Life post-Ramadan, or "the fifth week"

As I feared would happen, I've let a few weeks go by without posting, and now it's catch-up time.  Part I: "normal life".

Our days of going to pool halls after school and to the beach at 11 o'clock at night are long gone, replaced with never ending Arabic "tamriins", readings on feminist theory and family structure in the Maghreb, and-- my favorite-- french novels by Moroccan authors.  Hard to believe, I know, but we actually are supposed to be studying while we're here for the semester!  Who would have thought.  It would be a lot less of a drag if I didn't have a crazy woman named Fatime for both my MSA and Darija classes... she's a bit of a space-case, which isn't an ideal quality for an Arabic professor.  And it's tempting to learn about contemporary Moroccan culture by socializing and exploring the city with our new Moroccan friends as opposed to reading endless articles.  Et voila, one paragraph of the mundane academic grind. 

Hotel dinner before Hurricane Fatima hit... 

Day at Controbondi Beach

Apparently my frustration with classes and sheer exhaustion that characterized the last week was a symptom of the "fifth week" of being here in Morocco.  Doha, our program director/travel agent/den mother/troop leader warned us that around this time, we would begin to feel not home sick, but maybe a little overwhelmed and worn out by certain aspects of daily life here.  Maybe it's just that the differences of carrying out a daily routine here as opposed to back home (in "the States", as I've scarily caught myself calling it), are becoming more and more apparent.  For me, things like diet and exercise are drastically different here-- that is to say, they're non-existant-- so that's probably a big part of it.   My friend Anna keeps saying she's going to join a gym and asking us to come with her, but to be honest I wouldn't go, I know it.  It's not that I'm being lazy, really, it's that it's such a foreign concept, literally, for Moroccan women.  People stare at the few joggers that pass by like they're walking through the street naked or something.  So, I walk home from school instead of taking the bright blue petit taxi, and call it a day. 

So to back-track, two weekends ago (the first weekend after Eid al-Fitr), Nora and I decided to be tourists for a day in Rabat.  We went to the Tour Hassan and the Mohammed V Mausoleum, the largest monuments in Rabat both dedicated to past kings.  The Tour Hassan was built to be a minaret of a great mosque towards the end of the 12th century, but when the sultan overseeing its construction died, the construction stopped.  The minaret is only halfway built, along with the rest of the walls and columns which now create a sort of maze pattern where people mill about taking pictures and kids play.  When we were there, our 12 year old neighbor Mamoune (who looks like he's about 9) popped up in front of us on his bright red roller blades, and proceeded to use the columns as an obstacle course.  The Mausoleum was equally impressive, if not more-- elaborately tiled in green zeliij patterns on the outside, you climb the stairs from the ground of the Tour Hassan mosque columns are to get inside, and find yourself on a balcony of the perimiter of the building.  The inside walls are an array of colors and patterns of tile, and stained glass windows.  If you look down over the railing from the balcony, you see the tombs of the late King Mohammed V and his sons King Hassan II and Prince Abdallah.  There is a place at the back end of the floor where a man sits reading the Qur'an for most of the day.  The whole expereince of being inside was very humbling: the obvious love and admiration that the Moroccan people have for their king and the beauty of both the royal and religious traditions were overwhelming. 

That Sunday, we had a small field trip to a rural village about 40 minutes outside of Rabat where one of the AIMDEAST professors lives on family farmland.  This was a stark contrast to the traffic and urbanity (?) of Rabat.  It was Sunday, so we walked through the big weekly souk where stalls stretched for rows and rows, selling food, clothes, items of incomprehensible use, and meat-- lots and lots of animal limbs, heads, livers, just lined up for the taking.  We all marveled after at how the meat section of the souk was not as jarring as one would have thought, because why wouldn't fresh meat be on display in a weekly souk?  Guess that's called assimilation... After the souk we went to our professor's house, where we met his wife and daughter and proceeded to sit on oneof about 20 pouffy chairs and low couches.  She cooked delicious vegetable, raisin, and meat couscous for lunch, which we all ate from the same bowl with our spoons, as is customary.  We were served buttermilk to drink, which I did not drink... I can only go so far with some of the food here.  Nora and I have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy for the food our mom makes us, because it's so delicious but I know that if I knew what was in it, I might not be able to eat somethings. 

