Casablanca - For six weeks, this was my reality living in Fez. Every day, insults and slurs in French, Arabic, and even English were hurled in my direction without any provocation.
Casablanca – For six weeks, this was my reality living in Fez. Every day, insults and slurs in French, Arabic, and even English were hurled in my direction without any provocation.
In general, I would consider myself a relatively confident person, but being a black woman in Fez and the daily experiences of abuse that came with it almost broke me. They broke me so much so that it has taken me months to feel comfortable writing about it and sharing my story with you.
I should clarify that the experiences I had in Fez are not indicative of the entire community; indeed, I found friendship and solace in some who lived there and who were willing to listen to my concerns and discomfort. Particularly, I must thank two individuals in Fez who unknowingly gave me the strength and courage to continue my journey there. Without them, I am sure that I would have let the negativity have a lasting effect on me.
However, I do find it important that I share the truth of my own experiences because I would be dishonest to say that everything had been fantastic. I find it important because my identity as a Black woman plays a direct role in how we interact with the world and even more so how the world, in turn, interacts with us.
Being a young black woman abroad has been a challenge, which is especially evident in my encounters in Fez. The first day I was there, I heard at least 12 remarks made about my skin color within a span of 35 minutes. 35 minutes! Whether they called me “Mama Africa,” “rasta,” “aziya*,” or “black chocolate,” the majority of young Moroccan men made it a point to make me uncomfortable by degrading my dark complexion.
Initially, I brushed off these remarks because I had heard them all before when I was last in Morocco. However, as time progressed and as it became clear that I was not simply a tourist but a new city-dweller, the agressions became more frequent and bolder.
Every day, I was reminded of my skin color. Some even, so magnanimously, advised me to stay out of the sun because I would not want to turn ugly (because light, fair skin is a signifier of beauty?). Others uttered dog and monkey sounds as I walked past them. It even escalated to men touching me and trying to corner me in broad daylight with plenty of people to bear witness yet fail to help.
For some, it may be hard to understand just how much words and insults can influence your life and the way you think. I want to emphasize that it is very difficult dealing with such agressions. It is not as simple as “ignoring them”, as most people whom I have confided in throughout my life told me to do. It is much more complex.
The best way I can think of illustrating these offenses to you is by comparing it to a faucet of cold water that intermittently drips on your face. The first splash surprises you, icy and jarring. You are unsure where it came from and what caused the drop to hit your face but you reassure yourself that it was probably an abnormal occurrence and move on. But the dripping continues and the droplets soon turn into a steady stream that starts to collect and slip down your face.
You become frustrated because, again, you do not know where it is coming from and you want it to stop. You decide to wipe the water away with your hand because you have finally had enough but all that happens is your hand becoming wet. Soon, it is hard to distinguish whether you are drowning from this intangible, cold, unrelenting faucet or the one that wells from your very own eyes.
It is no exaggeration that after only a couple of weeks, I was reduced to less than a human being. Where once I laughed openly, smiled, and held my head toward the sky, I turned into someone I could not even recognize. I slipped into being insecure, aloof, easily annoyed, and unhappy. There was no exploring the city or taking in my surroundings. The majority of the time I went to school and went “home”, and even that was a hassle as I had to plan out a new path to take in order to avoid the never-ending leers and remarks as I walked to my destination.
I knew I had an obligation to go to my language courses during the weekdays but the weekends were free so I did what I had to do- I escaped. There is a reason I have such a strong emotional connection to Rabat and Casablanca as they both became a safe space– a refuge if you will– while I stayed in Fez.
Nearly every weekend of those 6 weeks I took the earliest train after class to be with people who loved me and if not empathize, at least listen to me as I told them only a fraction of what was happening. My old home stay family who I consider an extension of my family back home and close friends I have made in my program alike listened as I cried and vented about my new life in Fez.
It was during these discussions that I saw myself changing—but not in a bad way. Rather, I saw myself evolving as I took my own experiences and reflected on what it must be like for the Black female migrant here. I ultimately made the decision that I would move away from Fez earlier than planned and head toward Casablanca for my research and own mental stability. Luckily for me, my program director was extremely compassionate and understanding and agreed that it was in my best interest to do so.
I began to reflect on how other Black women in Morocco, and in Fez especially, may not have that opportunity. Though I experienced my fair share of verbal, physical, and sexual harassment, I am sure that the general experience of the Black female migrant is much worse. While I had the agency to create a support system and perhaps run away from these agressions, what does a migrant woman have? What does she do when she is an environment where she has all the odds against her because she is both a woman and Black?
I am intentional when I say Fez almost broke me because though it damn near succeeded in making me feel worthless and nothing more than a hypersexualized object, it was through my experience there that I found my inner strength to become who I am now. In fact, in a funny twist of fate, my Fez experiences ended up helping me in my research. What began as a broad project on the experiences of Black migrants in Morocco has now narrowed its focus: the Black female migrant narrative.
Finally, I want to say something that has been on my mind for a while. Do not be fooled. While it is true that Morocco is a generally welcoming and hospitable country, this “marhaba bik” mentality is in most spaces reserved for white tourists, and specifically white men. It immediately stops once your gender and skin color are deemed inferior and only useful for mockery and perpetual ridicule and abuse.
It is my opinion that there is a real race problem in Morocco, as there is, of course, in every country. The extent to which anti-black racism has deeply grabbed hold of the Moroccan psyche has practically made the country ignorant of its own identity. After all, as much as some may want to deny it, Morocco is a country of color in a continent of color.
So here I sit in a cafe in Casablanca, reflecting on my experiences as a young black woman abroad. Surrounding myself with friends, loved ones, and Black feminist theory has helped the once steady stream of cold water transform into cascades of opportunity to reflect and appreciate my Black identity.
I have not fully figured out all the answers as to why I and others experience agressions toward us based on our identities, but I am happy that I am now surrounded by love and solidarity. I am happy to see others recognizing and speaking out against racism and intolerance. I am happy to see myself comfortable again in my own skin. I am happy.
To my beautiful, brave, intelligent, and resilient sisters of color– still we rise.
Peace, Love, and Unity,
*aziya-a derogatory term equivalent to the n-word in English used to insult dark-skinned people
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Morocco World News’ editorial policy
