Yesterday my imma (host mother) told me to come over and help with making lunch, because she was having women over to “karshnt,” or card and spin wool. It occurs to me that stuff like this doesn’t often happen any more in the States. That is, have a community gathering to make light work of a tedious and difficult but necessary job that must be done. We do this type of thing often here.
Today at 9 am I walked into my imma’s kitchen, a long and wide room on the top level with three wood posts holding up the roof. The cement floor is half covered with rugs and mats surrounded by low wooden seats. Today 8 women have already taken seats on those mats. They have been at work for a while: there is a huge pile of fluffy white wool on the floor in between them, but there are also many stacks of carded wool next to each women. A couple women have begun the process of spinning. They use a hand-spindle, and turn the carded wool into loosely spun yarn. It’s sits piled next to them, a huge, long discarded snake skin of wool. The raw wool look like a tiny patch of fog took up residence on the floor in between them. I have to repress an irrational urge to jump into it like a child jumping into a pile of leaves. I go around the room and greet each woman personally, as is expected. I opt for the shaking hands variety because kissing people’s cheeks is tedious when they are all sitting cross-legged on the floor.
A few minutes later I’m sitting on a short stool, with about 2 kg of fool in front of me. Ever had fool? It’s tasty. Big long green-beans with soft foam-like skin, seeds the size of a largish fingernail and tough strings running down either side. Each bean-seed has to be checked for damage from bugs, and the strings come off, too. After that, it’s the carrots, then the potatoes. My imma likes the carrots de-cored. I don’t particularly like de-coring carrots, but I can do it now. I realize my wrist is going to be sore after all this veggie prep!
Ever watch carding and spinning by hand? Each person has their own rhythm, their hands never staying still… the wool going from little fog-patch to snagged on the carding paddles, then scrrratch—scrrrratch it is combed and pulled into line and turned and returned until it’s smooth and in little rectangles. Piles of the rectangles grow and are taken to the women spinning. They take two, catch the edge of them on the spindle and give it a few twists, then tug and twist, tug-tug-tug-tug and twist again until the wool stretches out, growing and twisting as it falls by their sides in tangley looking piles. Then they wrap it around arms and pull it through into a big knot with a twist of the wrist.
To pass the time the women start singing. They’re clever, making up songs about life on the spot, and they teach them to each other in a call-and-response style. Thus, the leader who made up the song teaches everyone else a refrain and then puts in little verses once they’ve got it. It’s cool. The tune is usually the same, and it’s as twisty and turny as the wool. Middling high pitched, it’s sweet and they love it. They sing until their voices get scratchy. The carding makes a low, rough counterpoint, and I add the soft popping noise of fool being broken into halves and quarters and eighths as I prep it. They sing about marriage, about cooking and what fuel they cook with, and then my host mother decides to sing about me to embarrass me. They laugh and we keep going. I wish I could sing with them but I can just barely catch the meaning… the words flow by to quickly for me to raise my voice. I finish before they do, and help set up the mid-morning snack. They put a little round table over the fog-patch of wool and eat up. Then they get back to it. Scrrrrrratch—scrrrrrrratch!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Herding Nomads
The trouble with working with semi-nomadic herders is that they are, well, semi-nomadic. Families often keep a house here, and a tent or a stone house in the mountains as a base for the herders to come back to each night. The family is divided between the two places, and the family members switch back and forth and back and forth. Usually a pattern emerges, though.
For example, the president of the herders’ association here has his family divided up as follows. Like his father, he keeps the main family house here. His oldest daughter keeps house, with his youngest son who is still going to school here. His wife runs the mountain base camp, a tent in the summer and a rock house in the winter. Except when the winter is so hard that the rock house is covered in snow. Then they take the tent down to the foothills. His second oldest daughter is married and lives in Sefrou. His two youngest daughters are attending middle school/high school in Haj City, our market town. They are staying with family members. The president is slowly building a house in Haj City. When it is finished, he will move his oldest daughter and youngest son there, and his youngest daughters will move in until they are married or go elsewhere. The old family home will be abandoned, I guess. His wife will, I suppose, run the tent until she is too old to do so anymore. At which point he will also be old, and perhaps he will sell his 350 odd sheep and goats and live out as good a life as he can in Haj City. I wonder if his grandchildren will learn the language he learned first at all. Many children of Imazighen heritage are completely ignorant of the language and stories of their fathers. Why bother when Arabic is so much more universal anyway? His is not an unusual story: many families are planning their escape this way. The life of the nomadic herder, semi- or no, is a hard one.
Back to the original comment… in trying to help people improve their life, one has to hold many meetings. Meetings are hard to hold if half of the people who need to be there are always gone, and which half is missing is continually changing. Any meeting or work that needs doing takes careful planning, and good luck as well. The worst is when the herds are moving between summer and winter pastures. Everyone is in constant motion, because moving the herds means moving the tents, with all of the furnishings and accessories. Vans, trucks, and endless mule and donkey trains can be seen moving up and down roads and mountains paths for weeks. I give up organizing until those weeks pass.
The nice part about working with semi-nomadic herders is that you get to go hang out in the tents with them in the summer. High altitude grazing grounds are always cool and breezy. The mountains are beautiful, and stark. They are almost entirely bereft of trees, but lightly covered with tough bunch grasses, herbs, bushes and the occasional blades of new grasses making a break for some sunlight between the rocks. Thus, the colors of the rocks show through, with a soft haze of yellow green overlaying them. Except for the patches of forest, deep green and sparse. Those forest bits are small and shrinking, like patches of hair on a balding man’s head. They hang down in lower altitudes, too, much like said male pattern balding. I use them to teach about erosion. “See those trees? See those huge gullies cut into the mountains by the rains last year? See how they are hardly ever in the same place? That’s why trees are important!” Unfortunately, I only get to tell so many people because I work closely with only a few. They are the ones who really organize. They use their superior networking powers to contact and bring in the semi-nomadic herders. It works pretty well for the meetings, but not for the informal education.
For example, the president of the herders’ association here has his family divided up as follows. Like his father, he keeps the main family house here. His oldest daughter keeps house, with his youngest son who is still going to school here. His wife runs the mountain base camp, a tent in the summer and a rock house in the winter. Except when the winter is so hard that the rock house is covered in snow. Then they take the tent down to the foothills. His second oldest daughter is married and lives in Sefrou. His two youngest daughters are attending middle school/high school in Haj City, our market town. They are staying with family members. The president is slowly building a house in Haj City. When it is finished, he will move his oldest daughter and youngest son there, and his youngest daughters will move in until they are married or go elsewhere. The old family home will be abandoned, I guess. His wife will, I suppose, run the tent until she is too old to do so anymore. At which point he will also be old, and perhaps he will sell his 350 odd sheep and goats and live out as good a life as he can in Haj City. I wonder if his grandchildren will learn the language he learned first at all. Many children of Imazighen heritage are completely ignorant of the language and stories of their fathers. Why bother when Arabic is so much more universal anyway? His is not an unusual story: many families are planning their escape this way. The life of the nomadic herder, semi- or no, is a hard one.
