not all who wander are lost

photo update

2011-05-23T05:40:00.000-07:00

blah

2011-05-23T02:54:00.000-07:00

It was Friday night and I was near the Fes train station with a friend. Around 8 we decided to look for food, eventually opting for a seedy restaurant that advertised reasonably priced pizzas.

I never caught the name of the restaurant, but you couldn't see into the windows and there were rope/Christmas lights on the outside as well as an old drawing of Santa Claus on one window. It was like walking into a cave, the walls were some murky purple/gray color and there appeared to be some loose oceanic theme, with a few erratically placed anchors and a sad looking empty aquarium with fake coral. It oozed tacky.

But we sat and ordered anyway. They poured my Diet Coke into a wine glass. A woman near us was smoking a hookah looking jaded. It began to dawn on us.... the blackened windows, the seediness of the joint, the female to male ratio and the illicit behavior between the two sexes... we must have inadvertently stumbled into prostitution territory. But it was too late to leave and too dark and too loud for conversation, so I turned away from the table to watch a man on a keyboard playing some amazing Arab pop music.

And that's when I noticed them.

Seated at the table directly behind us were two men and one woman. She was in the corner with one man sitting on her side and another man sitting across from her, and I noticed her because the man on her side had his hands around her throat and was shaking her. I whipped my head around to my friend to say,

“Oh my god did you see that?”

I couldn't believe my own eyes so I looked again. Maybe it was a trick of the light, maybe it hadn't registered right. It was hard to make it all out and to do so discreetly, but she was visibly distraught (possibly drunk) and judging by the way the choking man would occasionally dab at her eyes with a napkin, crying. One moment he would be grabbing her violently, and another she'd be crying on his shoulder or he would aggressively kiss her until she kissed back. At one point I saw him raise his hand to strike her and I couldn't bear to watch so I shamefully looked away and almost started crying. The whole situation elicited a strong and instantaneous physical reaction from me (I can only recall one other time when witnessing another person's pain made me want to cry).

My friend asked the waiter if on second thought we could please have our pizzas to go. Then he gently said to me that maybe I shouldn't watch. I didn't want to watch though, not in a morbid human fascination where you can't tear your eyes away from the things that horrify you, but because I had some irrational feeling that I had to look out for this woman. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I wanted to somehow bear testament to this marginalized woman's grief, and somehow protect her. But what could I honestly do? Shout “stop” in three languages? Physically intervene? The men she was with could have easily overpowered me, us. I don't know the police number in Morocco but overall the system is so corrupted and the gender gap is still so big that calling only would have resulted in a few bribes and nothing more. I wouldn't even know how to help get her out of prostitution since the job market is so stagnant here, job possibilities are limited even for men, but the odds for an uneducated and illiterate woman to find self sustaining work outside of prostitution are desperately slim.

They had resumed aggressive kissing so I tried to look anywhere else. I took a sip of my Diet Coke and then heard the distinct sound of flesh being hit as he struck her again and I cringed so hard I almost dropped the glass I was holding.

At one point I saw one of the men working the restaurant walk purposefully towards their table and I thought to myself “thank god he's going to tell him to stop” but instead all he did was push in the fourth chair and straighten a cup. My thoughts were an indignant “What the f***” but my friend later pointed out that it had been a subtle way of telling the man to lay off the woman and that it had worked for a little while. My friend also said that the waiters and people working there had noticed me notice what was going on at the table and that was probably why the waiter had intervened at all; and in all likelihood the man choking and hitting her was her “manager” and that's why she was putting up with it and the restaurant workers probably had some deal with the managers/prostitutes so that they could use their restaurant as a meeting place if they received a cut from the profit.

We've discussed prostitution and domestic abuse in classes here, most certainly in classes in the past, I'm aware of the very real problem it is. And in spite of such rampant and casual use of violence in the media and pop culture, it still doesn't prepare you to see the real thing (and all things considered, this was tame). And as a global studies major focusing on human rights and Africa, I'm more than aware of the cruelty humans are capable of inflicting on one another, but this stands out to me as one of the worst ways I've seen a human being treat another human being (I have seen worse in footage but never physically present for). The synthesis between sexuality and violence and power was really unsettling. And for one split, shameful moment the thought popped in my head “I've had enough, I can't continue to deal with this much misogyny. I'm not as strong as I thought I was, it weighs too heavily on my conscience. I want to go back to the States.” but then it occurred to me that this is happening everywhere. Domestic abuse still occurs in the States, and people selling their bodies for sex is a wide spread epidemic. And I ultimately want to do international humanitarian work (most likely focusing on women issues/rights) and here was my first raw experience with how callous the world can be and it was all I could do not to cry.

I wish I could say I found the courage to somehow intervene, but I didn't. I wish I could say someone else found that courage for me and did something, but they didn't. I wish I could say that the man came to his senses and stopped, or that she somehow got out of that corner she was in. I wish I could say that the man sitting across from her finally put his hand on his friend's arm and said “Enough.” I wish that I had an uplifting conclusion or some revelation to share now, but I don't. After all was said and done, all I really took out of it was a penetrating sense of sorrow that left me feeling both heavy and tired.

Our pizzas came and we left and I don't know what happened to her.

Look mom!

