Welcome to the Monarchy

Sometimes when I teach, I find it beneficial to use examples that everyone knows. When everyone shares the same background knowledge, there is no interference with the vocabulary or grammar point.

So, the other day when we were learning vocabulary to describe physical appearance, I thought it would be a good idea to ask my students to describe some celebrities and public figures. I gave them a list of people including the President Obama, the soccer player Ronaldo, King Mohammed VI of Morocco, and French President Nicolas Sarkozy.

My students happily did the activity: "Teacher, teacher, President Obama is tall and has short dark hair."

But then, we reached the King of Morocco. And they balked.

I said, "Come on, what does the King of Morocco look like?"

Not a word in response.

One student tried to say something about not talking about the king.

"I just want to know what he looks like. This isn't politics or anything. Just tell me: what does he look like?" I understood that discussion of politics and the monarchy is a touchy subject. You can get sent to prison for offense to the crown. But I didn't think that describing him as medium height with short black hair and brown eyes would count.

Still: silence.

Eventually I gave up and moved on. I guess I learned something about monarchies.

The View from My Window

overlooking Meknes

A Conference and a Concert

On Saturday I had the opportunity to attend a few sessions of the Intercultural University Forum at Moulay Ismail University. Daniel was playing in the concert that wrapped up the Forum, and some of our Moroccan friends were participating in the panels.

The format of the panels was a bit unique. A professor or two gave a short introduction to a subject and then a few students (either Moroccan, American, Chinese, or Spanish) shared some of their thoughts and opinions on the subject. Then students from the audience (presumably from a different country) were invited to give comments and ask questions. In principle, it's a good idea: students from different countries talk to each other about difficult issues. In practice, it didn't work out nearly as well.

The first panel I attended was about the International Studies Abroad and how it functions, or could function, as a cultural bridge, correcting common stereotypes, recognizing other cultures' humanity, and enhancing dialogue, mutual respect, and tolerance. The Moroccan professor introduced the subject by showing a clip from Obama's "A New Beginning" speech in Cairo from earlier this year. Although there is still a lot of distrust of America in the Arab world (especially after American inability to get Netanyahu to stop settlements in the occupied territories), many Arabs still see Obama's presidency as an opportunity to rethink our cultures' relations.

Some intriguing issues were raised during the discussion session. One student, who had previously been an immigrant in Europe, came up and started ranting about how students could wax eloquently about tolerance and diversity from their comfortable perches, but that in the real world, such talk meant absolutely nothing. I'm glad he said what he did, because some of the American students had shown incredible naivety about the issues. Another, more humorous comment, was an American inquiry as to whether Moroccans really believed that all American students were CIA agents and should be avoided. After laughing, the Moroccan panelists replied that one shouldn't believe rumors.

The second panel I attended began with an excellent introduction by Dr. Javier de la Puerta from the University of Sevilla. He addressed immigration, religion in politics, and Israel/Palestine, giving one of the best and most nuanced summaries of all the issues that I've heard.

He explained how the West needs immigration, but how there is often fear and misapprehension about terrorism, Islam, poverty, and cultural identity.

He discussed the three different models of the relationship between religion and politics: the weak secularization exemplified by the United States, the strict secularization modeled by France's laicite, and the Muslim world's closer mix of religion and politics.

And regarding the Israel and Palestinian conflict, he explained that the conflict has been so intractable because both sides refuse to recognize the other side's identity and suffering (the Holocaust from the Arab side and the Naqba from the Israeli side).

All of the panels went over, sometimes by more than an hour; the organization was absolutely ridiculous. They had to cancel the last three or four panels because of the lack of time. Even worse, all of the bands were permitted only two songs.

So after an extensive series of excessively self-congratulatory thank you's from every individual even remotely involved in the conference's (lack of) organization, the music finally got going.

First, an Andalusian group of one female singer and two guitarists did some amazing jazz and flamenco numbers.

As they were finishing, I headed backstage to confer with Daniel and his bandmates. The Berber group that was set to play last, after Daniel's band, was busy berating the concert's organizer that people were leaving and that they wouldn't be able to play.

