West Meets Near East: Culture Clash Rant

Today, and the last few days to be fair, I have been frustrated. Every second of the day, frustrated. Why? you may ask. Well, this lack of equality between men and women is really getting to me, and more so on a personal level now as I spend more time with the male species here in Morocco (this doesn't include "my" Mohamed, I'll explain about him later. And I say "my" only because there are approximately 90 Mohameds out of 100 Moroccan men, not because I own him).

Here's how the story goes: Samira and Abderrahim left for Casablanca on Sunday morning, claiming that they would return on Monday. They left me in the "care" of Samira's 26 year-old brother, Simo (a nickname for Mohamed). Ok, first off, that pisses me off. I'm 20, but lets not play games here. I tend to be more capable and mature than most 26 year-old men, not to toot my own horn or anything. Nevertheless, we were supposed to help eachother out, figuring out our food etc. To be honest, I was kind of looking forward to spending some time with the younger generation here. To bad that was short lived.

So Sunday was the motorcycle day, which was invigorating of course. And then, that afternoon after riding around in a car for an ungodly amount of time, I was finally able to go for a cruise; I even got to do some road driving. But then the annoying stuff started. Now, I had already developed a bit of an annoyance with Simo. I didn't like the way he corrected my Arabic, grabbed my face and directed my eyes at his lips as he re-pronounced the word. But the real annoyance developed after AlFtour that night.

Adnan (who I very much enjoy), Simo, and I headed downtown. Fes is beautiful at night. There are hundreds of people, just wandering around. There are twinkle lights and colored fountains, in the new city of course (I haven't yet been to the old city at night here although I am looking forward to it). It's lovely. But what wasn't so lovely was that I was forced to hold onto Simo at all times. He'd grab my hand and interlace it with his, or bark some order at me about needing to hold on to his arm as if he were my escort. Um, I do not like this, AT ALL. All night it was like this, and all night the frustration simmered.

Now, he could have redeemed himself. I thought, just maybe he would have a liberal position on the hijab, say its a woman's choice, or maybe even that he doesn't think its a necessary thing. But, he did not redeem himself, in fact, he did just the opposite. My hand in his, he basically declared it necessary and that all women who don't wear it are not good Muslims. By the end of the night, even though it was lovely and we had enjoyed some wonderful smoothies on the promenade, frustration was reaching a boil.

Monday morning, I awoke to the news that Abderrahim and Samira wouldn't be returning until today, Tuesday. Yikes. By the way, I had to beg for this information as Simo doesn't find it necessary to inform me of anything, only to drag me around like is arm ornament apparently (and I don't feel like I make a good one, I have a buzz cut, no hijab!). So, onto day two with Simo and I in the house.

I also decided yesterday that I was done with fasting. No more. It was driving me nuts. I was obsessing about food, wanting to eat all the time, feeling weak, often feeling sick after eating, but the worst was waking up multiple times during the middle of the night to eat and therefore, hardly sleeping and completely screwing over my biological clock. Simo's response, get ready: I am anger (he doesn't know English well enough to know that the correct word is angry, which I include because he also seems to think he's a wiz at english). Well Simo, bite me. Ok, so I didn't respond that way. In fact, I didn't really respond at all. Later in the morning when the subject resurfaced, I explained that I KNOW that Islam preaches acceptence of other people of The Book (the Bible, meaning Christians and Jews) and although we are alike in many ways, we have different practices, and I asked that he respect me. He dropped it after that, thankfully. Thank God for studying Islam before coming here cause that could have been a blow-up, at least from my side. It was hard enough for me to make the choice not to fast, knowing that it would disappoint some people. I didn't need to hear it from him.

There were a few times while we were running errands yesterday that he pissed me off, continuing to bring the pot to a nice boil. Still, in broad day light, I needed to hold onto him, lest I get hit by a car or something. I made some exasperated comments at time, telling him that I was capable of doing it by myself, but then feeling guilty and apologizing for the way I had reacted. I tried to explain that it was different in the States. But, my overwhelming sentiment at the time was GRRR.

Last night, I really got pushed over the edge: I think it was somewhere between being lectured for using the word F*ck and when he grabbed the extra skin on my neck, jiggled it like a chicken and laughed (claiming that he thought it was zweena, beautiful). Again Simo, bite me. I'm over it. I'm over living with him. I can hardly put on a smile when he looks at me or tries to engage in conversation with me. I'll be happy when he leaves, and even happier if I leave first.

The plan for this weekend is to go to Rabat. My Mohammed will be there. His friend has an apartment that we stayed at last week. It's kinda warn down, but its the best thing since sliced bread as far as I'm concerned. I love Rabat, I love freedom, and I love being with him.

I realized in some phone conversations yesterday that I haven't mentioned him really at all on my blog. I think I was afraid to like him at first. And while ultimately, I have no idea what will happen, I know that for now, I'm enjoying it, and I'm pretty grateful for his presence and support especially when things are hard. He's funny, spontaneous, proudly imperfect, adventurous (not only a tour guide but also a snow board instructor in the mountains), humble (the 7 languages thing), willing to share, and perhaps a little intense. Part of the cultural difference is evident in his willingness to share that he's falling in love with me, that he'd like to marry me. That's kind of the norm here. But, I can tell him when it's too much, when he's annoying me, or when I feel like he's being- perhaps- a bit controlling (not unlike my dad, who really just wants what's best for me). In fact, I can tell him anything. He's quite the catch as far as I'm concerned.

On that note, there are a few things that are bothering me about the situation, and really they have nothing to do with him. It's outside situations that come into play: I don't have privacy, so I don't have time to talk to him except through text messages, he lives in the south so we're not close enough to see each other more than once every couple weeks or so, and dating is not looked upon highly in the muslim world- basically, I should be killed, or at least disowned. Ok, so that's probably a little harsh, but the societal commentary on dating is so strong that I don't even feel comfortable sharing the fact that I like him with anyone here, any Moroccans. I feel torn between the two worlds. I want to tell Samira, and perhaps ensha-allah, I will. But, in time I suppose, it can't all be fixed to my liking in this instant.

It's an adventure, as is everything I do here I suppose. Last night I sent in a request for a budget increase that would enable me to stay in Morocco until mid-June. I think I'd like to be back at OSU for summer quarter, all of this ensha-allah.

I do miss Balanced Yoga. I miss my friends there, I miss the regularity of my practice, I miss our honesty and openness. But, I can see on a daily basis that what I learned this summer during my teacher training continues to effect me on a daily basis. Sometimes, things aren't comfortable. Sometimes, I don't want to keep going and doing and feeling. But, if I do, I'm bound to feel better. I'm actually suiting up for my first real practice on the roof of my building this morning.

And one last thing, I'm happy to report that the living situation worked out well. When Simo and I arrived at ALIF yesterday, my host family had already called to tell them I wanted to move out. At first the coordinater, Yossef, suggested that the policy for leaving was one week rent at $150dH/day in addition to a $300dH service fee, around $200, and I lived there for a night. I shared my frustration by means of: "that sucks". I wasn't planning on sharing any reasons for why I was leaving other than that I would be more comfortable with my teacher. But I ended up spilling the beans after seeing that it could potentially save me $200. And it did. I came out only $15 less, and they're going to check into using the family in the future. It's not that they aren't beautiful people, its really just the lack of privacy and quiet. (Apparently the 'private' room should include a door and a lock, ha! Far from it!

Anyhow, today should bring more practice on my now insured motorcycle. Hopefully, pictures will be here soon.

I miss you, but love it here as well.
Ma'Salama