You can do so much better: An open letter to the A(na)sses of the World

Dear Anass,

You probably don’t remember me. Based on our one and only interaction, I would venture to guess that you speak to a lot of women in an “interchangeable parts” kinda way. We’re all the same anyways, right?

Well, let me re-introduce myself anyways, cuz I’m obsessed with this strange notion that “I have an identity.” I know, it’s sooooo American of me. My name is Sarah, and for the past year and a half, I have lived with you in Tameslouht. I’d never seen you before the other night, but that doesn’t surprise me– you don’t seem like the type who would hang out at a youth center. At least, fingers crossed, I hope you don’t.

We met a few nights ago. I was the one sitting outside, alone, minding my own business when you and your friend walked by. Sure, it’s a bit random for me to be sitting outside on a rock, but I see old men in jellabas doing it all the damn time and no one bothers them. If you really must know– and yes, you must– I had been plagued by a bad headache that day. One of those ragers that makes your temples pound whenever you switch positioning, like suddenly all the blood in your entire body is being re-directed towards the upper-left side of your face. I think we can both agree that ain’t pleasant.

I had decided to walk to a friend’s house for dinner. One of the many things I absolutely love about your country is that, when the heat envelopes Morocco with its nastiness, all schedules shift forward and backward to make sure that nothing happens within reach of the “shimish” (deathly sun)– making dinner typically around 11 or 11:30. My midnight snacks are suddenly legitimate meals.

But I digress. I had stopped in the middle of my route, partially because of the aforementioned headache, but mostly because it was a beautiful evening. The stars in the countryside are great, there was a cool breeze…I was pretty much living the second chorus of this great song. Forgive me, I’ve always been a sucker for poetic moments.

But man, you sucked the romance out of my evening and turned it into a porno mag. You sat down next to me and shone your cellphone light into my face. Again, a reminder to you that I’m a person, not an animal you’re inspecting for conjunctivitis– but I learned in about 10 seconds that, in your mind, there really is no difference between the two.  You told me your name, Anass. Cool, I didn’t ask for that info, but that’s great that you have a name. Then you said, “Bghit n3arfk.” This translates to a harmless “I want to know you” with a million and one subliminal messages that, well, I think would make your mother blush.

You thought I was a prostitute. Because I was sitting on a rock, by myself, outside, I must be someone who is available to have sex for money. Honestly, I get it. I was totally asking for it. Besides daring to exist beyond the confines of my house (and unattended at that!), the way I was fitting into those two-sizes too-big pants…you really had to work to hold yourself back. And the way that my body was filling out that loose, discolored shirt with the two holes in it… I am shaming my the reputation of family with my equally loose morals, I know. What was I thinking?

Actually, I can tell you what I was thinking. I made this mistake of thinking that, as a fellow human being, I deserve the exact same respect and decency as the next person– man or woman. I never dreamed that sitting on a rock alone would immediately strip me of my rights and transform me into an object. I mean, sure, I’ve heard stories about it happening, in this country especially, but I was stupid enough to think that I had done enough to gain the respect of the people I work and live with. Oh, the naive American within!

So. Here’s what I have to say to you, after stewing over the injustices of the world for a few days.

You can do so much better. For yourself, for your society, and especially for your women: mothers, sisters, nieces, aunts, friends….for everyone.

Sure. Our interaction was quick and, on the surface, ultimately harmless (even though my faith in random men on the street has all but shattered). But if it is normal, accepted even, that you or any other guy feels like he can approach a girl for sex just because she is sitting by herself at night (I know, I know, “where she shouldn’t be,” whatever the hell that means), then there is a serious issue here.

Anass, you are the Prime Minister of the loud-mouthed minority who create a public sphere that is exhausting for women to navigate. Honestly, it’s much easier and less stressful to just stay inside and watch TV (there’s incentive for over half of the population to be productive!). It’s too much energy, constantly zig-zagging on the sidewalk to give you enough space so that you don’t think I’m a prostitute (or even worse, try to touch me).  It takes a hell of a lot of effort to constantly use my peripheral vision while navigating the city so that I don’t accidentally (god forbid) look you in the eye and, naturally, have you assume I’m a prostitute. And I can’t even begin to quantify the amount of will power it takes to not kidney punch you every time you just have to say something to me when I walk by because, well, I’m there, so why not?

I understand all of this undivided (and completely unwanted) male attention is not because I’m the walking advertisement of “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore!” It’s not even because I’m hijab or niqab-less. Moroccan women (with or without the hijab/niqab) deal with the same damn shit day in and day out as well.

I get why girls drop out of school or decide not to work because the going-to and coming-from process is agonizing and degrading. I’m not saying it’s totally your fault, Anass. But a lot of it is. And someone who simply suggests women should “deal with it” obviously has never had to do just that.

So, Anass, what should we do?

I for one have the great advantage of being an American who has traveled to a few other countries, and know from experience 110% that the male species is capable of much better things than harassing women in the streets. There is also a significant portion of Moroccan men who don’t engage in this bullshit either. Honestly, I didn’t know someone from Tameslouht was capable of this behavior before I met you. But there are far too many other Moroccans, like you, Anass, who engage actively in the problem. And there are other men and women alike, who, by remaining silent, let this continue and grow.

