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 Got Steam Heat!

How many of you own and frequently use pressure cookers? I thought so, not very many. If my grandmother is reading this, she at least would point out that, while she may not use her pressure cooker frequently any more, it certainly saw heavy use in her days manning the kitchen. I remember, as a small child, sitting on a stool as I played with the left over pie dough on the yellowy-green of the counter running the length of her very narrow and long kitchen, and listening to the intermittent hisses and spits and clicks of her large pressure cooker as it did its duty on the scalloped potatoes. The smells of beef or pork or fish escaping the oven, the heat of the steam shooting out the pressure valve on the pressure cooker, and the delicate strawberries embroidered along the scalloped edges on her perfectly white kitchen curtains. I must have asked her what that thing making all the noise was, because she explained to me what that large pot so furiously spounting steam was. And then proceeded to sing it’s praises, how it saves time, money, and made things tender and sweet in the process.

I have learned the art of the kukut (pressure cooker) here in Morocco. And now, I’m following in Grandma’s footsteps: kukuts rule, other pots drool! Well, there are many uses for the typical pot, perhaps I should not belittle them in my quest to praise the almighty kukut. But in all seriousness, it’s AWESOME. It saves time, tenderizes beans, and makes my butagaz tank last a lot longer than it otherwise would. Lentils take a good hour to cook to softness in a pot (or more, depending on how soft you want it), but a kukut does the same job in under 20 minutes (including the time it takes it come to pressure). Less time is less gas burned for the flame, meaning more gas for later, which means fewer trips up and down my steep and uneven stairs lugging a 3 foot tall almost 2 feet in diameter tank. Much appreciated! Less time cooking also means less time between hungry and not-hungry-anymore-thank-you! Plus, no matter how long you soak a bean, it’s hard to get it properly tender without the help of that added pressure inside the kukut.

So, basically, I’m a fan. Keep that steam shooting out of the pressure valve, let the music of the top piece dancing and skittering and spitting announce to my neighbor’s I am cooking, because I’ve got steam heat taking me all the way to the dinner table, and it’s one thing I will definitely be taking back with me to the States. No kitchen should be without a kukut.