Hope And Other Dangerous Pursuits

“He’ll work the fields like everyone else, but he’ll look for something better. He isn’t like the others—he has a plan. He doesn’t want to break his back for the spagnol, spend the rest of his life picking their oranges and tomatoes. He’ll find a real job, where he can use his training. He has a degree in English, and, in addition, he speaks Spanish fluently, unlike some of the harraga.”

Even though Murad is in a similar situation to the other characters, he feels as though he is different. This individualism is at odds with the situation at hand, namely the reality in which he is perceived by the Spanish Guardia Civil as interchangeable with the other immigrants. This creates dissonance between his self-perception and other people’s perception of him in which he can see things that others cannot, for example, his education. To the Guardia Civil, he is just another unemployed immigrant who they are tasked with returning to Morocco, but Murad knows that he has something to offer: his education and ability to speak multiple languages. If Murad lived elsewhere, he would probably not have the difficulty finding a job that he has in Morocco. Rather, his ability to speak multiple languages would instantly secure him a fairly well-paying position, especially in developed nations. However, despite his abilities and knowledge, Murad barely finds occasional work as a travel guide, reduced to the same poverty as his uneducated peers. In this context, his education seems worthless in the face of systemic poverty.

“Halima’s gaze is direct, not shifty like Faten’s. She has an aura of quiet determination about her, and it stirs feelings of respect in Murad, even though he thinks her irresponsible, or at the very least foolish, for risking her children’s lives on a trip like this.”

This quotation serves as external characterizations both of Faten and of Halima. Here, these women not viewed through the author’s or their own eyes but through the eyes of Murad. The readers see Faten’s youth and possibly her sheltered upbringing in how uncomfortable she is to be on the boat, perhaps in the midst of many men. This sharply contrasts with how Faten portrays herself later on, after she has had to face the harsh realities of the world. This early version of Faten is directly juxtaposed with Halima, who seems absolutely resolved in her decision to leave her husband. Readers also experience a kind of dissonance later on in regards to Halima, as we understand why she is traveling without her husband, a factor which Murad does not seem to take into account. Here, readers witness the clarity of male privilege, in which Murad does not think about the gendered violence that women like Halima are subject to regularly simply because he does not have to. As a man, he has never encountered the systemic oppression associated with sexism, and so has no way to understand that for Halima, staying in Morocco is potentially more dangerous than crossing in an inflatable boat to Spain.

“Like the other passengers, Murad looks on, stunned. They expected to be taken all the way to the shore, where they could easily disperse and then hide. The idea of having to swim the rest of the way is intolerable, especially for those who are not natives of Tangier and accustomed to its waters.”

The author demonstrates the clear difference between expectations and reality via this quotation. Despite the price that these immigrants paid to be taken to Spain, they are disposed of in the water much like unnecessary weight. They realize that the money they paid does not guarantee either their safety or their successful emigration to Spain; it is a risk that they only now realize has very little chance of reward and potentially fatal outcomes. This demonstrates how little Rahal has communicated with the people whose money he took as well as how little preparation these immigrants actually have for the severely dangerous task. For example, if these characters do not know how to swim, then they have wasted an exorbitant amount of money on a pipe dream that could never come true. There is a kind of futility in Murad’s realization, a resignation that this is just how it has to be when in fact no one should have to undergo such danger in order to gain financial stability.

“His future there stands before him, unalterable despite his best efforts, despite the risk he took and the price he paid. He will have to return to the same old apartment, to live off his mother and sister, without any prospects or opportunity. He thinks of Aziz, probably on a truck headed to Catalonia, and he wonders—if Aziz can make it, why not he? At least now he knows what to expect.”

The author depicts Murad’s personality as one of definite resolution. Even though he has not succeeded and essentially wasted an exorbitant amount of money, he still looks towards the future in the hopes that next time he will be successful. He finds his current living situation so unbearable that he cannot think to remain in it; rather, he hopes not that there will be a next time but that the next time, he will be successful. This shows how dire Murad’s situation really is in that, knowing that he almost drowned, Murad still resolves to risk everything yet again in order to attempt to emigrate to Spain. He solely equates Spain with opportunity whereas he feels as though Morocco offers nothing for him, only the burden of trying to survive.

“Moving Tawfiq’s niece up the list would require creative handling of the paperwork. He’d have to be discreet […] He lit a Marlboro and inhaled slowly. Times were different now. He didn’t create the system; he was just getting by, like everyone else. He turned to face his pile of dossiers.”

