Cultural Relativism

      Yesterday afternoon found me spread eagle in pajamas, sweating as though I had just run a marathon and begging my lovely Moroccan mothers and sisters to stop douching me in rose water (a cultural cure-all remedy; Also true for yogurt.) It was 4 in the afternoon and around 105 degrees inside my room. I inhaled the smell of these women’s sweat as they leaned over my face, blessing me with Quranic verses, pleading that I just have ONE BITE of chicken. Much to their chagrin, I told them that the Peace Corps doctor had ordered me to stick to a strict diet of water and bread. The women, content that I was now soaked in rose water and had a Quran on my head, made their way back to the kitchen. I watched them go and made sure they were outside the line of vision before I took of my pajamas, and stifled cries of frustration. It was so hot. And no matter where I went, I knew the heat was not going to let up. Three nights ago, I had collapsed from heat exhaustion and had been on bed rest in between trips to the bathroom for two days. I had tried everything to keep cool; drinking ridiculous amounts of water, sleeping on the roof, keeping a wet washcloth on my neck for the 5 minutes that it lasted but none of the solutions worked. The only time I felt semi-comfortable was when I was in my tank top and shorts… which is to say, when I was alone and indoors.

     While on bed rest, I had been watching the women of my house scurry around from dawn till’ dusk, cleaning, cooking, and sweating constantly under their full cover. Every time I passed the kitchen, I felt like I was moving through an oven; it was easily 115 inside that small room. On the second night, I asked if the women would want to go on a short walk with me to get out of the hot house and they responded that “it was too dangerous” for women to walk around at night. But I could certainly go sit on the stoop! I politely declined and walked with another volunteer for a couple blocks. But it wasn’t too far into our walk before we noticed that we were the only women out. And then we felt the rocks at our heels; a signal that we have dealt with before to tell us that, as females, we are not welcome in this place. It was situations like these that had moved me to tears yesterday afternoon. As much as I have been trying to embrace this part of Moroccan culture, I can’t kick the feeling that even the weather here is set to remind women of their place in society; at the bottom.

      There is a theory in Communication Studies called Cultural Relativism. The theory stipulates that the idea of what is right and wrong is completely dependent on social and cultural context. One societies set of morals could be completely different but due to the fact that we have no universal standard of morality, no one can pass judgement on another cultures moral standards. For smaller differences (such as the Turkish toilet), this theory is extremely applicable and useful. It helps me to understand and appreciate Moroccan culture even though it is a totally different way of life than that which I lived in America. But when it comes to the larger issues, the same cannot be said. Since when have I considered myself a second class citizen? Since when have I been scared to walk down the street by myself? Since when have I felt that I must cover my body, not out of piety but out of fear and to the point that I collapse from heat exhaustion? There are some things that are not acceptable regardless of culture and the oppression of women is one of them.

     The Ministry of Youth and Sports in Morocco has recognized the extreme disparity between men and women here and as such has asked that all Peace Corps volunteers devote some of their time to women’s development. Thankfully, we are not starting from the ground up. There are already women’s centers (netti nessewies) in action that are helping women learn to write, read and hone their skills to eventually become small business owners. I plan on helping out in these centers in whatever way I can; most likely by teaching English and sexual health.  But I can’t help but feel that I need a male voice in all of this work. I thank God every night that I am engaged to a man who reminds me daily that I am strong enough to handle this; that I am his equal. But I can’t say the same for the Moroccan women. Perhaps they are told that they are equal but they are still separated. In their work, in their hobbies, and in the possibilities that they dream of for themselves, they are constantly separated and told that respect takes form in hiding them from the evils of men. They still continue to move from one indoor space to another while men roam free wherever they please, whenever they please. And it’s going to take a Moroccan man to stand up and say that this isn’t just “part of the culture”; this is wrong.

     In the mean time though, being a positive example of a different way of life has never proven to be a bad thing.  So that is how I intend to effect change here. I will continue to bake Harja in the evenings with my sisters, but I will also go on walks outside. I will learn to sew but I will also get up and go to work every day. And perhaps most importantly, for every time that a man shames me in public, trust that I will not ignore it. If even just one girl sees that I stand up for myself and it causes her to dream bigger, push farther, act more, then all of this will have been worth it.