2011-05-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

(loving London)

As my time abroad is quickly winding down I get sadder by the day,
however I'm looking forward to the follwing:
- family & friends obviously
- ice cubes
- tap water
- sundresses
- men ignoring me
- running around the lake
- my delightful, chubby, and somewhat neurotic beagles
- Flintstones multivitamins with extra iron (so I don't go all out anemic)
- easier access to non animal protein
- the public library (my to-read list has reached epic proportions)
- The X Files. Mulder was, is, and will continue to be my first crush.
- the L.A. road trip, in theory
- the dermatologist

- resuming a steady source of income, Europe did unspeakable things to my checking account
- my favorite regulars at work
- grand adventures with my soul mate Hannah
- air conditioning (erlack, I sound like such a whine-y Westerner)
- steady wifi
- doing my own laundry again
- having more of a choice in what I eat
- mostly just my independence in general
- and of course not being harassed all the damn time

The things I'll miss here are innumerable though,
how Baba always calls me "Mellaka Ayelisabet" (Queen Elizabeth), Leila's Berber tattoos, your growing crow's feet, the prices, the eclectic culture, the smells, the sounds, the inexpensive taxi rides, the waste not want not mentality, the donkeys, the fountains illuminated at night, the oranges in the trees, goofing off in a foreign language, how my host mom folds my underwear into neat little squares, the dancing, the music, the avocado juice, the tomatoes (best I've ever had), the immense gratification I have whenever someone does a double take when they hear me speaking Arabic, the fact that yes, I do read and write and speak Arabic (granted I slaughter the language gracelessly but I've made significant progress) the more intimate sense of community, running past sheep grazing on the side of the road, the mountains, the beaches..

and the definitive moments of happiness I've experienced here. If Alzheimer's or dementia eat away at my history as they did my predecessors, I hope they leave this in tact. Standing in the Atlantic, arms out stretched as we try to fight the waves, the laughter and salt on our lips. I want to remember us like this always. Epitomizing our youth, feeling infinite, realizing how much is possible and how much we're truly capable of. One of the most significant aspects of my experience abroad has been my steady self actualization; I really can do anything I set my mind to.

amor fati

2011-05-15T14:35:00.000-07:00

this always gets me

SoOOOOoo

2011-05-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

I have been consistently writing since I've been abroad, however I have not been consistently posting due to sporadic internet access and such, so I just went on a posting spree with some random things I had written, some date as far back as before I went to Marrakech. I will get a post up about Spain soonish, because we had an amazing time. I leave for London tomorrow but now I have to get ready for thai food/party tonight, some of our friends are leaving early (back to the US/Cairo) and it's Carolynne's birthday (Happy birthday habibitii!) so this is where I'll leave off for now.

love and miss you all

sometimes

2011-05-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

You can still see my ribs when I stretch, but I swear my skin is getting thicker.

know your rights

2011-05-11T10:12:00.000-07:00

Friday after couscous lunch I happened upon Leila (darija for "grandma"...I'm probably spelling it wrong) sitting alone, the air thick with her palpable sadness. I felt awkward, I wanted to console her but didn't know how and out of everyone in the family she has always been the hardest to communicate with. After an encouraging nod from Lotfi I sat down next to her and then tentatively leaned in to hug her, she immediately embraced me and kissed my hair several times murmuring things in darija and I held her tiny frame for a while, but I am afraid to say I was the one who broke the embrace first. I guess my point is, there is a common thread of humanity that weaves us all together and surpasses verbal language.

how i live now

2011-05-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

I live in an Arab Islamic country in the time when most of Arab world is in political upheaval. I live in a city that is over 1,200 years old in a country still ruled by a King. Every day I communicate with people in three different languages (and two dialects.) I take a taxi to school and it costs less than riding the bus in Minneapolis (not even during rush hour!) I fall asleep listening to the desperate plea of roosters. I am a minority and I am harassed regularly. Cats freely wander around everywhere, including restaurants. I eat with my hands and I can't drink local water for fear of explosive bathroom breaks. I've grown accustomed to the Moroccan “traditional” toilet.... a hole in the ground. Toilet paper and soap are arbitrary at best (so don't judge us for stealing toilet paper from hotels/school and traveling with them (and our mushy bars of soaps)) and the most common form of toilet paper, is a weird peptobismal pink and has the texture and consistency of crepe paper or party streamers....siesta anyone? Traffic in my section of the city consists mostly of motorcycles and donkeys (and I have to always watch my step so I don't walk in donkey feces, broken glass, or spit.

Every day I see beautiful things, the silhouettes of the sparrows, the oranges in the trees, now the purple buds, the beautiful fabrics of the djellabas, the Atlantic from another angle, Islamic art and mosaics. The birds sing differently over here but children laugh the same. And I'm simultaneously confronted by sad things that challenge me every day, like kittens with their eyes rotting out of their heads, children playing with trash, adults eating discarded food off the streets.

