Like her children and grandchildren, everyone was convinced that her spirit was possessed by a group of jinn; that would have explained her behaviour. Her yelling was merely the jinn inside her body venting themselves. Rather than grumbling about it, the best idea was to placate them and do what they said, otherwise the jinn speaking through her might decide to take revenge. Rather than daring to complain, the best plan was to ask for forgiveness and seek reconciliation. Or you could recite the beautiful names of God, as something to throw in the face of the demon-jinn who clearly were in possession of her. By now her neighbours felt nothing but sympathy and compassion for her.
This woman’s nerves were increasingly rough and on edge. Whenever springtime approached and the first signs of summer wafted their way past frozen souls, her yelling would become even more vicious and powerful. As far as she, her children, and her neighbours were concerned, this was simply a desire on the jinn’s part to assert control over her spirit and to inhabit her body while the famous annual celebration was being organised. Animals would be slaughtered and offerings would be made in order to placate the lords of the jinn and ward off their desire for vengeance. Such opinions regarding her were well known by now. When her nerves were on edge and her arguments intensified, everyone knew that the time had come to hold the Gnawa festival.
For the maidservants in Hajj Muhammad’s household this was good news. Their master always ignored the neighbours’ celebration, but even though he did not allow them to attend it, he did not insist on keeping a close eye on them or tracking where they went. So they all made preparations, putting on their best new clothes and choosing colours that would most please the lord of the jinn’s desires – dark black, bright yellow, or dark red. Among the leaders and lords of the jinn were those who adored those colours. Each woman was a prisoner of her own colour and could not rid herself of its sway. If she did not choose one, she would collapse in a heap until such time as she selected a kaftan that was either black, red, or yellow.
The festival night would begin in late afternoon. All the sisters who had been invited, all of them black or olive skinned, were welcomed; they all had a remarkable share in the jinn’s world. They strutted around in their black, yellow, or red kaftans, all brought together as usual by these celebrations. Happy and laughing, they let out their ululations, as though they were celebrating a festival of peace between mankind and jinn, with no antipathies and no flare-up of hostilities that might spoil the Gnawa celebration.
The ‘invitees’ were actually not invited in the normal sense of the word. They all felt that they were members of the household, performing their duties as part of the celebration, sharing in the provision of services for the Gnawa troupe, and, through their movements in various parts of the house, enhancing the joy and liveliness of the celebration.
The so-called sisters in Hajj Muhammad’s household were not allowed to leave the house in the afternoon; all they were allowed to do in those hours was to watch, and only after the official celebration had started. Even so, such was their eagerness to be involved that time after time they would head for the front door and peep through the opening or keyhole to see if the celebration had begun and to watch the preparations, if only from behind the doors.
The signal to start the celebration came in loud, stirring tones from the clashing cymbals of the troupe’s leader, followed by a resounding thump from a huge drum. That was followed by other cymbal clashes in lively cascades of dance melody, interspersed with beats from a large drum, then a small one. The whole sound managed to have its own distinctive impact.
The troupe was arrayed in its wonderful musical pattern, with the leader in front. Behind him were the big cymbalists, drum-beaters, and medium- and small-sized cymbal-strikers. Hardly were they through the door before they started chanting songs in a mixture of Arabic and Gnawi – that is, a blend of African languages.
It was only now that the sisters in Hajj Muhammad’s household would be allowed to slink their way somewhat sneakily toward the lucky house where the celebration was being held. Amid the lights coming from every part of the house and the number of people holding torches and lighted candles, the Gnawa troupe was clustered around its leader, organised and arranged according to the importance of the role that each member had to play – the repeated chants created a lively atmosphere to the accompaniment of cymbals and drums. In the bright light the sisters and the ladies whom the house was celebrating could make out the faces of the troupe’s members. They were all usually familiar with those faces, but even so they began making remarks that went along with their suppressed instincts and the affection, awe, and respect that they all felt deep down toward members of the troupe.
For the sisters and the ladies who were the celebration’s sponsors, every member of the troupe was a model of the jinni ideal. Here, for example, was Masoud, a tall young black man with bulging muscles, a strong build, prominent scarred cheeks, gleaming teeth, and reddened eyes, standing in the middle of the group, his head held high and nose in the air, beating his cymbal and fully confident that the sound it was making was louder than the others and would certainly reach the ears of all those women possessed by the jinn. He would thus be pleasing the jinn monarchs who were enlivening their night with such pleasure and delight.
The sisters believed that this Masoud had two distinct personalities. The first was the jinni ideal, which was merely the image of a young king, strong and muscular, well able to launch attacks and possess souls with force and resolution. The second was the human personality. His handsome manliness made him the focus of all kinds of sinful notions and the object of every woman’s gaze, whether young or old.
And there was Fatih, who banged the big drum. By now he was approaching middle age, even though his dark, black complexion showed no signs of wrinkles. He still held the drum confidently, pounding it powerfully and keeping up a lively pace with the drumbeats. The turban on his head jumped around with all the élan of someone who is proud of his talents. Behind those drumbeats was the idea that he was giving all the jinni monarchs a good deal of pleasure. For them, drumbeats brought a special magic that even cymbal clashes could not rival, however many they might be and however separated the two sets of instruments.
