"Number One:" Gender, class, and power in a Moroccan film

Yesterday was a national holiday, and marked the last day before the start of Ramadan, the holy month where practicing Muslims abstain from food, drink, and cigarettes during daylight hours.

Perhaps it was the holiday, or perhaps it was the impending fast, but a lull descended over my normally frenetic host family, and I took the opportunity to watch "Number One," a fascinating Moroccan film that touches upon the impact of the Moudawana, the reformed family code that governs marriage, divorce, child custody, and inheritance.


Another researcher, Charlotte, has already written a wonderful analysis, but I wanted to add my thoughts as well, many of which mirror Charlotte's.

The basic plot is this: Aziz, a middle-class married man in an unnamed Moroccan city is a manager at a garment factory. He treats his employees (all female) poorly, and it's any kinder to his wife Soreya. With them, he is "Number One." Commendably, the film doesn't depict his behavior simply as a dichotomy between male and female, but brings in class elements as well. His condescension isn't reserved for women, but extends to everyone he perceives as being in a lower-class than him: the guard at his factory, for example. Additionally, his arrogant and abusive demeanor becomes submissive and cowering when he interacts with his wealthy boss.

One day, after a particularly unpleasant argument with Soreya, she seeks the services of a female magician. (Sort of, the word shouwafah doesn't translate well into English.) That night, she adds a potion to his dinner, and the following morning he wakes up a changed man. He is sympathetic towards everyone, from his employees to his long-suffering wife. Frightened by the changes in his personality, he seeks the advice of a male magician (again, sort of), who deems Aziz's problem unsolvable; it's "la syndrome de la Moudawana" (the Moudawana syndrome).

Unable to revert to his old self, he embraces his psychological shift. He cooks, he cleans, he does the laundry. In one particularly memorable scene, he views a bustling city square, where men have changed into women and women into men. Women sit in cafes, smoking, drinking, and reading newspapers, while men beat carpets over balconies and do errands with babies strapped to their backs. To my readers who have never traveled to Morocco (or Egypt, or Palestine, or Jordan. I can't speak for other countries.), this may not be particularly note-worthy, but I found it hilarious, although I wished this scene had included some reverse street-harassment as well.

The tail end of the film deals with the fallout from his change. Other husbands in his neighborhood become angry with him for being so generous and lenient with his wife. His friends feel neglected because he spends so much time at home. He is fired from his job for being so kind to the workers. His wife begins to feel guilty, and returns to the female sorcerer to reverse the spell. Again, Soreya puts the potion in his dinner, and confesses to him that she is responsible for his transformation. However, he chooses to not consume the potion, and remains afflicted with the Moudawana syndrome. In an ending straight out of Hollywood, he gets his job back and is dubbed "Man of the Year" by the popular Moroccan woman's magazine Femmes de Maroc.

There is so much to consider in this film. First and foremost, I wondered how my host family would react to it. The parents are well-educated; the father, Abdelsalam, is a professor of Arabic and the mother, Fateeha, is an office worker. Since it is currently summer break, Abdelsalam doesn't have any rigid time commitments except the occasional Arabic tutoring he does with me. Meanwhile, Fateeha works 20 hours a week at the office. She also does all (and I mean ALL) of the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. While Abdelsalam has plenty of time to read, watch TV, and sleep, Fateeha is constantly busy, always on her feet. Not that this is unusual, either here or in the US. But is it something I will never wrap my head around, and (potential future spouses, take heed) something I will never abide by. It would be interesting to ask Abdelsalam why he feels it's acceptable to contribute nothing to the household chores when both husband and wife bring in income (particularly since he spends quite a bit of time extolling the virtues of the Moudawana and of woman's rights in Morocco), but of course that would be overstepping my boundaries by about a mile.

(On a very tangentially related subject, I find the recent revival of food politics in the US to be interesting from a gendered perspective. Authors and activists such as Michael Pollan advocate for a change in American food culture, arguing that we should revert to a communal attitude towards meals and meal production. Meaning: Cook more, and start taking time out to enjoy your meals with your loved ones. Of course, this is seemingly a difficult sentiment to argue with, but this article over at Salon does a pretty good job. I have no gripes with the sentiment that we, as a society, should be cooking more, but, in practicality, who will the burden of cooking fall upon? Men or women? Pollan's male privilege is showing.)

Anyway, my host sister, Kawthar, watched most of the movie with me, and I was curious to hear her thoughts. She thought it was funny (Indeed, it was.) and she liked it. I asked her if she knew what the Moudawana was. She did not. But what did I expect from a nine-year-old?

One of my main Fulbright research questions deals with the scope of law. In this way, "Number One" was interesting. On the one hard, the Moudawana is depicted as a sort of "the sky is falling" marker of radical social change, particularly in the eyes of the film's male characters. On the other hand, many of the female characters were dismissive of the law. When two female factory workers discuss the cruelty of Aziz, one says something about the Moudawana, and the other responds, "The Moudawana is for husbands, not employers." At the beginning of the film, one of Soreya's friends suggests she gets a divorce, which is easier under the new law. Soreya barely registers her friend's comment. The distance between the ostensible goals of the law and the realities of life for many Moroccan women remains daunting.

The film is a powerful feminist statement, a comment on the common place gender disparities that exist outside the law. While it lacks any sort of prescriptive value (should we use magic to show all chauvinists the errors of their ways?), perhaps the act of watching this film, which was widely distributed and well-received, is a good first step towards more constructive action.