On Crosswalks and Catalyzing Change

Most every chronicle of an American’s adventures in the Middle East undoubtedly includes a mention of the traffic situation. Learning to cross the street in Morocco – or any other Arab country, I’m told – is an art form, and one that may save your life. There are crosswalks in which pedestrians have the legal right of way. But they mean nothing.

In the months that I’ve been here Arabic TV stations have aired a series of horribly graphic commercials. They depict gruesome traffic accidents and one even shows the dead bodies of school children hit in a crosswalk. They end with a plea: “We need to change our behavior.”

I don’t drive here, and Mom, you’ll be glad to know I recently turned down an offer for a motorbike. Deep down I REALLY want to be that American girl who rides a motorcycle (certain cause for speculation – my specialty), but the thought of driving on the streets of Fez fills me with such fear it could only end in disaster.

But I’m a passenger often. I’m pretty picky about my drivers, but taxis are the luck of the draw. Very often riding in someone’s car prompts a discussion about the rule of law, corruption, and civil responsibility. They all think I’m an up-tight American and I think they’re all insane Arabs. Inter-cultural dialogue is a such a beautiful thing.

The truth is, if you follow traffic laws in Morocco you’ll never survive, because everyone else drives like a maniac. It’s like an Olympic wrestler taking on the EFC champ: if he tries to fight clean he won’t stand a chance. In order to get from Point A to Point B you invariably have to concede that a two-lane road can actually accommodate the width of four cars, and you have to tailgate because if someone sees half a car’s length in front of you they’ll cut you off to get 5 meters closer to the red light. Not to mention young men (and old men...and women) feel the need for speed, and in Morocco the concept of the queue (as in waiting your turn for ANYTHING) is entirely foreign and counter-intuitive. The only way to survive on the streets of the Maghreb is to get with the system...the unwritten code that Americans will never understand, but taxi drivers seem to have down to an art.

But still...a little order couldn’t hurt.

Among my acquaintances is a guy named SIMO. He loves to tell me about his narrow escapes from the law. (I’ll admit it before I get scores of comments decrying my hypocrisy...The high school version of myself wasn’t known for following the letter of the law when it came to driving. And I saw every evaded ticket as a testament to my powers of persuasion. But shame on me.) Instead of flashing a smile and charming his way out of a citation, Simo simply halves the amount of the ticket and slips it to the police officer in cash.

“A 400dh ticket? Oh no! I can’t possibly afford that...how about I’ll give you 200dh and we’ll call it a day?” Or in the unfortunate circumstance that he doesn’t have 200dh cash with him... “How about 100dh and 3 cigarettes?”

At least once a week Simo would regale me with tales of his bribery and they would never sit well with me. I’ve heard all the arguments:
-The police don’t get paid very much...they’re EXPECTED to take bribes
-It’s the same as a tip for good service.
-The police double the amount of the real fine so they’d be taking a cut anyway.
-I can’t afford the ticket, and I don’t want them to take my license away.
-Everyone else does it, why not me? You gotta get with the system.

But what it all comes down to is that Simo pays off a police officer time after time after time and has never learned...until about a week ago when he had a big and dangerous accident. Car totaled, two people in the hospital. Idiot.

So what’s my point?

The laws are there. Police need to start enforcing them. And drivers need to start obeying them.

Back to crossing the street...

Last month I was walking with some Moroccan university students. They insisted that we cross the street in the crosswalk (wait...we have those in Morocco???). Their reasoning was a lovely brand of academic idealism, much forgotten in the US:

“Social change begins with individual action.”

Yalla.

On Getting Your Money's Worth

Dear U.S. Taxpayer,

Yes, I know. I seem to have fallen off the face of the planet. But take it as a sign that you’re getting your money’s worth.

Sometimes I think it’s unbelievable that you (yes, you) are paying for me to study Arabic and live in Morocco. But in the past 6 weeks I have been earning every penny (dirham, actually, since I’m paid in Moroccan currency). My language study has been put into overdrive – 20 hours of upper-level Fusha a week. I’ve been almost entirely consumed by schoolwork and I have been putting your money to good use. My head is about as full as it can be right now, juggling 2 languages – one in the school, the other in the street.

