It's Not About Sex: On sexual harassment, patriarchy, power, and consent

I've started, and subsequently set aside, several blog posts about sexual harassment in Morocco.

I don't feel particularly qualified to write comprehensively (or well) about this issue. However, sexual harassment has been a large part of my experience here, and I felt a new compulsion to write about my perspective after viewing this fascinating video about street harassment in the States (more on it later).

My experiences with sexual harassment in Morocco have been 99.9% verbal. Unlike in Cairo, where I was often physically grabbed on the street, here the harassment comes mainly in the form of catcalls. It can be anything from a man whispering "Ca va?" as I pass on the street, to a glue-sniffing teenage boy in my old neighborhood shouting broken vulgarities at me, to a man following me and a friend for 15 minutes, asking us all the way if he can practice his English with us. In more escalated cases, men in cars will follow women, commanding them to get in, or will use a crowded city bus as an excuse to grope and fondle.

My most upsetting experience happened when I was walking on the main street of Agdal, a ritzy neighborhood in Rabat. I walked past a young man. (A boy, really. He couldn't have been more that thirteen, and he was probably high on glue fumes.) As our paths crossed, he reached his hands out and grabbed both my breasts. He let his hands remain there for a few seconds, then kept on walking. Completely shocked, I froze in place during the act, then continued to my destination. I didn't (couldn't) react, and neither did anyone around me.

I felt completely powerless. Degraded. Furious. I didn't ask for this; I didn't offer my consent.

And this is how I feel just about every day when I walk down the street and am openly, unabashedly appraised by men.

I studied in Cairo in 2006, the year in which horrific, mass sexual assaults occurred during 3eed al-fitr (the holiday that follows Ramadan). For five hours, a mob indiscriminately attacked women on a busy Cairo street. For five hours, the police did nothing. It still makes me sick to think about it.

Following this incident, if you had asked me what leads to such a high prevalence of sexual harassment in the Arab world, I would have responded that sexual frustration was the cause. In a trend particularly well-documented in Egypt, but prevalent across the Middle East and North Africa, young people increasingly postpone marriage (and thus licit sexuality) due to the rising costs of starting a household. I would have argued that the licit gives way to the illicit, hence the rise in sexual harassment and sexual assault. (It's worth noting here that a reported 83% of Egyptian women and 98% of foreign women experience harassment on a daily basis in Cairo.)

Since I left Cairo, I've read more and thought critically about my own experiences, not just in the Middle East and North Africa but in the US as well. Slowly but surely, I've revised my opinion, and come to the conclusion that unwanted, unsolicited sexual advances, whether these advances are in the form of words, gaze, or assault, are an exertion of power, not sexual desire. Men, by harassing women, demonstrate that they hold the power to belittle, to grope, to rape, and that we, as recipients, are powerless to stop them.

To paraphrase this wonderful post (which does a great job of analyzing the dynamics of street harassment in the Arab world): Sexual harassment is a reflection of male privlidge. It is condoned through societal norms, particularly society's unwillingness to protect victims and punish offenders.

How do these ideas apply to the Moroccan context? Firstly, it's hard to argue with the assertion that Arab states, Morocco included, are patriarchal. Family is perhaps the paramount social institution (often, multiple generations live together under one roof), and within the family roles and authority are clearly defined: Younger members defer to older ones, women defer to men. Women are, first and foremost, wives and mothers, roles which relegate women to the home, whereas men have freedom of mobility. This structure leads to what Kandiyoti refers to as the "patriarchal bargain": younger women buy into a social structure that restricts and subordinates because someday, as older matriarchs, they will be able to restrict and subordinate the wives of their sons.

However, this system is contingent upon the ability of the patriarch to provide for those who defer to his authority, and, as economic structures shift and women increasingly take jobs outside the home (which used to be a strictly male domain), men no longer hold the power they once did. The patriarchal bargain is in crisis, and this threatens both men and women. Men display "frustration and humiliation at being unable to fulfill their traditional role and the threat posed by women's greater spatial mobility and access to paid employment," (taken from "Islam and Patriarchy" by Deniz Kandiyoti, in Women in Middle Eastern History, 46), while women are unclear of the alternatives, and if these alternatives are superior to the bargain they've already struck.

