By ahblackwell
“Nemshiioo,” said Mama Fatiha around eight on Saturday evening. I’ve learned a good amount of Darija in the past week, but after only two days of attempts at translating in my homestay, I only knew this as “We’re going.” I slipped on my boots and took my time tying them, which I’ve realized inconveniences my family members (who wear slip-on shoes) more than I expected, and headed out the door with Khouloud, Khalid, and Mama Fatiha. I followed close behind them down several windy streets until we ended up in front of a door on a street that I recognized as being close to my school. I could hear a number of voices overhead, and as we climbed the stairs to the top floor, I realized this was not the normal evening visit that I had already become accustomed to. The room we walked into was filled with women and young girls, several of which I was relieved to discover were my fellow students. After several minutes, the situation of the evening was explained to me. We had gathered for Hiba’s birthday, the 6-year-old daughter of Saana, who is the daughter of Mama Hafida, my friend Kayla’s homestay mother. Mama Hafida is my homestay father’s sister or cousin or some type of relative, which makes Kayla and I distant cousins of some kind. Hiba was running around with an electric blue silk kaftan (the traditional dress for Muslim women, worn by Moroccan women at special events), silver bedazzled dress-up high heels, a beaded necklace, and a tiara, and it was easy to tell that it was her birthday with little explanation. The evening commenced with dancing in a tiny side room. One of the older daughters tied a scarf around her hips and began to dance, her arms raised above her head. One by one, the other girls rose and pulled us up with them, and soon we were all shaking our hips to the beats of the music. Throughout the rest of the evening, which consisted mostly of eating, we were abruptly pulled from the couches and told to dance. At one point the courtyard outside exploded with drums and shrill horns and we were all rushed outside to dance with the musicians who had come to surprise Hiba. Mama Fatiha did not gather Khouloud, Khalid and I to leave until almost one in the morning, at which point, belly full and legs sore from dancing, I was more than willing to leave. We walked home in a content silence and rolled into our beds, the Medina sleeping silently around us.
Every moment I spend with Khouloud and Mama Fatiha, the more I am impressed by the lives of women, here in Rabat. For all young girls, as far as I have seen, the day is spent in school and the night is spent visiting friends and family and gossiping over tea and cookies and cakes. Although Moroccan girls are not encouraged to “go out” to clubs and bars late at night, their evenings could not be more social. Together, women talk and laugh while huddled together under large blankets on their couches, or cry while they watch the evening’s dramatic talk shows, or dance to the songs on the radio as they move throughout the house in their pajama pants, bringing out more and more plates of food. The camaraderie between women in this medina is enviable, and I feel so lucky to be a part of it for the few months that I am staying with Mama Fatiha and Baba Bouselham, in Rabat.
On Wednesday night, I had another intimate bonding experience with my family that I cannot imagine is shared between men. Kayla and I accompanied Mama Fatiha and Khouloud to the hammam, or the public bath that is a popular destination for Moroccans. Khalid, as a young boy, was allowed to tag along. In the steamy room, stripped down to nothing but underwear or less, we all sat on tiny stools next to our own buckets of hot water and scrubbed and shaved and shampooed for over two hours. Mama Fatiha rubbed me down with henna (similar to clay), Khouloud scrubbed my back with a keess, and I shaved my legs while laughing about Khalid dunking his entire head into his bucket. I gossiped with Kayla and my host mother for hours as I repeatedly poured hot water over my head and watched my dead skin run down the tile floor and into the drain at the back of the room. Men also go to the hammam; it is not strictly an experience for women. However, the general comfort and normalcy I felt while laughing and talking with my family as we all sat around naked and scrubbing each other was something that, as I have heard from talking to my classmates, only the women share. Not only was the hammam something I thoroughly enjoyed and plan to do at least once a week (I have never felt so clean in my entire life), but it was also a place where the dynamics of gender and humility, which are so present in Muslim cultures, are completely erased. As an American woman in Rabat, I exist in a domain where I am not held to the local norms that young Moroccan women are responsible for maintaining. However, living with a family in the medina has allowed me to experience the lives of women who are so often misunderstood and doused with western assumptions. My little sister Khouloud and her cousins and classmates constantly experience restrictions that exist simply because they are female; however, they also experience a world full of love and laughter that most men are prevented from entering, and it is a world that I will cherish as long as I am living in the medina.
