Daily Life

Got my hair cut for 30 dirhams ($3.54). After dampening my hair, the hairdresser (coiffeur) hung the towel on a small clothesline stand outside. However, I got my money's worth. Although it was a simple cut, the hair was aligned in various ways for proper measurement of length; and the blow dry and brushing were included. Then I was met by Khadija Hassan. We had soft drinks together, seated outdoors in a square near the expansive, palm tree-lined Muhammad V Avenue –especially beautiful at night with its fountains. Rabat's new town follows French colonial style with wide boulevards, prominent municipal buildings, and upscale shops, now a bit on the tawdry side. The time to do people watching is about 7 or 8 PM, when it seems everyone comes out for a stroll. After a bit of conversation and calling her sister on her pink and beige Nokia cell phone, Khadija invited me to her family's home. She lives with her mother and three sisters in a ground floor apartment in one of the cement buildings making up Rabat's suburbs. We went by taxi. I would say it is a lower middle class unit–and quite hot this time of year. No effort is make to let in air from the outside. Alleys between the apartment building are narrow and relatively clean. The older brother is married with children and works in Italy. The family appears to be of Berber origin, the mother from Rissani and the father from Ouarzazate (Berber cities in the southern oasis valleys). We had cakes and tea followed by spaghetti with a light tomato sauce accented with bits of fried fish. I was appreciative of seeing another side of Moroccan life. However, I think the main intent of the visit was to try and secure a job; and I couldn't fault Khadija's energy in pursuing her goal. She's a bright and nicely attired young woman of 30, who had just ended a three-year job as a nanny with a French family. She will start work as a beautician (coiffeure) on Monday. She asked me if I lived alone and had anyone to help with house work. On the taxi ride back to the hotel, she asked about offices that could help Moroccans get jobs in the U.S. Khadija dressed in western fashion with a nubby pink top and pink and white, vertically-striped slacks. Her sandals and handbag were new and fashionable. I noticed her sister, wearing a black and white striped top and black slacks at home, put on a jellaba when she walked with us to the street to look for a taxi. She walked in the easy, swaying manner Moroccan women often walk in their open-heeled sandals. She accompanied Khadija as they took me back to my hotel. None of the daughters is married, though they range in age from 28 to 32. The mother, heavy-set with the Berber-style headscarf–tied, involving a tightly-wound, round role across the crown, takes care of the home, which consists of a couple of sitting rooms (salons with low, Arab style sofas with pillows, palm-woven floor coverings, and a table in the middle) and a kitchen on the ground floor. One of the salons has a television set, but no satellite service. Programming switches between French colloquial and French. The set sits on a set of shelves decorated with plastic flower arrangements, pleasing from what I've seen elsewhere. A simple, X-shaped Koran stand fills the small space between the shelving and a nearby divan. The books it holds are not readily discernible. Other than this, no religious imagery is apparent in the apartment. One picture of the oldest grandchild, now 11, at the age of 3 graces the upper reaches of a wall. Bedrooms are probably upstairs. The youngest daughter works long hours in a garment factory and makes 2000 dirhams a month–about $238. The majority of young people can't find good jobs; and this prevents them from getting married. Khadija wants to meet again and perhaps take me to Agdal, a fancy, upscale Rabat neighborhood. She makes the most of her minimal French language skills. I often have a hard time understanding her; and she isn't familiar with all of the French vocabulary I use. That, together with the fact that my Arabic is based on modern standard and Egyptian and Yemeni colloquial rather than Moroccan (darijah), leads to some interesting conversations. I went to bed with such mixed feelings. I had been fearful of seeing a slice of Moroccan life I might have liked to avoid. I was comfortable in my hotel room with its air conditioning and probably would have been content to stay there or at least take a stroll in Rabat's center in the cooler evening air at my own casual, distant and solitary pace. This cocoon was interrupted by Khadija's visit to my hotel and her invitation for an evening's conversation. While it had an ulterior motive, I couldn't help but feel admiration for her determined search for a new job, and the ability with which she did it given her skills, as well as compassion for the challenges she and her family face.