I think Kandiyoti's analysis provides a compelling explanation for why street harassment is so out of control in Cairo: Young men are frustrated that they can't achieve the role that's expected of them. They feel impotent and powerless, and, by harassing women on the streets, they both prove to themselves that they do have the power to subordinate, and they also attempt to revert to the old model, where public space was almost exclusively male. These problems of male frustration and unfulfilled expectations exist in Morocco as well, although, in my purely observational opinion, they are less rampant here than in Cairo.

Sexual harassment here is socially condoned through the rationale that it is complimentary: women put effort into their appearance to attract male attention, and many women would be upset if they didn't receive said attention. Maybe it's true that some women seek out positive re-enforcement in the form of male attention, but consent from one woman doesn't equal consent from all women. To assume that we all thrive on your positive re-enforcement is degrading.

It's incredibly frustrating, a feeling which is only compounded by the seeming lack of understanding on the part of Moroccan men.

Anyways, I think now would be a good time to view this situation in a comparative context: it's interesting to turn the tables and apply a similar critique to American culture. As my female readers can probably confirm, sexual harassment frequently occurs in the US as well. I have been groped on the subway, catcalled at by construction workers, and followed for blocks by men who wouldn't relent. And I've heard the same excuse ("It was a compliment.") from American men.

To put it bluntly, we, as Americans, live in a rape culture, a society "in which rape is everyday, common place, and allowed through basic attitudes and beliefs about gender, sexuality, and violence." (This quote is from a video developed by Chicago teens, which explores the pervasiveness of sexual violence in our society. I highly recommend you watch it.)

Don't believe me? Here are some examples of normalized violence against women, all from the past six months or so:

• In the recently-released film Observe and Report, a women is raped for comedic effect. I suppose this shouldn't be particularly surprising, since the film's predecessor of sorts, Superbad, revolved around two teenage boys attempting to obtain alcohol so that they can get two young women drunk enough to take advantage of them.
• During the recent trial of a serial rapist, the defense attorney repeatedly emphasized that the victims were sex workers, as if their profession mitigates the horrific crimes the defendant committed.
• Following Chris Brown's highly-publicized assault of Rihanna, a poll of Boston-area teens revealed that nearly HALF felt Rihanna was to blame for the abuse she suffered.
  
• In another recent rape trial, the judge questioned the veracity of the victim's claims because of the sexual position the attack took place in.
• When a man exposed himself to a woman on a New York subway, she took a photo with her cell phone and brought it to the police, where she was informed that this "was not a police matter." (This activist group in NYC encourages women to take photos of offenders and email them to the site. They are rad.)
  

These are not isolated instances, but are reflective of a broader culture that tells men it's okay to take advantage, that consent is not necessary, and that we as women have somehow brought this behavior upon ourselves. It is real and it is prevalent. While the experiences are not be identical (and the Moroccan one is certainly more persistent and jarring), they are both are reflective of a power structure that puts men first.

This post is long, rambling, and not particularly coherent. Unfortunately, I don't have any brilliant prescriptions for positive change. I hope, if anything, I've inspired you all to examine how consent is depicted in American media and popular culture. Regardless, thanks for making it through my sprawling ruminations.

"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.

The New York Times covers Morocco's single mothers

This morning, I woke up to an interesting New York Times article: 5 years later, Morocco is still adjusting to a Family Reform Law.

It sometimes seems like every article written about Morocco these days addresses the Moudawana (the reformed Family Law), but I was heartened to see this article focus upon single mothers, an often-ignored group of Moroccan women (and the focus of my Fulbright research):

"Latifa al-Amrani, 21, from Salé, near Rabat, [...] is about to become a single mother. She met a man, Ali, 24, who claimed he was a plainclothes policeman, and one day he took her supposedly to meet his aunt. It was an empty apartment, and they made love.

“He told me he wanted to marry me,” Ms. Amrani said. “But then he changed his phone and I couldn’t reach him anymore.” She filed a complaint with the police but has heard nothing from them. Her parents beat her, she said, so she ran away.

She [...] says she intends to keep her baby."

In general, the article provides a concise overview of the challenges of implementing the new law. However, I was disappointed that the author choose to highlight a foreign organization instead of a Moroccan one. I have no doubt that the Spanish group 100% Mamans is a worthwhile organization, but I would have liked the author to focus on one of the many Moroccan-run groups that makes headway on this issue. In the past 6 months, I've visited several, and I begin an intensive internship at one today.

