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Posting will be light to non-existent for the next three days while I travel to Rabat for the annual Fulbright Symposium. Come again soon.

I was very upset to have missed Mahmoud Darwish‘s appearance in Morocco last week. (In my defense, I should say that the organizers had originally listed him as reading in Casablanca, and then moved him to Rabat at the last minute and I couldn’t make arrangements to go.) I feel horrible to have missed him. Who knows when an opportunity to hear him might come again?

By the way, Copper Canyon Press is publishing a translation by Fady Joudah of three recent works by Darwish, under the title The Butterfly’s Burden. And here’s the best part: The volume is bilingual, so you can feast on the Arabic as well as the English. Get your copy. Now.

Years ago, when I was a junior in high school, one of my younger uncles came to visit us, a copy of Lamalif tucked under his arm. “What’s this?” I asked, and pulled out the magazine. I started reading it then and there and was instantly hooked. I was seventeen, and didn’t completely understand the significance of all the articles, but I loved it, and would always buy it or borrow it. Back then, our newsstands in Rabat were dominated by the shrill, partisan press, which didn’t really speak to me, or by French publications, which didn’t speak to me either.

Lamalif was different. The magazine was a form of challenge (the title comes from the Arabic letters lam and ‘alif, which together spell out the word “No”). It was the expression of a homegrown movement. It had amazing art covers. It was ours. Under editor Zakya Daoud (and her husband, Mohammed Loghlam) it published high-quality articles on politics, art, and culture. Its contributors were seasoned journalists, intellectuals, and, more often than not, university professors. It was informed and informative, and I have often wondered what it would be like today if it had survived as a publication. (Constant pressures by the government forced the magazine to shut down in 1988.)

So imagine my delight when I found out that the Casablanca Book Fair was hosting a discussion on “30 years of journalism in Morocco 1958-1988: The Lamalif years.” The panelists were Zakya Daoud herself, Mohammed Jibril, Mohammed Tozy, and Ahmed Reda Benchemsi. Aboubakr Jamai was unable to attend, but Driss Ksikes stepped in for him. The best way to describe the mood is to say it was made of emotion, pride, and quite a bit of regret. Emotion because those present–contributors to the magazine as well as those who were their readers–have fond memories Lamalif. Pride because it did amazing work (it was to the 70s and 80s what Souffles/Anfas was to the 60s). And regret because there really is nothing like it around anymore.

Zakya Daoud apologized that the book she had written about the magazine, Les Années Lamalif (Tarik Editions, 2007) was not ready in time to present at the fair, but she gave an outline of it, describing the early years of enthusiasm (1966-1968); the years of hard work and disappointment (1968-1972); the Sahara years (1973-1977); the years of calling everything into question (1978-1985) and the end (1985-1988). The difficulties of publishing–including meetings with the redoubtable Minister of Information of the time, Moulay Ahmed Alaoui–were hard on her, but there was also plenty of joy and laughter. “I have turned the page, and that is how I was able to write the book. Lamalif‘s story is my story, it’s our story, and, beautiful or not, it’s our history.” Mohammed Jibril briefly talked about what set the magazine apart from other publications of its time: Lamalif, he said, was attached to its ethical values and it had professional rigor, something which few publications can boast. Several past contributors (Salim Jay, Najib Boudraa, and others) said they were proud to have been a part of the adventure; some said they regretted now that Lamalif had been so serious–perhaps it needed some humor from time to time.

Then it was the turn of the “new guard” to speak. Ahmed Reda Benchemsi revealed that when he wanted to start his magazine, he had originally wanted it to be called Lamalif, and he had talked to Zakya Daoud about possibly buying the title from her, but it didn’t work out, and he ended up starting Tel Quel. Generally speaking, he said, the press situation now is very different from what Daoud and her contemporaries went through. But he also pointed out that while the “red lines” in the 1980s were very clear, they are more blurred now, so that it becomes nearly impossible to know whether something will run afoul of the system.

Ksikes, meanwhile, felt that the current press in Morocco does not exist in a continuum, but in cycles. Regarding the more liberal press environment, he said, “We may have opened the windows, but now we’ve started to put shutters on them.” For him, the difference betwen the Lamalif years and the present is that there used to be a greater dialogue and collaboration between university professors and journalists; now there is little, and sometimes he sees the reverse, in the sense that some in academia lead the charge against independent magazines.

My one complaint (as usual with these sorts of events) is that the moderator did not leave enough time for questions, and we had to vacate the room so the next panel could be set up.

For those who are curious: The entire archive of Souffles magazine is now available online, through Swarthmore and Lehman colleges. Someone should try to do the same for Lamalif.

I went to check out the Casablanca book fair yesterday–the fee for getting in is an extremely reasonable 5 dirhams and there’s tons to see and do. Among the exhibitors were publishers from many Arab and European countries, but also Moroccan university presses, literary magazines, small and large publishers, and–oh, joy!–booksellers and bouquinistes. So one could browse through the rare or used books from, say, Rabat’s Bouquiniste du Chellah here in Casablanca. The most popular booths seemed to be those that catered to children’s literature and YA, which I suppose is a good thing. Maybe in a few years’ time the fair will be able to attract as many interested adults. I noticed a couple of English-language publishers, but they carried mostly classics that are used at colleges and universities. The French publishers and the Saudi government, on the other hand, had a massive presence. Unfortunately, the official program that is available online is not comprehensive. There’s a lot more to see at individual booths, and you pretty much have to go in situ to know what each exhibitor has planned.

Since my parents are out of town at the moment, we spent the Eid el-Adha (or Eid el-Kebir) holiday with my uncle in Rabat. It was a lovely weekend getaway, and I was surprised to rediscover so many details I had forgotten: The way that sheep bleat incessantly the day before, and then are absolutely quiet when the hour comes; how I always consider becoming vegetarian that day; how the smell of mint tea combined with that of melted crepine on boulfaf makes me succumb every time. After the meal, we looked through boxes and boxes of family photos, made and received phone calls, and sat out on the terrace. But I stayed out too long, and then woke up the next day with a horrible cold and migraine. My best wishes to all of you for a happy and very healthy new year.

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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