I never ever ever thought I would say this but today, for the first time ever, I wanted to be a boy. There are these gorgeous fields on my way to school where all the boys play soccer. I would so much love to run in those fields. The way women are semi-invisible here is almost eerie. I haven’t decided yet whether it is worse to be verbally taunted or to not really exist. I’m sure I will get a better feel for things in the future, and have a deeper and more appropriate insight into the situation, but so far, my observations are thus:
- women are not really respected. The respect for your elders thing is reduced to, you probably shouldn’t harass her in the street, when the elder is a woman. Last night I was walking back from the bakery with my host mom and there were these boys playing in the street and as we walked by one of them pretended to throw a ball at her and was laughing. Cat calls are common, mostly for westerners naturally, but boys can be extremely rude and crude. For the first time I can see how a burqa might be desirable. Being completely left alone and untouchable… may be better than being threatened. Even a rough crowd I don’t think would touch a woman fully veiled.
-women do not get the same enjoyments as men. The soccer example is a good one, I have also seen several men jogging, something I of course would really like to do, but definitely no. The other big thing here is to sit at a coffee shop and just drink coffee and smoke for hours and hours. But women do not go to coffee shops, or, I was informed today, they go to ones very far away from where they live, where no one will know them because it is shameful for women to be seen like this.
-women do not interact with men. My host brother and I are not very close. He doesn’t talk to me much, partially because I think he is just an awkward teenage boy (somethings ARE universal) but today, my brother walked me and my male classmate home from lunch and the two of them were chatting up a storm (as much as you can when you speak zero of the same language). In public, women go out with each other, their kids, their husbands, and occasionally alone. Mixing not so much.
-women are not safe like men. Don’t get me wrong on this one, I don’t think anyone, male or female would want to be walking the streets of the medina at night, but the ratio of men to women out past dark is even more disproportionate than during the day. Men and even really young boys are still hoppin around and hanging out in the bigger streets or creepily lurking on the side streets at night, but women not so much and they’re definitely not out alone.
Ok, now all of this with a grain of salt. There are highly respected females at my school, professors and professionals. Few women here wear a burqa and a lot don’t even wear a hijab (not that that is necessarily about inequality… debatable) my host mom goes out alone and with my sister and i. Miriam and I even go after dark together before it gets too late. And the medina of Fes is more conservative, in the new city it’s way more modern, gender equality included, and there are other cities more liberal than Fes. Also, I know it’s all cultural and I am here to learn and blah blah. I cannot help being bothered by the small things that I do notice and don’t necessarily like, though, and I also always remember there are country areas too where it is ten times worse. It’s hard, and it’s still very new to me. come to Morocco and decide for yourself, I guess. Until then, can I play soccer with the boys?
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Kindeys in my couscous
Moroccan food and flaws:
The food here is very tasty, if you like everything white and with oil. All white bread, a majority of the time with sugar. The big meals are lunch and dinner where white bread is used to scoop oil and meat hunk out of giant center plate. I have a courtesy, "you are the weirdo we are hosting" napkin but otherwise we eat with our hands. On Fridays the big treat is couscous. which was delicious at lunch today. The meals can be a little awkward because we eat in a room with a TV so the kids just kind of eat and watch the Hindi soaps I don't understand in drreja(Moroccan arabic) so to make conversation and for my language skills, I have begun to name all the foods on the family plate (table). Today, I pointed out what looked like an olive and said "zeitoon" (I know the word for olive because zeitoon and zeit zeitoon (olive oil) are at EVERY MEAL) and my host mom looked very confused. noo she said and then said something else in arabic. That's when I knew. "meat?" I asked? and she nodded. then I pointed to my stomach. "from here meat" yep. that's right, there were lamb kidneys in my couscous. Now, as my real American sister puts it, I am a recovering vegetarian, and I have been fine eating meat here, and I also want to try everything, experience the culture, blah blah. but the veggie in me does not want kidneys, does not want to see chickens throats slit in the market, and definitely does not want to see whole lamb heads bloody and on display for sale. la aheb (i dont like)
the other problem with food right now, is that there is so freaking much of it. My mother has made it very very clear that she is personally responsible for my putting on minimum of 200 pounds before I leave Morocco. I swear to you, this is only a slight exaggeration. EVERY meal it is non stop "kuhlee, kuhlee" eat eat! which is very nice but when i have food in front of me, in my hand and in my mouth there is not much more I can do! It started off as nice but now I just feel bad- I get a lot of frowns from my mom. overall, I think she is just very protective of me and thinks of me as younger than I am. The fact that I am short an dlittle, and also a girl I do not think help this situation. My prime example of this (which my fellow UMN students think is hilarious) is that I was washed. Yes, that's right, because Moroccan women scrub their young children, I asked how to use the shower, and my host mom showed me, then proceeded to strip me down and wash me. Luckily, I am not super modest, so I didn't feel violated at all, but this morning I had to be very stern that I would wash myself. I said "I am big, I wash alone" and she said "no, you are small" But I insisted, so we're making headway, but still, I would like a little more independence.