Oum El Banine, my organization, was the first Moroccan organization to address the situation of single mothers, and was similar originally to the profiled 100% Mamans in that it's funding and leadership were based largely in Europe. Hands changed in 1999, and now Oum El Banine's leadership is Moroccan. In my recent conversation with Mahjoura, the founder of Oum El Banine, she remarked to me that it was easier to operate when the organization was perceived as foreign, because conservative Moroccans saw this as less invasive. It allowed single motherhood to be viewed as a foreign concern, not a Moroccan one. So I see the work of Morocco-based single mother's organizations as that much more difficult, brave, and important. Not to mention the fact that a Moroccan director probably understands the complexities of the issue far better than a foreigner (like the founder interviewed in the Times article) does.

Close, but no cigar, New York Times.

Last night, I had doughnuts for dinner.

This was not my choice.

Yes, doughnuts are a tasty treat. They are sugary. They are fried. They go well with coffee and make a nice afternoon pick-me-up for crappy afternoons that require improving. However, they are not dinner. At least not in my book.

But, for the last, 4 days, I've been living with a Moroccan host family in Agadir, and thus I have little to no control over my meals.

Let's start at the beginning. Ever since April, when I visited a wonderful organization here in Agadir, I've vowed to return in the summer and begin an internship with them. June was pushed back to July, July to August. Truthfully, I was beginning to enjoy the routine of my life in Rabat, but my lease ended at the beginning of August and forced me to make a choice. Weighing the pros (a chance to do in-depth, one-on-one interviews with single mothers; a change of pace; exploring southern Morocco) and the cons (moving my massive amount of things; finding lodging; finding Arabic classes; stepping (leaping) outside my comfort zone), I decided that I would seriously regret not seizing the opportunity to challenge myself.

Once that decision was made, it was time to make some more. Most pressingly, where to live. Finding an apartment is a hassle, to say the very least. Especially alone. Especially as a foreigner. Especially not knowing the city. This was not for me. What I really wanted was a homestay, but with no contacts in Agadir it would be difficult to find one.

Meanwhile, I looked around online for Arabic classes in the area. I found the website of the local university's Arabic as a Foreign Language department, and called to see if I could work out some private tutoring. The man who I spoke with, Abdelsalam, was extremely nice and helpful. When I inquired about arranging a homestay, he suggested I stay with him.

This was a MAJOR RED FLAG. A random man in a city 10 hours away (marital status unknown) offers up his home to a young foreign woman. I mean, really.

But as we corresponded in the following weeks, I learned more about him. Yes, he is married. Yes, he has 2 children. Yes, he has hosted students before. Granted, these things don't preclude sketchiness, but they did assuage my nerves a bit.

Finally, it was time to move. Abdelsalam was speaking at a conference in Fes, and had offered to pick me up in Rabat when he passed through on his way home so that I wouldn't have to take all my junk on the train/bus combo to Agadir. Again, I am not stupid enough to get in a car with a strange man for hours upon hours. He said his family would be with him, and, if they weren't, I was prepared to bolt.

The day I was supposed to leave Rabat (also, the last day in my apartment), I received a call from Abdelsalam, saying his father was sick in Fes and he'd be delayed a bit. Perhaps the only notable thing about this was that I expected things to go smoothly.

So, I was homeless. Fortunately, I have wonderful friends who provided me with both emotional and material support. My friend Gabi, a non-Fulbrighter working in Rabat, offered up the spare bedroom in her beautiful apartment, which I gladly accepted. Serendipitously, her apartment is only about half a block from my old apartment, and both buildings have elevators, so I was able to move my belongings with minimal hassle. I settled in to her place and waited for Abdelsalam to let me know when he would return to Agadir.

Nearly a week later, I received a call from Abdelsalam. They'd returned to Agadir, and so I could move whenever I wanted. No ride. I had to move my stuff on my own. Crap.

It would have been impossible for me to board a train and transfer to a bus with all my belongings, and so I used the extremely efficient, extremely reasonably-priced messenger services the train company offers. I sent 33 kilos for 120 dirhams (15 dollars). Why don't we have things like this in the US?

With my large suitcase out of the way, I was prepared to board the train the following morning. I bid my farewells to my wonderful roommate-for-a-week Gabi, and was accompanied to the train station by Jackie early Thursday morning.

In order to get to Agadir from Rabat, you must first take a 5 hour train ride to Marrakesh, the train's final stop. Then, you need to cross the train tracks in Marrakesh and take a bus operated by the train company to Agadir, another 5 hours or so. When I arrived to Rabat's train station, the vendor informed me that the Agadir portion was full, completely full all day.