I humbly submit to you, oh terror of the night, that you envision your sister every time you see a girl by herself and think it’s okay to approach her. Or mentally picture your mom, or your grandmother. Because that’s who we are to someone. And when your friends or someone on the street is Bonjour-ing and Hey gazelle-ing it up to a girl, maybe find it somewhere inside of yourself to remind him of the same. And if your own mother isn’t incentive enough, let’s appeal to a higher power for a second.

Say to the believing men that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that will make for greater purity for them: and Allah is well aware of what they do.” [Quran 24:30]

So, Anass, I leave you with these words. Do with them what you want, but please, for the sake of your society (and your mother), shape the fuck up. Women don’t deserve this shit.

Your neighbor,

Sarah

PS– You kinda ruined it for all of the Anasses in Tameslouht. My fiance is going to personally punch every single one in the face until he finds you.***

***That was a joke. No violence is advocated in this blog! 

And as We Fall into Summer….

It’s June 1st, and I would like to reiterate: I work with an amazing group of ladies here in Tameslouht.

Artistically blurred to respect their desire for privacy.

When the association started up in January 2013, I was excited to help in any single way I could. I literally resembled a puppy jumping around at the women’s feet, waggin’ my tail and panting excitedly as I kept repeating “And how can I help?? What can I do??” They were amused by all of this misplaced enthusiasm. Probably earned a nickname or two, something resembling “the white girl that always smiles and follows us around with a book in which she writes down Darija words but we’re not sure what she does with them because she never seems to actually learn them.” Something like that. But they couldn’t quite answer my question about how I could be of service, as they didn’t even know what they wanted to accomplish exactly; they just knew they wanted something different.

We’re about 5 months in and just hit the busiest month so far. Slowly (chwiya b chwiya), the ladies have built up a network from their online presence. It is absolutely amazing what kinds of doors a Facebook page will open for any business or association wanting to get their word or product out. We have over 300 likes (YOU CAN BE PART OF THIS AMAZING GROWING NUMBER!) and a number of new connections. We’ve had visitors from Holland, Belgium, Germany, and America thus far. We’ve worked with a Fashion student from UGA (my sister, but it’s still cool!), got commissions from Mushmina (a company set up by an RPCV) and a designer in London, and will have the ladies’ work on three different websites soon, inchallah (Ezebee, The Shop for Change, and Global Goods Partners). They’re going to be trained how to use the innovative and empowering Anou. They joined the artisan-run association that puts on the yearly Marche Maroc festival. Because of our blog, we’ve been able to meet the lively and wonderful writer, Vivian Swift, and the soft-spoken and incredibly intelligent student from UPenn, Ola. A wonderful amount of my fellow Peace Corps volunteers have stopped by or asked me to bring them scarves or jewelry as gifts for their friends and family. Much tea has been consumed, many half-English, half-Darija conversations shared. And none of this would have happened if the ladies had decided they didn’t feel like making an association. Or that it would be too much work. Or that they felt it would be easier to just keep schleppin’ along in the male-dominated associations. Molehills of mountains that prevent so many women here from making changes that could lead to something like this.

I’m particularly excited about their upcoming summer camp. The association was recently approved for a World Connect grant to assist them with funding for a 10 day camp in August. 40 girls from Tameslouht and the surrounding duwars (small towns) will be instructed by the artisans in some basic, traditional skills– Fesi embroidery, basket embellishment, and woven jewelry-making. The mornings will be dedicated to instruction, and the afternoons will be for workshops. We’re going to have a lot of artisans who work with Anou come to do the trainings– I feel like an artisan-run camp (in every aspect) is going to be a much more effective, sustainable transfer of skills…albeit, undoubtedly, less comical (remember “the white girl that always smiles and follows us around with a book in which she writes down Darija words but we’re not sure what she does with them because she never seems to actually learn them”…can we mentally picture that giving a color theory talk?). We want to put the new skills into a business-oriented, 21st century context. After the camp is finished, we’ve structured a once-a-week meeting for the girls with their respective artisan mentors. Inchallah, they will continue learning and creating and business-ing as new members of the association.

So, unlike last summer– the drowning in the vast expanse of nothingness ’12– I think I might actually be doing things. Doing things besides just accomplishing goals 2&3, as valuable as they are (I am seriously the lone cheerleader for these goals. These goals and I are really, really close friends. It would just be nice to have a change of pace!) I’m also incredibly happy to have found a nice intersection between what my community needs and what I really, truly, 110% enjoy doing. Art school is proving its worth once again.

And, as always, if you find yourself in need of a one-of-a-kind gift (for someone else or for yourself, this is a judgement-free zone), please consider ordering something from the artisans. And if you don’t have any money to spend (preach), liking us on Facebook is more than enough.

 

 

6 months, 10 things, 1 american

Today is officially, exactly, and precisely 6 months from our official, exact, and precise close-of-service (“COS”) date. Most PCVs will probably end up leaving earlier than that, but the timeline has been laid out nonetheless!