Another thing I have been noticing here is the gender differences. Women are not respected, not really seen in public, and overall just kind of in the woodwork of society. I have stories but I'll have to tell them later. My classmate is waiting for me to walk home together. Triwizard cup tournament maze has be solved, I can now find my way to my house and I WILL be walking home from school by myself.
Tomorrow is Muhammad's birthday and the other UMN kids and I will be exploring the medina.
The food here is very tasty, if you like everything white and with oil. All white bread, a majority of the time with sugar. The big meals are lunch and dinner where white bread is used to scoop oil and meat hunk out of giant center plate. I have a courtesy, "you are the weirdo we are hosting" napkin but otherwise we eat with our hands. On Fridays the big treat is couscous. which was delicious at lunch today. The meals can be a little awkward because we eat in a room with a TV so the kids just kind of eat and watch the Hindi soaps I don't understand in drreja(Moroccan arabic) so to make conversation and for my language skills, I have begun to name all the foods on the family plate (table). Today, I pointed out what looked like an olive and said "zeitoon" (I know the word for olive because zeitoon and zeit zeitoon (olive oil) are at EVERY MEAL) and my host mom looked very confused. noo she said and then said something else in arabic. That's when I knew. "meat?" I asked? and she nodded. then I pointed to my stomach. "from here meat" yep. that's right, there were lamb kidneys in my couscous. Now, as my real American sister puts it, I am a recovering vegetarian, and I have been fine eating meat here, and I also want to try everything, experience the culture, blah blah. but the veggie in me does not want kidneys, does not want to see chickens throats slit in the market, and definitely does not want to see whole lamb heads bloody and on display for sale. la aheb (i dont like)
the other problem with food right now, is that there is so freaking much of it. My mother has made it very very clear that she is personally responsible for my putting on minimum of 200 pounds before I leave Morocco. I swear to you, this is only a slight exaggeration. EVERY meal it is non stop "kuhlee, kuhlee" eat eat! which is very nice but when i have food in front of me, in my hand and in my mouth there is not much more I can do! It started off as nice but now I just feel bad- I get a lot of frowns from my mom. overall, I think she is just very protective of me and thinks of me as younger than I am. The fact that I am short an dlittle, and also a girl I do not think help this situation. My prime example of this (which my fellow UMN students think is hilarious) is that I was washed. Yes, that's right, because Moroccan women scrub their young children, I asked how to use the shower, and my host mom showed me, then proceeded to strip me down and wash me. Luckily, I am not super modest, so I didn't feel violated at all, but this morning I had to be very stern that I would wash myself. I said "I am big, I wash alone" and she said "no, you are small" But I insisted, so we're making headway, but still, I would like a little more independence.
Another thing I have been noticing here is the gender differences. Women are not respected, not really seen in public, and overall just kind of in the woodwork of society. I have stories but I'll have to tell them later. My classmate is waiting for me to walk home together. Triwizard cup tournament maze has be solved, I can now find my way to my house and I WILL be walking home from school by myself.
Tomorrow is Muhammad's birthday and the other UMN kids and I will be exploring the medina.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
hey, want to hear about Morocco?
