Houria

I first met Houria a little over a year ago. She had completed her university degree and was enrolled in an advanced English program in Meknes. Her family lives in Assoul, and she was home for the Eid holiday. She had sought me out because she was writing (in English) a monograph on the teaching of Tamazight in Moroccan schools, and wanted feedback from me both as an English speaker and a Tamazight learner. She taught me quite a bit about the evolution of her language and its role as a cultural marker. On a personal level, Houria was often distressed to see the erosion of her language even in her home, as more and more Arabic and French words replace what my tutor often refers to as the “old language.”

Thoughtful and driven to expose herself to more of the world than most of Assoul's women genuinely aspire to see, Houria became a quick friend. We visited whenever she was in Assoul, and would often speak or send messages when she was studying or at work in Meknes. She often struggled with the limited options facing educated women of her generation – jobs are unavailable, but for many, a more “traditional” marriage back at home becomes untenable as well. She told me about the places in the world that she wanted to visit one day, and we discussed how she could continue to build upon her chosen field of research – the preservation of Tamazight culture through its language.

Last week, she was back in Assoul to celebrate her father's return from the Hajj. I happily spent time with her family and one-on-one. As a perpetual “outsider” in Assoul, I very much valued her sincere kindness and curiosity about how my culture compared to hers. She was supposed to return to Meknes last weekend, and we were already discussing plans for our next opportunity to meet up.

Sadly, last Wednesday afternoon as I was running errands in town, people began to stop me, breaking the bad news about someone they knew to be my friend. Houria had died of a heart attack. She was only 22. I am sad not only to have lost a friend, but also to know that perhaps one of Assoul’s most promising young women will not have the opportunity to make the mark she so dearly wished to make in the larger world…

Anna Nicole Smith

So, I just finished reading The Sex Lives of Cannibals, by J. Maarten Troost - a hilarious read, and one that gives a pretty good sense of the sorts of adjustment issues, deprivations, and daily absurdities one might face when transplanted into the developing world for a couple of years.

One thing Troost talks about is his starvation for any and all information from the civilized world. I definitely feel that too, although (not being stuck on a desert island) I haven't done too badly on most fronts. Peace Corps volunteers maintain a pretty good network for book and DVD circulation, and I do make it to the internet once a week, more or less. And, like Troost, I do a constant dance with my shortwave radio, seeking out a little BBC, or, barring that, anything in English (although I am occasionally disappointed to realize I have, in fact, stumbled onto Vatican Radio - not exactly the semi-objective news source I am normally seeking out).

One interesting side effect of living abroad for some volunteers is an enhanced obsession with celebrity gossip. I know people who circulate mass text messages with updates from People.com (I'm out of that loop now that I don't have cell phone service in my village). Still, I too am somewhat susceptible. A couple of months ago, an American visitor to my house left a copy of US Weekly. I confess, I read it.

... And then I took it to my friend Najat, who is probably the closest thing I have to a "girlfriend" (in that giggly teenage sense, although Najat is at least my age) in Assoul. Having spent plenty of time with her browsing through various French fashion and celebrity magazines (and sometimes Arabic ones) from the 1970s and 80s, I knew Najat would not likely be offended by photos of women in skimpy dresses or underwear, candid (i.e. kissing) photos of celebrity couples, or a shirtless David Beckham in a "Got Milk" ad (yum - have I mentioned just how non-existent my social life is in Morocco?!). Indeed, it was Najat who informed me that Beckham was going to the US (she's also a big radio listener), so she definitely stays somewhat posted on pop culture, although she's one of the few Moroccans I've met who doesn't seem to know who Celine Dion is (but I digress...).

Due to the dearth, and cost, of popular publications in Assoul, once people get their hands on a magazine, they keep pulling it out and re-reading it (or just looking at the pictures, if it happens to be in the wrong language). This is why I am constantly having to tell women that shoulder pads are not, in fact, fashionable. So even though I'd given Najat the US Weekly a while ago, one day this week as I was visiting, out it came again.

Najat opened it up to a spread about Anna Nicole Smith and the disputed paternity of her new baby - new husband (and her lawyer), or ex-boyfriend? As I again explained the contents of the article, Najat was fascinated, asking about how they could perform blood tests, etc. "This woman is hashuma," I explained, hoping to impress her with my respect for local values (hashuma roughly refers to any number of social/religious taboos - in many cases pertaining to sex, alcohol, or - as I've heard a few times - single women who do not live with their parents...). "No she's not," Najat said. This baffled me as, obviously, Anna Nicole has been sleeping around.