Dejected, I weighed my options with Jackie. I could buy a ticket for tomorrow and spend another night in Rabat. I could go to Marrakesh and make my way by grande taxi. Or I could go to Marrakesh, spend the night with my friend Rachel, and set off the following morning. I decided on the later, and set of on my voyage, mentally waving goodbye to Rabat and the six months I spent there.

Once in Marrakesh, I met Rachel and was whisked away to her beautiful apartment. Among the Fulbright community, she is known as having a taste for the finer things, and she didn't disappoint, taking me for wine and an appetizer buffet at Grand Cafe de la Poste, followed by a dinner at a restaurant I could have sworn was in San Fransisco. Or course, she knew everyone everywhere we went. Of course, she was effortless fabulous. And, of course, I was sweaty from the train and wearing an faded skirt from Old Navy. Typical.

When we returned to the her apartment, I met her roommate Iman, whose family lives in Agadir. Iman would be bumming a ride to Agadir the following morning, and offered me a ride as well. However, the driver wanted to leave at 8:00 am, too early for Iman, so it was just me and this random friend of a friend of a friend, cruising to Agadir. After the experiences I'd had so far, I couldn't help but go through a laundry list of things that could go wrong on the final leg of my voyage.

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about. Dunya is extremely friendly and kind. She studied in Switzerland and speaks fluent English. And she brought her dog along for the trip! We chatted and shared a thermos of coffee as we drove the winding road from Marrakesh to Agadir. Occasionally, she would talk on her phone (sometimes two at once), steer, and shift the gears all at the same time, which sent me into a state of panic, but mostly I felt safe in her hands and happy to have avoided the bus.

About 4 hours later, we arrived at her family's house, located on Agadir's bustling corniche. It was Friday, and so I had couscous with them. On the road, we'd called Abdelsalam and arranged a meeting time. Dunya had pronounced him "nice-sounding," and told me if he seemed weird when we met him, I could stay with her family until I found something more permanent. Thank goodness for protective Moroccans. And so, I was picked up by Abdelsalam (after Dunya gave me a wise nod of approval), and driven to the house of my new host family.

The family consists of Abelsalam, a university professor, the mother Fateeha, an office worker, a 9-year-old daughter, Kawtar, and a 12-year-old son, Anaas. The house is nice and fairly spacious. I have my own room, although I'm fairly certain I evicted Kawtar. She doesn't seem to mind though; I filled my iPod with Hannah Montana and she's been stealing it ever since.

By Moroccan standards, they are great about giving me personal space. Unfortunately, they adhere to normative Moroccan ideas about feeding guests. For example, the day I arrived, I'd just eaten couscous with Dunya's family. I told them this, and they promptly presented me with a beef tajine, insisting that couscous is digested quickly and I'd be hungry again soon. I've gotten better at refusing second portions, but I have no control over what's put in front of me, hence the doughnuts last night.

All in all though, it's been a great experience so far. I am well outside my comfort zone, but I don't regret making the decision to move. Soon, I will start my internship, and with that comes the chance to do interviews. And so my research is moving along. In the meantime, I'll keep studying Arabic, keep reviewing for the LSATs, and, hopefully, we won't have doughnuts for dinner again anytime soon.

Travel Flashback #1: Visiting the imperial cities with Dad

Today, I resolved to update this blog. I am perpetually shamed by friends who write way more diligently than I do, and by family and friends who request updates. I have no real excuse, except that the more time passes, the more overwhelmed I become. I am falling into the black hole of blog back-entries.

In an attempt to pull myself out of the black hole (please picture me clawing my way out of a vortex, shouting, "I will not let you win, Blogspot!"), I will take you back several months to March 19th, when I boarded the train from Rabat to Casablanca to pick up my dad from the airport. Dad had visited me in Egypt. He survived there and, as I often tell people, Egypt is about a million times more crazy than Morocco, but I was still nervous for several reasons: I'd planned our trip so we'd be traveling mainly but the notoriously insane Moroccan trains; debilitating stomach issues aren't uncommon for first-time travelers to Morocco; and Morocco can be incredibly overwhelming for travelers who don't speak French or Arabic.

Despite the worries floating around in the back of my head, I was excited to host my first Moroccan visitor. I often tell people that an unofficial part of my grant is being a tour guide. Fulbright emphasizes cross-cultural understanding, and I'm always excited to show around guests who would never visit Morocco if I didn't live here.

