticed hands holding up cell phones, recording the performance. A grey man in white jellaba, the star dancer of the group, made sure to give each photographer a good shot; he would pause in front of each held-up phone and give them an extra-long shoulder shimmy, staring straight into the lens. Manal, who had brought her own camera, actually broke straight through the crowd and took place right in front of the group to get the perfect shot. The grey man gave her an extra-special performance.
Having seen enough of the music, Amma, Alma and I took a turn on the child-size motorcycles and ‘quads’ (they look sort of like tractors, motorcycles with four wheels) that a group of young men had for rent: 4 dirhams for a small tour down the main road leading into the park. We climbed onto one of them, together. Amma insistently assured the proprietor that she knew how to drive this machine, but he clearly did not trust her and hung on to the side of the vehicle for our entire tour, not allowing her sole command over its gas pedal and brakes.
Other than that, it was a place for strolling around through the trees. We walked, splitting off into small groups, chatting quietly – Manal and Alma as far away from one another as they could get. Each person I walked next to would remark to me on the beauty of the place – but it was such a shame that it wasn’t kept cleaner. Indeed, there was trash everywhere. Old plastic bottles, yogurt containers, dirty diapers. Bits of plastic bags clinging to the bushes and plants. Even some worn and abandoned clothes here and there. Yes, I said. It’s a shame. I guess it’s difficult to convince people to take their trash with them. Then they asked me, is it the same in the United States?
This is a question I get often, any time my host family becomes aware that something is an ‘experience’ for me: when I make note of something, comment on something, or when they themselves decide something is interesting for me to see. Do Americans eat meals like I am served here? Do Americans go out like this on Sundays like this? Do Americans have anything like the soap we use for the hammam? Do Americans have grand taxis? Are Americans also worried about high electricity bills?
I am never sure how to answer. In part because I always have a hard time answering a question with a simple yes or no – and anything but that takes a while to think about in Arabic. Yes, I always want to say, Americans do something like this, but it’s a little different, because… I am also never sure how to answer because I wonder, what exactly are they interested in? They know I am a Dutch person who lives in the United States. So when they ask me this, are they truly interested in the United States (and if so, why don’t they also ask me about Holland?), or are they simply interested in ‘the West’ in general? And finally, I don’t know what to answer because I am not sure what answer they are looking for. Do they want me to affirm their difference, and perhaps some kind of superiority? Or are they interested in learning about differences and other lifestyles? On my part, I want to give them an honest answer, give a true impression of the United States. But I also want to affirm our similarities, to emphasize those habits, viewpoints, and customs that the United States may have in common with Morocco. To give some kind of sense that there is a certain kind of kinship, grounds for affinity, even. To give my host family the sense that they could understand something about the United States, maybe.
But most likely, I am just over analyzing these questions. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is probably fine, and most likely all that these people are looking for… over-analysis can be exhausting, sometimes.
* She is someone, I think, who is often in need of recognition. She often emphasizes the part she had in organizing something, and always makes sure I know when it was her who cooked something, and how much work it was. She is someone who, perhaps, may have been a little unrecognized, as middle child in a house full of other siblings? Alma is loud as well, but less consciously so. She does not directly ask for attention; she gets it much more automatically than Manal does.
** Whenever we go somewhere, I am usually asked to bring my camera, because they have decided mine is nicer than theirs.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Controversial Media: The Issue of Heritage
** This is a long one... Sorry!**
Morocco has a well-developed tradition of printed media. One can find a newsstand on nearly every street corner, and each of these sells dozens of newspapers, weekly journals, and monthly glossies – all in one’s choice of either French or Arabic. And this is not counting the international publications that are also available. Among this rich selection are at least five or six different Moroccan magazines aimed especially at women.
I particularly like a Francophone magazine called “Femmes Du Maroc.” I buy it primarily as a good and entertaining way to practice my French, but it actually publishes a lot of interesting articles. It features the same range of topics that other magazines discuss, but seems to ask intelligent and tough questions that others ignore. For example: this month, FDM published an article about the growing trend of looking for love by placing personal ads online or in the paper. The same topic was featured in the Ramadan-issue of Femina, a newer magazine. A Femina contributor tried out this new trend by placing an ad of her own, and then wrote an article reporting on her experiences – her transition from skepticism to (temporary) addiction, her conclusion that this ‘new trend may work for certain people, but it’s not for me’, and final disclosure that she had met her own soul mate through more conventional ways. In Morocco as in the Western world, the practice of meeting people through personal ads is growing in response to changing lifestyles and increasing individualism, but not quite accepted as fully legitimate as of yet. With that last sentence, the Femina reporter ultimately ascribed completely to the public’s skepticism and fear of new things, without ever questioning or even addressing any part of it. Femmes Du Maroc, on the other hand, published a 10-page feature on this new practice. It included a reporter’s experiences with an ad of her own, placed specifically for the purpose of this experiment (lacking any strategically mentioned feelings of skepticism), but also an in-depth analysis of the language used in these ads and a theorizing, through that analysis, of what these ads say about Moroccan society and the changes it is going through. Their conclusion: placing personal ads seems like a sign of modernization. Not only is it a sign of greater individualization, but it also suggests that people are taking fate into their own hands, no longer relying on parents or other traditional ways of finding a spouse. But a deeper investigation of the actual ads shows that those who place the ad present themselves as well what they’re looking for in such a way that it only perpetuates idealization of the traditional rules of male-female interaction. Modernity on the surface, but not in practice! Traditions simply jazzed up by a coat of modernity – and a confirmation, through this very untraditional medium, that Morocco is not yet ready to let go of its conservatism.
Of course, I am only comparing two magazines here, and am only looking at a single issue of each. But I get the sense that, where Femina leaves any social issue completely unquestioned, FDM boldly exposes Morocco’s cultural and social complexes.
Because this month, FDM also discusses another issue that I believe is quite controversial: that of “héritage” – inheritance. In fact, nearly a quarter of this month’s content is devoted to this topic; it includes background articles explaining the issue, testimonies from Islamic scholars, sociologists, first-hand accounts of readers who have dealt with the issue, and activist pieces calling for change.
Trying my best to be succinct, the issue of héritage is this. When the Family Code of law was drastically reformed in 2004, laws on inheritance were one of very few things left unchanged. Whereas most of the family code is now based on civil law, inheritance rules remain founded upon the shari‘a, or Islamic law. They were left untouched because inheritance is one of the few issues for which the Qur’an itself outlines explicit rules; and anything mentioned explicitly in the Qur’an cannot be interpreted loosely because it is believed to be God’s literal word.* Taken directly from the Qur’an, this, then, is the basic law on inheritance: a woman always inherits half of what a man does. Upon a father’s death, his male children will inherit a proportion of his wealth that equals twice that inherited by his daughters. Also, a woman cannot inherit on her own: if a man had no sons, his money does not automatically go to his daughters. In these cases, male kin must first be found. Once a male heir has been established, no matter how far removed on the family tree, his daughters (and wife) may inherit – but again, an amount always half of that inherited by the male heir(s).
Contesting these rules is very controversial – because contesting anything stated in the Qur’an is controversial. Nevertheless, some groups do call for inheritance laws to be changed, and FDM is apparently one of them. The entire span of its discussion about this issue unanimously argued in favor of reforming héritage. It was not only interesting that they did so in such a direct and forceful way (the issue being as controversial as it is), but it was also interesting how they did it.
Because not once did anyone question the holiness of the Qur’an, and not once was the concept of Islamic law rejected wholesale. What they did instead (and this is why they featured testimonies by experts on Islamic law) was appeal to established algorithms of Islamic legal logic, call attention to the existing traditions and methods of Qur’anic interpretation (“ijtihad”, pronounced ‘ij-ti-HAD’),** and remind the reader directly of other issues that prove the Qur’an need not always be taken on its literal word.***
The basic gist of the argument made by FDM is that the law on inheritance no longer serves the purpose it was designed for – and that it is not only accepted practice within the tradition of ijtihad to interpret Qur’anic verses according to the logic behind them rather than their literal content, but that it is also accepted practice in Islamic law to always question the rationale of certain rules, and to change them if that rationale is no longer relevant. FDM claims that Qur’anic rules of inheritance were originally meant to protect women financially, in a time when they did not contribute to society economically and depended fully on their male kin. Men were given more of the inheritance, but also expected to use that money to care for their female dependents. The fact that women were given anything in the first place was a major improvement – at the time, women commonly didn’t inherit anything (and apparently, women still don’t inherit according to Jewish inheritance laws?). It makes sense, FDM claims, to divide the inheritance according to individuals’ economic responsibilities. This was the basis for the distinction between men and women’s parts; it has nothing to do with gender per se. In other words: women received half not because they were women, but because they had no economic responsibilities.
Needless to say, this context has completely changed. Not only do women contribute as much to their household’s economy as men do, but Moroccan women often have even more financial responsibilities toward the family than their male relatives. By continuing to apply Qur’anic rules of inheritance in this very different economic context, their effect has become the complete opposite of its original intent: rather than financially protected, women are now discriminated against and put at disproportionate risk of impoverishment. Taking the Qur’an too literally, one expert suggests, can sometimes mean that its fundamental principles of equality and justice are ultimately completely negated.
To me, someone who was not raised with the sense of holiness that the Qur’an exudes for most Muslims, this argument seems to make perfect sense. And apart from the bold statements here and there about uneven power dynamics in Islam and men’s desire to subjugate women, it seems to me a very respectful, logical, and convincing way of making an argument. How could anyone disagree?