My House
Remember the harry potter tri wizard cup maze? Somewhere in there… God only knows how to find it- there is a small door marked by an 18 over it that is the doorway into my house. Everything in Morocco is masked by a tiny crumbling outside and then you go through the doors into the palace. My home is really nice, I have my own room across from a room with a sink and there is another washroom complete with toilet (woo) downstairs. We eat in the living room area complete with TV. My only concern about my house really is that I have absolutely no idea how I would ever ever find it.
My Family
Um-mee (my mother) is the most loving person on this planet. She has insisted that I come to her for absolutely everything. She will be walking me to school everyday. She gives me big hugs- which I am so so grateful for, and she came into my room to make sure I wasn’t crying. (I was not! I don’t know how I could my family is wonderful) She was a bit horrified at my packing job though and so helped me fold every last piece of underwear and put it away. I think she was a little overwhelmed with how much underwear I had. (I was told to pack a lot) My Ab-be (father) is a taxi driver. He is diabetic and showed me he has lost all of the toes on his left foot so in the evenings he is home early. My brother, Muhammad, is 14 and is taking German in school. Even with this common language, though, I’m not sure we will be super close. I don’t get the impression he wants to work hard enough to make me understand… at least not yet. Did I mention, by the way, that none of my family speaks any English. There are small, small pieces of French with the kids, but only my mom speaks modern standard Arabic, my dad mostly speaks colloquial which makes communicating a little (lot) difficult. They have had a lot of exchange students in the past. My mom showed me pictures of all of them, and I’m not sure how much Arabic their past student spoke but I get the impression they are surprised by my lack of knowledge. I don’t think they would ever judge me (not that I could help it if they did) but at times I feel a little like I’m doing something wrong. I can tell, though, that by the time my stay is over I will be one million times better with the language. Of course, this brings me to my final family member, Uchtee! (my sister) I am so lucky to have gotten the best tutorial over the past two months on big sisterhood, because I have the cutest little sister ever! Miriam (yes, my siblings are Miriam and Muhammad, welcome to the Middle East) is so adorable. She is nine years old and a master teacher of Arabic. She spent an hour reading me a bed time story- the story of the fall of man- Adam and Satan. She pantomimed everything for me and would not move on until she was convinced I understood. She is a strict teacher too, and she likes to color so I know we will get along very well. Cathy, I gave her your t-shirts and I think she was overwhelmed with all the presents so she wouldn’t take them so I told her they were for her and Muhammad, not from me but from my sister, especially for her. She was extremely grateful and I told her you wanted to meet her on Skype. After today combined with Colorado, sisterhood has a whole new meaning for me and it is somewhere in the magical indescribable loving feeling zone; I really hope you get to meet her via cyber café. I feel you two are transcendentally connected to each other. Also, Mom, I showed Ummee el meghrib (my Moroccan mother) your picture (the one of you holding all my 21 birthday candles) and she said you are very beautiful. Dad, the only picture I had on my camera of you was your snarky face one so they haven’t seen your picture yet. Sorry, I’ll find a good one on my computer I promise.
My school
I still don’t know a ton about it but there are a lot of people there learning both English and Arabic. It really is an international language school. Today I overheard and English class going on. The teacher was explaining sun bathing as “when people go outside, with very few clothes on, to darken their skin. That is sun bathing.” I am nervous for classes, because like my Arabic class has always been, school here is said to be a lot of very hard work. I finally met some of the staff and they are all very nice and accommodating. I feel like part of a very needy group but that is mostly because of the lack of experience we all have I think. I hope that we are the rule of inexperience and not the exception to the more experienced crowd. La arf. (I don’t know) The other students from UMN are really nice and fun. We are a small group and only one other person lives in the medina with me, the rest live in the ville nouveau. (fes is really like three cities in one. Medina=old city/unfathomable maze city. Middle city=inbetween new city/ville nouveau= French city which I was promptly informed has zero history). The school is in the new city, and like I said getting back and forth might be interesting. I haven’t given up hope on learning the ins and outs of the medina- there was never hope to begin with. I don’t think you could ever learn it. I think you are either born here, you have a guide, or you die trying to find your way out alone. For once in my sarcastic life I am not exaggerating. Pictures will come soon I hope.(inshahallah) for now, though, I have to go to bed.
