On Being Arab

Being an Egyptian-American PCV in an Arab/Muslim country carries some interesting challenges, opportunities, and privileges. For example, in the cities, I could easily walk down the street without attracting the unwanted attention with which so many foreigners must deal. In the countryside (bled), I'm frequently asked if I'm from Marrakech, Casa, or Essaouira. But in the bled, I'm also often not approached because I'm not unusual looking enough and because, I suspect, I'm often just viewed as a wealthier Moroccan (until I open my mouth). I suspect that I'm not as likely to receive an invitation to tea and tajine as a blond or redhead. 

When I'm in site, I am asked about my origins on nearly a daily basis. I usually like to reply that I'm from America, hoping that my butchered Arabic, peculiar clothing, and consistent chugging of water from my Klean Kanteen is sufficient to support my claim. But most often, I'm further interrogated about my black hair and darker skin. Sometimes, I'm explicitly and sternly told that I'm Arab and pushed for further explanation. And being the gentle soul that I am, I reply in truth, explaining both my American and Egyptian origins. With religion being a central topic of conversation over here in l-Magrib, I'm then usually asked about my religion, of course, given that Egypt is a Muslim country. It's a complicated topic in America, let alone in Morocco. "My father is Muslim, my mother is Christian." At this point, my language capacity drops tremendously, which is satisfying given that I'm usually never inclined to explain the situation further anyway. Some folks respond reasonably to my unusual religious background, but far too often I'm verbally attacked with a mouthful of abrasive Arabic claiming that there's only one God. So what do I do? "Brother, my friend! I know, I know, brother, I know there's only one God! I know!" That's apparently insufficient since interrogations into my prayer and fasting habits frequently follow. At this point, I give up, put on a big creepy smile, and say "sorry, I don't understand Arabic."

Other times, especially with storekeepers in larger cities, I'll engage in fascinating conversations about Egyptian vs. Moroccan vs. American culture. They don't care about my religion. We'll talk about food, pollution, over-crowdedness, tourism. We'll often laugh about the differences between Egyptian and Moroccan Arabic. And if I break out the 5 words of Tashelheit I know, they start laughing so hard they have to hold their guts.

Bslama!