But I know there are people who do. And unfortunately, FDM’s long feature does not include a single oppositional voice. I am so curious to hear how FDM’s arguments would be countered by someone in favor of maintaining inheritance laws as they are. What are their arguments, what is their rationale? And where, for that matter, does public opinion lie? How do Moroccans feel about this, and how does this differ between educated and non-educated, women and men, rural and urban populations, young and old, rich and poor? How much is this talked about in family- and social circles? Can I ask my host family how they feel about this issue, or is it too controversial for that?
I tried to get a sense of this by leaving my copy of the magazine lingering around in the living room and noting the kinds of reactions it got. Alma noticed it first and asked me if she could take a look. Sure, I said, do you know this magazine? Alma shook her head. She’d never seen it before, she said. Interesting, I thought, because I see it everywhere. In any case, the large-lettered announcement of the topic on the cover (“héritage: ça peut changer?”) got no reaction. Instead, Alma pointed to the model on the cover and asked me who she was. “I don’t know,” I responded. “Just a model, I think.” Alma then opened the magazine, looked for the fashion section, identified the same model in those pictures, gave them another glance, and returned the magazine to me. A complete anti-climax: she simply did not react at all to the issue I was curious about.
Next was Amma. She, too, didn’t respond to the words on the cover. She did, however, ask me why I had bought this magazine in particular. And the way in which she asked me this made me think she already had her own opinion about it – a negative one.**** I decided to give her a neutral reason, to leave her the option of expressing either approval or disapproval. It’s to practice my French, I told her. She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. She leafed through the issue as Alma had, and then gave it back to me without another word. Another anti-climax. I asked her if she preferred any particular magazines, and she mentioned an Arabic-language one.
Finally I tried it out on Manal, who did have an actual evaluative reaction – though again, nothing to do with the magazine’s articles. I know she knows this magazine because she has stacks and stacks of its issues lying around in her Caftan shop. FDM has a yearly Caftan issue, after all, with hundreds of pictures showing the latest fashions. Oh yes, she exclaimed, I love this magazine. “It has lots of interesting things, look,” she said, and pointed to the sections on fashion and beauty. Nothing, once again, about the issues announced on the cover.
I was left, in other words, without an answer to my question. Not even an acknowledgement of the fact that these things were being discussed in this magazine. Was that a deliberate ignoring, and does their silence mean I should not bring it up – or does it mean there is simply no interest in the topic?
My family’s reaction to the magazine itself also bring me back to the question of how Femmes Du Maroc compares to other women’s magazines. Manal knows this publication, but for professional reasons. Amma knows it, but apparently prefers other magazines. Alma had no idea it existed. Who, then, actually reads Femmes Du Maroc? Who doesn’t, and why? How does that compare to other Francophone magazines? And how does it compare to Arabic glossies? Who reads those? What kinds of issues do those magazines discuss? Would they bring up an issue such as that of inheritance?*****
Do women read magazines at all? Because in fact, I never see anyone in my household reading anything other than the Qur’an. Contrary to what the many newsstands and bookstores in Rabat would suggest, I get the sense that most Moroccans are not habitual readers. I have actually never seen more in the way of books than a few copies of the Qur’an in any the Moroccan households I have visited. There is never a bookshelf, never even a stack of newspapers or magazines on the coffee table. Newspapers are read, but I think that is something that belongs in the coffee house (and thus belongs to men). Children have books, but those are for school. Children also do not seem to be raised with the concept of reading for pleasure. I talked to Mustafa about Harry Potter once, and he was very enthusiastic. Of course he knew Harry Potter, he said, he’d seen all the movies. He had never, however, heard that there were Harry Potter books, as well. And when I offered to give him my French copy of the first novel, he politely declined, telling me he preferred watching it on TV.
Maybe the lack of written media is an economic issue. Most households do not have much money to spare, and a book, as I have discovered, costs anywhere between 50 and 150 Dirhams – which approaches an average day’s pay. Being Francophone and costing 20 DH an issue, I expect that Femmes Du Maroc is not very widely read among any groups other than the upper layer of society. And in that sense its discussions are probably not the best indication of general public opinion. Still though: how contrary to public opinion is it, exactly? And how much weight does it carry among those upper layers, who, in all truth, not only have the money to buy these magazines but also have the power to actually affect Moroccan politics?
* Something thing I have a hard time understanding is how a less literal interpretation of the Qur’an negates its holiness. Why does interpreting its verses in a more abstract way necessarily mean one rejects the idea that the Qur’an is the direct word of God? Taking God’s words for its abstract rather than concrete meaning would not seem to me to make them any less true. Wouldn’t you in fact get at a much deeper ‘truth’ if you looked for the meaning behind the words, rather than stop at their literal meaning?
** There is a very rich tradition of Qur’anic interpretation. However, severe limits were placed on the Muslim community’s freedom to engage in ijtihad in the Middle Ages, as five (4 Sunni, 1 Shi‘a) major schools of Islamic legal thought (fiqh) established themselves as authorities on interpretation. Morocco continues to adhere quite explicitly to the Maliki school of fiqh.
*** A famous example here, for instance, is what the Qur’an says about alcohol. The Qur’an actually abrogates its own rules about drinking. The earliest verses merely forbid Muslims to be drunk during prayer. Later verses then change these rules, becoming increasingly stringent. If the Qur’an can correct itself in this way, this suggests that there is a certain element of rationalization that must be involved in translating any Qu’ranic prescription to reality – a process of deliberating about what the point is of certain rules and how best to realize their intended effect within a given context.
**** Perhaps I had this impression because she had already made somewhat suggestive comments a while ago about my predilection for Telquel, the francophone Moroccan equivalent of Time. “You always buy the magazines that talk about politics,” she observed. I wasn’t sure how to react – is it a good thing to be interested in Moroccan politics? Somehow, I don’t think so.
***** It is so unfortunate that those publications are so much less accessible to me. They are written in Fusha, which I do not read.
Morocco has a well-developed tradition of printed media. One can find a newsstand on nearly every street corner, and each of these sells dozens of newspapers, weekly journals, and monthly glossies – all in one’s choice of either French or Arabic. And this is not counting the international publications that are also available. Among this rich selection are at least five or six different Moroccan magazines aimed especially at women.
I particularly like a Francophone magazine called “Femmes Du Maroc.” I buy it primarily as a good and entertaining way to practice my French, but it actually publishes a lot of interesting articles. It features the same range of topics that other magazines discuss, but seems to ask intelligent and tough questions that others ignore. For example: this month, FDM published an article about the growing trend of looking for love by placing personal ads online or in the paper. The same topic was featured in the Ramadan-issue of Femina, a newer magazine. A Femina contributor tried out this new trend by placing an ad of her own, and then wrote an article reporting on her experiences – her transition from skepticism to (temporary) addiction, her conclusion that this ‘new trend may work for certain people, but it’s not for me’, and final disclosure that she had met her own soul mate through more conventional ways. In Morocco as in the Western world, the practice of meeting people through personal ads is growing in response to changing lifestyles and increasing individualism, but not quite accepted as fully legitimate as of yet. With that last sentence, the Femina reporter ultimately ascribed completely to the public’s skepticism and fear of new things, without ever questioning or even addressing any part of it. Femmes Du Maroc, on the other hand, published a 10-page feature on this new practice. It included a reporter’s experiences with an ad of her own, placed specifically for the purpose of this experiment (lacking any strategically mentioned feelings of skepticism), but also an in-depth analysis of the language used in these ads and a theorizing, through that analysis, of what these ads say about Moroccan society and the changes it is going through. Their conclusion: placing personal ads seems like a sign of modernization. Not only is it a sign of greater individualization, but it also suggests that people are taking fate into their own hands, no longer relying on parents or other traditional ways of finding a spouse. But a deeper investigation of the actual ads shows that those who place the ad present themselves as well what they’re looking for in such a way that it only perpetuates idealization of the traditional rules of male-female interaction. Modernity on the surface, but not in practice! Traditions simply jazzed up by a coat of modernity – and a confirmation, through this very untraditional medium, that Morocco is not yet ready to let go of its conservatism.
Of course, I am only comparing two magazines here, and am only looking at a single issue of each. But I get the sense that, where Femina leaves any social issue completely unquestioned, FDM boldly exposes Morocco’s cultural and social complexes.
Because this month, FDM also discusses another issue that I believe is quite controversial: that of “héritage” – inheritance. In fact, nearly a quarter of this month’s content is devoted to this topic; it includes background articles explaining the issue, testimonies from Islamic scholars, sociologists, first-hand accounts of readers who have dealt with the issue, and activist pieces calling for change.
Trying my best to be succinct, the issue of héritage is this. When the Family Code of law was drastically reformed in 2004, laws on inheritance were one of very few things left unchanged. Whereas most of the family code is now based on civil law, inheritance rules remain founded upon the shari‘a, or Islamic law. They were left untouched because inheritance is one of the few issues for which the Qur’an itself outlines explicit rules; and anything mentioned explicitly in the Qur’an cannot be interpreted loosely because it is believed to be God’s literal word.* Taken directly from the Qur’an, this, then, is the basic law on inheritance: a woman always inherits half of what a man does. Upon a father’s death, his male children will inherit a proportion of his wealth that equals twice that inherited by his daughters. Also, a woman cannot inherit on her own: if a man had no sons, his money does not automatically go to his daughters. In these cases, male kin must first be found. Once a male heir has been established, no matter how far removed on the family tree, his daughters (and wife) may inherit – but again, an amount always half of that inherited by the male heir(s).
