A diplomatic incident
I walked today at the Parc de la Ligue Arabe in Casablanca and stopped by the Cathédrale du Sacré Coeur, which was designed by Paul Tornon in 1930. The church is a very odd white-washed (though now more grey) post-gothic (simplified flying buttresses) and Muslim-influenced (the spires look oddly similar to minarets) structure. The previous day I had climbed up the pigeon-shit-laden staircase leading to its buttresses and spires, but since the day of the event was sunny, I thought I’d take a few picture of the church.
After I’ve taken a few pictures, I started towards the Boulevard heading west, noticing the church is next to the Cervantes Institute and possibly the Spanish embassy. I didn’t think much of it, but as I was walking away from the two buildings, I heard people shouting in my directions. This is Morocco: drivers honk; people shout; touts try to lure you into their shops; people offer you the oddest packages of the best hashish and accommodation and restaurant in one. So you sometimes say la shukran or no merci (no thank you) and sometimes ignore them, especially if they don’t understand the hundredth ‘no’. (I actually start ignoring them after one, ‘cause I’m really only reluctantly polite.) But the shouts didn’t desist, so I turned around and saw a policeman sending a civilian towards me, beckoning me to come over.
I go back to see what’s up, knowing already what the issue is, having grown up in a country that could only survive with overly-sensitive security systems. The policeman asks me in French where I’m from and what I’m doing with a camera. I answer in Arabic that I’m from Canada and was taking pictures of the Church. I even show him the pictures I’ve taken to prove him there are no pictures of the nondescript Spanish building. “Oh, he speaks Arabic,” says the civilian, surprised. “How long have you been in Morocco?” the policeman asks me. “Two weeks now,” I answer. He asks for my passport, I show it to him. He leafs through it, looks for at the other visas I have in it, and asks me where I’ve learnt Arabic. “In Canada,” I keep it simple. An Israeli born in Canada currently studying in the US is an unnecessarily complex plot for this occasion. He’s convinced I pose no security threat to the Moroccan and Spanish nations. I smile and go my way.
This story reminds me of another naïve picture taking incident in proximity to an embassy/consulate. During our visit in Israel in 2004, Mark and I are walking through an alley leading to the Independence Park and the Nachalat Shiv’a neighbourhood in Jerusalem. Mark is naturally photographing everything. (He’s an amazing photographer, but it means everything has to be captured. And I mean everything.) When we emerge from the alley, an ill-tempered Israeli security officer stops us and asks us why we’ve photographed the American consulate. “The American Consulate?” we’re astonished to hear, ”We didn’t notice there was an American consulate here!” we verily exclaim. “Where are you from?” the security officer asks, unconvinced. “I’m Israeli,” I say in Hebrew. “And I’m American,” Mark says in English. “OK,” his muscles slowly relaxing, “But let me call the Consul.” After a few minutes, a chubby guy with a slight southern twang shows up and jovially asks us how we’re doing. Mark explains we didn’t know about the consulate and says he was photographing something in the ally. (A cat or something, I can’t remember.)
The whole time Mark and the Consul are chatting, I’m wondering why this is the American consulate and not the embassy. Jerusalem is not accepted by most members of the UN as the lawful capital of Israel nor do they accept Israel’s unification of the western and Jewish Jerusalem with the eastern, mostly Arab, part of the city 13 years after it has captured the latter in 1967. Due to this political controversy, very few countries have consulates in Jerusalem (namely, the US, the UK, and Greece) and have their embassies in Tel Aviv. My theory is that the countries of the world know that Tel Aviv is much more fun than austere, religious Jerusalem, and so they prefer to live and work in Tel Aviv. The Americans, as usual, found themselves a choice location for their embassy on the seaside promenade (tayelet) in Tel Aviv. So instead of having lunch at a kosher restaurant between the cold and ancient stones of Jerusalem, they can have excellent seafood at one of the restaurants along the beach, facing the Mediterranean Sea.
