I'm really enjoying writing on this blog. It's a great way to thoughtfully, or at least somewhat thoughtfully, process being back in the Middle East, something, to be honest blogfession style, that I didn't actually think I would ever be doing again. Slowly unfolding this experience, in the context of my years in Jordan and Morocco, is like taking out a beloved old quilt and spreading it across a new bed.
What follows is one of my favorite stories from Morocco, one that still makes me totally crack up (literally chuckling right now, thinking about it) and is so completely demonstrative of the beautiful complexity of this region.
Ok, so I was in about, say, month 6 of living in Morocco. I had spent about 7 months in Jordan previously, so I had over a year of Arabia under my belt at this point and was very comfortable in the culture. I was hanging out at my friend Yara's house with her and her brothers, moving between goofing off, watching tv and napping in that fluid way Moroccans have down pat. Yara's friend Namiha called and said she was coming over to hang out. Yara was psyched-- Namiha recently got married to a Saudi guy and has been living in Jeddah, so it would be a joyous reunion between friends.
Thirty minutes later, there's a knock at the door and a ninja walks in. Not kidding-- she had what Jordanians call 'the ninja suit' on, a full black face veil, black gloves, black abaya (loose dress), etc. You know, you've seen it on the news-- that type where you could only see her eyes through a slit. I stirred from my slumber totally shocked-- you rarely saw that type of dress in Morocco, and even during my time in Jordan I had spent little if no time with women who wore such conservative attire. I immediately judged her-- subservient, ignorant woman who married a Saudi and was now his property. I basically wrote this woman off.
Ninja Namiha greeted everyone animatedly, brothers included, and paraded into the back room where we could close the door and she could de-veil among just girls. I followed silently, weirded out to my very bottom that I was hanging out with this...living symbol of oppression.
We closed the door and Namiha flipped up her face veil and de-gloved. She had on bight pink lipstick and nail polish. Yara asked about her new marriage, and the two girls dissolved into giggles. The thing about Moroccan women is, they have just really great senses of humor. And if the joke is good, they high-five each other and then hold hands. It's AWESOME. There was a lot of this going on--so much high-fiving. I was enthralled. Namiha was hilarious, and fiery. She started talking about her wedding night, flipped onto her back and began acting out her husband massaging out her leg cramp mid--you know. I was dying. We were all rolling on the floor. Oh.my.god. Who was this woman??
The afternoon continued in a similar manner, with Namiha regaling us with story after story that left us bent over with tears streaming down our faces. Finally, right before she left, Namiha turned to me and said, 'When I came in, you judged me completely.' I was called out. I told her she was right, and said it was hard for me to reconcile that someone who was so incredibly outspoken and spirited would wear such constricting, covering clothing. I asked her if her husband made her. No, it turns out-- Namiha choose to wear the abaya and face veil herself, years ago, and her husband didn't particularly care one way or the other. She then flounced out of the room, said something so crude to the snoozing boys that they broke into guffaws, yelled a loving goodbye and was gone.
What a powerful woman. I felt ashamed and humbled, but also so happy I had met her-- a great story + some serious stereotype crushing?? Two 'fer indeed.
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