Disclaimer: The topic of maltreatment of Host Country Nationals by Peace Corps Volunteers, and vice versa, is a complicated and sensitive issue with more layers than a piece of ba’lawa from Shatila. This post is merely the tip of the iceberg, and that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.
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My rudest encounter with a Peace Corps Volunteer – rather, a fellow American treating me poorly because of how I look – happened about a year ago, at a café in the city of Azilal. Sitting at a table with four other Americans, we were approached by a volunteer and every hand at the table was shaken except mine. The volunteer later confessed that he had assumed that I was Moroccan Peace Corps staff, because of my olive skin and headscarf. This explanation wasn’t at all comforting.
That monumentally rude moment was usurped this past weekend, during my travels back from the city of Taroudant after a week of Spring Camping. Please allow me to share that moment with you now:
I was walking down the stairs of a small hotel in the city of Agadir on Saturday evening, ready to head out for a dinner of McDonalds, Lebanese food and ice cream (though not necessarily in that order). I recently made the decision to forego the frumpy Peace Corps look, and I was looking presentable for dinner and a strut down the boardwalk: a nice skirt, strappy standals, a coordinated headscarf and a great pair of earrings that a small child gifted me at camp.
At the bottom of the stairs were two volunteers, checking into the hotel: a male volunteer from my stage, and a female volunteer whom I’d never met. I said hello to my stagemate, and then turned to the girl to say hello. I met her eyes as soon as I turned around, though her expression was a bit different than I had anticipated. While I was smiling, her head was cocked to one side, and her mouth was open. She was staring at me with a baffled expression on her face. I extended my hand and introduced myself.
She shook my hand, but just barely. Her brow was still furrowed even after I introduced myself, and she seemed to be convinced that I was a martian of some sort. Something about my presence had her so discombobulated that she didn’t offer up her name, just an uh-huh. The dialogue went like this:
“Hi, we haven’t met yet. I’m Nicole.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, and your name is…?”
[she said her name. I’m going to refer to her as Girl.]
“It’s nice to meet you, Girl.”
“Yeah, sorry. I, uh, just need to get used to this…”
As indicated by the ellipses, her voice trailed off. What I don’t think she realized was that while her voice trailed off, a hand gesture finished her thought off pretty sharply. When she said the word this, she motioned to my headscarf.
It was as if she was trying to say that she needed to get used to the idea of a girl in a headscarf speaking English.
I brought this incident up with my other PCV friends on our walk to dinner, all of whom understand that a headscarf and a Midwestern accent aren’t mutually exclusive. I told them what had happened, and they were as baffled – and frankly, appalled – as I was am. I also sent a few texts out over dinner to friends of mine who live in Girl’s province, and I ended the texts with a suspicion that this volunteer may have been intoxicated.
It was later confirmed that Girl wasn’t intoxicated when I met her. She was, however, inquiring as to who the Moroccan girl talking to her in the lobby was, after I had left the hotel.
The motivation behind sharing this story, I will freely admit, is stomach-churning anger. I’m horrified at how Girl – and the volunteer from the first story – treated me when they were under the assumption that I was a Moroccan. What’s even worse is that it’s not just me and my covered hair that gets treated like this; I’ve heard countless stories, and have even bore witness to, similar situations involving other volunteers who look Moroccan.
Aside from the rancid taste in my mouth and a spike in my blood pressure, I am left with one question: is this how these volunteers treat all Moroccans?
MAROC, JE T'AIME 
Aww, I’m sorry this happened to you Nadia! That is super rude, and I’m sure I probably would have asked exactly what it was that she needed to “get used to.” My gosh, hasn’t she ever seen “Little Mosque on the Prairie?” haha
Unfortunately, I can say that Morocco isnt exclusive. Its pretty appauling how Egyptians are treated by foreigners here too. And I’m not going to lie, depending on the context I’ve found myself guilty of being a jerk too. It’s embarrassing and inexcusable but I can say with me its generally been the product of having a few too many awful encounters with men on the street before accidently freaking out on one unnecessarily.
Ouch.
I have been in situations with other volunteers where I was struck by the rude or brusque way they’ve treated Moroccans. There sometimes seems to be a mentality of “I don’t act that way…I’m a Peace Corps volunteer!” I’m not sure what is the appropriate thing to do in such a situation, I’d say call them out on their behavior, but in truth I’ve never done that myself. Instead, I usually try to be overly courteous to whomever is being treated poorly. I would suggest maybe voicing your concerns with your fellow volunteer friends so that in the future if it happens again they can be the ones to call someone out on their inexcusable behavior?
I hope you enjoyed camp!
@Faye, that’s exactly what this is. 🙂 I’d shout it from the rooftop if I could. I’ve got super-supportive friends, but, one or two bad eggs can give the community a bad name.
@Mallory, I think we’re all guilty of the occasional freak-out or cold shoulder. I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t start with my usual opening line of “ca-va, gazelle?”.
I’ll start off by saying the male volunteer did the right thing by not shaking your hand at the cafe. He assumed you were Moroccan. Had you actually been Moroccan, him not moving to touch you or even look at you would have been (*now wait for it…*) a sign of respect in that culture. Having married into a Moroccan family, I’ve seen the best and worst of the culture. As a matter of respect for a woman’s purity (and in most cases, a man’s own), men are to avoid physical contact with women where possible. Obviously on a crowded bus, contact, while not intentional, cannot be avoided so it is excused. It seems so strange because for us in North America, one hasn’t properly greeted someone without shaking hands.
Now, your female colleague should not only have shaken your hand but kissed you as well. Her manner of greeting you, whether Moroccan or American, is appalling. There is no excuse or explanation for the way she treated you.
Nadine, thank you for the comment! Having married into a foreign family must give you a great appreciation for your own culture, as well as cross-cultural topics. I know that living here has certainly given me a new perspective on my own culture.
I’m afraid that I might have been unclear in my description of the situation. The male volunteer, on the afternoon I described, didn’t make eye contact with me, salaam me or shake my hand. He went around to my four other tablemates, and stopped shy of me as if he had finished greeting the table. Moroccan culture is one that values individual greetings, and this was a very blatant social faux pas on his part.
What you described, however, is also correct. Not shaking hands or making contact with the opposite gender in order to preserve one’s modesty is a very clear facet of Islamic culture; in my experience, however, it is not practiced in modern Moroccan culture. The vast, vast majority of Moroccans that I have encountered shake hands with both genders. In fact, whenever I am encountered with a man that doesn’t shake hands with women, his sleeve is still offered for me to touch. Shaking hands is an individual choice, of course, but in thirteen solid months in this country – spent in both Arab and Berber areas – I have only ever encountered one man that would not shake my hand. I touched the sleeve of his djellaba and put my hand to my heart. He did likewise.