There is a certain irony to Larbi’s statement, considering he is by far the richest character in the book. He believes that he takes bribes to get by but the reality is that he takes bribes to live a luxurious and comfortable life and so that he can provide the same for his spoiled children. Larbi’s story serves to juxtapose the rest of the stories within the book of the characters who truly are in dire straits, subject to the constant struggle for survival afforded by poverty. Larbi also demonstrates the problems associated with Moroccan bureaucracy; namely, that he has been taking bribes for so long that he is accustomed to it and does not seem to be afraid that he will get caught. The nonchalance with which he suggests shuffling documents for a friend demonstrates the corrupt nature of Moroccan bureaucracy, casting a light on the systemic injustices in place that keep hard-working yet unconnected people from moving up the socio-economic ladder. Larbi also exists as a character who is easy to dislike as he represents part of the social problem, making him an easy antagonist within the book.

“Whenever he wrote real letters, it was to ask his parents for money. This one was no different—he wanted 10,000 dirhams to buy a new laptop. Larbi shook his head. Nadir would probably spend it on CDs or a weekend out of town. But he didn’t mind, so long as the boy did well in school, and he always did. Larbi loved to think of his son’s future and of the position Nadir would be able to get with an engineering degree, especially one from abroad.”

This quotation demonstrates the difference in life between the haves and the have nots in Moroccan society. Larbi’s story is sandwiched between those of Murad and Halima, both of whom suffer the reality of poverty. In order to finance his passage to Spain, Murad must borrow 20,000 dirhams from his uncle, risking his life in the hopes of financial security. Similarly, for the low cost of 5,000 dirhams, Halima could purchase a divorce from her husband, therefore ending the cycle of domestic abuse and securing a potential future for both herself and her children. However, both of these figures are roughly what Larbi’s son blows on a fun weekend abroad or on other luxuries. This demonstrates the reality of poverty as well as the relativity associated with money. Neither Larbi nor his son can appreciate the power of money in the same way that Halima and Murad can, again showing the depth of their impoverishment.

“He doubted that Noura, who’d been schooled at Lycée Descartes, could even read the complicated classical Arabic in a book like that, but its presence on her nightstand made him look frantically around the room for other clues.”

In the privileged classes, it seems as though there is a distance between culture, knowledge, and self. Even though Noura has had the best education money can buy, she does not know how to read Arabic, one of the official languages of Morocco. Instead, she has been schooled in the Western tradition at a school named after a French philosopher. Similarly, Larbi is actually worried that his daughter is forgoing her Western education by reading texts in classical Arabic, demonstrating his desire for her to be educated in the style of Western colonizers. He desperately hopes that his daughter does not learn about her religious and/or cultural history because he believes that such knowledge will prevent her future success. In this way, the author seems to suggest that bourgeois bureaucrats such as Larbi are responsible for the subjugation of Moroccan culture and history to the European paradigm of imperialism.

“Salma opened her mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. Larbi knew that his wife was thinking of those young men with hungry eyes, of how they whistled when they saw a pretty girl and how they never teased the ones with headscarves.”

The author lays bare the problems associated with patriarchy, namely by demonstrating the gendered violence and harassment that can result from it. Because she understands the male gaze as a fat of life, Salma feels conflicted about her daughter wearing a headscarf. On the one hand, she does not like the religious fervor it implies but on the other, she believes that at least her daughter will be safe from men’s leering eyes. This demonstrates the internalization of the male gaze which both Larbi and his wife are subject to in considering their daughter. There is no discussion of preventing the men from whistling at young women; rather, a solution concerning women’s attire is presented, suggesting that women are themselves partially responsible for their own objectification and harassment.

“He felt it was beneath someone like him to have a daughter in a headscarf, and he provided only terse answers to anyone at the Ministry who asked about his daughter.”

Larbi believes that his daughter’s decisions reflect negatively on himself as her father, demonstrating how much he has internalized both European modes of behavior and learning as well as patriarchy. He is embarrassed that his daughter has decided to wear a headscarf, and his association with headscarves as peasant dress demonstrates his adherence to rigid socio-economic classifications. The author characterizes Larbi as someone who is both incredibly pretentious and someone who attempts to Westernize both himself and his family. He is worried about what other people—especially his coworkers—will think of him if they learn that his daughter has decided to wear a headscarf, illustrating how attuned he is to the perceptions of other people. He is an easy character for readers to dislike as he exhibits many characters flaws that are then juxtaposed with the resolution of the other characters.