But lest this open letter to my creditors become complainy, I have to say that my many hours of studying have been punctuated but all sorts of cultural activities designed to give me some illusion of physical, intellectual and emotional balance: guitar classes, dance classes, dance parties, birthday parties, engagement parties, dinner parties, embassy parties...

I’m sorry that my blogging (and emailing) has fallen by the wayside. Truth be told, I have a lot of thoughts running through my head at the moment. It simply takes time and energy to form those thoughts into words. But it’s a valuable process for me. Until I make words of them, they’re just a jumbled up mess and my life makes no sense. I need to get back to writing. Now that I finished my final exam, I should have more time for processing, formulating and articulating. Stay tuned...more to come in the next couple of days, inshallah.


Sincerely,
Megan Pav

On Life In-Between

Why, yes, I am sitting on the roof of my new apartment in FEZ JDID, drinking sugarless tea and eating a bowl of Rice Krispies. How did I get here? A lot has happened in the past month that’s pulled me off the bloggin’ wagon, but I’m back and it seems we have some catching up to do.

I was able to go back to the Land of the Free for two weeks and spend Christmas with my family. I got a healthy dose of culture shock when I woke up in the morning and a life-sized Joe Scarborough was jumping out at me from my dad’s enormous HDTV. In the same day I witnessed the return of Spandex and the super high, intentionally sloppy ponytail. But the indoor heating was the biggest (and best) shock...especially with the blizzard that covered the D.C. area shortly after I arrived.

It was in many ways a lovely vacation. I got to spend time with my family (a lot of them)...I saw the Steelers win a couple games (too little too late, I guess)...caught up with some dear old friends (among the dearest and oldest I have)...and my sister and I learned the dance to Jai Ho that they do at the end of Slumdog Millionaire (probably the highlight of my trip).

But of course, being back in the States led to the natural comparisons between here and there. I love here and I love there, but for very different reasons. Then certain political events went down in both countries and elsewhere, which highlighted the things that I DISLIKE in both. The whole thing made me feel dreadfully in-between. Not that that’s anything new.

On New Year’s day I left the States again...through Spain...to Tangier...finally back to Fez on the 3rd.

I had set up a new apartment in Fez before I left for Christmas. I wanted everything to be in order when I came back so I didn’t have to worry about moving and all of that when my new class term started. But, lest we forget, this is Morocco. Things didn’t work out like I planned and due to problems with the landlord and the apartment and some neighbors, I decided I needed to find a new place.

I crashed with the Khattabis for a few days (they tried to convince me to stay forever), and stored my things with some other Fulbrights. After seeing a few apartments – some of them disasters – I found a good place for a good price from a good landlord who is also a teacher at the school. And the best thing about my new place: the location.

I’m no longer in the ancient Medina (where I lived with the Khattabis), nor am I in the modern Ville Nouvelle (where I lived 2007-2008). I’ve moved into Fez Jdid, which is situated geographically as well as historically between the other two cities.

The name Fez Jdid means, “New Fez.” It was the new city before the French came and made a newer city. It’s an awkward in-between place of which I know nothing (Yet). It’s kind of perfect.

My next adventure: learning Fez Jdid. YALLA.

On The Fine Line Between War and Running Away

When I was little I couldn’t say my R’s. My mom told me that when we moved to Pennsylvania and I started 1st grade at my new school I’d have to go to speech therapy if I didn’t learn to say that blasted letter ASAP. Mom and I sat in Pizza Hut one rainy afternoon shortly before we moved, and she tried to help me.

“Megan,” she coached, “say ‘RRRRRRRRRR’”
I said, “WWWWWWWWWW!”
“Megan, say ‘Red Robins in the Rain’”
I said, “Wed Wobins in the Wain”
“Megan, say ‘Ratty Rug-Rats on the Roof’”
I said, “Watty Wug-Wats on the Woof”

I was fwustwated. I could hear difference between what my mom said and what I repeated, but I couldn’t figure out how to make the weird sounds she was making. Until one day right before I started 1st grade. By then we had moved to Pennsylvania, and I was playing Barbies in my room. My Barbies must have been saying something to each other, because suddenly I could say my R’s. It really came out of nowhere. I rushed down the stairs to show my mom my new skill:

“Mom! RRRRRRRRRR! Red Robins in the Rain! Ratty Rug-Rats on the Roof!”