And so I greeted my dad at the airport. We made our way to the train, which would take us to Fes, our destination for that day. Our plan was to visit each of Morocco's four imperial cities: Fes, Meknes, Rabat, and Marrakesh. All are accessible by train, and, since we didn't want to rent a car, this was imperative. While we waited for our transfer, my dad made an upsetting discovery: He had left his camera on the plane. Not his plane from Paris to Casablanca, but from Boston to Paris. Yikes. I handed my camera over to him and told him that it was his for the next 10 days.


To my delight, it wasn't difficult to find seats in our second-class car, and Dad was able to experience firsthand Moroccan train culture, where it is almost impossible not to engage in conversation with your fellow travelers. By the time we arrived to Fes, we had some new friends and several couscous offers.

Once in Fes, we made our way to the Hotel Batha, located right outside the medina and close to my old house. After getting settled, we walked up to one of the cheap restaurants near Bab Boujloud that overlook the city, where my dad enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the crowded market.

The next day was Friday, and so we opted to avoid the deserted Fes medina and take a day trip to Volubilis, ancient Roman ruins located near Meknes, another imperial city about an hour from Fes. We arranged for a grande taxi to take us to the ruins, and enjoyed the scenery and dodged the European tour groups that filled the site.




After we visited the ruins, our taxi driver took us to Moulay Idriss, a small but beautiful shrine town (dedicated to Moulay Idriss I, one of Morocco's most powerful rulers) with one of the only circular minarets in Morocco. We were guided up a winding series of stairs to a lookout point where we could see the whole city.


After spending a few minutes in the deserted Meknes medina (it was Friday, after all), we returned to Fes, ready to conquer the city the following day.

The next morning, we embarked upon my standard medina tour, armed with the fabulous Fes guidebook "From Bab to Bab." Shooing away faux guides and real guides alike (this was not my first time at the rodeo), we started at Bab Boujloud and made our way down Talaa Kabeera (the big slope), through the meat market...


... into Medrasa Bou Inania, which my guide book dubs the must-see building of Morocco. I don't know enough about architecture to make this assertion, but it sure it pretty. Also of interest, particularly to my Jewish readers: Directly across from the Medrasa is the former home of Maimonides, the superlative Torah scholar, who fled his birthplace during the Spanish inquisition and settled in Fes, where he studied at the university.


We made our way further down Talaa Kabira, stopping to see the honey and henna souks, until we reached al-Kairaouine, the oldest university in the world. At this point, Dad was getting hungry, so we stopped at and got some street food, then continued on our way to the Andalusian quarter, where we saw Medersa al-Sharija, one of my favorite sites in Fes.

Then we looped back up Talaa Kabira, stopped in to see the Medersa es Seffarine and making a stop at the famous tanneries on the way.


The next day, we took off to explore the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter of Fes. Following a walking tour in our guide book, we explored the synagogue and the Jewish cemetery, then made our way back to the hotel for a relaxing last night in Fes.


The following morning, we took the fast train to Rabat, where we spent 2 nights in my apartment and visited Rabat's two major tourist sites: Chellah and the Mousoleum. We also took advantage of Rabat's low-key shopping atmosphere and my dad was introduced to the joys of dirt cheap street food.

And then we were off to Marrakesh, a city I have a love/hate relationship with. The massive tourism industry is, to be quite honest, a little bit too much for this introvert. But my dad wanted to see it, and see it we did.

I would be lying if I said I remembered everything we did. I am no expert on Marrakesh, and, at a certain point, museums and tombs and souks start to run together in my head. But we had a great few days. (Except that my dad was finally hit with the inevitable stomach bug. It didn't seem to bring him down.) And I left the city with a more positive opinion of it, which is always heartening.


And then we made our way to Casablanca, on a train that was completely full in Marrakesh, it's starting location. And the three hours to Casa passed, the train became more and more full. When it came time to exit the train, we almost couldn't make our way past the pushy Moroccans who blocked the way and tried to enter the train before we had made our way off. I couldn't have been prouder of my dad as he used all his body weight to push through the sea of people with his luggage. After 10 days of being passive in the Moroccan crowds, he was finally bhal maghribii (like a Moroccan).