Back to the original comment… in trying to help people improve their life, one has to hold many meetings. Meetings are hard to hold if half of the people who need to be there are always gone, and which half is missing is continually changing. Any meeting or work that needs doing takes careful planning, and good luck as well. The worst is when the herds are moving between summer and winter pastures. Everyone is in constant motion, because moving the herds means moving the tents, with all of the furnishings and accessories. Vans, trucks, and endless mule and donkey trains can be seen moving up and down roads and mountains paths for weeks. I give up organizing until those weeks pass.
The nice part about working with semi-nomadic herders is that you get to go hang out in the tents with them in the summer. High altitude grazing grounds are always cool and breezy. The mountains are beautiful, and stark. They are almost entirely bereft of trees, but lightly covered with tough bunch grasses, herbs, bushes and the occasional blades of new grasses making a break for some sunlight between the rocks. Thus, the colors of the rocks show through, with a soft haze of yellow green overlaying them. Except for the patches of forest, deep green and sparse. Those forest bits are small and shrinking, like patches of hair on a balding man’s head. They hang down in lower altitudes, too, much like said male pattern balding. I use them to teach about erosion. “See those trees? See those huge gullies cut into the mountains by the rains last year? See how they are hardly ever in the same place? That’s why trees are important!” Unfortunately, I only get to tell so many people because I work closely with only a few. They are the ones who really organize. They use their superior networking powers to contact and bring in the semi-nomadic herders. It works pretty well for the meetings, but not for the informal education.
Friday, January 15, 2010
what we eat is what eats us
We talk a lot about food here in PC Morocco. Perhaps this is because we spend a lot of time devising ways to cook our favorite comfort foods in an unfamiliar environment. Or maybe it’s because so many of us see the environmental degredation around us and worry that this will become bad enough to hurt food production in our area. Or maybe it’s because of the plethora of people out there trying to raise awareness about the precarious situation of our global food system. We read a lot in our spare time. Or all those things.
There are little to no reserves stored for future famines. Some food is produced at artificially lowered prices and used to fuel the system of mass food production that so much of the developed world lives on. That has global ramifications once you start selling that un-naturally cheap food abroad. It undercuts the local food sellers and hamstrings local food production systems. Those systems falter under that pressure, becoming dependent on the same cheap food that undercut the system in the first place. This last year, 2009, there was a bumper crop of corn and wheat in the United States. One of the highest on record, I believe. **Please forgive the lack of references… it’s very hard to research ones references when one does not have the internet or a library at one’s disposal.** Yet many, many people still starve, or suffer from malnutrition for lack of good food. There are many complicated reasons for this. MANY. There are equal numbers of proposed solutions to this problem. One thing that some claim would fix the problem is if people stopped eating meat. Be a world of vegetarians. Why? Well, it’s about the efficiency of energy transfer.
This is ecology. This is also chemistry. It’s pretty simple: life needs energy to sustain it. Plants get it (most ingeniously!) from the sun, direct. They take the sun’s energy and store it-this is the most efficient method. Animals don’t do the photosynthesis thing (we’re not that cool), so many do the next best thing: they eat the plants and steal all that stored energy, unlocking the storage units in the plant (sugars, mostly) and use it for their own purpose-this is the second most efficient method. Other animals don’t eat plants, they eat other animals, stealing that stored energy and using it for their own purposes-this is not as efficient as the previous two. So you, as an organism, can get your energy from the sun (direct, primary), from plants (indirect, secondary), or from other animals (double indirect, tertiary).
Humans are omnivores, so we get to eat just about whatever we want (but not sunlight, again, just not that cool). Pretty nice situation for us, actually. We have it set up so that we have all kinds of plants gathering energy for us (corn, wheat, carrots, potatoes, oranges…) and all kinds of animals eating those plants and converting it into tasty energy packed meat (chickens, pigs, cows…). Being omnivores, we enjoy the variety, and it keeps us healthy to boot. We are set up to run off of a variety of foods. But that means that some of our foods are efficient secondary energy (cereals, veggies, fruits) and some are less efficient tertiary energy (meats, dairy, eggs). We use a lot of the secondary food (corn, grass, etc.) to feed the tertiary food (cows, ducks, etc.). It takes a lot more energy to feed a cow until it reaches slaughter weight than it does to just eat that energy ourselves in the form of veggies and bread. So, when you eat beef, for example, you have just used all that energy it took to feed that cow, plus all the energy it took to grow the cow’s food, plus all the energy you used to get that beef from the cow to your stomach. When you eat a piece of bread, you used only the energy it took to grow the wheat, plus what it took to get the wheat to your stomach in the form of bread. Thus, beef takes up a lot more energy than bread does.
The idea then, is that if we all stopped using all that secondary food to feed our food animals, we could instead send it to those starving people and feed them. It’s not a bad idea. The math works out. So then we would stop using up land to grow secondary food for our tertiary food animals, and instead just grow that secondary food for people. To put it another way, on a lot of the land that we currently use to grow animal-feed we could be growing high quality people-feed. In light of the “starving children of Africa” (and everywhere else), this is probably something we should try to do. Hence the idea that we should be all be vegetarians. This is probably not a welcome thought to many. Many others, though, say it’s our moral responsibility.
Wait! There’s a catch. Not all land is equal. There’s a lot of land on this planet that is simply unfit for cultivation. If you plant wheat, or veggies in arid, dry land, you have a high risk of causing a lot of environmental degredation. This happens mainly through using up what little water there is in such a dry place, or through breaking up the soil. Breaking up the soil creates opportunities for erosion, especially in dry climates. Erosion means that that soil will sooner or later no longer be there at all. A better way to use such arid land for our food purposes is through well-managed grazing of food animals. Over-grazing is another good way to cause environmental degredation, but well-managed grazing can actually augument the health of an environment. So, we could use the good land for secondary food production, and the not-so-good land for tertiary food production. Maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians after all?
Well… there’s another catch, though. Grazing animals, as opposed to the current method of feeding our food animals our secondary food, means that they take longer to reach slaughter weight. Which means you can produce fewer of them per year. We, of the priviledged developed nations crowd, have gotten used to having vast quantities of meat (inefficient tertiary food) at our disposal. By manipulating the price of certain plant foods, we have made it a lot cheaper to raise up all of those tasty meat animals than it probably should be. So we get our meat, and we get it cheap. And we like it. It is tasty, and nutritious, after all. And it’s a sign of prestige to us, too. Having meat on the table has always been an indicator of wealth, because it takes so much more energy (inefficient tertiary food!) and energy will always cost money, or time, or wealth of some sort. So, if we change our system to use less land to feed the food animals, we would have less, more expensive meat. So, maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians, but that doesn’t mean we can still get our cheap meat… We might have to become a little more omnivorous than we currently are. A little bit more veggies, a little bit less meat.
