We children were not usually allowed to go to the movies either, but we staged our own revolts, just like the women, and sometimes were finally granted permission. When I say "we," I mean Samir really, for I had a problem with screaming at grownups and showing my displeasure by jumping up and down like he did, or better still, rolling on the floor and kicking bystanders. Staging sedition was a tricky business and never stopped being so for me, if only because of Mother's strange attitude,. Often she encouraged me to rebel, and kept repeating that relying on Samir to be aggressive for the both of us would not do. But whenever I threw myself on the floor and started screaming at her, she would stop me on the spot. "I did not say you ought to rebel against me! You should rebel against all the others, but you still have to obey your mother. Otherwise, it will lead to chaos. And in any case, you shouldn't rebel stupidly. You ought to carefully consider the situation, and analyze everything. Rebel when you know there is some chance you may win." After that, I spent much energy analyzing my chances to win whenever it became evident that people were taking advantage of me, but even today, almost half a century later, the answers I come up with are always the same: inconclusive. I still dream of that wonderful day when I will stage a theatrical revolt "Samir style," with screams and kicking feet. Looking back, I feel so grateful that Samir did the right thing then. Otherwise I would never have gone to the movies.
And going to the movies was a thrill, from beginning to end. Women would dress up as if they were about to parade, unveiled, through the streets. Mother would spend hours and hours putting on her make-up and curling her hair in an incredibly complicated fashion. Elsewhere, in all the four corners of the courtyard, the other women would be feverishly making themselves up, too, with children holding mirrors and friends giving advice regarding kohl, rouge, hairstyles, and jewelry. The children had to hold the hand mirrors and angle them just right to catch the rays of the sun because the mirrors embedded in the salon's walls were not of much use at all. The sunlight hardly ever reached them, except for a few hours in the summer.
But finally, the women would be beautifully dressed. And then, they would cover themselves completely, from head to toe, with the veil and a haik, or djellaba, according to age and status!
Several years before, Mother had fought Father, first about the fabric that the veil was made of and then about the haik, or traditional long cloak that women wore in public.
The traditional veil was a rectangular piece of white cotton so heavy that it made the simple act of breathing a real accomplishment. Mother wanted to replace it with a tiny triangular black veil made of sheer silk chiffon. This drove Father crazy: "It is so transparent! You might as well go unveiled!" But soon the small veil, the lithafn, became the fashion, with all the nationalists' wives wearing it all over Fez - to gatherings in the mosque and to public celebrations, such as when political prisoners were liberated by the French.
Mother also wanted to replace the traditional women's haik with the djellaba, or men's coat, which many of the nationalists' wives had taken to wearing as well. The haik was made of seven long meters of heavy white cotton cloth that you had to drape around yourself. You then had to hold on to the ends of the haik, awkwardly tied up under your chin, to keep it from falling off. "The haik," said Chama, "was probably designed to make a woman's trip through the streets so torturous that she would quickly tire from the effort, rush back home, and never dream of going out again." Mother hated the haik, too. "If your foot slips, and you fall," she said, "you are likely to lose your teeth, because you have your hands tied up. Besides, it is so heavy, and I am so skinny!" The djellaba, on the other hand, was a closely fitted man's robe with a hood, slits in the sides to allow long strides, and trimmed sleeves which left your hands completely free. When the nationalists first started sending their daughters to school, they also started letting them wear the djellaba because it was so much lighter and more practical than the haik. Going back and forth to school four times a day was not like going to visit a saint's tomb once a year. So the daughters started wearing the men's djellaba, and soon thereafter, their mothers followed suit. To discourage Mother from joining in, Father commented regularly on the revolution that he was witnessing in the Medina streets. "It is like the French women trading their skirts for men's pants," he said. "And if women dress like men, it is more than chaos, it isfana (the end of the world)."
