On things being guarded

One of the things that struck me soon after moving to Morocco was the fact that there are guards everywhere. The University is guarded at all times by at least one security officer who stands attentively outside the large gate through which one must pass to enter the University. (Sometimes the gate is halfway closed, requiring even closer scrutiny from the security guard. I clearly remember it being closed for a couple of days after the bombing in Marrakesh last spring.) How they know who is "authorized" to enter campus and who is not remains a mystery to me, but I have been stopped a couple of times and asked to give my name and reason for being on campus ("Jennifer Sheridan, my husband is faculty.") We have joked with friends about how the security officers seem to be satisfied if we simply tell them our names, as if they either have memorized a list of authorized names, or they really just want to know if we know our names.

Now the University library is guarded, too, with security officers who search the bags and purses of all individuals entering--to make sure they aren't sneaking in contraband water bottles or snacks.

We have driven on the tollway at times when, the best we could figure out, the King was about to pass through. There were guards stationed every few hundred meters along the road, just standing there, waiting for the King's motorcade to go by.

How would you like it if this little box were your workplace?

The perimeters of cities are guarded. The building downtown in which we live has a guard. The bank has a guard (who also serves as a chaos-preventer). The new Morocco Mall in Casablanca is heavily guarded. Grocery stores have guards.The King's palace in Ifrane is, of course, guarded.

And, most interesting to me, many private homes are guarded. Our building is at the end of a quiet street lined with large, expensive, and mostly empty homes. Outside of several of them are these little huts, really just big enough for one or two men to stand in. While the houses sit empty, guards huddle outside in the huts at all hours, in all weather, chatting with each other, listening to music, and drinking mint tea. This job is one of the most difficult for me to understand. First of all, why can't they just hang out inside the houses? (As if I don't know the answer.) And what are they guarding the homes from?

My admittedly uneducated impression is that many of the guards in Morocco serve the purpose of keeping the poor separated from the rich. Some of the guarding, such as lining the streets when the King passes through, seems largely for show. (What are they guarding the roads from? Is there a danger of some guy with a knife jumping out of the bushes and attacking the King's motorcade?) The guards are certainly not concerned about me; by definition, because of my skin color, I am not a threat. (It's strange to be subjected to less scrutiny because I am a foreigner, since in my own country, foreigners tend to be the subject of more scrutiny.)

Ultimately, I feel very safe in Morocco, but not because of all the guarding. It's something I'm still not used to, and it still makes me feel uncomfortable at times. But, as T has just pointed out to me, "It's a job." So maybe I need to let go of the class separation I sense behind it and just accept it.