This week, my entire program took a trip to the Rif, on the Mediterranean coast of Morocco. Due to the rather unconventional itinerary (the Rif isn’t a heavily touristed place), we had a charter bus, so no public transportation adventures were to be had. Plus, there was air conditioning, and the bus was automatic. Uncannily cushy, especially regarding the history of the region.
The Rif is a different place from the rest of Morocco. As with anything on this blog, I am a lowly tourist and far from an expert on this, but this is what we learned both from our readings and classes, which were taught by people from the Rif. Most obviously, the area has a largely Berber population and was colonized by the Spanish, so while Arabic and French are technically still the languages of business, the average person might not speak either. The Berber history and Spanish influences permeate everything, as we learned in our history lessons throughout the excursion. Practically since the beginning of recorded history, the Rif has had a tenuous relationship with the rest of Morocco, its people seen as wild, the proverbial “barbarians at the gates” to most Moroccan dynasties. It was also the first part of Morocco to be Islamized, as early as the 9th century.
In 1925, it was colonized by the Spanish, and thus was even further isolated from the Moroccan central government when Morocco gained independence from France in 1956. It wasn’t included in the initial plan for Moroccan development, and the Moroccan government effectively colonized the area, changing the languages of business into French and Arabic, rather than Spanish (which was what most Riffians spoke), giving governmental power to non-Riffians (they’d had relative autonomy under Spanish rule) and, peaking in 1958-1959, committing acts of violence against the region’s people (if you want to learn more, see note on documentary in next paragraph).
Relations between the Moroccan government and the Rif are better now, evidenced by a documentary that is being shown in Rabat and Casablanca beginning this week. It is called “Breaking the Silence”, and is about the events of 1958-1959, told by the older Riffian men and women who experienced the violence. We were able to watch it, with English subtitles, and it was both informative and disturbing. This is not a movie that would have been filmed, much less shown in major urban areas, 20 years ago. Still, even with this progress, there’s a disconnect between this area and the rest of the country; many urban Moroccans think of the Rif somewhat like Northeastern US-ers see Texas (though with more recent issues). It is also still the poorest area of Morocco.
Why were we there? The Rif is also one of the main migration regions in Morocco, and we were learning about the relationship between development and migration, along with the general history of the Rif. If you look up “Moroccan-Spanish border”, you’ll see that this actually exists— the Spanish have two enclaves in Morocco, Ceuta and Melilla. As might be imagined, these are common points of crossing for people who want to emigrate to Europe. As also might be imagined, these are militarized zones, hence the lack of following pictures or real information. As usual, I will refer you to the internet, where there is plenty of information which you should read, because it is interesting and important (if you don’t know why immigration/refugee issues are important, especially these days, now would be a good time to emerge from the rock in which you live). Now to frivolity.
We visited the town on the border of Melilla, Nador. This is not a place that tourists come—see this following exchange:
I was waiting for my friends outside of a pharmacy, and a couple of 13 (or so)-year-old girls approached me, smiling and giggling and generally looking like I’d made their day, before I’d even talked with them. Needless to say, I was confused.
“Excuse me,” one said shyly, in very good English. “Can we talk to you?”
“Okay,”
“Cool! We are so excited to meet you!” they both started giggling again. “…are you Korean? We love Korea.”
“No, actually,” I said, “I’m Chinese.”
“We like China too! We are so excited to see you, this is so exciting! …do you listen to Kpop??? We love Kpop!”
“Yes, a little, some of my good friends are Korean,”
“Your friends are Korean!” They looked at each other, practically jumping up and down, and started listing Kpop bands. I looked at them confusedly.
“Uh, sorry.”
“It was so nice to meet you!!!” they exclaimed, walking away and giggling as only 13-year-olds who’ve just met a celebrity can do.
I don’t think they’d ever talked to anyone of East Asian descent before. To get a bit philosophical, this is also why race catcalling doesn’t bother me so much. Clearly the girls were not trying to be creepy, and neither are many of the men (and women) who call “Ni Hao” on the street. When people are genuinely trying to be appreciative of cultural differences, even if they’re going about it in a way that wouldn’t be PC in the US, I’m okay, even happy, with it. This is one step in globalization; next few times these girls see an Asian person, they probably won’t assume they’re Korean/freak out as much (race catcalling happens much less in Rabat than in more rural areas), and maybe someday, they’ll become friends with someone Korean and listen to Kpop and Gnawa music with her. Plus, doesn’t everyone like feeling like a celebrity sometimes?
Finally, the drive along the Mediterranean coast from Nador to Tetouan (with Al Hoceima in between—go to Al Hoceima, particularly the nearby beaches, gogogo) is one of the most beautiful drives that I’ve ever been on.** The road, well-paved and smooth, is slightly scary, winding around the fingers of mountain and over turquoise-blue beaches, past small forests and towns, over bridges built over dried-up rivers. Often, between the road and the sea, are ruins—not old ones, but new—grey boxed-houses, works in progress that will never be finished, “windows, blank and bare/gazing at [you] with a dreadful stare”***. The ruins add to the wild beauty, giving you a sense of your own mortality. You are small and soft and fragile; the mountains and the sea were here before, and the mountains and the sea will be here after. ****
*And a random island/peninsula, home to the shortest land border in the world, literally an 85 metre blue rope that doesn’t even reach all the way across. Search “Badis” and don’t look at all the fish that come up.
** The others would be in Hawaii and Scotland, also along the coasts. Maybe it’s something about wild border regions whose colonization remains a sore point to this day…
***“Paul Revere’s Ride” is public domain! No MLA citation necessary. Thanks Longfellow, and Mrs. Cosselman from 8th grade English, who offered extra credit to anyone who could memorize the whole 3.5 pages of poem. (An Irishman (or –girl) never refuses such a challenge).
****This seemed a poetic place to end, but I had to add as a postscript that on this long bus ride, I drank a curious mango box juice (Marrakech brand) that tasted not quite like mango juice, but juice made out of dried mango, if that was possible—more specifically, li hing (dried plum powder) mango in juice form. While it wasn’t the most pleasant juice I’d ever had, it blew my mind because it exists.