finding the limit in fes

i've hit a bit of a wall; i'm not going to lie. i've reached that point where i'm beginning to become quite fatigued of handing over this life of mine to the grand "intercultural experience" otherwise known as "studying abroad," or, for me, "morocco." particularly as i sit in this tiny dorm room on this tiny campus in this tiny town so far removed from morocco proper, feeling a little more than queasy again from the cafeteria food.

i feel as though i'm suffocating under this culture a little bit, too. this past weekend after spending friday night glorying in the beauty of moroccan nature, camping in a sort of open-mouthed cave on a nearby hillside, and enjoying the scrubbing, steaming, exfoliating goodness of the hammam in fes, i was really on a high. i felt cleaner than i ever had in my life and a brief stop at a nearby patisserie to indulge in a raspberry-passion fruit tart with a hint of dark chocolate left me in legitimate feminine ecstasy.

we turned to the old medina to meet up with some guy friends, and that blissful moment suddently came crashing down around my ears - the pristine, crystalline beauty shattered about my feet. and perhaps i still haven't quite recovered...

all entrances to the medina, except for one small side gate, had been blocked off because of a festival that night celebrating the 1200th anniversary of the city of fes. getting separated from the other three girls in our group, shadea and i found ourselves suddenly in the midst of a writhing, tumultuous mass of warm, sweating bodies all pushing in opposite directions - some trying to get out, others trying to get in, and us - caught in the middle, simply trying to stay standing and in one piece. the story of the people crushed to death when the crowd rushed the football stadium somewhere in europe, i clung to shadea's hand and the swarm of people pushed from behind - somehow thinking that would be the most effective means of moving forward despite the fact that those in front weren't going anywhere.

and then the guy popped up behind me - the embodiement of all that i hate about morocco. without warning he was standing there, plying offers of "berber massage" in his high, accented voice dripping with inuendo and physical desire. in the next moment his hand was on my wrist, and then he was stroking my hand. without even thinking, i tore my arm from his grasp and responded with a blow to his chest (rather weak, i'm afraid) and a warning to "go away" sounding awfully high and sharp to my own ears - all my arabic, of course, choosing that exact moment to flee my mind.

and in the next moment he was gone, some kind angel of a man intervening and placing himself between myself and him - i don't even remember much of the rest, except that we managed to escape the worst of the crowd in the next few minutes. as the adrenaline faded from my veins, my heart beat slowed, but i was still shaking when we finally made it to the guys' hotel terrace ten minutes later - that moment of feminine ecstasy long gone, stolen away by the assault of a society still in the throes of the gender struggle.

i never have really considered myself a feminist, but since coming to this place i have begun to question my own perspective, and to be thankful for my own country. for my independence there, especially. the worst part about it, though, is that i'm getting tired of fighting, of having those conversations with my moroccan friends here, of having to arm myself everytime i walk out of the door. as i look at the women in the streets in the towns i visit, i wonder if i have any right, then, to judge them for failing to stand up to the system so long ago.

and yet there are still so many things that i love about this country, and when i say i've hit the wall in some ways, i can say in the same breath that i know i will miss this country, i will miss its people, i will miss those deeply challenging conversations and the constant invitation to abandon your plans and embrace the grace and beauty of flexibility and all of the unknown adventures that she offers.

so i take a deep breath. find that center of love and peace. and choose to bring that to the world i'm living in. because, the truth is, i'm a bit ashamed that i hit that man - that i responded to his negativity with anger, hatred, loathing, and violence. i shouldn't have given him the time of day. and maybe that's the thought of moroccan women. maybe they're just biding their time until that day when the mantle of oppression has cracked enough that they can throw it off in one fell swoop and stand victorious, celebrating the success of their patience, their endurance, and their silent protest.

i really hope so...