9/7 - 9/27: Goodbye Fez, Hello Rabat!

It’s been almost three weeks since I last posted. My excuse for the ridiculously long delay is that I have been busy with the move to Rabat and my focus has been on settling in, getting to know the city, etc…but truthfully I think the main reason is that I have felt too overwhelmed and muddled in my brain to sit down and process/sort things out. Writing a post feels like a way of cementing of my experience in my mind, and I have felt unprepared to do that for some reason. Maybe because in a way things haven't felt entirely real. It's also just some regular old neglect and lack of self discipline. So I am making a pledge to be more diligent about posting more frequently. 

This is going to be a disjointed post and I apologize in advance.

Leaving Fez was bittersweet. By the end of my two weeks there I had become comfortable in my homestay and extremely fond of my family. It was sad to say goodbye – of course, they had me promise I would come back to visit, and said I would always be welcome back. Something I’ve known ever since I’ve been here, but haven’t yet mentioned yet – how generous and kind and overwhelmingly hospitable the people are here. 

Last night in Fez. Hamida (mom) and brother Hamsa.
 He is a little troublemaker. 

Mom and Hasna (sister) insisted on
getting fancy for the picture  I wanted to take.
Luckily I was sneaky.

Before leaving for Rabat, I had a couple adventures worth noting.

On Saturday the 10^th (our first day off of the entire orientation, and a badly needed one), after encouragement from Moroccans who wanted us to have a true native cultural experience, a few friends and I went to the local hamam, which is a public bath house located in every neighborhood of the old medinas of Morocco.  People come to relax after the week, to see friends, and to have access to cheap water. There are women’s hamams and a men’s hamams. This place was NOT touristy (the four of us, obviously westerners, were greeted with very confused looks from the women running the place), it was not a spa, and it was not clean. After descending down into the hamam through an unmarked door, we were told to drop all our clothing and follow a woman to the shower.  Feeling timid and apprehensive, we were led into a large, tiled, steamy room full of naked Moroccan women, from whom we received more confused and amused looks. We were instructed to fill buckets from both the hot and cold water spigots, and wash by ladling water on ourselves. We heard we could pay a little extra to have a lady give us a thorough clean, or “massage”, and after 2 weeks of long, hot Fez days, this sounded appealing.

And now it gets graphic.

The said massage consisted of an old, naked, incredibly large breasted, mustached Moroccan woman scrubbing me down with a loufa that felt like sand paper. Every inch of me was scrubbed, and I am sure I shed an entire layer of skin. When it was my turn, my hamam mama had me lay down on the floor, with my head resting on her inner thigh. With body parts in my face, it was an intimate time indeed. She got a kick out of us all, who were laughing uncontrollably for the entirety of our hamam experience. And at the end when there was nothing left to scrub, she turned me over and gave me a slap on the bum like I was a newborn babe. The whole thing was one of those experiences where you feel the full absurdity and wonderment of moments as they become and pass in time.  I laughed more than I have in a while.  

The next day, Sunday, the program went to Volubilis, Moulay Idriss and Meknes, all within a couple hours of Fez, and all very close to each other. 

The ancient Roman ruins of Volubilis:

And here is Moulay Idriss:

The town was established in the 8th century and named after the founder of the first Arab dynasty in Morocco. His tomb is there and it is a very sacred place that many Moroccans and Muslims pilgrimage to. It is also completely stunning - a city perched on a hill amidst hills and fields.

And some architecture of mosque Moulay Ismail in Meknes:

Despite how much I enjoyed Fez, as the time to leave approached, I found myself ready. 3 main reasons:
1) I was anxious to start the settling process in Rabat. Orientation was good but long and though I was beginning to feel at home in Fez I knew it would be time to leave soon.
2) It was crazy hot. Covering up and being modest in 90 to 100 degree weather was brutal.

3)   The harassment. Warning: this part is going to be long. 