Remember the harry potter tri wizard cup maze? Somewhere in there… God only knows how to find it- there is a small door marked by an 18 over it that is the doorway into my house. Everything in Morocco is masked by a tiny crumbling outside and then you go through the doors into the palace. My home is really nice, I have my own room across from a room with a sink and there is another washroom complete with toilet (woo) downstairs. We eat in the living room area complete with TV. My only concern about my house really is that I have absolutely no idea how I would ever ever find it.
My Family
Um-mee (my mother) is the most loving person on this planet. She has insisted that I come to her for absolutely everything. She will be walking me to school everyday. She gives me big hugs- which I am so so grateful for, and she came into my room to make sure I wasn’t crying. (I was not! I don’t know how I could my family is wonderful) She was a bit horrified at my packing job though and so helped me fold every last piece of underwear and put it away. I think she was a little overwhelmed with how much underwear I had. (I was told to pack a lot) My Ab-be (father) is a taxi driver. He is diabetic and showed me he has lost all of the toes on his left foot so in the evenings he is home early. My brother, Muhammad, is 14 and is taking German in school. Even with this common language, though, I’m not sure we will be super close. I don’t get the impression he wants to work hard enough to make me understand… at least not yet. Did I mention, by the way, that none of my family speaks any English. There are small, small pieces of French with the kids, but only my mom speaks modern standard Arabic, my dad mostly speaks colloquial which makes communicating a little (lot) difficult. They have had a lot of exchange students in the past. My mom showed me pictures of all of them, and I’m not sure how much Arabic their past student spoke but I get the impression they are surprised by my lack of knowledge. I don’t think they would ever judge me (not that I could help it if they did) but at times I feel a little like I’m doing something wrong. I can tell, though, that by the time my stay is over I will be one million times better with the language. Of course, this brings me to my final family member, Uchtee! (my sister) I am so lucky to have gotten the best tutorial over the past two months on big sisterhood, because I have the cutest little sister ever! Miriam (yes, my siblings are Miriam and Muhammad, welcome to the Middle East) is so adorable. She is nine years old and a master teacher of Arabic. She spent an hour reading me a bed time story- the story of the fall of man- Adam and Satan. She pantomimed everything for me and would not move on until she was convinced I understood. She is a strict teacher too, and she likes to color so I know we will get along very well. Cathy, I gave her your t-shirts and I think she was overwhelmed with all the presents so she wouldn’t take them so I told her they were for her and Muhammad, not from me but from my sister, especially for her. She was extremely grateful and I told her you wanted to meet her on Skype. After today combined with Colorado, sisterhood has a whole new meaning for me and it is somewhere in the magical indescribable loving feeling zone; I really hope you get to meet her via cyber café. I feel you two are transcendentally connected to each other. Also, Mom, I showed Ummee el meghrib (my Moroccan mother) your picture (the one of you holding all my 21 birthday candles) and she said you are very beautiful. Dad, the only picture I had on my camera of you was your snarky face one so they haven’t seen your picture yet. Sorry, I’ll find a good one on my computer I promise.
My school
I still don’t know a ton about it but there are a lot of people there learning both English and Arabic. It really is an international language school. Today I overheard and English class going on. The teacher was explaining sun bathing as “when people go outside, with very few clothes on, to darken their skin. That is sun bathing.” I am nervous for classes, because like my Arabic class has always been, school here is said to be a lot of very hard work. I finally met some of the staff and they are all very nice and accommodating. I feel like part of a very needy group but that is mostly because of the lack of experience we all have I think. I hope that we are the rule of inexperience and not the exception to the more experienced crowd. La arf. (I don’t know) The other students from UMN are really nice and fun. We are a small group and only one other person lives in the medina with me, the rest live in the ville nouveau. (fes is really like three cities in one. Medina=old city/unfathomable maze city. Middle city=inbetween new city/ville nouveau= French city which I was promptly informed has zero history). The school is in the new city, and like I said getting back and forth might be interesting. I haven’t given up hope on learning the ins and outs of the medina- there was never hope to begin with. I don’t think you could ever learn it. I think you are either born here, you have a guide, or you die trying to find your way out alone. For once in my sarcastic life I am not exaggerating. Pictures will come soon I hope.(inshahallah) for now, though, I have to go to bed.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Medina
ok, so first put yourself in a maze. Not an Iowa corn maze, but a Harry Potter Tri-wizard cup maze with stone walls and cobblestone street. Now add in every type of shop you've ever seen in your life. Every farmer's market, butcher shop, world market, and the L.A. fashion district. Take every strong scent you have ever smelled, times by a ten, add that in. Add a roof, sometimes, and never be quite sure if you are inside or outside. Now add a Mosque and the "infinity" that is in Arabic mosaics. Now add chickens (being killed and lamb heads). Now watch out for donkeys about to run you over. ok now you can maybe start to imagine the Medina.
