To get Sidi Allal to visualize precisely the silks and threads needed for an embroidery project was a terribly delicate operation, and the less gifted among the women begged the more eloquent ones to describe their dreams for them. Women's wishes had to be spelled out patiently to Sidi Allal, because without his collaboration, one could not get very far. So each woman described her dream-embroidery - the kind of flowers she wanted and their colors, the hues of the buds, and sometimes whole trees with intricate branches. Others described entire islands surrounded with boats. Paralyzed by the frontier, women gave birth to whole landscapes and worlds. Sidi Allal listened with more or less interest, according to the status of the speaker.
Unfortunately, too, Sidi Allal sided with Lalla Mani when it came to the importance of tradition and taqlidi designs. That preference put divorced and widowed relatives like Aunt Habiba in an awkward position. They could not possibly dream of anything but classical taqlidi design when talking to him, and so had to rely on more powerful women like Mother and Chama to describe the silks they needed for their more innovative cravings. Aunt Habiba had to keep her birds buried deep down in her imagination. "The main thing for the powerless is to have a dream," she often told me while I was watching the stairs, so that she could embroider a fabulous one-winged green bird on the clandestine mrema she kept hidden in the darkest corner of her room. "True, a dream alone, without the bargaining power to go with it, does not transform the world or make the walls vanish, but it does help you keep ahold of dignity."
Dignity is to have a dream, a strong one, which gives you a vision, a world where you have a place, where whatever it is you have to contribute makes a difference.
You are in a harem when the world does not need you.
You are in a harem when what you can contribute does not make a difference.
You are in a harem when what you do is useless.
You are in a harem when the planet swirls around, with you buried up to your neck in scorn and neglect.
Only one person can change that situation and make the planet go around the other way, and that is you.
If you stand up against scorn, and dream of a different world, the planet's direction will be altered.
But what you need to avoid at all costs, is to let the scorn around you get inside.
When a woman starts thinking she is nothing, the little sparrows cry.
Who can defend them on the terrace, if no one has the vision of a world without slingshots?
"Mothers should tell little girls and boys about the importance of dreams," Aunt Habiba said. "They give a sense of direction. It is not enough to reject this courtyard - you need to have a vision of the meadows with which you want to replace it. But, how, I asked Aunt Habiba, could you distinguish among all the wishes, the cravings which besieged you, and find the one on which you ought to focus, the important dream which gave you vision? She said that little children had to be patient, the key dream would emerge and bloom within, and then, from the intense pleasure it gave you, you would know that it was the genuine little treasure which would give you direction and light. She also said that I should not worry for now, because I belonged to a long line of women with strong, dreams. "Your Grandmother Yasmina's dream was that she was a special creature," Aunt Habiba said, "and no one has ever been able to make her believe otherwise. She changed your grandfather, and he got in her dream and shared it with her. Your mother has wings inside, too, and your father flies with her whenever he can. You'll be able to transform people, I'm sure of it. I would not worry if I were you."
That afternoon in the courtyard, which had started with such a strange feeling of magic and winged dreams, ended with a yet stranger but most agreeable sensation: I suddenly felt content and secure, as if I had entered a new but safe territory. Although I had not discovered anything special, I felt as if I had stumbled onto something important whose name I had yet to ascertain. I knew vaguely that it had to do with both dreams and reality, but what it was, I could not tell. I wondered for a few seconds whether my blissful feeling was not due to the unusually slow sunset. Most of the time, the Fez sunsets passed so rapidly that I wondered if I had only dreamt that the day was over. But the pink clouds that crossed the remote square sky above that afternoon did it at such a stunningly leisurely pace that the stars started coming out before it got dark.