The verbal harassment directed at myself and the other women in the program was so disturbing and persistent that by the end of our time in Fez it became almost unbearable. Fez is a much more traditional place (it's the cultural and spiritual capital of the country), and while this makes it wonderful in so many ways, it is difficult to be a woman there. The constant barrage of comments and cat calls left me discouraged and psychologically exhausted. I was tense whenever I walked in crowded areas, which in Fez is all the time, or whenever it was dark. Most of the attention I received was intended to be “complimentary.” Of course it ceases to be a compliment or a comfortable situation when a man whispers directly in your ear as you pass by that you are “very nice very nice” or a “flower” or asks “how much” or makes a grotesque kissing noise 3 inches from your face.  Thankfully I have not (yet) been touched or grabbed. Many of the girls have. But I feel that I am just holding my breath and it is only a matter of time.

To avoid comments and stares as much as possible, you quickly learn to adopt a kind of mono vision. Look straight ahead toward your destination, don’t look at people you pass by, don’t make eye contact, don’t smile, don’t react.  A friend here described it as “looking dead.” It is very depressing thing.  That to be comfortable and maintain dignity women here have to sacrifice so much of the joy of being in a new place – the people watching, wandering in a new part of town, getting lost in the winding streets of the old medina, interacting with strangers. Of course, the harassment hasn’t prevented me from doing these things altogether. It is just a matter of weighing what is more important at that moment. What is most important to me right now: my comfort and dignity, or my full visual enjoyment of this beautiful place. If that makes sense. It is a very tough thing and it is hard to accept, but I have to learn to be affirming of it as a reality of the place and time I am in. 

It is a prime example of the paradoxical nature of this place. That in a culture which emphasizes such modesty and piety and respect, the extreme opposite persists in the gender realm. It is complex and I could go on for pages about it and I still have much to learn. Just one quick theory I’ve been tossing around in my mind, that I think is pretty straightforward: in a strict culture that places restrictions on human activity (in this case, sex and interaction between the sexes), you can expect there to be an extreme reaction in the opposite direction (by some – of course not all Moroccan men do this). People need to express sexuality, and when this expression is restricted the result is that it comes out in twisted and inappropriate ways.  And although Morocco is becoming more sexually open (young people date, hold hands, show affection; women wear more revealing clothing), old attitudes persist. 

I am hoping to discuss this in the gender class I am taking here.  I’ve noticed though, that my professor is reluctant to be critical of her culture or religion with regards to the topic of gender. She was asked why she thinks it is that harassment is so pervasive here, and she said something along the lines of, “it can’t be the religion because Islam is very protective and respectful of women, and it can’t be Moroccan culture because boys are taught to respect their mothers and sisters.” So, it was apparently a total mystery to her. Not that it can be attributed to one or the other so simply (or that “culture” can be treated as some static thing) – but my feeling is that they certainly have a role to play. We’ll see if she’ll be willing to dissect things a bit more deeply as the semester progresses.

SO, the ladies were all feeling very ready for Rabat which in general has much less harassment. There is also more leeway with dress (I showed Morocco my knees for the first time this week!). That being said, I have still experienced more harassment in Rabat than I have in any American city. But it is better than Fez, al-hamdu-lillah. 

All of this being said, the interactions I have with people here are usually very positive, particularly now that I am in Rabat. People are very warm, talkative, social, generous. It is near impossible to walk into someone’s home without being politely forced to stay for tea and cookies. When a car almost hits a pedestrian (which I witness and personally experience countless times per day...pedestrians don’t have the right of way here) but doesn’t quite, there is rarely hostility, just smiles waves, maybe some raised eyebrows. There is a man who works at the hanut (tiny little shops that sell water, snacks, and also, surprisingly almost everything you will ever need) who always asks how I am, if everything is going well for me, hello/goodbye, etc. Conversations always include these elements, and they are always said with sincerity. Salaam alaikum. (Peace be upon you) Wa alaikum salaam (and upon you) Labbas? (How are you?) Labbas, al hamdu-illah. (I am well, thanks be to God).  Kulshi mezian? (Everything is good?) It continues like this for a while. I love it. And it is one of the few conversations I have solidly under my belt. Check. 

