Picking Up Photos

"Good morning."
"Good morning."
"Peace be upon you."
"And upon you be peace."
"How is it going?"
"Good, and you?"
"Very good. Praise be to God."

Another man comes around the counter.
"By the way, do you know Mohammed Didouche?"
"This one?" He pulls up a photo on the computer and smiles.
"Yes, that one."
"My friend."
"I work with him."

"Are my photos ready?"
"Yes." He pulls them out and sets them on the counter.
"Seven of the small ones, and twelve of the medium ones."
"They look good."
"It's one and a half dirhams for the small ones."
"Ok, very good."
"And how much are the medium-sized ones?" He looks at his co-worker. Shakes of the head. He looks at me. "How much are these?"
"I don't know." He worked there; I didn't.
"What did you pay last time? Was it 6? 7? 8?"
"I don't remember."
"10? 6?"
"I don't know." I shrugged my shoulders.
He looked at his co-worker again. More blank stares in the confused struggle to set a price for their most basic service.

"Well, you're friends with Didouche. We'll make it 6."
"Very good." I was happy with the outcome.
I paid and he returned my change.

"God help you."

"Take care of yourself."

"Take care of yourself."
"Go with peace."
"Go with peace."

Taking Attendance

The secretary of our language school, who is also one of the many Moroccan teachers at our center, called me in after work.

"You've been writing a name on the attendance sheets that doesn't exist."

"Really? Whose name is it? And in which class?"

She shuffled the papers around for a while looking for the sheet in question.

"Here it is."

I looked at it. Along the top, my name, level, class period, and date were all correct. Sometimes I use the American [month/day/year] instead of the international [day/month/year] for the date. In this case, though, I had got it right.

My eyes scanned lowered. On the left side, I had written three students' names. They were all in the class, and they had all been gone that day.

I looked over at the right side. There I had written: "TARDY:" followed by another student's name. We weren't required to note the tardies, but I knew that sometimes they called the parents if students regularly waltzed in late, especially the young girls. She was definitely in the class and she had come 15 minutes late, I remembered.

The secretary pointed to the right side. "Tardy. Who is that?"

I read off the student's name. "Yes, she's definitely in the class. She is on the list."

"No, no. The name above it: Tardy. Who is that?"

I looked at her with a blank stare.

Suddenly it dawned on me. I explained to her, "'Tardy' means 'late'. I was writing down the names of the students who came late in case you want to call their parents."

"Oh...no. If you have a problem with late students just come and tell me directly."

Parenting in Morocco

It was after 8 PM, and there was a lull as I munched on my chicken. So the 40-year old, in full uniform from the restaurant, sat down with me.

After a pause, I gestured at the street and asked, "Why do all the girls have to be home by 6:30?"

"Because their parents know they might be having sex."

"In a cafe?" I humorously questioned, identifying the only real option for youth in Meknes.

"They start in a cafe. Then they go to the boy's house. It starts in the cafes."

"You have kids, right?"

"Yes. Two boys and one girl."

"So are you going to let your girl out when she's older?"

"Absolutely not. She will be home at 6:30."

"What if she wants to go over to her friend's house?"

"You never know in those sort of situations. She goes over to her friend's house and other people are there, maybe boys. No, she'll be staying at home."

"But your boys will be allowed to go out later?"

"Of course."

"But what if they're going to have sex?"

"Well, then they're going to have sex with prostitutes, the girls who are out late at night."

Going To America

My friend Aziz called me the other night and asked me to come out to a cafe with him and his friends. He added that he had something to tell me.

I showed up half an hour later and after the standard greetings and jokes, we chatted a while in Arabic. When the conversation fragmented, Aziz turned to me and, speaking quietly in English (which the others didn't understand), told me he had won the American visa lottery.

It was obvious he was excited. Only a small percentage get the chance to become legal residents of the United States but many yearn for it. I had helped another Moroccan apply back in November, but I didn't know that Aziz or his friends had applied. I probably should have known better. For a good number of Moroccans, it is a yearly tradition.

Fortunate though he was, I could also tell he was uncertain. As he explained further, I learned he had his doubts. His mother has been sick recently. He is the only son. And his father doesn't want him to leave.

"They told me, 'If you are going to raise as much money as you need to go to the U.S., you might as well just start a business here, close to home.'"


After leaving the cafe, we walked around some and he asked me more about my opinion.

I told him that he could always come back if he needed to. One of my co-workers certainly did. I also warned him about some of the common pitfalls: getting involved in pyramid schemes, working a time-consuming job and never having time to get more education, etc.

