Morocco Time

EatBees reminded me of an incident that’s bothered me for some time now. I never wrote about it while in Morocco, but as it happened almost exactly one year ago, I think it’s time.

It was my first week in Rabat. I was loving the city - the sounds, the food, how easy it was to get around, my classes - and I was thinking what a positive start I’d had. One afternoon, I went for a stroll after class, and ended up just across the street from the Parliament building, where there’s an open terrace with a cafe (I forget which hotel it’s attached to), and one of the main places where they sell magazines. I noticed that it was unusually crowded, and there were lots of handicapped people that seemed to be just walking up and down the sidewalk. Little rectangles of paper were being passed out, and I grabbed one - but it was written in fus’ha, so I couldn’t read it. Suddenly, there was a lot more noise, and a weird feeling in the air. Two groups of people dashed out into the street, linking arms, and headed up toward the train station. The crowd on the sidewalk followed them, and I went too, wondering what was happening.

The two groups converged, and then promptly sat down in the street in front of the train station, effectively blocking traffic. There were military officers, who were little more than scared teenagers playing dress-up in their dull green garb and white helmets, who made a line between the protesters and the sidewalks. There were some attempts made at physically moving the protesters, which didn’t have much success. The crowd on the sidewalk seemed ambivalent - no one was openly supporting either side as far as I could tell.

After a short time - I have no idea how long - different police showed up, this time in dark blue uniforms. Without preamble, they waded into the crowd of seated men and women, and took out their truncheons. Doesn’t the very sound of the word “truncheon” seem vicious? It’s nothing compared to seeing them used. The police took their cruel black sticks, brought them waaaaay up above their heads, and then down on whatever body part was closest. I couldn’t even believe my own eyes. As a naive American, I’d never seen anyone beaten- fights, sure, but this was altogether different. The wounded were carried from the battlefield, and triage ended up being right at the spot I was standing behind on the sidewalk. Do you know what a woman sounds like when she’s in hysterics? What a man looks like when he’s holding his broken knee and still trying to look brave? What hate and fear emanating from a crowd of hundreds of people feels like? I do, and I wish I didn’t.

I was openly sobbing by then, as were many around me. It was hard to move, but I made my way back towards the Post Office by squeezing through gaps in the crowd. I noticed several suspicious looking people (dressed in very natty suits and dark sunglasses) who seemed to follow me from point to point in the crowd, so I decided to call my husband immediately and ask him to come pick me up at Bab el Had. He was shocked at what had happened, but his friend from Rabat (driving the car) was completely blase about it. He told us that it happens all the time.

The next morning in Arabic class, I was still a mess. I said to my teacher, “They wouldn’t dare touch an American, the fuckers.” He just looked at me sadly and said, “Do you think they care who you are?” He was right. I never talked about this story, partially because it was so disturbing, partially because I was afraid of getting my husband or his family in trouble with the authorities. Do you know what the protesters wanted? More rights for the handicapped. Ironic that the police probably contributed quite effectively to the handicapped population that day.

November 19th, 2006 | Category: Politics, Personal, Morocco | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL