Well, it’s a been a fall full of Fulbright fun, but not very many blog posts. In case you’re wondering what’s been going on, I have some links to point you in the right direction, plus a few recaps.

The biggest news is a new production I directed this fall. With fellow Northwestern Alum Tom Casserly, I received some funding from the American Language Center, Tangier, the American Cultural Association, and the U.S. Embassy, Morocco to adapt and direct a musical theatre piece in Tangier this past fall. The piece was an adaptation of the classic love story of Romeo and Juliet, and West Side Story to take place in Tangier. Two rival gangs, of Tangier, torn apart by regional differences and brought together by forbidden love (and musical theatre). We opened to packed houses in Tangier, played 4 shows with standing room only, then took it on the road to Fez, and the Fulbright 30th Anniversary Gala in Rabat. Right now we’re in the process of planning a few more dates, but you find all the information about the show, plus some podcasts, video, and press on our site: www.f7alif7alek.com

Personally, I returned back to the US for the holidays, and I’ll be heading up to Chicago, New York, and then back to Morocco for some research wrap-up, plus performances of our show, F7ali F7alek (the 7 is pronounced like an emphatic H- head over to www.f7alif7alek.com/2012/09/17/how-to-pronounce-a-7-and-casting-updates to read more…)

And finally, a bit of news about how I’ll be using this blog in the future. I’ve finally launched my website for my theatre work (www.georgebajalia.com), which means that I’ll be using this for academic musings, personal project posts, and the like. For major theatrical updates, and for photos, and information about my directing work, head on over to my site!

Stay tuned here, though for research updates as this round of my time in Morocco comes to a close. It’s a new year, and Northwestern’s football team won a bowl game, so I think I can manage to be better about blog updates!

However, it’s what I’m thinking about, and so I’m going to post it! It’s actually an excerpt of a letter I wrote recently to a former professor, but I’d like to consider it an open letter to the community who cares. That is, an open letter with the most stringent Creative Commons copyright attached to it- no ripping off these groundbreaking ideas, please. 

My project here is founded in studying contemporary theatre artists in Morocco in order to query how they are representing Moroccan culture, that is, how they are “performing” Morocco, in relation to the ways in which Morocco has been represented in the Western gaze. My hypothesis is that globalization is hardly a new phenomenon in this part of the Mediterranean, and especially in Tangier, and that by studying the ways in which centuries of global circulation has informed identity formation and social hierarchies, we may begin to suppose how globalization will impact future identity/social/national? developments in the rest of the globalizing world. At least, that was the initial project. . 

As of late, I’ve started to return to socio-historical studies of the Mediterranean at large in hopes of reacquainting myself with how previous eras of intense circulation have played out in this region. I returned to Braudel, and followed his trail to the contemporary studies that Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell have put together (The Corrupting Sea, and its sequel). In this, I’ve realized that I may have a different goal all together. If, as I believe, one of the best starting points for talking about globalization today may be Braudel’s longue durée, then perhaps we can begin thinking of the globalization of the late 20^th century and our current times as a hyper speed version of the long term. That is, we can parallel the long-term social history of the Mediterranean with contemporary socio-political events. However, what seems to be lacking (at least to me), is a vocabulary for talking about the now. Which brings me back to Horden and Purcell’s The Corrupting Sea, and my current question. In the first two chapters of The Corrupting Sea, they outline how their framework, heavily based on Braudel’s own, for talking about the Mediterranean. The two most important terms, in their essay, are “geography” and “ecology.” They generally apply the terms in a more traditional sense; that is, they seek to investigate the geographic situation and subsequent developments of trade and mobility the Mediterranean, as well its ecosystems and the biodiversity (human included) that emerged within them. My question and, in turn perhaps my quest, is this: can we apply these same terms to globalization in order to construct a framework for talking about the cultural and social repercussions of high-speed connectivity and circulation?

That is to say, can we refer to transnational institutions (NATO, The UN, The Arab League, perhaps even Wikileaks), corporations, and capital markets (cultural, linguistic, and fiscal capital) as the geographic landscape of the globalized world, Web-based connectivity of Mare Nostrum? Accordingly, are the social groups/hiercharies we see emerging–the global managerial class, the “unemployed youth” of the so-called Arab Spring, the Islamists and Selafi movements, the anti-multiculturalist parties of Europe, the Occupy movement, and the urban slums that surround them all–the ecology of the Brave New World?