He still isn't sure. First he needs to pay for an extremely expensive medical exam. Then he has to prove he can pay for the airline ticket and for his first few months in the U.S. Then he has to decide where he wants to go. Likely he will know someone who knows someone already there and use the Moroccan immigrant community for a head-start when he arrives. The whole process will take close to a year. A lot can happen in that time.

It's a bit strange to think about immigration from this end. My ancestors crossed the Atlantic Ocean by boat in a trip that took weeks and allowed no return. Within a generation or two (helped largely by World Wars against their former home), they had shed the old language and culture. And now we are all firmly American.

Aziz can fly across the Atlantic in a few hours. He can return every year if he has the money. And he has issues here before he even arrives in the United States. I generally think of immigration as an issue of finding a job, learning the language, and fitting in culturally; but that is only one side of the story.

I'm very excited for Aziz. Of all the Moroccans I know, he is the one who deserves a Green Card the most. I wish him the very best.

Familiarly Foreign

The other day, I walked into a cafe that is on the same street where I live but which I visit but rarely. I asked for a couple of my favorite pastries and waited to be served. Instead I received a loud (and yet still friendly) outburst about how well I spoke Arabic.

Leaving aside for a moment the fact that it you don't need to know very much Arabic to order pastries, such compliments get a little old after a while. If I'm going to have a conversation, I'd prefer for it to be about something other than the fact that I'm a conversation in Arabic.

Like most conversations of this type, it followed a predictable path:

"You speak Arabic so well."

"Thank you. God's blessings upon you."

"Are you Muslim? Do you pray?"

"No, I'm not Muslim, but I do pray."

"Well, you are a Muslim then."

"No, I don't pray as the Muslims pray."

For many Moroccans the only reason why you would ever bother to learn Arabic is because you are a Muslim. And it's true there are many converts to Islam who come to Morocco to improve their Arabic and deepen their knowledge of Islam, but I am here for other reasons.

Eventually the man got me my pastries (or rather he had another woman do it).

I always handle this sort of questioning in a friendly manner, but after a while it gets a bit old. After frequenting the same places for the past few months, I get lulled into thinking that I actually fit in. And the truth is that I don't really.

I suppose that's why I go to the same places here in Meknes: familiarity.

Moroccan Cinema

Last night in class I had a difficult time coaxing a sustained conversation out of my students.

This happens from time to time. There are just a few subjects, like Islam, biased media, and parent-children relationships, where they're more than willing to share their thoughts. Oftentimes, there isn't much doing.

But this time the subject was movies, and the result surprised me a bit.

It wasn't so much that students didn't have favorite actors or hated movies. But any attempt to make the ideas of one student interact with the ideas of another student didn't get very far.

One of my students couldn't remember the last time she had seen a movie. The only part of the discussion she participated in was when we briefly mentioned "Titanic".

A lot of students just couldn't remember anything that they had watched recently. Most students had seen movies but couldn't remember names. This phenomenon, of course, is complicated by the fact that the French versions they often watch have been absurdly retitled.

Eventually our conversation drifted into the territory of "Why are Moroccan movies so bad?"

On that subject, my students found surprising agreement (the one woman who doesn't watch movies regularly, notwithstanding).

My students' diagnosis: Moroccan acting is pretty awful. Improve the acting and create real endings, and Moroccan cinema will be on its way to being taken seriously.

My Concierge

When our ideals crash against the real world, they often don't come out looking so good.

Take for instance, the dictum that we should love our neighbor. Seems simple enough, right?

Well, what happens when that neighbor is your concierge?

In my concierge's case, most days he just sits outside the front of the building, unshaved, slouching in his chair in the shade, watching the world go by. He and the concierges from the neighboring buildings sometimes get together and gossip about the goings-on in their buildings. (It's usually after this that I get suggestive comments about the visits of my female American colleague who occasionally comes for tea or meals.)

His laid-back lifestyle isn't the result of a lack of tasks. The elevator is absolutely disgusting and has been needing a cleaning for months. Some of the doors sometimes don't shut properly, keeping the elevator from budging and forcing people to use the stairs. A little tinkering, a little cleaning...there is plenty to do if he wanted to keep himself busy.

In any case, that's not really a problem for me. I can deal with the building the way it is. I just don't lean against the elevator walls. I wear shoes when I leave the apartment. And I walk when the elevator isn't working.

What's more troubling from my perspective is how he is always asking for things from me.