I am now quite settled in my homestay. I am also feeling much better about it than I was initially. I am living with another girl from my program, which I requested. Her name is Grace and I like her very much. She speaks French quite well, while I do not speak at all. I speak shwia darija, and not nearly as well as she speaks French. And our host mother’s language of choice is French – this is what she speaks at home and with her family. So this issue has been that Biria (host mom) has almost exclusively been speaking French with Grace while I have been mute girl in the corner. It has been frustrating and discouraging not being able to practice my language skills and not interacting or engaging with my family here. BUT that was then! I spoke with my program coordinator about the situation, he spoke to Biria, and basically overnight things were different. I feel much more comfortable and happy. 

Here is my little bed corner. The room is actually very big.

Biria is a very sweet lady. She is very protective – she tells us she thinks of us as her children.  Her husband, Yacob, is also a sweet old man, though he doesn’t talk to me much.  It has been fascinating observing and learning how it is for them to be Jewish here.  Most interesting and most bizarre are the stories they tell, which all seem to be a blend of truth and myth. For example. According to Biria, until around 1950 there were more Jews and Christians than Muslims in Morocco, when all of a sudden there was a huge spike in the Muslim population. Oookay Biria. When she says these things I smile and nod. Very curious indeed. I have been trying to get an idea of her own family’s story but things are lost in translation. She says they have been here for generations and generations, and I think my understanding is that they came when the Jews were expelled from Spain during the inquisition. Many came during that time and also again after WWII. Most Moroccan Jews immigrated to Israel after Israeli independence. I’ve talked to Biria and also one of my Muslim professors about this, and both say this was somewhat of an overnight phenomenon. It seems that one day, suddenly, all the Jews were gone. Biria speaks with sadness about this. My professor does as well, she feels it was a huge loss for the richness of Moroccan culture and history.  Jewish influence is all over Morocco.

Here are the classes I am taking here:

            Arabic

Cultural Identities of North Africa

Gender in North Africa

Islam

Internship

I’m going to my internship for the first time tomorrow. Very excited. Will write about it next time.

There are still things I need to report on (namely the happenings of the last two weekends, Bouznika and Sahara, which were mezian bezzaf*) but I am going to give myself and you a break. Will write about them soon and post pictures.

Time is flying. So strange to think it’s already been a month. Makes me both happy and sad.

Apologies for the scattered thoughts and for cramming the last 3 weeks into this somewhat lack luster post. Next one will be more interesting and not as LONG.

Miss you all and love you bezzaf. 

sonya. 

p.s. “Son” as a nickname has officially caught on here among a select few, which is silly and comforting.

* mezian = good/great. Bezzaf = a lot, much.  These words are life savers. I use and abuse them shamelessly. 

8/30 - 9/6 Week One

Hello all, you have found me in the blogosphere! This is my first foray into this new corner of cyberland, so bear with me a little as I figure it out. Hopefully it can be interesting and worth your time.

Where to begin – it’s been a week and it feels like much longer. It’s just beginning to feel real that I am staying here for a while…until today or yesterday it has felt like vacation. But things are steadily sinking in.  Still, I don’t feel very settled; I am in Fez for a 2 week orientation, and once I return to Rabat for the rest of the semester, I think I will begin to feel more rooted.

It was hard to leave Seattle. I had one of my best summers yet with all my good friends there. I think of you often, of things past and things to come. It is a great comfort when I am feeling sad/weird. I want to thank you all so much for supporting me while I was emotionally unstable and preparing to leave. Thank you for the beautiful, beautiful send-off, the notes and the gifts (many of which are here with me keeping me cozy). I felt very taken care of and I know that I have some of the best people in the world to come back to. It was perfect. And of course, thank you mom for coming to Seattle for a short while and for helping me get ready.

SO from the beginning. The journey here was completely crazy. I think I just hunkered down into survival mode, so it wasn’t the worst it could have been, but it felt completely unreal – a dreamlike state. Suspended between all that I had left behind, all that love and all that is familiar, and the total unknown of the next 4 months. Needless to say, it was a strange place to be, and a bit emotionally messy. Thankfully I was too tired most of the time to focus too much on being sad/freaked. 10 hour flight to Frankfurt, I barely slept a wink. 6 hour layover in Frankfurt; I tried to sleep during most of it on rows of chairs, and with this I had some success.  I was too out of it and overwhelmed for the usual joy I find in the anonymity of airports, putting on my observer hat, etc. Additionally, internet was $8/hour so that wasn’t happening.  Then 4 hours to Casablanca, where I met up with a very sweet and generous American man named David who my mom connected with through a friend. We took the train together to Rabat, where he also lives. 2 hour train ride which was wonderful and fascinating (Ramadan had just ended so people were very dressed up and going to meet family all over Morocco. End of Ramadan = party party). Very adorable kids were blowing me kisses...one of my initial encounters with myself as a minority in this country. Apparently I was very amusing. There would be less flattering ones to come.