So, any thoughts? Like I said, I doubt this is the right forum for these sorts of things, but I felt the need to put it out there. Who knows, maybe Tumblr is the need breeding ground for open-source academia. 

Morocco seems to be caught between two “revolutions.” There is the Arab Spring movement, characterized in some opinions by anti-monarchists and pro-democracy activism, and there is the Islamist movement, led by the Party of Justice and Development (PJD), the new majority holders in Parliament. At times, it’s difficult to tell exactly how these movements are progressing but, today, a good friend of mine prompted me to start thinking about things a bit differently. 

Much discussion has taken place regarding Tangier’s cityscape, urban development, and the destruction of its natural beauty. Foreign developers, in conjunction with the government, are redoing Tangier city’s harbor to create a tourist companion to the sprawling TangerMed industrial port a few kilometers down the bay. Naysayers argue that there will be no place for the fishing industry, one of the few remaining sea-going enterprises based out of Tangier proper, and the harbor will be given over to foreign yachter and tourist ferry boats. Advocates say that it has the potential to revitalize Tangier’s tourism industry, and the proposed ski lift from the port to the Kasbah will not be “Disney-fying” but electrifying. 

However, no matter which “revolution” takes hold of the people, it seems likely that these developments will continue regardless. As an alternative way of thinking about these movements, I propose not looking, but listening. The call to prayer is an immovable part of Morocco’s soundscape, and it seems unlikely to go away anytime soon. It adds an element of temporality to idle musings at the cafe, and it provides relief in the workday. During Ramadan, it unites millions across the country in a moment of pause, and brings them together for the first meal of the day. As of late, though, this peaceful reminder of something greater has lost dominance of the religious soundscape. Religiosity, packaged into CD form, spreads across the city through speakers taped to a push cart, and powered by a car battery. 

As my friend tells it, and in my own memory, these carts cropped up in abundance earlier in 2012, around the time the PJD took power in Parliament. Perhaps it’s a stretch to say that the two are related but then again, perhaps it’s not. Either way, its effect is undeniable. Religion, and its sonic invocations, are being commercialized and packaged in jingle form the same as anything else. In consequence, these invocations are increasingly “religisizing” the public sphere in a way that seems at odds with the sacristy of the call to prayer. Religion, as it adapts to the global commercial age, may prove to be the most powerful force in the much talked about “Arab Spring.” Either way, it’s certainly catchy.

Hear for yourself here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swoGhKQUfp8

Privacy has many meanings here in Morocco. In the early weeks of my grant, while I was studying Darija, one of the first phrases we learned was essentially “excuse me, that’s private [information].” The exact phrase has long since departed my memory, but other ways to say the same thing have since come up. It’s not a phrase that I often say, and when I do, it doesn’t seem to quite register with my conversant. This past week, I moved into a new house. Asked by a spice seller in the central market what I was paying for my new house, I replied, “Hey man, that’s private, right?” In response, he started listing off prices I could be paying, in French and English, thinking I perhaps hadn’t understood his question. I told him what I was paying.

Living in the Fez medina, private had another meaning. For tourists, or foreigners in general, it often meant something closer to “closed.” Wandering the streets of the medina, I offered heard young men calling out “excuse me, excuse me, fermé, fermé”. This street is closed, this street is closed. Most times, the street was not closed. The schoolchildren following the young men repeating “fermé, fermé” eventually trailed off after it was clear I knew where I was going. In some cases, this was simply an attempt to solicit money from tourists who think that they are heading down a closed street. Other times, it’s meant to inform the pedestrians that this is a residential street, not one of the tourist-ridden throughways. 

In the home, privacy has another meaning. One of the defining features in Moroccan medina architecture, in my opinion, is the construction of the home for ultimate privacy. Windows are aimed outwards, at the street, but inwards, towards the other members of the family. Room doors are a newer insertion into the home, and often the most trafficked rooms of the house are covered simply by a curtain or by nothing at all. From the outside, Medina homes don’t seem like much. Small, slit-like windows pepper the walls, and heavy doors block the interior from view, even when opened. On the inside, however, rooms are located off a central courtyard, traditionally, and roofs are open to the air (though these days they are often covered by tarps and glass). Privacy in the home is a completely different affair.