Anyways, after lunch some people made homemade bread, the kind we use to eat our dinner at night and have as a sandwich sometimes.  We left the rounds to rise, and walked over to the barn to see all the cows and goats and sheep.  It reminded me a bit of the farms back home, except the cows were much bigger.  On our way back we checked on the bread, which some of the women who worked at the house had put into the big earthen oven outside to bake.  By the time we were back inside, the bread was done.  We had fresh orange juice and bread for a snack (because it was necessary after all of that couscous...) and then we went home.  It was refreshing to get out of Rabat and into such a rural environment after having been in the city for two weeks, and it was eye-opening to see the other half of the country at work.

To be continued...

Ramadan/Eid Mubarak Sayeed!! and "leh shokran ala wejib"

Last Friday we celebrated Eid, the end of the Islamic month of Ramadan where people don't eat or drink until sundown.  The call to prayer sounds from the minarets and after a quick prayer (or long, depending on religious preferences and customs-- my family isn't extremely religious), the family rushes to the dinner table to break the fast with ftour.  Hamid (baba) would rush into the room, yell "Allahu akbar!" (God is great!), and then run to the table to eat.  It's an extremely difficult thing to do, I can only imagine a whole month of this.  Nora and I decided to fast for the last few days of Ramadan, which only ended up being 2 days because Eid came on time; they weren't sure if it would be Friday or Saturday, because of the lunar cycle-- this further exemplifies the use of "inshallah" for anything in the future, because the future is uncertain.  Anyways, I found during fasting that you aren't hungry all the time, just tired and devoid of energy. Nora found that she got thirsty more than hungry, and I would have hunger pains occaisionally but then find a way to distract myself.  What made it difficult for us was the fact that we had to get up early to be at school for 8:30am.  Most people, during Ramadan, are allowed a modified work schedule, and school doesn't start until after Ramadan.  I can only imagine the Muslim people on  my program; one of my friends was fasting during the orientation day where we had our Rabat Challenge in the 110 degree heat, and had to go home early.  But our family, notably our host brother Yacine, would sleep until mid afternoon.  That helps a lot, because then you only have to wait a few hours until you can eat.  He would occaisionally go for a run right before ftour, which to me seems like a death wish but I guess it keeps his mind off the hunger.  Our second day of fasting, Nora and I came home from a 7 hour day of classes and slept right up until ftour time.  When we woke up, Mama Rachida said she was worried that we had "stopped breathing" because of the hunger!  But the whole family was impressed and pleased that we participated.  It's such a cultural thing here, not only religions-- even if you're not actively fasting, you basically involuntarily have to unless you can make your own food during the day (or have your amazing host mother pack you a lunch...).

We expected to have a big family gathering and lots of activity on Friday for Eid, but the family took a very relaxed approach.  We woke up late and had breakfast (that was maybe the hardest part of our 2 days of fasting-- I love breakfast in the morning), and stayed around the house expecting to go to Sale (the neighboring city) to visit Rachida's family whom we've visited before.  Nora and I took a walk after a few hours of relaxing, and when we came back Rachida informed us that we weren't going to Sale because she didn't feel well, but that Yacine was going to take us out.  We have a very busy social life compared to most people on our program, by virtue of our siblings and our good friends on the program, but we think Rachida thinks we don't do anything but homework.  False bizzzzefff...

The ladies: Loubneh, Rihab, Hajjar, Rachida, Nora

Last Monday, we went to Sale for our little cousin's 3rd birthday party.  His name is Nasser, and he is zwiin bizzeff (very cute).  I love babies and kids, but I think Moroccan babies might be the cutest... they all have big brown eyes and curly dark hair and little picket-fence teeth, and are super affectionate.  Nasser had a Spider Man-themed party, and it turns out that all little boys are obsessed with Spider Man here.  Because it was Ramadan, we didn't get over there until about 10pm, and didn't cut the cake until almost midnight.  All the kids were still running around and rough housing, like all boys do, that late at night.  Nora and I sat with the kids while the adults and our host siblings visited in the kitchen, as happy birthday music played continually from an extremely loud stereo.  The family lives in an apartment, and all I could think was that in the US there would have been a noise complaint immediately, between the music and the kids and all their noise.  Everyone seemed to know and understand that it was a birthday party, and people kept coming and going. 