I’ll never forget my exuberance when it came out right for the first time. I felt like I had just beat a level of Super Mario Bros. that I had been stuck on for ages.

***

About 13 years later I was working towards a Spanish minor at Wheaton. I decided to spend the summer after my freshman year in Salamanca, Spain to finish my minor. In Salamanca I lived with a family and became quite close with their son, Juan. But he harassed me constantly about my inability to say the hard Spanish J. It’s a sound you make back in your throat...it sounds kind of like you’re snoring. (I’ll transcribe it as kh)

“Megan,” Khuan teased, “Say my name!”
I said, “Hwan”
“Megan, say ‘embakhada’” (embajada – embassy)
I said, “Embahada”
“Megan, say ‘por ekhemplo’ (por ejemplo – for example)
I said, “por ehemplo”

Tragic. I never heard the end of it from my darling Juan. Again, I could hear the difference, I just couldn’t make it. Until a couple months after I left Spain. One day back at Wheaton I was talking to myself in the shower (in Spanish, of course...don’t judge me). Suddenly I could say the J. I got out of the shower, danced around like an idiot, and kept repeating,

“Embakhada! Embakhada! Embakhada!”

My roommate thought I was a little loca. I was. Again, I felt giddy, like I was Mario, and I finally made it to the castle.

***

And then came Arabic. I’ve had a couple little hurdles on the way, since Arabic has some letters that aren’t even close to resembling sounds we have in English. There’s one letter described by my textbook as “a sheep sound.” SHNU??? What does that even mean???? It’s called the 3ain. (Yes. When we transliterate Arabic sometimes we use numbers. 3=The sound a sheep makes.) But after time I learned to make the new sounds.

Except for one thing. And this time it’s even worse.

Arabic has 2 letters that we’d call H. The “Ha” and the “ha.” I’m not sure which one’s which, but for now H will be the one that looks like jim and h will be the one that looks like a curly cue. As far as I’m concerned, they’re KIF-KIF (exactly the same). Moroccans look at me like I’m an idiot because I can’t tell the difference between Harb (war) and harb (to flee). Ummm. Kif-Kif?

The other day I was graded on a dictation assignment. Dictation is like death, only it’s worse because it lasts forever and my hand and brain get tired. When my teacher graded it, he asked why I missed so many words.

“Because I don’t know them,” I said.
“But usually you're able to spell things right, even if you don’t know them.”
“But these words have H’s in them.”
“You mean you can’t hear the difference between H and h?
“Uh...no”
“Listen...Hayat (life)...hua (he)...”
“Nope...Kif-Kif.”

We spent the next 20 minutes doing dictation with words that have Ha’s and ha’s in them. Apparently Ha comes from deeper in the chest and ha comes from the mouth. Whatever that means. It seems to me that anything you say comes out of your mouth. The worst is that I don’t even know which one I’m saying. Sometimes I say one, and sometimes the other. It’s really a 50/50 chance that I’ll be right...or wrong.

After an extremely frustrating (yet comical) class I am finally able (I think) to hear the difference between the two of them. That’s step one. Maybe one day, inshallah, I’ll be able to differentiate in my speech. Until then, Mario is getting his butt kicked by those doggone flying turtles.

On Moroccan Weddings and 19th Century Western Literature

On Monday night I went to a wedding with the Khattabis. As Marmee says in Little Women (the movie): “Nothing provokes speculation more than the sight of a woman enjoying herself.”

Sometimes I feel like I just can’t win. I try to be good and do everything right so as not to bring heaps of shame on the Khattabi household when they take me out in public. Yet somehow at every joyous occasion I step out of line and do something that invites the speculation of the masses.

There’s entirely too much to worry about at an event where women sit around the circumference of the room, taking notes as they watch the younguns shake their groove things. They always have their matchmaking antennae up. It’s like a Jane Austen novel on crack (or at least massive amounts of mint tea). I find that a lot of people are trying to fit me into one of two categories: eligible or MASKHOTA (naughty, promiscuous, of ill repute).