These days, though, private has taken on a separate, more specifically economic, connotation. As Laila Lalami recently wrote for Newsweek (http://goo.gl/DOu02), Morocco is becoming an increasingly privatized country, from the power company to the garbage collection agency, “a French corporation that evidently didn’t have enough bins or enough employees to keep the streets clean.” In Morocco, the more power you use, the higher rate you pay. That is, it’s a sliding charge scale, all depending on your level of power usage. In its origin, this regulation was perhaps meant to encourage less power usage, and to solicit more money from more well off electricity users, who wouldn’t feel the need to change their habits. It’s a problematic regulation, though. Electricity is not a luxury good. It’s an essential part of daily life.

And the people are feeling the pressure of rising bills. Near the Mediterranean city of Al Hoceima, a man was recently arrested for raising the Israeli flag above his home. His crime was not related to his religious views, though. By all reports, he is a mosque-going Muslim. The flag was an act of protest. The power company had cut off his power due to lingering debt on unpaid bills, and he was likening Morocco’s utility policies to that of Israel towards to the Palestinians. Implicit in his protest, and explicit in the news coverage of it, was the statement that the power company was discriminating against members of the Amazight minority, a majority in the Rif area around Al Hoceima. 

Some weeks ago, Moroccan news agencies started reporting that the national telecom, Maroc Telecom, was limiting bandwidth for VoIP programs, such as Skype or Google Voice. Something funny was clearly going on, and still is. When I arrived in Rabat this past September, none of the Fulbrighters could seem to use Skype, at all. Once I moved to Fez, I was able to use Skype but it was extremely limited. In part, this was due to the nature of the medina. Thick walls and no space for telephone poles or cabling don’t make it easy to have a high-speed connection. Here in Tangier, my service improved but there are still lingering issues. According to the press, Maroc Telecom, owned by the French company Vivendi, has been reducing bandwidth for users of VoIP programs like Skype in order to encourage use of their own softwares (http://goo.gl/i24JX). My own bandwidth seems to have stabilized, but this is a story that has clearly yet to finish.  

In fact, none of these stories have an ending yet. Protests are ongoing in Al Hoceima, and spreading to other cities. Discontent with utility prices is widespread, and just might be what the February 20^th movement needs to jumpstart their support. The intricacies of privacy in Morocco make its future hard to forecast, as if it were an easy task with any country. When does an issue stop becoming a private, personal issue and move into the public sphere? Privacy is centered around the home, yes, but as homes are becoming increasingly privatized themselves, perhaps the distinction between the public and private sphere is blurring into an osmotic zone. In this zone, whoever yells the loudest just might win. 

Well it’s been a while, but I have legitimate excuse this time. This past week, the Jordan American Commission for Educational Exchange hosted the regional enrichment seminar for Fulbright grantees in the Middle East and North Africa. Following the conference, I took a few days to travel to Jerusalem, and my grandparent’s old home town of Ramallah, Palestine. 

The conference itself was full of presentations by grantees about their experiences in various countries and, while the 10 hour days got a bit tiresome by the end, it was indeed quite enriching to hear about contemporary issues in the MENA region. The region itself always occupies quite a bit of time in the News media, but what we heard here was different. We heard about the political situation in Bahrain, and the unnerving proximity of civil war. We heard about the fault lines present underneath Amman, and the potential devastation should an earthquake occur (a looming possibility, but one rarely talked about). We heard about graphic artists in Cairo, and one grantees search to develop a typeface wherein the Roman letters reflect Arabic Calligraphy, instead of Arabic fonts always seeking to look like Roman fonts.

Throughout the conference, each country became a much more real place to me, a place beyond the news articles that I peruse regularly. Except for the Emirates. The Emirates now seem even more like something out of a science fiction novel, but that’s another post entirely. Altogether, it was a great opportunity to meet colleagues from around the region, and to compare just what about these countries comprises a region we call “The Middle East and North Africa.”