Ryad, Rihab, and Nasser (birthday boy/Spider Man)

Ryad trying to blow out Nasser's fireworks candle

A word about gender relations/being a woman in Morocco:  Having a Moroccan man in your group of friends is a magical thing-- no other man will look at you twice.  Situation number one:  Nora and I were walking home from a cafe the last night of Ramadan, and as we walked men kept calling to us and would walk behind us a few paces, then as we didn't engage they would leave.  Two men were following us for a while at one point, so we made a beeline for a womens and children's shoe store and pretended to be engrossed in the plastic sandals at teh back of the shop.  We stayed in there for about 10 minutes, and then the shopkeeper man looked at us and nodded, making the sign that the men were gone. Needless to say, if we ever need plastic sandals, he's our guy.  A little while later, another man was following us closely and talking at us.  I was busy staring straight ahead and walking with a purpose, but Nora had reached a breaking point and rolled her eyes.  He noticed this, and asked "what's wrong?", and she turned around, held up her hand, and firmly, loudly said,  "baad minnee afaak!" ("Get away from me, please!").  Mr. Man was stunned, repeated, "baad minnee...?" and stood still as we walked away.  Good to know that the phrases they taught us in Survival Moroccan Arabic do in fact work, especially when coupled with the good old American "hand".  This is just a fact of life here, though.  There's no point in being here if you're going to hide in your room as soon as the sun goes down.  It's how you learn, and being able to take care yourself and navigate these kinds of situations is an invaluable skill.  Moroccan women get the same treatment, but because they are part of this culture, they have different ways of dealing and avoiding.  As Americans, we can  do some things that only men do here (like hang out at pool halls and cafes late at night, providing we have a Moroccan male friend with us, of course), but we get harassed like women.  It's a strange strange world, but for every challenge and difficulty, there's a kind shop owner or our brother's friends who tolerate our lame attempts at Darija. 

This is where my new favorite phrase comes into play:  "Leh shokran ala wejib", the response to shokran ("thank you") and meaning "Don't thank me for something I want to do."  The shoe store owner said this to us, the Meditel teleboutique man who recharges my internet modem and my cell phone says this to me, people use this response regularly and I think it is beautiful.  In a phrase, it encompasses the Moroccan sense of hospitality and kindness.  Even the shabaab (young men) use this phrase, when they're not too busy cat-calling to white girls.  Bismallah!

View of our table in our room, set up with coffee and sweets-- this is how we do our homework.  Oh, Mama Rachida...

"Where are we??" oh right, Africa...

Friday after our 8:30am fusHa (MSA) class, 10 of us got on a train in Agdal, Rabat, headed for Asilah.  Asilah is a more touristy beach town about 3 hours north of Rabat, and we were looking forward to finally going to the beach during the day and getting some sun.  Nora and I had originally planned to go with two of our other friends, but due to various circumstances (only explainable by the phrase, "welcome to Morocco."), our two friends did not come, and we ended up going with 8 others.  Needless to say, we made quite a spectacle.  A pack of 10 Americans with backpacks (and in one person's case, an over-stuffed suitcase on wheels-- for an overnight trip) are pretty conspicuous. 

There were so many times on the train ride where I took a picture of the scenery, and was amazed at how little the resemblance was.  There's just no way to describe some of the sights here.  As we pulled out of the Agdal station, and then through the main Rabat station, the sprawling buildings and outlying shacks were left behind us and all we could see was dry, scrubby farmland on rolling hills, with the city mosque's minaret still visible if we looked back.  We sped past fields and fields of dry earth in a grid; sheep or horses or cows were grazing on some of the blocks and you could make out a lone herder if you looked hard enough.  One thing we kept seeing were fields of yellow melons, over and over again.  I had never tasted a yellow melon, but that would change later in the trip...  When we weren't marvelling at the scenery, at the stark buildings of some towns and the explosive colors of laundry, rugs, and paint of others, we passed the time playing Rummy. 

Countryside leaving Rabat

We arrived at the Asilah train station, and made our way to the main road.  One petit taxi finally came along, so three people went on to Christina's House, the "guest house" where we planned to stay.  The rest of us waited some more, then made our way back across the tracks to the front of the station, hoping to have more luck getting transportation.  There were no cars of any sort back at the station, so we walked to a main intersection and began flagging down any vehicle that looked as if it would take 7 people.  One finally pulled over-- an unmarked white van, out of which jumped a very enthusiastic, toothy-grinned man.  Through broken darija, French, and English, we found out that he would take us to the guest house for 15 dirham each.  We asked the price again and he said fifty, and we all immediately said "leh leh leh leh, welliwelliwelli", which basically means "wooooahh man, no way".  We bargained our van-ride into town down to 30 dirham for all of us (= less than 5dirham each, which is basically fifty cents).  The drivers were surprised that we spoke Arabic, like most people.  They mostly just kept looking back at us and grinning/leering. 