To commemorate this insignificant milestone, it seems appropriate to publish the list of 10 things that I’ve gotten used to in Morocco. It’s been in the works for awhile now, in my notebook, whenever the light bulb appears during a moment of pure “Wow, I didn’t realize how weird this really was.” For example, while standing on the side of the road, waiting for an illegal taxi during a strike at 3am in Marrakech– how is this a normal part of my schedule? Why am I not freaking the fuck out? Actually, first of all, what sequence of events lead to this that I was totally okay with? And why, even in questioning myself, am I still not nervous or shocked or…??? I’ve wllift-ed, as we Daringlish scholars pronounce confidently.

For better or for worse, and in no particular order:

1. Watching TV. Never have I spent so much time in front of the tube, collectively, as I do in one day here. It’s irrelevant that I barely understand any of it. Every Moroccan house that I go to welcomes me, pours me some tea, and directs me in front of the glowing oracle known as the tilfezza. One, two, and three, without fail. Whether it’s background or focal point, it’s always there, on, most of the time at a volume not so conducive to having a conversation (a good excuse for me not understanding the Arabic small-talk). Sometimes I’m thankful for it– I’ve been able to learn a thing or two from the Turkish soap operas dubbed over in Darija (about relationships, not language! Always go for the rich guy!). I also get cultural street cred points for asking students’ preferences between Harem Sultan and Ezel in English classes discussing personal preferences. The skylines of flat Moroccan roofs dotted with a million and one satellite dishes personify this quirky clash between tradition and modernity. When it comes to couch potato-ing, I have become the most “American” version of myself here.

2. Never Knowing What’s Going On/ Where I’m Going.  I have an infinite amount of anecdotal evidence for this one. Plans change, cultural indirectness leads me to think we’re talking about one thing when the discussion is planted firmly in a topic days away from where I’m standing….norrrmmmaaallll. The amount of times I’ve gotten into a car with friends and don’t know the destination until I get there is….every single time I get into the car. Even if I think I know where we’re going. Because the destination always has several side trips woven in….side trips that often become the final destination. Very “On the Road.”

3. Extreme Temperatures. Half desert, half tundra: welcome to Morocco. I don’t know how it’s possible, but winter here is so cold and then BAM, summer is soooooo miserably hot. Having no insulation and no central heating/ cooling definitely makes the body one with the weather. I’ve started dressing like a Moroccan this second time around, layering 3-5 odd shirts/ sweaters when it’s cold. When it’s hot…I just wilt. Temperatures get beyond 120 (but I stop looking). Days are spent lounging in my laundry bucket, because that’s really all the energy I have. Never in my life did I think I could survive for more than a few hours in these types of body shakin’/meltin’ extremes. But maybe the crazily inconsistent Georgia weather prepared me more than I thought!

4. Eating on a Regular (albeit strangely-timed) Schedule. I joined the PC fresh outta college. At UGA eating was something you did when and if you had time. There were days I ate at 7am and then again at 7pm, others where an all-day buffet of random free food would miraculously appear. Consistently inconsistent, for sure. Then…Morocco. People are so concerned with food. Every day, I have breakfast, lunch, a snack, and dinner– all at the relative same time. Why? Because if I don’t, I will get yelled at for not taking care of myself. I think my mom paid off the entire town of Tameslouht to help remind me. Fair enough, though, you never have to spend too much time convincing me that I should eat!

All of this. Eaten.

5. Being Called Fat. I’m sure this is related, in some way, to number 4. Like being tall, or having blue eyes, or having two arms, “fat” is just another observation about someone’s physical appearance. It’s not the psychologically-loaded term that Americans need therapy for when they hear it even close to a sentence that has their name in it. Many Moroccans are referred to as “the fat one” as easily and nonchalantly as they are “the old one.” It’s still a little unsettling to get my stomach patted and have someone tell me how fat I am. I’ll never forget Eric’s host family making suuuccchhh a big deal about trying to find pants that could possibly fit me because I’m so fat. It was yet another out of body experience where, logically, I knew I should be traumatized at the family discussion ensuing about my weight. Yet I wasn’t. I had been well-prepared by so many prior assessments of my fatness. My tutor had also told me at one point that a lot of women think fatter is more beautiful, but sometimes I’m convinced he just told me that because he knew how sensitive I was to everyone calling me fat. Thanks for trying, Rahhal!

Eating froyo in Casablanca…sometimes being called “fat” can be deserved.

6. Having Nothing To Do. I remember in the PC interview, I was asked a lot about how I spent my free time. How did I feel about being confronted with large amounts of unstructured schedule? I remember scoffing at the notion, informing my interviewer that I’m an art major. Filling time creatively is what I learned how to do. I literally have a degree in it. Fastfoward 1.5 years….oh my lord. Yes, drawing in a book and writing in a journal and re-arranging furniture can be creative uses of my time. But only for a few hours…or maybe a day project every once in awhile. The amount of unstructured time blew me out of the water. Teaching English classes and working with the artisans occasionally gets busy. But more often than not, I find a blank slate in front of me at the beginning of the day. Coming from a college schedule where I needed to schedule time to sleep once a week, I can understand why my former self didn’t really quite get it. My mom commented the other day about how hard my adjustment is going to be when I come back to America. I’m sure it will be, but in the meantime, I’m going to spend a few more hours experimenting with mixes of chicken foods to see which ones help my chicks grow even faster. Afterwards, I’ll probably sit at the cafe for a few hours and drink one whole soda, savored over that entire time period. Life is just slower here…and this is during the part of year that isn’t Ramadaan.