**Note: there are many reasons to become a vegetarian. I didn’t touch on them all, I know. This is less about the merits of vegetarianism than it is about our general food system. Peace.
There are little to no reserves stored for future famines. Some food is produced at artificially lowered prices and used to fuel the system of mass food production that so much of the developed world lives on. That has global ramifications once you start selling that un-naturally cheap food abroad. It undercuts the local food sellers and hamstrings local food production systems. Those systems falter under that pressure, becoming dependent on the same cheap food that undercut the system in the first place. This last year, 2009, there was a bumper crop of corn and wheat in the United States. One of the highest on record, I believe. **Please forgive the lack of references… it’s very hard to research ones references when one does not have the internet or a library at one’s disposal.** Yet many, many people still starve, or suffer from malnutrition for lack of good food. There are many complicated reasons for this. MANY. There are equal numbers of proposed solutions to this problem. One thing that some claim would fix the problem is if people stopped eating meat. Be a world of vegetarians. Why? Well, it’s about the efficiency of energy transfer.
This is ecology. This is also chemistry. It’s pretty simple: life needs energy to sustain it. Plants get it (most ingeniously!) from the sun, direct. They take the sun’s energy and store it-this is the most efficient method. Animals don’t do the photosynthesis thing (we’re not that cool), so many do the next best thing: they eat the plants and steal all that stored energy, unlocking the storage units in the plant (sugars, mostly) and use it for their own purpose-this is the second most efficient method. Other animals don’t eat plants, they eat other animals, stealing that stored energy and using it for their own purposes-this is not as efficient as the previous two. So you, as an organism, can get your energy from the sun (direct, primary), from plants (indirect, secondary), or from other animals (double indirect, tertiary).
Humans are omnivores, so we get to eat just about whatever we want (but not sunlight, again, just not that cool). Pretty nice situation for us, actually. We have it set up so that we have all kinds of plants gathering energy for us (corn, wheat, carrots, potatoes, oranges…) and all kinds of animals eating those plants and converting it into tasty energy packed meat (chickens, pigs, cows…). Being omnivores, we enjoy the variety, and it keeps us healthy to boot. We are set up to run off of a variety of foods. But that means that some of our foods are efficient secondary energy (cereals, veggies, fruits) and some are less efficient tertiary energy (meats, dairy, eggs). We use a lot of the secondary food (corn, grass, etc.) to feed the tertiary food (cows, ducks, etc.). It takes a lot more energy to feed a cow until it reaches slaughter weight than it does to just eat that energy ourselves in the form of veggies and bread. So, when you eat beef, for example, you have just used all that energy it took to feed that cow, plus all the energy it took to grow the cow’s food, plus all the energy you used to get that beef from the cow to your stomach. When you eat a piece of bread, you used only the energy it took to grow the wheat, plus what it took to get the wheat to your stomach in the form of bread. Thus, beef takes up a lot more energy than bread does.
The idea then, is that if we all stopped using all that secondary food to feed our food animals, we could instead send it to those starving people and feed them. It’s not a bad idea. The math works out. So then we would stop using up land to grow secondary food for our tertiary food animals, and instead just grow that secondary food for people. To put it another way, on a lot of the land that we currently use to grow animal-feed we could be growing high quality people-feed. In light of the “starving children of Africa” (and everywhere else), this is probably something we should try to do. Hence the idea that we should be all be vegetarians. This is probably not a welcome thought to many. Many others, though, say it’s our moral responsibility.
Wait! There’s a catch. Not all land is equal. There’s a lot of land on this planet that is simply unfit for cultivation. If you plant wheat, or veggies in arid, dry land, you have a high risk of causing a lot of environmental degredation. This happens mainly through using up what little water there is in such a dry place, or through breaking up the soil. Breaking up the soil creates opportunities for erosion, especially in dry climates. Erosion means that that soil will sooner or later no longer be there at all. A better way to use such arid land for our food purposes is through well-managed grazing of food animals. Over-grazing is another good way to cause environmental degredation, but well-managed grazing can actually augument the health of an environment. So, we could use the good land for secondary food production, and the not-so-good land for tertiary food production. Maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians after all?
Well… there’s another catch, though. Grazing animals, as opposed to the current method of feeding our food animals our secondary food, means that they take longer to reach slaughter weight. Which means you can produce fewer of them per year. We, of the priviledged developed nations crowd, have gotten used to having vast quantities of meat (inefficient tertiary food) at our disposal. By manipulating the price of certain plant foods, we have made it a lot cheaper to raise up all of those tasty meat animals than it probably should be. So we get our meat, and we get it cheap. And we like it. It is tasty, and nutritious, after all. And it’s a sign of prestige to us, too. Having meat on the table has always been an indicator of wealth, because it takes so much more energy (inefficient tertiary food!) and energy will always cost money, or time, or wealth of some sort. So, if we change our system to use less land to feed the food animals, we would have less, more expensive meat. So, maybe we don’t have to be vegetarians, but that doesn’t mean we can still get our cheap meat… We might have to become a little more omnivorous than we currently are. A little bit more veggies, a little bit less meat.
**Note: there are many reasons to become a vegetarian. I didn’t touch on them all, I know. This is less about the merits of vegetarianism than it is about our general food system. Peace.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Bus Ride
We were sitting
Not moving, again.
For a long time
My impatience
Swelling, sweltering as still air
sun beating down.
I watched the man
Moving boxes and bags
And satchels and suitcase,
His whole life maybe,
In a grey peacoat
Against the nonexistent cold.
I woke to the rumble
Fading as the engine switches
In gear it doesn’t shake so bad-
The bus sways
Lumbering: a pregnant camel
Darting mouselike in traffic.
Soft whisper breeze!
The top is open, the air
sidles in
Caressing sweat-beaded skin.
I can breathe, and patience
Whisks in with my friend
Wind.
We are moving fast now.
Past endless rows of eucalyptus trees
Dusty green leaves, blood red trunks spindly
Rooted in the pale earth,
reaching skinnily for the pale sky.
Scant shade hunches under the branches
Herds cluster there in tight sheep scrums
But how can they breathe all smushed?
The breeze brings
Outside smells in
Hot pavement, hot dust, hot treebark
Pungent, fresh, medicinal.
The girl, she was next to me.
The one with the pristine white towel.
She is carsick.
See it in her haste, the way
she holds her cheeks?
She is vomiting,
Quietly, quietly.