We finally got to the guest house, which we found by directing the drivers to the "hammam jedida", or the "new hammam", and were welcomed by a man named Nabil.  He offered to show us around the town, so we walked with him to the old medina (one in every town) and the beautiful kasbah, and through the markets which were packed with people buying food right before their ftour.  We went back to hang out at the guest house while Nabil went to have ftour with his family, and then realized that Nabil was not so much a friendly resource to use if we wanted, but a chaperone-esque type figure, included in the price of our stay (or added to it, as it would turn out). He insisted that all 10 of us go to dinner at a paella restaurant he knew of, and do everything else together, too.  He knows everyone in Asilah, so we went to his friend's restaurant.  After dinner, he left to buy fruit with two people from our group, so me and a few others left the house to explore a bit on our own.  We found a cafe and walked down by the boardwalk/beach near the kasbah, and it was refreshing to wander around without our overly enthusiastic guide for a bit. 

Dining room of Christina's House

View of the kasbah walls in the old medina

Zelijj tiling on a door in the kasbah

More beautiful doors

Saturday morning:  woke up and had breakfast prepared by Christina herself (crazy British woman with too much cash to burn).  We were waiting downstairs when we heard a knock on the door; walked outside and found a spanish-moroccan man with a dark moustache and a hat waving us over to our horse carts, arranged for us by our trusty Nabil.  Ten Americans, six horse cart men, three horse carts, and Nabil... we were off to the beach!  The carts made their way out of the rocky streets of the neighborhood, past fields of farm/trash/sheep, and onto the highway, where our horse cart raced the others as well as the cars on the road.  We saw a cluster of white-washed buildings with the ocean behind them, and thought that was where we were headed... and then we past them.  We finally veered off the highway onto another dirt path, and bumped along closer and closer to the ocean.  We finally rounded the mountain and the saw the ocean... that sight was worth all the bumps and bruises of the horsecart.  As we wound our way down the mountain, we saw thatched roof houses and straw umbrellas.  We had found Paradise Beach!  It was impossible to believe that we were in the same country as Rabat.  We were, actually, in Africa. 

Preferred mode of transportation to the beach

As Nabil knew the restaurant man from the night before, he also knew the horse cart men and a man who owned one of the seemingly deserted restaurants on Paradise Beach.  He told us which lounge chairs to sit on, because they were cheaper than others and in front of his friends' restaurant.  Note:  we were not told the price of anything so far.  Whenever we asked, Nabil just told us "don't worry, just enjoy!"  I was skeptical ever since we met him Friday afternoon.  We swam for a while in the beautiful turquoise blue water, and then Nabil told us we were going to a cave to get argan oil, which is really good for your skin and hair.  Some people went with him, I stayed back to swim and lay on the beach with some others; Nabil was confused why everyone wasn't flocking after him.  Around three, we were really hungry so we asked Nabil if we could go somewhere for lunch.  He shepherded us into the restaurant, where his friends were lounging and sleeping(because they're all fasting).  There were no menus or anything to suggest that the restaurant was actually open, but Nabil told us that they would make anything we wanted.  The owner came over eventually and told us that he could make us fish, shrimp, sardines, or salad.  After much negotiations, we had delicious fried sole and calamari.  Plain and simple, it was delicious. 

More beach lounging, and then everyone had to head home to their families for ftour.  Nabil coralled the horses and their drivers, and we threw our backpacks and ourselves back onto the carts.  Naturally, the horse pulling my cart was derranged-- even though he had the heaviest load (6 people on the cart), he ran ahead of the other two, bouncing so much that we had to clutch the wool blanket covering the cart so that we wouldn't fall off.  One of the other cart drivers was "radio Asilah", and kept singing "I am a disco dancer, dan-sah! Disco! Dan-sah! Disco! Dan-sah!"  We stopped once on our trip across the dry farm fields to help a few scrawny boys get their van out of the sand.  Then we continued along, and reached the highway, where our horse sped up even more.  We passed cars with little old men in the front seats, probably scarred for life at the degree of "harram" ("forbidden") going on on the back of our cart, with our skirts flying everywhere and our butts practically falling off the back of the cart.  Our horse was so energized and going so fast that our driver took a "long cut" off-road, so it could blow off some steam.  Hamdullah, we finally made it back onto the highway, where our horse slowed down a little bit to a manageable gallop. 