Contesting these rules is very controversial – because contesting anything stated in the Qur’an is controversial. Nevertheless, some groups do call for inheritance laws to be changed, and FDM is apparently one of them. The entire span of its discussion about this issue unanimously argued in favor of reforming héritage. It was not only interesting that they did so in such a direct and forceful way (the issue being as controversial as it is), but it was also interesting how they did it.
Because not once did anyone question the holiness of the Qur’an, and not once was the concept of Islamic law rejected wholesale. What they did instead (and this is why they featured testimonies by experts on Islamic law) was appeal to established algorithms of Islamic legal logic, call attention to the existing traditions and methods of Qur’anic interpretation (“ijtihad”, pronounced ‘ij-ti-HAD’),** and remind the reader directly of other issues that prove the Qur’an need not always be taken on its literal word.***
The basic gist of the argument made by FDM is that the law on inheritance no longer serves the purpose it was designed for – and that it is not only accepted practice within the tradition of ijtihad to interpret Qur’anic verses according to the logic behind them rather than their literal content, but that it is also accepted practice in Islamic law to always question the rationale of certain rules, and to change them if that rationale is no longer relevant. FDM claims that Qur’anic rules of inheritance were originally meant to protect women financially, in a time when they did not contribute to society economically and depended fully on their male kin. Men were given more of the inheritance, but also expected to use that money to care for their female dependents. The fact that women were given anything in the first place was a major improvement – at the time, women commonly didn’t inherit anything (and apparently, women still don’t inherit according to Jewish inheritance laws?). It makes sense, FDM claims, to divide the inheritance according to individuals’ economic responsibilities. This was the basis for the distinction between men and women’s parts; it has nothing to do with gender per se. In other words: women received half not because they were women, but because they had no economic responsibilities.
Needless to say, this context has completely changed. Not only do women contribute as much to their household’s economy as men do, but Moroccan women often have even more financial responsibilities toward the family than their male relatives. By continuing to apply Qur’anic rules of inheritance in this very different economic context, their effect has become the complete opposite of its original intent: rather than financially protected, women are now discriminated against and put at disproportionate risk of impoverishment. Taking the Qur’an too literally, one expert suggests, can sometimes mean that its fundamental principles of equality and justice are ultimately completely negated.
To me, someone who was not raised with the sense of holiness that the Qur’an exudes for most Muslims, this argument seems to make perfect sense. And apart from the bold statements here and there about uneven power dynamics in Islam and men’s desire to subjugate women, it seems to me a very respectful, logical, and convincing way of making an argument. How could anyone disagree?
But I know there are people who do. And unfortunately, FDM’s long feature does not include a single oppositional voice. I am so curious to hear how FDM’s arguments would be countered by someone in favor of maintaining inheritance laws as they are. What are their arguments, what is their rationale? And where, for that matter, does public opinion lie? How do Moroccans feel about this, and how does this differ between educated and non-educated, women and men, rural and urban populations, young and old, rich and poor? How much is this talked about in family- and social circles? Can I ask my host family how they feel about this issue, or is it too controversial for that?
I tried to get a sense of this by leaving my copy of the magazine lingering around in the living room and noting the kinds of reactions it got. Alma noticed it first and asked me if she could take a look. Sure, I said, do you know this magazine? Alma shook her head. She’d never seen it before, she said. Interesting, I thought, because I see it everywhere. In any case, the large-lettered announcement of the topic on the cover (“héritage: ça peut changer?”) got no reaction. Instead, Alma pointed to the model on the cover and asked me who she was. “I don’t know,” I responded. “Just a model, I think.” Alma then opened the magazine, looked for the fashion section, identified the same model in those pictures, gave them another glance, and returned the magazine to me. A complete anti-climax: she simply did not react at all to the issue I was curious about.
Next was Amma. She, too, didn’t respond to the words on the cover. She did, however, ask me why I had bought this magazine in particular. And the way in which she asked me this made me think she already had her own opinion about it – a negative one.**** I decided to give her a neutral reason, to leave her the option of expressing either approval or disapproval. It’s to practice my French, I told her. She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. She leafed through the issue as Alma had, and then gave it back to me without another word. Another anti-climax. I asked her if she preferred any particular magazines, and she mentioned an Arabic-language one.
Finally I tried it out on Manal, who did have an actual evaluative reaction – though again, nothing to do with the magazine’s articles. I know she knows this magazine because she has stacks and stacks of its issues lying around in her Caftan shop. FDM has a yearly Caftan issue, after all, with hundreds of pictures showing the latest fashions. Oh yes, she exclaimed, I love this magazine. “It has lots of interesting things, look,” she said, and pointed to the sections on fashion and beauty. Nothing, once again, about the issues announced on the cover.
I was left, in other words, without an answer to my question. Not even an acknowledgement of the fact that these things were being discussed in this magazine. Was that a deliberate ignoring, and does their silence mean I should not bring it up – or does it mean there is simply no interest in the topic?
My family’s reaction to the magazine itself also bring me back to the question of how Femmes Du Maroc compares to other women’s magazines. Manal knows this publication, but for professional reasons. Amma knows it, but apparently prefers other magazines. Alma had no idea it existed. Who, then, actually reads Femmes Du Maroc? Who doesn’t, and why? How does that compare to other Francophone magazines? And how does it compare to Arabic glossies? Who reads those? What kinds of issues do those magazines discuss? Would they bring up an issue such as that of inheritance?*****
Do women read magazines at all? Because in fact, I never see anyone in my household reading anything other than the Qur’an. Contrary to what the many newsstands and bookstores in Rabat would suggest, I get the sense that most Moroccans are not habitual readers. I have actually never seen more in the way of books than a few copies of the Qur’an in any the Moroccan households I have visited. There is never a bookshelf, never even a stack of newspapers or magazines on the coffee table. Newspapers are read, but I think that is something that belongs in the coffee house (and thus belongs to men). Children have books, but those are for school. Children also do not seem to be raised with the concept of reading for pleasure. I talked to Mustafa about Harry Potter once, and he was very enthusiastic. Of course he knew Harry Potter, he said, he’d seen all the movies. He had never, however, heard that there were Harry Potter books, as well. And when I offered to give him my French copy of the first novel, he politely declined, telling me he preferred watching it on TV.
Maybe the lack of written media is an economic issue. Most households do not have much money to spare, and a book, as I have discovered, costs anywhere between 50 and 150 Dirhams – which approaches an average day’s pay. Being Francophone and costing 20 DH an issue, I expect that Femmes Du Maroc is not very widely read among any groups other than the upper layer of society. And in that sense its discussions are probably not the best indication of general public opinion. Still though: how contrary to public opinion is it, exactly? And how much weight does it carry among those upper layers, who, in all truth, not only have the money to buy these magazines but also have the power to actually affect Moroccan politics?
* Something thing I have a hard time understanding is how a less literal interpretation of the Qur’an negates its holiness. Why does interpreting its verses in a more abstract way necessarily mean one rejects the idea that the Qur’an is the direct word of God? Taking God’s words for its abstract rather than concrete meaning would not seem to me to make them any less true. Wouldn’t you in fact get at a much deeper ‘truth’ if you looked for the meaning behind the words, rather than stop at their literal meaning?
** There is a very rich tradition of Qur’anic interpretation. However, severe limits were placed on the Muslim community’s freedom to engage in ijtihad in the Middle Ages, as five (4 Sunni, 1 Shi‘a) major schools of Islamic legal thought (fiqh) established themselves as authorities on interpretation. Morocco continues to adhere quite explicitly to the Maliki school of fiqh.
*** A famous example here, for instance, is what the Qur’an says about alcohol. The Qur’an actually abrogates its own rules about drinking. The earliest verses merely forbid Muslims to be drunk during prayer. Later verses then change these rules, becoming increasingly stringent. If the Qur’an can correct itself in this way, this suggests that there is a certain element of rationalization that must be involved in translating any Qu’ranic prescription to reality – a process of deliberating about what the point is of certain rules and how best to realize their intended effect within a given context.
**** Perhaps I had this impression because she had already made somewhat suggestive comments a while ago about my predilection for Telquel, the francophone Moroccan equivalent of Time. “You always buy the magazines that talk about politics,” she observed. I wasn’t sure how to react – is it a good thing to be interested in Moroccan politics? Somehow, I don’t think so.
***** It is so unfortunate that those publications are so much less accessible to me. They are written in Fusha, which I do not read.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Generalizations
In the interest of literary style and a little ethnographic weight, I’ve been talking a fair amount about “Moroccans” as a general population in this blog. And in a sense, what I am trying to do here during these three months of pre-fieldwork is to establish a basic understanding of the general characteristics and dynamics of this society and its citizens. I am trying to create a base of general comprehension, before I begin to focus very specifically on a small part of this society (that being mental healthcare, of course).
I think it is important to get a sense of the larger dynamics and characteristics of a society, because without knowing those, it will be impossible to come to know its smaller sub-components. But I have also been worrying lately that I may be generalizing a bit more than I should, and I may be referring to “Moroccans” in general, a bit too easily. Generalization has been on my mind lately: Noureddine’s anti-West campaign, more intensive sharing of experiences with fellow foreigners, and the past week’s debate at the Nimar have made me a little more aware of what I myself am doing.
I don’t want to be a generalizer. I don’t believe in generalizing, and I think that if anthropology stands for anything, it is for the richness of human diversity, both between and within cultures. I remain focused on establishing a general understanding of Moroccan society, but I want to do so without losing sight of its internal heterogeneity.
