Berkley Center

You see, Morocco, with its 172,000 square miles (about the size of California) and its 33 million inhabitants (somewhere between California and Texas) is incredibly diverse—to the point that I am unsure of how to give a single, simple answer to the question of what it is like. Should I focus on Rabat, where I lived? In the newer parts of the city, such as Agdal (my neighborhood) and the downtown Rabat-ville, the French influence remains extremely evident. The street corners are graced by the same stores at which I shopped during my time in Lyon; French restaurants, complete with tartine and chocolate mousse, can be found every few blocks. The sidewalks are a bit more uneven and the buildings’ façades are slightly grimier if you manage to turn down a side street, but for the most part—if not for the darija I hear spoken and the Arabic script on the stop signs—I could nearly convince myself that I was still in France.

Not all of Rabat is so French, though. The old medina is still a relatively traditional marketplace. Some of the shopkeepers have stores, whereas others just have stalls; some simply lay their wares on a blanket in the middle of the road, with no evident concern for the foot traffic and occasional donkey carts that could, in theory, destroy their stock. When people ask me about Morocco, should I tell them about the fresh bamboo juice that was sold next to the Moroccan key chains, or about how, when it rains, the dirt path in the medina becomes inaccessible for pretty much anyone not wearing rubber boots? Should I talk about the udaya, or old residential part of the city, where you can sit sipping tea while watching the ocean crash along the western edge of the early Islamic world?

But is talking about Rabat—just Rabat—really enough? I would argue that this city provides a skewed perspective of a country in which 50 percent of inhabitants are classified as rural, rather than urban. When people ask me about Morocco, should I tell them about the three days I spent in the mountain village of Zawiya Ahansal? The four hotels in the town are actually more like guesthouses, where one can live alongside certain prominent residents who have large enough houses to accommodate visitors. There is no WiFi signal in the town, and only one “European” toilet. In other words, there was never a chance of me confusing Zawiya with a swanky European city. I still loved it, though; there was something about the magnitude of the High Atlas Mountains, coupled with the river flowing through the middle of town that was diverted into an astonishingly complex irrigation system throughout the town’s farms. As my friends and I sat on the roof of our guesthouse, unsuccessfully trying to watch the sunrise despite an abundance of clouds, I reflected on just how few times I would have the experience to disconnect so completely from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, when this lack of connection is sustained, as for the residents of the town, certain problems can occur. The quality of education, for example, leaves much to be desired. When people ask me about Morocco, should I tell them about the massive inequality gap between the rural and the urban? Should I talk about how most Amazigh, or Berbers, often live in rural areas, and how, as a result, struggle to find political traction and a niche within the overall Moroccan national identity? Should I bring up the question of Western Sahara—the fact that Morocco lays claim to what much of the world views as a sovereign territory?

As my time in Morocco has passed, the shock has worn off just a bit and I’ve begun to notice the nuances. But to think that I understand this culture after a mere four months would be foolish. How can I best go about explaining the little piece that I have managed to grasp?