Morocco reforms to cut monarch's powers

Morocco reforms to cut monarch's powers

King Mohammed VI proposes constitutional changes that will whittle down his powers, but keep his role as power-broker.

Morocco's king has announced a series of proposed changes to the country's constitution, including amendments that would strip him of some of his political powers.

The changes, announced by King Mohammed VI in a live address to the nation on Friday, will be put to a referendum on July 1.

"We have managed to develop a new democratic constitutional charter," the king said, adding that the constitution "enshrines a citizenship-based monarchy".

The proposed amendments would provide for the strengthening of the authority of the country's prime minister and parliament.

The prime minister would become the "president of the government", and would be able to appoint government officials - an authority previously held only by the king.

The new "president of the government" would also be able to dissolve parliament, the king announced, another role previously accorded only to Mohammed VI.

The new constitution ensures the prime minister is selected from the party that received the most votes in election, rather than just chosen by the king.

The reforms also strengthen parliament, allowing it to launch investigations into officials with the support of just one-fifth of its members or to begin a censure motion against a minister with the backing of a third, rather than needing the unanimous approval demanded by the current constitution.

The judiciary, which has long been criticised for lacking independence, would be governed by a supreme council composed of judges and the head of the national human rights council. The justice minister would not be on the council.

"We encourage a parliamentary authority that is ready to make sure that parliament makes final legislative decisions," the king said. "This parliament has the ability to question any official in the country."

However, the king would remain a key power-broker in the security, military and religious fields.

The king will continue to chair two key councils - the Council of Ministers and the Supreme Security Council - which make security policy. The prime minister can chair these councils, but only using an agenda set by the king.

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I can make a comment neither for nor against this, because I am a Peace Corps volunteer.

Lentils

After a month of somewhat heavy spending consisting of new furniture purchases, I realized that my account had reached zero a few days before the next paycheck. Most volunteers go through this at some point; their account reaches zero before the monthly living allowance comes in, and so they are forced to break out their American debit card to get by. Fortunately, the conversion makes it so that one can purchase enough cheap foods for a month with the equivalent of 20USD. Unfortunately, I had already spent a good deal of money to buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles for August, so the thought of breaking into my American account was less than ideal for me.

I decided to finally use the lentils that I had received from another volunteer. In order to be sure of how to cook them, however, I decided to look up the method of preparation online. I had tried to make lentils before without looking up the method. I had assumed that one lets the water boil, places lentils in boiling water, then lets simmer for a while until done. I needed to be sure, this time, so I looked up recipe after recipe. They all read basically the same: LET WATER BOIL, PLACE LENTILS IN BOILING WATER, COVER, LET SIMMER 15-20 MINUTES. As I gathered what I needed, I was reminded of another volunteer, a young man who is using his time in between teaching at the youth center to become a body builder.

"A few weeks ago, my regimen consisted of eating three cups of lentils a day. They're so easy and cheap to make. You just put them in, wait, and they come out."

I laid out the tools before me: cup of lentils - check, pressure cooker - check, water - check, laptop to read instructions - check. Apparently, it is approximately 2-1 water to lentils to make sure that the lentils are prepared properly and don't dry out. As the water turned to boil, I slowly poured the cup of lentils into the pressure cooker, covered the lid, set to simmer, and sat down. I imagined what would happen. I remembered the other volunteers lentils.

"Oh, this thing? I just whipped them up and just threw these spices onto them, oh psh-shaw, they're not anything special."

But they were delicious, and he knew it. The lentils danced on my tongue, they swam in the small broth mixture that was left over. They enticed me to grab another spoonful, and the spices delicately combined on my taste buds to create a flavor that I had not tasted since before I had left for Morocco. The first time I made lentils, they drowned in the sludge of water, salt, and pepper that remained from the water. The second time I made them, they ended up dryer than when they were placed in. But not this time. This time, I made sure to compile all of the recipes that I could to get a consensus on how to make lentils. I would make these lentils the best lentils that I could possibly make. All the while, I kept hearing the volunteer's voice, as though he were looking over me.

