Yesterday I found myself on a very tragic toobees (bus in Derija) bound for Sihame’s University. After about an hour from Rabat to Sale, we arrived. I started to walk to the entrance but Sihame stopped me and explained, “We wait.”
Waiting was more like a chance to see and be seen! Just like on Mohammed V, we stood around, preened, laughed too loudly and pretended not to notice the boys on the other side of the street staring us down. Occasionally, an emissary would be dispatched from the boys and would shake hands with each girl and chat about something I didn’t understand. The handshake was firm but no eye contact was involved…a little bizarre after being stared at for 20 minutes.
As each girl arrived, she gave the typical Moroccan greeting: a kiss on each cheek, even if she didn’t know you, which again, takes a few times to get used to. Finally, we went inside.
I thought class started at 1:30, but we got to the classroom around 2, which was fine, Sihame assured me. The teacher (of Rights in the Workplace) was waiting with the rest of the students, but nothing happened for another half an hour, during which the teacher stared out the window, played on a student’s mobile, and casually wrote something on the board. Eventually, we collectively decided to play a game: hot seat!
A chair was set up for the purpose and at first I assumed the questions were academic, until Sihame told me that her best friend Hind had been asked who is her enemy in the class. She also answered questions about her personality flaws (she acts “like a man”), what she wants to do (“police woman”) and who her best friend is (“Sihame, of course!). My turn in the hot seat came and I answered questions about why I was in Morocco, what I study, etc.
A boy raised his hand and asked, “Have you heard Muslims are terrorists?” I took a deep breath. This is the kind of thing I came here for: to have this kind of conversation and learn from it. Everyone smiled and relaxed after my answer but tensed up when I answered the question about countries I’ve visited: the list includes Israel. The last question: “We want to know what you think about Gaza.” Sihame stood up and said something very fast in Derija and the girl responded, “It’s just a question! Just a question!”
It ended there, but the teacher said, “The class enjoys this because you have confidence and you talk with your hands! This means you are honest.” Although I can’t put too much significance on my own actions, it’s important to me to represent the US well while I’m in the Arab world.
The second class was equally as puzzling, although in different ways. It was a class about Accountability (?) but Sihame and all her friends peaced out half way through because they were bored.
I’m not sure, but I don’t think this experience is typical; we had a workshop on the academic differences between the US and Morocco and I was under the impression that Morocco is more strict and formal, but who knows. Whatever the case is, I made a bevy of new friends so it was a good day. I start class of my own tomorrow…at 8:30 AM!
Love,
Sarah
Monday, January 19, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Homestay, sweet homestay
Today we packed our bags, left the hotel and went HOME (to our homestay). I’m living with a family of five: Mohammed, the father, Karima, the mother, Sihame (my age), Saad (16) and Zoubida (10).
Sihame kissed me on the cheek three times (I was a little startled) and held my hand right away (again, a little startled). We went home and then went for a walk. The walk around Mohammed V Avenue is a big event. It’s kind of like a parade. The girls dress up, the guys dress up and you go and look at each other but pretend not to. Girls must link arms.
My homestay father, Mohammed, is very helpful! He’s trying very hard to help me learn Arabic/Derija. We had a conversation last night that was some combination of Arabic, French, Spanish, English and gesturing. My head hurt but at least we came to understand each other. He has a warm affect and will be a good interim father while my daddy is back in the States.
All in all, I’m really lucky. I have my own room, internet (although it’s Ethernet, not WiFi) and some friends already.
Homestay, sweet homestay!
Sarah
Sihame kissed me on the cheek three times (I was a little startled) and held my hand right away (again, a little startled). We went home and then went for a walk. The walk around Mohammed V Avenue is a big event. It’s kind of like a parade. The girls dress up, the guys dress up and you go and look at each other but pretend not to. Girls must link arms.
My homestay father, Mohammed, is very helpful! He’s trying very hard to help me learn Arabic/Derija. We had a conversation last night that was some combination of Arabic, French, Spanish, English and gesturing. My head hurt but at least we came to understand each other. He has a warm affect and will be a good interim father while my daddy is back in the States.
All in all, I’m really lucky. I have my own room, internet (although it’s Ethernet, not WiFi) and some friends already.
Homestay, sweet homestay!
Sarah
Hshuma!
Men gawking, catcalling and groping is a big problem here. Being a Western woman, I stick out, especially when they hear me speaking English. I’ve never gotten so much negative attention in my life! You just have to walk with your head held high and pretend you don’t notice.
However, today I learned a few things to fight back. Hshuma, or shame, is a very strong cultural term here. If you say “Hshuma!” it means “Shame on you!” or “Your mother would be ashamed!” Losing face in front of other people is the worst form of hshuma for Moroccans. The word is also accompanied by an optional gesture: pulling the lower eyelid down.
The next time someone tries to touch me I’m going to turn around, pull BOTH lower eyelids down and say “Hshuma!” very aggressively. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Sarah
However, today I learned a few things to fight back. Hshuma, or shame, is a very strong cultural term here. If you say “Hshuma!” it means “Shame on you!” or “Your mother would be ashamed!” Losing face in front of other people is the worst form of hshuma for Moroccans. The word is also accompanied by an optional gesture: pulling the lower eyelid down.
