Until I came to Morocco, I don't think I understood what the term "paper-pusher" meant.
Every Moroccan is required to visit City Hall for every possible legal reason. Every contract must be stamped, signed, and verified by government employees. Officialized documents are needed for every possible reason.
When you enter City Hall, there is a huge room with are lines in every corner.
At some windows, you must enter your name and personal information in a contract register (still completely non-digital). That register in turn must be stamped and signed by successive individuals as well as the people involved in the contract.
At other windows, documents are officialized. First, they are stamped by one bureaucrat. Then they are pushed to the man next to him, who...well, I'm not really sure what he is supposed to do (...maybe he keeps track of the money you pay the first man?) But the last man signs the document on top of the stamp.
When I went in to get my rent contract officialized, the first man tried to hold up this legal gauntlet for my document. Only after the Moroccan I was with reasoned with him for a while did he agree to pass it on to the second man without delay.
All of this happened back in October. But it came to mind today when my roommate reminded me that we have to go back in to city hall again. Our work permits require officialized copies of our work and rent contracts.
Not the originals, which are already officialized.
The copies.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
When Bribery Becomes Dangerous
In the French-language Moroccan weekly that I read, they regularly use the term "pot-de-vin" for corruption here in Morocco. It's a bit ironic in a supposedly tee-totaling Muslim country since "pot-de-vin" means "pot of wine". It's even more ironic that the French regularly use the Arabic term "bakchich" back home in the Hexagon.
Although I have no personal experience with corruption here in Morocco, I hear about it all the time. Traffic tickets and drug charges disappear instantly with a little bit of cash. Apparently johns never get in trouble for prostitution because they pay their way out of it (the fact that they are male also seems to help the situation...) Friends have even told me that their parents have had to pay a potential employer in order to get a job.
So it came as no surprise to me that the restaurant across from my workplace had passed the mandated fire inspection even though there was no fire extinguisher on the premises.
A few days ago, I sat down at a cafe with Daniel to watch an African Cup game. He had been at the cafe, which is only a block from our work, longer than me, and he told me that a fire truck had just gone by.
"A guy got up and left the cafe to see what was going on. He came back a minute later," Daniel told me. "So I figured there wasn't anything worth seeing."
As I found out later, there wasn't anything worth seeing because two of my Moroccan co-workers put out the oil fire immediately with our fire extinguishers.
The restaurants' cooks and waiters had just left the building when the vat of cooking oil caught on fire. Despite the open butane tanks near the fire, they were mindlessly staring at the building with their heads stuck out and mouths open ( according to my co-worker who, admittedly, has a tendency to exaggerate things a tad). My coworkers (one a security guard, the other an administrator) noticed the fire immediately, grabbed the extinguishers, ran over and put everything out.
The last few days when I see both of them, I've addressed them both as "hero".
Although I have no personal experience with corruption here in Morocco, I hear about it all the time. Traffic tickets and drug charges disappear instantly with a little bit of cash. Apparently johns never get in trouble for prostitution because they pay their way out of it (the fact that they are male also seems to help the situation...) Friends have even told me that their parents have had to pay a potential employer in order to get a job.
So it came as no surprise to me that the restaurant across from my workplace had passed the mandated fire inspection even though there was no fire extinguisher on the premises.
A few days ago, I sat down at a cafe with Daniel to watch an African Cup game. He had been at the cafe, which is only a block from our work, longer than me, and he told me that a fire truck had just gone by.
"A guy got up and left the cafe to see what was going on. He came back a minute later," Daniel told me. "So I figured there wasn't anything worth seeing."
As I found out later, there wasn't anything worth seeing because two of my Moroccan co-workers put out the oil fire immediately with our fire extinguishers.
The restaurants' cooks and waiters had just left the building when the vat of cooking oil caught on fire. Despite the open butane tanks near the fire, they were mindlessly staring at the building with their heads stuck out and mouths open ( according to my co-worker who, admittedly, has a tendency to exaggerate things a tad). My coworkers (one a security guard, the other an administrator) noticed the fire immediately, grabbed the extinguishers, ran over and put everything out.
The last few days when I see both of them, I've addressed them both as "hero".
Update
I must apologize to my readers for my poor posting consistency as of late.