When I went to the States for Christmas he asked for a computer. When I explained that I couldn't afford a computer for myself, let alone for him, he seemed to doubt my story. All Americans are rich, right?

He eventually just pressed me for a cell phone. I explained that American cell phones were the same Chinese cell phones that they sold in Morocco, but he didn't seem to understand that either.

Sometimes he asks for a visa and a Green Card. Then I have to explain I can't help him; he has to apply to the visa lottery just like everyone else.

One time I just asked him what he really wanted to do for a job. He said he wanted to drive a limo...anything that would make lots of money. I didn't ask him if he planned to take any steps to try to make that happen, but I think I know the answer.

Out of respect for Moroccan cultural norms I try to stop and chat with him every time I leave the building. Most days he is in a bit of a sulk. And it only gets worse when he demands something from me and I have to say no. Two days ago, he complimented me on my jacket and then asked for it. I've never been much of one for style, and I don't have a very extensive wardrobe. So even though most of my clothing is fairly inexpensive, I can't just hand it over to someone who asks for it.

I tried to make a joke out of it by asking him if he was going to give me his jacket, but like all my attempts to teasingly make him see some reciprocity in our relationship, it went no where.

The man is obviously poor. Even though I am one of the poorer Americans out there (as I try to explain to him again and again without success), I am still richer than he is. That being said, he has a stable job and a good living situation for his family. As such, he is better off than a large chunk of Moroccans.

Largely as a result of this dynamic, my roommate Daniel has stopped talking to him beyond the most cursory of greetings. I continue on, but it's hard to justify it to myself. We can't really have any sort of friendship based on common interests and mutual respect. I don't seem to have any influence on him. My comments and questions go nowhere. And I can't see any way to significantly alter his living situation. I cannot provide him with the things he wants from me, and the things I can provide for him he already has.

A Moroccan At Berkeley

One of my former students is a university history professor. In a few weeks, he will be giving a talk at the University of Berkeley regarding Muslim-Jewish relations in the 20th century. So he contacted me to help him translate his talk to English. Last night we met after work to go over it.

The talk itself wasn't much longer than 15 minutes, but it took us over four hours to polish off the translation from French to English. Of course, that time included a meal prepared by his wife and plenty of side conversations as we worked our way through the text.

He spent 11 years in France as a student and teacher, and it shows. Besides speaking exceptional French, his family eats plain yogurt for dessert.

Now, this may not seem like a big deal to my American readers, but it's a telltale sign of French influence. The French love their yogurt, but only the unsweetened stuff. This is only one of the many cultural conflicts inherent in the French colonizing of Morocco. Moroccans love everything sweet. Moroccan tea puts American Southerners to shame with its excessive sugar content. The realm of yogurt, of course, is no different. Sweetened, flavored yogurt is one of the most popular foodstuffs available in every hanoot....much to the chagrin of the French.

Yes, my former student eats plain, unsweetened yogurt. He also had some strong words to say about his fellow classmates. One, a government official who used to constantly harp on the centrality of Islam to any correctly ordered society, he decried as a hypocrite: "I know that he takes bribes."

At one point I asked him a question that I had been harboring for quite some time about history and Islam. I told him that recently I had been reading about the development of Christian theology. Many Muslims have told me that that Christianity was good at first but eventually became corrupted, and yet when I press them on historical details, they cannot provide me with a satisfactory explanation for the when and where and how of Christianity's corruption. They don't understand how manuscripts were copied and passed down. They don't understand Christianity's relation to Judaism. And they often are unclear about central Christian doctrines. And yet, they still state with absolute certainty that it has become corrupted. They know because the Koran says it happened.

Now, I want to be open to the possibility of criticism. There are certainly things I find troubling about the development of Christian theology (the Roman emperor Constantine's role in the theological deliberations of the Council of Nicea has always rubbed me the wrong way, for instance). Since he is a Muslim and a historian, I figured he could provide me with the answer to my question. I told him that no one had been able to provide me with a satisfactory explanation of this supposed deviation of Christian theology.

He smiled, shook his head and said, "There is no answer."

We resumed our translation work. It was an exhilarating experience. He would elaborate on each sentence in French and I would craft a new sentence in English. It was slow-going but extremely rewarding. Sometimes the idea would just come to me, but other times I tossed around a few possibilities before settling for the least bad. I still find it amazing just how many subtle nuances I recognize in my native tongue. I doubt I could ever satisfactorily translate anything into another language. Doing a good job requires such an intimate knowledge of the target language.

He thanked me and promised me that he would invite me over for another meal when he returned.