The next time someone tries to touch me I’m going to turn around, pull BOTH lower eyelids down and say “Hshuma!” very aggressively. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Sarah
Barak allah ofeek!
Derija (Moroccan amiyya or dialect) is hard. It’s a combination of Arabic, French and a little bit of Spanish. I’ve never taken French so when everyone else oohs and ahhs in delight at the Derija word for pen “stilou” which is also apparently French, it’s a little frustrating! Somehow I managed to get placed into Intermediate 202 for fusha (Modern Standard Arabic), so we’ll see how that goes.
The only reason I can remember the above Derija phrase (“Barak allah ofeek”= God’s grace upon you or thank you) is because of Barack Obama! I’ll be sad to miss the inauguration but they said they would let us watch it at the AMIDEAST building on Tuesday.
However sad I may be to miss the inauguration and the NDN party that Simon Rosenberg invited the Tisch Scholars to, I’m excited to be in an Arab country when Obama takes office. I know I’ll have some interesting interactions, like when we met Mid.
I was walking with a few friends through the medina (walled part of the city), exploring the souks (markets) when Mid and his friend Braheen started catcalling us. We were with a friend Stefan, who has a surprising amount of Derija and can have full conversations with Moroccans, so he stopped and went to talk to the two men.
It turns out that Mid was absolutely wasted (after two bottles of vodka) but this made him very expressive. He told us about his ladies pajama shop (“I tell old women I am closed but I tell young girls to ‘Come in little babies!’”), how he lives alone and his girlfriend in America (he can’t remember her name exactly).
Then he went on to say, “I am a Muslim living here and you are from Amreeka, so I should hate you. But I don’t! I don’t care what you do, because you are like me, you have friends, you go to school, you work, I work, I have friends. I don’t care about the politics. They lie.”
Political Islam has lately been making inroads with the young population because of the lack of jobs. It was my first encounter with someone who had apparently been touched by this ideology but rejected it.
On our way back, Mohammed V street was clogged with protesters—supporters of the Palestinians in Gaza. I’ll refrain from a discussion of the conflict here (although we are constantly having good discussions on it with people in the program) because there’s no way I could come up with a comprehensive statement on my views (nor would I want to on Ullmans on the Road!) Suffice to say they told us to avoid crowds even though the protests are nonviolent. Being an American still has some significant stereotypes here.
The next day we went to the beach! The view from the Kasbah Oudaya is amazing; there are sea walls with waves crashing over them and hundreds of couples crowding the sand and the walls. When you get closer, however, it’s a little sketchy. The sand is full of trash and it’s clear that no one takes care of it. We were talking about a beach cleanup as a community service project when we stumbled upon two dead dogs lying in the sand. That put an end to that conversation pretty quickly.
Once we were safely on the sea wall, it was magical. The waves were so huge and as they crashed against the wall, water would drench anyone not on the far side of the path. As I watched the waves, all I could think about was how much Ben would have loved to go surfing here.
Love,
Sarah
The only reason I can remember the above Derija phrase (“Barak allah ofeek”= God’s grace upon you or thank you) is because of Barack Obama! I’ll be sad to miss the inauguration but they said they would let us watch it at the AMIDEAST building on Tuesday.
However sad I may be to miss the inauguration and the NDN party that Simon Rosenberg invited the Tisch Scholars to, I’m excited to be in an Arab country when Obama takes office. I know I’ll have some interesting interactions, like when we met Mid.
I was walking with a few friends through the medina (walled part of the city), exploring the souks (markets) when Mid and his friend Braheen started catcalling us. We were with a friend Stefan, who has a surprising amount of Derija and can have full conversations with Moroccans, so he stopped and went to talk to the two men.
It turns out that Mid was absolutely wasted (after two bottles of vodka) but this made him very expressive. He told us about his ladies pajama shop (“I tell old women I am closed but I tell young girls to ‘Come in little babies!’”), how he lives alone and his girlfriend in America (he can’t remember her name exactly).
Then he went on to say, “I am a Muslim living here and you are from Amreeka, so I should hate you. But I don’t! I don’t care what you do, because you are like me, you have friends, you go to school, you work, I work, I have friends. I don’t care about the politics. They lie.”
Political Islam has lately been making inroads with the young population because of the lack of jobs. It was my first encounter with someone who had apparently been touched by this ideology but rejected it.
On our way back, Mohammed V street was clogged with protesters—supporters of the Palestinians in Gaza. I’ll refrain from a discussion of the conflict here (although we are constantly having good discussions on it with people in the program) because there’s no way I could come up with a comprehensive statement on my views (nor would I want to on Ullmans on the Road!) Suffice to say they told us to avoid crowds even though the protests are nonviolent. Being an American still has some significant stereotypes here.
The next day we went to the beach! The view from the Kasbah Oudaya is amazing; there are sea walls with waves crashing over them and hundreds of couples crowding the sand and the walls. When you get closer, however, it’s a little sketchy. The sand is full of trash and it’s clear that no one takes care of it. We were talking about a beach cleanup as a community service project when we stumbled upon two dead dogs lying in the sand. That put an end to that conversation pretty quickly.