And then I crossed the border. Crossing into Israel via Jordan was a surprisingly simple process. I, along with another Morocco grantee, took a bus to the King Hussein Bridge and crossed out of Jordan and into a no-man’s land. Jordan doesn’t officially recognize this crossing as a border, so that stamped a piece of paper and sent us across the bridge (a 4 foot crossing over the River Jordan) and into the Israeli station. After waiting in line, we eventually made it to the passport control. After a couple looks, it was clear that my friend would be crossing right away, but I would have to wait. I handed my passport over, and didn’t see it again for 2 hours. In the scheme of things, it could have been much worse. A young woman questioned me about my family and our heritage (they knew all the answers already), and about just why I was living in Morocco. Thankfully, I had brought along my Fulbright award letter and that seemed to be enough to explain it. Even so, I was sent to a waiting room. Along with about 20 other Palestinians, we awaited our clearance to cross. Most of the men were crossing for work reasons, and got their permission relatively quickly. I sat and watched the hordes of tourist buses cross while I waited in a room that was initially created for Palestinians to cross separately from tourists. Nearby, I could see a smaller “VIP” room with full of European and American travelers, and stocked with bottles of water and fresh fruit. 

Eventually, it was just me left in the room. About halfway through the waiting period, I discovered there was an unsecured WiFi connection nearby, so I sat around checking my email for a bit. Eventually, another young woman wandered into the VIP room looking around for me. When she didn’t see anyone, I waved to her from where I was told to sit. Slightly surprised that I was in that waiting room, she hurried over and handed me my passport. “How do I get out of this area?” I asked. “How should I know…” she responded and went on her way. I eventually figured it out and found my friend waiting for me on the other side. We had both expected that it would take much longer, and he was debating how to get in touch with me should night fall and the station close while I was still being held. Slightly frustrated, but thankful for the comparatively short waiting time and the free Wifi, we got in a shared taxi to Jerusalem. 

And then it started to rain. And it didn’t stop. Well, at least until it turned into snow. So our time in Jerusalem, as beautiful as it was, was full of finding indoor sites, and figuring out cafes to stop in as we walked the Stations of the Cross. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was incredible in its own right, and seemed even more amazing as the Orthodox Priests struck the bells and spread incense through the Christ’s tomb and the surrounding chambers. The most unbelievable thing though? Pretty much everyone we met assumed my friend and I were Moroccan. I guess Darija has pretty much irrevocably permeated throughout our Arabic. Honestly, I really tried not to use it, but I guess it’s time to just give up…

After a night in Jerusalem, we hopped on a bus and headed to Ramallah. As we passed through the borders of West Jerusalem, the difference was striking. The fertile farmlands of Israel gave way to borders and tin roofed huts. The joggers and cyclists became underfed livestock and pickup trucks full of goods. And as we arrived in Ramallah, the urban sprawl revealed just how much the city has become the one source of viable income in the West Bank. The city passed from village to town to city decades, if not centuries ago; now, however, it has emerged as the go-to place for anyone in the territories who can. From Stars & Bucks, a West Bank coffee chain based on the ubiquitous Seattle coffee chain, we looked out of the main square. Prominently located was a pavillion that said “Palestine’s Right” across the top. Below it saw a United Nations chair with the name “Palestine” written across it. Across town, the presidential palace is under construction, right next to Yassir Arafat’s mausoleum. 

From “Charlie Fried Chicken” to “Checker’s Fast Food” and “Stars & Bucks,” the city has a clear Western influence. The most interesting thing to me, however, was that many of these places seemed to be vital parts in the city’s cultural and social life, not to mention the numerous bars, restaurants, and cultural centers. For me, one of the most striking things was to walk into a cafe and see people who looked just like my uncles, aunts, and cousins. And most everyone seemed to have some family, extended as they be, in the US. Especially in Ramallah, where many of the old families had unique opportunities to emigrate. Now, as Palestinian Americans return, they are mixing with the city’s already vibrant culture to make it a world-class city. Free WiFi was everywhere, and Palestinian Investment companies seemed to be everywhere. It’s a city with the potential to make a difference, and the energy and will to do so. 

There’s much more to say, but to be quite honest, at this point it’s still too fresh. Stay tuned for more updates soon, with the story of the rest of my time in Ramallah and the long journey home. 