You learn a lot about yourself when you're the odd one out, but I know, without a doubt, that this is the best thing I've ever done for myself and I am exactly where I need to be in the world right now.

it had to be said

2011-05-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Moroccan men,

On behalf of myself and the young women in the area, I hereby politely request that you kindly f*** off. Do not tell me I have a nice/good/fat a**, don't touch it. Stop grabbing at my phone, my water, my yogurt, me. Stop following me home, stop walking behind me loudly talking about how you'll do me in the a** tonight and demonstrating with grunts and thrusts (we all know you're talking big to try and compensate for smaller things.) Do not ask if we want to see/suck your c*ck, we don't. When I'm in a club don't grab and hold on to me, my frantic squirming is not some new exciting western dance, it's claustrophobia and panic kicking in. Don't purposefully obstruct my path when I'm walking down the narrow streets. "F*ck you baby" is not a pick up line, it's a threat; and when you cut me off in a dark corner on your motorcycle to chat it isn't friendly or flirtatious, my fight or flight reflex kicks in. Stop offering me rides on your scooter/tour bus/creeper van. Stop asking how many camels or telling us to open our flowers or asking the men we're with if you can "have one." Stop calling me a bitch for refusing to put up with your sh*t, I'm not a commodity or an object, I'm just not interested in you. I'm not a Spice Girl either, they were British. I'm aware that American pop culture gives the impression of hyper sexuality and while Rihanna might grind on stage in neglige and sing poorly conceived sexual innuendos, I'm walking around in over sized men's tshirts pursuing a college education; nothing about that is an open invitation for sexual harassment. Not all western women are "easy" and whores (and if a woman wants to have sex and lots of it, that's her prerogative, unless you're sleeping with her it's really none of your business.) I shouldn't have to wear a tent just to go out and buy toothpaste. Stop degrading us, and stop degrading yourselves, because I like to believe you're capable of thinking with more than your reproductive organs. That's all.

Sincerely,

one vindictive American woman

monday

2011-05-02T03:51:00.001-07:00

There's something very soothing in researching airfare, but there's something very disconcerting in watching tuition climb and the exchange rate for the US dollar drop consistently.

P.S. And is it just me or does it seem almost.. barbaric to throw parties celebrating someone's death, regardless of how vile a person they were? But what do I know other than the Gandhi quote?

I'm okay

2011-04-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

but my heart goes out to those in Marrakesh. Thank god my friend Sam made it back from there yesterday..

what we know

registered for fall classes!

2011-04-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

I'm mostly happy with my schedule except severely disappointed that I couldn't fit Swahili in (at the U language classes are 5 credits, so to do both Swahili and Arabic would put me at 10 credits for the semester and full time is 12 credits, I'm doing 18)

I have...

Intermediate Arabic. It will actually be beneath the level I need but the one I should be in isn't available yet and I figure it's better to review rather than wait for spring

Knowledge, Power, and the Politics of Representation in Global Studies (mandatory for my major)

International Human Rights Law (for my Human Rights concentration)

Global Institutions of Power: World Bank, International Monetary Fund, and World Trade Organization (I had a friend who took it and said he learned a lot, but I'm mostly intrigued on how it ties in with development in the third world, and also John Perkins)

And Global Perspective on Gender Violence.

I figure since I'm dreading returning to Minnesota and the U (I've spent the past four semesters at different locations and this fall will be the first time I returned to a location rather than go somewhere new) I can compensate by having a fabulous schedule filled with only things I'm interested in. Insha'allah I'm trying to get an internship in Boston if this bloke ever emails me back...

Have a great day!

I want to go to Senegal and the Congo

2011-04-22T04:14:00.000-07:00

but instead I'm going to London and Madrid. Just waiting to hear back from my dream grad school about organizing a tour. Africa is more interesting than Europe but unfortunately airfare from here to Senegal is over $600, whereas from here to London was $60, and that is only after my airfare tripled because I waited a week while I was traveling.

Someone asked me why I haven't written about spring break, so I will summarize it. We abandoned operation Western Sahara and instead spent most of the time in Agadir, which is a soulless city but it grew on me. It caters extensively to tourists and was filled with lots of old Germans who were so deeply tanned their skin was like leather. I of course, fried, in spite of my SPF 100+. Now I'm in the ever fabulous peeling stage, whole chunks of the skin on my legs keep coming off, I'm shedding everywhere. My skin is such a liability, but at least I didn't wake up with any more inexplicable hives like in Marrakech the week before. We DID find goats in trees after thinking it was going to be a bust and that we had wasted a day on a stupid tour with a bunch of wealthy Europeans; we watched some of them blatantly try to rip off a Moroccan man off over a set of 6 glasses they wanted to buy for 10 euro. It was in a small town and it was this man's livelihood trying to survive off the money he makes off tourists, I'm not sure whether he took the financial blow and accepted their low offer, but afterwards we saw them get dropped off at expensive extravagant resorts on the beach. Makes you think. I also rode a donkey and later I went ice skating in Rabat, where we wrapped up the trip.

On the overnight bus to Marrakech a woman started to vomit loudly. It was the most horrid noise I've ever heard, it didn't sound human and it sounded rather painful. This was probably around 2 in the morning. I'm fairly certain that I was splashed with vomit, after I'd already been splashed with what I believe was breast milk an hour or so earlier. Needless to say, traveling requires a sense of humor.