When Daniel's band went on stage, I went back inside and filmed their "Roots Rock Reggae" and "The Wait". I was really disappointed by the audience's reaction: there was some cheering but no one got out of their seats to cheer or dance. I chalked it up to a very anti-party Moroccan spirit, and I tried to do more than my fair share of hooting and hollering.

And then the Berber group went on.

Dressed in traditional Berber robes and turbans, they began to play their drums and sing traditional melodies., and within a minute, the entire audience had left their seats and began to dance and sing along. All the Spaniards had left, and a few Americans had as well, leaving a mostly Moroccan audience that went bat crazy.

In no time at all, Daniel and I made our way to the front. I did my white man bop and tried to clap along, while Daniel really grooved with the Moroccans dancing and hopping and almost even moshing. Not pleased with my seeming lack of excitement, one of my Moroccan friends, one of the few women in attendance and who also happens to be veiled, complained that I wasn't shaking my ass enough. A bit surprised by this strange turn of cultural events, I tried to oblige as much as possible.

But I could only continue for so long. The Berber group went much longer than two songs. The dancing and moshing continued for almost an hour. As the drums slowed to a stop a few times I thought it was going to end, but inevitably the beats would pick up again and the crowd would come back to life.

When it was finally time to go, the Berber drum corps marched straight down the auditorium's main aisle and headed toward the university's gate, without missing a beat. The dancing and clapping crowd followed and the auditorium slowly emptied.

Thus, much later than scheduled, the 2009 Intercultural University Forum at the University of Moulay Ismail drew to a close.

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.

Reliving History

Sometimes, learning Moroccan Arabic feels like a trip back in time.

English used to not be standardized. People would write words in a number of different ways depending on their accent and their fancy. They would write what they heard, and so, of course, it came out differently at different times. Anytime you read an English text more than a few hundred years old, you notice the variation in spelling.

But when I think about Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, I am less likely to think about English, and much more likely to think about the dead language Latin.

In the Middle Ages, Latin was no one's native tongue. No one spoke Latin in the home. And yet it was the most important language in all of Western Europe. The liturgy of the Christian church was all in Latin; the Bible was only read or recited in Latin. Legal documents and literature were all written in Latin. University instruction was in Latin; textbooks were written in Latin. An education required Latin.

But during the late medieval period, there was a move away from Latin in all these areas. Priests were asked to give their homilies in the vulgar tongues--notice the use of the word 'vulgar' even; the common, unrefined language of the people. Important kings started giving patronage to writers actually using the language of their kingdom. Poets like Dante argued that it was ok to write in the language they actually spoke. (His essay justifying it, though, was written in Latin.) Various groups tried to translate the Bible into their own spoken languages, usually with fierce resistance from the established Catholic church.

And then, at some point this language use reached a tipping point, and Latin started the long drift into oblivion. Just 60 years ago, the Catholic Church ended the required use of Latin in the mass. These days, very few students even bother with Latin.


The contemporary Arabic world is much like the late medieval Latin world. All religious discussion and dialogue occurs in Arabic (something that is much less likely to change given the importance of Arabic in Islam). University instruction is in modern standard Arabic (Fusha), not in Darija, or occasionally in French or in English. All written media is in Fusha, and the vast majority of TV and radio are in Fusha. More and more music is in Darija, though. Novels are often written in French, not even Fusha, so that they find a wider readership in the Francophone world.

If you ask a Moroccan about Darija, they will say, "Oh, that's not a real language. That's just something we speak at home. Real Arabic is Fusha." There is such a low esteem for Darija that it is almost unthinkable to try to change these attitudes.

When my Darija tutor tries to write down a word for me, he will sometimes spell it two different ways. If he uses Latin letters to spell it, there might be even more than just two. There is no accepted line between French words and French words accepted into Darija. There's often a French word, a Darija word, and a Fusha word for the same thing, and depending on the circumstances, you might use any one of the three. More often than not, though, there is a clear difference between the Fusha and Darija word, and every Moroccan knows both.

For a foreigner coming in, it can be extremely confusing. Many never bother trying to learn. Even with my extensive French and year and a half of Fusha, I find it difficult to navigate the language.