Today marks the one year anniversary of the protests in Morocco that spurred King Mohamed 6th’s decision to upend the constitution (sort of) and establish a democratically elected parliament (sort of). This time last year, the streets of Tangier were full of protests and, as I’ve come to learn, full of looters. The main street of town, known locally simply as Boulevard, faced massive looting and businesses were shut down for days. This year, the #Feb20 movement planned protests all across the country- some protesting the monarchy, some protesting the ever-pressing issue of youth unemployment, and some protesting the Islamist party that won the parliamentary elections this past fall. Though today is the anniversary, the movement made a decision to hold the protests yesterday, on the 19th. Why, you ask? Well, because people have work today, and the protesters wouldn’t want them to miss it. 

And therein lies the contradiction. Aren’t the majority of the protesters supposed to be un(der)employed and overeducated young people? If they have work on Monday, work so important that missing a few hours would ruin their career, then why exactly are they protesting in the first place? Furthermore, isn’t the point of a protest sacrifice? Sacrifices made in the name of the greater good, justice, and equality seem to be worth a few hours off work. From my brief perusal of the Boulevard, though, the problem is more than that. Even on a Sunday, few people showed up here in Tangier. In fact, the biggest protests here yesterday were related to the Islamist party, and even that was a trickling flow of people at best. No doubt there were larger protests elsewhere in the country, and maybe even in Tangier, but the most visible protests took play in absence. That is, by not showing up for the protests, the majority of Tangawi were–maybe inadvertently–sending a message: it’s not worth it. In many eyes, these protests are a farce. The “Arab Spring” is a media created sensation that froze over during Tangier’s unusually cold winter. 

Several evenings ago, I walked past the plaza where the protests were to be held. It was jam packed with people- the majority of them were just passing through and gazing out across the sea. The wall of the plaza, known as the “lazy wall,” is notorious for being a place for loitering and nothing-doing. As I passed through, a friend suggested we stop by a bar for a quick beer and tapas. The bar’s name is (in French) “The Heart of Tangier” and is situated on top of the notorious Cafe de Paris. As we sat relaxing over the Place de France, right in the center of downtown, I gazed out over the plaza. I had never seen the view from the height before, and I noticed the flag of France proudly flying over the consulate. At first glance, it appeared to be the highest point in the view. After another look through, I saw something bright yellow peaking out from behind the trees of the Consulate’s luscious grounds. 

There, just barely out-doing the French flag was a sign of the coming era. At one point, it was the epitome of American democratic capitalism. Here in Morocco, it’s a sign of Westernism, luxury, and modernity. In the distance, fluorescent and flickering, McDonald’s had made its mark on the Place de France. Move over 20th century colonialism- McArabia is here. 

My guest post is now up on the Tangier American Legation Blog, so check it out here . 

Or scroll down for the full post below. Be sure to check out the TALIM blog too, as it’s regularly updated with great posts about the intersection of Tangier’s past and present.  

“George Bajalia, Fulbright Scholar in Tangier, provides us this guest post on his adventures in theatre at the outset of his year-long research program in Morocco.  At TALIM, we believe in making the most of limited resources, and the semi-miraculous juxtaposition of Fulbright theatre scholar, American film festival in Tangier, and American Voices “Broadway in Morocco” workshop in nearby Tetouan was an opportunity to leverage cultural assets.”

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Researching theatre in Morocco is often a contradictory affair. When I talk about my research with people, they often ask me why I came to Morocco to study theatre. Wouldn’t I have been better off somewhere in Europe, or perhaps in Egypt, they ask. Other times, I meet people involved in local improv groups, write plays for small troupes, or grew up reading classics of theatre translated into Arabic or French.

My first time in Tangier, I was waiting at Café de Paris waiting on a potential research contact to show up. I must have looked anxious because the man seated next to me asked if everything was all right. We struck up a conversation, and before I knew it the time for my meeting had come and gone. When I started lamenting that to my new friend, he stopped me and said, “a coincidence is worth a thousand appointments,” he said. How true.

Several weeks ago, I was at TALIM and ran into Jerry. As I explained what I was working on, his excitement grew. As it turned out, my move to Tangier from Fez came at the perfect time. Mrs. Karla Rais el Fenni, a longtime Tangier American, had recently received a grant from the US Embassy to organize an English language film festival and theatre performance. However, she still needed someone to help with the direction of the play. As a theatre director, that seemed to be something with which I could definitely help.