"Stop Throwing Your Butts Out!"

Daniel and I have learned a valuable lesson recently: being accused of something while innocent is no fun.

For some reason, the Moroccans who live around us are convinced that we are heavy smokers, and, furthermore...that we throw our cigarette butts into the courtyard. GASP! We're pretty awful human beings, right?

Now, first of all, these Moroccans don't have a good grip on fundamental cultural differences between America and Morocco. If they knew anything about America and its anti-tabacco crusade, they would know that smoking has become decidedly uncool where we come from.

But beyond mere conjectures based on cultural stereotypes, surely, they would want to check out the facts before making accusations. Right?

A while back Daniel was in the elevator with the super of our building. Suddenly, the middle-aged Moroccan man launched into a tirade about the disgusting habit of throwing cigarette butts on the apartment grounds. Daniel listened for a while and then protested that he didn't smoke. The super was nonplussed and continued his lecture, assuming it had to be someone from our apartment.

A few days ago, the concierge stopped me with the same accusation, lecture, and request. I informed his that the accusation was false, the lecture unnecessary, and the request illogical. He seemed satisfied with my explanation, "ma kankmish" ("I don't smoke"). So I thought the issue was settled. Daniel and I had both asserted our innocence against slanderous claims. What more is needed?

Yesterday, though, the concierge confronted me again about the same topic. I thought that he wasn't grasping the logical connection between being a smoker and producing cigarette butts that could be distributed on the apartment premises. But then I learned the real reason for his persistence.

He led me up to the first floor (in Morocco, like in most countries in the world, the first floor is the floor above the ground floor) to the apartment of the Hajja, a respected widow whose sons live in Casablanca. When the concierge introduced me she proceeded to lecture me in French on the disgusting habit of tossing cigarette habits into the courtyard. I used my apparently inefficient rebuttal, "Ma kankmish" yet once again to explain my innocence. I also added for good measure "Sahibi ma kaykmish" ("My roommate/friend doesn't smoke"). She seemed undeterred. She merely moved her discourse into Darija.

After another full minute she stopped, but not after having thoroughly indoctrinated me in the filthiness of my habit. I explained that if I ever saw the person responsible for the cigarette butts, I would inform him about his disgusting habit. The Hajja didn't seem terribly satisfied with my offer of help.

So I have two questions:

How do accusations of these type arise? A well-propagated assumption that is not based whatsoever in the facts must come from somewhere.

And, secondly, is this issue over? Or are we going to continue to have to deal with lectures about bad habits we don't have?

The Cheap Cultural Cacophony of Ryanair

Ryanair has revolutionized international travel. There is no doubt about it.

Before baggage handling and peanuts were free. Now they are not. Before there were assigned seats; now there is a frenzied dash. And perhaps most importantly, areas of Europe and northern Africa that were prohibitively far apart are now connected by flights costing only a few hours' pay. Unless, of course, you want to take anything substantial with you...then it costs a few hours' pay more.

As I boarded the flight to Dusseldorf in Fes, the couples around me bore witness to what this phenomenon has done for cross-cultural marriages. At least half a dozen Moroccan-German couples were standing in line with me. One German girl was speaking in the phone in fluent Darija. After a quick vacation with in-laws in Morocco, they were headed back home.

The cultural cacophony grew once we boarded the plane. People pushed and shoved and hustled past each other. German, Darija, French, and English could be heard simultaneously.

After everyone got settled, the chaos and confusion continued. The Slovakian stewardess's accented English blared through the sound system to a mostly uncomprehending German and Moroccan audience. A 5-year old Moroccan child blew right past a stewardess in the aisle knocking her sideways. She tried to reprimand him in English, but he ignored her admonishments.

The scene repeated itself returning to Morocco, but it was slightly more organized. A Moroccan-looking fellow sat down next to me. I tried speaking Darija to him, but he just switched to English.

"Are you American?"

"Yeah, and you're Moroccan?"

"No, I'm Dutch."

"Oh, you immigrated to the Netherlands."

"No. I was born there. My dad is Moroccan and my mom is Serbian."

He was headed back to Morocco to visit his grandparents. I have almost spent more time in Morocco than he has, and so I spoke Darija better than him.

I asked him how his parents met.

"Well, immigrants often lived in the same poor neighborhoods and they all got to know each other. My parents met at a wedding....of a Moroccan and a Serbian." He smiled.

I also asked him if he considered himself Moroccan, Dutch, or Serbian.

"A little bit of everything," he answered.

