Those jars were my own secret addiction, and my morbid fascination with them disturbed many, and precipitated a high-level family council meeting. I never confessed though, when Grandmother Lalla Mani, acting as chairperson, asked me why I felt the gruesome need to slide down into those huge, dark, empty olive jars. I never said that it had to do with Mina's kidnapping, for if I had, she would have been blamed. Mina was incredibly popular with us children, so much so that mothers would enlist her help when they were having a hard time communicating with their sons or daughters. I loved her very much, and did not want her to get in trouble, especially since she had already had so much trouble when she was a child barely my age. For you see, she was kidnapped one day when she was strolling just a bit farther than usual from her parents' house. A big hand seized her and the next thing she knew, she was on the road, along with other children, and two ferocious kidnappers brandishing long knives.
Mina remembered, only too well, the way it all happened - the way the kidnappers kept her and all the other children hidden during the day, and the way they moved them at dusk when the sun set. Crossing her beloved familiar forest, they traveled far north until there was no more vegetation, just dunes of white sands. "If you've never seen the Sahara Desert before," Mina said, "you cannot imagine it. That's where you see how powerful Allah is - he definitely does not need us! A human life is so negligible in the desert, where only sand dunes and stars can survive. A little girl's pain there is an utter trifle. But it was in crossing the sand that I discovered there was another little girl inside me. A girl who was strong, and intent on surviving. I became a different Mina then. I realized that all the world was set against me, and the only good that I could expect had to come from inside myself."
Her black kidnappers, who spoke her native language, were soon replaced by light-skinned ones, who spoke foreign words that she did not understand.2 "Before, I thought the entire planet spoke our dialect," Mina said. The party traveled silently by night and was met regularly at specific, pre-arranged spots by friends of the kidnappers who fed them and kept them hidden until the next sunset. They always would start marching when the sands disappeared in the dark, and hardly a creature ever crossed their path. The French outposts, scattered here and there in the occupied desert, were to be avoided at any cost, for the slave trade had already been declared illegal.
One day, they crossed a river, and Mina, for some strange reason, thought that she saw her beloved old forest appearing at the horizon. She asked another little girl who had been stolen from her village if she also saw the forest, and the girl nodded yes. They both believed that, by a magic turn of events, their kidnappers had gotten lost, and they were going back home. Or else their village was coming towards them. Either way, it did not matter, and that night the two little girls ran away, only to be caught again a few hours later. "One has to be careful in life," Mina would say, "not to confuse wishes with reality. But we did, and we paid for it."
When Mina reached this point in her story, her voice would quiver, and everyone around her would cry out in distress, especially when she went into the details. "They detached the well bucket from its rope," she said, "and told me that if I wanted to stay alive, I had to hang onto the end of that rope and concentrate in silence, while they lowered me into the dark well. The horrible thing was that I could not even afford to tremble with fear, because if I did, the rope would slip out of my fingers. It would be the end." Mina would stop there and sob softly. Then she would dry her tears, and keep on going with the audience crying discreetly. "I cry now," she would say, "because I am still so angry that they did not give me a chance to be afraid. I knew that I would soon reach the deepest and darkest part of the well, where water was, but I had to suppress that terrified feeling. I had to! Or else I would lose my grip, and so I kept concentrating on the rope and my fingers around it. There was another little girl beside me, another Mina who was dissolving with fear as her body was about to touch the cold, dark water filled with snakes and slippery things, but I had to disassoci ate myself from her so as to concentrate on the rope. When they took me out of that well, I was blind for days, not because .1 could not see, but because I was not interested in looking at the world anymore."
Tales of abductions by slave traders were common in A Thousand and One Nights, where many of the heroines who began life as princesses were kidnapped and sold as slaves when their royal caravans, heading towards Mecca for the pilgrimage, were attacked.3 None of these tales had the same effect on me, though, as Mina's description of her descent into the well. I had nightmares when I first heard it, but never told Mother what had frightened me when she came in to hug me and bring me into her bed. She and Father would hold me tight, and kiss me, and try to figure out what was the matter, and why I could not go to sleep. But I did not tell them about the well, for fear that they would prevent me from hearing Mina's story again. And I needed to hear that story told again, and again, and again, so that I, too, could cross the desert and arrive safely at the terrace. Talking to Mina was essential, because I needed to know all the details. I needed to know more - I needed to know how to get out of the well.