7. Being Stared At. I’m not too exotic-looking by American standards. No purple hair, no face tattoo (….yet!), no real reason for people to gawk. Even when I was an art student carrying around massive canvases and wearing paint-drenched clothes, I think I still paled in comparison to the other varieties of human in existence. Here in Morocco? I’m a dancing monkey. Kids, women, men, teenagers, old people, babies…everyone seems to not only notice me, but stare at me like I’m Santa Claus. I never knew I was so interesting! If I open up my mouth, the staring only becomes more intense (and slightly confused). I’ve had kids walk up to my table at a cafe and just stand there, gaping. Sure, they eventually break down giggling and run away, but there is always the staring component that introduces us. So much for operating “under the radar.”

8. Inchallah Time. Americans undoubtedly value time. We like when people are punctual, we praise people who are early, and we punish people who are late with guilt trips and public shaming and tardy slips. In Morocco, all meeting times are followed by “inchallah.” What time is class tomorrow? “We’ll be there at 5:00, inchallah!” English translation? We’ll get there at 5:28 and then stand around outside of the class until 5:45 when you start yelling at us for the 6th time to come inside. What time is the meeting tomorrow? “6pm inchallah.” English translation? 8pm. Because no one will arrive for at least one hour– there has been a time change, and so 6pm really means 7pm– and then everyone should stand around for a bit and wait for the people who aren’t coming until 8 anyways. What can you do? God apparently doesn’t will me to have an American schedule here in Morocco.

9. Feeling Like A Complete Idiot. Sometimes I literally have to remind myself that I have two college degrees. Learning a new language kicks your confidence to the curb. Even when you get competent at it, it’s a Pandora’s Box of the unknown– the more you know, the less you realize you understand. A million times in one day, I walk away from conversations feeling like I’m coming up for air after holding my breath. And it’s not just with language. There are so many itty bitty little things that I just don’t know! I still don’t know how to gauge weight. So, when I hand the mul hanut (store owner) one tomato and tell him I want a kilo, he finds it hilarious. Describing things that I don’t have the vocab for is a fun game as well– my life is a constant charades game. It involves a lot of dancing, making a fool out of myself, and never getting the change to feel superior to ANYONE (even the crazy homeless man speaks better French than I ever will!). What can ya do?

10. Drinking Really Sweet Tea. I realized this one today while having lunch with an RPCV from Niger (more on my cool visit from author Vivian later!). We were drinking the same fruit juice, and while I commented on how tangy it was (strawberry + orange, nom), she said at the same time how incredibly sweet it was. What? Sweet? I literally had to think about it, taste it again, and realize how much sugar was wafting over my taste buds. I blame Moroccan tea for this inability to decipher shades of sweetness. Moroccan tea is like 1/8 water, 1/8 tea leaves, and 932018392018329109023193219032893201890238/329013829108439107583741308923018392018493108493184930819408190382198231 sugar. Approximately. Shannon, don’t compute that. So when I have a glass, say, twice a day, sure, it’s small. But I’m sure my taste buds have become immune to anything below the toxic shock level of sweet. Again, this is coming from someone who grew up in the land of sweet iced tea. I never liked it…I guess it wasn’t sweet enough!

I drank ALL of ‘em!

Empowerment: The Hot Dog of Development Work

My situation here in Morocco bleeds political verbiage: developing nation, poverty, infrastructure, women’s rights, illiteracy, theocratic government, unemployment, globalization, empowerment….blah blah blah.

There’s a strange dynamic at play here. All of these things are in front of my face, living next door, lining the streets– for sure. But slappin’ western labels on them (which are custom-made for re-election speeches, not field work) often limits them. And by that, I mean that they don’t do the complexity of the situation justice.

Take women’s empowerment, for example.

It’s a fancy word that us white people loooovvveeeee to use as the unilateral subtitle for all of our interactions with “the native women.” Teaching illiteracy classes, assisting working women with product development, putting women in leadership positions…we classify all of this under the neat and tidy label of “empowerment.” And sure, these can be and often are positive changes in women’s lives. But is seeking empowerment why women attend these classes and workshops and take advantage of these opportunities? Is that why women seek to make their lives better, or is it a by-product of a different motivation?

After 1.5 years I should probably have more answers than questions, but when is that ever really the case? This is where Ola comes in.

I got an email a few weeks ago from Lauren, head of Peace Corps Morocco’s Gender and Development committee. It had been forwarded a few times through various Peace Corps channels and ended up in my inbox. Ola, a student from UPenn, had received a research grant to study women’s empowerment through income-generating activities in Morocco. Lauren though that I might be of assistance because of my work with Creation Tameslouht. Cool, I thought, I can introduce her to the artisans, have a nice afternoon, maybe she’ll buy something.