“Larbi started to eat, periodically glancing at Faten. He was mildly satisfied to notice evidence of less-than-genteel upbringing—she had placed her knife back on the table after using it.”

Not only is Larbi pretentious, he is also very judgmental. He is very concerned with other people’s perceptions as well as his perceptions of other people. Specifically, even though Faten can win an argument with him, he feels confident when he realizes that she came from an impoverished upbringing. He feels as though he is superior to her because she was born poor, presumably because he was not. This reiterates the stringent social classes evident in Moroccan society. It also presents the idea that Larbi did not work to get where he is; rather, he was born privileged, and so his luxurious life is not the product of his hard work nor is it the product of bribes. Rather, it is his continuation within the bourgeoisie class. This also has ramifications for the other characters: even though they constantly work to create opportunities for themselves, the author suggests that they will not be able to move up on the socioeconomic ladder.

“He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d already asked Si Tawfiq for help, and that his friend had said there were no police records on Faten. She was a member of the Islamic Student Organization, but the investigation hadn’t turned up anything illegal. Tawfiq said he’d keep an eye on her. All they could do now was wait.”

Larbi uses his connections to try to seek revenge on Faten, who he blames for ruining his daughter’s future. In reality, he seems more concerned with the fact that Faten disrupted his control over his daughter and subverted his authority than he does about his daughters’ future. However, the ridiculous and petty nature of this revenge is never directly referenced. Essentially, Larbi’s actions against a teenage girl force her to illegally emigrate to Spain wherein she has no choice but to become a sex worker. The absurdity of an entrenched bureaucrat using his political connections in order to further a petty act of vengeance demonstrates the relativity of law within Moroccan society. Larbi is able to completely uproot and upend Faten’s life with a simple phone call, demonstrating the differentiation of power dynamics between the two characters. As a relatively rich man, Larbi has much more social power than Faten and uses this privilege to his advantage in order to ruin her life.

“The day after Maati beat her with an extension cord, Halima Bouhamsa packed up some clothes and took the bus to her mother’s house […] The cord had left bubbly welts on her arms and face, and she couldn’t hide them under her housedress. She arrived […] hesitant. Her mother wouldn’t be happy to see her, but she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

Halima’s experience with domestic abuse demonstrates her proximity to violence due to her socio-economic and gender statuses. As a poor woman, she is subject to violence in a way that no other character in the book is. The way in which this violence is described is incredibly matter-of-fact, as though this represents a normal occurrence for women in Halima’s position. Similarly, the violence is also described in blunt terms which reiterate and emphasize the brutality of the beating itself. The violence Halima suffers seems to infect everything around her, including the language that the author uses to describe her. In this way, violence becomes an enduring focus of her narrative, something from which she must escape although it seems impossible.

“She put [the clothes] away in the armoire that was tipped against the naked cement wall because of its wobbly legs, straightening the sheet that separated her bed from the children’s as she walked out. She went to the kitchen and rolled the round table on its edge, setting it down in the courtyard, between the divan and the car seats the children had rescued from the trash heap a few blocks down. When it rained, the family had to eat in the kitchen, elbow to elbow on the cane mat.”

Through the use of metonyms, the author gives the readers a harrowing look into the reality of poverty. The author demonstrates how little personal space these impoverished characters have by illustrating the physical proximity they must endure during simple tasks, such as eating a family meal. There is no room for the individual; rather, the individual becomes enmeshed within the group. Halima embodies the huddled masses. However, the author also specifically chooses Halima in order to convey this lack of individualism and space, perhaps implying that the domestic abuse Halima suffers is inextricable from this lack of defined personal space. In this way, violence and the lack of space are conflated, illustrating the threat to personal safety that accompanies extreme poverty.

“She wiped her face with her hands, feeling for the welts that were already forming. Lifting her housedress, she looked for the scar from the last beating, when Maati had cut her calf with his belt buckle. Now that the cut had healed, it had the shape of lips, as though he had merely kissed her leg and left a mark. She scratched at the skin around it and pulled her sock up.”

Here, the author conflates violence with sex and/or affection as Halima’s scar resembles her husband’s kiss. In this way, the audience realizes that her relationship cannot be salvaged. Unlike what her mother presses upon Halima, Halima has no choice but to leave her husband as he has left a mark that will remain on her forever. The author also speaks to the nature of domestic violence, namely that it is something that never leaves a person once he or she suffers from it. The mark will always remain, coloring any relationship that Halima has henceforth. In this way, it makes sense for Halima to work on developing her independence as it is the only way in which she will survive.