After checking into our hotel, we made our way to Hassan II mosque, the third largest mosque in the world behind the mosques in Mecca and Medina. Completed in 1993, it cost an estimated 800 million dollars. Think about that for a minute.
My favorite part of the mosque's tour was seeing the beautiful hammam (public bath) that was completed but yet to be opened, for administrative reasons. Whatever that means.

We returned to our hotel and embarked on an Art Deco walking tour of the city center, enjoyed some crepes, and people-watched a bit.

Our night ended fairly early, since Dad had to be up at 4:00 am to make it to the airport.

All in all, it was a really wonderful trip. Being a tour guide in a place that was recently foreign to me was incredibly gratifying; I proved to myself how much I'd grown in terms of language ability and understanding of Morocco.

I'm glad I was able to show my dad a good time; he's been calling it his "best vacation ever." And really, I'm not exaggerating when I say that this is a huge part of the Fulbright experience. Every co-worker, family member, and friend that he tells about his trip will have a better understanding of Morocco. And that, gentle readers, is the definition of cross-cultural exchange.

No complaints, okay? At least I wrote something.

Do I wear the shorts, or do the shorts wear me?

When I studied abroad here nearly three years ago (Ack, I'm getting old.), perhaps one of the most difficult things to adjust to was the lack of outlets for regular exercise. I am certainly not an avid exerciser. My relationship with fitness ebbs and flows, but I find physical activity, particularly jogging, soothing in times of stress. I'd grown accustomed to the plethora of fitness centers and jogging paths in America, and knew that if I ever wanted to go for a job in shorts and a tank top I would hardly garner a second look.

I quickly learned that my favorite form of stress relief would not be easy to undertake in Morocco. Living with a host family that watched me with the same hawk's eye they applied to their actual daughters, it would have been completely unacceptable (hashuma, even) to jog around the streets of Rabat willy-nilly, even if I wore my loosest yoga pants and a baggy shirt. I tried to satiate myself by doing crunches and Yoga in my bedroom, but it just wasn't the same.

When I found out I would be returning to Morocco for 15 months, I realized I needed an exercise game plan. I bought Jillian Michael's "Cardio Kickbox" (You may know her as the pint-sized task master from "The Biggest Loser") and a Pilates DVD on Half.com, and packed some modest exercise clothes just in case I found a good place to workout. The combination of Jillian, Pilates, and a pilfered Yoga DVD (all practiced in my bedroom) kept me sane for awhile (Jillian in particular proved to be a worthy adversary), but after a few months the routines had become rote and my enthusiasm was lacking.

One day, when my legs were itching for a jog and I was feeling particularly bold, I decided to take it to the streets. The mean streets of Fes. I wore yoga pants, a long-sleeved tee-shirt, and sunglasses. I was armed with my iPod, cranked loud enough to avoid most of the street harassment I knew was coming. My house was in the medina, so I walked through the narrow alleys until I emerged near the post office, a building that marks the border between the medina and the Ville Nouvelle.

And then I was off.

I felt like I was playing a game of human frogger as I dodged taxis, city buses, giant tour buses, pedestrians, bicycles, and donkeys in the crowded Batha square. Once I made it out of the congested area, it was easier to enjoy myself. I relaxed into my stride and lost myself in my soundtrack of horrible 90s pop music. I made my way towards the Ville Nouvelle, and then turned onto a dirt path that I realized later was in fact a path used by donkeys, horses, and other livestock to reach the local animal hospital. After awhile, I looped back, dodged traffic at Batha once again, and then made the 3 quick turns that took me to my house.

Tired, sweaty, but filled with endorphins, I assessed my run: It was a long way from the wooded paths and pristine air I was used to in America, but it could have been worse. While the air was far from clean, the street harassment wasn't as bad as I was expecting, although I did feel all eyes on me as I passed cafes and bus stops. Despite the minor inconveniences, It was worth it to keep it up, I decided.

In the following months, I ran a few times a week, and learned that some times of the day are better than others. My two regular routes passed large schools, and so if I attempted to run as class was getting out I found myself caught in a sea of secondary students. People continued to stare, but I attributed it to the complete absense of joggers in Fes, not to any overt hostility towards me. I remained self-conscious, but this mostly mainifested itself in my desire to run really fast. If people were going to stare, I could at least hussle so I wouldn't embaress myself more than I already was.