Asilah

Horse rides on the beach

Back at the House, we got off the horse carts and prepared to pay.  Things got a little dicey, because Nabil was insisting that people pay for the horse rides that some people took while on the beach.  We tried to negotiate, but the language barrier and the amount of people giving money and receiving money helped in us getting ripped off for the first time.  Next, we told Nabil that we were trying to get to the train station, because there was a train that left at "six-something". He said we could take the horse carts, because there probably wouldn't be too many taxis in the neighborhood (which is true).  He had us all pay in advance for the ride to the station, and we hopped back on the horse carts!  We finally got there, getting more looks from everyone rushing home for ftour, and the drivers pulled right up to the station platform.  As we got off the horse carts, the drivers looked at us and said, "deniro??" Nabil had pocketed the money!!  We began re-negotiating with the drivers, trying to explain that Nabil had their money, when a station officer came us to us and demanded to know what we were doing on horse carts, and where we were trying to go.  When we said Rabat, he told us that the train going to Rabat was coming in 5 minutes!  We threw some money at the horse cart drivers, and rushed into the station to buy our tickets.

The last of us were buying our tickets just as the train pulled up, and we began queing and pushing our way onto the cars.  We literally had to stand on top of people and on top of bags, and the doors of the train stayed open as we pulled away from the station.  We got a little separated, but at least we made it on!  People were grumbling and sulking, and as the sun set lower and lower they kept checking their watches and getting antsy.  Then, all at once, people cracked open the bottles of juice they were clutching in their hands, and opened plastic bags holding their own personal ftours.  Ftour on the train!  People do a complete 180, from being grouchy and mean to gregarious and pushing food onto anyone in sight.  We ate dates as we sped along the countryside.  Sidenote-- you can't smoke during the day on Ramadan, so eveyone lit up on the train, too. Talk about fire hasard. 

Crowded train leaving Asilah

At the first few stops, some people got off but more got on.  I ended up spending most of the trip standing up in the bathroom, with some bags, some melons, and a young couple who I think exchanged numbers on that train ride-- how romantic...!  My backpack and my friend Johnathan's were in the middle space between two cars, and at one point he caught an old woman stealing from his bag.  He launched the backpacks over to me in the bathroom-- of course they'd be safe there! Eventually, enough people left so that we could get actual seats on the train, and we moved into a first class compartment, everyone finally reunited. 

View from the train door

We pulled into the main Rabat train station a little worse for the wear, bought the first water bottles we could find, and wandered through the medina to get some ice cream and relax.  I was so happy to finally be home, with Rachida and Rihab and to sleep on my wall couch!  I woke up to a prolonged call to prayer around 4am, but slept like a rock after that. 

If our trip had been any longer, I'm not sure I would have survived.  Staying home this coming weekend for Eid al-Fitr, inshallah.

First week with the host family... shnoo?

One-week anniversary of living with the most generous, friendliest, funniest family in Morocco. In the past week, we have finished orientation, moved in with the families, and started classes.

After various lectures on social differences, educational differences, and what to expect, harassment-wise, we moved in with the families last Wednesday.  The next day, which the hottest day of the week feeling somewhere around 110 degrees F, we had to do a "Rabat challenge", which entailed walking around the city finding everyone's new house. Tempers clashed, people were sweaty, and there were no restaurants... it was a McDonald's sort of day, or "MacDo" as they call it here. Oy.

Finding a "paper store" on Rabat Challenge...

Nora and I are living with the El Bouhaili's-- Rachida, Hamid, Yassine, and Rihab. Yassine is our 23 year old brother, who is very nice but doesn't talk too much, and Rihab is our 19 year old sister. She is very fashionable and extremely sassy-- her favorite English phrase is "I'm sorry, I don't have time.", said with a hair flip and a roll of the eyeballs. I love it. And our host dad, Hamid, is very soft spoken, but extremely nice-- he drove me and Nora to do some errands shortly after we got to the house, and then he took us on a walk through the medina and he drove us all along the coast. People just fish off the rocks of the beach, it's gorgeous. And the mom, Rachida, is so sweet. As soon as we unpacked a little, she called us in for (more) delicious mint tea and some food, even though nobody else in the house could eat.  The apartment is within walking distance to the ocean AND the old medina/the souk... I could definitely get used to this.