“Halima knew what Hanan meant, knew that people like her, with no skills and three children, didn’t get visas […] She suddenly felt sorry for having said anything at all to Hana. It was a mistake to have thought that Hanan or that judge or that magic powder could get her out of her situation.”

The audience feels the futility of Halima’s situation via this quotation. She likens legal immigration and legal recourse for her divorce to magic, implying that they are all equally unattainable. In this way, illegal emigration to Spain seems the only reasonable and even possible course of action for Halima. This calls into question the validity of existing immigration laws, as people in Halima’s situation—those with children who are subject to domestic abuse—are precisely the people who should be offered asylum in order to escape the violence they are subject to. However, the author implies that existing laws do not in fact help these people. Rather, they inhibit their ability to escape, creating situations in which they must turn to criminal behavior in order to survive.

“Aziz was surprised to hear [Zohra] jump in with the very words he’d used to persuade her a few weeks earlier. Her family had never liked him—they had let Zohra marry him only because she had been going out with him for three years and the gossip from the neighbors about their ‘loose daughter’ had finished them off. But the marriage didn’t help Aziz’s tense relations with his in-laws. They had been nagging Zohra about his joblessness, and their comments had grown more persistent after she’d managed to find a job at a soda factory.”

Here, subtle patriarchy works within Zohra and Aziz’s relationship. No one speaks about the morality of Aziz, although they do comment about his lack of employment. Zohra, however, is referred to as “loose” merely because she is dating Aziz. Even though Zohra’s parents do not like Aziz, they permit her to marry him primarily so that they don’t have to be concerned with their daughter’s morality. Implied, of course, is the parental concern for Zohra’s chastity, which can only be ameliorated by strapping her legally to a young man. In this way, Zohra is not in charge of her own body, and it even appears as a kind of burden to the people around her. As a result of this patriarchy, Aziz’s inability to find employment creates a particularly tense situation, as he is supposed to be the breadwinner for his family.

“His tone pleading despite himself. He didn’t even have any drugs on him, but if they said yes he could always get a cut from one of the dealers. And if they said yes, he could probably make forty dirhams, give or take, enough to pay for the groceries for a few days. Jack’s hands tightened perceptibly on Eileen’s elbow as he guided her to the cab and opened the door for her. Murad took a deep breath. It was over.”

The reader sees the hustle and mental gymnastics that Murad must undergo in order to even attempt to make money. He tries every measure to get something out of the tourists he has already spent a lot of time trying to convince to purchase his guide services. This quotation also demonstrates how little Murad needs to live off of, considering the fact that the cut he would make off selling a small amount of drugs would buy groceries for himself and his family for a few days. It is the amount of money that these tourists do not even think twice about spending, yet for Murad, it represents the difference between going hungry and being able to help his family. However, Murad’s attempts are eventually useless; he has wasted yet another day on fruitless endeavors to try and gain minimal financial security.

“‘Just because I don’t have a job you think I’m invisible? I’m her older brother. You should have come to me.’”

While discussing his feelings of invisibility, Murad also uncovers the troubling flipside to patriarchy in this quotation. The environment in which these characters reside is occupied by a stringent gender binary that is overwhelmingly controlled by men, so much so that suitors must seek the permission of the familial patriarch to marry a woman in the family. This positions the female as inherently subservient to the men in her life: first to her father or eldest male relative, and then to her husband. Of course, this presents the typical lack of female agency witnessed in patriarchal societies. However, this quotation also uncovers an interesting caveat in patriarchy’s strict gender binary, namely that an unemployed man has his masculinity revoked, so to speak. Murad finds offense not only at his invisibility to his family, but at what he perceives to be the revocation of his masculinity. What he really finds offense at, then, is being treated like a woman, demonstrating an interesting slippage in the power dynamics of poverty.

“Even Halima’s husband, Maati, thought it was a miracle. When he’d found out she’d tried to cross the strait of Gibraltar, he’d kicked the TV off its stand and smashed what remained of the dishes. He told everyone that if all Halima wanted was a divorce, then why didn’t she just pay him, like he’d asked her? He’d have divorced her. And what’s five thousand dirhams for a woman whose brothers work in France? They could afford it. But to take his children, to run away like this, to risk her life and theirs […] is it any wonder he beat her?”