No matter where I am in the world, I always miss Boston.

admittedly

2011-04-19T04:01:00.000-07:00

I look for you in the faces of those walking past

and if you miss me half as much as I miss you

look for me in the green lights at intersections

(it's the color of go)

يااللة يااللة يااللة يااللة

makesmethink.com

2011-04-09T10:57:00.000-07:00

"Remember,

the acquisition of knowledge doesn't mean you're growing. Growing happens when what you know changes how you live."

growing pains

2011-04-07T09:39:00.000-07:00

(just a thought)

2011-04-07T04:05:00.001-07:00

Yesterday Ameir and I were walking around the new city trying to find an ice cream shop. We passed by a cafe where a man was sitting at an outside table eating. As we approached he dropped his fork and proclaimed enthusiastically "COME HAVE CHICKEN WITH ME!!!" We politely declined but I laugh whenever I think about it.

So there have been some technical difficulties with Europe, as in we procrastinated and airfare skyrocketed and my preferred travel partner encountered some financial problems so it has been postponed. However I'll most likely make it to Spain within the next few weeks (I have a vague understanding that I need to leave the country briefly so as to avoid visa complications) but I'm having problems selling Julie on traveling to Barcelona in addition to Madrid, so we will see how this goes. Insha'Allah I won't have to travel to Barcelona alone..

So at the moment it seems I'm going to head as far south as I can get. Possibly a road trip but not sure there will be enough room in the rented cars so it will probably be grungy claustrophobic Moroccan bus lines. I'm very keen on going where the goats climb the trees, but no one else seems to share my enthusiasm with this argon tree phenomenon. It sounds like we're going to follow the coast, make it to Agadir, and Ameir and I might try to make it into Western Sahara. It will be hot, dirty, and hopefully amazing. Regardless, after Saturday I won't have internet access for at least a week. If you don't hear anything after that then either I will have succumbed to the Sahara or am having too much fun to come back just yet.

Marakech

2011-04-05T02:03:00.000-07:00

sticks and stones

2011-04-01T02:19:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was the day the straw broke the camel's back, so I think it's time that I write about the harassment.

For the most part it is benign, at least 75% of it is just a simple "hello, how are you" and "you are beautiful" muttered quietly in passing. Some of it is comical, we have been called "scallywag" several times, been offered "spliff" and various cheesy statements such as "sweet love" "you stop my heart" and yesterday a little boy made a kissy noise at me and said "I love you" when I walked past.

Some of it is crude. I have had twelve year old boys proclaim "nice ass! nice ass! the best ass!" when I've walked by. We've heard "f*ck you baby" (again, the boy must have been 12) and "on my c*ck" and my female friends have heard other raunchy statements when I wasn't around.

And it really hasn't been so bad, at least I haven't felt like I've gotten the worst of it. I think I've done a pretty okay job of dressing modestly and rarely going anywhere alone, and when I am with a man the comments are almost nonexistent, or aren't directed at me.

So I forgot how bad it can be. Yesterday I decided to walk home from school. It was around 6:30, there was still plenty of natural light, but it was rush hour and the traffic was horrendous and there was a big crowd near the taxi stop so I figured it would take too long to catch a cab (and I had already dropped 30 dirham on taxis that day). I have been walking home a lot lately so I didn't even think twice about it, although this time I went alone, simply because that's how it worked out. I feel very familiar and comfortable with Fes after the past month and a half of living here and the street I take is a main one with lots of traffic and open space.

Initially it wasn't so bad, I got a few hellos, a few honks, someone on a motorcycle drove by and yelled something about "blanc" and since I was the only white person around I figure it was aimed at me and mostly a lot of stares. I was trying to respond to a text a friend had sent asking about my progress when I noticed two guys just ahead of me. One started singing this song "Begging" that Lotfi plays all the time, he was watching me while he did it and walked right into a tree which was too funny but I politely ignored it and tried to keep walking. The guys fell in step with me and started in on the usual "Hello how are you you are beautiful are you from America?" and I responded with the usual, i.e. nothing. I pretend I don't understand English and usually they give up pretty quickly. I sped up my pace and they lingered behind me for a while, making the "nice ass" comments followed by "Are you sexy?" which then evolved to "Are you a bitch?" "You are a bitch!" "BITCH!"

They followed me for a long time shouting "Bitch" at me, at one point they crossed to the other side of the street and continued to shout insults at me the entire way back to Batha. Moroccans all around me were staring, both women and older men, and no one said anything. I was trying not to cry and biting my tongue even though all I wanted to do was shout back "Kafa! Saffee! Shooma, seer!" (Stop, enough, shame on you, go away) but I figured responding would merely incite them further. So I swallowed my pride and tried to suppress the F-bomb and the desire to shout about chauvinism that was crawling up my throat and instead quickened my pace.

I actually needed to be on the other side of the street but didn't want to cross over because they were there, so I ended up taking a more indirect roundabout way to my destination. I guess they beat me to Batha because as I passed a bench someone hurled "Bitch" my way again. My right hand involuntarily clenched into the middle finger but I kept it by my side so I don't think they noticed, and even if they did I don't think they understood the connotation because they flip people off differently here.

By the time I had ducked into a familiar and empty alley I could hardly breathe from trying to maintain my composure. By the time I made it to the riad and my friends asked what was wrong I started crying in the bathroom. I feel so ashamed that those assholes got under my skin that way, but I guess it was the tipping point. I am so desperately in love with this country, and in particular, this city, and it felt like a slap in the face. Reality put me back in place.