No smell, no sound.
Only the mika betrays her
Rustling.
She will wipe her mouth with the towel
Tie up the bag and go to sleep.
Will I betray myself?
When I see him
Maybe I will give him a hug
Smile in his eyes
And hope no one I know
Was on this bus
To carry tales of the hidden forbidden
Back to where they matter
Maybe-
I will just take his hand
And we will slip away
Hiding in the city,
Wind crouching behind the leaves,
Among the trees
Slipping slowly by my window.
Not moving, again.
For a long time
My impatience
Swelling, sweltering as still air
sun beating down.
I watched the man
Moving boxes and bags
And satchels and suitcase,
His whole life maybe,
In a grey peacoat
Against the nonexistent cold.
I woke to the rumble
Fading as the engine switches
In gear it doesn’t shake so bad-
The bus sways
Lumbering: a pregnant camel
Darting mouselike in traffic.
Soft whisper breeze!
The top is open, the air
sidles in
Caressing sweat-beaded skin.
I can breathe, and patience
Whisks in with my friend
Wind.
We are moving fast now.
Past endless rows of eucalyptus trees
Dusty green leaves, blood red trunks spindly
Rooted in the pale earth,
reaching skinnily for the pale sky.
Scant shade hunches under the branches
Herds cluster there in tight sheep scrums
But how can they breathe all smushed?
The breeze brings
Outside smells in
Hot pavement, hot dust, hot treebark
Pungent, fresh, medicinal.
The girl, she was next to me.
The one with the pristine white towel.
She is carsick.
See it in her haste, the way
she holds her cheeks?
She is vomiting,
Quietly, quietly.
No smell, no sound.
Only the mika betrays her
Rustling.
She will wipe her mouth with the towel
Tie up the bag and go to sleep.
Will I betray myself?
When I see him
Maybe I will give him a hug
Smile in his eyes
And hope no one I know
Was on this bus
To carry tales of the hidden forbidden
Back to where they matter
Maybe-
I will just take his hand
And we will slip away
Hiding in the city,
Wind crouching behind the leaves,
Among the trees
Slipping slowly by my window.
Arabic Lessons
It finally happened! As fate, or God, or luck would have it, I had pretty much nothing to do with it. I don’t care, it’s still AWESOME!! 30 some odd women, adult women, are now taking Arabic lessons! They have committed to trying to reduce illiteracy in our little village by becoming literate themselves. For many, this means they are stepping into the classroom for the first time in their 50 some years of life. For others it means picking up the chalk and pencil after a much extended break.
The reasons women in my village stop going to school are many. These days, it’s mostly because they have finished all the schooling that is readily available for them. Most families are not comfortable sending their pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters away to school, so once they finish the 6th form, they are done, for good. Those who really care about and are lucky enough to have family somewhere where the girls can safely stay while they study may choose to allow their daughters to continue. However, many don’t have that option. A few families still choose to pull their daughters even earlier. They may need help around the house, or help running the semi-nomadic tents out in the grazing grounds. This is still a vast improvement over days not so very long gone by. It used to be a family would choose maybe one or two kids out of the 6-10 they had to go to school at all. My tutor was one of the only children his parents sent to school. He has shared his literacy with both his younger sister and his wife. He is also a school-teacher here, passing on the gift to some hundreds of kids.
Last week, after months of suspense, the women’s literacy classes started. They started with the generosity of an association from Boulmane, a nearby city. The local preschool teacher got in contact with them (on her own!!!!), and then beat the dirt paths (on her own, between the classes she already teaches!!!!!!!) gathering women’s names and ID numbers so the association in Boulmane could be confident of interest levels. This association then called in the regional Ministry of Agriculture, and together they put up some money. I watched as they handed out the goods so the women could get started. Slates, chalk, pens, pencils and THREE books for each woman! Level 1, Level 2 and an educational reader about agriculture and agricultural science. It was so much fun to see them take the books, and then to come to their first class two days later… bright, excited eyes. Books carried carefully. The odd baby strapped to a back, while it’s mother shifted endlessly from foot to foot to calm it, pen in hand ready to learn. Shy and a bit self-conscious, they didn’t know what to do when the teacher wrote the first letter of the Arabic alphabet on the board. “Aleef! Ah!” she said and turned around to awkward silence. “What… do we… do?” muttered one voice, and the entire room burst into laughter. She hastened to explain, and off they went (like a herd of turtles…). I learned a bit myself, but soon found that I could be of more help guiding hands unused to writing into the proper way to make a circle with a tail on it (“Wa-oh! Oww!).
Just a couple days ago I dropped in on a family that I like to hang out with. They are very, very kind, insisting that I am like another daughter to them, and point blank refusing to let me leave the house without some form of sustenance either in my hands or my belly. Friendly, full of laughter, and out-spoken; they are a good antidote to the unfamiliar families who are still quiet and modest around me. The mother of the family is one of the women studying Arabic for the first time. She was one who had a very difficult time forming the letters that first day. I hadn’t been back for a while, but while we sat by the fire warming our hands, she said “Wait!” jumped up and disappeared. She returned with a sheet of paper completely covered with the number 8 drawn over and over and over and over and over… You could see on it the progression of 8’s. They started out huge, lop-sided, scratchy and barely recognizable. They ended neat, small and quite clearly “8”! She was so proud of herself, yet still self-effacing. She started working on the number 9 while I was sitting there, and her 10-year-old son watched her, giving helpful criticism respectfully and proudly. He too, is happy to see his mother studying. This is one family where the older children have gone on to high school if they wanted, girls and boys. Now, finally, their mother is joining them in the ranks of the educated. I am so happy for them I could shine!
The reasons women in my village stop going to school are many. These days, it’s mostly because they have finished all the schooling that is readily available for them. Most families are not comfortable sending their pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters away to school, so once they finish the 6th form, they are done, for good. Those who really care about and are lucky enough to have family somewhere where the girls can safely stay while they study may choose to allow their daughters to continue. However, many don’t have that option. A few families still choose to pull their daughters even earlier. They may need help around the house, or help running the semi-nomadic tents out in the grazing grounds. This is still a vast improvement over days not so very long gone by. It used to be a family would choose maybe one or two kids out of the 6-10 they had to go to school at all. My tutor was one of the only children his parents sent to school. He has shared his literacy with both his younger sister and his wife. He is also a school-teacher here, passing on the gift to some hundreds of kids.
