Morocco and Age of Feminism

I sit in cafe painted in three shades of doll brown, the last rays of sunlight pour in from an open window exposing the smoke clogged coffee bar heavy with stench of tobacco, arising from the middle aged men sitting in dwindling silence watching a football match, the man's appearance is only distinguishable by the choice of brick brown or ivory black leather jacket they choose to sport. I sip on my cold mint tea observing with bemusement as the waiter confronts two men of central African appearance, the dwindling silence of the bar is broken by the heated argument, eventually the two men concede and retreat from the entrance of the cafe, the waiter must have sensed my confusion as he collected my empty cup with a expression of shame and strong ascent whispered ''No Africans’’. I stand up, adjust my jacket as to conceals my ethnicity before making my way home.

The thick fumes rising from the streets bustling inhabitants of food stores and workshops makes for a glowing purple sunset on the apartment riddled skyline, the noise of howling hagglers, screaming tricycles and scooters spewing diesel fumes is only drowned out by the call to prayer from the minaret. The attention needed to navigate broken bottles and food scraps holds priority and leaves little opportunity for compassion to the elderly and disabled pleading for spare change. The street life dwindles as I escape from the busy street into an alley occupied only by fruit stores, closed for the night, protected not by locks or security guards but by rope, tarp and strong standard of ethics upheld by a tight knitted community. I start to ascend the stars to my fourth floor apartment when greeted by father of a student ''Shalom malacom'' we shake then hold hands and he rests his hand on my shoulder as if we were lifelong friends not two strangers with no common language meeting for the second time, our handshake breaks and we both touch our hearts and I continue on my ascend.

I finally collapse on to the floor of my classroom where my mattress lays ready to catch me. I begin to drift off to sleep when the sound of furniture breaking followed by cries of distress shocks me back to reality. My mind wonders to the young girls that sat with contempt in my English class just a couple hours prior. Two young girls in particular named Imane and Salma. Imane holds herself with such a level of prestige, confidants and intelligence rarely a trait of any person, you would never have guessed her family lives in a garage due to their shanty town being bulldozed. The other young girl by the name of Salma aged just nine with a quiet confidence expressed through a fashion sense to rival any fashionista, intelligence levels that allows her to learn English while rarely attending my classes, a smile that can bring light to a dark room. CRASH, followed by heart wrenching screams of a women, I ponder how Imane and Salma will submit into a destiny of second class citizenship in a system where ‘’protecting a man's dignity'' is just after ''doing justice to women and protecting children’s rights’’ as the three fundamental parts of the Moroccan Family Code. How will these young women find settle with this injustice.

My conclusion is? Morocco will be dragged bloody, kicking and screaming into the twenty first century by a 1960 style feminist revolution. Young women and men going to war against conservative theocracy society submissive to a corrupt King, clinging to power through tactics of systematic ignorance and of religious manipulation claiming a divine bloodline as his right to rule.

The long drawn out war of attrition for equality lead by young girls just like Salma and Imane, the battle field a country that ranks number one hundred and thirty for wage equality. The trenches will be the fifty percent of government bodies that fail to employ a single female, the unions that have point four percent female representatives and the textile factories where almost eighty percent of women employed are not eligible for maternity leave. The revolutionary's a young generation of women and men fed up with their freedom of expression oppressed by a conservative interpretation of the Islam. Weapons will be sit in, strikes and picket lines.

The poppies of freedom and democracy will sprout from the remains of a young generation of revolutionaries rejected from their families and religion alike. A Morocco free from corruption and French modern day imperialism.