Coffee With My Class

My Proficiency class had no syllabus this semester--I made up the curriculum as I went along. A benefit of this set-up was that I could write my own final. I chose to make the combined score of their final presentation and their last essay count as their final grade, thus freeing up our last class session. So instead of meeting the last session, we went to a local cafe to chat in English.

The entire experience was very encouraging for me. After a number of discouraging events and encounters recently, it was great to talk with highly educated, highly motivated Moroccan youth.

One of my students, who speaks English very well and who also, incidentally, wears the head scarf, told me her goal is to eventually become CEO of an important Moroccan company. Another wants to go to France or the US for graduate studies. One student, in her essays and her speeches, has outlined what Morocco needs to do to improve the situation of women. Another has spoken eloquently about the beauty of Morocco and the pride all Moroccans should feel for it...and what that pride should entail in their daily life.

One thing I found a bit strange about our weekend coffee was the meeting place. I asked them where they wanted to meet, and the consensus pick was the local supermarket complex. This surprised me. There are dozens of excellent cafes in Meknes, but my students wanted to go to a cafe above the supermarket, filled with shabby green chairs and dirty tables.

I asked them why they wanted to meet there, and they told me that it was the most comfortable for the girls in the class. All the traditional cafes are filled with older men or couples. The environment created by the Western setup made it more friendly to a group of young individuals, male and female.

It's a similar story with McDonalds. In these places, designed with Western standards, there is a space for non-traditional interactions between the genders. More and more Moroccans grow up with an expectation that these sort of interactions and relationships are possible...but only in certain spaces: Western restaurant chains, supermarkets, and malls.

A Trip to the Bank

"Peace be upon you."

"And upon you be peace."

"I will travel to Europe and I need to change dirhams to euros. How many is it possible to exchange?"

"Oh, about 2000 euros. Do you have your papers."

"I have my passport."

"No, I need your residency card."

"The government still hasn't given it to me."

"I'm sorry I can't help you."

"But I applied for it over five months ago. The government is just slow."

"I'm sorry. I cannot help you. Next."

Truck Drivers' Politics

Daniel and I decided to get some McDonald's tonight. I usually don't like Mickey D's much, but tonight I was in the mood.

On our way, the truck drivers who deliver goods to the electronics store a few buildings down from our apartment building stopped Daniel and started talking to him.

Since I had walked on the other side of the truck, I hadn't realized what was happening. After thirty seconds of waiting, I went back to see what had happened. Daniel was engaged in a Darija conversation with the three truck drivers.

"Did any of your ideas about Morocco change after you came here?" one of them asked.

He wanted to know if we had thought that Moroccans were cannibals or just exotic desert people and at what point we realized they weren't. I chimed in to say that we both were fairly familiar with the world before we came here, so we didn't have such strong stereotypes.

After he had finished that line of questioning, he decided it was time to give us his view of America: "The media in the United States doesn't tell the people what is really going on in the world. Americans don't really know."

I asked for some examples, and he cited the suffering of the Palestinian people and American support for Israeli killing. He then started citing a list of American vetoes on the UN Security Council that allowed Israel to do as it pleased.

I think he realized the conversation was getting heavy and that he was keeping us a bit long. He offered to drive us out to the Algerian border sometime when we were free and then he bid us good night.


As we walked away, Daniel and I discussed the conversation.

"There's nothing I like better before I eat me some McDonald's than a good discussion of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict."

Daniel smiled and remarked, "Stuff like US vetoes on the UN Security Council makes the headlines here in Morocco. Of course it doesn't in the United States."

"Yeah, and this isn't some over-educated professional or academic. He was a truck driver."

Grocery Shopping

The grocery stores in Morocco have lower quality produce and meat than the specialty shops like the produce market and the butcher.

So since the fridge was empty after our week in Agadir, I made a quick run to the produce market this morning. Then, loaded up with two huge bags of produce, I stumbled into the butcher's to get some sausage and turkey. While I was waiting in line for the butcher, an older man dressed in traditional garb came in and started looking at my two bags.

It surprised me a little when he started mumbling to me in Darija. Usually Moroccans profile me as Western and start talking to me in French. Partially because of the surprise and partially because of the mumble, I didn't understand what he was saying. So I just assumed he was commenting on how much produce I had. I lifted the two bags and said in a sing-songy Darija "Lots of produce, right?"

He shook his head. Obviously I hadn't understood him.

"...the oranges..," was all I understood.

I didn't have any oranges.