Last week, after months of suspense, the women’s literacy classes started. They started with the generosity of an association from Boulmane, a nearby city. The local preschool teacher got in contact with them (on her own!!!!), and then beat the dirt paths (on her own, between the classes she already teaches!!!!!!!) gathering women’s names and ID numbers so the association in Boulmane could be confident of interest levels. This association then called in the regional Ministry of Agriculture, and together they put up some money. I watched as they handed out the goods so the women could get started. Slates, chalk, pens, pencils and THREE books for each woman! Level 1, Level 2 and an educational reader about agriculture and agricultural science. It was so much fun to see them take the books, and then to come to their first class two days later… bright, excited eyes. Books carried carefully. The odd baby strapped to a back, while it’s mother shifted endlessly from foot to foot to calm it, pen in hand ready to learn. Shy and a bit self-conscious, they didn’t know what to do when the teacher wrote the first letter of the Arabic alphabet on the board. “Aleef! Ah!” she said and turned around to awkward silence. “What… do we… do?” muttered one voice, and the entire room burst into laughter. She hastened to explain, and off they went (like a herd of turtles…). I learned a bit myself, but soon found that I could be of more help guiding hands unused to writing into the proper way to make a circle with a tail on it (“Wa-oh! Oww!).
Just a couple days ago I dropped in on a family that I like to hang out with. They are very, very kind, insisting that I am like another daughter to them, and point blank refusing to let me leave the house without some form of sustenance either in my hands or my belly. Friendly, full of laughter, and out-spoken; they are a good antidote to the unfamiliar families who are still quiet and modest around me. The mother of the family is one of the women studying Arabic for the first time. She was one who had a very difficult time forming the letters that first day. I hadn’t been back for a while, but while we sat by the fire warming our hands, she said “Wait!” jumped up and disappeared. She returned with a sheet of paper completely covered with the number 8 drawn over and over and over and over and over… You could see on it the progression of 8’s. They started out huge, lop-sided, scratchy and barely recognizable. They ended neat, small and quite clearly “8”! She was so proud of herself, yet still self-effacing. She started working on the number 9 while I was sitting there, and her 10-year-old son watched her, giving helpful criticism respectfully and proudly. He too, is happy to see his mother studying. This is one family where the older children have gone on to high school if they wanted, girls and boys. Now, finally, their mother is joining them in the ranks of the educated. I am so happy for them I could shine!
10 November 2009
Autum ambles to the ending…
It’s late fall, the harvests are almost all in. Only the olive trees still wait for gathering. The people are feeding tree clippings to their animals. They do this before all the leaves fall off, so as to more efficiently use the produce of the trees. This doesn’t allow the soil to be enriched by as many decomposing leaves, but most of the soil in farm fields here in my site is carefully husbanded, so it seems to work out anyway.
I helped with the corn harvest again this year. Not nearly the ordeal it was last year… Last year the corn harvest was done in the rain (it started raining in September and I swear it didn’t stop until December last year). So, the river was at flood and we had to go the really long way around to the bridge (tack on 12+ km roundtrip), and all the paths were slippery with mud. The fields were deep mud, too. The mules sunk in up to their hocks and knees. I remember I slipped and fell on a steep path and the mule I had charge of almost ran me over before I could get a hold of a strong enough tree branch to pull myself up.
This year it was a gorgeous, sunny fall day (we have had many of those this year!). I started helping late, so mostly I just carried a mid-morning snack to the workers who had been there all morning. Then, we finished pulling the corncobs of the stalks (by hand… corn leaves give the best paper cuts you have ever seen), loaded up the mules with bags of cobs, and a few stalks for quick fodder for the cows and sheep, cleaned up from the snack, and hauled it all back to the house. The system of harvest is: the men cut the stalks with short hand-scythes, and lay them on the ground in loose bundles. Then the women follow pulling the corncobs off the stalks, stuffing them into bags and carrying them to the mules. Everyone loads the mules up, and a couple men take the mules from field to house over and over until the corn is all gathered in. The corn is then all piled up somewhere, and whoever has spare time (old men, women of all ages, girls, kids) shuck the corn by hand. The shucked cobs are carried up to the roofs in bags by the able-bodied women, and piled in narrow, long, thin piles to dry in the sun. In my host family’s house this is a communal task completed mostly by extended family. My host father is too busy with his other work (he’s town sheikh, and traditional healer for the region), and my host mother is not able-bodied. They use me when they can, when I remember to offer. I’m sturdy, and not afraid of big, hairy, smelly (but generally very gentle) mules. Besides, I kind of like helping out with harvests. Even in the states I’ll help drive a tractor chopping corn if I get the chance. The smells of corn, corns stalks, and mud all remind me forcibly of Wisconsin in the fall. It’s like a little gulp of home.
Corn in general, actually… in the summer I’ve been known to go sit in a corn field for half an hour just to hear the whisper and rustle of corn leaves growing in a light breeze and full sunlight. It smells good, and sounds better.
It’s getting cold now. After a long, mild fall, it is finally getting chilly. For three days we had powerful winds blowing through. Winter winds. They call it “atho”. The “th” is a soft, emphatic “t”—a sound we don’t really have in English. It’s an apt name though, strong and hard. Atho is unpleasant… it cuts through the thickest of layers, picks up grit and dust and throws it everywhere. If you don’t shut up the house, a fine layer of it coats everything quickly. Today we are granted a reprieve: warm sunlight and a soft breeze again.
I did my laundry and hung it to dry maybe two hours ago. Most of it is already dry! It’s amazing how quickly things will dry here… in the summer my bandanas are dry within 10 minutes of being hung up. My skin is dry, too… fingers peeling and cracking. It’s not gonna get any better with the cold winter months. I apply lotion multiple times daily, and try to protect my hands from harsh soap by wearing gloves for laundry and dishes, but… Well, thus far the dryness just comes and goes, comes and goes. I remember my doctor in the states—2 and a half years ago—looking at my hands, giving me hydrocortisone, and saying “Use that three times daily, and we’ll hope it doesn’t become chronic.” Chronic, that would definitely be the word!Nonetheless, I generally like this weather. Warm and fuzzy clothing is comfortable again! I huddle under warm blankets, relish steaming tea, and contemplate purchasing a better gas space heater. I enjoy the warmth of my computer on my lap! I go to the hammam and sit in the steamy heat and soak it in, not worrying about heat exhaustion like I would in the summer. Fall is a good season. And here it is, almost over. Farewell, fall!
It’s late fall, the harvests are almost all in. Only the olive trees still wait for gathering. The people are feeding tree clippings to their animals. They do this before all the leaves fall off, so as to more efficiently use the produce of the trees. This doesn’t allow the soil to be enriched by as many decomposing leaves, but most of the soil in farm fields here in my site is carefully husbanded, so it seems to work out anyway.
I helped with the corn harvest again this year. Not nearly the ordeal it was last year… Last year the corn harvest was done in the rain (it started raining in September and I swear it didn’t stop until December last year). So, the river was at flood and we had to go the really long way around to the bridge (tack on 12+ km roundtrip), and all the paths were slippery with mud. The fields were deep mud, too. The mules sunk in up to their hocks and knees. I remember I slipped and fell on a steep path and the mule I had charge of almost ran me over before I could get a hold of a strong enough tree branch to pull myself up.
