What I Learned from Being Hit by a Motorcycle in Marrakesh
Prior to my semester abroad in Morocco I received a series of safety lectures, warnings and prayers on my behalf. I knew I would be fine, but this hyper-focus on safety (instead of advice to study hard or take lots of pictures!) began to make me a little paranoid. I mentally prepared myself for any situation. I knew I would be stared at and cat-called for being a foreign female, and maybe even experience sexual harassment. I wasn’t afraid, but deep down, the impromptu self-defense lessons started to make me fearful of assault.
In Morocco I lived in Meknes, a small, conservative city in the north. Like most cities in Morocco, in Meknes there is the medina codima, old city, and the medina jadida, new city. Many American students that study in Meknes live with families in the new city, which has a French-influenced atmosphere that they can to blend into. However, I and three other American girls lived in the old city, where we walked through the souq, or local street market, every day to get to class.
We were harassed daily, hourly, even down to the minute sometimes and it really affected me. I was angry, frustrated, enraged and eventually just depressed. I didn’t understand the culture of the small, traditional city and although it was a major culture shock, I had to accept it. Fortunately I was never sexually assaulted, and there were only a few occasions on which I had to yell at a young boy to not grab me or touch me to get my attention.
However, one incident left me steaming, forgetting all the advice I had been given about letting it ‘slide off my back’ and going right back to my old ways of aggressively yelling at Moroccans in Arabeezee (Arabic with a touch of English) — they didn’t teach us how to cuss in Arabic class. I had developed a bad habit of giving harassing men the middle finger since the bird is a universal symbol.
I knew I would be fine, but this hyper-focus on safety (instead of advice to study hard or take lots of pictures!) began to make me a little paranoid.
I was hit by a motorcycle while touring the streets in Marrakesh. It was a minor incident, I wasn’t seriously injured, but the aftermath is what was really upsetting. After flying forward a few feet and stumbling to stay vertical, I turned to the man whose motorbike had been equally discombobulated. He seemed very upset and said a few things in French I didn’t understand. An old man who had seen what happened rushed over to me, and instead of asking if I was alright or telling the man on the bike to slow down, he began yelling at me in Arabic. He called me a ‘dumb girl’ and told me to watch where I’m going!
“Seriously?! HE hit ME!”, I shouted in English.
The man didn’t understand me of course, but after a few minutes of dusting the dirt off and ensuring my body was intact, I walked away physically unscathed, but emotionally shaken. The adrenaline rush wore off, my face was hot with frustration and I fought back angry tears. I pushed my sunglasses down over my eyes so my friends wouldn’t see me cry.
We went back to Meknes and continued our studies. I completed my classes for the semester and said some really hard goodbyes. I made lifelong friends, sisters even, women who will remain a strong influence on my life. This experience in Marrakesh was a direct reflection of my overall feelings about my time as a foreign female in Morocco. I felt weak and small — no more than an annoying bump on a backroad in Marrakesh.
Don’t get me wrong, I had an amazing experience in Morocco and learned many lessons. The biggest struggle I faced as a strong-minded, independent woman in the Middle East is thinking I am entitled to different treatment or that I can change their culture. I was reminded by my roommate that I was in their country. I had to learn to erase all pre-conceived notions, all comparisons to my home country, and just listen and learn. I not only learned about myself, but about patience, love and most importantly, acceptance.