The idea went out of my head (all I can think about these days is how flipping hot it already isssss. Oh, yes, and the cliff bar my sitemate’s aunt gave me.) until Ola called me the Friday that she arrived in Morocco. After talking a bit, it became evident that Ola was looking not just to speak to my artisans, but to any other groups of women that I knew. After initially blanking, it dawned on me that my collective time here in Morocco might actually prove useful– just through word of mouth and my own personal network, we ended up brainstorming quite a busy schedule for her 4ish days in the Marrakech region.

Day 1? Meet the women of Creation Tameslouht, of course!

Ola ended up spending several hours chatting with just 6 of the artisans. Her questions ranged from basic familial inquiries (how many kids do you have, are you married?) to the fire-and-brimstone-inducing ones (do you ask permission before you leave the house?). I was a little wary about how the women might receive her questions; never having asked them myself, I wasn’t sure what was a green light and what was so far away from okay it shouldn’t even be suggested. However, the women seemed to really enjoy the questions and the organic twists and turns that they prompted. Ola’s Palestinian Arabic was well-received and well-understood by the women. They ended up having lively discussions about the role of the association in their lives within the larger framework of what exactly it’s like being a woman in Morocco right now. The conversation was ended, as it should be, by tea, msimin, and olives.

The next day, we headed out to Amizmiz. Ola had a book of cooperatives and associations that listed ample findings in this little mountain town….and most of them ended up not existing, not being located in Amizmiz, or angry that she would dare try and ask them questions about their associations (welcome to our lives, Ola!). So, onward to square 1! We met up with Peter and Britt, the brand-new PCVs in Amizmiz. They ended up not only being lovely hosts, but also super resourceful– they knew where their host brother’s friends hang out, two of whom ended up volunteering to personally walk us to the two associations from the book that they had heard of. Awesome! First up….honey.

Several phone conversations with the guy in charge of this cooperative proved…confusing. When I repeatedly asked where we could find his business in relation to the bus stop, he elaborately described the sign outside of his shop. I caught something about a bee (at this point, I didn’t realize we were looking for a honey cooperative. In hindsight, it makes a lot more sense). It took our two volunteer high school guides to get the guy to trust us and talk a bit about his cooperative, which employs several women. No samples available for tasting, but he did point us in the direction of another women’s cooperative in town– well, okay, to be more accurate, way outside of town and through several wheat fields.

We traversed through the rustic painting-of-a-landscape, eventually being directed to a particular house in the neighborhood. We had been warned about the difficulties of just walking around, looking for cooperatives, as many of them don’t have buildings– most simply exist in theory and on paper, while the association members do work and conduct meetings within their respective houses. Somehow, we landed in the lap of the president, and she was able to rally several women over to the house for interviews. We got tea, water (!), and Britt even got connected to a group of women interested in learning English. We were able to make it out of Amizmiz (through the wheat fields again!) just in time to catch the bus back to Tameslouht.

A 3pm appointment awaited us. The new, swanky women’s center had two classes Ola was interested in talking to– one for Arabic literacy, one for sewing. After a very Moroccan snack of bread and vache quirit (which we all know is my diet staple), Ola and I sat with the women in the sewing class. They spent time telling Ola about mobility issues, saying how hard it is for them to go where they want if there is a male head of the house. Ola pointed out to me later that it was interesting to note that only those whose fathers/ brothers/ male heads of the household had gotten sick or died (morbid) felt a sense of freedom and mobility. Most of the older women were able to reflect on their decisions for self-betterment, such as joining sewing classes, as empowering, but we agreed that it seemed like more of an afterthought than a conscious part of the decision-making equation.

Tuesday morning was Lalla Takerkoust. Some friends in Tameslouht had been there recently and told me about a brand-new association for women dedicated to cheese-making. Seeing as how all things related to food stick out in my head, I recommended we check out this place. Ola and I set off in the morning and had an interesting time navigating  the Berber dialects prominent in this area. Assya, our Berber-to-Darija translator, did teach me how to write my name in the Berber alphabet (I am disappointed to report that it is comprised of four circles of varying sizes, one of which resembles a boob). We got to taste the spoils of war while Ola interviewed, dining on fresh bread, tea, and korchlet (Moroccan cookies). One of my favorite interviewees was an older woman, probably in her 70s. When Ola asked her “Kif 7alk” (the Palestinian way of asking “how are you”), the woman heard “seer f7alk”, which essentially means “get away from me” in Darija. Definitely started off on the right foot, and only got funnier as the woman told Ola that no, she wasn’t married, and did these questions mean that Ola was going to find her a husband? Because she would like one young and preferably rich. Some things, no matter what language they’re communicated in, always translate.

