I knew Morocco would be a country of many unexpected. I did not expect to feel uncomfortable walking down the streets in my short sleeves, the plain ones that women wear in the “Western” cultures.

I consider myself a pretty fearless woman. But when there’s cafes occupied by solely male gender who do nothing but sitting there and looking out the street, every inch of bare skin that’s being seen by those peering eyes makes me uncomfortable. At those time, for some odd reason, I envied Moroccan women. Covered up and not showing skin or shapes, they may be free from the eyes of the opposite gender. They seem to stay in the shadow, or sometimes are like a shadow, dark and muted.