Studying Abroad as a Person of Color


About a week ago, I was sitting in McDonald’s (A.K.A. MacDo) writing an essay. One thing I clearly remember was the various music being played in the loudspeaker. I heard music sung in Hindi, English, Arabic and Spanish all within a span of an hour.

McDonald’s — which is really good here, by the way — is seen as a “Western” establishment in Morocco. Tourists and locals flock here to eat the noteable McChicken or savor a sweet McFlurry. I overheard people ordering in Darija, French, Arabic, Spanish, English, and more. Listening and seeing such diversity within MacDo reaffirmed my previous observations and reflections made on how diverse Morocco really is.

What I’ve learned is that most Moroccans know at least three languages minimum. They know the languages spoken in their house, in school, at work, and on the streets. These languages range from native Amazigh (which has many dialects), Darija (colloquial Moroccan tongue), French (spoken in business and school), and Fusha (classical Arabic that is taught in school). Due to colonization and increased tourism from Europe, many Moroccans know Spanish and English as well.

It is fascinating to see how fluid languages are here; I have found myself speaking Fusha, Darija and French in one sentence because I have learned basic words in each language. Ninety-nine percent of the menus here are written in French, which has made learning it much easier. If I’m ordering chicken pizza, I say, “Ana bgheet pizza poulet.” Within that one sentence, I have spoken Darija, English, and French.

When you finally understand the French menu

When you finally understand the French menu

My Moroccan language partner loves Pakistani soap operas and Bollywood movies and has learned Hindi and Urdu through watching films. Growing up and attending public school in the U.S., there was no real emphasis on learning languages; English is universal. In my hometown, a foreign language wasn’t taught until high school and language class was seen as one that people slacked off in.

However, attending USC — a private school where at least 17% of students are international — I have come to appreciate the linguistic diversity of the world. Studying abroad has furthered my appreciation of language because in other countries like Morocco, linguistic diversity is just embedded in their social culture and people don’t think twice about seeing foreigners.

However, being a person of color living in Morocco, I am in a strange situation where I am seen as a foreigner, but considered a resident (at least temporarily). I pass by the same shops every day, know my way around the city and sleep in a Moroccan home every night.

Like any society, there are preconceived notions and judgements about other ethnicities based on skin color. When I tell Moroccans that I am American, most of them do not believe me because I am darker skinned and look like I am from Pakistan. I do not want to make overarching generalizations, nor do I wish to speak for the people of Morocco, but from what I have witnessed and heard from my Moroccan friends is that their general perception of Americans are fair-skinned people who look more European. However, my American friends here who are fair-skinned are constantly mistaken for European, especially French, because of the proximity of the country and the large amount of French nationals who reside in Morocco.

One’s ethnic background and family name are very important here. People use that to identify one’s social and economic class. There have been many instances where I am ordering food at a restaurant and before I can finish my sentence, I am asked if I am Indian. “Hindiya?” they say, and I respond with “Ana amreekeeya” – I am American. Then they say no, you must be something else too, and then I tell them I am Pakistani-American. The first couple of times this happened, I couldn’t help but feel offended. Why did they have to know my nationality? What does this have to do with me ordering food? I have gotten used to these questions about race and realized that if you look like a foreigner, no matter what skin color you are, people will ask where you are from.

Maybe they are asking me because they are excited to see foreigners here, but it is hard to come up with a conclusion without some sort of ignorant judgment. Just as they are trying to figure me out, I am doing the same with them. What is their perception of Pakistanis? I know in other MENA countries, South Asian people work as caretakers or maids for upper class families.

Maybe I get offended because race and ethnicity is somewhat of a sensitive topic in my Southern Californian college bubble, where social activism diversity is so celebrated, debated, and emphasized. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve also been asked where I am from in America way too many times to count. I say my parents are from Pakistan, because they are, and that I was born in America, which I was.

With some of my study abroad friends

With some of my study abroad friends

Everything here is racialized, even street harassment. I have a couple of South Asian friends in my abroad program and when we walk the streets together, we are called “coffee” and “chocolate” or just straight up “Hindiya.” What does calling me Indian achieve? Nothing. But putting a racial label on me somehow reaffirms my status as a foreign person of color living in a country where the general population would be considered “PoC” in America.

My Arabic professor thinks “back home” is Pakistan for me, which I have corrected him is not. I am extremely proud of being Pakistani and unapologetic about my heritage, but to be honest, I have only been to Pakistan once, and that was 11 years ago. California is home to me and if I do go to Pakistan again, I will feel like a foreigner for sure. It’s like that hyphen metaphor you hear all the time:  I am too American to be Pakistani and too Pakistani to be American. This has made me reevaluate societal judgments and what people see me as. I have never felt so insecure about my skin color than I have here in Morocco.

Maybe because I don’t really see color when I am meeting a new person in America. I was raised in a culturally diverse neighborhood and attended culturally diverse schools growing up. I find it rude asking someone where they are from the first time I meet them, because I like to get to know them first before I fall into the trap of making racial judgments or preconceived notions about them.

But sometimes I feel like I am stuck in an American bubble in Morocco. I can relate to the American friends I’ve made in my program on many levels, but their experiences are the same, yet different from mine. The general consensus we’ve made is that white foreigners are treated different than foreigners of color in better and worse ways.

For example, my South Asian-American friend told me that her and a white friend both ordered a coffee to go. The employee at the counter poured the sugar and stirred it in the coffee and closed the top for her white friend. For my South Asian friend, he just gave her the sugar packets and the unlidded the coffee, expecting her to pour it in herself. Now this may seem like a miniscule incident that may not even cross one’s mind, but this can also be seen as an act of microaggression, assuming that because my friend is a person of color or looks Moroccan, she doesn’t need that extra care. I have been through both situations; they have poured sugar for me and they have given it to me to mix it in myself.

Racism, gender, ethnicity, culture, etc. are all large, complex, and nuanced issues that elicit different experiences from each individual. I’ve experienced two extremes in Morocco: unimaginable hospitality from complete strangers and blatant racism and altered treatment because of my skin color. How I’m treated by strangers can either make or break my day, but I’ve learned to expect the unexpected. I have less than two months left here and I am stuck in a weird stage where I am ready, yet unready to return home — and yet, Rabat has become my home away from home.

Erum Jaffrey is a senior majoring in international relations.  Her column runs every other Friday.