It was a joy to finally meet a Moroccan in my medical school program & also have her in my class. I must admit that this is the first time I have ever encountered a Moroccan in my field of studies let alone any school I have been to. A naive person would think a strong bonding will be formed between us but to my shocking experience I got nothing but bitter competition based on jealousy and big mouth watery with gossips. She is a quite unique package that contains a great deal of misrepresentations of Moroccan culture and islamic religion. However, I must admit that she still has one little thing inside her that make her a proud Moroccan---her Fassi heritage. Since day one, the so called- Fassi American dissected my last name to figure out exactly where I am coming from with the help of her mother who too was eager and curious to trace my ancestry, and road-map to where my family lives exactly back home. I am not sure if they succeeded in their hard work study-case of mine though!
My fassi-American (Moroccan born but pretends to not speak much darija because she migrated to the US at a young age, even though I have heard her speaking it on a several occasions while she was on the phone with her mother) perceives me as a little nomade and by that I mean a true nomade . She is constanly criticizing the way I dress up even though I don't see it any different from her or style or the rest of our colleagues as we all wear same uniforms but her watery mouth has to throw a comment here and there all the time to make me feel I am somehow lesser than her. If I, little nomade, got dressed up for any occasion or get-together, the fassi-American finds it quite shocking to her little brain to believe that I have something called "clothes" to wear and I am not some little nomade her brain portrayed me in her mind. Good or bad, I am always criticized in a way, that I over-dress up for an occasion if I am wearing something nice or I am just not taking care of myself if my face looks swelling during exams season. Needless to mention the torture she gets me to endure when she makes me sit and listen to her family stories (the rich uncle who owns half of Morocco, and the rich aunt who built the first orphanage in Casablanca, or her asshole non-Moroccan husband who is making her life miserable)...It's beyond my little brain that starts swelling quickly as soon as I start listening to her family's autobiography.
So I take my distance, and I isolate myself from her suffocating environment and I find peace in my little horizon..