When I moved to Rabat two months ago, I immediately learned about two wonderful jogging opportunities. One was the beach sidewalk across from my apartment. Largely frequented by male soccer players, there are also families strolling and the occasional jogger. The upside? It's free. The downside? The air is dirty, cars honk, and it's possible to zone out and find yourself in a less than desireable area. The other find was the glorious Hilton garden. A large park filled with Eucalyptis trees, joggers of all shapes and sizes, and frolicing families, it is truly an anomaly in Morocco: A place where outdoor fitness isn't just tolerated, it's encouraged. The air is clean and I rarely get the dreaded "elevator eyes" as I trot around the 2.1 mile loop. The only downside was that it was a little far away from my apartment, so it was a 3 dollar taxi ride each way.

Nevertheless, I ran most of the time at the Hilton garden. My roommate Stephanie and my friend Kate also ran there, making the taxi costs more managable. And when Steph and I moved to an apartment much closer to the garden a few weeks ago, I found myself there nearly every day. I continue to be happily surprised by the garden's varied patrons: Everyone from what I can only assume is some sort of track team, decked out in red and green spandex and flying around the path, to elderly women in jelabas strolling leisurely and chatting with their friends.

Spring has sprung in Rabat. With warmer weather comes a need for a "less is more" approach to workout gear. I learned this the hard way when I nearly passed out doing my regular laps a few weeks ago. (Don't worry, the Moroccan track team was there to help me and offer me water.) The culprit? My baggy black yoga pants. I decided it was time to invest in some decently modest running shorts, so I made a trip to the market, where I purchesed a pair of bright red men's soccer shorts for 5 dollars. Lightweight and comfy, they hang to my knees but can be rolled up to a more American length easily. Even though I don't feel particularly self-conscious when I wear them in the garden, I do feel pressure to run faster because of them. As in, "Oh, if she's silly enough to wear those ridiculous shorts, she must be really fast." I'm not, but I still look pretty rad in my shorts, I have to say.

This weekend, I ran in a road race here in Rabat, my first race in almost 5 years. It was an 8-km (5 miles? I think?) run through the streets of Rabat with 20,000 participants in total. The cool part? It was a women's-only race sponsered largely by the government, and many of the participants were schoolgirls who had never run a race before. Some came from towns 14 hours away. The pre-race crowd was absolutely crazy- All of us packed together, pushing and shoving, waving Moroccan flags, and anticipating the starting gun. If you've ever had a sardine-like experience at a Middle Eastern bank or train station, imagine that and times it by about twenty. It's a small miracle nobody was trampled to death when the gun went off. The run itself was difficult but fun. I stayed with a group of younger girls for most of the race, and, as we approached the end, I was grabbed on either hand by the girls as we sprinted towards the finish line. Our final time? A decently respectable 47 minutes.

I didn't expect to re-discover my love of jogging while I was in Morocco, but it's been a wonderful way to take some time away from my books, Arabic dictionary, and computer and clear my head. I only wish I could be back in Cape Elizabeth for the Beach to Beacon this year! Maybe I'd be able to actually run it instead of eating bagels and cheering people on.

True Life: I'm a government researcher

It's been almost six weeks since I last wrote, but it feels like much longer. A lot has happened in my life, gentle readers, and I'll try my best to give you a partial update, probably in fragmented and spaced-out editions.

I am now an official Fulbright researcher. My language grant ended at the beginning of March, and so I'm one month into my nine month grant. At the beginning of March, I made my way down to the city of Agadir, a popular beach destination for Moroccans and foreigners alike. But I didn't go to work on my tan; I went to visit a truly remarkable organization, Oum El Banine.

The trip from Rabat to Agadir takes approximately 10 hours. I rode the train from Rabat to its final destination, Marrakesh, then took a bus from Marrakesh to Agadir. Along the way, I saw the famous (and truly bizarre!) goats in trees. They're exactly what they sound like. One in Agadir, I checked into a cheap hotel and made my way into the city's main square. Since it was still the off-season, it was fairly quiet, and I made more than a few Moroccan aquaintances who were puzzled by the presence of a non-Moroccan Arabic speaking in Agadir who had absolutely no desire to surf.