The next couple days were spent getting to know program students as they trickled in. Also: finding a Moroccan phone; (they are cheap, and they have prayer time settings! The modern world.); getting Moroccan money (which are called dirham. About 8 to 1 American dollar. Awesome.); and getting WATER. They are advising we stay away from tap for first month or so we are here. Purchased water is cheap and delicious. So far however, no recycling in Morocco. Not so surprising.  That night, I couldn’t fall asleep until 4am. I thought I had avoided jet lag – I was wrong.

We left for Fez on the 2nd of September for orientation. But before that we got a small tour of Rabat, in particular, the Mausoleum:

Rabat!

From the 12th century, I think. All these pillars were holding up a mosque at one point in time.

Then, we were off. 3 hours later through the countryside, through Meknes and many fields and donkeys, we arrived in Fez. We spent the night in the most incredible place: Riad Dar Dmana. A stunning old riad, converted into a hotel (according to wiki a riad is: “a traditional Moroccan house or palace with an interior garden or courtyard”). I would soon find out that my homestay in Fez, too, is a riad. (My jaw dropped when I walked in the door.) At the hotel we were served tejin, Moroccan-style slow cooking. The best chicken of my life, without a doubt. Fell off the bone as soon as soon as I picked it up. With apricots, prunes, the most delicious caramelized onions (they are indescribable), saffron, ginger, etc, etc.

(This will also be a food blog. Pictures to come. I will be trying my hardest to make my host mother let me into the kitchen so I can learn to cook Moroccan and teach everyone how to make this most divine food when I return. This might be difficult as I am a guest, and it could bring shame on the household for me to help out. Shame is crazy big here. Last night my host mom told me I should make pasta before I leave...I could not tell if it was a joke or not. So it goes.)

(Another note: eating with your hands is far superior to eating with a fork)

WAKHA. Okay. I am in Fez for just under 2 weeks (I leave on the 14th). While here, all of us are staying with families in the old medina, the oldest parts of which are around 1200 years old. Most of the old medina is 800 years old. There is also the "new" city, which is 700 years old, and the ville novelle, built by the French during Morocco's time as a protectorate. A fascinating city, Fez is, with this timeline built in stone. (In Rabat I will also be doing a homestay in the medina there, in particular in the old Jewish quarter. Most Moroccan Jews have left the country, many going to Israel when it came into existence. I just found out, however, that I am living with a Jewish grandmother…I am extremely excited about this, as I am sure you can all imagine. Very unexpected and wonderful. I am totally fascinated to hear what her experience is like here. The official attitude towards Jews in Morocco is tolerance…and to an extent it rings true. But I also know and have heard there is much contradiction to that rule. It seems more that contradiction IS the rule here, it is everywhere. I have been told several times by different people: Morocco is a land of contradictions and paradox. Will talk about this later.) *

This is where I study Derija in Fez. It is a breathtaking space.  4 levels of stunning tile, mosaic, woodwork, plaster carving, calligraphy, and all the detail of the traditional Moroccan style. Very similar to the hotel and my house,which is right next door. . It is possible to jump from one terrace to another.  This is a very fun thing to do.