Because if there is one thing one could generalize about when it comes to Morocco (and even here one should be careful), it’s that nothing is as simple as it seems. Morocco cannot be described in a few words, because there are too many histories, ethnicities, languages, traditions, and beliefs that come together here. As I have written in earlier posts, there is a duality that runs through nearly every facet of Moroccan society. This duality means that for every characteristic of society, every identifiable social dynamic that I write about, there is a large group of Moroccans to whom it does not apply, and for whom things work in an entirely different way. There are many others who write blogs about Morocco, and their observations are often completely different from mine. This does not mean that either of us has it wrong; it simply means that we are observing different sides of this complex society and drawing different conclusions.
And so when I write about Moroccan attitudes about marriage, I do not mean to claim or even imply that there are no Moroccans for whom this may be different. The same goes for what I’ve written about medicalization, the practice of Ramadan, masculinity, the psychological importance of the Western Sahara, and so on. I am recording my observations and indulging in my own analytical pleasure – and I will keep doing so. But I may, from now on, stress this perpetual presence of heterogeneity a little more, and try a little harder to avoid suggesting that any of the theories I devise applies to all residents of this country across the board.
I also may begin to revisit a few of the issues I’ve been writing about. I often write my posts early on in my thinking process, enthusiastic as I am about getting to know a new facet of Moroccan society. But – because nothing is ever simple in this country – as time passes, my analyses of these issues deepen, I discover deeper complexities, added factors, exceptions to the rule, and I begin to wish I could go back and edit all my posts; in my efforts to avoid generalization, I want to highlight these complexities. Suddenly my posts begin to seem a little superficial, as though they are only scratching the surface. A surface I desperately want to see right through… but that always takes time, I guess.
I think it is important to get a sense of the larger dynamics and characteristics of a society, because without knowing those, it will be impossible to come to know its smaller sub-components. But I have also been worrying lately that I may be generalizing a bit more than I should, and I may be referring to “Moroccans” in general, a bit too easily. Generalization has been on my mind lately: Noureddine’s anti-West campaign, more intensive sharing of experiences with fellow foreigners, and the past week’s debate at the Nimar have made me a little more aware of what I myself am doing.
I don’t want to be a generalizer. I don’t believe in generalizing, and I think that if anthropology stands for anything, it is for the richness of human diversity, both between and within cultures. I remain focused on establishing a general understanding of Moroccan society, but I want to do so without losing sight of its internal heterogeneity.
Because if there is one thing one could generalize about when it comes to Morocco (and even here one should be careful), it’s that nothing is as simple as it seems. Morocco cannot be described in a few words, because there are too many histories, ethnicities, languages, traditions, and beliefs that come together here. As I have written in earlier posts, there is a duality that runs through nearly every facet of Moroccan society. This duality means that for every characteristic of society, every identifiable social dynamic that I write about, there is a large group of Moroccans to whom it does not apply, and for whom things work in an entirely different way. There are many others who write blogs about Morocco, and their observations are often completely different from mine. This does not mean that either of us has it wrong; it simply means that we are observing different sides of this complex society and drawing different conclusions.
And so when I write about Moroccan attitudes about marriage, I do not mean to claim or even imply that there are no Moroccans for whom this may be different. The same goes for what I’ve written about medicalization, the practice of Ramadan, masculinity, the psychological importance of the Western Sahara, and so on. I am recording my observations and indulging in my own analytical pleasure – and I will keep doing so. But I may, from now on, stress this perpetual presence of heterogeneity a little more, and try a little harder to avoid suggesting that any of the theories I devise applies to all residents of this country across the board.
I also may begin to revisit a few of the issues I’ve been writing about. I often write my posts early on in my thinking process, enthusiastic as I am about getting to know a new facet of Moroccan society. But – because nothing is ever simple in this country – as time passes, my analyses of these issues deepen, I discover deeper complexities, added factors, exceptions to the rule, and I begin to wish I could go back and edit all my posts; in my efforts to avoid generalization, I want to highlight these complexities. Suddenly my posts begin to seem a little superficial, as though they are only scratching the surface. A surface I desperately want to see right through… but that always takes time, I guess.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
On A Personal Note (Of Hybridity)
Last night the Nimar organized an evening of film and debate for a group of Dutch and American students in Rabat. On the basis of a Hollywood production about Morocco in the 1970s, we discussed Morocco’s image in the United States as well as the Netherlands – and from there drifted to a more general discussion about prejudice, generalization, the relationship between West and East, and immigration.
The Nimar announced we would be watching a film called “Marrakech Express” – which I had never heard of before. As it turned out, this is simply the French title for “Hideous Kinky,” a movie I love and actually own. The basic story, set in 1972, follows a woman who has traveled to Marrakech with her two young daughters, hoping to find “truth” – namely “the annihilation of the ego” that is supposedly taught by a certain Sufi order. What I love about Hideous Kinky is that it romanticizes Morocco without reveling in Orientalist exoticism. It celebrates Morocco’s beauty and complexity, but does so indirectly: the film has moved back an extra step of observation, and brings into focus the way in which Western visitors in the hippie era – personified by Julia, the protagonist – experienced Morocco and projected onto it their own created desires for escapism and exotic fantasy.
I live in a different Morocco – another time, another region, another political climate, another world. Nevertheless, the image of Morocco created by this movie rings true to me. It is an image that always remains implicit; no statements are made, no generalizations, no explanations or descriptions. There are simply images that cannot be captured by language or description. These images highlight the exoticism and strangeness (and sensory overload – bright colors, sounds, smells everywhere) that strike most western travelers, but also show the harmlessness of it all. I love how this duality is presented: the viewer gets to know Morocco primarily through the eyes of Julia’s two little girls, who explore Marrakech without judgment or prejudice, as an open space of possibility and adventure; but who are also a little haunted by its strangeness, by a certain discomfort they cannot identify. It comes back in their dreams, where the imagery gives us some indication of the nature of that discomfort. In this dream world they are constantly running through long, dark, claustrophobic corridors – medina alleys, hallways – in pursuit of a loved one, whom they are never able to reach. She is always on the other side of a wall, around the corner, or across a courtyard.* A constant pursuit, and a perpetual inability to grasp, to ground.
And I love the movie’s basic message: that there is no point in searching for “truth,” because that results in nothing but escapism and neglect of your reality – which is where your personal truth really lies. The film does not celebrate pragmatism. To the contrary, it illustrates the beauty of pursuits and passions, but it preaches a kind of down-to-earthness in doing so, a kind of grounding, a not forgetting about who you are. Julia escapes constantly, and persistently so (refusing even to see the Moroccan reality around her for what it is), despite continual forces pulling her back to reality – lack of money, a daughter with an illness, a Sufi sheikh who talks not about “annihilation of the ego” but in fact asks her all about the life she left behind in London. She doesn’t quite get it, even at the end, but we – the viewers – see it.
So – the movie over, we began a debate about common perceptions of Morocco in the United States and the Netherlands: Morocco as the accessible and safe representative of exoticism, Morocco as hippie paradise, Morocco as the “other,” Morocco as desert, Morocco as poor and desolate origin of the ‘troubled youth’ in Holland. Perhaps inevitably, with a crowd of Westerners forced by their sojourn in a Muslim country to figure out their relationship to the world, the discussion moved quickly on to the general topic of Western prejudice and discrimination. We all seemed to be of the same mind about generalization and stereotyping of the Muslim world: we took care to express our sensitivity to the variation of cultures, languages, and histories that constitute this region. Yet I was surprised at the extent to which generalizations and stereotypes did slip into the conversation here and there. The sensitivity to variation did not always seem to be applied to our own part of the world. Stereotypes surfaced – about the United States, about the Moroccan community in the Netherlands, even. Between the various participants we had enough different viewpoints in the room to arrive at a fairly subtle analysis, but it surprised me nevertheless.
I found myself constantly taking up a middle position: pointing to similarities between Holland and the US, comparing Moroccan attitudes to Western ones, contrasting the reality of Dutch-Moroccan youth’s unwillingness to identify with Holland to the reality of the fact that they are often not accepted as ‘Dutch’ by the general population. And as we talked, I began to step back and look at myself, sitting there in between the Americans and Netherlanders. I often take up middle positions in debates, seemingly unable to take up a position (or ever make a simple statement in general) because I always see multiple sides to everything. But that evening I had no choice, it seemed; I simply was in the middle. I am Dutch, but I am also an American student. I was part of both groups, able to represent each – and at the same time unable to fully do so in the same way that others were. I know each society, but I know each imperfectly: I left the Netherlands eight years ago, and I don’t have the experience of growing up American.
And as we began to talk about the young Moroccan community in Holland, the discussion really began to resonate with my own sense of being both-and-in-between. I have done fairly extensive research on Moroccans in the Netherlands, and among Muslim immigrants in the United States. But as I contributed to the discussion, I felt myself drawing mostly on my own experience of immigrant identity – of issues with belonging, acceptance, and assimilation. My experience does not begin to compare with the difficulty encountered by these youth, but the observations made about Moroccans suddenly had a familiar feeling.