The next morning, I met with Marie, a lovely French-Canadian woman who is married to Hicham, an equally wonderful Moroccan man. They live in Agadir and work closely with Oum El Banine, one of Morocco's few NGOs that work specifically with single (never married) mothers. They had offered to be my tour guides for the day, and so we walked to OEB and conversed in an amalgamation of Arabic (Hisham is fluent, I am conversant), French (Marie and Hisham are fluent, I can understand but not speak), and English (Marie and I are fluent, Hisham can understand but not speak). Our first stop was the creche, the organization's day care center. OEB offers free day care for all the women that they work with, and also provides clothing and medical care until the children are two. The next stop was the administrative offices, where I met with some employees and the organization's founder, a truly inspiring woman. Our final stop was the foyer, an apartment with a capacity of seven where single mothers live in the last months of pregnancy and a few months after they give birth. Usually, these women have been cut off from their families, and the foyer offers them an invaluable safe space. I had a few very intense interviews with the women, thanked Marie and Hisham profusely, and made my way to the bus stop, where I had another 10 hour journey ahead of me.

Despite the grueling travel, I was inspired and energized by my visit with OEB. The organization's founder was generous enough to offer me an internship, and so I hope to move down to Agadir towards the end of the summer to finish up my grant.

This is my first experience doing human subject research, and it's an infinitely tricky field. Developing trust is essential, particularly in my field, where most of the women I hope to speak with have been through extremely trying experiences and face difficult choices in the future. Having an internship will let me work closely with these women, and hopefully they will feel comfortable enough to open up with me.

I've visited two other organizations so far, both located in Casablanca. Beyond these visits, I've spent the past month continuing my Arabic studies and taking advantage of Rabat's wonderful libraries to work on a literature review. The biggest challenge has been budgeting my time: I have no classes, no 9-5, no obligations to speak of. It's wonderful but also daunting. A few days have been spent watching The Office in bed with lots of Coca Light, but I'm mostly proud of my research so far. Getting out of the house is important, even if it's just walking down the street to a coffee shop to read an article. So far, it's been an interesting lesson in time management, which isn't my strongest skill.

Beyond my visit to Agadir, the highlight of my reseach so far has been the annual MACECE symposium, which started last Thursday and lasted until yesterday. All current Fulbrighters presented their research findings at the conference. It was a three day orgy of academia, fueled by coffee and pastries and filled with presentations on women's issues, water management, Islamic jurisprudence, and tourism development, to name just a few. Many of us had only recently completed the six-month CLEA grant, and so our research is still in it's infancy. But the opportunity to receive feedback was wonderful, and I made some great research contacts.

My presentation took place yesterday morning. My roommate had an unfortunately timed bout with food poisoning the night before, and so I spent the better part of five hours bringing her to the hospital and then to Rabat's only 24-hour pharmacy. Of course, when this all began my presentation still wasn't ready (Yay, procrastination!), and so my stress and fatigue compounded and compounded, culminating in me bursting into tears in a taxi cab while Stephanie puked out the door and a handful of Moroccans stood by, watched, and yelled at her that she needed to drink buttermilk. Jealous?

Needless to say, my spirits were lagging the following morning when I applied about a pound of cover-up around my eyes and attempted to attain the perfect level of coffee consumption: Enough to be awake, not enough to be jittery, and timed so I wouldn't have to pee during my presentation, which started at 9:00 am.

I was on a panel with two other researchers, both of whom research women in politics/society as well. I spoke last, and my presentation was pretty much a blur. I'm not the best public speaker in the world (Okay, I'm a flat-out awful public speaker.), but I was happy with my paper and the massive revisions I'd made in the past week.

Then came the moment of truth: The discussant. Each presenter is charged with finding a discussant to comment on his or her paper following the presentation. In my case, I asked my adviser, Dr. Fouzia Rhissassi, one of the most prominent academics in the country and the UNESCO chair on Women's Rights. Yes folks, she is a Big Deal. We met Monday to talk about an early draft of my paper, and she was less than thrilled with my work. I was told, in no unclear terms, that if I didn't make massive revisions she would be unable to offer positive feedback. Point taken, I worked my butt off on the paper throughout the week, but I wasn't particularly confident that she would be pleased with my work. So when she took the microphone, I was nervous. Probably more nervous than I've ever been, ever.

But she had nothing but nice things to say! She said I had developed a fine critical voice and was impressed with my research so far. Readers, this was a highlight of my life so far. Even though I was exhausted and over-caffeinated, I was happy and proud of my work.

Last night, I slept like a baby. I slept for nine glorious hours, and have done nothing today but drink coffee and read. Novels, not research. Tomorrow, I'll be back in the groove, following-up on contacts and visiting libraries and polishing up my paper, but that's tomorrow.