Living with a host family is nuts. I have two parents, a 19 year old sister, and a 12 year old brother. They are all so sweet, very very attentive. Always feeding me. My sister, Hasna, speaks shwia (a little) English (shwia has shown to be an essential word, particularly relating to food), Derija (Moroccan Arabic), and French. Most everyone speaks at least some French in Morocco. My mother speaks fusHa (Modern Standard Arabic), which is what I have studied at school, which is very very helpful because I don’t know derija yet. Not that I know fusHa well at all. (I am taking derija classes every day while I am in Fez. Then in Rabat I switch back to fusHa ) It is rare for Moroccans to know fusHa well…it is almost a different language.  Communication is difficult, and exhausting, even with the small bits of English and fusHa in place.  Knowing so few words and not knowing how to fully thank someone and tell them my deep appreciation and gratitude, I am often worrying I am being impolite or offensive. I also feel wary about unintentionally communicating an American sense of entitlement. On the other hand, it is custom here for guests (of whatever nationality, color, gender) to be waited on hand and foot. The women work very hard here, very hard. I want to help, but it is considered shameful for my host mother to accept help. Her sense of dignity rides partially on her ability to make me comfortable and have me eat exorbitant amounts of food. I wish I could express my thanks as fully as she deserves.  I want to say much more than I am able to, which is frustrating. They expect this, though, and see that I am trying. And oh, when a joke comes across, or a story is told,it is golden, and we all beam at our success. Those moments are wonderful and make the painful ones better.

And thankfully, little by little, I am improving at Derija.

This is my house in Fez. It is a riad, meaning it is a traditional house with a courtyard/garden in the home.  

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am getting better at politely getting across to my host mother that I am full and could not possibly eat another bite of food. Small accomplishments feel big here.

Other notes and observations from the homestay. People here watch a lot of TV. Some popular options: Turkish soap operas dubbed in Arabic, and WWE, a favorite of Hamsa, the brother. That is a sight. In a majestic riad, the sights and sounds of American pro wrestling. My host mother and I roll our eyes together, which is a nice bonding experience for us. I have managed in derija to give a sort of apology on behalf of America for the existence of WWE in her livingroom.

I think that my family is pretty progressive. I cannot tell for sure because we cannot have a conversation about anything so complex. I am judging this by how my host mother and sister dress - at home they wear very relaxed clothing and do not cover up completely. In very conservative families, women will cover up even in their own home. And my sister, Hasna, has come out to cafes with me and does not wear a hijab.  I wish I could have these sorts of conversations with them.

When I am not in derija class or with my family, I am exploring the medina, reading, at cafes (Moroccan tea and Arabic coffee…delicious), trying to find a balance between spending time with new friends in a new and exciting place, and being by myself. In a new place with a new routine, I find it is always an adjustment finding this balance. And until I do, I feel a little weird. I am trying to be okay with the fact that I am not totally settled and at ease, and find the good things in that weirdness. I am feeling that being diligent about writing this blog will help enforce some alone time for reflection and processing.


Here are some pictures of the old medina:

The Blue Gate in Fez

Every neighborhood in the old medina has a public fountain with free water.

And a mosque

And a bakery. Moroccan bread yum yum

donkeys donkeys everywhere!!

met up with old friend/neighbor, Max, from Davis!!

A view of the city. Taken right above the big tannery in Fez. Lotsa leather in there.

beautiful garden restaurant in fez.

at a ceramics factory in Fez

The medina is incredible. You are walking along alleys and streets with very plain, old, beige-ish building faces, expecting the inside to be simple and plain like the outside. Instead you walk in and find the most beautiful houses, or a sprawling garden that you had no idea could fit within the crowded walls of the medina. It is a hidden world that you would never have imagined could be there underneath the plain and fading surface. It is a metaphor that applies to this country well.

This is getting long. There is a lot still I haven’t said. But it is late and I promised I would post this before I fell asleep tonight. I will follow up on the below themes soon, because they are important and on my mind: gender, religion/piety, Moroccan people and culture(s). Also will more about food, and the insane amount of bread and sugar I am consuming among other things. Additionally, I have yet to have a drink here. It is illegal for Muslims, so it is a bit hidden. You have to know where to find it. A cold beer sounds pretty good on these hot African days...

I almost forgot; these little ones are keeping me good company:

Long cat

Orange Cat

I hope to get better at this, and less disjointed. Thanks for reading if you made it.

I love you all and miss you so much. But I am well, excited for adventures and challenges to come, and I feel good about being here. 


love love love love.
sonya.



p.s. i am switching between my SLR and small point-and-shoot, alternating according to convenience. Sometimes big camera is too big. If you click on the picture the quality will improve.


* Jackie, I am noticing a lot of similarities. Will discuss.