Jerry had also heard about another Embassy program run through the international cultural organization American Voices, who were running a series of workshops throughout Morocco on acting and theatre marketing.  I turned out to be in a perfect position to connect the two events. The workshop was heading to Tetouan for a three-day program in the North. So, I squeezed into a grand taxi to Tetouan, walked into a building full of artists young and old, and introduced myself to the American crew.  They appeared a bit surprised to meet a countryman who works in the same field! For the most part, I just sat in the back and watched.

At one point, I watched as a group of budding dancers moved in unison on the upbeat of a song, in the exact opposite rhythm of most dancers in the US. To an outsider, that might not seem remarkable, but Michael Parks Masterson (a director who works with American Voices) and I were intrigued. Most dancers have trouble finding the upbeat, but instinctively move on the downbeat. In all of his workshops, all over the world, Michael had never seen dancers immediately find the upbeat, but struggle to find the downbeat. After some reflection, he deduced that something in Moroccan music must focus on the upbeat. Several days later, at a Gnawa music session in a friend’s home, I realized he was exactly right. Traditional Moroccan dance emphasizes movement on the upbeat, not the downbeat.

In the marketing workshop, Joanie Pelzer, a New York actor and producer, related a story from her time in Rabat. A theatre had produced a play about women’s issues in Morocco, focusing on rape. The word “rape” was in the title, and featured prominently on the theatre’s signage. When she arrived, they told her how the theatre had trouble filling the house with their target audience - women. They changed the advertising, removed the word “rape,” and noticed an increase of women in the audience. Apparently many women hadn’t wanted to be seen entering a theatre that seemed to be featuring rape so prominently. They were interested in the play’s subject, but the advertising had actually prevented them from coming.

The team was working under a tight schedule and wasn’t able to take up our invitation to come to Tangier, but we agreed to meet up a few days later in Fez, where I had some business to take care of. I was able to introduce them to a good friend of mine who is working to start a non-profit organization,Zanqa Arts (literally, “Street Art”), dedicated to organizing workshops and performances for youth in the Old Fez Medina. Coincidentally, Zanqa Arts was hosting a dinner party that weekend for their own artists, and several of the people from the Embassy and American Voices, including artists from the theatre workshop that morning, were thus able to connect with this very active group of street artists from Fez.

I came away from the experience with a network of contacts that I know will prove crucial in my research here, as well as quite a few new friends. Finding performance, and performers, in Morocco seems daunting at times and these workshops proved invaluable. In time, hopefully TALIM and foreigners such as myself will be able to participate in and contribute to a vibrant performance community that isn’t always the easiest to find. I’ll be sharing the lessons I learned from the workshops, and the presenters, with the young actors I’m working with this spring through Karla’s festival and we’ll certainly be inviting the artists I met in Tetouan. The key to my research here, I’m learning, is embracing coincidence and being ready to work at any time. I had walked into the TALIM library expecting to spend the day buried in books, and walked out energized by a new possibility, but incredulous that so much was happening – the trick is just learning about it.

As I had learned at Café de Paris, a coincidence may indeed be worth a thousand appointments, but the key to making these opportunities count is following up on them and pulling together ideas, resources, and people to create new possibilities out of them. In this case, Jerry connected groups of people who didn’t know about each other and events that were unrelated but extremely relevant to one another. The impact of the American Voices program will last beyond the workshops themselves, and the festival will be better because of the workshops. A community of people, active amongst themselves, now has the possibility to connect with other likeminded artists. In an age of social networking sites, connecting online is easier than ever. However, serendipitous occasions such as this prove that we still need to reach beyond the easy access of email and Facebook. Sometimes all it takes is a chance meeting and a cramped taxi ride to make the connection.

Earlier this week I was asked to write a guest post for the Tangier American Legation blog about my time with the theatre workshops in Tetouan and Fez. Now that I’ve finished it up, I’ll be posting it here as soon as it’s live at www.talimblog.org

In the mean time, here’s a brief post about linguistic variance and “code switching” here in Tangier, with special emphasis on centers of ex-pat life (bars and import stores):

On a daily basis, the most important thing I can do with my time here is focus on my language ability. Oftentimes, that means making sure that my interactions are predominantly in Darija (or, sometimes, Spanish) rather than the usual mix of Darija and French that figures prominently in most conversations between foreigners and Moroccans. Sometimes, this means quoting and negotiating prices in Arabic, as opposed to French. My usual response to a price of “quarante cinq” is a quick “Excuse me sir, but I actually speak Arabic much better than French.”