You see, not everyone in our house agreed on what children should or should not hear. Many family members, like Lalla Mani, thought that it was disastrous for children to hear about violence. Others said that the sooner we learned about it, the better. Those in the second camp said that it was essential to teach a child how to protect himself or herself, how to escape, how to avoid being paralyzed by fear. Mina belonged to the second camp. "Going into that well," she would say, "made me see that when you are in trouble, you need to put all your energies into thinking that there is a way out. Then, the bottom, the dark hole, becomes just a springboard from which you can leap so high that your head might hit a cloud. You see what I mean?"
Yes Mina, I thought, I see what you mean, I see it so well. I just need to learn how to jump up so high as to reach the clouds.
I will learn the lifesaving leaps by sliding down into the olive jars, to train and be ready for the big scares to come.
I will learn how to shine like you do, in spite of it all, with your back to the western wall, facing Mecca, and with hanan, that ever flowing tenderness.
"I am sure that Mecca knows all about the well and the kidnappers, don't you Mina?" I said to her one day, "Allah must have punished all those who hurt you. Allah must have done it, and I don't ever have to be afraid, do I?"
Mina was very optimistic and said that no, there was no reason at all why I should be afraid. "Life is looking good for women now," she said, "with the nationalists asking for their education, and the end of seclusion. For you know, the problem with women today is that they are powerless. And powerlessness stems from ignorance and a lack of education. You are going to be a powerful woman, aren't you? I would be so upset if you weren't. Just concentrate on that little circle of sky hanging above the well. There is always a little part of the sky you can raise your head to. So, don't look down, look up, up, and off we go! Making wings!"
After provoking Mina into telling me the story of her escape from the well over and over again, and by sliding down myself, more or less regularly, into the dark olive jar, I forgot all about my fears, and my nightmare disappeared. I discovered that I was a magic creature. I just needed to fix my sights on the sky, aim high, and everything would be all right. Even when they are tiny, little girls can surprise monsters. In fact, what fascinated me about Mina's story was how she surprised her kidnappers: they expected her to scream and she did not. I thought that was so clever and told Mina that I could surprise a monster too, if I had to. Yes, Mina said, but you need to know him very well first. She had observed her kidnappers for a long time, for the trip had taken weeks.
Mina said that you always had a choice, when stuck in a pit, between pleasing the monster by looking down and screaming, or surprising him by looking up. If you wanted to please him, you looked down, and thought about all the snakes and other cold, slow-moving creat
ures crawling around on top of each other down there and waiting to get ahold of you. If, on the other hand, you wished to astonish the monster, you fixed your eyes up high on that little drop of sky and avoided uttering a sound. Then, the torturer who was watching you from above would see your eyes and get scared. "He'll think you are either a djinni, or two little stars twinkling in the dark."
The idea of Mina, the tiny Mina, that scared little thing, lost in the sand with strangers, transforming herself into two twinkling stars, was an idea that I never forgot. It was a vision which haunted me then and still haunts me today, and every time I manage to find the silence required to visualize it, energy and hope spring from within. But I needed to train myself to get out of the well first, and for a while, jumping into dark, empty olive jars became my favorite game. I could only indulge in it, however, when a grownup was around, because Samir thought it was too dangerous for a children's game.
