Traveled for days to get here, now waiting, lingering. We have arrived in Tetouan. I am in the orient and slowly move out of my directedness, the western way of getting things done, in which I forget to enjoy this air, standing in the heat of a lazy morning. I am here to teach at the international theatre festival Tangier- Tetouan, under the motto of “theatre communication between the two borders of the Mediterranean”

At lunch, Dr. Khalid Amine, a professor of performance studies, spells out the kind of theatre he wants to see; liberated from colonial times, Moroccan theatre will be integrated, celebrating diversity. I see myself sitting in the classroom at Palms Middle School in in Los Angeles in 1993, when we launched the council pilot project in a school with 32 different languages, talking to the students about that very subject. Now this way of envisioning the world is becoming embodied.

We take a memorable walk along the new promenade by the sea of Tetouan, a city with a Spanish past, white washed houses climbing up the hill It’s also the place where the the young man responsible for the Madrid train terror came from. We end up eating sardines by hand at the harbor, with the locals. Delicious!. The young king, Mohamed VI, in office since 1999, has one of his palaces here. My students tell me he invited his people to celebrate his wedding with him. When he found his queen, in Fez, a beautiful dame of the people, a computer expert with long hair the color of kohl, he asked for her hand in marriage and they celebrated with festivities lasting for days. All people who wanted to get married at that time were invited to the palace with their families. They dressed in their most beautiful gowns, finely made up and adorned with jewels, they danced and feasted and drank sweet tea in honor of love and joie de vivre.
This I convey in the spirit of Scheherazade, the worlds most eloquent storyteller. I walked the medinas and the modern streets, looking to catch a glimpse of the eyes of women, some wearing the headscarf or the niqab (full face scarf) or showing off hair. ‘Anything is possible,’ says my local guide, the brilliant young man who wants to go to Harvard, “there are no dress rules in my country.”
While I carefully chose the clothing I brought to this Muslim country, my colleague bases her clothing choices on her needs, even if it means naked shoulders, never mind the context. I feel ancient watching the men eyeing her.

In conversation with a trusted Moroccan teacher, I hear about the dilemma women live with. Modernity is moving into this traditional society, and with it a demand for more freedom, sexual as well. But when it comes time for marriage, husband wants virgin, often insisted upon by his female lineage in particular, who passé outside the bedroom until the handkerchief with blood is delivered. So with the doctors power to stitch, hymen gets restored and with it the illusion of virginity – at 500 dirham or 50 euros a steal indeed. The old custom that must fall is held in place for a time longer. What about the lie? The social pressure to be wed overshadows such a detail – at least in the cases I heard about.

The MA students await me with questions about site-specific work and performance. They nod when I make reference to my artistic roots; I am impressed with their knowledge and curiosity. I even find my resume printed out in the car of the student who is so eager to have and do it all!

I work with a large group getting larger; time is so much more fluid here. They are enthusiastic sound and movers; they show me their great interest for theatrical expression, I learn laughingly about cultural sublet lies. In a group of 35 there are but a few girls. They step in last, I bring them out first.
Actors and educators take to this work, the hunger for new approaches is great and this work lends itself well to giving expression to this type of energy - coming off a red-hot wire.

We perform in the evening, the Belgian actress with a piece she wrote, I improvise with a silent role. I enjoy being empty and have the opportunity to fill the space where it is needed. I take fifty minutes to be a full standing woman from a heap on the floor, while a difficult text about abuse and system dominance is communicated. Never seen such a slow rise, in my five years of acting, a young pro exclaims and asks for my autograph.

I appreciate being in a culture that does not need alcohol to come out. In the dance places the young people can let go, from the get go, a young American language teacher tell me.

We continue working the next day. These students are very direct, eager, the schoolteachers quiz me about energy and how to sustain it, we wish we could do training for the classroom. In the evening we watch a farce with one of the great actors of this country, Abdellebbar Louzir, who at 87 still stands on stage, hilariously transforming from man to woman with wig and bra on top of his clothing. Moroccan theater is a colonial product and only now defining itself at the crossroads of cultures. .