Today I went to Quranic school and listened to kids recite the Quran. Yesterday I had a conversation with my cab driver about love in arabic. It went something like this (all in Arabic on little sleep):
Him: do you have a love?
Me: yes, we go to the same university. he is in London now.
Him: Do you sleep in the bed with him?
Me: (weirded out) no
Him: why not?
Me: my mother wouldn't like it
Him: that is your mother!!
Him: you do not love him then
Me: yes I do!
Him: you say it only with your mouth
Me: No, I say it with your heart.
Then for a long time we practiced saying "my love, I love you with my heart and soul"
I love Morocco.
Today I went to Quranic school and listened to kids recite the Quran. Yesterday I had a conversation with my cab driver about love in arabic. It went something like this (all in Arabic on little sleep):
Him: do you have a love?
Me: yes, we go to the same university. he is in London now.
Him: Do you sleep in the bed with him?
Me: (weirded out) no
Him: why not?
Me: my mother wouldn't like it
Him: that is your mother!!
Him: you do not love him then
Me: yes I do!
Him: you say it only with your mouth
Me: No, I say it with your heart.
Then for a long time we practiced saying "my love, I love you with my heart and soul"
I love Morocco.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I really wanted the start of my Morocco blog to be in Morocco. But seeing as how that process has been delayed and I feel it warrants some explanation: I will begin my travel stories with travel nightmares. This is the shit they don't talk about in your Lonely Planet travel guides. First, let me just say that I started off this day more prepared than I ever have been for a trip. I had everything on the famous Lily Dobson's packing list, I had spent the past week making daily lists with my sister of things to do to prepare to leave, I'd been doing a lot of nothing but waiting to leave since Thanksgiving, and I have spent the last two plus years of my life researching, applying, planning, waiting, and dreaming for this day when I would study abroad where they speak Arabic, traveling on my own to learn about a culture and language I love. Anyway I'm pretty ready to go. So I walk up to the check-in, a little over two hours before my flight is supposed to leave, just like you're supposed to for an international flight. Yes, my checked bag is a little overweight, so I take a few things out, my bad, and then promise the friendly United worker I'll say hi to Bogie for him. Then I'm waved over by the woman inspecting my passport and the following dialogue takes place:
Nameless woman who I would hit with my car if I could remember what she looked like: "Do you have a visa?"
me: "No, for stays of 90 days you don't need a visa"
NW: "yes, but 90 days would bring you back on May 23. your return flight is booked for May 28."
me: I don't know why, but I don't need a visa.
NW: you are going to have to enter that line and re-book your return ticket or you'll get to paris and they wont let you on the plane.
me (inner monologue): I am not an idiot. I swear I'm not an idiot.
