Category: all things moroccan

Last month, I mentioned that the magazine Nichane had been banned, and its editor-in-chief and one of its journalists put on trial, all for a cover story on jokes deemed “insulting to Islam.” The case went to court in Casablanca on January 8th, and the verdict was pronounced yesterday: Three years’ probation for editor Driss Ksikes and journalist Sanaa Al Aji, a fine of 80,000 dirhams each, and a punitive ban of two months, meaning that the magazine would only be back on newsstands at the end of February.

This is very harsh. And it’s frightening that, compared with the verdict the prosecution was seeking — five years’ prison time; complete ban of the publication; ban of its journalists from practicing their profession — it sounds downright magnanimous. Still, the verdict is yet another wake-up call for those who thought that the tangible progress we witnessed in terms of press freedom over the last few years was a permanent gain. This hastily prosecuted case is a strong signal that there are still “red lines” (Islam, the king, the Sahara question) that cannot be crossed.

The magazine plans to appeal, but in the meantime the verdict is a Sword of Damocles hanging over the journalists’ heads. Any false step, any perceived insult, and all that needs to happen is for someone to sue them before they’ll find themselves at risk of firm prison time. Perhaps that’s exactly what the government wanted–putting them, and all the other journalists, on notice. In addition, the government gets to play the card of “protector of Islam,” thus defeating religious conservatives at their own game. But this is a dangerous game, because conservatives will only escalate the situation, attacking anything they perceive as offensive. It’s a sad day.

Related: Twenty Moroccan writers and intellectuals have signed a petition in support of Nichane; Fadoua Benaich and Jesse Sage have an op-ed in the Los Angeles Times; popular blogger Larbi continues to offer a forum for discussing the issue.

The Arabic-language weekly magazine Nichane was banned yesterday by the Moroccan authorities, by order of the Prime Minister’s office. Nichane‘s issue #91, dated December 9th to the 15th, had a cover story on “Jokes: How Moroccans Make Fun of Religion, Sex, and Politics.” It included a long article, written by Sanaa Al Aji, describing the cathartic role of jokes, and sharing a few juicy ones with readers. The jokes that were deemed particularly offensive were the ones dealing with religion. There were seven in total, ranging from the subversively funny to the unfunny or downright offensive, but these are jokes that readers could just as easily have heard at work, at school, at home or at the café, and therefore they’re nothing new.

But their publication in Nichane was enough to prompt the Guardians of Morality ™, specifically members of the religious right, the Party of Justice and Development and others of similar sensibilities, to start a campaign against the magazine, and against the journalists, who have already been accused of being “apostates.” What makes this campaign against the free press particularly troubling is that its fomentors include journalists, people who should at the very least know something about freedom of the press and show some solidarity for their fellow writers, editors, and reporters.

For instance, conservative journalist Mohammed Lachyab posted a long tirade on his blog, not just against the article, but against the magazine, and against its sister publication, the Francophone Tel Quel, accusing them of persistently insulting the “religious and national” feelings of Moroccans through their “editorial line.” Lachyab also attacked Nichane‘s use of Moroccan Arabic, saying that “the secret goal” behind such a move is “the destruction of the Arabic language, after the failure of the Francophone magazine in that role.” (Journalist and conspiracy theorist, all in one!) Lachyab followed this post with a long list of contacts and asked his readers to make their opinions heard. The list included not only the email address of the magazine’s director, Driss Ksikes, but also those of the Prime Minister’s office, the Minister of Waqf and Islamic Affairs, and even the theology school.

This veritable witch hunt resulted in the ban of Nichane. A lawsuit has been filed against Driss Ksikes, the magazine’s director, and Sanaa Al Aji, the writer, for “insult to the Islamic religion” and “publication and distribution of writings that are contrary to the morals and mores” of the country. The trial is set for 8 January 2007, and they risk prison terms of 3 to 5 years. It should also be pointed out that, while the ban looks like (and will be interpreted) as a win for the PJD and its ilk, the magazine has not endeared itself to the government with its articles on corruption, the economy, party financing, etc.

As of this morning, the Nichane website appears to be down, so you cannot access the article in question. Ironically, the only place I can find the “incendiary” material is ….on the website of the very people who claim to be offended. They have scanned the jokes and you can see them there.

Related:
Reporters Sans Frontières condemns the ban. Popular blogger Larbi offers his support to the magazine, as does Mohammed Said Hjiouij.

One of the more unfortunate legacies of colonialism in Morocco is a certain obsession with, and mimicry of, all things French. If you walk into a fine store in the Racine neighborhood (I mean, look at the neighborhood’s name, for God’s sake) the clerk is likely to address you in French, even though you are not French, and neither is she. “Bonjour madame, est-ce que je peux vous aider?” she’ll ask. In the beginning, I would answer, somewhat irritatedly, in Moroccan Arabic (Darija) just to make a point. But then a strangely condescending look would appear on the salesperson’s face, intimating that perhaps I couldn’t afford to shop at the store, and the service would mysteriously drop to lower standards. So now I don’t even bother anymore, I just go with the flow.