We perform in Tangier, after calling in the cleaning lady to vacuum the stage. Then, accompanied by our local student guides we cruise the medina, find some goodies, drink green mint tea at the café Tingis. Maybe Jane Bowls worked on ‘My sister’s hand in mine’ right here? The generosity of our students is without bound. They invite us to their homes for next time, to the picturesque markets in the country, where the real trading is still going on. We barely touch on politics.

My friend and colleague came to the peace conference in Tetouan a few days ago. She says opinions are black and white; being against Bush is called being anti-Semitic. They ask me if I am Jewish, since I have mentioned Israel. 80 practicing Jews are left in Tangier, once a peaceful place of cohabitation between Muslims, Jews and Christians.
In the cab to the train station, the driver takes pride to show off his city. “And there is Mc Donald’s” he says. ” Hm, I don’t like it,” I reply. “The Jews do,” he says. I protest, “My Jewish friend does not like it either. “ “Oh, well, then she is not a real Jew!”

The guard at my hotel in Rabat has a metal detector - he does not use it on me. Today, culture feels like an invisible seal with seven serrures (locks). I cannot make myself understood - once my student guides have gone back to their town. I have bought my third charger and returned it, the cell is still not loading up, but there are no batteries available. Demonstrators are shouting in the street, who do I want to identify with, the winners or the loosers? The wide ‘fosse’ (gap) is attracting my attention. I ask the guard at the bank: “what they are demonstrating about?” These shouting young dark men, they spread a current of high electricity. They run at high speed in the avenue and dissipate, when the security forces with big helmets and face protection come close in their mini van. Then they regroup up the street, a few stretch out a small piece of fabric they can crumble up in one hand. “It’s a human right,” they chant, “having work is a human right.” Demonstration is allowed here, but picture taking not – my camera is hidden under my hat.

Hamdullila he says into the telephone, the owner of the bookstore on the boulevard, bordered by beautiful palms. “Hamdullila” I whisper when I see the organizer of the festival walk up the stairs of the restaurant where I am having lunch in Rabat. I still feel his soft hand shake 36 hours ago, in Tangier, we said good-bye. I had no words left- had adopted the women’s way, listening to the man talking until I retrieved into the veils of my mind. “I was just talking about you,” he said. The theater elite of the country was having a meeting and hearing about my work. Quiet satisfaction fed me more than the few bites of chicken on a skewer. Working in far off places is a gamble, I never know where the seeds fall.

Today, I am sharing a compartment with 6 females on the train to Marrakech, a mother with a young baby and a six year old, a friend or helper who sometimes holds the baby. Two young women sit next to me. One just passed the BAC and is now looking for a business school. The other one is already a teacher. The heat is getting to us. In first class, the air conditioner does not work. I watch the body contacts, it is all so close, fluid, and the breast just plops out when it is time to feed the baby, I marvel at the interaction with the two young women. They attentively assist the mom as if they had always been part of the family. When the mother, obviously well off, says the children speak French at home and learn colloquial Arabic – derija - in school. I am not sure whom she is kidding. Or maybe they do learn the classic Arabic in school and derija at home?

Its boom time in Morocco I am told. Everyone is building, and prices are going up. Some 4.5 mio people still live on a dollar a day, the extremes are hard to fathom, I hear of a 12 year old who drowned as he was trying to get to Spain in search of a better life.

As I walk, clack clack over cobblestones through the early morning in the medina, a mother in djellaba is walking her girl to school. The filtered light on the red brick wall is so warm, the arch they pass so picturesque. A motto zips by, a father with his teen daughter. I hear the sound of a broom swishing; the brown hood of a man is bopping, the wheels of my luggage clunking over stones worn down by community. A sense of ease and dignity comes off these earth materials and its people – there is room for the soul to meander, is that what is so scary to the west?

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