I was so happy every time Mina helped me get out of the well that I would obsessively put myself into one by sliding down into a huge, dark, empty olive jar. We children used the jars to play hide-and-go-seek either by making ourselves invis ible behind them or, when we really wanted to hug fear close, by sliding down into one. But you ran the danger, when sliding down, of getting stuck. A grownup's help would then be necessary. Mina, who practically lived on the terrace, with her back to the western wall, would watch us play our morbid game in silence, waiting for the next catastrophe to occur. Then, when you started screaming for help, she would stand up and come over to peep down at you. "Can't you wait for fear to chase after you," she would say, "instead of rushing out to meet it? Now keep still, and don't panic. I will get you out in a minute." So then you just had to relax and try to breathe normally, with your eyes focused on the tiny circle of blue sky up above. Soon, you heard the sounds of feet shuffling on the terrace floor, and Mina's voice whispering rescue instructions to Dada Sa`ada, Dada Rahma, and Aishata. Next, there would be a mini-earthquake, the jar would be tilted horizontally, and you would crawl out.
Every time Mina helped me out, I would jump at her neck and hug her enthusiastically. "Don't hug me so tight, you're messing up my headgear," she would say. "And what would have happened if I was in the bathroom or involved in my prayers? Hum?" Then, I would tuck my head into her neck and swear never to get stuck in an olive jar again. Once I saw that she was mellowing and letting me play with the ends of her turban, I would venture to ask a favor. "Mina, can I sit on your lap, and listen to how you escaped from the well?"
"But I have told you about that a hundred times! What's the matter with you? You already know all the essentials: a little girl, as small as she is, has enough energy inside her to defy torturers, to be courageous and patient, and to waste no time trembling and screaming. I told you that the kidnapper expected me to cry and scream. But when he heard no sound, and saw two twinkling stars fixed on him, he immediately brought me back up. He did not expect defiant silence and a calm stare. He expected me to howl. But you already knew all that!" Then I would swear that this was the last time I would need the story repeated, and I was finished with the jars forever.
Until the next time.
18.
AMERICAN CIGARETTES
FOOLING AROUND WITH Olive jars was not the only illegal activity that took place on the terrace. Grownups committed worse crimes, such as chewing gum, putting on red fingernail polish, and smoking cigarettes, although these last two activities took place rarely, given the difficulty of obtaining such foreign items in the first place. More common crimes were the burning of charmed candles to create the allure of gbul (sex appeal), the bobbing of hair with bangs to look like the French actress Claudette Colbert, or the plotting of escapes to the outside world so as to attend the nationalist meetings taking place at someone's house or at the Qaraouiyine Mosque. Since we children could have gotten any of the adult criminals in trouble with Father, Uncle, and Lalla Mani if we described what we saw, we were treated with exceptional indulgence, and enjoyed an unusually comfortable position on the terrace. No grownup could boss us around without us threatening to retaliate by informing the authorities. And indeed, the authorities relied heavily on us when they suspected something fishy was going on, for they believed that "children tell the truth." All the trespassers, therefore, gave us VIP treatment, showering us with cookies, roasted almonds, and sfinge (doughnuts), and never forgotting to hand us our tea before everyone else.
Mina watched all this in silence, redoubling her prayers to save everyone's soul. What she objected to the most, was when the young men of the house came up to the terrace to look at the Bennis girls. That, she thought, was something utterly sinful, a dangerous violation of the hudud, or sacred frontiers. It was true that the youth of each house kept to its own terrace, but they often sang love songs that were loud enough to be heard by their neighbors. Chama danced also, and so did the Bennis girls, thus managing to sculpt fleeting moments when adolescent love and happiness floated around, and turned the sunset into a red and romantic haze. Worst of all for Mina, though, was the fact that the boys and girls did not just look at each other from the terrace - they exchanged love glances.
