"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.

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.

That's not a tattoo.

Everyone has a breaking point. Mine came when a friend asked me if I had a tattoo on my ankle.

I do not have a tattoo on my ankle.

What appeared to be a tattoo was actually a large circle of dirt and dust that refused to be scrubbed away in the shower, despite numerous, vigorous attempts on my part to make it disappear.

While I’m used to getting a little dirty in the United States, it’s easy to make myself as good as new with a hot shower. Here, the dirt permeates my entire being; it’s difficult to distinguish my feet from my tan sandals and a layer of dust covers exposed skin almost immediately after venturing outside. Attacking this level of filth with a regular shower is completely and utterly futile.

This is where hammams enter the picture. Hammams are communal saunas, and they are a staple of Moroccan life. While I didn’t go to the hammam when I studied abroad here two years ago, this time around it’s completely necessary. Maybe it’s because Fes’s climate is more arid, or maybe it’s because I’m doing more walking this time around, but I’m way dirtier here that I ever was in Rabat. Whatever the reason, it was more than necessary for me to hit the hammam.

The hammam is a social activity as well as a hygienic one, so I made my first trip with my friends Megan and Stephanie. Armed with our hammam gear (a large plastic bucket, small plastic bowl, loofah, shampoo, and a change of clothes), we walked down Talaa Kaber, one of the main arteries of the Fes medina, to our chosen hammam.

18th and 19th century European art is fascinated with the Middle East; more often than not, this art depicts life in the Muslim world as exotic and sensual. This exotic lens is especially noticeable when these artists show women-only settings, such as bath houses and harems. In the eyes of these artists, Middle Eastern women are sensual, passive, and sexually uninhibited.

Of course, I’d always assumed that this depiction was ridiculous, a product of Orientalism and patriarchal times. My theory was proved correct immediately after I entered the hammam, and, by the time I left the building more than an hour later, I couldn’t help but think of this art as completely disconnected from reality.

So, here’s how the hammam works: The first room is essentially a women-only locker room, where women of various shapes, sizes, and ages walk around in nothing but their underwear. My friends and I had opted to pay extra for a personal massage, so this was where we first met our masseuse, Chadija, a fifty-something woman with extremely hairy legs.

After we got undressed, Chadija lead us commandingly into the second room, a large, tiled steam room, where hammam-goers sat on the floor (on their mats) surrounded by buckets of water. We sat cross-legged on our mats. After a few minutes of chatting and sweating profusely, Chadija returned and sat on the floor next to me. At this point I should mention that, while this was my first time at the hammam, it was not the first time for Stephanie and Megan. And so, when Chadija yanked me over to her (I slid across the wet floor) and began to wash my hair, I was a little disgruntled that I couldn’t watch the whole experience happen to someone else before I experienced it myself.

The real fun began after Chadija washed my hair. She grabbed a loofah and aggressively scrubbed down my entire body. Dead skin was literally rolling off of me. At one point, she told me to “Shuuf!” (Look!) at a particularly disgusting hunk of grime; you know it’s bad when you’re impressing a professional with how dirty you are. After Megan and Stephanie were scrubbed off, Chadija left us again, and when she returned she gave us each an equally vigorous full-body massage. Of course, I went first again. Then, Chadija ushered us into the third and final room, where she unceremoniously dumped large buckets of water over our heads and then brought us back to the locker room, where we changed and emerged onto the street a much cleaner group of women.

I had survived my first hammam experience.

What struck me the most about my experience was how completely uninhibited the women were with each other. In the United States, women are conditioned to hate their bodies from an early age- We’re not thin enough, tall enough, our hair is too frizzy, our pores are too big, etc., etc. We’re constantly in competition with our peers to be the most “beautiful.” At the hammam, there’s no competition, no insecurity; it’s simply women enjoying an hour or two in the steam room with their friends and family. Which is why it’s completely ridiculous that artists sexualize the hammam- It’s an experience that couldn’t be less about men.

Without delving into the topic of gender roles in Morocco (I’ll save that for another day), I will say that, while the Western media loves to condemn Muslim countries for what they perceive to be oppression of women, nowhere in the United States can women feel as comfortable with each other as Moroccan women do in hammams. And maybe that speaks volumes about our own culture treats women. Just a thought.