More on Women

By Nesreen | April 29th, 2008 | 1 Comment »

Yesterday I was recalling a story to my friends about my summer in Morocco, 2005. Here too I will share it with you. I was living in Tangier for six weeks studying Arabic. Part of our program involved a cultural component that gave us access to lecturers and day trips that revealed local life.

On one of these local trips, it was girls only, because we were headed to the local hammam. The local hammam was essentially a public bath. It was not a luxury spa, as some people might think of a hammam. In fact, in Jordan I had been to the spa, tourist-oriented hammam. But this Tangier hammam was frequented by locals who simply did not have access to proper showers or baths in their own homes.

In the dormitory where we were housed, we were taken care of by a staff that included several Moroccan cooks and housekeepers. On the day that we were to go, one of them, Fatima, beckoned me. She told me to gather the other American women in the program for our visit to the hammam. Bring towels, she said. And soap and shampoo. OK, I responded. So, what should we wear? Fatima smiled and with her hand gestured up and down at my body. I didn’t really get it. OK, so we should wear bathing suits, I asked, looking for clarity. Fatima’s smile merged into a laugh. No, you don’t wear anything, she said. I began to wonder if my Arabic listening skills were failing me, or if my speaking skills were. But it was my cultural skills that were failing me. I was uncomfortable with the idea of bathing in a private/public space completely in the nude. Why can’t I wear a bathing suit, I asked? Nobody wears bathing suits, she chortled. Then she paddled down the hall and down the stairs. I heard her at the bottom of the staircase speaking in high pitches to the other housekeepers. Their laughter carried up to the doorway of my room were I remained standing, still thinking in dread about going to the hammam naked.

At the hammam, we stripped down to nothing and entered into its common space, finding a spot in the tiled room on cold, low benches. To the locals, we were the sight. Let’s face it, we were the sight, this row of foreign girls who used their arms and legs to cover their more private body areas. Each one of us were out of place and under scrutiny by the naked local women, who in contrast to us were voluptuous and curious, bare and comfortable. Fatima tagged me again to lead the bunch, telling me to instruct the girls to get a large cup to pour water over their heads, to shampoo and scrub with a course washcloth to slough the dirt from our bodies.

Once we were equipped, Fatima and with the other two local women who accompanied us, began to queue us up for a thorough scrubbing. We sat on the cold tile bench against a colder wall waiting for our turn. When I was up, Fatima sat me beside her, shoved me against her and scrubbed till my skin glowed crimson and the washcloth bore the dirt and grime of Tangier’s streets.

My self consciousness, and that of the other American woman, taught me as much about our culture in the U.S. as it did about local Tangier culture. So did the footnote to the this story. Once we were dressed, we waited in the lobby area of the hammam for the arranged set of taxi drivers to come and pick the lot of us up to send back to our dorms. Several of the American girls nudged me. Could I ask Fatima if we could wait outside, where it wasn’t as humid and warm, they asked? OK, I said. But I was reluctant. I knew enough about Arab culture in general to know that women don’t stand around in a public space. When they are outside they are walking from the grocer or the salon or from work. They don’t just “loiter,” though certainly we would not be loitering. That we weren’t loitering was not the point, though. The point was we would appear to be loitering and we were a lot of foreign women. I knew this would raise flags with Fatima, but what could I do but convey the request of the other American girls? Fatima was reluctant to tell us we could not stand outside. She was our chaperon but she was also wanted to make us happy.

Outside the air was cooler, a breeze tickled our noses, but while the rest of us looked comfortable, Fatima and the other local woman in our party were clearly not. The cabs arrived after about 10 minutes. I took the last cab back with Fatima and two other American girls. I sat in the backseat behind the driver. Fatima sat upfront. The driver greeted her warmly. Fatima was in no mood for his friendliness. You left us outside standing waiting for you, she snapped. It was not proper, she charged.

Fatima was clothed, standing outside to please us, and she was made to feel ashamed. Inside, sitting bare naked scrutinized by other bare naked women, I felt embarrassed. Women have enormous discretion and ease in spaces created specifically for women in the Arab world, but once in public spaces, stricter rules of conduct apply. American women have a general discomfort with their bodies. This is only one instance of how different does not equal better, it only equals, well, different. I hope it is a point that gives people from all cultures pause when they go about evaluating cultural constructs unlike their own.