I raised the bag filled with three kilos of mandarines and said, "These are mandarines...three kilos." I nodded my head and raised my eyebrows to emphasize the grandeur of my produce purchase.

He shook his head again. "No I just want one."

I suddenly realized he didn't care about how much produce I was carrying. He just wanted some of it.

In Morocco, there is a different conception of personal property. People share the same bowls and cups in restaurants and at home. Water stations (not always fountains) have one cup that everyone shares. A message from a cell phone of your friend's friend is often from your friend. Someone eating in a public space is almost obligated to share his snack with those around him. I surmised that carrying produce in public falls into the same category.

I awkwardly reached into the bag with the mandarines and pulled one out.

"Thank you. God's blessing on you."

I got my meat from the butcher, paid, and headed home. Now my produce sits safely in the fridge and on the kitchen counter.

A Visit to the Bar

Last night, Daniel and I went to a bar a few blocks from our house for the very first time.

Early on, we had decided not to bother with local bars. There are no young people who go, and there even fewer women. For the most part, they are either hangouts for old dudes or semi-brothels. Those catering to old dudes are usually rather claustrophobic, smoke-filled dens playing some soccer game. The hotels which cater to foreigners and Moroccan johns are much nicer and more open, but the blatant prostitution that occurs creates an unpleasant atmosphere for our female friends who might join us.

When we arrived, we walked up to an open area of the bar. In Darija, I asked the man in one of the stools at the counter if anyone was sitting in the two open stools next to him. He turned, his head a bit cock-eyed, and started speaking in Dutch, which I didn't understand. He then switched to Spanish, which I did understand, "I speak Dutch, Spanish, French, and Arabic." Then he repeated himself in French and Arabic.

So we sat down, assuming he would protest if his friends were there.

I tried talking to him in Arabic, but he switched to Spanish. Daniel tried speaking Dutch to him because he knows a little Dutch. We then had about a five minute conversation that was completely incoherent. I would attempt to reproduce it for you if I could, but it changed languages so many times and there were so many misunderstandings and non sequitors that it would be virtually impossible. Suffice it to say, he didn't think that anyone should speak in a language that he hadn't mastered to a sufficient degree (I think this was a reproach of both of us for our feeble attempts to communicate). He simultaneously thought this could be best communicated by repeating it in many different languages, not all of which he had mastered completely.

Eventually he paid, got up, and stumbled his way to the door.


The next seat over was filled by a man in his 50's who had had too much to drink before we even arrived. Shortly after we arrived, his head dropped onto his chest as he sat at the bar. And it stayed there for the larger part of the next two hours. At one point the bartender roused him to pour him some more Vodka. After another long nap, they shook him awake again to swipe his credit card. The bartender asked if he wanted a taxi. He mumbled something and went off to the bathroom. Ten minutes later he came back, sat down in his stool, laid his chin on his chest, and went back to sleep.


Our bartender was an unveiled woman who chatted with us in Darija. We asked her what various things were called, and she asked about America:

"Is America beautiful?"

We debated the wisdom of responding with "Yes, but not as beautiful as you." But after concluding that we didn't even know how to make the construction in Darija, we eventually settled for the much less flirtatious (and perhaps more honest) "yes".

"Are all American girls fat?"

We smiled and then explained, "Many are, but not all of them."


We would watch the soccer games on either side of the bar and when the prostitutes would come through the door and walk through the room to go downstairs, we would glance at them: the lighter skinned ones seemed to enter and exit more frequently. Mostly we just chatted between ourselves.

After the second hour, the other men at the bar decided en masse to start talking to us. The drunk nearest us, whom I had affectionately named "Sleepy", tried to speak only English to us. It took minutes for him to finish his sentences, so in between his forays into the language of Hemingway, we responded to the others' questions about where we were from and what we were doing. We questioned them in kind.

It turned out that two of the men were cafe owners in our neighborhood. And not only were they cafe owners, they were also cafe owners on our block, one on either side of our house. One had spent a long time in Spain, so he had named his recently-opened cafe "Toro", filling it with images of Spanish bulls. However, he detested bull-fighting, he assured us: the only image of an actual bullfight was a small picture of a torero's hand in a small corner downstairs.

I asked Sleepy if he spoke French. He responded in French, "Of course I speak French. I lived in France many years."

"Where exactly?"

He started naming of a list of French cities so long that I doubted if he had ever been to all of them.

"I speak French better than the French," he slurred in all seriousness.

The man next to him scowled and said, "Lived...not visited, stupid."

"No...no. I...lived...there."