I sat closer to Cousin Chama and described to her what I felt. She listened carefully and then said I was becoming mature. I felt an irresistible urge to immediately ask her what she meant by that, but refrained. I was afraid that she would forget what she was about to say and drift into complaining about how I was always harassing adults with questions. To my amazement, she kept on talking, as if to herself, as if what she was saying concerned no one but herself. "Maturity is when you start feeling the motion of zaman (time) as if it is a sensuous caress." That sentence made me feel very cheerful, because it linked together three words that the magic books kept referring to: motion, time, and caress. However, I did not say a word; I just kept listening to Chama, who was gesturing like someone about to make an important statement.
Pushing her rnrema forward, she threw hack her shoulders and caressed her Vienna hat and then, after inserting a fat cushion behind her back, started in on a monologue, Asmahan-style. That is, she fixed her eyes on an invisible horizon, and rested her chin on a menacingly fisted right hand:
Carried away by her own words, Charna stood up and announced to the quiet audience that she was about to make an important declaration. Raising her white lace qamis with one hand, she pranced around, bowed down in front of Mother, took off her Vienna cap, and held it out rigidly before her as if it were an alien flag. Then she started in on a tirade spoken in the rhythm of pre-Islamic poetry:
At that, Chama's voice suddenly drifted off into that dangerous dim whisper where you could sense tears. Mother, who knew Chama's propensity to go from laughter to depression very well, sprang up immediately, bowed, and sat Chama back down on the sofa. Then, with emphatic gestures, as if she were a queen, Mother took off her own Vienna hat, saluted the compliant audience, and carried on as if it had all been planned:
21.
SKIN POLITICS:
Eggs, Dates, and Other Beauty Secrets
THE CRITICAL SPLIT between Cousin Samir and myself occurred when I was tiptoeing into my ninth year and Chama declared me to be officially mature. It was then that I realized that he was not ready to invest as heavily in the skin business as I was. Samir tried to convince me that beauty treatments were of secondary importance, and I tried to convince him that nothing could be expected from a person who neglected his or her skin, since it was through the skin that we felt the world. Of course, when I said that, I was expounding Aunt Habiba's skin theory, of which I had become an enthusiastic fan. But in fact, things had begun to deteriorate between Samir and me some time before. He had started calling me `Assila, or Little Honey, whenever he caught me singing a song from one of Asmahan's romantic operas in a deliberately trembling voice. `Assila was an insult in the Medina streets; it meant to be sticky and gluey. You called someone `Assila when he or she did not look alert, and since I was already becoming known for my absent-mindedness, I begged him not to call me that. In exchange, I promised to spare him my Asmahan-styled trills. But still, things got worse. He ridiculed my interest in charm books, talisman writing, and astral incantations, and left me alone and without protection to face the dangerous djinnis lurking in Chama's magic books.
Finally one day, our conflict reached a crisis point, and Samir summoned an emergency meeting on the forbidden terrace, where he explained to me that if I kept dropping out for two days in a row to take part in the grownups' beauty treatments, and attended our terrace sessions with smelly, oily masks all over my face and hair, he was going to look for another games partner. Things could not go on as they were, he said; I had to choose between play and beauty, because I surely could not do both. I tried to reason with him, and repeated Aunt Habiba's skin theory, wh
ich he already knew so well. A human being was connected to the world through his or her skin, I said, and how could someone with clogged pores feel the environment or be sensitive to its vibrations? Aunt Habiba was convinced that if men wore beauty masks instead of battle masks, the world would be a much better place. Unfortunately, Samir rejected that theory as utter nonsense, and repeated his ultimatum. "You have to choose now. I can't go on being lonely for two days at a time with no one to play with." When he saw how distressed I was, he relented a little and said that I could have a few days to think the matter over. But I told him that there was no need for that, my decision was already made. "Skin first! Samir," I said, "a woman's fate is to be beautiful, and I am going to shine like the moon."