It was a slap in the face because of the attack on my independence and character. I am used to doing things alone, I traveled across the ocean alone, I made my way around Boston and Chicago alone, I bungee jumped, I work hard for my money and I take care of myself, and suddenly I'm relegating to needing a man by my side. And that is hard to swallow. I love my male friends here, and they're all rather protective, and I appreciate it more than I could ever hope to articulate, but it is hard to wrap my head around my new position as a woman here. I want to cover all my wretched white skin just so men will ignore me so I can walk home in peace and enjoy the beautiful weather. I want to go to school without strangers commenting on my ass; as if they are entitled to undress me with their eyes and comment on my body to me. The vegetarian feels like a piece of meat. And if I ignore their demeaning remarks I don't want or DESERVE, to be declared a bitch, I don't want strangers shouting insults at me while other strangers just watch with mild curiosity the visibly distraught American put up with this shit like a dog with its tail between its legs. To them it's all just a spectacle. It was the first and only time I have cried in Morocco, and it had little to do with the words and everything to do with the sheer indignity of it all.

Then I went to a belly dance class and it was hard. It was hard because I was in a bad mood, well, a sad mood, and just wanted to curl up with a book, but it was also hard because belly dancing is ridiculously difficult and requires a level of grace and coordination that I simply do not possess. But the hardest part was I was still recoiling from feeling objectified and demeaned, and here I was trying to contort my body in the most seductive ways possible. The way the teacher moved... my god. She was in her 50's with hair straight out of the 80's, not necessarily in the best shape and had large bruises on her forearms and she was without a doubt the sexiest woman in the room of young 20 somethings.

I welcomed the challenge of the dance, though not necessarily the cultural paradox. Afterwards I went to a party and Lotfi insisted on walking me right up to the door and waiting until he knew I was for sure inside before going. With my hair covered and his hand protectively on the small of my back no one gave me so much as a second look. Which I appreciate but it still grates my nerves a bit that I only get peace when people assume I am involved with a man (that pesky "possession" feeling) but I love him and it's okay. The party, with copious amounts of Michael Jackson and ranting with my female friends cheered me up significantly, but Lotfi still insisted on walking me to the taxi today and I didn't argue. Europe next week will be a welcomed respite, insha'allah.

"The sexiest parts of my body? My brain, my spine, and my guts."

P.S. Lotfi told me Moroccan women get harassed too, and my teacher made a comment about how he doesn't like to let his daughters out after a certain time because of the harassment they get from Moroccan men as well.

thursday

2011-03-31T10:37:00.001-07:00

Days like yesterday exist so you can appreciate days like today.

This is my good friend Amberine, isn't she beautiful?

A random musician in Rabat (don't worry, I paid him because I believe in supporting the arts)

And last night we learned you can still find honesty in the streets,

you just have to be open to receiving it.

"It tasted like a memory"

2011-03-29T02:49:00.000-07:00

What travel is and isn't;

It isn't about the sightseeing; not really. Admitted hypocrisy aside, the majority of tourists are pet peeves. It seems the most common species around here are large groups of elderly white people. Complete cliches of the tacky tourist; fanny packs, visors, and tennis shoes, guide books and water bottles visible at all times. It seems they operate in self insulating herds as well, not allowing culture to pass through them; just groups of retirees exploring third world countries in conspicuous air conditioned double decker buses. (Is there anything truly wrong with this? No, I'll likely be doing the same thing when I reach that age; if I ever get too old to travel I'm too old to live.)

And it isn't about the history, either. Not really. As interesting as that may be (at times) it's almost irrelevant to me, certainly not much of an incentive. It isn't about the souvenirs, or the photo opportunities (abundant as they are) or collecting stories to tell you over coffee some listless winter afternoon (the substance is only half as important as the execution anyway)

It's about the stories that aren't really stories. The most significant memories I'm making are the small, quiet, and private ones. The ones I wouldn't think to tell others but I know matter more than the Roman ruins we saw and the other guide book activities we did.

It's about tip toeing through a cemetery trying not to step on snails. (Revelation: Death is clumsy and indiscriminate, and mortality is most apt to crush you unceremoniously when you're idle (keep moving))

It's about that tattered copy of Dostoevsky, the post-train equivalent of sea legs. It's the color of the sky in the desert before the sun rises (I'm still washing the Sahara off me.) It's finally understanding the unbearable lightness of being. It's about dancing to the protestors' song in our hostel, late afternoon sun and smoke lingering in the air, the smell of the sea in my hair.

And I will always want to be your muggy summer night, walking barefoot through your dreams to tell you it's a sin to put a bird in a cage (there are reasons why America stings) and you can tell me that sometimes the most merciful thing you can do is to not interfere (maybe someday I will believe you); and I hold these truths to be self evident because it's whats been waking me up at odd hours of the night the past few weeks

لا أريد أن استقر

Rabat

2011-03-28T02:02:00.000-07:00

Saw a few protests this weekend in Rabat. I love the hand holding/human shields, I thought they were moving. Last weekend apparently there was a much larger protest and some 10,000-20,000 showed up to march. When I was there it was only a couple hundred tops, but they were right outside our hostel for most of the weekend.

another taxi driver gave me his number today

2011-03-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

passed by some snow on the way to the desert

wednesday

2011-03-23T03:34:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I was at a cafe near a busier segment of the medina gadeema (old city) people watching with a friend of mine. A rather ancient looking man came and sat at a table near us. He was wearing traditional Moroccan clothing and a Billabong ski cap. After a few minutes he got up, walked a few feet over and stooped to pick something up. It was a battery. As we watched he brought it to his mouth and licked it. Then he put the battery back on the ground and walked away. He lingered several feet away as if lost in thought, then wandered back, picked the battery up and discreetly pocketed it before walking away again.