He eventually decided to go home. Like a blind man making his way down a bustling street, he made his way through the open room to the exit.

Shortly thereafter, the owner of the Toro asked us if we were going to stop by soon. We responded, "Inshallah" and headed home.

It was not at all the typical American bar experience we were looking for, but it was fascinating all the same.

A Quick Trip to Rabat

At the suggestion of my UPenn professor, I have been seeking out Moroccans who can help me read classical Arabic. Darija (Moroccan dialectical Arabic) and Fusha (standard Arabic) don't help me read millenium-old Arabic poetry from Al-Andalus.

Last week I found an essay online about the Andalusian poet Ibn Hazm written by a Moroccan scholar in Rabat. I sent her a quick email asking about Ibn Hazm and his love poetry, and she responded by asking me to join a workshop entitled "The Love Hate Enigma" that she was conducting.

Usually it wouldn't be possible. I work every day of the week but Friday. But it just so happened that Friday was the day of the workshop. So yesterday, I hopped on a train to Rabat and went to her house for the workshop.

I felt a bit out of place with a number of Moroccan scholars and one American working for an NGO, but all and all it went very well. The conversation ranged from French to Spanish to Arabic to English, but they tried to do most of it in English for us Americans.

Spending time with the NGO worker was a bit strange. I was dressed in slacks and a sweater, nothing special. I was certainly out-dressed: she wore a slick pant suit, complemented by Prada glasses and power heels. To top off the DC professional persona, she carried around a nice leather-bound planner.

She speaks excellent French, but she hasn't bothered to learn Arabic. She told me she did a cost/benefit analysis and she just couldn't see the utility of bothering to learn it. Such a sentiment utterly baffles me. Well, perhaps it doesn't baffle me. I understand that thoroughly American mentality, but I also dislike it and disagree with it. I have had amazing conversations and relationships with non-Americans thanks to the hours of language-learning I put in. And for me, there is no dollar or time value I can attach to those experiences.


Afterward we went out to the only Irish pub in Rabat (owned by an Italian of Roman extraction). In my short time there, I met a director of the Moroccan branch of AVIS and a lawyer who splits his time among Paris, Rabat, and New York City. But I couldn't stay long as I had to teach this morning, so I caught a train back to Meknes.

In the cabin where I was sitting, I noticed that the Moroccan family sitting around was dropping German words into their Darija at regular intervals. So I started talking to them in German. The man sitting next to me told me he was born in Germany, but his mother was born in Morocco. They lived there for a few decades. It isn't exactly clear to me why they came back, but they brought back a thoroughly altered Arabic. I've grown used to hearing the French content of Darija range from 10% to 40%, but German was a surprise.

Soon, we switched to Arabic. That's when I answered the standard slate of getting to know you questions that I know by heart now: Where are you from? What are you doing? Do you like Morocco? Are you Muslim?

We had a nice little conversation about Germany and Morocco, before we all turned back to our own music, books, and newspapers. It was short, but it was enjoyable. And it wouldn't have been possible if I hadn't spoken Darija or German.

Football Rivalries Moroccan Style

As an American teaching English in Morocco, I make enough money to be considered comfortably middle class here. Compared to the United States, though, the same amount would be solidly lower class. There is enough money to live, but not a whole lot for travel or for the nice things in life. What's more, since most Moroccans can only take English classes outside of normal working hours, we teach almost exclusively at night and on the weekends. So I work every day of the week.

And yet despite these minor drawbacks, this job attracts the most interesting of people. One of my co-workers grew up in Harlem in the 1960s and was a member of the Nation of Islam. Another is a Catalan who spent a number of years as an Army nurse...in the United States Army. My roommate has lived on five continents and speaks over a dozen languages. Another is a Cuban-American dating a famous Moroccan rapper.

And just when I thought I had heard everyone's interesting story, I found out that one of the oldest teachers has an MA from the University of Texas in linguistics. He's Moroccan, so I didn't expect him to understand the UT-OU rivalry, but I am happy to report that there are some things that transcend national boundaries. I now have a co-worker with whom I can regularly share my deep-felt feelings towards Texas.

After receiving his MA, he traveled the world as part of a UN team for over a decade, before finally deciding to settle down in Meknes. His parents are from the north, the Berber-populated Rif mountains, and his hometown was a far cry from the more cosmopolitan places he had lived in for a couple of decades. (He told me he had to hike 11 km to school every day as a child). So upon returning to Morocco, he chose Meknes. And teaching English fit his background well. So he was hired at the same place I came to a few years later.