Earlier this week, a fellow Fulbrighter came up from Fez with some college friends. To welcome my friend to the big city, I took him by some of Tangier’s import stores. One in particular has become my go to spot for tortillas and other random, reasonably priced, imported goods. By now, I’ve established a bit of a rapport with the owner and we joke good-naturally about my odd taste. 

When I arrived with my friend, we were chatting away in English and we naturally continued as we perused the store. When it came time to check out, the owner casually quoted us the price in English and asked us how we were doing. A bit surprised, we responded in English and then continued the conversation in Arabic. Later that evening, when we popped by one of my favorite bars in the Ville Nouvelle, the barkeep greeting me with a rousing “Nice to see you again- I see you’re back from Fez!” His demeanor is generally a friendly one, but this was a bit different. And so went the rest of the evening. In English.

It took me until quite recently to really accept that sometimes it’s OK to converse in English. Yes, it’s important to conduct my life in Darija as much as possible, but often times people want to practice their English just as much as I want to practice my Arabic. And, as limited as these relationships are, they aren’t one time experiences, so having a conversation in English every now and then is good for all parties involved. It’s not, as I felt at times previously, simply a way of stereotyping foreigners as French speaking tourists. Instead, there is a genuine element of wanting people to feel comfortable, and practicing an useful language at the same time. In fact, it’s very similar to my own inclination to speak in Darija as much as possible.

So, for now, I’m fine with speaking in English when Darija might be more practically beneficial, in terms of my time here. More than that, speaking in a language wanted and accepted by both parties is a more human way of conducting business, and even building cordial relationships. Just don’t quote the price of my tomatoes in French. 

Listening to a song, the Spanish phrase “tan lejos y tan cerca” kept reoccurring in the chorus. As a rough equivalent to the colloquial phrase “so close, yet so far” the song referred to an unfulfilled dream. Jokingly, I asked, “how can something be tan lejos y tan cerca at the same time?” My friend pointed out the window and immediately answered: Spain is tan lejos y tan cerca.

It’s true. For most people here, Spain is the closest place, yet one of the most unreachable. A privilege of the American passport is the ability to walk to the port, purchase a ticket and half an hour later arrive into a part guarded by the welcoming, sword yielding arms of a statue of Christ. This ability presents an uncomfortable reality in my life here. Where do I get this right of ease? Many of my Moroccan friends speak much better Spanish than I do, without a doubt. They eat Spanish food more often, and cook it much better. There is really no comparison. 

Earlier this week I spent a day in Tetouan, a neighboring city, in order to observe a workshop held by American Voices and funded by the U.S. Embassy’s cultural affairs department. I’ve passed through Tetouan before–it’s less than an hour from Tangier and could easily be considered part of the same metropolitan are–but this was the first time I spent any real time there. Even entering the city borders, the Andalusian influences are astounding. I met up with a fellow Fulbrighter who lives there at a central plaza in the city. As I checked the time, it was 7:00 sharp, I caught myself realizing that something was very odd, though I couldn’t place what. Eventually I realized it: I was standing outside the courtyard of a church and the bell was striking 7 above me. The soundscape of the city, in my experience kept lively by the call to prayer, mingled naturally with the tolls of the Spanish bells.

The workshop itself was fascinating, and incredibly for more than one reason. In my time here, I’ve yet to see such a gathering of artists, young and old, all interesting in theatre and the performing arts. As I keep in touch with contacts I made there and attend performances held by various amateur troupes and associations represented there, I’ll have much to say in future posts here. However, this post is about something a little bit different. It’s about borders, both natural and imposed. Whether we realize it or not, borders determine a huge part of our daily lives. In Morocco, I’ve found this even more pronounced. From sitting in a police station in Oujda, on the Algerian border, while the police verified my identity so that I could stay in a hotel to the ever sensitive subject of what to call to vast portion of desert in the southwest of the region (Algeria? Western Sahara? Spanish Sahara? Moroccan Sahara?), borders are ever-present. Here in Tangier, it’s impossible to pass a day with gazing out across the Straits of Gibraltar. Last night, my taxi driver was tuned into Radio Gibraltar in the cab to catch the final minutes of the Madrid/Barcelona soccer game. On a clear day, I can distinguish the colors of the mountains of Algeciras and Tarifa.