So my blessed sister says it will be ok, and we start making frantic calls. Everyone should mail Andrew Harris Christmas cards. And even though the Denver airport lied about their free wireless, I found out that- No stupid idiot woman from United I don't need a visa, I apply for a student residency card with the University once I get there. So I'm sorry that knowledge was not at the top of my head but ok. So I stay in the line specially designed by Satan to move slower than tectonic plates to make sure I am checked in because I'm pretty sure I just watched my bag go on the track to Chicago. I get my ticket, it's ok I go through security, I get to my gate and with time to spare I board the plane that will take me from Denver to Chicago, where I will meet all my best new friends from the University of Minnesota and travel on to Paris and then Casablanca together. As I'm about to climb into my seat I hear over the speaker, "Ladies and Gentlemen, due to air traffick because of weather our flight will be delayed an hour. If you want to exit the plane you can or you can stay seated" Well, pardon my french, but I'm not in Paris so, fuck. I only started off with an hour layover in Chicago so my flight is scheduled to leave just as this one lands. Although the stewardess advised me to stay in Denver, the woman at the ticket counter said there would be a good chance my flight in Chicago would be delayed too and said to stay on the plane. So I took a chance, and the whole flight I lived with the hope of Obama. Well, despite 7 years of running competitively, I lost the race against United Airlines. And it will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I definitely cried as my breathless "Paris?" was responded too with a sad, sad gaze and the words "you just missed it." And that is the story of how, while I am supposed to be in Paris, I am alone in a hotel in Chicago, watching Forest Gump, and blogging my woes to all of you. It's not all bad. I made a lot of friends. Several United employees think I am psychotic but are very sympathetic about it, apparently many older women feel the need to console when they see young girls alone sobbing in the airport, I helped a woman who was at the customer service counter and couldnt understand because she spoke mostly German, and Miguel, the man who drove the shuttle to the hotel was really nice and wants to be a police officer someday. Hopefully, my next blog update will be about all of the sights and sounds of Morocco- but as the Arab's say, "In'shah Allah" which means, "God willing" and though I have no idea why God willed this, tomorrow, I'll try again, In'shah Allah.
Nameless woman who I would hit with my car if I could remember what she looked like: "Do you have a visa?"
me: "No, for stays of 90 days you don't need a visa"
NW: "yes, but 90 days would bring you back on May 23. your return flight is booked for May 28."
me: I don't know why, but I don't need a visa.
NW: you are going to have to enter that line and re-book your return ticket or you'll get to paris and they wont let you on the plane.
me (inner monologue): I am not an idiot. I swear I'm not an idiot.
So my blessed sister says it will be ok, and we start making frantic calls. Everyone should mail Andrew Harris Christmas cards. And even though the Denver airport lied about their free wireless, I found out that- No stupid idiot woman from United I don't need a visa, I apply for a student residency card with the University once I get there. So I'm sorry that knowledge was not at the top of my head but ok. So I stay in the line specially designed by Satan to move slower than tectonic plates to make sure I am checked in because I'm pretty sure I just watched my bag go on the track to Chicago. I get my ticket, it's ok I go through security, I get to my gate and with time to spare I board the plane that will take me from Denver to Chicago, where I will meet all my best new friends from the University of Minnesota and travel on to Paris and then Casablanca together. As I'm about to climb into my seat I hear over the speaker, "Ladies and Gentlemen, due to air traffick because of weather our flight will be delayed an hour. If you want to exit the plane you can or you can stay seated" Well, pardon my french, but I'm not in Paris so, fuck. I only started off with an hour layover in Chicago so my flight is scheduled to leave just as this one lands. Although the stewardess advised me to stay in Denver, the woman at the ticket counter said there would be a good chance my flight in Chicago would be delayed too and said to stay on the plane. So I took a chance, and the whole flight I lived with the hope of Obama. Well, despite 7 years of running competitively, I lost the race against United Airlines. And it will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I definitely cried as my breathless "Paris?" was responded too with a sad, sad gaze and the words "you just missed it." And that is the story of how, while I am supposed to be in Paris, I am alone in a hotel in Chicago, watching Forest Gump, and blogging my woes to all of you. It's not all bad. I made a lot of friends. Several United employees think I am psychotic but are very sympathetic about it, apparently many older women feel the need to console when they see young girls alone sobbing in the airport, I helped a woman who was at the customer service counter and couldnt understand because she spoke mostly German, and Miguel, the man who drove the shuttle to the hotel was really nice and wants to be a police officer someday. Hopefully, my next blog update will be about all of the sights and sounds of Morocco- but as the Arab's say, "In'shah Allah" which means, "God willing" and though I have no idea why God willed this, tomorrow, I'll try again, In'shah Allah.
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