The past month has not been very kind to my ideal schedule (which includes regular blogging).
First, I had finals here in Morocco. Then, I headed back to the States for Christmas. But then, even since I have returned to Morocco, I have been a poor poster. Part of that is due to my lack of access to the internet, a situation that I recently remedied by buying a USB wireless connection.
In addition, until this week, the weather had also been rather awful. There were regular water and electricity shortages. While none of this directly inhibited me from posting, I still just couldn't muster the motivation to write.
So as penance for my laziness, I will attempt to post extra in the coming days.
The past month has not been very kind to my ideal schedule (which includes regular blogging).
First, I had finals here in Morocco. Then, I headed back to the States for Christmas. But then, even since I have returned to Morocco, I have been a poor poster. Part of that is due to my lack of access to the internet, a situation that I recently remedied by buying a USB wireless connection.
In addition, until this week, the weather had also been rather awful. There were regular water and electricity shortages. While none of this directly inhibited me from posting, I still just couldn't muster the motivation to write.
So as penance for my laziness, I will attempt to post extra in the coming days.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Wonder of Running Water
Since I returned from the United States, our water has been cut off every night. I'm not sure exactly why this happens. One Moroccan told me that the water filtering system can't handle the run-off when it rains a lot. And since it's been doing that non-stop, I guess the nightly water shortage makes sense.
Usually this isn't a big problem. I have learned to fill a few 5-liter jugs with water every day. Then I can brush my teeth and pseudo-flush the toilet with that water. And the dishes from dinner always wait quietly until morning to be washed (I have very patient dishes like that).
But the last two days, the situation has gotten worse. The water has been cut off for hours in the middle of the day. This disrupts my schedule more than I thought it would.
Both yesterday and today have presented a sunny response to the depressing downpours of the past few weeks. The temperature climbed into the 20s (the 70s or so, for you Celsius-challenged folk). I wanted to take advantage of the good weather and go running.
However, I was so concerned that the water would not be turned back on before I had to teach, that I just sat at home instead. Nobody wants a hot and sweaty English teacher.
Yesterday I didn't do much of anything, and today I ended up heading out to meet a friend in a cafe (despite my two and a half day lack of bathing) and then made my way back to the house an hour before class started.
Miraculously, the water was back on.
I showered and showed up to work spick and span.
Usually this isn't a big problem. I have learned to fill a few 5-liter jugs with water every day. Then I can brush my teeth and pseudo-flush the toilet with that water. And the dishes from dinner always wait quietly until morning to be washed (I have very patient dishes like that).
But the last two days, the situation has gotten worse. The water has been cut off for hours in the middle of the day. This disrupts my schedule more than I thought it would.
Both yesterday and today have presented a sunny response to the depressing downpours of the past few weeks. The temperature climbed into the 20s (the 70s or so, for you Celsius-challenged folk). I wanted to take advantage of the good weather and go running.
However, I was so concerned that the water would not be turned back on before I had to teach, that I just sat at home instead. Nobody wants a hot and sweaty English teacher.
Yesterday I didn't do much of anything, and today I ended up heading out to meet a friend in a cafe (despite my two and a half day lack of bathing) and then made my way back to the house an hour before class started.
Miraculously, the water was back on.
I showered and showed up to work spick and span.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Returning Home
After a week and a half Christmas vacation in the United States, I am now back home in Morocco. My welcome has been both comforting and a bit startling.
Shortly after arriving in Meknes I ran into a security guard from work on the streets and his greeting was even more enthusiastic than the usual elaborate Moroccan greeting, including large grins and excessive touching of my arm and shoulder (excessive from an American point of view, that is). I received similar treatment from many coworkers when I stopped by work yesterday.
The strangest part of my welcome, though, has been the kisses I have been receiving from older men. Now, after extensive time in Latin America, Spain, and France, I am well accustomed to the "bises" that I am expected to exchange with females, but males only rarely exchange them, and I personally have always stuck with the Germanic handshake in my encounters with men.
I was passing the electronics store near my house on the way to work and the middle-aged, partially toothless, and stubbled security guard greeted me warmly. He stopped what he was doing and approached. I held out my hand to shake his. He took it, shook it, and then pulled me in towards him. As his face neared, I quickly realized this wasn't a hug. He intended to exchange the bises. Trying not to flinch, I accommodated his unusual greeting. Then I quickly pulled away and said goodbye with a forced smile.
