You’re having a good hair day (unusual, I know!). It’s rarely necessary to plough the stork nest with a comb, yet today your mane is tame. So you decide to leave the house and meet some friends on the other side of Marrakesh. The ‘modern’ side where construction has taken place. Big, strong projects made not of dirt, no sir, but concrete and steel. Where the restaurants with shiny titles gleam, offering to eat bits with ridiculous prices. No plastic stools but proper, wooden chairs to sit on. Where you have to take a taxi rather than feel your way out of a maze. Oh yes, the big, bad world where no house tilts over your head, no drapes, and certainly not Hajja Zehra’s two-miles-long comfort pants, draped on the laundry line, their tiger pattern flapping above your head like a flag of some unknown country.
Alas, you live in the old Medina with the frail and ancient. And by god, you love home more than out there. You’ve always adored this suffocating little space. Ever since you were young, you found comfort in the midnight chit-chat of neighbours nearly as audible as your grandmother’s chewing across the table. But you’ve grown now and it’s time to venture. Out there, one step away from the door, where it’s the jungle if you do not live by the sacred book of principles. It isn’t particularly anybody’s fault, the reason why the old sector is dangerous as it is. The old generation found it hard to accommodate the new practices after the timeline changed, and there is no sign of them trying to make an effort to adapt.
On the bright side, the little hole you’re in is beautiful as it is, and sometimes you wonder, despite the oppression, if it could have been different, had your mother given birth to A Boy. Today, you, the littlest sprout of the family, has decided she wants to wear the pretty pink flowery dress. How ever will you survive all the way to the open road on your own? Now that your mother no longer holds your hand through the narrow streets and past the Souk, now that your body has taken shape?
Well, fear not, woman (or actually, do fear–you mustn’t ever fool yourself with the illusion of safety in a Man’s World) Here is your survival guide to surviving the streets:
1. Rule number one: Do not dress nicely. Wretched sorceress! What are your intentions–
to charm men? There are already snakes in Jemaa el-Fna Square for that; perhaps you should join Aïssaoua if you’re so keen on entertainment. Wear ragged clothes and even then, make sure there are no holes in your jeans, lest you’re condemned to the circus. Type of girl like you could definitely charm a snake out of its pants, never to be trusted.
2. Rule number two: Do not wear make-up. Who are you really trying to look good for? For yourself, huh? Then assume the risks, for whatever happens to you thereafter will be your fault. You were certainly asking for it, dressing out of the norm. The neighbour has already seen you wipe that bland lipstick with the wrinkled kleenex in your pocket. Lalla Zehra never misses a thing; she’ll carry the news of what you’ve done to all neighbours in whispers.
3. Rule number three: Do not ignore the guy calling you pretty. If you keep walking without stopping to say ‘thank you’ to the sketchy stranger trailing you from the Derb, all the way to the outer street, your pretty-privileges get automatically revoked without a refund. That and you’re suddenly deserving of the classic moist spit, followed by a cuss for dessert. But worry not, there’s only a 60% chance that he’ll keep following you the rest of the way, until either: 1) you give in to a conversation, or 2) the friendly neighbourhood’s butcher recognizes you as Lala J’s granddaughter and steps in to save the day.
4. Rule number four: Do not show skin. What do you mean it’s summer and 40° (104°F)? Just pack it up and don’t sweat it; Marrakesh has seen worse (45°/113° actually, not that much of a difference–man up!). Hell is a lot hotter; consider your life here a warm-up for what’s waiting on the other side. Besides, it’s a healthy type-of-sun, unlike the humid cities. It won’t kill you to walk along the alleyway for fifteen minutes before you reach the exit of the Derb (or it might, like it did for five others this year, but gotta stay positive! Vitamin D, baby!).
5. Rule number five: Do not talk back. You kiss your mother with that mouth? Having a counter-opinion about absolutely anything, including what you have a Master’s degree in, makes you a disobedient little know-it-all who should’ve gotten more smacks for breakfast. Back in my day, when El Haj spoke, mint tea being poured into his favourite grape-glass was the only thing that ever spoke back!
6. Rule number six: Always bring a male specimen with you wherever you go. It’ll buff your immunity to getting eyed down because, you see, men are never audacious in the presence of other men who can feed them a fist or two to that mouth. Oh, but wait, silly little girl, have you no father, no brothers? Just sisters? Well, try your cousin Adil. If you ask, he’ll surely love holding your hand and creeping his fingers along your wrist. He’s so generous that he might even do it without you having to ask.
7. Rule number seven: Never, EVER, and I mean NEVER stay after sunset. The world at night-time is strictly forbidden for women. You should vanish, teleport home if you happen to hear Adhan. The story goes that a dozen girls get eaten alive weekly by men in the swarming crowds of Jemaa el-Fna. It does not help that the Square’s name literally translates as ‘The Assembly of the Dead’ or ‘The Place Where Everything Ends.’ Are you ready for the zombie apocalypse?
8. Rule number eight: Always avoid eye contact with strangers. What happened to goddamn shame, Woman? Look at how beautiful the floor is, dirtied by hay from ongoing carriages. Now you’re forced to change lanes and keep your head down while passing the group of boys approaching, crossing your fingers and hoping they won’t tease you when you walk in the middle because they’re purposely blocking your way. Watch the concrete bricks; try to step on the reds but never the greys–and while you’re having fun doing that, try avoiding the animal excrement dotting the landscape like landmines.
9. Rule number nine: Don’t drive. Need I say more? It doesn’t matter that you got your licence, that you’ve memorised every road-sign and drive according to law. A motorcycle might do you well, but you’re still a woman, for heaven’s sake–ride a bicycle or something. Driving cars is NOT for your gender. If that upsets you, I’ll do you one better: Go back to waiting on the bus for forty-five minutes under the scorching sun. (And remember, if you’re home late because of that, it’s still your fault for not leaving the house sooner.)
10. Rule number ten: Learn how to fight. Hold the house keys between your fingers like brass knuckles. The homeless man (feigning insanity) at the entrance of the Derb might want a hug if the streets are empty and the lights are too dim with no friendly neighbour to offer you a hand. Perhaps he’ll ask for a kiss on the cheek this time. Do not shy from giving him one on the lips with your fist. It’s crazy out here after dark, so get ready to throw hands if the world suddenly gets too friendly. Welcome to Jumanji!
11. Rule number eleven: Google ‘Potential life-sentence for a second-degree murder’ and ‘Is prison really mixed?’ because, Baby-girl, you will have to remember the results. The policeman is just that–a Man. You are the second gender; this isn’t your world. Familiarising yourself with consequences will help remind you what’s at stake every time you try to fight back for your life.
Et Voilà! By following these simple (and certainly non-oppressive rules), you’ve survived the old Medina’s alleyways and officially made it to The City, where you meet your chic friends for a plain coffee, for a price four times that in your own, humble neighbourhood. You’ll lie to yourself and say that it’s worth it. Then a man passes the café and stares you down with your friends. By the time a group of boys cat-calls you as you wait for a taxi, you’re no longer having fun. Your friend Sofia tells you to ignore them, but you’re left wondering, what’s so different about The City that you wanted to come so bad?
Sadly, home is not a one-way ticket, and you’ll have to return from that hang-out using two different means of transport before it gets dark (unless you wanna get eaten alive). So, good luck to you, Soldier! May you encounter a familiar, masculine face to walk you the rest of the way home. But never too close (lest he learns where you live), and hopefully said brave knight won’t expect anything in exchange for his deed).
P.S. Remember: while you may have won today’s battle, you’ll certainly lose the war.