This man Fatih had a particular place in the hearts of all the sisters. From the very first beat he would be the cynosure of all their eyes, arousing inside them all a tremendous admiration. He was someone blessed by fortune, with a special link to the jinn monarchs – one to which none of the other members of the troupe could aspire. In the women’s minds he inspired a feeling of wonder. Even though he seemed well on his way towards middle age, he could still beat the drum with a power that spoke of virility and strength.
Then there was Amm Mubarak, well along his path to old age, whose cymbal clashes revealed a certain weakness and lack of vigour. He kept trying to raise his voice in song, but it could barely be heard alongside those of the younger members of the troupe. His voice did not come through because his lips had no teeth, or even roots of teeth, to rely on. Even so, Amm Mubarak was hardly lacking in qualities to admire. In him the women could recognise an old man (one of the monarchs on earth) who had devoted his entire life to the service of the spirits. He was indeed mubarak – blessed – someone in whose smiling visage you could sense a blessing and look for beneficence.
The first performance, or initial section of the celebration, was almost over. Members of the troupe now sat in front of the house, waiting to be served drinks that usually consisted of distilled red grapes and powdered-rice water. As a general din pervaded the house, the women running the celebration began preparing to offer these drinks to the troupe and the visitors, male and female alike. The female guests at the celebration would now begin making detailed comments on the performance.
One of them would start the discussion by saying something like, ‘Masoud wasn’t as lively and energetic as he usually is. You could barely hear his cymbals.’
‘I’ve never seen him do
as well as he has today,’ another would respond with a cheery laugh. ‘His voice stood out over all the others. I think you’re annoyed because he avoided looking at you so much!’
‘Tonight Saeed did his best to use the beats on his small drum to drown out Fatih’s beats. Small chance! Fatih – well, he’s Fatih!’
‘The truth is that Fatih’s beginning to look tired. Saeed’s younger than him. Everyone at Hajja Aisha’s celebration was shocked.’
‘I saw him with my own two eyes. He was wearing a pink kaftan. He was the one who started the dancing, and no sooner had he started than a female demon took possession of him. His turns were so fast and light that you could hardly keep up with him.’
‘He wasn’t the one dancing; it was the spirit that had taken possession of him. It was his submission to those forces that was making the movement.’
The discussion continued amid waves of laughter, gestures, and repeated shouts. The talk was not actually artistic so much as emotional. The Gnawa celebration was an excellent opportunity for the group of sisters to rid themselves of the slavery imposed on them by their masters’ households, one that controlled work, free conversation, and communication, as well as matters of emotion and any thought of sex.
Saeed the dancer was not Saeed the artist – in other words an authentic Gnawi. He was simply an attractive young man who had been possessed by an attractive young jinni. The hope for his intercession far outweighed any fear of his excessive zeal. The process of watching these celebrations and the yearning desire to attend them and dress up for them was not simply a matter of pleasing the jinni monarchs, but rather a way of relieving feelings of repression and an urge to escape to a world of freedom – freedom of feelings, emotions, and hopes.
Everything suddenly fell silent as the leader of the troupe raised his hand in the air and clashed his cymbal to announce the beginning of the second part of the celebration. The women, who were eager to hear more tales and comments, took the opportunity to cackle and whisper sarcastic comments in the ears of their neighbours about what would be happening once the cymbals started clashing again and the members of the troupe restarted their repetitive chanting; the second part would be even livelier and more energetic than the first, and the level of excitement would make its way into the deepest recesses of the souls of those women who were so eager for Gnawa celebrations.
The troupe opened the second part with a new melody, one that was both exciting and stimulating. No sooner had they started chanting than a young man in their midst sprang up like a demon-jinni, banging on his cymbal with powerful but delicate hand movements to an exciting and frenetic tune. His expression changed, his limbs tensed, and his eyes glistened as he began a deft performance of a pulsating dance, moving forward, then back, and pirouetting with feather-like leaps. He began a series of rapid, powerful turns on his toes, moving faster and faster, as the young men in the troupe usually did. The sounds emerging from his cymbal determined the process of this strenuous performance, one that acquired a good deal of its force from the thrilling chanting that emerged from a set of female throats exhausted by illness, misery, and deprivation. The troupe showed no mercy as they took possession of their audience’s feelings. Everyone’s nerves were on edge and their very souls were deeply affected. There was a sigh here and a shout there. One of the women stood up and started dancing, totally unconscious of what she was doing. Everyone looked at her, and several of her concerned sisters surrounded her, as shouts rang out:
‘Leave her be! Leave her be! It’s time for her to be set free.’
‘Her personal demon has possessed her. You don’t want to annoy her.’
‘Poor woman! She’s overcome with emotion. If she doesn’t dance now, she’ll go mad!’