If I talk to boys, I’m being too forward. If I don’t talk to boys, I’m being rude and distrustful of respected family friends. If I joke around with the brothers I get told HSHUMA (shame on you). If I don’t joke around with the brothers they’re certain something’s wrong with me. If I don’t dance, I’m an ill-humored Darcy. If I dance like a Moroccan, I’m critiqued on my form. If I dance like an American, I’m ridiculous.

Eventually there comes a point where I just give up. If I’m going to be the object of ridicule to matter what I do, I might as well enjoy myself. I embrace my inner American goofball. I dance and laugh. I drag the brothers onto the dance floor, all the while flatly denying any allegation that I’m planning on marrying one of them. I bust out the most absurd dance moves I can muster. And I become the star of neighborhood gossip for at least a week.

On the bright side, I'm hoping that my out-of-the-box personality will help to fend away some would-be suitors and/or their families. After all, the assumption around here is that a single woman in possession of an American passport must be in want of a husband.

On The Strange But Delicious Death of Jackie Chan

Friday afternoon as I walked through the medina to my home, I ran into my neighbor (Soukaina’s classmate) who was headed in the opposite direction. He stopped to talk. “There’s a ram in your house,” he told me.

Me: “YES! Wait...in the house or on the roof?”
Him: “In the house.”
Me: “In my room?”
Him: “Yeah...in your room.”
Me: “Oh...that’s not a ram. That’s just Soukaina.”

I continued on my way and he continued on his, until a couple minutes later when he came up right behind me. He decided to accompany me home to witness my reaction to the ram.

When I opened the door to the apartment I was greeted not by affectionate kisses from my little shneula Souks, but by the angry bleating of a ram ready to fight for his life.



So I suppose this begs the question...uh...why do I have a ram in my house?

EID AL-ADHA. Also known as Eid al-Kabir. “The Festival of Sacrifice.” On this day Muslim families all over the world remember the Qur’anic account of Abraham’s submission to Allah, when he intended to follow through with the sacrifice of his promised son, Ishmael. Seeing Abraham’s submission, Allah sent a ram to sacrifice in Ishmael’s place and further blessed Abraham with a second son, Isaac.

In remembrance of Abraham and his submission and sacrifice, every Muslim family in Morocco buys a ram to sacrifice on this day. Including mine. Oh, and then we eat it.

So. Back to me and my ram...

This thing is feisty. We named him Jackie Chan. Throughout the day I’d forget about him briefly...until I’d go to the bathroom or the kitchen and there he was, staring me down, just hoping for the rope to snap so he could get a piece of me.

“Alright, alright,” I told Jackie, “today you’re in my house, but tomorrow in my belly!”

Last night I slept soundly until daybreak, when I awoke to the sound of “Baaaaaaaah” coming from every house in the city. I’m fairly certain Jackie Chan was communicating with our neighbor’s ram. It suddenly seemed to me like a conspiracy. They were organizing. Souks and I looked at each other from across the room, and I said, “l-thawra diyal kebsh!” – The Ram Revolution! Soukaina rolled over to face the wall and ignored my early-morning conspiracy theories reminiscent of Animal Farm.

I went back to sleep, but had a bizarre dream that the rams of Fez organized, with Jackie Chan as the leader, and they turned the knives on us. It kind of gives “lamb to the slaughter” an entirely new meaning.

A couple hours later Soukaina and I got up in earnest. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I knew we wouldn’t do the slaughtering until late morning, but I didn’t know if we had morning festivities or not. We didn’t. Souks and I did our typical morning routine – breakfast, cleaning, and dancing to whatever was on MTV Arabiyya, alternating between American and Moroccan dancing styles depending on what’s playing.

At around 11:00 Hamza came in to tell us that the time had come. He and Hamouda took the ram by the horns and dragged it up the stairs to the roof, where they did the deed.



All the neighbors watched my reaction. Normally I’m able to play it cool, “Guys, I’m practically Moroccan,” I always say, “I’m used to everything.” But this was something entirely new. I stood at a distance, eyes wide, as they slit its throat and let the blood drain out.

We (ok, they) spent the next hour cleaning the ram, and then cleaning the roof. I was fascinated, but I didn’t really want to get all bloodied up. I took pictures.