Once we were safely on the sea wall, it was magical. The waves were so huge and as they crashed against the wall, water would drench anyone not on the far side of the path. As I watched the waves, all I could think about was how much Ben would have loved to go surfing here.
Love,
Sarah
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Morocco, alhamdullilah!
As I headed into security with mom waving, I don't think I've ever been more terrified to travel! It wasn't the location (which some might cite as a reason for concern), worries about staying in touch (not usually a problem for me...I always find a way) or even the language (I'm eager to learn.) It was the amount of time. I'll be gone for six months, half a year, January until July.
The first unusual thing I noticed in Morocco: the long robes with pointy hoods that men wear. They're called geballahs, although to this inexperienced, United States-born eye, they look kind of like KKK robes but in pretty colors. Needless to say, once I found out they were made of wool and perfectly normal (no political/racist statement involved) I knew I had to get one! I mean, they are like JAMIES worn in PUBLIC. I think this could be very popular back home. Kind of like the Snuggie/slanket but with a hood.
We visited the Roman ruins of Chellah today. A few guards were posted, but mostly there were no rules. We climbed all over, through staircases and down into the baths. There is both a King AND a Saint buried there, but according to Mohammed, the Academic Director of AMIDEAST Morocco, their descendants are not in power and hence cannot take care of their graves (...I'm not sure the descendants know who they are because these guys ruled in the 7th century.)
The current King's palace was right across the road but at Chellah it was the cats that clearly dominated. They are every different color and they stalk the walls and grounds of Chellah as if it had been their city all along. I counted 14 in one small area by the Saint's grave and only because I was stuck for a while; they kept slinking around my legs and fighting each other so I had to stand still. It reminded me of that Cat vs. Dog diary in which the dog is happy to do anything and the cat is plotting the overthrow of the masters. Clearly achieved that goal here.
It's cold here. The coldest it's been in 30 years, they say. My Arabic is slowly creeping out of the cobwebs and I'm enjoying the people on my program very much. Tonight we ate a fantastic Moroccan homecooked meal at one girl's homestay family, (she had been here last semester and is staying on with her family this semester) got henna tattoos and watch Moroccan musicians and dancers.
While four men in full traditional garb sang, played and danced for us, one of the children of the family, an 11-year-old Moroccan girl, played a P2P computer game about three feet away. Talk about a meeting of the old and the new, the ancient culture and the developed world! Kind of like how many of the poor families here don't have running water but they have satellite TV.
I was worried about the length of time, but when I got here I was introduced to the concept of Moroccan time. There are buses here, but no schedule and no one really knows when they will come. There are appointments made but it's not uncommon to be late because you were enjoying some mint tea with a friend. Time is a relative thing. It's relaxing. It's starting to rub off on me.
Sarah
The first unusual thing I noticed in Morocco: the long robes with pointy hoods that men wear. They're called geballahs, although to this inexperienced, United States-born eye, they look kind of like KKK robes but in pretty colors. Needless to say, once I found out they were made of wool and perfectly normal (no political/racist statement involved) I knew I had to get one! I mean, they are like JAMIES worn in PUBLIC. I think this could be very popular back home. Kind of like the Snuggie/slanket but with a hood.
We visited the Roman ruins of Chellah today. A few guards were posted, but mostly there were no rules. We climbed all over, through staircases and down into the baths. There is both a King AND a Saint buried there, but according to Mohammed, the Academic Director of AMIDEAST Morocco, their descendants are not in power and hence cannot take care of their graves (...I'm not sure the descendants know who they are because these guys ruled in the 7th century.)
The current King's palace was right across the road but at Chellah it was the cats that clearly dominated. They are every different color and they stalk the walls and grounds of Chellah as if it had been their city all along. I counted 14 in one small area by the Saint's grave and only because I was stuck for a while; they kept slinking around my legs and fighting each other so I had to stand still. It reminded me of that Cat vs. Dog diary in which the dog is happy to do anything and the cat is plotting the overthrow of the masters. Clearly achieved that goal here.
It's cold here. The coldest it's been in 30 years, they say. My Arabic is slowly creeping out of the cobwebs and I'm enjoying the people on my program very much. Tonight we ate a fantastic Moroccan homecooked meal at one girl's homestay family, (she had been here last semester and is staying on with her family this semester) got henna tattoos and watch Moroccan musicians and dancers.
While four men in full traditional garb sang, played and danced for us, one of the children of the family, an 11-year-old Moroccan girl, played a P2P computer game about three feet away. Talk about a meeting of the old and the new, the ancient culture and the developed world! Kind of like how many of the poor families here don't have running water but they have satellite TV.
I was worried about the length of time, but when I got here I was introduced to the concept of Moroccan time. There are buses here, but no schedule and no one really knows when they will come. There are appointments made but it's not uncommon to be late because you were enjoying some mint tea with a friend. Time is a relative thing. It's relaxing. It's starting to rub off on me.
Sarah
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