A love glance was when you looked at a man with your eyelids half closed, as if you were about to go to sleep. Chama was wonderful at it, and was already receiving numerous marriage proposals from promising sons of distinguished nationalist families, who had caught a glimpse of her while she was singing "Maghribuna watanuna" (Our Morocco, Our Homeland) during street demonstrations or during the Qaraouiyine Mosque celebrations when political prisoners were released by the French. Malika said she would consider teaching me how to do the love glance, if I promised to give her a substantial portion of my cookies, almonds, and sfinge. Malika herself already was getting a lot of attention from the boys at the Koranic school, and I was eager to know her secret. Finally she said vaguely, when I pressed her, that she used a combination of the love glance and the mental recitation of a qbul formula, gotten from a medieval charm book, which was supposed to captivate forever the heart of the men whose love you wanted.' I was extremely interested in the whole thing and tried to get Samir interested, too, by secretly "borrowing" one of Chama's books, but he complained that I was getting too involved in this new beauty and love business, and was neglecting all our other projects and games. I realized then that Malika represented my only chance to get the vital information I wanted about beauty and sex appeal, which were becoming more and more interesting every day. However, I did not want to give her the impression that I was desperate, and so I told her I needed. to think it over before deciding about the cookies.
The grownups on the terrace always treated Samir and me as if we did not know anything about love and babies. They also treated us as if we did not know how important it was to make yourself beautiful so as to attract the love of the opposite sex. Malika also told us a few times that love was far from being a simple matter, and I listened carefully as she outlined the intricacies, all the while wondering if she was not just pressuring me about the cookie deal. She said that the most difficult thing about the whole business was not making someone fall in love with you, but keeping that love alive. For love has wings - it comes and goes. I decided then that for the moment I would simplify things and concentrate on the initial seduction; I could deal later with the problem of making love last forever.
A woman needed to do two things in order to capture a man's love. One was magic. She had to burn a candle during the full moon and chant an incantation that all girls learned at some point or another. The second was a complicated process that took forever: she had to make herself beautiful. She had to take care of her hair, her skin, her hands, her legs, and ... Oh, I am sure I have forgotten something. Anyway, Aunt Habiba said that there was no rush; I had plenty of time to learn about beauty techniques.
I already knew what to do in order to have beautiful hair, for Mother had decided that mine was dreadful. It was curly and unruly, and I had more of it than was cons
idered becoming for a young girl. So once a week, Mother would put two or three fresh tobacco leaves, smuggled in at great expense from the Rif Mountains where it grew in large fields, into half a cup of boiling olive oil. (Dried tobacco for sniffing would do when you could not get fresh leaves.) She let the boiling oil sit for a while, with the tobacco it in, and then patiently parted my hair into fine strands and rubbed in the oil. Next, she braided my hair and fastened it to the top of my head so as not to dirty my clothes, and I had to avoid hugging or kissing anyone until it was time to go to the hammam, or communal bath. There, Mother diluted henna in hot water and rubbed it all over my hair, before washing everything away. Mother said that you couldn't expect much of a woman who did not take care of her hair, and I wanted people to expect a lot of me.
The washing-away part was what I enjoyed the most, for going to the hammam was like stepping onto a warm, misty island. I would borrow Mother's precious Turkish silver bowl, sit on her Syrian wood and mother-of-pearl stool, and wash my hair the way she did. I would use the bowl to take the water from the bucket of warm water from the gigantic fountain, and pour the water all over my head. I only stopped when Mother heard other people screaming that the henna was splashing all over the place, and into my immediate neighbors' eyes. But I would always leave the hammam without paying any attention to my detractors, and walk away feeling as beautiful as Princess Budur.
Visiting our neighborhood hammam, with its white marble floors and glass ceiling, was such a delight, I decided one day as I was splashing about, that I definitely would find a way to take one - along with my beloved terrace - with me wherever I went as an adult. The hammam and the terrace were the two most pleasurable aspects of harem life, Mother said, and the only things worth keeping. She wanted me to study hard to get a diploma and become someone important, and to build a house for myself with a hammam on the first floor, and a terrace on the second. I wondered then where I would live and sleep, and she said "But on the terrace, dear! You can get a removable glass ceiling to use when you are going to sleep, or when it is cold. With all these new things now being invented by the Christians, by the time you grow up, you'll be able to buy glass houses with removable ceilings." From the harem, the possibilities to make life enjoyable seemed infinite - walls were going to disappear, and houses with glass ceilings were going to replace them. Imprisoned behind walls, women walked around dreaming of frontierless horizons.
Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girlhood Page 14
