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Shannon Victorious

April 12, 2009

Readers of my previous entries will likely not be surprised when I say that living in Morocco has been much more difficult than living in Spain. I knew this going into it; indeed, that’s one of the reasons I chose Morocco—as a test of my own limits. I am the kind of person who will throw herself into challenging situations because I know I’ll come out stronger on the other side. I departed for Morocco with this same mindset, determined to overcome whatever obstacles came my way.

I never imagined just how many ways Morocco would test me. It’s like walking through the old medina’s colorful, chaotic streets: All your senses must constantly be on high alert as you watch the ground (lest you trip on one of the many uneven stones) and dodge pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, and the occasional car. Get distracted by an eye-catching scarf, a mouth-watering pastry, the aroma of spices and sizzle of street food, and you might just run into something. That’s how I felt through much of the first two and a half months in Morocco. Even my day to day existence seemed to require intense concentration. It was overwhelming. Some days still feel that way.

I’ve definitely had my share of psychological stumbles, though (perhaps predictably) they weren’t things that I anticipated beforehand. Indeed, I was surprised that I had such an easy time adjusting to the difference of religion. For me, being in a majority Muslim country has not felt significantly different from being in a majority Christian country. People still have the same basic needs, whether their holy book is the Bible or the Qur’an. Some have money, some do not. Some are educated, some are not. Some are progressive, some are conservative. Most are kind, generous people. Just like in any society.

On the other hand, the difference in level of development proved a harder adjustment to make than I expected, probably because I didn’t think of all the things that make a developed country “developed.” I never truly appreciated flush toilets, abundant hot water, cross walks, generally-obeyed traffic rules, beds, or nearly universal Internet access until I got here and suddenly didn’t have them. The contrast has definitely made me reevaluate what constitutes a condition under which you should be happy (or at least content), and where you draw the line of what is a necessity. The results are still inconclusive.

But I have come to a conclusion on how to handle street harassment, something any woman in Morocco must learn to deal with. Whether you are foreign or Moroccan, young men will make unwanted advances at you for their own and their friends’ amusement. These advances are primarily verbal and will take the form of greetings called in whatever language they think you might respond to, calls of “beautiful” (also in half a dozen languages), “Spice Girls,” “Ooh la la,” or any number of more creative things. (“Fish and chips” was particularly popular in Marrakech. I guess they thought we were British.)

For a while I found these catcalls unnerving, but I finally realized that I was letting them bother me unnecessarily. Street harassment is meaningless, and it’s a waste of energy to get upset because of it. While I continue to believe that I and any other woman should be able to walk down the street without men calling “Sexy” at us, I have adopted the mindset that the perpetrators are misguided and that their comments do not merit my attention. So I ignore them and keep walking. It seems to work. Another obstacle overcome.

In many ways I feel like Morocco itself: In the last couple decades, the country has undergone tremendous changes, and the rapid change hasn’t stopped. You can see it just by looking at the cities: Everywhere you go there are large-scale building projects. You really get the sense of a country in transition. It’s all happened so fast that Moroccans haven’t had a chance to catch up with themselves; the country is changing quickly, but even as it’s changing I don’t think people are sure about where the change is taking them. That’s certainly how I feel about this semester. It’s impossible to know exactly how you’re changing when you’re in the thick of things; you don’t know for sure until you’re on the other side of the transition.

For a long time I struggled to determine whether I liked being in Morocco; being here has been so different from anything I’ve experienced before that it took most of the first two and a half months to even build a framework for making the decision. Ultimately, I determined that Morocco is the kind of place I would love to come back to in about ten years to see how things have changed. It is a beautiful, diverse country with a rich and fascinating culture and history, and it has taught me things most Americans never have the opportunity to learn. For that alone I am glad to be here. I’ll be honest, it hasn’t been easy. My father is fond of quoting Nietzsche’s “That which does not kill me makes me stronger,” but I find this slightly melodramatic. I prefer General George Patton’s “Accept the challenges, that you may feel the exhilaration of victory.” In this case, victory is discovering something new—lots of new somethings—about myself and about the world. I can’t think of any better reward.

Photo 1: Avenue Mohammed V, one of the main streets in Rabat. It runs through both the old medina (shown above) and the new city.
Photo 2: The Hassan Tower, Rabat
Photo 3: The medina in Asilah, a seaside town north of Rabat

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