COLUMN: Secrecy but no Privacy
Secrecy but no Privacy
I have found that it is acceptable here in Morocco to have a certain level of secrecy among acquaintances. It is not obligatory to give your name when you meet someone for the first time. The question “what are you doing” elicits answers like ‘going somewhere’ ‘visiting someone’ or ‘buying something.’ No need for superfluous details. Vagueness is acceptable in casual conversation in a way that it is not in American culture. It made me think of all the times I preferred to tell a small fib in response to a question to avoid being so ambiguous. I like the idea of a little privileged information.
In stark contrast with this subtle linguistic secrecy between acquaintances is the total lack of privacy within the family. This is a communal society at the family level and there is no sense of individual possessions or personal space within the family setting.
In most houses bedrooms aren’t designated as belonging to one particular person and are rather open to whoever happens to fall asleep in them. The closets contain everyone’s clothing and if it fits, you can wear it. If I need to borrow a sweater from my host sister it is not a big deal, and while I ask because that is my culture, it is entirely unnecessary. Even the single cup of water that is placed in the dinner table is shared by everyone. I don’t mind that ‘my tube of toothpaste’ is used by everyone or that if I leave my shoes out, they’ll be put in a random closet in some room of the house. It’s flattering that I have so quickly been included in the family circle and thus have free reign over their possessions and they in turn mine.
Not only do Moroccans share possessions, they also share space. Everyone spends their time in the salon of the house. Homework is done here, the television is always on, and often someone is napping on one of the couches that line the walls. The default is to spend time with everyone else in this room. I will never forget my first day in a host family when I excused myself to go read a book in ‘my room.’ Within ten minutes my host mother and sisters were at the door to try to figure out what was wrong. Was I sick? Did I need to see a doctor? In their minds my behavior of sitting by myself was indicative of some greater problem. I promptly learned to bring my book to the salon and have since developed the skill of being able to block out the TV and the baby’s cries and the snoring as I study my Arabic notes or escape into the comforting world of a novel in English.
Sharing is caring, goes the slogan from preschool as we selfish toddlers were allergic to the idea of letting others touch ‘our toys’. It seems at that age, something was yours if it was closest to you, if your parent bought it, or if you saw it first. The concept of ‘that’s my marker’ seems a little silly but I can’t count the number of spats that started with that phrase. If sharing really is caring than I am learning how to care on a whole new level and in return my host family must really care about me.
I have found that it is acceptable here in Morocco to have a certain level of secrecy among acquaintances. It is not obligatory to give your name when you meet someone for the first time. The question “what are you doing” elicits answers like ‘going somewhere’ ‘visiting someone’ or ‘buying something.’ No need for superfluous details. Vagueness is acceptable in casual conversation in a way that it is not in American culture. It made me think of all the times I preferred to tell a small fib in response to a question to avoid being so ambiguous. I like the idea of a little privileged information.
In stark contrast with this subtle linguistic secrecy between acquaintances is the total lack of privacy within the family. This is a communal society at the family level and there is no sense of individual possessions or personal space within the family setting.
In most houses bedrooms aren’t designated as belonging to one particular person and are rather open to whoever happens to fall asleep in them. The closets contain everyone’s clothing and if it fits, you can wear it. If I need to borrow a sweater from my host sister it is not a big deal, and while I ask because that is my culture, it is entirely unnecessary. Even the single cup of water that is placed in the dinner table is shared by everyone. I don’t mind that ‘my tube of toothpaste’ is used by everyone or that if I leave my shoes out, they’ll be put in a random closet in some room of the house. It’s flattering that I have so quickly been included in the family circle and thus have free reign over their possessions and they in turn mine.
Not only do Moroccans share possessions, they also share space. Everyone spends their time in the salon of the house. Homework is done here, the television is always on, and often someone is napping on one of the couches that line the walls. The default is to spend time with everyone else in this room. I will never forget my first day in a host family when I excused myself to go read a book in ‘my room.’ Within ten minutes my host mother and sisters were at the door to try to figure out what was wrong. Was I sick? Did I need to see a doctor? In their minds my behavior of sitting by myself was indicative of some greater problem. I promptly learned to bring my book to the salon and have since developed the skill of being able to block out the TV and the baby’s cries and the snoring as I study my Arabic notes or escape into the comforting world of a novel in English.
Sharing is caring, goes the slogan from preschool as we selfish toddlers were allergic to the idea of letting others touch ‘our toys’. It seems at that age, something was yours if it was closest to you, if your parent bought it, or if you saw it first. The concept of ‘that’s my marker’ seems a little silly but I can’t count the number of spats that started with that phrase. If sharing really is caring than I am learning how to care on a whole new level and in return my host family must really care about me.
posted by Laura | 7:38 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home