The Travails of CNSS

As is often the case, Morocco sees cause to regulate those who work within its borders. It has a wonderful little organization called the "Caisse Nationale de sécurité sociale" (CNSS) or "National Social Security Fund". Like all those who work here officially, I am required to register, and my paycheck is deducted every month for the benefit of the retired.

Today I had the pleasure of visiting the Meknes CNSS office, located just across the street from the Al-amir Train Station (colloquailly known as "gare sghrir" or "small train station"). My objectives: get a new CNSS card and get an attestation that I have been paying my CNSS dues in order to renew my work visa.

At first things went splendid. The woman in the back office listed all the documents I would need. I returned home, got them, and revisited the labyrinthine offices of the CNSS. The woman was content. She paper-clipped everything together and took it into a second office to gave it to a man who, she assured me, would take care of it. As I walked with her toward the same office (conveniently the same place I needed to visit for my attestation), I thanked her, "Blessings of God be upon you. God preserve you."

After a wait timed to provide me an adequate opportunity to contemplate the meaning of my existence, I was beckoned into the second office. The man behind the next began speaking to me in English. For the next five minutes he regaled me with tales of his English studies at the University a few decades earlier. They had read "Absalom, Absalom". Who was the author? Ah yes, Faulkner. Thank you. You lose the language so quickly when you don't practice it...

"You speak English well, though," I flattered him. When we eventually got around to the business of my attestation he asked for a copy of my ID card. I explained that I had given it to the woman who had given it to the man right over there. I pointed to the man at the next desk over.

"I'll need to see that for a second."

I walked over to the other desk and politely asked for the paper. "He would like to see it." I said pointing back at the other desk.

"Insha'allah," he replied.

He said nothing else. And while I was up another man had filled my much coveted spot across from the other desk. So I waited standing. After a minute, the gruff man with my needed paper told me to leave the office. I got the attention of the man who just minutes before had been personably sharing tales of his studies in English. When I explained the situation, he turned to the other man. I breathed a sigh of relief. The two of them will communicate and sort this out, I thought.

Of course, that's not how things work in Morocco, where power trips, petite obstructionism, and plain old lying rule the roost. My erstwhile friend suddenly backed the line of his curt co-worker. He had been assured the paper could not leave the desk for even a second despite being unused. I needed to leave the office now and come back on Monday.

"But you just needed to look at that piece of paper, right?"

"He can't give it to me until he finishes. That will be on Monday Insha'allah."

Gritting my teeth, I said, "Blessings of God be upon you. May God preserve you." And I left the office.