Ahhh people watching. Observing all the painfully conspicuous tourists I asked, "What is the difference, if any, between being a tourist and a traveler anymore?"

Cheers to globalization; no where will ever be foreign, I'll simply be foreign to it. People forget that too often. You said "maybe if you stayed long enough eventually you'd be accepted as part of the community," but we unanimously agreed that by then it's already past time to leave.

It's all about the movement. I hope I, we, never stop.

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

As for today,

I officially realized my host mother is illiterate. I had been on the edge about it because she speaks at least some foosa, which is a mark of education. However I asked her how to spell something for my homework and she told me she can't read in Arabic. Realizing her illiteracy highlighted my privilege and made me uncomfortable. Here I am, waltzing in as a Westerner, and I can read and write in her native tongue simply because I found the curiosity and the resources to do so. I'm tempted to try and teach her to read, but I'm not sure how this would be received or how I would even go about it, but the desire is still there. Knowledge is power, after all.

Just a thought. I have been trying to write longer pieces, and will give a more thorough account of my weekend in the Sahara, but I am so busy all the time so it may be a while. And my taxi driver this morning gave me his phone number. He was born in 1967 and I told him I was born in 1990 but my youth doesn't appear to be much of a deterrent from a green card.

my English is deteriorating

2011-03-22T05:15:00.000-07:00

Last night I tried to write something in English but wrote it backwards instead.

uninterrupted sky

2011-03-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

I'm just trying to find a broad enough view of the world,

this weekend I came close.

Chefchouen in a nutshell

2011-03-16T04:13:00.000-07:00

This past weekend some friends and I went to Chefchouen. It's situated in the north in the Rif mountains. I've been told the Jews painted it blue in the 1930's, don't ask me why because I don't know. I took 309 pictures over all but only a few are worth posting and unfortunately (either due to this blogging site or our shoddy wifi) it takes forever to upload.

Kadie, Ameir and I left on Friday and the rest of the group joined up with us the following day. The ride up through the mountains was very pretty and we bonded a lot, I'm very grateful for the friendships I'm developing here. Shortly after we got to town and started walking up the steepest hill in the universe it started pouring on us. At least three men harassed Ameir on the way to the hostel, all offering to show him various over night accommodations (rumor has it they were heroin fiends, some even came back to our hostel the next day and shook him down for money. Also the cleaning lady came to our room and told Kadie to give her money because she wanted a coffee, Kadie told her she didn't have money and the woman grabbed her hand and pointed at her rings and said "yes you do!" sorry you were alone for this Kadie!) This was an unprecedented, albeit nice, change of pace because as women Kadie and I tend to get the majority of the unwanted attention in public.

At our hostel the three of us ended up in one room, though I'm not complaining. This is the second time this has happened and I'm still surprised that in a country with stricter gender roles the hotel/hostel employees have clumped both genders in the same room before. The rest of the weekend was really magnificent, although it rained on and off there were moments of brilliant blue sky. Morocco has rather bi polar weather like that. We hiked up to an old restored Spanish mosque on Saturday. The mosque itself wasn't that impressive but the views along the way were glorious. On our way back we hiked up the side of the mountain and I did a marvelous job even in my favorite pair of boots (some of the boys in our group had vocalized doubt about my trusty boots). It was one of the best weekends I've had in a long time because of how entirely in the moment I was, for once I wasn't worrying about the past or the future, I wasn't stressing about money or stuff at home or planning ahead for India and the Peace Corps and Grad school (I always try to keep a few steps ahead of myself.) Instead it was all rooftops, avocado juice and beautiful friendships. One of my favorite memories was standing on the rooftop at night staring at the moon and hearing the call to prayer ring out from all across the city. Every city has its own flavor with the call to prayer, and it's unequivocally beautiful in a dissonant way, it gives me goosebumps.

Patience please

2011-03-15T02:38:00.000-07:00

I'll get a real post up soon, with plenty of pictures, I promise.

conflicted

2011-03-10T04:30:00.000-08:00

Moral dilemma:

I adore my family but my friends are moving into a really beautiful riad that is actually cheaper (I could save at least $300 easily by moving) and want me to come too. Not sure what to do, I want to live in both places! :(

2011-03-09T03:30:00.000-08:00

On Monday I was sore and stressed and we were walking back from Alif which is a 40 minute walk on a good day; however we were disorganized with conflicting interests so it dragged out unbearably long. I was a lethal combination of flustered and frustrated and about to erupt when we stopped for what seemed like the 73^rd time. It was the equivalent of rush hour in Fes, students were getting out of school, adults were coming home from work, women were out shopping, there were cars everywhere honking and swarms of pedestrians. By chance I looked up and noticed the shadows on a yellowed building, they were especially crisp in the setting sun. I could see the shadows of birds coming and going from a perch, but the way they fluttered before alighting and their frequency made it seem as if they were dancing. The birds themselves were obscured from view, but I took that moment to appreciate how beautiful things still are even when you can't always see the full picture, and that sometimes there is still rhythm and definitiveness in the midst of chaos. Next time you're feeling down, try looking up.