I just thought it was an anomaly, some over excited security guard. But then later in the day, when I saw my concierge for the first time since returning, his warm, grinning greeting morphed into an up front and personal experience with his stubbled cheeks.
So, apparently I've learned a new Moroccan cultural practice. It seems that when Moroccan men have not seen each other for an extended period of time (I guess two weeks counts?), they kiss each other on the cheeks. Good to know. I'm contemplating whether I ever want to leave Morocco again...
My flight returned a few days ago, but I did some traveling before returning to Meknes. The cheapest return flight I found from the United States took me through Dublin on Aer Lingus and then to Agadir, a beach resort town a few hours south of Casablanca. I had looked forward to a nice vacation checking out some tourist hot spots on my way back to Meknes.
After arriving, I remembered why I do not particularly like tourist hot spots.
Agadir is a beautiful beach town, but its beauty is marred a bit by the touristy atmosphere. Every 100 meters or so, a Moroccan would approach me, profile me, and say hello in every language I could possibly speak (German, French, and English/American seemed to be the only nationalities I fit). I would try to ignore them or give them one word answers. But they would persist. Since each one seemed to think himself my best friend, he seemed offended that I didn't want to stop and gullibly fall into his hustler's spell.
Some were more direct. Rather than playing the pretend friend game, some just get straight to the point: "Hello. You want hashish, shit, marijuana...?" The /I/ sound in 'shit' is particularly hard for some Moroccans. So it often comes across as 'sheet', but some manage to also pronounce it as 'shut' or 'shoot'. I would have made a joke at their expense, but such a response would have been counter-productive to my escape strategy.
After a day in Agadir, I headed to the strangely Europeanized city of Marrakesh. The hustlers were exactly the same. After a couple of days, I quickly grew tired of the whole experience, living out of a suitcase, being a tourist. So I decided to head back to Meknes a little early.
After a six and a half hour train ride, I arrived back in familiar Meknes, and I began the short walk home. Halfway between the train station and my house, I heard a voice calling to me, "Hey! You! Friend...stop. How are you?"
I rued to myself, "I can't escape being a tourist no matter where I go." I tried to walk a little faster as I ignored the voice. As usual, that didn't deter this persistent Moroccan. He ran and caught up to me.
I turned to recognize a familiar face.
"Hey. You remember me?"
"Yeah."
"We had coffee a couple of times. You're going to buy a rug from my friend, right?"
It was true. We had had coffee a couple of times in my first few weeks in Meknes. He and his friend had been very friendly, and they had always wanted me to come with them to buy a carpet, which I had always declined.
He asked how Christmas had been in America and how my family had been. He asked if I wanted to get coffee or maybe go check out his friends' carpets. I said I was tired after the long journey and wanted to go home.
We shook hands and parted on the corner by my house.
It is with a little disappointment that I recognize that everywhere I go in Morocco, I will always be a foreigner.
But there's still something strangely comforting about being hustled by a familiar voice.
Shortly after arriving in Meknes I ran into a security guard from work on the streets and his greeting was even more enthusiastic than the usual elaborate Moroccan greeting, including large grins and excessive touching of my arm and shoulder (excessive from an American point of view, that is). I received similar treatment from many coworkers when I stopped by work yesterday.
The strangest part of my welcome, though, has been the kisses I have been receiving from older men. Now, after extensive time in Latin America, Spain, and France, I am well accustomed to the "bises" that I am expected to exchange with females, but males only rarely exchange them, and I personally have always stuck with the Germanic handshake in my encounters with men.
I was passing the electronics store near my house on the way to work and the middle-aged, partially toothless, and stubbled security guard greeted me warmly. He stopped what he was doing and approached. I held out my hand to shake his. He took it, shook it, and then pulled me in towards him. As his face neared, I quickly realized this wasn't a hug. He intended to exchange the bises. Trying not to flinch, I accommodated his unusual greeting. Then I quickly pulled away and said goodbye with a forced smile.
I just thought it was an anomaly, some over excited security guard. But then later in the day, when I saw my concierge for the first time since returning, his warm, grinning greeting morphed into an up front and personal experience with his stubbled cheeks.