In order to escape responsibility for his actions, Maati blames Halima for acting in ways that require him to beat her. He is the perfect example of victim-blaming, in which victims are labeled as complicit in the violence enacted against them, either by their abusers or by society at large. This kind of toxic masculinity prevents Maati from taking responsibility for his actions by understanding that he is the reason Halima was driven to undertake this risky feat. He refuses to accept responsibility for his actions, instead placing all the blame for his abuse on her. However, the reader cannot believe this, as the author shows that even without Halima, Maati reacts violently by smashing the things around him with little regard for consequences. The author implies that Maati is just violent, rebutting Maati’s victim-blaming claims.

“He always got out of the car, too, which is more than you could say for the others, the men who talked to her while they bent over their steering wheels, as if spending more than a minute deciding who they were going to fuck was too much of an imposition on their time. He was different.”

Here, Faten demonstrates the incredibly low standards that men are held to as the parasite of patriarchy extends into Spain. Whereas the women are seemingly interchangeable—as most men spend less than a minute choosing between them—Martín is allowed differentiation based on the smallest of actions: that of getting out of his car to approach the women he will pay for. Faten believes this action alone is enough to make him different. In contrast, the other women are not named; they are not even alluded to with the exception of being a part of the male gaze: “who [the men] were going to fuck.” As such, these women embody the male gaze as they are both anonymous and even bodiless. They are not physical beings with hopes and desires; rather, they are abstracted, reduced to male desire. This negates any possible implication of female independence and autonomy within this community of sex workers.

“She’d had the misfortune of making a derogatory comment about King Hassan within earshot of a snitch but had, rather miraculously, escaped arrest, thanks to a friendly tip. So when her Iman suggested she leave the country, she had not argued with him. She had done as she was told. Except her imam wasn’t there when the Spanish coast guard caught her and the other illegal immigrants, nor was he around when she had to fend for herself in Spain. Now no one could decide for her whether or not she could see Martín.”

Here, the reader knows more than the characters: the reader understands that Faten’s misfortune is not actually a result of her own comments and actions, but rather the result of Larbi’s desire to seek vengeance. As a woman, Faten is constantly subservient to the desires of men, first of the wishes of her Iman, then Larbi’s vengeance, and finally the sexual appetites of her customers. Even though Faten believes that she has become autonomous as she now decides which customers she services, this autonomy is inherently false. She is still subject to the desires of men, a systemic form of oppression from which she cannot escape. While individuals no longer tell her what to do, the injustices of society force her to work in the same horizontal position as the other immigrant women. At every turn, she is subject to patriarchy as men constantly restrict and dictate her movement.

“‘Women in this country […] they don’t know how to please a man. Not the way you Arab girls do […] I’ve been reading up […] about the duties of the woman to the man and all that. It’s a fascinating subject.’ She watched his clear, open face become excited as he told her that he knew things about her and her people.”

Martín constructs Faten as the subject of male fantasy, even going so far as to use the word to describe her. Here, Faten realizes that she cannot escape from the objectification and the commodification of the male gaze, as Martín is no different from any of her other customers. He is using her in order to fulfill his perverse, misogynistic, and racist sexual fantasies, reducing her to a romanticized chauvinist stereotype. In this way, racism becomes intertwined with sexism as Faten begins to recognize the ramifications of Martín’s sexual desires. The personal becomes the political and vice versa as individuals are subject to the oppressive systems evident within society.

“Being with her brought to mind the women he had slept with while he was gone. He was ashamed to have cheated, but, he reasoned, he had been lonely and he was only human. He told himself that he had never intended to cheat on her, that the women he had slept with had meant nothing to him […] he wondered what his wife would look like in a sexy bustier, straddling him, her arms up in the air, moaning her pleasure out loud.”

Many of the fantasies considered throughout the book are noticeably male, typically reflecting the male gaze upon the female form. However, this gaze is not one of appreciation; rather it represents one of utter objectification. The women in question are not human beings with their own hopes and desires; rather, they are objects upon which the males thrust their own desires for sexual gratification. Similarly, they all exist as interchangeable beings: Aziz’s wife becomes yet another iteration of the nameless women with whom he has cheated on her. That these women are nameless is as meaningful as the fact that they mean nothing to Aziz. He did not consider them as humans but merely as objects by which he could purse his own sexual gratification. He thereby justifies his adultery within the very systematic oppression of patriarchy, cementing this as an unalterable tenet of the male gaze.