But every struggle gives me a taste of what late medieval Europeans experienced. It's a little like going back in time.

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.

Investigative Report: Moroccan

Occasionally, I like to dispense with the petty stories from my life and provide you, my readers, with an in-depth, investigative report into a certain aspect of Moroccan society. Today I choose the subject of Moroccan public hospitals.

This afternoon, I was struggling to think of a way to penetrate the Moroccan public hospital system deep enough to gain the kind of profound insights that I always like to deliver to my readers. I was struggling. I was struggling to cut open some newly bought dishware, and I decided that the best way to check out a hospital would be to cut myself open. So I did just that. I cut the index finger of my left hand straight through to the bone.

Thinking quickly, I immediately decided that it would be best to have a Moroccan friend accompany me on my investigative visit. So I contacted a coworker who has previously helped my roommate and me find couches, tables, and the like. He cheerfully agreed to provide interpretation on my journalistic quest. And so we set out for the nearest public health station, a little first aid station on the side of the city hall run by the Red Crescent. Fortunately, my ploy worked: the cut was too deep for him to patch it up. Soon, we were in a taxi headed directly to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, we passed the two security check points with no problem. I said "Salaamu 'Alaykum" at both in an effort to seem more native and ingratiate myself with the object of my investigative report.

While checking in, I was able to retain a high level of anonymity thanks to, of all things, my long name. My identification card lists my first and middle name on the same line, but the last line is dropped down to a second line. Those unfamiliar with long names and their formatting often confuse my middle name for my last name. I snuck into the hospital, thus, without actually giving my last name. I hoped this semi-anonymity would help preserve some authenticity in my reporting.

I was in luck.

The doctor on call took one look at my finger, commented on it in French and took me straight into an operating room. A window was open and a man in working clothing was squirming in pain on the operating table, surrounded by three nurses and one surgeon who were delicately working on his lower leg, which bore a much deeper wound than my finger. The doctor beckoned me to a chipped wooden chair in the corner. So I sat down, all the while watching the man in pain. His sandals had fallen off and were on the floor not far from where I was sitting.

The doctor pulled out a local anesthetic, some stitches, a needle, and some gauze, and proceeded to clean my wound. The nurses turned towards me and stared. Eventually I attracted even the surgeon's attention. We shared a few words in Arabic, and then he proceeded to try out his English on me.

"You're American?"
"Yes."
"You're here on vacation?"
"No. I work at the American Language Center."
"Oh. Do you know David?"
"No, I don't think so."
"When I studied there, he was the director."
"When was that?"
"Oh, 10, 15 years ago."
"No, I don't know him. But there is a David directing another center here in Morocco."

Periodically I would try to respond in Arabic, but he persisted in English. The nurses giggled.
"I speak English. You speak Arabic. Good for both of us."
"Yes."
"I will teach you Arabic. You give me your address and phone number and we talk."

About this time, I wished that I had my camera with me to fully document the scene, but I consoled myself with the observation that it seemed more authentic without it. The surgeon finished sewing up his patient and my doctor finished the two stitches that tied my finger back together almost simultaneously.

We walked into the waiting room, and the doctor asked for 200 Dirhams (about $25). My friend translated, even though I understood. I gave the 200 Dhs and he walked down the hall. No receipt. The surgeon came and spoke with me again. He wanted to write my name down. In the rush, I don't think I gave him my contact information. But he has my name and work address. So perhaps he will find me someday and we can continue the Arabic lesson I started in the emergency room.

A little later, he came back with a scrap piece of paper. In the universally recognizable, illegible handwriting of a doctor, he prescribed an antibiotic and a tetanus shot for me (or so my friend told me). We then walked out of the hospital and across the street to the pharmacy where I bought both. And then we made our way back to where my investigative foray into Moroccan medicine had started. The same man who had sent me to the hospital administered my tetanus shot, telling me repeatedly in three different languages:
"No meat. No eggs. No fish."

I have yet to bring my investigative research to bear on those three claims. But my finger does seem to be on the way to recovery. The anesthetic has faded a bit, and my hands are different colors, but I am using the finger to write this blog post, reporting to you from Morocco on the state of Moroccan emergency services.