Yet even as I spoke, I was flooded with a scary mixed feeling of both remorse and fear, and I prayed to God that Samir would beg me to change my mind so that I would not lose face. And, lo and behold, he did. "But Fatima," Samir said, "God is the only one who creates beauty. It is not by applying henna, ghassoul - that vulgar clay - or any of those other dirty concoctions, that you'll transform yourself into the moon. Besides, God says that it is unlawful to change one's physical form, so you'll be risking hell too." Then, Samir added that if I chose beauty, he might have to find someone else to play with. The choice was an agonizing one for me, but I have to confess that I also felt, deep down, a strange feeling of triumph and pride that I had never felt before. I came to understand it much later. The triumphant feeling came from the fact that I realized how important a companion I was for Samir; he could not live on that terrace without my wonderful presence. That feeling was extraordinary and I could not resist pushing my luck a bit farther. So, I looked at an arbitrary spot on the horizon, a few centimeters past Samir's ear, made my gaze as dreamy as I could, and whispered in a barely audible voice, which I hoped reproduced Asmahan's femme fatale tone, "Samir, I know you can't live without me. But I think it is time to realize that I have become a woman." Then, after a calculated pause, I added, "Our paths must part." Like Asmahan, I did not look at Samir while speaking to see the devastating effect of my words. I resisted that temptation and just kept staring at that vague point on the horizon. But Samir surprised me by retaking control. "I don't think you are a woman yet," he said, "since you are not even nine yet and you have no breasts. There is no woman without breasts." I did not expect that put-down, and I was furious. I wanted to hurt him back, badly. "Samir," I said, "with or without breasts, I have decided that from now on, I will behave like a woman, and invest the necessary time in beauty. My skin and hair have priority over games. Good-bye, Samir. You can start looking for another companion."
With those fatal words, which were to bring about big changes in my life, I proceeded down the shaky laundry poles. Samir held them for me without a word. Once down, I held them for him, and he slid down in silence. We stood facing each other for awhile, and then shook hands with a great deal of solemnity, just as we had seen Uncle and Father do in the mosque after prayers on big festival days. Then we parted in an awesome silence. I went down to the courtyard to join in the beauty treatments, and Samir stayed aloof and sulky on the deserted lower terrace.
The courtyard was a beehive of activity, with much of it centered around the fountain, where there was easy access to water for washing hands, dishes, and brushes. Basic ingredients such as eggs, honey, milk, henna, clay, and all kinds of oils were set out in big glass jars, on the marble circle surrounding the fountain. There was plenty of olive oil, of course, with the best coming from the North, less than a hundred kilometers from Fez. But of the more precious oils, such as almond oil and argan, there was much less. These came from exotic trees which needed much sun and grew only in the South, in the Marrakech and Agadir regions.
Already half the women in the courtyard looked hideous, with pastes and gluey-looking mashes covering their hair and faces. Beside them sat the team leaders, working in a solemn tranquility, since to make a mistake in the beauty treatments could cause fateful damage. One false measurement or misstep in the blends or concocting times could result in allergies and itching, or worse still, red heads turned raven black. There were the usual three beauty teams, the first concentrating on hair masks, the second on henna concoctions, and the third on skin masks and fragrances. Each team was equipped with its own khanouns (small charcoal fires) and low table, completely covered with an impressive array of earths and natural dyes such as dried pomegranate peel, nut bark, saffron, and all kinds of fragrant herbs and flowers, including myrtle, dried roses, and orange flowers. Many of the items were still in their blue paper, which had originally been used to wrap sugar and then recycled by the shopkeepers to wrap the expensive items. Exotic scents such as musk and amber stood stored in lovely seashells, sheltered in crystal containers for extra protection, and dozens of earthen bowls filled with mysterious mixtures sat waiting, begging to be transformed into magic pastes.
Some of the most magic pastes of all were those which used henna. The henna experts had to provide at least four kinds of concoctions to satisfy the courtyard taste. For those who wanted strong, flaming-red highlights, henna was diluted with a boiling juice make of pomegranate peels and a pinch of carmine. For those who desired darker tones, henna would be diluted with a warm juice made of walnut bark. For those who wanted to simply fortify their hair, mixing henna with tobacco could bring about marvels, while for those who wished to moisturize dry hair, henna would be diluted into a thin paste and kneaded together with olive, argan, or almond oil, before being massaged into the scalp. Beauty, by the way, was the only subject upon which all the women agreed. Innovation was not at all welcomed. Everyone, including Chama and Mother, relied heavily on tradition, and did nothing without first checking with Lalla Mani and Lalla Radia.