This year it was a gorgeous, sunny fall day (we have had many of those this year!). I started helping late, so mostly I just carried a mid-morning snack to the workers who had been there all morning. Then, we finished pulling the corncobs of the stalks (by hand… corn leaves give the best paper cuts you have ever seen), loaded up the mules with bags of cobs, and a few stalks for quick fodder for the cows and sheep, cleaned up from the snack, and hauled it all back to the house. The system of harvest is: the men cut the stalks with short hand-scythes, and lay them on the ground in loose bundles. Then the women follow pulling the corncobs off the stalks, stuffing them into bags and carrying them to the mules. Everyone loads the mules up, and a couple men take the mules from field to house over and over until the corn is all gathered in. The corn is then all piled up somewhere, and whoever has spare time (old men, women of all ages, girls, kids) shuck the corn by hand. The shucked cobs are carried up to the roofs in bags by the able-bodied women, and piled in narrow, long, thin piles to dry in the sun. In my host family’s house this is a communal task completed mostly by extended family. My host father is too busy with his other work (he’s town sheikh, and traditional healer for the region), and my host mother is not able-bodied. They use me when they can, when I remember to offer. I’m sturdy, and not afraid of big, hairy, smelly (but generally very gentle) mules. Besides, I kind of like helping out with harvests. Even in the states I’ll help drive a tractor chopping corn if I get the chance. The smells of corn, corns stalks, and mud all remind me forcibly of Wisconsin in the fall. It’s like a little gulp of home.
Corn in general, actually… in the summer I’ve been known to go sit in a corn field for half an hour just to hear the whisper and rustle of corn leaves growing in a light breeze and full sunlight. It smells good, and sounds better.
It’s getting cold now. After a long, mild fall, it is finally getting chilly. For three days we had powerful winds blowing through. Winter winds. They call it “atho”. The “th” is a soft, emphatic “t”—a sound we don’t really have in English. It’s an apt name though, strong and hard. Atho is unpleasant… it cuts through the thickest of layers, picks up grit and dust and throws it everywhere. If you don’t shut up the house, a fine layer of it coats everything quickly. Today we are granted a reprieve: warm sunlight and a soft breeze again.
I did my laundry and hung it to dry maybe two hours ago. Most of it is already dry! It’s amazing how quickly things will dry here… in the summer my bandanas are dry within 10 minutes of being hung up. My skin is dry, too… fingers peeling and cracking. It’s not gonna get any better with the cold winter months. I apply lotion multiple times daily, and try to protect my hands from harsh soap by wearing gloves for laundry and dishes, but… Well, thus far the dryness just comes and goes, comes and goes. I remember my doctor in the states—2 and a half years ago—looking at my hands, giving me hydrocortisone, and saying “Use that three times daily, and we’ll hope it doesn’t become chronic.” Chronic, that would definitely be the word!Nonetheless, I generally like this weather. Warm and fuzzy clothing is comfortable again! I huddle under warm blankets, relish steaming tea, and contemplate purchasing a better gas space heater. I enjoy the warmth of my computer on my lap! I go to the hammam and sit in the steamy heat and soak it in, not worrying about heat exhaustion like I would in the summer. Fall is a good season. And here it is, almost over. Farewell, fall!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Walking the Streets
Why is it that I can expect to be ogled and catcalled and spoken of in slippery or even sleazy terms on almost every single street I walk down in a city/large town here? This is a question that I have been turning over and over and over in my mind, like a worry stone, since I got here. Never, in any other place (not Tanzania, not Ecuador, Mexico, Spain, Argentina, England, Scotland, France, Italy, nor Chicago, Minneapolis, Madison, Portland, San Francisco, Boston nor Naples) have I ever experienced the level and frequency of not-really-comfortable attention on the streets that I have here. In cities, large or small, it happens. Understand, as a fair-complexioned person one gets a substantial amount of attention on the streets in, say Latin America or in Tanzania or in Italy. It’s not the same though. It doesn’t feel the same on my skin, or in my head. That is a second question that I might write about some other time.
I have been hesitating to write about this phenomenon in detail for some time, because I wanted to think it over, and to puzzle out a few of the whys and wherefores before I put my opinion to anything. This is a complex issue, running the gamut of culture, politics, history, and religion. Thus, particularly as a Peace Corps Volunteer blogging about such things, I have to be very careful.
What do I think about this? Culture clash, globalization and adaptation, that’s what I think in five words or less. Morocco has been subject to the influence of many factors over recent and less-recent history. If you go back (way back) and boil it down to generalizations, there were Berbers, and then the Romans came (yes, the Romans of Pax Romana, way back when. They left cool ruins here.), and the Berbers and the Romans figured out how to live together. The next conquerors were the Arabs, (who melded in very nicely after the military take over) and then the Spanish and then the French, though in different ways (who might not have melded so much). And then came globalization and the influence of the US/Western culture through media, economics, and technology sharing. The details are important, but I’m not going there. This isn’t a senior thesis, these are just a few thoughts. Anyway, those are the major players. Over and over, the people of Morocco have been influenced to one degree or another by invaders, Protectorates, movies, and political revolutions. And each new change has created shockwaves, adaptations, and subtly changed the culture of Morocco itself. Thus, the Berbers were over time driven into the mountains, where they still stay, continuing their culture through language, dance, etc., but they have long since been Muslims, every mother’s son and daughter of them. The plains are a mix of Berber, Arab, French, African heritage and culture. Nowadays, the mountains and the plains are full of exchange and trade with each other, all filtered through the lens of religion and cumulative culture. Then add to that the influence of mass media layered over top of it all. Perhaps you can see why I’ve been biding my time trying to figure this out?
Well, I’m not so sure I’ve figured it out, but I have a few observations. Firstly, the Islamic faith is the base upon which much of this culture clash and adaptation occurs. Most every Moroccan at least claims to be Muslim. I have heard a variety of opinions about the sincerity of faith concerning the general population, but the point is that every single Moroccan, whatever their sincerity of faith, is very much under the influence of Islamic morals, rules, and boundaries.
Secondly, those boundaries affect everything. There is a distinct boundary between men and women. This was my first realization, upon an encounter with a deeply religious man who would not even look at me or converse with me, not even when we were working on a project together. I had to let men talk with him for me. This encounter made the divide between men and women real for me. There is room for behavior like his in this culture. It is seen as extreme, but he is respected for his convictions. I will hazard a guess that any man who chooses to completely ignore the presence of a woman for any reason (particularly in a profession setting) in the US would be subject to some form of censure, either from their peers or the woman in question.