After the slaughtering it was time for family bonding. Soukaina and I made henna to dye our hair. This was my second foray into the world of henna hair-dye. The first was a disaster with my sister-in-law Mary and our friend Mic. Henna looks and smells like poo and you have to put it on your head and leave it for a couple hours. But Moroccans do the whole henna thing much more than Americans do, so I have faith in Souks’ henna advice.

With poo on our heads we had more bonding activities – cooking our old friend Jackie Chan. We started with the liver – grilled it, spiced it, rolled it in fat, then grilled it again on a shish kabob. Then we ate it on a sandwich. Mmmmm....Jackie Chan...



In the evening (after I washed the poo out of my hair) Soukaina, Latifa and I went to visit Dounia and her family. It was lovely. It was a beautiful brand of holiday family togetherness that I think must be the same in every country.

More and more guests kept showing up, with Eid Mubareks (Happy Eid's) all around. Of course, it’s always a little awkward for me, since I’m only partially an insider. The immediate family and those of the extended family who I see often treat me like just another cousin. But the more in-laws show up, the more French is thrown my way, despite Latifa’s insistence that I’ll understand a lot better if they speak to me in Arabic.

When we came home, it was just us girls. More MTV Arabiyya and dancing. Latifa joined us this time.

We had Jackie’s stomach for dinner. Um. Yeah. One bite was enough for me.

But all in all it was a good day. And the best part is that Jackie Chan will continue to provide our food for the next week or so.

BISSAHA.

On The Beauty Of Life

Last night was a scary one in the Khattabi family.

In the evening I went out to spend some time with my fellow Wheaties – Josh and John. Around 10pm the boys walked me home, and as we approached my building I heard the familiar sound of Hamouda’s voice around the corner...it wasn’t his normal light-hearted chatter – it was his “business man” tone, so naturally my first thought was that he was called on one of his late-night business trips. When he rounded the corner I grabbed him by the arm. He looked at me, still on his phone, and I sensed the urgency in his eyes.

A second later Sa’id and Latifa sped around the corner with the same fear and gravity painted on their faces. Latifa stopped to give me a very cursory explanation: “Dounia is sick. Really sick. Soukaina is at home...stay with her tonight.”

And with that she hurried to catch up with her husband and oldest son who were already to the top of the hill.

I froze there, watching them disappear, and having hardly any idea of what was happening. Eventually Josh, John and I continued to my house. I said goodbye to them and ran up the 48 winding stairs to get a more complete report. When I walked in the apartment, Hamza was putting on his coat.

“What’s going on?” I asked him

“Somthing’s wrong with Dounia. She just passed out. I’m meeting them at the hospital.” And off he flew.

For the rest of the evening Soukaina and I pretended to watch So You Think You Can Dance and wondered what was going on with Dounia. Eventually we went to bed, and Hamza came home late. He told us that there was a gas leak in Dounia’s home, and everyone in her house was on oxygen in the hospital, including her husband Adil, her mother in-law, and of course her 5-month old son, Joey.

Soukaina, Hamza and I went back to an uneasy sleep. In the morning I woke Souks up to go to school, as I do every day. We had gotten news that Dounia and her family were out of the hospital and back home. When she came home at 11 we went to Dounia’s...a 20-minute walk into the dead-center of the medina. When we got there, we found Joey with both his grandmothers. Latifa couldn’t stop crying when she told me that Dounia was still in the hospital. The house was a flurry of anxiety as Latifa and Latifa (also the name of Adil’s mother) discussed the crisis with the family members who floated in and out of the house.

At around 1:00 we got a call from Adil, saying that Dounia had been released, and a little while later he brought her home.

Dounia and Joey rested upstairs while the rest of us sat in the living room, trying to release the stress we had all felt all day. After the emotional transition from anxiety to relief, we had to remind ourselves to laugh again. It started with Hamouda picking on me. Then with Adil picking on me. Then Adil’s brother (or friend? I’m not quite sure of the relation). Even Adil’s mom was teasing me. (The last time we met I had returned from one of my many trips to apply for residency. I didn’t realize she was in the house, and I had used some of my more “colorful” Arabic to describe my frustration at the residency process.)

Suddenly we were all laughing. A tragedy averted, we remembered once again the important truth: al-hayat zweena. Life is beautiful.