Now, Najat's French is not very good, but neither is she too inclined to try to follow my heavily accented Tamazight, so the details of our conversations occasionally get lost in the garble that we speak together. Nevertheless, I pressed on, "She married a very old, very rich man just for his money." "That's okay," Najat answered, "Maybe he just couldn't find anyone else to marry." At this point, Najat's younger sister Miriam jumped to defend my point. Miriam, who rarely leaves the house and speaks only Tamazight and Arabic, seems to have a startling knowledge of English obscenities (words and gestures) thanks to American movies on TV (back in the days when Assoul's generator sometimes worked). "She could get SIDA [AIDS]," Miriam said. Way to go Miriam. As a reward for her insight, I asked her if she had yet learned the word "slut."

Still, Najat maintained her point: "Well, she's not hashuma because she's not a Muslim." Miriam and I both explained that some things are also frowned upon (if not to the same degree - although I kept that nuance to myself) in America or other Christian cultures. I added, "And she posed naked in magazines." Najat started showing me pictures in a French magazine of Spanish soap opera stills (folks in bathing suits making eyes at each other). "Not like that," I said, "a SEX magazine." "Oh," said Najat. This led to a digression about her finding a rather, um, informative, book possessed by one of her relatives when she was a teenager, which she subsequently passed around to all of her friends before it disappeared. "But," she added, "you realize that I only know about these things. I don't do them." [I believe this]. "See, I don't even wear make-up when men are around."

Then, we got to talking about the responsibilities of unwed mothers in the US, and the controversy over the veil in Europe. But we never reached an agreement about Anna Nicole.

Blogger Sucks!

I don't know what's going on lately, but during the very few occasions I have had to travel to civilization during the last few weeks, I have had a terrible time logging into Blogger. So here's what you've missed:

A Sevillano Christmas

In spite of the fact that much of my vacation involved consuming all sorts of food and beverage products that are unavailable to me in Morocco, I did manage to squeeze in a little more sightseeing over Christmas, including the layering of Moorish influence and inspiration in the Alcázar of Seville…

…and Seville’s cathedral, the largest gothic cathedral in the world. There, I saw a sarcophagus containing the remains of Christopher Columbus, whose tomb, interestingly enough, I also saw in Santo Domingo, in the Dominican Republic, when I traveled there about seven years ago. A true traveler, that man!



This photo was taken from about halfway up La Giralda, a 35-story minaret co-opted by the cathedral’s builders.

I also got a little taste of the modern while strolling through a temporary art exhibition in Seville’s Plaza Nueva, where gigantic and slightly bizarre sculptures by artist Igor Mitoraj dominated the square.

Once back in Morocco, I battled Eid Al-Kbir travel angst – not unlike our own holiday mayhem at airports etc., but far worse when coupled with all the usual transportation craziness one faces around here. Still - even after all of the niceties of civilization - I was happy to be back in my own bed for a few nights before the carnage began...

Eid Al-Kbir, Part Deux

Like a good Berber woman, I woke up the morning of Eid, and paid my social calls. In doing so, I actually avoided witnessing any slaughter (last year I saw it twice, so I'm good). I did my part, eating sheep guts again, although this year I could confidently refuse stomach, and fat wrapped in intestines. I also passed on the head again.

Just a reminder what a beautiful site I have:

...And One More Random Transit Ride

So it appears that a number of women in my village are going to get a gig picking strawberries in Spain for a few months. Sounds a little sketchy to me, but... In any event, a load of them traveled to Rich last week to get the scoop on this opportunity, and I was on the transit with them coming and going. I listened to a woman wretch behind me the whole way back. Nevertheless, as we were passing a village on the way home, a man on the street waved down our transit and offered to share a platter of couscous (which he was eating on the side of the road). I passed. The carsick females, however, seemed to have no problem with it. While I found this interesting, I realized (having been in this country for a while now), I realized I didn't think it was particularly strange. A friend of mine who lives in that village explained later that this is an occasional form of charity people offer, ostensibly for women working in the fields (never mind that this is not harvest time).