Efforts to assimilate, I think, can carry with them the risk of losing yourself. Even if you find a way for yourself to combine identification with two different cultural worlds, many others cannot wrap their heads around such hybridity. Adopting one culture seemingly always entails the forgetting of another – in the same way, perhaps, that you can never speak two languages perfectly at the same time. The reaction to this is natural, I think: you begin to grasp on to strings of belonging, however small or big they are, even if that means a rejection of any other affiliations. You begin to develop an unreal nostalgia for the place you come from, begin to idealize and elaborate that part of your identity, even if that impedes the process of assimilation. You search for markers to vouch for the authenticity of your ‘original’ identity – you wear particular clothes, highlight your accent when you speak, talk about the host country as though you are a mere visitor, tout a taste for music from your country of origin, search for other ex-pats in your area, turn back to your country’s national religion. If an identification with the host country is not accepted by the general population there, this nostalgic tendency can be even stronger. In Holland, Dutch-Moroccans are persistently seen as nothing but ‘Moroccan’ or ‘Muslim’ (two identifications that are often conflated with one another by the general public). It is not surprising at all, I think, that they react to this by rejecting the identity they are not granted by society, and strengthening the ones they can claim legitimately. How can we expect them to identify with Holland when we persistently keep referring to them as “Moroccan youth” – and when that term has become synonymous with “troubled youth”?
In my own case, there was no rejection. To the contrary: I can fit in completely, in the US. I can pass for American: I have no accent when I speak English, I know the ins and outs of American culture by now, and my northern European appearance easily passes for WASP. This, however, did in fact make me lose myself, for a while. I no longer knew who I was: my Dutchness had not only become something of the past, but had become a past that had been erased by assimilation. It no longer seemed relevant. When I began to pull myself together again, I did so by reaching back and bringing that past back to life. I began to underscore my difference, my otherness – while simultaneously being frustrated that the choice to focus on my past seemed to erase a present. I could claim neither a Dutch present, because I now lived in America, nor an American present, because I was in a sense denying my identification with the United States.
It was not until I spent a significant amount of time outside of either country – here in Morocco, in fact, four years ago – that these two parts of myself fell into place. Before that time, a situation like last night’s would have given me an identity crisis. Now I have a kind of peace about it. There is no more difference between past and present; Holland and the US have come together on either side of that divide. I know who I am. I know what parts of me are Dutch and what parts are American. I have both, and it works for me. I have realized that it does not jeopardize my belonging anywhere, it does not make me any less legitimate, and it certainly does not make me any less of a coherent person. I still run into people who cannot grasp this idea of a joint identity. Surprisingly it is mostly Europeans – both in the United States and Europe – who do not understand that I can live an assimilated lifestyle in California without over-emphasizing my otherness, but still speak Dutch at home, eat the food I’ve always eaten, stay up to date on the Dutch media, and celebrate Dutch holidays.
I still grasp for strings of belonging – because I don’t want to lose my sense of hybridity. I still insist on a certain Dutchness, to always complement the Americanness that is more automatically there (because that’s where I live, after all). I will be raising my kids, if or when I ever have them, as perfect hybrids who speak Dutch and know the ins and outs of Dutch culture. But it all has a place now; this Dutchness no longer exists in contradiction with my Americanness.
Here in Morocco, I think this blog has become my grasping. It’s not a tool of belonging, but it is a way for me to remember who I am and why I am here, at the moments when my total immersion, loss of privacy, and inability to be self-sufficient reduce me to the status of a child. Writing has always been a way of grasping for me, I think, and it is something I have never been able to live without.
* This is a feeling I especially identify with in Morocco. I do finally feel like I am getting to know the country, but that sense of perpetual inability to get somewhere, to truly understand, to penetrate those walls and lose that simultaneous sense of claustrophobia and complete exposure – that’s something I really recognize.
The Nimar announced we would be watching a film called “Marrakech Express” – which I had never heard of before. As it turned out, this is simply the French title for “Hideous Kinky,” a movie I love and actually own. The basic story, set in 1972, follows a woman who has traveled to Marrakech with her two young daughters, hoping to find “truth” – namely “the annihilation of the ego” that is supposedly taught by a certain Sufi order. What I love about Hideous Kinky is that it romanticizes Morocco without reveling in Orientalist exoticism. It celebrates Morocco’s beauty and complexity, but does so indirectly: the film has moved back an extra step of observation, and brings into focus the way in which Western visitors in the hippie era – personified by Julia, the protagonist – experienced Morocco and projected onto it their own created desires for escapism and exotic fantasy.
I live in a different Morocco – another time, another region, another political climate, another world. Nevertheless, the image of Morocco created by this movie rings true to me. It is an image that always remains implicit; no statements are made, no generalizations, no explanations or descriptions. There are simply images that cannot be captured by language or description. These images highlight the exoticism and strangeness (and sensory overload – bright colors, sounds, smells everywhere) that strike most western travelers, but also show the harmlessness of it all. I love how this duality is presented: the viewer gets to know Morocco primarily through the eyes of Julia’s two little girls, who explore Marrakech without judgment or prejudice, as an open space of possibility and adventure; but who are also a little haunted by its strangeness, by a certain discomfort they cannot identify. It comes back in their dreams, where the imagery gives us some indication of the nature of that discomfort. In this dream world they are constantly running through long, dark, claustrophobic corridors – medina alleys, hallways – in pursuit of a loved one, whom they are never able to reach. She is always on the other side of a wall, around the corner, or across a courtyard.* A constant pursuit, and a perpetual inability to grasp, to ground.
And I love the movie’s basic message: that there is no point in searching for “truth,” because that results in nothing but escapism and neglect of your reality – which is where your personal truth really lies. The film does not celebrate pragmatism. To the contrary, it illustrates the beauty of pursuits and passions, but it preaches a kind of down-to-earthness in doing so, a kind of grounding, a not forgetting about who you are. Julia escapes constantly, and persistently so (refusing even to see the Moroccan reality around her for what it is), despite continual forces pulling her back to reality – lack of money, a daughter with an illness, a Sufi sheikh who talks not about “annihilation of the ego” but in fact asks her all about the life she left behind in London. She doesn’t quite get it, even at the end, but we – the viewers – see it.
So – the movie over, we began a debate about common perceptions of Morocco in the United States and the Netherlands: Morocco as the accessible and safe representative of exoticism, Morocco as hippie paradise, Morocco as the “other,” Morocco as desert, Morocco as poor and desolate origin of the ‘troubled youth’ in Holland. Perhaps inevitably, with a crowd of Westerners forced by their sojourn in a Muslim country to figure out their relationship to the world, the discussion moved quickly on to the general topic of Western prejudice and discrimination. We all seemed to be of the same mind about generalization and stereotyping of the Muslim world: we took care to express our sensitivity to the variation of cultures, languages, and histories that constitute this region. Yet I was surprised at the extent to which generalizations and stereotypes did slip into the conversation here and there. The sensitivity to variation did not always seem to be applied to our own part of the world. Stereotypes surfaced – about the United States, about the Moroccan community in the Netherlands, even. Between the various participants we had enough different viewpoints in the room to arrive at a fairly subtle analysis, but it surprised me nevertheless.
I found myself constantly taking up a middle position: pointing to similarities between Holland and the US, comparing Moroccan attitudes to Western ones, contrasting the reality of Dutch-Moroccan youth’s unwillingness to identify with Holland to the reality of the fact that they are often not accepted as ‘Dutch’ by the general population. And as we talked, I began to step back and look at myself, sitting there in between the Americans and Netherlanders. I often take up middle positions in debates, seemingly unable to take up a position (or ever make a simple statement in general) because I always see multiple sides to everything. But that evening I had no choice, it seemed; I simply was in the middle. I am Dutch, but I am also an American student. I was part of both groups, able to represent each – and at the same time unable to fully do so in the same way that others were. I know each society, but I know each imperfectly: I left the Netherlands eight years ago, and I don’t have the experience of growing up American.
And as we began to talk about the young Moroccan community in Holland, the discussion really began to resonate with my own sense of being both-and-in-between. I have done fairly extensive research on Moroccans in the Netherlands, and among Muslim immigrants in the United States. But as I contributed to the discussion, I felt myself drawing mostly on my own experience of immigrant identity – of issues with belonging, acceptance, and assimilation. My experience does not begin to compare with the difficulty encountered by these youth, but the observations made about Moroccans suddenly had a familiar feeling.
Efforts to assimilate, I think, can carry with them the risk of losing yourself. Even if you find a way for yourself to combine identification with two different cultural worlds, many others cannot wrap their heads around such hybridity. Adopting one culture seemingly always entails the forgetting of another – in the same way, perhaps, that you can never speak two languages perfectly at the same time. The reaction to this is natural, I think: you begin to grasp on to strings of belonging, however small or big they are, even if that means a rejection of any other affiliations. You begin to develop an unreal nostalgia for the place you come from, begin to idealize and elaborate that part of your identity, even if that impedes the process of assimilation. You search for markers to vouch for the authenticity of your ‘original’ identity – you wear particular clothes, highlight your accent when you speak, talk about the host country as though you are a mere visitor, tout a taste for music from your country of origin, search for other ex-pats in your area, turn back to your country’s national religion. If an identification with the host country is not accepted by the general population there, this nostalgic tendency can be even stronger. In Holland, Dutch-Moroccans are persistently seen as nothing but ‘Moroccan’ or ‘Muslim’ (two identifications that are often conflated with one another by the general public). It is not surprising at all, I think, that they react to this by rejecting the identity they are not granted by society, and strengthening the ones they can claim legitimately. How can we expect them to identify with Holland when we persistently keep referring to them as “Moroccan youth” – and when that term has become synonymous with “troubled youth”?