Me, Rihab, Rachida (mama), and Nora

The second night with the El Bouhaili's, we had ftour around 7, and then around 12am we ate again, because that's what they do during Ramadan. But, I'm pretty sure we ate squid, or octapus. One of those things with tentacles. In a tomato sauce.  But at the first meal, ftour, we had falafel that the sister made herself, and the best harrira (lentil soup) that I've had yet.  We keep hearing that people tend to eat more during Ramadan (all after sundown), and I sincerely hope that's true.  You wouldn't think being practically force-fed delicious beef and potato tagines at midnight would be the worst thing in the world, but it's a difficult thing to adjust to, and probably isn't the best idea if I want to keep wearing the clothes I brought with me here.  Rachida will make coffee and bring it into the living room on a little gilt tea service every night, and since classes started she actually brings it into our room where we're studying.  And she gets up early to make breakfast for us before we leave for school, and then goes back to sleep on the couch.  It's incredible.  They've had 10 other American students over the past years though, so they're used to what our routines are, and they have their own routines that they just alter. 
 
Aside from being the wonderful cooks and genuinely kind people, it turns out our whole family is extremely talented.  Hamid, the dad, played jazz guitar in a group that toured around North Africa and Europe, back in the day.  Yassine also plays guitar, and sometimes after ftour we'll hear a few notes of Hotel California or No Woman No Cry (intermixed with loud Arabic TV, which is always on). Also, one night at dinner, Hamid, Yassine, and Rihab just started doing magic tricks on me and Nora! This family is so nice and fun, and crazy too. That's their favorite/best word to say in English, and also in darija (the dialect). So, Nora is "very crazy" or "hamka bzzzeff!" and I am "a little bit crazy", or "hamka shweea".
 
The whole family is almost too nice and accomodating-- that Moroccan hospitality.  Yassine just came into our room the other day and gave Nora and me this modem stick to plug into the laptop so that we can access the internet. He obviously had to buy it, but he just gave it to us with some paper to make flashcards with (flashcards are apparently impossible to find here).  One of our first nights with the family, he drove us and Rihab to the beach at Temara at night, because women can't go swimming during the day during Ramadan, and that beach is nicer for swimming than the one within walking distance to us.  He's quite the character-- he can speak English, but he won't.  We asked him why, and he says he doesn't like English, he likes Arabic.  He'd probably much rather watch the circus of people talking to us in French, and me translating the French into English for Nora (who speaks Spanish), and us responding in a broken mixture of Fraribic.  I mean, who wouldn't?  He helps us with our Arabic homework though, and the other night he asked me to translate his resume into English for him.   It's normal here for people to live with their families even after they graduate university, like Yassine.  After he gets married, or if he has to move away to work, he'll live on his own.
 
Rachida knows the ropes, and won't let anything bad happen to one of her "three daughters": Nora and I wanted to go back to the beach at Temara during the day on Sunday, and she went into this whole explanation about why we couldn't, because it is Ramadan and all the men would be out on the beach. We said ok, but then after ftour/dinner, she got all ready, and we drove to a beach! Just to walk around! And then she just whipped out a thermos of coffee and some plastic cups, with sugar too!  She's like arabian Mary Poppins.
 
Classes/languages...
 
It turns out that Darija, the Moroccan Arabic dialect, is the furthest from Modern Standard Arabic, which is what I took freshman year.  Listening to the family speak is like listening to a lot of "shhhhhshshshhhWAHshh!" all the time.  There's one television channel that is only in Darija, so after a few days of listening to the family and watching TV, the sounds are more familiar.  The most useful word, "Shnoo?"  means "What?"  Nothing like the "metha" of Standard Arabic.  Our brother says it all the time now to make fun of us, because he thinks that's the only word we know.  It's a spoken language and isnt' really written, so our exams will all be oral.  MSA is increasingly annoying me, because if you try to communicate to someone speaking in MSA, they laugh or don't understand you. We have MSA every day at 8:30am, and every other day I have either Darija or a Moroccan literature course in French.  My other courses, Islam, Gender, and Society and a North African sociology class, are taught in English.  My head is continually spinning.  Every little cousin or relative who we meet can speak at least Darija and French, and knows a little MSA and even English.  Why don't we do this in America?  Knowing languages is the best education and opens so many doors, and there are so many Americans who haven't even fully mastered English.