So, apparently I've learned a new Moroccan cultural practice. It seems that when Moroccan men have not seen each other for an extended period of time (I guess two weeks counts?), they kiss each other on the cheeks. Good to know. I'm contemplating whether I ever want to leave Morocco again...
My flight returned a few days ago, but I did some traveling before returning to Meknes. The cheapest return flight I found from the United States took me through Dublin on Aer Lingus and then to Agadir, a beach resort town a few hours south of Casablanca. I had looked forward to a nice vacation checking out some tourist hot spots on my way back to Meknes.
After arriving, I remembered why I do not particularly like tourist hot spots.
Agadir is a beautiful beach town, but its beauty is marred a bit by the touristy atmosphere. Every 100 meters or so, a Moroccan would approach me, profile me, and say hello in every language I could possibly speak (German, French, and English/American seemed to be the only nationalities I fit). I would try to ignore them or give them one word answers. But they would persist. Since each one seemed to think himself my best friend, he seemed offended that I didn't want to stop and gullibly fall into his hustler's spell.
Some were more direct. Rather than playing the pretend friend game, some just get straight to the point: "Hello. You want hashish, shit, marijuana...?" The /I/ sound in 'shit' is particularly hard for some Moroccans. So it often comes across as 'sheet', but some manage to also pronounce it as 'shut' or 'shoot'. I would have made a joke at their expense, but such a response would have been counter-productive to my escape strategy.
After a day in Agadir, I headed to the strangely Europeanized city of Marrakesh. The hustlers were exactly the same. After a couple of days, I quickly grew tired of the whole experience, living out of a suitcase, being a tourist. So I decided to head back to Meknes a little early.
After a six and a half hour train ride, I arrived back in familiar Meknes, and I began the short walk home. Halfway between the train station and my house, I heard a voice calling to me, "Hey! You! Friend...stop. How are you?"
I rued to myself, "I can't escape being a tourist no matter where I go." I tried to walk a little faster as I ignored the voice. As usual, that didn't deter this persistent Moroccan. He ran and caught up to me.
I turned to recognize a familiar face.
"Hey. You remember me?"
"Yeah."
"We had coffee a couple of times. You're going to buy a rug from my friend, right?"
It was true. We had had coffee a couple of times in my first few weeks in Meknes. He and his friend had been very friendly, and they had always wanted me to come with them to buy a carpet, which I had always declined.
He asked how Christmas had been in America and how my family had been. He asked if I wanted to get coffee or maybe go check out his friends' carpets. I said I was tired after the long journey and wanted to go home.
We shook hands and parted on the corner by my house.
It is with a little disappointment that I recognize that everywhere I go in Morocco, I will always be a foreigner.
But there's still something strangely comforting about being hustled by a familiar voice.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Moroccan News in 2009
It seems a fair assumption that my readers do not follow Moroccan news closely. So to give a better idea of the context from which these Moroccan dispatches originate, here is a summary of some of the main Moroccan news stories from 2009.
The year 2009 marked the tenth year of the reign of Mohammed VI, the third Moroccan king since the 1956 end of French colonialism. There was praise for certain of his reforms in education and family law and his greater concern for human rights. Most negative news was downplayed if played at all. In related news, the weekly magazines TelQuel and Nichane were pulled from racks and destroyed for daring to publish a survey including a question about the king's approval rating. It stands at 91%, but no matter. One cannot ask that question.
On the journalism front, the daily Akhbar al Youm was shut down, and the editors of Al Jarida Al Oula and Al Michaal were all condemned to over a year in prison. The crime of the editor of Al Michaal? Commenting on a sickness of the king.
Politically, the newly formed Party of Authenticity and Modernity, headed by the friend of the king Fouad Ali El Himma, continued to maintain power.
On the diplomatic front, negotiations continued for political autonomy between Algeria, the Polisario rebels of the disputed territory of Western Sahara, and the government of Morocco. In related news, Western Sahara independence activist Aminatou Haidar went on a month long hunger strike in the airport of the Spanish territory of Gran Canarias, after destroying her Moroccan passport. After visits to Washington D.C. and Paris by the foreign minister and following Spanish approval, Haidar was finally allowed to return to Western Sahara. This followed a visit by Hillary Clinton to Marrakesh earlier in the fall, the highest member of the newly elected Obama administration to visit here.