In my own case, there was no rejection. To the contrary: I can fit in completely, in the US. I can pass for American: I have no accent when I speak English, I know the ins and outs of American culture by now, and my northern European appearance easily passes for WASP. This, however, did in fact make me lose myself, for a while. I no longer knew who I was: my Dutchness had not only become something of the past, but had become a past that had been erased by assimilation. It no longer seemed relevant. When I began to pull myself together again, I did so by reaching back and bringing that past back to life. I began to underscore my difference, my otherness – while simultaneously being frustrated that the choice to focus on my past seemed to erase a present. I could claim neither a Dutch present, because I now lived in America, nor an American present, because I was in a sense denying my identification with the United States.
It was not until I spent a significant amount of time outside of either country – here in Morocco, in fact, four years ago – that these two parts of myself fell into place. Before that time, a situation like last night’s would have given me an identity crisis. Now I have a kind of peace about it. There is no more difference between past and present; Holland and the US have come together on either side of that divide. I know who I am. I know what parts of me are Dutch and what parts are American. I have both, and it works for me. I have realized that it does not jeopardize my belonging anywhere, it does not make me any less legitimate, and it certainly does not make me any less of a coherent person. I still run into people who cannot grasp this idea of a joint identity. Surprisingly it is mostly Europeans – both in the United States and Europe – who do not understand that I can live an assimilated lifestyle in California without over-emphasizing my otherness, but still speak Dutch at home, eat the food I’ve always eaten, stay up to date on the Dutch media, and celebrate Dutch holidays.
I still grasp for strings of belonging – because I don’t want to lose my sense of hybridity. I still insist on a certain Dutchness, to always complement the Americanness that is more automatically there (because that’s where I live, after all). I will be raising my kids, if or when I ever have them, as perfect hybrids who speak Dutch and know the ins and outs of Dutch culture. But it all has a place now; this Dutchness no longer exists in contradiction with my Americanness.
Here in Morocco, I think this blog has become my grasping. It’s not a tool of belonging, but it is a way for me to remember who I am and why I am here, at the moments when my total immersion, loss of privacy, and inability to be self-sufficient reduce me to the status of a child. Writing has always been a way of grasping for me, I think, and it is something I have never been able to live without.
* This is a feeling I especially identify with in Morocco. I do finally feel like I am getting to know the country, but that sense of perpetual inability to get somewhere, to truly understand, to penetrate those walls and lose that simultaneous sense of claustrophobia and complete exposure – that’s something I really recognize.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Medicalization
Fatima’s bathroom in Salé is stocked with products. When taking a shower, one has a choice of at least five different kinds of shampoo, three kinds of soap in addition to the shower gels standing at attention in the windowsill. There are conditioners, bubble baths, and a variety of scrubbing utensils. Next to the shower hangs a shelf with creams, lotions, gels, concealers, bleaches, deodorants, perfumes, tonics, and anything else anyone might ever need. My house in Rabat has no bathroom, but there is no shortage of beautifying products here, either: each sister has a large collection of bottles and jars in their section of the big wardrobe standing on one end of the sitting room.
My host family, in other words, is highly concerned with its personal hygiene. In the same material way they are highly concerned about their health. There are pill bottles, ointments, creams, and inhalers to be found all over the house, to which the members of the family take recourse at the first sign of illness.
These people are constantly ill. When someone has a headache or a sniffle – which, with so many people in one house, occurs at least once a day – they immediately pronounce themselves “mrid” or “malade.” They will install themselves on the couch under a blanket, cover their eyes and/or forehead with a scarf, lean back on a pillow, and let everyone else take care of the household while they look on with pain in their eyes. It also means pills, always.
Not only are they quick to take some kind of medication; it also does not seem to matter too much what kind of medication it is. My host mother and sisters have all taken my Excedrin at least once, without so much as a glance at the bottle. Their own collection of pills is stored in unmarked jars, or in bottles whose label clearly does not match what is kept in them. Khadija once shook two kinds of pills out of an Advil bottle – actual red Advil tablets, and something blue and unidentifiable. For her headache, she said. Just in time, I was able to stop her from taking the blue ones by telling her I thought those were for something else. These women seem to take anyone’s word for it, including mine (a stranger’s, in a sense), that the pill being taken is in fact meant to cure whatever ailment they seek to alleviate. And I get the sense that this is a general Moroccan characteristic. At a party about a month ago, an interesting communal sharing of pills occurred. One woman asked her neighbor if she might have anything for a headache with her. Upon which this neighbor opened her bag and pulled out at least three different kinds of pills. “Take these,” she said, “they’re from the military hospital, really strong, really good.” Eagerly, the first woman indeed took these tablets, which were clearly on prescription. And not only did she do this; overhearing this conversation, at least three other women expressed an interest in these military pills. A cup of water was brought over, and all of them took a dose of medication.
This seems like very risky behavior to me. Not in the least because I get the sense that fairly often, the pills or other medications taken are indeed meant for a completely different ailment. Who knows what these military pills – or the blue pills in the Advil bottle – were for? My friend with the Dutch blog has a post about her own trip to a pharmacy in rural Morocco. Looking for vitamins and anti-diarrheal salt, she was given a range of choices – from sleeping pills to medication for intestinal infections - but none of it what she was looking for.
And from my own observations: Maria once burnt her hand while making soup. After holding her hand under the water, she rushed to the bathroom to put some “pommade” on the burn. Hours later, as she brought out the tube to reapply, I noticed that this ‘pommade’ was in fact hair removal cream. Which it clearly said on the package, in French. Which she can read.
Needless to say, when I was offered medication for my Salé-related headache last weekend, I politely declined. This was hard to sell to them – being so liberal with medication themselves, it took a while for them to accept the idea that I didn’t like taking anything.
With this general impression of fairly extensive medicalization, I am really curious to learn how people feel about psychiatric drugs – antidepressants (“antidepressor”), anti-psychotics, the like. Are they as liberal with these pharmaceuticals as they are with anything else? Would these be shared in the same way that the pain medication was at this party (assuming it really was pain medication)? If so, what does that mean for the practice of psychiatry, and how does the use and impact of psycho-pharmaceuticals affect the practice of traditional healing practices? If not, what makes psycho-pharmaceuticals so different from any other kind of medication? I wonder how I am going to figure this out. As far as I know, no one in my immediate network is on any kind of psychiatric medication. I’m trying to think of a pretext to pay a visit to a pharmacy myself and do some exploring. Vitamin pills, perhaps. But how will that get me on the trail of psycho pharmaceuticals?
My host family, in other words, is highly concerned with its personal hygiene. In the same material way they are highly concerned about their health. There are pill bottles, ointments, creams, and inhalers to be found all over the house, to which the members of the family take recourse at the first sign of illness.
These people are constantly ill. When someone has a headache or a sniffle – which, with so many people in one house, occurs at least once a day – they immediately pronounce themselves “mrid” or “malade.” They will install themselves on the couch under a blanket, cover their eyes and/or forehead with a scarf, lean back on a pillow, and let everyone else take care of the household while they look on with pain in their eyes. It also means pills, always.
Not only are they quick to take some kind of medication; it also does not seem to matter too much what kind of medication it is. My host mother and sisters have all taken my Excedrin at least once, without so much as a glance at the bottle. Their own collection of pills is stored in unmarked jars, or in bottles whose label clearly does not match what is kept in them. Khadija once shook two kinds of pills out of an Advil bottle – actual red Advil tablets, and something blue and unidentifiable. For her headache, she said. Just in time, I was able to stop her from taking the blue ones by telling her I thought those were for something else. These women seem to take anyone’s word for it, including mine (a stranger’s, in a sense), that the pill being taken is in fact meant to cure whatever ailment they seek to alleviate. And I get the sense that this is a general Moroccan characteristic. At a party about a month ago, an interesting communal sharing of pills occurred. One woman asked her neighbor if she might have anything for a headache with her. Upon which this neighbor opened her bag and pulled out at least three different kinds of pills. “Take these,” she said, “they’re from the military hospital, really strong, really good.” Eagerly, the first woman indeed took these tablets, which were clearly on prescription. And not only did she do this; overhearing this conversation, at least three other women expressed an interest in these military pills. A cup of water was brought over, and all of them took a dose of medication.
This seems like very risky behavior to me. Not in the least because I get the sense that fairly often, the pills or other medications taken are indeed meant for a completely different ailment. Who knows what these military pills – or the blue pills in the Advil bottle – were for? My friend with the Dutch blog has a post about her own trip to a pharmacy in rural Morocco. Looking for vitamins and anti-diarrheal salt, she was given a range of choices – from sleeping pills to medication for intestinal infections - but none of it what she was looking for.
And from my own observations: Maria once burnt her hand while making soup. After holding her hand under the water, she rushed to the bathroom to put some “pommade” on the burn. Hours later, as she brought out the tube to reapply, I noticed that this ‘pommade’ was in fact hair removal cream. Which it clearly said on the package, in French. Which she can read.
Needless to say, when I was offered medication for my Salé-related headache last weekend, I politely declined. This was hard to sell to them – being so liberal with medication themselves, it took a while for them to accept the idea that I didn’t like taking anything.
With this general impression of fairly extensive medicalization, I am really curious to learn how people feel about psychiatric drugs – antidepressants (“antidepressor”), anti-psychotics, the like. Are they as liberal with these pharmaceuticals as they are with anything else? Would these be shared in the same way that the pain medication was at this party (assuming it really was pain medication)? If so, what does that mean for the practice of psychiatry, and how does the use and impact of psycho-pharmaceuticals affect the practice of traditional healing practices? If not, what makes psycho-pharmaceuticals so different from any other kind of medication? I wonder how I am going to figure this out. As far as I know, no one in my immediate network is on any kind of psychiatric medication. I’m trying to think of a pretext to pay a visit to a pharmacy myself and do some exploring. Vitamin pills, perhaps. But how will that get me on the trail of psycho pharmaceuticals?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Love... versus? Marriage
Moroccans are as obsessed with love as the rest of us. It is the subject of many a Moroccan song and movie, and it is what draws women back to the drama of their soap operas every day.