"Oh, this thing? They're not anything special."

I stood over the pot, and as soon as the fifteen minutes were up, I opened the pressure cooker to check on them. The smell of popcorn immediately burst into the air, and I watched as some blackened lentils dotted the sides of the pressure cooker, and other lentils inexplicably burst and turned into what I can only refer to as pop-lentils. I held another cup of water in my hand, but simply drank it when I realized that nothing would be able to save them. I picked up the pressure cooker, leaned it over the sink, and poured out the water. I would collect the lentils and throw them out once they cooled.

I can't cook lentils. Bless my heart, I try. Oh how I try. I can try making up a recipe, or I can follow recipes to the minutest of details, but I can't make them. It has nothing to do with learning or watching, I physically cannot make them. It is as though the pressure cooker, lentils, and water become tainted when they interact with my pheromones, or maybe I am missing a genetic marker that lists its purpose specifically for cooking legume based meals. But I am incapable of making lentils.

And I'm okay with that. We each have gifts, skills, talents and abilities that make us unique and who we are. I am as genetically incapable of cooking lentils just as Mitt Romney is genetically incapable of showing empathy for the poor or as any Democrat is genetically incapable of having any spine to take a stand on issues, and that's okay, it's simply who I am. I have many other talents that I can continue to pursue throughout my life. We all do, and maybe living life is just about looking into that pressure cooker to realize just how much of a disaster you can make of things sometimes. Sometimes, what you put into the pressure cooker of life will be a book or a play, or maybe it will be a gift at sports, or maybe even the ability to raise a wonderful family. Sometimes, it just ends up being burnt lentils. But that's okay. Just empty the lentils, and try to find another recipe for something you can do, something that's more who you are.

For now, though, I think I am going to get some pizza.

Individuality

"I always find it funny that people will go over to these countries thinking that they're going to improve the lives of these people. What ends up happening is that the villagers teach the American much more than they learn."
"Maybe that's more of the point of Peace Corps now - to serve as a sort of cultural exchange for Americans, except we're the only ones who are exchangable."
"I'm sure you'll be fine." ~from an earlier blog post, "A Conversation at Weatherford's"

I remember first coming here, and thinking to myself that my main focus was on working the first goal of Peace Corps, which is to help local people meet their need for trained men and women. The other two goals, teaching locals about American culture and teaching Americans about local culture, were going to be ancillary. After a year here, I think I am pleased with the work I have done with first goal thus far.

What I hadn't expected was just how much I would be doing of the other two goals. I had no idea just how much of my experiences would be relaying information about America to Moroccans. I had no idea that people would be so interested in how things work in Morocco. I also never knew that my individuality would be questioned so blatantly. Just the other day, I was buying some items to decorate my house. I went into the store and bought some fake long stem flowers with the buds on them, but the vase didn't match it. I saw a smaller blue glass jar that would look interesting.

"You can't buy that." The woman at the front said.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You can't put flowers in that. It's not a vase."
"But I like how it looks."

The woman huffed and turned around, knowing that she wasn't going to win the argument. I stood aghast at how much of a fight she put up. I explained it later on to D_____, as we were painting my parlor room blue. I like the color blue. I have blue cushions to sit on, and I have white tablecloths. I told him that I wanted the feeling that when we entered this room, we were flying in the sky in clouds.

"Most people down here paint their houses red."
"I know, but I like blue."
"Blue is the color used up north."
"Everyone has red. I am not like everyone."
"It looks good. It looks like up north."

D_____, an Anglophile, understands individuality in the same way most Americans know about Europe. They've never been there, they've never actually experienced it, but they read up a little bit on it, so they have a vague idea about it.

"You see, D_____, in America, a house is an extension of one's personality. I am a peaceful person, I am a Buddhist, so I want these things to be apparent in my house."