There is still, fifty years after independence, a persistent association of anything French with “better.” People are driving themselves into the poorhouse trying to send their kids to French lycées. A few department stores and private schools here in Casa also throw Christmas celebrations, complete with trees, trimmings, and multicolored lights. It’s bizarre.

This morning, while I was reading the paper (a French-language one, I know, I know), I stumbled on this advertisement for LG Electronics. It shows an old man with a white beard, wearing a jellaba and a tarbouche, merrily riding a sheep-drawn carriage full of refrigerators, microwaves, and other assorted kitchen appliances. The message above says, “Aïd Moubarak Saïd.”

I suppose someone at the ad agency thought that the mix of the Eid El-Kebir, the Muslim commemoration of Abraham’s sacrifice, with Santa Claus, a folkoric addition to the Christian holidays, might somehow be conducive to shopping sprees. Maybe it just means that consumerism is finally winning the battle of Muslim holidays–via Christian ones. Let’s shop, fellow Moroccans, just like the French do!

You can’t really have a bad cup of coffee in Casablanca. We’ve been to several different places since we arrived, and the espresso was amazing everywhere. Traditionally, the coffee house was the ultimate male space, where men got together to smoke, play chess, read the paper, catch up with each other and, I imagine, complain about their womenfolk. In contrast, the ultimate female space was the home, where women threw elaborate parties, listened to music, danced, traded gossip, and enjoyed a good glass of tea. But of course all of this has changed over the last ten to twenty years, and the coffee houses are being firmly and steadily desegregated. The picture above is from a Maarif cafe, which is so popular that it has been turned into a chain. At least it’s a homegrown chain. There are no Starbucks here. Yet.

The talk of the town is Faouzi Bensaïdi’s new film, WWW: What A Wonderful World, which just opened this week at the Megarama. It’s about the intersecting lives of a contract killer (played by Bensaidi himself), a policewoman, a hacker, and a prostitute, and it’s all set in Casablanca. WWW premiered at the Venice Film Festival, and was also shown a couple of weeks ago at the Marrakech Film Festival. I hope to catch it this weekend…

Day 1
Because I depend on the Internet for much of my work (contact with my editor, my agent, etc.), one of my primary concerns when I arrived in Casablanca was to get a DSL connection, and get it fast. So I went to a Maroc Telecom office on my first day in town, exhausted and jetlagged. I was helped by M., a prematurely balding, slightly overweight man, who was a little grumpy at first, but loosened up after I made a couple of jokes. I asked about getting a phone line set up and a DSL connection working, and was told it would take 48 hours for the former and up to 15 days for the latter. But, M. assured me, in most cases, customers are connected within a day or two.
“Fine,” I said. “I’d like to sign up today.”
M. picked up several forms, a couple of which were in triplicate, and lined them up neatly on the desk between us. “First, we need to prepare your contract.”
“Contract? What contract?”
“For receiving your service. It’s for two years.”
“A-sidi, I’m only here for nine months, to do research. Can’t you just bill me month to month?”
“No, that’s not possible. But you can sign up for one year if you like.”
Of course, it was significantly more expensive to sign up for the one-year contract than the two-year contract, not to mention buying a telephone and a modem. But even the one-year contract posed problems for me. “What do I do after my stay is over? I’m going to be vacating my apartment and can’t bloody well leave the phone and Internet behind for the next person.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do. You can file a change of address form and put down the address of a family member, and then they can have the Internet. When the remaining 3 months are completed, the contract is over.”
“And how do I transfer service to another address?”
M. proceeded to give me an explanation that made my head spin: I could already see that I would have to fill out more forms, in triplicate, and wait in line for hours, at God knew what other agency in town. I looked at the numbers again. I must have looked quite stricken at the choices before me, because M. began to chuckle lightly. “I have a feeling that I am swindling you,” he said.
Ah, finally, something on which we could both agree. “I have the feeling that I am being swindled.”
He laughed again. I did not. I was so desperate that I decided not to worry about what would happen at the end of my nine months here. I just wanted to deal with the problem at hand, so I gave him the money. Instead of giving me my 10 dirhams in change, he suddenly turned to me and asked, “Do you know about the annual campaign for solidarity? We’re selling these yellow badges for them. It’s a very good cause–the fight against poverty.”
I couldn’t say no to that. “How much is it?”
“Only 10 dirhams.”
“Fine,” I said. I took the badge from him. And then I noticed that he did not set 10 dirhams aside for the charitable donation I had just been forced to make. My contribution may well have gone to his personal fund. After we finished all the paperwork, M. finally went to the stock room to get me my DSL modem. I noticed that the box didn’t say whether the modem had an ethernet port, so I asked him if it had one. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it has everything you need to connect.” I thanked him and left.

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