a section of my ISP

Women like to talk. We like to talk about ourselves, our lives, our problems; about our friends, their lives, and their problems. We like to tell stories — the juicier, the better, and the best when they are about someone else.

“I have a friend who is having sex with her boyfriend, but hasn’t lost her virginity.” “I know someone who is a virgin, but is pregnant ” “No one would tell you that they’re not a virgin, but most Moroccan girls are having sex.”

These are the things I hear. They are the sweet, innocent kind of gossip that add layers to my understanding of how things work here in Morocco. I know secrets, but I don’t know names or faces, so I can’t hurt anyone. This gossip is about as harmless as it comes.

But then there are the stories that are harder to swallow. The stories about women brutalized and beaten, and Moroccan women looking on because they both think it’s the victim’s fault and know that the police won’t do anything anyway.

A close friend told me this story. Good or bad, women will tell each other’s stories. It is what we do.

‘An SIT friend of mine lived with a Moroccan family near the large cemetery by Rabat’s beach. One night she and her older host sisters heard a woman screaming, and ran up to their roof to see what was happening. There was a group of eight to twelve Moroccan men in a group off in the cemetery. From what could be seen from the roof, they were raping a woman, who presumably lay screaming on the ground, hidden by the gang of men. The SIT girl asked her sisters, “Isn’t there anything we can do? Shouldn’t we call the police?” “The police won’t do anything,” the sisters replied. “Besides, it’s her fault for being out past 9:00 at night.”’

Her fault.
Not back at home.
Our fault.
Because what can we foreigners possibly do about it?
Their fault.
Demons.