In more domestic news, a young group organized a symbolic picnic in Mohammedia during the month of Ramadan in protest against a law prohibiting eating in a public space during the day. It was organized via a Facebook group.
In more religious news, some European Christians and Iraqi Shiites were expelled from the country for proselytizing.
In entertainment news, films such as Casanegra, Amours voilés, and Tu te souviens d'Adil all addressed local taboos and raised whirlwinds of controversy, whether over sexual themes, harsh language, religion, or terrorism.
Inspired by the Demi Moore cover of Vanity Fair a few years back, former TV presenter Nadia Larguet appeared nude on the cover of the women's magazine Femmes du Maroc while eight months pregnant. This, needless to say, inspired a great deal of controversy.
Along with the better part of the world, many Moroccans mourned the passing of Michael Jackson with performances, tributes, and music purchases (or free downloads as the case may be).
Aicha Ech-Channa, the founder of the Association for Feminine Solidarity won the Opus Prize and its $1 million award for her work for single mothers.
In sports news, Morocco failed to make both the World Cup and the Africa Cup despite some great players such as Bourdeaux star Marouane Chamakh who have had great success in European leagues.
As in much of the world, the swine flu (aka "H1N1" or "influenza A") made a big media splash and a much smaller (but still serious) impact on the real lives of Moroccans. Over 2800 people in Morocco (including my roommate) came down with it, and over 50 died.
The year 2009 marked the tenth year of the reign of Mohammed VI, the third Moroccan king since the 1956 end of French colonialism. There was praise for certain of his reforms in education and family law and his greater concern for human rights. Most negative news was downplayed if played at all. In related news, the weekly magazines TelQuel and Nichane were pulled from racks and destroyed for daring to publish a survey including a question about the king's approval rating. It stands at 91%, but no matter. One cannot ask that question.
On the journalism front, the daily Akhbar al Youm was shut down, and the editors of Al Jarida Al Oula and Al Michaal were all condemned to over a year in prison. The crime of the editor of Al Michaal? Commenting on a sickness of the king.
Politically, the newly formed Party of Authenticity and Modernity, headed by the friend of the king Fouad Ali El Himma, continued to maintain power.
On the diplomatic front, negotiations continued for political autonomy between Algeria, the Polisario rebels of the disputed territory of Western Sahara, and the government of Morocco. In related news, Western Sahara independence activist Aminatou Haidar went on a month long hunger strike in the airport of the Spanish territory of Gran Canarias, after destroying her Moroccan passport. After visits to Washington D.C. and Paris by the foreign minister and following Spanish approval, Haidar was finally allowed to return to Western Sahara. This followed a visit by Hillary Clinton to Marrakesh earlier in the fall, the highest member of the newly elected Obama administration to visit here.
In more domestic news, a young group organized a symbolic picnic in Mohammedia during the month of Ramadan in protest against a law prohibiting eating in a public space during the day. It was organized via a Facebook group.
In more religious news, some European Christians and Iraqi Shiites were expelled from the country for proselytizing.
In entertainment news, films such as Casanegra, Amours voilés, and Tu te souviens d'Adil all addressed local taboos and raised whirlwinds of controversy, whether over sexual themes, harsh language, religion, or terrorism.
Inspired by the Demi Moore cover of Vanity Fair a few years back, former TV presenter Nadia Larguet appeared nude on the cover of the women's magazine Femmes du Maroc while eight months pregnant. This, needless to say, inspired a great deal of controversy.
Along with the better part of the world, many Moroccans mourned the passing of Michael Jackson with performances, tributes, and music purchases (or free downloads as the case may be).
Aicha Ech-Channa, the founder of the Association for Feminine Solidarity won the Opus Prize and its $1 million award for her work for single mothers.
In sports news, Morocco failed to make both the World Cup and the Africa Cup despite some great players such as Bourdeaux star Marouane Chamakh who have had great success in European leagues.
As in much of the world, the swine flu (aka "H1N1" or "influenza A") made a big media splash and a much smaller (but still serious) impact on the real lives of Moroccans. Over 2800 people in Morocco (including my roommate) came down with it, and over 50 died.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