Next month I’ll be traveling to Jordan for a Fulbright conference. When I arrive there, I’ve been instructed to purchase a $25 visa at the airport. And I can. To go to Spain, I can buy a $40 round trip ticket from Tangier to Madrid, on a whim, or I can simply hop on a ferry day of. At night, though, as I stare out across the sea my thoughts of its beauty are tainted by the barely visible shadows moving across the Straits. The images themselves don’t taint the beauty. This border is a natural one and, physically, is very easily crossed. The barely visible shapes, ships without lights, paddled by hand or with motors muffled represent the informal, underground, economy forced into existence by human borders. Smuggled goods, yes, but just as often a more precious, human, cargo. As someone just passing through, after all, no matter how long I stay, that’s all I am, it’s beautiful, and perhaps important, to look out across the border and see the lights of Algeciras, but it’s even more important to think about what I cannot see.  

Inevitably, the question always comes up. “Why are you studying theatre in here?” Here being Tangier, being Morocco, being North Africa- really anything. It’s always asked in earnest, accompanied by another locale that might be better suited for young theatre folk. For a bit, it had me questioning myself and my choice. As I (thought I) learned during my time here last year, the best way to miss out on the essence of a culture is to impose your own research agenda upon it. 

So I started asking a follow-up question–”Why shouldn’t I be? What’s wrong with theatre here?”- and the answers started to get interesting. They ranged from responses about the lack of discipline, and the “amateur” nature, of much of the theatre in Morocco to very practical answers about funding, and everything in between. So, in response to these questions, I started thinking, what is the place of (the) play in Moroccan culture, and how does theatre factor into social order here?

Breaking theatre down to its essentials-performance, audience, often with a text but most importantly with an intention-the amount of theatre here really anywhere in the world is simply astounding. Fights on the street cause tourists to stop and stare, but more often than not it’s more of a performance, albeit an argumentative one, than a physical confrontation. Community values of honor and shame are commonplace and much more integral to public life, in general. For various reasons, however, these forms of performance are less directly interesting to me. Perhaps because they have been thoroughly written on and perhaps because it easily descends into the kind of Mediterraneanism I touched on in my previous post. That said, they are no less valid because of it. In fact, they still play into my research here quite specifically. 

In these forms of performance, people make daily decisions regarding their self-representation to their community, neighbors, co-workers, clients, etc… In a culture such as this, where the display of self is rooted in deep notions of public and private, these values are bound to transfer to the stage. What is truly comedic and truly dramatic in any given context is often what is most familiar, taken and represented in performance. My interest lies in how they are represented on stage; in any given performance, the actors, directors, and playwrights must make choices about how they will represent these well known and deeply held notions. As they do so, however, they must contend with the changing winds of globalization. These forces change rapidly, yes, but they also innately bring a form of change with them. Actors, in life and on stage, must reference signals in the shared cultural canon in order to connect with the audience around them and changes in this canon mean changes in the manifest representations. 

Do these winds actually change the values themselves, though, or simply their depictions? That is the crucial question of my research, right now. Framed as such, there is surely too much research than I could possibly do in my limited time here. Try as I might, the cultural canon is always changing and performance is changing just as quick. What I can try to do, though, and what I aim to do with my time is to build an understanding of how these changes occur and analyze the patterns within them.

So, yes. I am studying theatre. In Tangier. In Morocco. In general. But it’s must more nuanced than that. As much as I would love to see a play every night, there are performances around every corner, as well as performers. And there are surprises. Like a US embassy sponsored event, “Broadway in Morocco” that is taking place this week, where actors from New York are holding acting training sessions for Moroccans all over the country. Or, for example, in the import store. Yesterday afternoon, as I stopped in to grab something, the cashier asked me what on earth I was doing in Morocco. And why I spoke Moroccan Arabic. Inevitably, the question turned to the familiar. “You’re studying theatre? Here? In Tangier?” This time, though, he wasn’t done yet. “That’s amazing…” he continued, “I’m in an improv troupe at my university here! We’re small and just getting started, but we perform all the time!”. And you know makes this story even better? He had tortillas.