The grownups did look frightful, covered with all those fruit, vegetable, and egg masks, and dressed in the oldest and most unsightly gamic they could find. Then, too, since they usually wore elaborate turbans and fancy scarves, their heads now looked terrifyingly small, with deep-set eyes and brown drippings running down their cheeks and jaws. But to make yourself as ugly as possible when preparing for the hammarn was considered a must, largely because everyone believed that the uglier you could make yourself before entering the baths, the more stunningly beautiful you would come out. Indeed, those most successful at achieving an interesting ugliness would be applauded and presented with the "hammam repulsion mi.rror," a weird ancient glass which had lost all its silver, and had the uncanny power to distort noses and reduce eyes to Satanic dots. I never played around with that glass, because it made one extremely nervous.
Our traditional hammam ritual involved a "before," a "during," and an "after" phase. The phase before the hammam took place in the central courtyard, and that was where you made yourselves ugly by covering your face and hair with all those unbecoming mixes. The second phase took place in our neighborhood hammam itself, not far from our house, and that was where you undressed and stepped into a series of three cocoonlike chambers filled with steamy heat. Some women got completely undressed, others put a scarf around their hips, while the eccentrics kept their sarivals on, which made them look like extra-terrestrials after the fabric had gotten wet. The eccentrics who entered the hammam with sarwals on would be the target of all sorts of jokes and sarcastic remarks, such as "Why don't you veil, too, while you're at it?"
The "after" phase involved stepping out of the misty hammam into a courtyard where you could stretch out for awhile dressed only in your towels before putting on clean clothes. The courtyard of our neighborhood hammam had inviting wall-to-wall sofas placed on high wooden tables so you were protected from the wet floor. However, since there were not enough sofas to accommodate everyone who frequented the hammam, you were supposed to take up as little space as possible and not linger long. I was so happy that those sofas were there, because I always felt terribly sleepy after leaving the hammam. In fact, this third stage of the bathing ritual was my favorite, not only because I felt
brand-new, but also because the bath attendants, under instruction from Aunt Habiba (who was in charge of hammam refreshments), distributed orange and almond juices, and sometimes nuts and dates too, to help you regain your energy. This "after" phase was one of the rare times when grownups did not have to tell children to sit still, for all of us would be lying half-asleep on top of our mothers' towels and clothes. Strange hands would be pushing you here and there, sometimes lifting your legs, other times your head or hands. You heard the voices, but could not raise your fingers, so delicious was your sleep.
At a. certain time of the year, a rare heavenly drink called zeri`a (literally, "the seeds") was served at the hammam under the tight supervision of Aunt Habiba, so as to insure equal distribution. Zeri`a was made of melon seeds that were washed, dried, and stored in glass jars specifically made for the hammam drinks. (For a reason I still cannot understand, that wonderful drink was never served anywhere else but in the hammam.) The seeds had to be consumed quite quickly or they would spoil, which meant that zerica could only be tasted during the melon season, never more than a few weeks a year. The seeds were crushed and mixed with whole milk, a few drops of orange-flower water, and a pinch of cinnamon. This mixture then sat for a while, with the pulp inside. When it was served, the jug could not be disturbed too much, so the pulp would remain at the bottom and only the liquid would be poured. If you were too sleepy to drink after the hammam and your mother loved you very much, she would always try to pour a taste of zeri`a down your throat, so you would not miss out on that special event. Children whose mothers had been too absent-minded to do this would start screaming with frustration when they awoke and saw the empty jars. "You drank all the zeri`a! I want zeri`a!" they would howl, but of course, they would not get any until the next year. The melon season had a cruelly abrupt end.
Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girlhood Page 18