It's a two-way street, however. In Morocco, the stores all have the same items, and the items with which there is a choice, the choice is limited. The expression of individual personalities is difficult in that regards. But is it the lack of variety that enables the lack of individuality, or is it the collective culture, which focuses on everyone being alike, that makes the need for variety in stores unnecessary? Is the lack of variety also due to the culture of non-materialism, or is it merely economic? There are so many questions, and so few answer that I have still. Obviously, if you ask a young Anglophile Moroccan and an older, more religious Moroccan the same question, you will get a different answer.

Right now, though, I tend to lean towards a combination of the two. The answer, I feel can be answered once I return to America, where these individual options will be readily available to me. I don't really consider myself as ever having been materialistic. Here, however, I do not have access to things, so I am used to not focusing on buying things or diversifying my experiences in food or entertainment. I like to think, however, that I will go back to seeking to carve out an individual identity when I return.

What I have noticed here, though, is that the younger generation is definitely more Western in that regard. The emergence or ska, punk, emo, and other genres of culture are seeping into the kids, and their hair, their clothes, and their mannerisms are reflecting that. People want to be themselves, and so it is possible that the lack of individuality is simply due to lack of things. I feel that there are definitely going to be some major changes to the world once my and the next generation gets into power. I can't wait to see it.

Connecting to People

Tracy left for America the other day. She was a Fulbright student living in Morocco with her husband and two cats. I arrived at her house that night and was greeted by the Moroccan family that she spent time with. It was strange, looking at the house that she had been living in for the past eight months, to see the boxes on the floor, the emptiness of the main salon and the kitchen, and the cats bundled up in carrying cages. tracy had made small boxes of things for everyone who we call, "The Er Rachidia Family", a group of Fulbright scholars, Peace Corps Volunteers, and Moroccans who spend a lot of time together in the Er Rachidia area. I was thrilled when I learned that Tracy had given me what, to most people, would be a few years' supply of American, Asian, and English teas, and to me, would probably be drunk nonstop within a few days.

"I'll try to keep in touch!" I said.
"How?' She asked, "You don't have Facebook."
"We'll send you a message when you get into America." Another Volunteer said.
"Yes."
"Marcus, maybe if you get back on Facebook, one day, we can get back in touch."
"I can send emails."

As I stood to the side and watched as Tracy tearfully said goodbye to each person, I truly felt that we were some family saying goodbye to one of its members. I wondered about my decision to leave Facebook. I still stand by it.
Another thing that I had noticed was the mother of the Moroccan side of our family. She normally was much more energetic, but tonight, she sat silently in the corner of the room and stared off into the distance.

A few days later, I went over to this woman's house. The main salon was slightly smaller than Tracy's, but the paint, though older and more worn, was the same yellowish-gray color. Red cushions surrounded a small wooden table, and kitten wrestled on the floor and nibbled on chicken heads that her son got from the butcher.

"Salam." I said, "Labas?"
"Labas, Hamdullah." She replied, but she still had that strange look on her face.
"Labas?" I asked again, with more emphasis.

She sighed. I watched as she began to pick up small objects to clean up the parlor. Even though she turned away from me, I knew what she was thinking. I know what sadness looks like, and I know what it does to one's face. Sadness softens one's face, as though it wants to fade away and not be seen. It whitens the silhouette and drains it of color.

"Tracy tdu s Merika."
"eyeh." I replied.

She sighed again, held up a small photo book, and then began to cry. She reached down, pulled up the bottom of her headscarf, and then wiped the tears from her eyes. She handed me the book, and I opened it to the picture of her wedding day, where she was leaning against a wall while her husband looked on. As I looked at the photograph, I noticed how their faces, filled with happiness, had more shape than the face of this woman who sat before me. I leaned over and sat the book on the cushion where she normally sat, and watched as the woman's face slowly took shape again. She realized that, in a way, there was always going to be a part of Tracy here, in this salon, in the form of memories that the two of them shared.

