Feeling hungover from my 11-hour flight to Casablanca, I approach the immigration desk where a friendly face with a bushy mustache greets me with “Salaam” (literally meaning “peace”). Dazed from exhaustion, I respond “Alaykum Salaam” and hand over my passport. He scans my ID page with a watchful eye. Name. Sarah Casewit. Place of Birth. Morocco. Nationality. USA. He looks up at me and asks in Arabic, “Where’s your Moroccan passport? I can’t let you through without a Moroccan ID.”
Stunned out of my stupor, I realize my mistake. Never speak in Arabic to the immigrations guy. It’s just confusing and leads to open-ended questions about my identity that I can’t begin to answer. I quickly switch back to English and play it cool. I say that I am an American who happened to be born in Morocco, and that I am merely a tourist in his country. My country, too, really, but I kept that to myself.
Read the complete article here: https://drifttravel.com/issue/spring-summer-2018/#p=6