Nevertheless, I would nearly characterize Moroccans as among the most un-romantic people I have ever met. On my first evening out with Amma she made mention of her friend’s boyfriend, but that is the only time I have heard anyone in my immediate network mention romantic relationships. Marriage on the other hand is quite dominantly present – either as wish (Alma’s, of course) or as actual state of existence.* But – despite Alma’s fervent desire for a husband – it seems as though Moroccan spouses can hardly stand one another. Spouses do not seem to make each other happy – the opposite, more like. Any hint of love, of mutual regard even, is conspicuous in its absence.
I am surrounded daily by two cases in point.
I have mentioned earlier that Si Mahmoud and Fatima do not sleep in the same room. In general, they pay one another very little attention. They hardly communicate, apart from some grumbling at each other here and there. They greet each other like they greet anyone else, but there is no evidence of any special connection, a special closeness; if anything, their greeting hints of an especially clear distance. There are no kisses: there is only a handshake. And while Fatima will actually turn to look at anyone else who greets her, she actually consistently looks away when she reaches for Si Mahmoud’s extended hand. These two seem to serve a mostly practical purpose to one another: Si Mahmoud is Fatima’s driver and delivery man; Fatima is Si Mahmoud’s cook and cleaning lady. If Si Mahmoud is in the mood for some social interaction or a good discussion, he goes to the coffee house;** Fatima, of course, has her mother and sisters to spend time with.
Fatima is a tough woman in general, and clearly dominates her household. She does not show any extraordinary affection for her children, either. She does not ignore them like she does Si Mahmoud, but neither is she particularly warm. She isn’t mean, but she’s strict, stoic, and not worried about meting out a little corporal punishment here and there if her sons don’t do as she bids. Perhaps this is simply her personality – but the thing is that she is so warm, pleasant, funny, and open toward her mother, sisters, and even me. It seems, then, that she prefers the family she was born into to the family she herself created.
At first I wondered why this was; I wondered if there was some kind of issue between her and Si Mahmoud. But I no longer think there is a particular reason. Conversations with other foreigners*** and with Ilyas, as well as further observation have led me to conclude that this is the general status quo of married life in Morocco.
Take the other married couple in my social network: my host parents. These are two people I hardly think of as (indeed, can hardly imagine to be) married. I often forget I have a host father, because Lahcen is hardly part of the family’s life, and because the other members of the family hardly interact with him. Khadija is such a solitary beating heart that I forget she is married. But also, it is simply a little unimaginable to me that she is actually the wife of this octogenarian who looks like he could have been her father.
I am not sure of either Khadija’s or Lahcen’s age. No one is: they come from a time (and a social background, perhaps) in which birth dates were not recorded. Everyone’s best estimate is that Lahcen is well into his 80s, and from the looks of him I would certainly agree. As for Khadija, I caught a glimpse once of her CIN (Carte Nationale that every Moroccan carries with him or her). Her birth date was listed as January 1, 1940. A date like that is clearly an estimate (officials commonly use either January 1 or July 1 for people who don’t have a documented date of birth), but the year is usually fairly accurate. This means that she is in her late 60s. Which makes her about 20 years younger than her husband. This age difference is not uncommon, I think, for people of their generation. But how can you have a real, personal, and loving relationship with someone that much older or younger than you? With someone who could actually have been your father, or your daughter? It’s no wonder then, perhaps, that they lead such separate lives (or better said, that Khadija leads her life without much regard for him).
Lahcen and I are like friendly neighbors; on the occasions that we run into one another in the courtyard, I’ll remind him of who I am and he’ll give me a toothless smile. We exchange greetings, he compares my name to Charlie Chaplin’s, and asks me how my father is. To everyone else, he is a grumpy old man. The house is dominated by the sounds from his room: the television that is always on at maximum volume, and his yelling. He yells when someone enters his room to turn down the television (and I have seen him kick Alma for touching his TV). He yells when he is not served his meals on time (he has them served in his room, where he eats by himself), and he usually yells after they are served because the food is too cold, too hot, too salty, or not salty enough.
Khadija, on the other hand, is the epicenter of the household. Leading a busy life and constantly out and about, she is pleasant, warm, friendly – to anyone except Lahcen. Like most other members of the household she practically ignores him. When she does communicate with him, it is usually a grumpy rebuttal of his latest complaint. I wonder sometimes if Lahcen became this way because he is so excluded from the life of the house, but I have to say that I also understand Khadija’s treatment of him. What must it be like, to be married to someone 20 years her senior, to someone she probably has nothing in common with, someone her parents probably picked out for her, and someone she was most likely expected to obey and serve? Now that he is no longer able to dominate the household, I can imagine this has become her time to live, her time for independence.
Whatever the personal reasons behind the dynamic between these two married couples, the basic point is that the love seems lacking. And for those of us fortunate enough to live in a society where love is the main reason for marriage, the Moroccan situation may seem unimaginable.
I’ve been puzzled by the dynamic of these relationships for a long time – and so, when Ilyas gave me a text about divorce in class yesterday, I took this as an opportunity to probe the issue a little.
This is my thought about this so far. I think the problem is that there are too many other issues involved with marriage in Morocco to leave any room for love. I’ve written before about the significance of marriage as ultimate tool for social validation. For men, marriage proves their masculinity and serves at the same time as a tool to enhance that masculinity: it leads to greater income, removes him from dependence on his parents, and in the public mind (if no longer by law) still gives him someone to dominate. For women marriage not only means moving out of their family’s house, but a significant increase in social standing: because after all, marriage means women have realized the ultimate social ideal.
Marriage being of such importance, it’s no surprise that love becomes an afterthought. It means that a woman (and her family) looks for a husband who is best able to facilitate the realization of her social validation: someone with money and status – not the one that makes her feel good about herself, or the one who shares her dreams and passions. And a man looks for a wife who is best able to facilitate his goal of masculinization: a woman who can provide him with money (which will increase his status), and with honor – by ‘virtue’ of her virginity. The woman he may be in love with – the woman he may have spent years with and probably slept with – cannot realize that ideal of masculinity for him: she jeopardizes his independence and dominance because he is emotionally bound to her, and threatens his honor because she is clearly no longer a virgin.**** And so when it is time for marriage, this woman is left behind and replaced by an unknown girl.
And – as if marriage wasn’t already difficult enough to achieve – all this leads to divorce. Because people get married for the wrong reasons, they eventually discover that all the social validation in the world may not mean their spouse is bearable to live with. In addition, the stresses that chased people into un-premeditated marriage continue to haunt them after the wedding day. What if the promises of a better future don’t come true? What if the husband loses his job and his income? What if a woman emasculates her husband through disobedience or too much independence? ***** Exactly: discord, arguments, infidelity, domestic violence, divorce. It would happen anywhere. For a man, being divorced is not a huge problem. Even a man who has kids from a previous marriage will have no issues finding another wife (if he can provide, of course). But a divorced woman? If she does not have enough money of her own, her only (honorable) choice is to move back in with her parents. Re-marriage is nearly impossible – she is no longer a virgin, of course.
In any case: marriage is too crucial a social tool, basically, to leave room for love. But this does not mean that love does not exist in Morocco. Not at all. There are success stories; there are certainly people who meet their soul mates and live happily ever after. But this does not happen often; it is a luxury reserved for those with the precious means and freedom – or courage to stand up to social pressures – that others continually and unsuccessfully grasp at. For these others, nothing remains but to strive for their very un-romantic social validation in real life, and leave love in the realm of fantasy. And so it becomes a little less of a paradox that women seek their daily refuge in a dose of sappy TV drama. A little indulgence of the fantasy to make reality more livable. We are all guilty of it, I guess.
* Its complete non-existence is in fact unimaginable, it seems. My host family (Alma, mostly) does not understand why, single as I am at 27, I am not interested in getting married as soon as possible.
** And when he is not at the coffee house, he sits in the kitchen, by himself, with some black coffee, a cigarette, and a sudoku puzzle.
*** A friend of mine here in Morocco also has a blog, and has written about this curious issue of marriage. She reports on very interesting issues, so for those of you who read Dutch I can definitely recommend a visit to lilianleahy.waarbenjij.nu.
**** Ilyas introduced me to the concept of ‘l-roujoula’. Derived from the same root as ‘rajel’, the Arabic word for ‘man’, ‘l-roujoula’ denotes a sort of dominance by way of a complete emotional independence and detachment from others. The kinship of ‘rajel’ and ‘roujoula’ provides a suggestion of how masculinity is conceived of in Arab society.
***** Ilyas suggested that the new family code is involved here, as well – and a less rosy-colored side of these legal reforms appears here. According to Ilyas, a major issue is the way these new laws were presented. Apparently the rhetoric involved the casting of men as the big culprits, from whom power was now taken – and given to women. Discussion focused on the huge number of new rights given to women, without ever mentioning the obligations that come with them. Not only did this render men predisposed from the beginning to resent the changes that came with the new family law; it also mobilized women to believe they no longer needed their men and to make massive use of one of their most prominent new rights: the right to file for divorce. It is interesting to me that the new family code was presented in this extreme way – because it was so controversial, I had expected the new code would have been sold to the public in a more subtle way. In any case, this effect of the law as well as Ilyas’ characterization of it, indicate that society is still adjusting to the changes it brought about.