The members of the troupe now took turns doing rhythmic dances to the harsh sounds of clashing cymbals and chanting. This went on until almost midnight. Then the troupe took a break, during which the guests, male and female, were fed amidst an atmosphere of frenzied shouting.
This break gave the troupe members, and their young men especially, an opportunity to put their main task behind them and chat with this woman or that. The younger sisters took the opportunity to give fulsome praise for the wonderful performance put on by the young man of their dreams.
‘Your dancing was amazing,’ one of them said. ‘Are you just as good at other things?’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ another one answered. ‘He’s a champion at everything, dear sister!’
‘Your voice was different to what I’m used to,’ another woman said.
‘Did you find it more affectionate and delicate?’ he asked. ‘My voice does not express my own essence.’
Laughter could be heard everywhere, without anyone feeling either anxious or closely watched. Eventually the old woman who owned the house relaxed her features – perhaps for the only time in the year – and gathered around her the other old women who were enjoying the dancing and singing. They could remember the days of yore, with the sun setting in order to rise to a new morning overflowing with light and joy. As the lady of the house accepted her sisters’ congratulations and prayers for her good health and security – that security of the soul to be found from the jinn’s retribution – she did not forget to issue her instructions and to tease some of the invited women and even young and old members of the troupe.
The hostess for this occasion had broken her normal habits by wearing the very newest finery she owned; all sorts of colours and shapes rivalled each other for attention – dark reds, bright yellows, and gorgeous greens. Her clothing provoked all sorts of curious and sarcastic remarks, but on this particular night her goal was to please everyone, jinni monarchs and guests alike. She was smoking, and the cigarette dangling from her mouth looked ugly and out of place. She kept inhaling snuff as well, which made her eyes water and her nose look puffy, the whole mixing with the hairs of her moustache that dripped a foul liquid. Even so, none of this came as a shock to anyone; instead, they admired her, since as the hostess completely overcome by the frenzy of the occasion she was simply carrying out orders.
Once more the troupe resumed its dancing and singing, but this time it changed its routine and began making the rounds of the spacious house – all its rooms and hallways. At the head was the beater of the large drum, strutting along as he danced. He paused by each of the guests, male and female, and the members of the family, until each one gave him a ‘gift’; if it were not enough, he would wait even longer. Behind him the troupe with their clashing cymbals would raise their voices in chant, as though to encourage people to give even more.
The tour of the house went on until the troupe had collected a large amount of money; it would be going into their own pockets, but at the same time it was an offering to the jinn monarchs and a protection against demons.
As people became more and more entranced, there seemed to be a strange tremor in the air. It felt like a moment of revelation when the jinn were released from their trammels. It was thus an ideal opportunity to please them and keep them entertained. What could please a jinni more than warm, dark blood coursing forth, and fresh milk poured into the earth’s apertures as an indication of a desire for peace and the hoisting of the flag of safety and security?
Among the initial signs of this tremulous atmosphere was an unusual amount of energy from the troupe itself. The cymbals rumbled forth their sound as though they had not been doing so earlier. Their drums echoed in the night as though they were possessed. Their voices rose in repetitive chant, their ringing tones a sign of their ardour, and their hoarseness a clue to their quest for conciliation and surrender to outside forces. This sensation pervaded the entire atmosphere and infected the souls of the women present. With bated breath the members of the troupe hurried around with an anxious caution, as though they were scared of this critical moment. They were clearly affected by the rumours claiming that this crucial point was the time for evil devils to reveal themselves, the occasion for maximum damage and revenge. Their
souls were totally influenced by the magic vibrations of the music, which had the power to exert control over anxious souls and fiery emotions.
Emotions were now at their peak. One of the members of the troupe clad in a waist-wrap leapt to his feet with a black billy goat in front of him, which was unsettled by all the noise and the sound of the relentless drumbeats. In his mouth he had a knife with a gleaming blade, which only enhanced the excitement. The other members of the troupe and their colleagues, with their snub noses and reddened eyes, clustered around him, scattering salt and pouring milk. A woman among them grabbed hold of a multicoloured turkey with feathers of seven or more different hues. The old woman had put herself to the test by searching for a seven-hued turkey that she could have ready for the moment of revelation – it was unacceptable for the hues to number less than seven. Another woman was clutching a gleaming white turkey, while others held black chickens. The women launched into ululations, but it was all lost in the mingled din of cymbals, drums, and chants.
The man now came forward and lifted the goat up high. As quick as lightning, the goat’s legs flew up, but then he had it on its back. Grabbing it by the legs and stretching its neck towards the main drain of the house, he took the knife, and, as the grains of salt and drops of milk were added, applied the knife to the animal’s jugular. As the dark blood flowed, the members of the troupe extended their arms, still shaking with their cymbals, towards the ground, then stood up and bent over as though to proclaim their obedience and submission. They kept chanting the song of peace, submitting themselves to the jinni monarchs and their armies. Every drain in the house received its share of turkey and chicken blood, those drains being the outlet to the world beyond feeling, the conduit whereby sacrifices are offered and through which flows the blood of seven-hued or gleaming white turkeys.
We Have Buried the Past Page 5