Moroccan Men: The truth you wont find in any guidebook:

I am a young woman, travelling alone through a country where suggestive, sexualised and frankly horrifying comments are flung in my direction without so much as a by-your-leave. Walking down a street, a sickening majority of men will call out, whisper, or hiss, trying to get my attention. One man addressed me as “lovely lady” while holding hands with his wife, another while giving his young son a piggy back.

“Flower”, “Beautiful”, “Sweetheart”

“Verrry niiice”

“Do you want a Berber husband?”

“Are you looking for work?”

When refusing a restaurant tout, the young man, probably a student, then asked “well how about some jiggy jiggy then?”

As a young, white woman, walking alone, I attract sexualised comments like no other. I find myself constantly on edge, having to ignore the men who follow me up the street, who grab at my arms, who bar my way with their thick bodies. I am aware that every man who sees me sees an object of desire.

I came here, like every traveller, for the smell of spices, the taste of mint tea, and the view of sunset over the desert. I came to experience the Arabic hospitality for which Morocco is so famed. Perhaps what I have found is the real Morocco – lovely, yet tainted, peaceful, yet frightening. One such shopkeeper could not understand why I never smiled at him.

Some of these men have devastating thoughts running through their minds, but most seem to do it as a matter of course. I am not sure which is worse. To know you are doing something wrong admits and accepts some level of culpability, even if you take no notice. To not know you are wrong absolves you of responsibility. Many, especially among the younger boys, act this way because they have seen their brothers, fathers, uncles and grandfathers do so. It is so ingrained into the culture that the sleazy, seductive, “Hey, Flower, do you want something from me?” twinges the conscience as much as asking for the time.

Such behaviour is universal. In a land where most women dress modestly and cover their hair, I was at a loss as to why such had become so normalised. Then I chanced upon a cafe with a TV. I found that most Arabic music videos have two themes: A man sings while sexy, skimpily-clad, pale-skinned women dance around him; a sexy, skimpily-clad, pale-skinned woman sings while playing hard-to-get.

This is prime-time evidence that I am viewed as an object, as a prostitute. Furthermore, I apparently enjoy such advances – even if I say no, I really mean yes...

How do I respond to such advances? How can you change something that is generally physically harmless, utterly normalised, and, perversely, thought of as attractive? I can say nothing, for I speak neither French nor Arabic, and neither my words nor my reasons would be understood even if I did. I am an ignorant, English-speaking woman, and I can do nothing but walk on, lock myself in my cheap hotel room, and shiver.