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11-Sep-2016 17:23 by 4 Comments

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In Fez, I had practiced dialogues that adhered to Morocco’s traditional gender roles: My tutor there, an unmarried and conservative woman, punctuated my classroom dialogues with instruction on what good Moroccan women did or did not do.

Meriem taught me: Go get fucked with your sister Seloua! He could very well have been the same man who’d passed a minute earlier, or two minutes before that. Enter your new information and click on Save My Changes. In Morocco, the catcall-to-minute ratio was approximately one to one. I’d grown skilled at controlling what I saw as I walked: not the catcalling men, but the swallows circling the gates of the Old City as dusk fell, or the tiny seashells embedded in the pavement. Sign in to Customer Care using your account number or postal address. This time I focused on an approaching patch of shade — but damn, this man! eriem became a prostitute because she lost her virginity. She got a phone call and started arguing with the person on the other end. She was smoking one of my cigarettes; she wasn’t wearing a headscarf; she was exposing her legs.She told me this in a house that I was renting in a Moroccan seaside town. Walking over to my house, she hadn’t even covered her outfit with a djellaba, the traditional hooded cloak.

It was 2008 and I had just moved there from Fez because the words people used to describe the place were Europeans owned homes in the Old City, which they occupied in the summer, when the town was saturated in blue and the beach looked savage and grand. I repeated the word she had used, which I assumed meant “rape.” She nodded while I looked it up in my dictionary, but wasn’t there. — another name for Moroccan Arabic, the colloquial language that incorporates bits of Berber, French, and Spanish.

The rest of the year, you saw vacant homes and hungry people and heroin addicts. I stopped her on occasion to be sure I wasn’t misunderstanding her Moroccan Arabic. There were no academics in the town, and I didn’t want to be tutored by a man.

“No,” she said, “we were friends.” I offered her a cigarette. I don’t want to live in Morocco anymore.” I noticed that her fingernails had been chewed to nubs and that she had a bruise on her right knee. Indeed, in that first half hour with Meriem, I could almost forget that we were in Morocco and that she wasn’t “good” by Moroccan standards.

Meriem is a prostitute, Taha had told me, but she’s very smart.

I said that I didn’t care what she did when she wasn’t tutoring me.

And anyway, it was the kind of language not found in books that I most wanted to learn.

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