There is another boundary between the public and the private. It is a part of the boundary between men and women as well, and I don’t pretend to fully understand it. Here’s what I do get to some degree. Women, in particular, usually change between what they wear at home and what they wear in the streets (or to answer the door) quite a bit. And that doesn’t mean they get prettied up, no, it means they get covered up. For most women here that means covered from neck to wrist and ankle in loose clothing, plus a headscarf that covers at least the hair and probably the neck as well. Interestingly, this difference is mostly in degree. Even in the states I would probably cover up a revealing undershirt to go answer the door, depending upon whom I spied through the window. Of course, that might mean putting on a t-shirt, not a moo-moo. This changing is commonplace, but it was clarified for me when I observed a close friend wearing flattering, western style clothing in her house (to please her husband) and then covering up to go outside in the familiar loose clothing. I asked her about it and she went so far as to say, “I don’t care what I look like outside, I want/need to look beautiful while I am in the house!” I could only blink… surely this is the opposite of what most women in the States think? To us, going out means you ought to look good, if not spectacular, depending on where you are going. The home is where you relax, where you can stop worrying about appearances, because that is where the people who love you are, who will love you even if you look like a sloppy college student half the time. Again, to a degree, this is common ground. Here in Morocco, too, home is where you can relax, but not for the same reasons. Home is where a woman can relax because she doesn’t have to guard her appearance from the men (as much) because they are her close relatives, her protectors, and (of course) her loved ones. In other words, these men can be trusted. Their roles are defined, be it protector, lover, or provider.
Also, the private is what you care for; it is your place, your sanctuary, your little kingdom, and your responsibility. It ends outside your door, and the public is not anyone’s place, nor is it precisely anyone’s responsibility. Technically it is everyone’s but that doesn’t seem to stop many people from instead treating it as though it is no one’s. Thus, the home and its traditions are set and guarded, and much of the culture clash and its reverberations occur on the streets, where no watchful eye gazes.
The streets! Anything could happen in the streets. Freedom from the house, you can go where you choose (no walls), you can look at other people (strangers, even), you may talk to other people, no one is looking over your shoulder, no one is protecting you but you; it is not “safe.” A young man who is just coming up against the feelings puberty is shoving through his veins to his brain can explore what the reaction of a young woman might be to certain comment he would never dare make in earshot of his parents. A young woman dealing with similar hormonal changes can cast eyes at people and enjoy their effects. She would not stop to talk to someone she doesn’t know well, though. That might raise too many eyebrows, and she wants to maintain her honor. Who knows, her future husband may see her and be attracted enough to approach her parents, but only if she is seen as respectable. A married woman must guard herself if she is alone, for her honor and her family’s is in her hands and could be assaulted by one of those young men, maybe. She does not wear very flattering clothes or cast eyes about. Attention is not her aim. A married man can look at all manner of people, man and woman, and wonder. After all, for him, looking is free.
Enough about boundaries, there are more, but enough for now. Now throw into the mix a foreigner, a young woman, who sees her freedom on the streets as well. But maybe not exactly the same kind of freedom. She goes to the streets to be seen and to meet people, quite possibly, but she doesn’t think of seeing and meeting in the same way. She goes to explore, for she has been taught that the world is her playground, same as anyone’s. That being seen or talking to a stranger should affect her honor is a foreign concept. Her choice of clothing is not based on the same parameters that are in effect here. What she sees as perfectly reasonable summer wear looks like the bottom layer of undergarments to most men here. Which has a predictable effect: when they look at her they think immediately of one thing. Sex. And if they can get that, then maybe they can get a passport, too, or maybe money. They try to get her attention any way they can think of, because they know this might be their only chance to meet her. They know the boundaries she lives by (and we do have boundaries, though I’m not sure I would have applied that word before I came here… maybe I would have said bounds, or social mores instead) are different, and more flexible than the boundaries used here. They don’t know them, though, beyond what they see on the not-very-good American movies shown on the movie channels. You and I both know that movies don’t necessarily paint an accurate picture of social values and mores either. Movies exaggerate and focus on the strange or extraordinary for entertainment’s sake. So they yell a phrase they memorized from the subtitled movies, maybe “Kiss me, beautiful!” Or maybe something else.
Which leaves said young foreign woman in a bit of a bind. Any effort to talk to the young man may be seen as a type of flirting (even if the words are along the lines of “Shut up and go back to you mother!”), any glance or glare is sure to be seen the same way (for haven’t the movies shown that Western women are prickly and sassy?), and any gestures that might express frustration are sure to escalate the situation in a bad way. Strategy number one is that of the previously mentioned married women: prevention (don’t dress attractively, and don’t cast your eyes about/don’t look at anyone) and then pretend it didn’t happen if it does happen. It’s just words anyway, and as they say, ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.’ Well, they might be irritating, the 14th or 40th time in a row they are heard… and they might be insulting (American women do have honor… and we don’t like it when it’s impinged upon any more than any one else does) but surely they are no more than water rolling of a duck’s back. So long as one keeps one’s back well oiled. J
Fascinating, right? I think so too. The question and it’s associated thoughts are sure to continue to fascinate me as I turn them over and over and over, like a worry stone in my pocket.
P.S. In pursuit of an understanding of some of the subjects touched on, I have begun reading some of the works of Fatima Mernissi, a noted scholar from Morocco. Her book, Beyond the Veil, is a fascinating scholarly work that has cleared a lot of things up for me, as well as raising a lot of excellent questions. I recommend it, and also (for a lighter read) her memoir Dreams of Trespass. Happy reading!
I have been hesitating to write about this phenomenon in detail for some time, because I wanted to think it over, and to puzzle out a few of the whys and wherefores before I put my opinion to anything. This is a complex issue, running the gamut of culture, politics, history, and religion. Thus, particularly as a Peace Corps Volunteer blogging about such things, I have to be very careful.
What do I think about this? Culture clash, globalization and adaptation, that’s what I think in five words or less. Morocco has been subject to the influence of many factors over recent and less-recent history. If you go back (way back) and boil it down to generalizations, there were Berbers, and then the Romans came (yes, the Romans of Pax Romana, way back when. They left cool ruins here.), and the Berbers and the Romans figured out how to live together. The next conquerors were the Arabs, (who melded in very nicely after the military take over) and then the Spanish and then the French, though in different ways (who might not have melded so much). And then came globalization and the influence of the US/Western culture through media, economics, and technology sharing. The details are important, but I’m not going there. This isn’t a senior thesis, these are just a few thoughts. Anyway, those are the major players. Over and over, the people of Morocco have been influenced to one degree or another by invaders, Protectorates, movies, and political revolutions. And each new change has created shockwaves, adaptations, and subtly changed the culture of Morocco itself. Thus, the Berbers were over time driven into the mountains, where they still stay, continuing their culture through language, dance, etc., but they have long since been Muslims, every mother’s son and daughter of them. The plains are a mix of Berber, Arab, French, African heritage and culture. Nowadays, the mountains and the plains are full of exchange and trade with each other, all filtered through the lens of religion and cumulative culture. Then add to that the influence of mass media layered over top of it all. Perhaps you can see why I’ve been biding my time trying to figure this out?