(This is actually from Cape Town, I was enjoying the moment too much to take a picture)

P.S. The Hammam in retrospect: at least she didn't go for my knickers too or I would've been one belligerent American.

Dear Brits

2011-03-08T09:07:00.000-08:00

Dear Brits,

Please never stop talking; I love the way you enunciate.

Sincerely,
your biggest fan

तेच्निकल difficulty

2011-03-07T13:34:00.001-08:00

UMMIHAVEAPROBLEMWITHMYBLOGRIGHTNOWITSPUTTINGEVERYTHINGIWRITEINHINDIANDIDONTKNOWWHY

Fact:

2011-03-07T00:53:00.000-08:00

Not even Africa can redeem a Monday; they suck universally.

c'est vrai

2011-03-05T04:22:00.000-08:00

culture shock

2011-03-05T03:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the closest I've come to true culture shock thus far. A few of my lady friends from school and I decided after lunch that we'd go to the hammam (which is like a public steam bath.) It was loosely planned and we couldn't seem to find our friend Amberine so there was a lot of confusion about getting there and then my Moroccan phone ran out of minutes furthering our disconnect. I live literally right next door to the hammam so I wandered in after a while but I didn't see my friends in the waiting room. Feeling awkwardly foreign and conspicuous I wandered back out to the street to wait but felt awkward there too so I went back down stairs where a few Moroccan women were chilling and one woman who spoke French. I tried to articulate that I was waiting for my friends, but the women only spoke darija, not fusha arabic like me and I wasn't sure how to convey what I wanted in French (the hammam scenario never came up in French class incidentally.) I was led back out to the streets by one of the women and we stood around asking men passing by if any of them spoke English to translate. Finally one did and I said I was waiting for my friends and then there was a rapid exchange in darija and then everyone dispersed just as quickly. I hollered after the man who was walking away asking what was going on and he just said "Your friends are there already!" so I went downstairs again for some of the most awkward 5 minutes of my life.

The main room had a bit of a desk and a few benches and hangers with all manner of bags and clothes. In spite of the linguistic barrier they gestured that I should undress. So I awkwardly began to undress and when I was just down to my bra and underwear I had a moment of brief irrational terror that I had misunderstood the concept and was now the awkward American standing around in her underwear among the local women who were completely covered in traditional dress. This moment passed when a rather... large woman with a mustache came barreling out of a room in just her underwear with her chest hanging out. Then I was swarmed by several women all asking if I wanted a massage with my hammam experience, the mustache woman was particularly adamant about it as she would've been the one giving it. Massages and intense exfoliating are part of the hammam deal. I paid 20 dirham (about $3) already because my host family had told me that would buy everything, so I just told them whatever I paid for. They were asking for more money for a massage so I just started saying "la" (no). It was terribly awkward for me because I was alone, confused, knew I was being taken advantage of, mostly naked, with a linguistic barrier because of my rudimentary abilities in a formal dialect of Arabic that only the news casters really speak. Long story short, I felt very vulnerable. I knew they were trying to rip me off but wasn't able to articulate it, which was frustrating.

After I managed to detach myself from them I started walking towards the room for the hammam but another large woman who was severely cross eyed (who worked there) came up behind me and undid my bra. I tried protesting but the linguistic barrier came into play once more. So I took a deep breath and rolled with it. I'm in a foreign country with a different culture a world away from the life I'm familiar with. Sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and act natural; maintain your composure and pretend that you aren't completely horrified by the fact that a strange cross eyed woman just snatched your bra off you.

After all, when in Rome........

So with that I ventured into the hammam. The first room was dark and empty and I was terribly confused. The next room was also pretty dark and pretty empty so I gingerly tip toed across the damp floor trying to tactfully cover myself with my shampoo bottles to the last door. I walked in and the room was steamy and full of nudity, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust until I heard "Liz!" and walked over to the only other white girls in the room.

Nothing is more of a bonding experience then sitting mostly naked with girls you've known for a week and a half. The actual hammam experience was kind of nice because of how warm it was, the warm water runs out quickly in the shower at home and it has been rather chilly in the evenings/shade/buildings here (I shouldn't complain, I hear they're expecting another foot of snow back home). The hammams are a social experience and women often come with their friends and will hang out there 4 to 8 hours systematically scraping off dead skin and giving one another massages. We didn't bring anything to exfoliate and I was ripped off so we just sat in a corner talking and pouring warm water on us, trying to act natural and having a conversation.

This stark difference between this culture and my culture is interesting to me. I've never had qualms about wearing a bikini on the beach and I have been subjected to nudity for a long time in various forms, from strip clubs to pelvic exams to nude models in my drawing class. Pop culture in America glorifies sex from the mainstream music on the radio to the ads in magazines geared at my demographic and of course the obligatory scenes in most movies these days. Yet there I was, in a conservative Muslim society where women cover themselves up entirely to go buy bread down the street, and I was the one feeling shame about my naked body while everyone was just exposed as me and entirely comfortable with it.

