Morocco: A Man's World

The sand felt warm between my toes walking on Agadir Beach, Morocco. The air was sticky, and beads of sweat dripped down my covered body, dressed in knee-length jean shorts and a tank top. I picked this outfit over a bikini. I had read that the Moroccan dress code for women is strict owing to the Muslim faith, but a blog called Marcomama.com advised, "If you're headed to a pool or beach, wearing a two-piece swimming suit is not a big deal at all. It is however not okay to sunbathe topless in public". I was golden, I thought. Out of respect, I decided to cover up as much as possible despite the scorching weather. Straight ahead were the Atlas Mountains, which were way more breathtaking in person. In large white font, the mountain read "Allāh, al Waṭan, al-Malik." According to our taxi driver, this was the Moroccan Motto meaning "God, Homeland, King" in Arabic. I was so distracted that I almost didn't notice two women coming toward me, covered head to toe in black burkas. If I'm hot in this, they must be dying, I thought. How could anyone survive this heat like that? I noticed they were looking at me, too. They would look at me, then at each other. They were whispering to each other… judgementally?

As they passed, their eyes scanned my body up and down, and one muttered something to me in a sharp tone. If looks could kill, I would have been dead. I looked at my boyfriend, confused, "What just happened?" "I think it's what you're wearing," said Kyle. "What I'm wearing? I'm on a beach, and it's 30 degrees?". Shocked, I looked around. They weren't the only ones. All around me, men and women glared. What was going on?! The men glared creepily, not breaking eye contact. The women whispered, pointed, and sneered. My confidence sank below ground level as a thousand eyes burned holes in my skin. I felt naked. I ran back to my towel, threw it around my shoulders, grabbed my bag, and went back to the hotel to change. What the hell was wrong with these people.

The Quran teaches that women must lower their gaze and dress modestly, and not expose their beauty except to their husbands, male biological relatives, women, or male attendants having no physical desire. Although my initial question was how these women could survive the heat like this, as my trip progressed, I began to question how the women here survive being treated as objects. From the time I arrived, I was harassed by men. After landing at 2am, Kyle and I were starving and journeyed outside the hotel for food. Crossing a road, we noticed a car full of men trailing behind us. They pulled beside me, rolling the windows down and opening the door. I froze as they glared, not at Kyle but at me, shouting something I didn't understand. Terrified, we sprinted to the closest restaurant, catching a cab back to the hotel. What were they doing? I was fully covered, dressed in a tracksuit. It wasn't my clothing, I realized. It was simply that I was female, and you were not safe as a female.

This wasn't a one-off scenario.Throughout the trip, men's eyes would undress me as they approached me and shouted unintelligible catcalls that I was thankful I couldn’t understand. It was difficult to appreciate Morocco's beautiful markets with some sweaty old man trailing you yelling, "Hey! Shakira!”. These things happened in my boyfriend's presence, so I don't even want to know what would have gone on if I had decided to travel here alone. I was confined to the hotel room unless Kyle agreed to join me. I was Kyle's property to the men outside, and his masculinity ensured my safety as a fragile, powerless woman. I loathed this.

A passage in the Quran also translates to "men are managers of the affairs of women because Allah has made the one superior to the other." As my trip progressed, I felt this in every inch of my body. I went on this trip anticipating scenic landscapes, fascinating culture, camels, and Moroccan rugs. Don't get me wrong, all these things exist- the place is full of beauty and culture. I just couldn't get past how people saw me as inferior because of my sex. For starters, during check-in, the front desk clerk took the pen from my hand, giving it to Kyle. I couldn't handle documents; it had to be the "superior" male. As Kyle signed, I went to the bar and ordered a glass of wine to deal with the absurdity that had just occurred. As the bartender poured, he advised me, "You do this here at hotel but be very careful at restaurants outside, not good for a woman." Although drinking is technically allowed in Morocco, it is frowned upon since Muslims do not drink, and alcohol is prohibited in the Quran. Alcohol must only be purchased and consumed in licensed hotels, bars, and tourist areas. What's worse than a male drinking alcohol in Morocco? A woman doing it, obviously.

On my birthday, we travelled 20 minutes outside Agadir on a zig-zagging road overlooking the ocean through rocky orange canyons spotted with cactuses to a small fishing village called Taghazout. The relaxed, bohemian atmosphere immediately eased my bottled-up anxieties. The sun shining through the white clouds illuminated the colourful seaside houses piled on top of one other, creating a hazy paradise. The beach extended forever, and glowing barrel waves swept surfers to the rocky shore. Cafes, restaurants, and surf shops lined the main street, connected to narrow cobblestone alleyways illuminated by glowing multicoloured lanterns. We sat at an ocean-front restaurant, and I admired the scene, remembering why I wanted to visit Morocco in the first place. As the waiter approached our table, I noticed he would barely look at me. He would only address Kyle. With his back to me, he began to ask my boyfriend what WE wanted to eat. After days of this, I had finally had enough. It was MY birthday, for god's sake, and I could order my own food. I interrupted, placing my order loud and clear. "Kyle will have the prime rib and a beer, and I'll have the steak and a bottle of wine, thanks." Clearly annoyed, the waiter turned to me as he scribbled on his notepad and stormed off. I win, I thought.

I'd be lying if I said that didn't feel awesome, but this reckless behaviour can have severe consequences in a place like Morocco. On the way to a camel riding tour, we had a male cab driver named Ahmed, who refreshingly treated me like a human. He spoke perfect English and seemed both curious and intrigued about my life in Canada. He mostly warned me about things like keeping PDA to a minimum and that if asked, Kyle and I should say we are married since sexual contact between unmarried people is prohibited and is even punishable by law. However, one thing he said made my stomach turn. He informed me that two female Scandinavian tourists hiking the Atlas Mountains were murdered nearby in 2019. They were just 24 and 28 years old and had been attacked at night when they encountered four men searching for Westerners to kill. The defendants had stabbed both women multiple times before beheading them, filming it and posting it online to go viral. The men acted "in the name of the Islamic state".

The entire day, this story would haunt me as I rode on camelback through the caramel-swirling Moroccan sand dunes along the flamingo-filled sous river. Despite the beauty surrounding me, I could only concentrate on the guides as my hands trembled on the saddle. They led the camels by rope in long robes and headdresses in front and behind me. They barely spoke but would talk to each other in their own language. I couldn't help but feel uneasy not knowing what they were saying. Was I safe? Was I covered enough? Do they know we aren't married? Sure enough, the guide leading my camel abruptly asked, "You two are married?" Electricity jolted me. "Yes," I said, trying to conceal my ringless hand.

Upon returning to Canada, I was shocked to learn that Agadir is known as "the safest place for women to visit in Morocco", which I find completely terrifying. Yes, I made it back in one piece and even really enjoyed certain parts of this trip. After all, Morocco is beautiful and offers tourists a unique cultural experience. However, visiting Morocco was like travelling back in time to when women had no rights, opening my eyes to the inequality and oppression that women in other parts of the world still face. It’s unsettling to think that I was raised to feel empowered, educated, and independent while the two Moroccan women sneering at my boldness are brainwashed to believe they don’t deserve the same privilege.