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.”