Well, I’m not so sure I’ve figured it out, but I have a few observations. Firstly, the Islamic faith is the base upon which much of this culture clash and adaptation occurs. Most every Moroccan at least claims to be Muslim. I have heard a variety of opinions about the sincerity of faith concerning the general population, but the point is that every single Moroccan, whatever their sincerity of faith, is very much under the influence of Islamic morals, rules, and boundaries.
Secondly, those boundaries affect everything. There is a distinct boundary between men and women. This was my first realization, upon an encounter with a deeply religious man who would not even look at me or converse with me, not even when we were working on a project together. I had to let men talk with him for me. This encounter made the divide between men and women real for me. There is room for behavior like his in this culture. It is seen as extreme, but he is respected for his convictions. I will hazard a guess that any man who chooses to completely ignore the presence of a woman for any reason (particularly in a profession setting) in the US would be subject to some form of censure, either from their peers or the woman in question.
There is another boundary between the public and the private. It is a part of the boundary between men and women as well, and I don’t pretend to fully understand it. Here’s what I do get to some degree. Women, in particular, usually change between what they wear at home and what they wear in the streets (or to answer the door) quite a bit. And that doesn’t mean they get prettied up, no, it means they get covered up. For most women here that means covered from neck to wrist and ankle in loose clothing, plus a headscarf that covers at least the hair and probably the neck as well. Interestingly, this difference is mostly in degree. Even in the states I would probably cover up a revealing undershirt to go answer the door, depending upon whom I spied through the window. Of course, that might mean putting on a t-shirt, not a moo-moo. This changing is commonplace, but it was clarified for me when I observed a close friend wearing flattering, western style clothing in her house (to please her husband) and then covering up to go outside in the familiar loose clothing. I asked her about it and she went so far as to say, “I don’t care what I look like outside, I want/need to look beautiful while I am in the house!” I could only blink… surely this is the opposite of what most women in the States think? To us, going out means you ought to look good, if not spectacular, depending on where you are going. The home is where you relax, where you can stop worrying about appearances, because that is where the people who love you are, who will love you even if you look like a sloppy college student half the time. Again, to a degree, this is common ground. Here in Morocco, too, home is where you can relax, but not for the same reasons. Home is where a woman can relax because she doesn’t have to guard her appearance from the men (as much) because they are her close relatives, her protectors, and (of course) her loved ones. In other words, these men can be trusted. Their roles are defined, be it protector, lover, or provider.
Also, the private is what you care for; it is your place, your sanctuary, your little kingdom, and your responsibility. It ends outside your door, and the public is not anyone’s place, nor is it precisely anyone’s responsibility. Technically it is everyone’s but that doesn’t seem to stop many people from instead treating it as though it is no one’s. Thus, the home and its traditions are set and guarded, and much of the culture clash and its reverberations occur on the streets, where no watchful eye gazes.
The streets! Anything could happen in the streets. Freedom from the house, you can go where you choose (no walls), you can look at other people (strangers, even), you may talk to other people, no one is looking over your shoulder, no one is protecting you but you; it is not “safe.” A young man who is just coming up against the feelings puberty is shoving through his veins to his brain can explore what the reaction of a young woman might be to certain comment he would never dare make in earshot of his parents. A young woman dealing with similar hormonal changes can cast eyes at people and enjoy their effects. She would not stop to talk to someone she doesn’t know well, though. That might raise too many eyebrows, and she wants to maintain her honor. Who knows, her future husband may see her and be attracted enough to approach her parents, but only if she is seen as respectable. A married woman must guard herself if she is alone, for her honor and her family’s is in her hands and could be assaulted by one of those young men, maybe. She does not wear very flattering clothes or cast eyes about. Attention is not her aim. A married man can look at all manner of people, man and woman, and wonder. After all, for him, looking is free.
Enough about boundaries, there are more, but enough for now. Now throw into the mix a foreigner, a young woman, who sees her freedom on the streets as well. But maybe not exactly the same kind of freedom. She goes to the streets to be seen and to meet people, quite possibly, but she doesn’t think of seeing and meeting in the same way. She goes to explore, for she has been taught that the world is her playground, same as anyone’s. That being seen or talking to a stranger should affect her honor is a foreign concept. Her choice of clothing is not based on the same parameters that are in effect here. What she sees as perfectly reasonable summer wear looks like the bottom layer of undergarments to most men here. Which has a predictable effect: when they look at her they think immediately of one thing. Sex. And if they can get that, then maybe they can get a passport, too, or maybe money. They try to get her attention any way they can think of, because they know this might be their only chance to meet her. They know the boundaries she lives by (and we do have boundaries, though I’m not sure I would have applied that word before I came here… maybe I would have said bounds, or social mores instead) are different, and more flexible than the boundaries used here. They don’t know them, though, beyond what they see on the not-very-good American movies shown on the movie channels. You and I both know that movies don’t necessarily paint an accurate picture of social values and mores either. Movies exaggerate and focus on the strange or extraordinary for entertainment’s sake. So they yell a phrase they memorized from the subtitled movies, maybe “Kiss me, beautiful!” Or maybe something else.
Which leaves said young foreign woman in a bit of a bind. Any effort to talk to the young man may be seen as a type of flirting (even if the words are along the lines of “Shut up and go back to you mother!”), any glance or glare is sure to be seen the same way (for haven’t the movies shown that Western women are prickly and sassy?), and any gestures that might express frustration are sure to escalate the situation in a bad way. Strategy number one is that of the previously mentioned married women: prevention (don’t dress attractively, and don’t cast your eyes about/don’t look at anyone) and then pretend it didn’t happen if it does happen. It’s just words anyway, and as they say, ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.’ Well, they might be irritating, the 14th or 40th time in a row they are heard… and they might be insulting (American women do have honor… and we don’t like it when it’s impinged upon any more than any one else does) but surely they are no more than water rolling of a duck’s back. So long as one keeps one’s back well oiled. J
Fascinating, right? I think so too. The question and it’s associated thoughts are sure to continue to fascinate me as I turn them over and over and over, like a worry stone in my pocket.
P.S. In pursuit of an understanding of some of the subjects touched on, I have begun reading some of the works of Fatima Mernissi, a noted scholar from Morocco. Her book, Beyond the Veil, is a fascinating scholarly work that has cleared a lot of things up for me, as well as raising a lot of excellent questions. I recommend it, and also (for a lighter read) her memoir Dreams of Trespass. Happy reading!
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