What was intriguing about these women, particularly the president, was that they didn’t actually receive money for the association. Sure, the members get a bit for their efforts, but Naima doesn’t get anything financially out of running the show. Several of them, including the feisty 70ish year old who wanted a younger man, said that if they were married, they probably wouldn’t participate in this association. Why? Because they would need to tend to the house, children…and that their husbands probably wouldn’t approve. Assya, young, beautiful, and unmarried, said that even though she didn’t make any money, her alternative is staying at the house and twiddling her thumbs. She said she has nothing to lose by coming, so she does. Not exactly the quote that any development association likes to print next to the pictures of “empowered women,” but it seemed to be an underlying trend in a lot of the women’s decisions to be active in their respective ways.

In the afternoon, we returned to the women’s center in Tameslouht. I ended up leaving to go help my new sitemate with her housing contract…when I got back, Ola was surrounded by a group of women (who had definitely forgotten the whole “sewing” part of their sewing class), some of whom were standing up, yelling at each other. Ola looked calm, cool, and collected, so I assumed it was nothing to worry about. It turns out that one of the women Ola interviewed had a difference of opinion with a more conservative member of the sewing class. They clashed over how women should be spending their free time, whose fault it is that women don’t finish their schooling, and the Quranic interpretation of the hijab (headscarf) vs. the niqab (fabric that covers everything under the eyes)– all manifestations of female mobility in Morocco. Another interesting dimension added to our growing understanding of the “situation” of women and how it relates to that ever-elusive (and continually confirmed to be completely Western) concept of “empowerment.”

Afterwards, we left for M’Hamid, a neighborhood in Marrakech where the Rabeea, sister of Zainab (president of Creation Tameslouht) lives. Rabeea works with a lot of women artisans in this area, although they are association-less. Most of them work because they have to– one, for example, is the second wife of an older man. His first wife and their son are both mentally challenged, and the husband is currently sick. This second wife, therefore, is solely responsible for providing for all of them.

This story seemed to capture the sentiment of most women we met (albeit without the heart-wrenching narrative). The majority of women seem to enter into the workforce not because they are seeking to be empowered, necessarily, but rather out of necessity. Husbands or sons can’t provide for the family, or income needs to be supplemented. There are a few who work for enjoyment, or to pass the time, but most seem to work because they absolutely need to. Whatever the reason, though, they produced gorgeous work, including one of the most unique and chic scarves I’ve come across thus far in Morocco:

Wednesday morning, Ola and I met up with Melissa, an American working at the Center for Language & Culture in Marrakech. We met a few months ago because her students helped us out with the interfaith dialogue project in March. Melissa has recently been involved with the opening of Amal, a Moroccan restaurant located in the heart of Marrakech. According to their Facebook page…

The goal of this nonprofit is to improve the quality of life for disadvantaged women by giving them the tools they need to start supporting themselves, in terms of kitchen skills and literacy training.

What a fantastic initiative, right? And what delicious food! Obviously, part of Ola’s research needed to be whether or not the food that they were making was of any quality, so Melissa,  her man friend, Ola, and I all enjoyed a massive chicken tajine, salads, and desert before interviewing the women who worked there.

Ola said there was an interesting contrast between the more rural women we’d been talking to and these Marrakchian women. In the city, it seems more acceptable to be working and getting home late at night– that’s just what you have to do.

We ended our Marrakech run by meeting up with the High Atlas Foundation, a non-profit started in 2009 by Peace Corps Volunteers. They’re particularly close to my heart because my language and cultural facilitator from training, Malika, is currently employed there and loves her work. They are involved in all sorts of development projects, including those led by women and those which benefit women, so they served as a great resource for Ola as she plans out her second week of Morocco.

What a great experience. I was telling several other PCVs that this week was fun because we engaged in a lot of conversations that don’t arise organically. Concepts like “women’s empowerment” and where it fits into the spectrum of Moroccan life are often things that we have to piece together over the course of thousands of interactions. It’s something that I’ve thought a lot about as well, mostly as a result of my work with women artisans– and something that I’ve been tentative about asking too many questions about. Why? I guess I feel a bit like the “Ugly American,” whether directly comparing or just perceived as trying to draw parallels between the women here and my own experience as a female. Well, in America I can wear shorts and hang out with guys I’m not related to and still not be considered a prostitute, even with a drink in my hand! Precisely what the suffragettes strove for me to be able to do with my quality, right? Either way, I know that my equality and freedom is in the context of a specific time and place, as is theirs– and I’m never sure just how much good it would do for me, as a white American Catholic who is only living here for two years, to be the one to try to incite a revolution through my poking and prodding. I think Peace Corps frowns upon that. I think it would be eternally more powerful, meaningful, and effective if Moroccan women were the ones to lead that charge. Until then, I think I’ll continue to support “empowering” activities for women– because, at the end of the day, sometimes the by-product of an experience can be just as positive of a teacher as the intention. Kinda like the hot dog of development work. Kinda.

From the Women Artisans of Creation Tameslouht: Submitted!

An update on the women artisans of Tameslouht, known to the interwebz as “Creation Tameslouht.” We’ve been blowing up social media lately, joining Pinterest and, as always, updating our Facebook page with pictures of the latest and the prettiest from the ladies. In addition to all of this, we sat down together and designed their first large-scale project: a 10 day summer camp for girls in Tameslouht who have left school early. The idea is to give these girls an introduction to basic artisanal skills and the tools for eventual financial independence.