Nevertheless, I would nearly characterize Moroccans as among the most un-romantic people I have ever met. On my first evening out with Amma she made mention of her friend’s boyfriend, but that is the only time I have heard anyone in my immediate network mention romantic relationships. Marriage on the other hand is quite dominantly present – either as wish (Alma’s, of course) or as actual state of existence.* But – despite Alma’s fervent desire for a husband – it seems as though Moroccan spouses can hardly stand one another. Spouses do not seem to make each other happy – the opposite, more like. Any hint of love, of mutual regard even, is conspicuous in its absence.
I am surrounded daily by two cases in point.
I have mentioned earlier that Si Mahmoud and Fatima do not sleep in the same room. In general, they pay one another very little attention. They hardly communicate, apart from some grumbling at each other here and there. They greet each other like they greet anyone else, but there is no evidence of any special connection, a special closeness; if anything, their greeting hints of an especially clear distance. There are no kisses: there is only a handshake. And while Fatima will actually turn to look at anyone else who greets her, she actually consistently looks away when she reaches for Si Mahmoud’s extended hand. These two seem to serve a mostly practical purpose to one another: Si Mahmoud is Fatima’s driver and delivery man; Fatima is Si Mahmoud’s cook and cleaning lady. If Si Mahmoud is in the mood for some social interaction or a good discussion, he goes to the coffee house;** Fatima, of course, has her mother and sisters to spend time with.
Fatima is a tough woman in general, and clearly dominates her household. She does not show any extraordinary affection for her children, either. She does not ignore them like she does Si Mahmoud, but neither is she particularly warm. She isn’t mean, but she’s strict, stoic, and not worried about meting out a little corporal punishment here and there if her sons don’t do as she bids. Perhaps this is simply her personality – but the thing is that she is so warm, pleasant, funny, and open toward her mother, sisters, and even me. It seems, then, that she prefers the family she was born into to the family she herself created.
At first I wondered why this was; I wondered if there was some kind of issue between her and Si Mahmoud. But I no longer think there is a particular reason. Conversations with other foreigners*** and with Ilyas, as well as further observation have led me to conclude that this is the general status quo of married life in Morocco.
Take the other married couple in my social network: my host parents. These are two people I hardly think of as (indeed, can hardly imagine to be) married. I often forget I have a host father, because Lahcen is hardly part of the family’s life, and because the other members of the family hardly interact with him. Khadija is such a solitary beating heart that I forget she is married. But also, it is simply a little unimaginable to me that she is actually the wife of this octogenarian who looks like he could have been her father.
I am not sure of either Khadija’s or Lahcen’s age. No one is: they come from a time (and a social background, perhaps) in which birth dates were not recorded. Everyone’s best estimate is that Lahcen is well into his 80s, and from the looks of him I would certainly agree. As for Khadija, I caught a glimpse once of her CIN (Carte Nationale that every Moroccan carries with him or her). Her birth date was listed as January 1, 1940. A date like that is clearly an estimate (officials commonly use either January 1 or July 1 for people who don’t have a documented date of birth), but the year is usually fairly accurate. This means that she is in her late 60s. Which makes her about 20 years younger than her husband. This age difference is not uncommon, I think, for people of their generation. But how can you have a real, personal, and loving relationship with someone that much older or younger than you? With someone who could actually have been your father, or your daughter? It’s no wonder then, perhaps, that they lead such separate lives (or better said, that Khadija leads her life without much regard for him).
Lahcen and I are like friendly neighbors; on the occasions that we run into one another in the courtyard, I’ll remind him of who I am and he’ll give me a toothless smile. We exchange greetings, he compares my name to Charlie Chaplin’s, and asks me how my father is. To everyone else, he is a grumpy old man. The house is dominated by the sounds from his room: the television that is always on at maximum volume, and his yelling. He yells when someone enters his room to turn down the television (and I have seen him kick Alma for touching his TV). He yells when he is not served his meals on time (he has them served in his room, where he eats by himself), and he usually yells after they are served because the food is too cold, too hot, too salty, or not salty enough.
Khadija, on the other hand, is the epicenter of the household. Leading a busy life and constantly out and about, she is pleasant, warm, friendly – to anyone except Lahcen. Like most other members of the household she practically ignores him. When she does communicate with him, it is usually a grumpy rebuttal of his latest complaint. I wonder sometimes if Lahcen became this way because he is so excluded from the life of the house, but I have to say that I also understand Khadija’s treatment of him. What must it be like, to be married to someone 20 years her senior, to someone she probably has nothing in common with, someone her parents probably picked out for her, and someone she was most likely expected to obey and serve? Now that he is no longer able to dominate the household, I can imagine this has become her time to live, her time for independence.
Whatever the personal reasons behind the dynamic between these two married couples, the basic point is that the love seems lacking. And for those of us fortunate enough to live in a society where love is the main reason for marriage, the Moroccan situation may seem unimaginable.
I’ve been puzzled by the dynamic of these relationships for a long time – and so, when Ilyas gave me a text about divorce in class yesterday, I took this as an opportunity to probe the issue a little.
This is my thought about this so far. I think the problem is that there are too many other issues involved with marriage in Morocco to leave any room for love. I’ve written before about the significance of marriage as ultimate tool for social validation. For men, marriage proves their masculinity and serves at the same time as a tool to enhance that masculinity: it leads to greater income, removes him from dependence on his parents, and in the public mind (if no longer by law) still gives him someone to dominate. For women marriage not only means moving out of their family’s house, but a significant increase in social standing: because after all, marriage means women have realized the ultimate social ideal.
Marriage being of such importance, it’s no surprise that love becomes an afterthought. It means that a woman (and her family) looks for a husband who is best able to facilitate the realization of her social validation: someone with money and status – not the one that makes her feel good about herself, or the one who shares her dreams and passions. And a man looks for a wife who is best able to facilitate his goal of masculinization: a woman who can provide him with money (which will increase his status), and with honor – by ‘virtue’ of her virginity. The woman he may be in love with – the woman he may have spent years with and probably slept with – cannot realize that ideal of masculinity for him: she jeopardizes his independence and dominance because he is emotionally bound to her, and threatens his honor because she is clearly no longer a virgin.**** And so when it is time for marriage, this woman is left behind and replaced by an unknown girl.
And – as if marriage wasn’t already difficult enough to achieve – all this leads to divorce. Because people get married for the wrong reasons, they eventually discover that all the social validation in the world may not mean their spouse is bearable to live with. In addition, the stresses that chased people into un-premeditated marriage continue to haunt them after the wedding day. What if the promises of a better future don’t come true? What if the husband loses his job and his income? What if a woman emasculates her husband through disobedience or too much independence? ***** Exactly: discord, arguments, infidelity, domestic violence, divorce. It would happen anywhere. For a man, being divorced is not a huge problem. Even a man who has kids from a previous marriage will have no issues finding another wife (if he can provide, of course). But a divorced woman? If she does not have enough money of her own, her only (honorable) choice is to move back in with her parents. Re-marriage is nearly impossible – she is no longer a virgin, of course.
In any case: marriage is too crucial a social tool, basically, to leave room for love. But this does not mean that love does not exist in Morocco. Not at all. There are success stories; there are certainly people who meet their soul mates and live happily ever after. But this does not happen often; it is a luxury reserved for those with the precious means and freedom – or courage to stand up to social pressures – that others continually and unsuccessfully grasp at. For these others, nothing remains but to strive for their very un-romantic social validation in real life, and leave love in the realm of fantasy. And so it becomes a little less of a paradox that women seek their daily refuge in a dose of sappy TV drama. A little indulgence of the fantasy to make reality more livable. We are all guilty of it, I guess.
* Its complete non-existence is in fact unimaginable, it seems. My host family (Alma, mostly) does not understand why, single as I am at 27, I am not interested in getting married as soon as possible.
** And when he is not at the coffee house, he sits in the kitchen, by himself, with some black coffee, a cigarette, and a sudoku puzzle.
*** A friend of mine here in Morocco also has a blog, and has written about this curious issue of marriage. She reports on very interesting issues, so for those of you who read Dutch I can definitely recommend a visit to lilianleahy.waarbenjij.nu.
**** Ilyas introduced me to the concept of ‘l-roujoula’. Derived from the same root as ‘rajel’, the Arabic word for ‘man’, ‘l-roujoula’ denotes a sort of dominance by way of a complete emotional independence and detachment from others. The kinship of ‘rajel’ and ‘roujoula’ provides a suggestion of how masculinity is conceived of in Arab society.
***** Ilyas suggested that the new family code is involved here, as well – and a less rosy-colored side of these legal reforms appears here. According to Ilyas, a major issue is the way these new laws were presented. Apparently the rhetoric involved the casting of men as the big culprits, from whom power was now taken – and given to women. Discussion focused on the huge number of new rights given to women, without ever mentioning the obligations that come with them. Not only did this render men predisposed from the beginning to resent the changes that came with the new family law; it also mobilized women to believe they no longer needed their men and to make massive use of one of their most prominent new rights: the right to file for divorce. It is interesting to me that the new family code was presented in this extreme way – because it was so controversial, I had expected the new code would have been sold to the public in a more subtle way. In any case, this effect of the law as well as Ilyas’ characterization of it, indicate that society is still adjusting to the changes it brought about.
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