Morocco visit dispels preconceived notions about Islam

I left my time zone, comfort zone, area code and just about every other parameter of familiarity as I traveled to Marrakech, Morocco, recently with my mom.

This was my first stay of any length of time in a Muslim country. How would people perceive me? Was it OK for me to bring my Bible, or would I risk offending someone or have it confiscated?

I thought about painting my toenails for the warm, sandal-wearing weather. Then I thought again. Hadn’t I read somewhere about women in another Muslim country being publicly beaten for being a little too fancy-free in their footwear, or wearing lipstick just a shade too flashy?

My ignorance and anxiety collided and kept me awake at night as I tried to sort out what little I knew about life in Morocco.

In America today, it seems every mention in the media of the words “Muslim” or “Islam” is joined by the words “radical,” “extremist,” “terrorist,” “fear” or “violence.” Whether it is reading about the daily carnage in Iraq, or hearing about a Muslim American business owner who had been the victim of a hate crime, there seems to be very little positive press about Islam.

According to a recent Gallup poll, more than 66 percent of Americans have at least some prejudice against Muslims, with 25 percent admitting they wouldn’t want one for a neighbor.

I would venture to guess that the majority of people in Spokane have never met a Muslim person. It is human nature to fear the unknown, especially when the media provides mainly negative images.

My initial desire to travel to Morocco was motivated by a cooking school and the promise of exotic cuisine. I did learn something about Moroccan cooking, but more importantly I learned a little bit about our instructor Hakima, who learned to cook on a single burner in a two-room house with no electricity or running water. As she shared her mother’s recipes with us, she also shared her contagious smile.

She learned a little bit about my life as I shared pictures of my two young sons and husband with her. With some basic French and lots of pantomime, I became part of her world for a short time.

I helped her with her French homework, and she corrected my couscous technique. She taught me the secrets to mint tea, and I gave her my supply of Tylenol for her toothache. By the end of the week she felt more like a friend than an instructor.

All of the people we met in Morocco were unfailingly friendly and helpful. At first I was afraid to identify my home country, for fear the warm welcome we were receiving would end. But it didn’t seem to matter.

“Are you happy? Do you like Morocco?” were familiar questions, as everyone we met seemed to care more about what we thought of their country than where we were from or what ideological baggage we might have brought with us.

On my early-morning runs I passed groups of women covered from head to toe and often wearing a facial veil, walking for fitness, with their sweatpants peeking out from under their modest dresses. We made eye contact and exchanged smiles.

Young schoolgirls giggled and walked arm-in-arm to join their families for lunch. Veiled women zipped around town on motor scooters. Busy moms shopped at the markets wearing their babies in slings over ankle-length, flowing jallabas.

On our final day we met two particularly helpful men who helped us navigate the free Internet terminals in the Cyber Park. A park security guard and a young college student spent more than half an hour helping us check in online for our return flights, switching the keyboards from Arabic to French for us and typing in all of our information when the unfamiliar keyboard proved too difficult for me to manage.

“Oh, you must visit my family next time you come to Marrakech!” insisted the security guard, and once again photos, smiles and addresses were exchanged.

I spent my last day in Marrakech packing my suitcase full of souvenirs – leather slippers for my boys, spices to share with friends, some art for my home.

But the most important thing I wanted to bring home wouldn’t fit in my suitcase. It was the desire that everyone in America could share my experience of seven days in one the friendliest, most welcoming countries I have been to.

A Muslim country, with no fear, no prejudice – just people, curious about me in the same way I was curious about them.