The Tragedy of Study Abroad

This afternoon I was invited to lunch with a Moroccan student of English Literature at the local Moulay Ismail University. She is chairing a talk this weekend as part of a conference on international relations and intercultural-cooperation. My roommate is playing in a concert as part of the same conference, but that is beside the point.

We talked about what the study abroad experience of a typical American is here in Meknes. Almost none of them come in with a level of French, standard Arabic (Fusha), or dialectical Arabic (Darija) that would allow them to meaningfully communicate here. Instead, they all rely upon a few English-speaking professors and advisors at the university, and if they make friends, it is almost always with the Moroccans who speak English extremely well. When they hang out, it is almost always with other Americans. And when they go out, it is to foreign hotels that offer the alcohol and music and dancing that most Moroccans go without.

In short, American students abroad do not integrate. The vast majority do not learn the language and culture to any meaningful degree. For most American students, study abroad is a break from classes, a time for traveling and partying and slacking off.

My Moroccan friend said that she appreciated that Americans are usually open to try new things and that they can be so much fun. But she was unsure how to approach the issue of cross-cultural understanding and cooperation, because in dealings with Americans, so often it is one-sided. She speaks English about as fluently as a foreigner can.

I offered her a few thoughts on why this is the case. First of all, English is the world language today. And when individuals and institutions are faced with the choice between exerting time and effort and just speaking the language everyone else already knows, laziness and entropy inevitably win out. Another problem, though, is that American universities send students out in such large groups that it makes English-speaking clusters extremely likely. The promotion of study abroad by many American universities can also be extremely hypocritical. While they encourage students to study abroad as a formative cultural experience, their clustering of American students and lack of linguistic preparation prevents Americans from truly learning and engaging the new culture. When one takes into account the fact study abroad programs are one of the biggest moneymakers for universities, such two-faced rhetoric about cultural experience makes more sense. While charging American students the normal $10,000s for tuition, they pay virtually nothing at the foreign universities, which are inevitably much cheaper. The tuition, for example at Moulay Ismail University is $0/year.

At the end of the conversation, I think my friend had a few ideas about how conversations and discussions and activities could foster inter-cultural understanding and cooperation. But, as they say in places where dancing is more common, it takes two to tango.

What are you supposed to say to that?

The end of the month has arrived, which, among other things, means that Daniel and I got paid.

We decided to celebrate by going out and buying stuff. Stuff like trash cans and large glasses (I question whether Moroccans adequately hydrate based on the average size of glasses here).

Daniel and I were wandering around a store browsing the inventory and asking questions of the boy who was working there in our broken Darija. After a while, some of the other customers picked up on the fact that we were foreigners (not too hard) and that we spoke a little Arabic (a little harder).

In typical friendly Moroccan fashion, a middle-aged man approached us with his wife and started jabbering to us in Arabic. I could understand bits and pieces: he knew an American who knew Arabic and Berber really well and he wondered where we were from. I responded and gave my standard response about how Arabic is hard, but I'm learning little by little (the literal expression shwiya b shwiya is a great set phrase).

I nodded as he continued to talk about his American friends and how they met. I got the gist of it, but I didn't want to interrupt his flow to ask about every third word that I didn't fully understand.

After a minute or so Daniel's comprehension maxed out. So he wandered off. I continued standing there out of respect, continuing the conversation. We gradually exhausted topics like my work and his friends, and so he decided that it would be a good time to talk about himself. I figured that was fair enough. We had already talked about the basics of my existence, so why not move on to the basics of his?

I asked if he was from Meknes and what he did. He said he was from Meknes and that he used to be in the Army.

Then without changing his expression or tone, he told me, "But that was a long time ago. I spent 26 years in an Algerian prison."

Since his expression hadn't changed, I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind conjured up as best as possible what two and a half decades in an Algerian prison would be like. Words failed me. I said, "Ohhhh..." and kind of grimaced, nodding my head in the most sympathetic expression I could muster. The only thing I could think to ask was when he got out. "2003", he said. Hmmm, 26 out of the last 32 years as a military prisoner. I grimaced and nodded again.

I didn't have any clue of what the right thing to say was. No conversation transition seemed appropriate. We just kind of stood there for a while. I nodded my head as he talked about it a bit more, once again emotionless, without a single display of pain or suffering or any sort of appeal for sympathy.

After his narrative drew to a close, I shifted into the long Moroccan goodbye. He said that maybe we would see each other around. I said, "Insha'allah" and I told him that it was a pleasure meeting him.

Then I paid and walked back home.