In Buddhism, I have been taught about accepting the inevitable when it comes to relationships. The Buddha taught that one should view all phenomena as though it were a feather landing in your hand. You keep your palm open, so that it can land, and let it remain open, so that when the time comes for it to leave on the next gust of wind, it doesn't poke you or get damaged. There is a part of me that is grateful for this teaching, but sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am unconsciously separating myself from something that is utterly human. I like Tracy, and I hope to keep up emails with her, but I know she has a life to live. We all do. Sometimes, our lives bring us together for a while, and sometimes, it slowly separates us. That doesn't mean that we can't enjoy the time we spent together. I want to make use of every moment that we have. I don't want to live my life assuming that someone will always be in my life. I don't want to take those moments for granted anymore. Any one of us can be separated from one another in a multitude of ways - work, falling out, a move, and yes, even death. Accepting that, I feel that I am accepting a very real part of existence. And it makes me feel as though I am appreciating every moment that I have.

On Being a Man

The summer heat had just rolled into Errachidia. We had just finished a dinner of American salad and Moroccan pizza, and were sitting around the table, listening to Lisa Gerrard. A volunteer sat by the open window, skyping her mother while the rest of us tried to carry on a conversation.

"Who is this woman singing?" A Moroccan asked.
"Lisa Gerrard," I said, "her voice is typically used in movie soundtracks."
"Her voice is really deep and loud," He said.
"Yes, her voice demands that you pay attention to it."

Lisa Gerrard's classical singing voice is considered contralto, the lowest of the female singing voices. The contralto's voice is close in range to a male tenor's voice, and thus, a female contralto's voice can double for men's singing parts, as well. I learned this and thought to myself, Is it because of the deepness of her voice, the sound waves sounding like that is a man, that she is able to command attention? If I remembered correctly, in high school, I was considered a tenor. I never really tried to draw attention to myself in high school, and for that, I was considered to be "off", or worse.

In Morocco, men have to yell. Even in the early morning, they have to yell so that they can sell their wares. Walking through souk, even if someone is standing next to me, the store owner has to scream out as loud as he can, the prices for everything. When at the bus station, I can hear the names of the cities that the bus is driving to from many feet away. It makes sense here because even though there are signs that tell the times that buses are going to different cities, they aren't reliable. It's as though every man is trying to draw attention to himself in some way. I want to tell them all that yelling throughout the entire day, coupled with the constant consumption of tea and cigarettes, eventually destroys one's voice.

Nowadays, my voice is slightly lower than in high school, but I never raise my voice to be very loud. People have described it as "airy", and "soft". Once, I went into a cafe that had other people. There was a woman there, along with some men. There is no concept or order or lines in Morocco, so everyone simply pushes as best they can to get to the front, regardless of who got there first. I noticed that I and the woman were trying to get the attention of the man at the counter while he was focus on on the stream of men who would come in, shout out their order, toss change onto the counter, and then leave. The man at the counter never looked at neither me nor the woman. After a while, I finally decided to lower my voice, which is something that I always hate to do. I shouted out what I wanted. Just like that, it was as though the man at the counter finally saw me standing there. It was as though I finally existed to him. It's funny how having a man's voice is so beneficial for everyday encounters.

Another difference that I have found in my voice is when I try to teach something. I find that when I use the voice with which I am comfortable using, there is hesitation for the men and women I am trying to teach. But when I lower my voice, they seem to understand that I know what I'm talking about. Maybe my real voice just sounds unsure of itself.

This, as well as my body language, is such an important key to interact properly with people. Maybe it is because they see a man, they expect to hear a demanding voice, and they expect to see an aggressive stance. The handshake is also something that I never understood. The handshake is supposed to be an act of friendship, but they way men grip each other's hands, I can't help but wonder if they would rather it be a sign of aggression. Even in America, men subconsciously shake hands as though they are in some sort of death grip competition. In Morocco, when I look at men's hands, I can see the muscles tighten and assume they are just trying to have some sort of strength competition, but when they shake women's hands, there is no tightening. They are actually greeting each other.

Everything about men seems to be designed to allow for them to be noticed in any way possible. Their voice, their body language, their interactions. Men are in most positions of power. Men control much of the economy. Men are more often seen in media as the lone soldier, the lone avenger, the lone hero. In many ways, I hit the genetic jackpot of the white male born in America. Aren't I fortunate?