We blogged about it here: Submitted!

Sparking Interfaith Dialogue

From Tameslouht to Casablanca and back in 24 hours: this is the true life of Sarah Quinn.

While safari-ing my way through the Sheraton of Uganda (in my white terrycloth bathrobe), I received an email (on their flawless wifi) from Angela, one of the Public Affairs officers working at Dar America. As my most loyal readers recall, Dar America is the Public Affairs section of the United States Consulate in Morocco– who also helped with the flus (money) component of our project. They put on a lot of cool public programming, and wanted to know if Mustapha and I were interested in speaking about our interfaith dialogue and how the topic resonates in America. Without hesitation, we responded yes, and packed up our bags on Monday, April 29th. Headin’ from the red to the white city!

Upon arrival, a driver picked us up. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, Uncle Sam has a DRIVER. We were taken, very stylishly, to Dar America’s oasis of splendor and beauty– about 2 hours early, but who’s counting. We were pumped! The building is amazing. It features an impressive library of English books, a computer lab, garden, and spacious offices with that lighting that photography students die for. Also noteworthy was the body count: probably 20 people were spending their free time lounging around, reading books and enjoying their time in a productive way. For those of us who work at dar chababs, you will understand my amazement at this. Usually I have to bribe kids with chocolate to come and learn in their free time. Not exaggerating. The chocolate was a huge hit.

At 5, Mustapha and I rolled up our sleeves and got a’talkin’. Mustapha began with an overview of Tameslouht, the ancient religious school in Tameslouht, his association, and where the idea for an interfaith dialogue came from. Afterwards, I impressed everyone with my powerpoint skills and showed pretty pictures of pretty people (who just coincidentally were at our interfaith dialogue) while giving the run-down of how exactly we got the project to go from the ever-popular (and prevalent) “idea” to the slightly more elusive and exponentially more satisfying (albeit 110% more frightening) “reality.” The group– a fluctuating 20-to-30-and-at-times-10-person gathering– was super engaged and asked a ton of great questions in English, French, Darija, and, at times, a combination of the three (welcome to my life).

Sometimes, as an American, I forget how revolutionary this whole concept really is. As I explained to the audience, our American interfaith dialogue is a lot more informal. We don’t typically write grants and get massive headaches from planning the logistics of it– most of it occurs in passing conversations with neighbors and co-workers about weekend plans, holiday parties, and current events. Of course, I realize my own experience is exactly that– my own– and not wholly indicative of every single person who calls themselves an American, but still. My family, as Catholics, lived between two Jewish families, some atheists, Scottish people, and a bouquet of other Christian pursuasions. I vaguely remember my mom attending a neighborhood gathering for a religion whose name evades me but is something about all-inclusiveness. I learned about Ramadaan through some friends in college who were fasting. I stared at the small shrines (Shinto?) while I waited for my nails to dry at the neighborhood nail place. I marveled endlessly at my Buddhist art teacher (at a Catholic school). Just to name a few of my “interfaith dialogues.” Morocco, unlike America, doesn’t have this extreme diversity at every corner. The population doesn’t lend itself inherently towards interfaith discussion simply because most people are Muslim. It makes sense. The added “proselytization is illegal” thing makes it slightly uncomfortable for anyone who isn’t Muslim to be the initiator. As PCVs, we’re actually told to stay away from the topic, as it is often so controversial that it is not worth it in terms of compromising your effectiveness simply because you are an atheist (the jury is still out on that one– many PCVs have very different experiences in this arena). But, at the end of the day, I think Mustapha summed it up best with what he said yesterday– if you’re green, you will never know what being green truly means until you meet someone who is blue. In short, when we learn about others, especially those with beliefs divergent from our own, we usually end up better understanding ourselves.

 

After the wonderful, energetic, and very positive Q&A, Mustapha and I went to Angela’s (super, fancy, really nice, words-don’t-do-it-justice) apartment and met her cat Bandita. Angela and her friends treated us to…brace yourselves…INDIAN FOOD and FROYO. Casablanca is truly a small slice of American heaven. The next morning, we enjoyed bagels and Skippy’s peanut butter, hot showers, and a large hoard of pigeons at the Casaowi version of Trafalger square.

Now I’m back in Tameslouht, looking longingly at the stain on my sweater from the faraway dream of Chicken Masala. It was a wonderful experience (and not just the Indian food!) and I highly recommend hooking up with Dar America if you ever find yourself in the Casablanca area.

Wait, Are You Serious?

It was Sunday, April 15th, 2012, and I remember the conversation quite well, albeit with a slight cringe. I was just coming off of a week of Spring Camp in Ben Guerir and literally hours away from beginning another in Marrakech– so not in the most negotiating of moods. We were sitting at a cafe in Jemaa El Fna and had reached a tipping point in a back-and-forth, one that (I thought) had been going on for a few weeks, but one that (he knew) had sustained longer than that.