2011-03-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

It's b e a u t i f u l how much I'm learning already.

feeling good

2011-03-02T03:30:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8tuTSi6Sck&feature=related

"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me"

2011-03-01T08:24:00.000-08:00

Last night in the Ville Nouvelle with Lotfi I saw a billboard advertising airfare to Paris for 480 dirham (Moroccan currency) ...that's cheaper than how much I just spent getting a second copy of Al-Kitaab ("The Book" my copy is MIA in America)...around $60

Immersion in language is sort of like submersion in water. In the mornings I drown in Arabic, I tread water in French in the afternoons, by evening with English I'll hopefully be floating on my back. Due to my disjointed education I'm at an awkward in between level, so classes taught in Arabic are very difficult for me. And rigorous, I'll be spending at least 25 hours in class a week (compared to the 15 I spent in the states).

I think I'll cancel my tentative plans for Tangiers or Rabat this weekend to studystudystudy until I no longer taste the brine at the back of my throat

lost in translation

2011-02-28T09:18:00.000-08:00

"So you're a ..... vegetable...?" Lotfi, my host brother

"No I'm a vegetarian...." me

To send me fan mail and the fortunes from your fortune cookies (seriously)......

(...and also so people will stop asking)

Elizabeth Wilcox

c/o The Arabic Language Institute in Fez

B.P. 2136

Fez 30000, Morocco

....though if you do actually send me something you might want to let me know in advance (and allot 3 weeks or so for shipping) because I will probably never check otherwise.

that's all. insh'allah

2011-02-28T05:38:00.001-08:00

Last night I dreamt I was a pseudo exhibitionist/stripper. Guess I'm just unconsciously rebelling against the new genderrolesI must now abide by.

Birds flying high you know how I feel

2011-02-24T05:34:00.000-08:00

The past few days have been too hectic to write, and I apologize. Now that I actually have the time to do this I'm not even sure where to begin.

United Airlines put me through hell just trying to get here, but that in itself is too long to write about and feels like it was a life time ago anyway.

(Frankfurt airport, sunset flying into Casablanca)

Being a vegetarian has been surprisingly difficult, especially on the airplanes, so many of my meals consisted of a slice of bread and yogurt, however a Belgian and a Moroccan woman took pity on me and both gave me their yogurts, so that, with the $9 sandwich I bought in the Belgian airport (damn the weak US $) held me over. However, now that I have moved in with my MARVELOUS host family (who I love already, they take very good care of me) my mother cooks me meatless dishes every day and her food is amazing. Originally I had anticipated some culture shock with eating with hands, but my first dinner sitting together with the family (with the Arabic news on Libya playing in the background) I wasn't shocked at all. I was pretty graceless with eating, dropping peas everywhere and all, but it was surprisingly fun. I would look around discreetly, and my host brother Lotfi (who is very sweet) would say quietly (no one saw you) Unfortunately he seems to always see me drop my food and trip on the stairs and bump into corners and all, mais c'est la vie.

Patriarchy kind of gets under my skin though (the skin I'm not allowed to show). When I first arrived it was with two other students I met up with in the Brussels airport, a girl named Kellen and a boy named Jake. They're both fabulous. However, everywhere in Morocco our first night the men only ever acknowledged Jake, disregarding Kellen and me entirely, even though I was the only French speaker and no one really understood our Foosa (or MSA, Modern Standard Arabic, a very formal dialect that the locals don't speak) so ultimately I'd have to try translating in my (very) broken French. The other day we went to a gym to figure out prices and such; while I already figured there would be different hours for women and men, one thing I hadn't expected was that it costs more money for a woman to enroll at the gym than it does for a man. I'm conflicted because I am dying to run on a treadmill, but I don't really want to support patriarchy and pay more just because I'm a woman.

Walking through the Medina, where I now live, is like walking through Aladdin, but with satellite dishes. It's such an eclectic juxtaposition of western and Moroccan culture, French and Arabic. Morocco just has such a vibrant culture, and it's incomprehensible to me how beautiful it is here. I've never been happier.

My Arabic is very broken and rusty, so I struggle immensely to communicate with my family (outside of Lotfi and Drees (the youngest son) as both speak French and some English) there is a lot of gesturing and and improvising when I try to communicate with my family. In spite of this I'm really comfortable with my family already, they've embraced me entirely as one of their own, my host mother kisses my cheeks when I come home and she's tucked me in even. The boys tease me and call me "batooza" (affectionately, though it means "fat") and the mother will say "la! elisabet la batooza, elisabet jamila!" (No! elisabeth isn't fat, elisabeth is beautiful/pretty). I'm so comfortable even that when the mother plays music or sings I'll dance along. We still don't understand one another past a few simple phrases but we laugh a lot, as cliche as it is to say, we all laugh and smile in the same language.

I tried uploading photos but pretty much crashed the shoddy wifi, so I'll upload more later.

2011-02-13T10:46:00.000-08:00

just trying to figure this blog thing out

2011-02-07T15:36:00.001-08:00