The question was whether or not I’d be his girlfriend, and the answer was, well, nothing, so far. I was a little torn– Peace Corps was a dream of mine….a dream that didn’t include the complications of romantic entanglement, the Sex and the City theme music, or anything else slightly resembling a chick flick set in an exotic location. More seriously, I had reached a point in my service where I was comfortable with my town and my work, and committing to a relationship in a culture that (in general) doesn’t condone pre-engagement dating seemed a little reckless. At the same time, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intrigued. This was a guy who talked to me about politics and philosophy, but still had the cajones to joke about inviting me to his (26 year old) friend’s circumcision. After sitting in a chair and making a pros and cons list in my head, my response was a very assertive “Okay. But.” And then I laid down a slightly dramatic, independent woman schpeel about what it means to date an American woman. He nodded and listened intently as I droned on and on (quite passionately) about my freedom and my will and the importance of my work. I ended with the most important point of all: dating an America, unlike dating a Moroccan, does not mean we will be getting married.

14 days shy of 1 year later, in a different cafe in Jemaa El Fna, this same man asked me to marry him. No speeches, just 19 odd “Wait, are you serious?!!!??”s before saying “YES!“

Anyone who has been even sort-of following my blog has simultaneously been watching the unfolding of an epic, life-changing romance.

We met maybe a month or so prior to the Sunday afternoon in the cafe, on one of those mornings in the dar chabab that us PCVs know so well– only one kid shows up to a class and you end up kinda dancing around for awhile because your oh-so-carefully planned lesson was designed for 15 kids, not 1. Because it was more than slightly obvious that the class wasn’t a class in any sense of the word, him and his friend strolled in and started asking Eric and myself about possibly setting up an English class. First impression? Hey, this guy’s English is pretty good! Not exactly soul-crushing love, just amazement that someone, somewhere in the world made it seem like learning a second/third language wasn’t the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest. Classes were set up eventually, and somehow, we started hanging out in that casual way that Moroccans are so good at initiating.

After we started dating, a lot of nothing happened. Sure, we liked each other, but how serious can a relationship get when it’s supposed to be secret? I will give 110% of the credit to my sitemate for giving us an opportunity to actually be a couple.

Peace Corps sponsors a lot of counterpart-focused trainings in Rabat. One in May 2012 piqued both my and Eric’s interest: how to build a library. I invited one of my counterparts to join me; meanwhile, Eric was going back and forth about who he wanted to work with. I finally suggested this guy, as he is very involved in community development and would probably enjoy something like a library training. Eric asked, and, as is the theme of this blog entry, he got a yes.

We (separately) had decided to go to Rabat early; me, because I needed a vaccination from Peace Corps, and him, just to “change the weather”, as they say in Darija. After realizing this, we coordinated our plans and ended up having two days to ourselves in the capital of Morocco, a city that I had previously cast aside as a little bland and nondescriptly European (and yet not quite). It turns out all you need is the right tour guide. We explored the beaches, the neighboring city of Sale, wandered through the old medina, discovered delicious food carts, took boats across the river, watched a protest surging to its height…and held hands the whole way through. It was our first time together outside of “tbergig” (the ever-present, watchful eyes) of Tameslouht. I fell in love with the city, and I fell in love with Mustapha.

From that cafe in Marrakech to Rabat, then adventures in Essaouria, El Jadida, Casablanca, Orika, Ouzoud, Tizlt, Tahanoute, Ifrane, Agadir, a fantastically successful interfaith dialogue that we pulled off together, and meeting my parents and my sister, we made it all the way back to Marrakech in the early afternoon of April 1, 2013– also known as my 25th birthday. My friend Catherine was visiting and we were looking forward to a birthday lunch that Mustapha had wanted to take us to. In true Moroccan fashion, we needed a coffee break before getting anything accomplished, so we stopped at Cafe France for a drink and a view.

Mustapha asked me if I wanted to open my birthday present (another resounding “yes”). I unwrapped what turned out to be a gorgeous wooden box, crafted by Moroccan artisans. When I went to open it, I found that I, in fact, couldn’t. There was a lock but no key. Mustapha gave  me a key and I opened up the box to find….a beautiful jewelry tray. Empty, of course. Without even thinking, I lifted it up to find a smaller wooden box. And inside that box…literally the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen.

When people told me that Peace Corps would change my life, I thought they meant I would learn a cool, obscure dialect and become a translator or contract a rare disease that colored my skin purple permanently. While still a Peace Corps trainee, I remember purposely zoning out during the session about “If you marry a Host Country National, this is all of the bureaucratic protocol…” Never, in my inception within an inception of a dream, did I think I would find the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with (or that I could write that sentence and actually mean it/ not puke on my keyboard while typing it). My parents joke around that I always choose the most difficult path, and this is no exception– hollah at yo girl if “visa” is a four letter word for you too. But if I’ve learned anything in the last year minus 14 days, it’s that the path of most resistance sometimes leads to the rest of your life.

And yes, we’re extremely serious!

2 hours into the engagement and already ready to kill each other over food

Catherine and me

Fucking awesome.

Opening up the locked box. Mustapha’s face says it all.

Excited about what I thought was my birthday present.

My beautiful birthday present!

Mustapha making fun of me.

Candid shots by Catherine, walking to the Cafe.

Making Mustapha stop to take touristy pictures.