But slowly and gradually, the chaos in the streets spread to our house, and the planet miraculously continued to turn as usual. One day, Mother appeared wearing Father's djellaba, the hood neatly folded up on her forehead, and a tiny triangular black litham made of sheer silk chiffon hanging loosely over her nose. Of course, anyone could see right through that veil, and Father angrily warned her that she was destroying the family honor. But family honor suddenly seemed to be in serious jeopardy all over Fez, because the Medina streets were flooded by women wearing the men's djellaba with coquettish chiffon veils. Not long after that, too, the daughters of the nationalists began appearing in the streets with bare faces and bare legs, in Western dresses with the distinctive Western handbags on their shoulders. Of course, Mother could not dream of taking up Western dress, so conservative was her immediate environment, but she was able to keep her djellaba and the sheer chiffon litham. Later, in 1956, as soon as Mother heard that Morocco had gotten independence and the French armies were leaving, she joined the march organized by the nationalists' wives, and sang with them until late in the night. When she finally came home exhausted from walking and singing, her hair was uncovered and her face was bare. From then on, there were no more black litham to be seen covering young women's faces in Fez Medina; only old ladies and young, newly migrant peasants kept the veil.2
But to get back to the movies. On those rare festive days, the women's procession would leave the house in the early afternoon, with my male cousins in front, as if to prevent a crowd from gathering around and trying to catch a rare glimpse of the Mernissi beauties. Just after the men would come Grandmother Lalla Mani with her haik majestically draped around her tiny silhouette, and her head held disdainfully high, as if to let even anonymous passersby know that she was a woman of authority. Lalla Radia, Samir's mother, would be walking by Grandmother's side and taking meticulously measured steps, her eyes on the pavement. Behind them would come Aunt Habiba and all the widowed and divorced relatives, each walking in total silence and holding tightly onto her white haik. Unlike Mother, the widowed and divorced women, with no husbands to protect them, could not claim the right to wear djellabas. To have done so would have meant immediate and irreversible condemnation as loose women. In the last rows of the procession would come the rebels, each dressed in a tight, colorful djellaba, followed by the shy adolescent cousins who would giggle nervously all the way to the cinema, and finally we children, holding Ahmed's hands.
There were not really many women in the rebels section, only Mother and Chama, but they managed to get everyone's attention. Mother, with her kohl-lined eyes, and Chama, with her false Asmahan beauty spot, were veiled, yes, in that they wore the tiny, transparent black litham, but their hands were free, and sensuous perfumes were floating provocatively in the air around them. Often, Mother would make everyone burst out laughing by imitating Leila Mourad, the Egyptian movie star whose specialty was to play the femme fatale. She would walk while staring straight ahead (at the risk of tripping over the sharp stones which paved the Medina streets), open her eyes very wide, as if she had a dangerous eye infection, and then dart her gaze to the left and right, sending deadly magnetic rays, as she whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "No men can resist my awesome beauty! A single second of eye contact, and innocent victims will fall wriggling on the ground. There is going to be manslaughter in the streets of Fez today!"
Mother had come up with that idea after hearing the theories of an Egyptian male feminist writer named Qacem Amin. He was the author of a bestseller, provocatively entitled The Liberation of the Women (1885), in which he hypothesized that men v
eiled women because they were afraid of their charm and beauty. Men could not resist women, he wrote, and often felt faint whenever a beautiful one came gliding by. Qacem Amin concluded his book by urging Arab men to find ways to develop strength within themselves and overcome their fears, so that women could shed the veil. Mother loved Qacem Amin, but since she was illiterate, she had to beg Father to read her favorite passages to her. Before giving in, Father would make all kinds of requests, which she at first would refuse to grant, such as holding his hand while he was reading, making his favorite drink (a milk shake with freshly crushed almonds and a drop 'of orange flower essence), or even worse, giving him a foot massage. Eventually, though, Mother reluctantly would grant his wish, and urge him to begin reading. Then, just when she was starting to enjoy herself, Father suddenly would stop, toss the book away, and complain that Qacem Amin was destroying the harmony of Arab marriage. "I need the help of this Egyptian nut to get closer to my wife, and to have her be nice to me?" he would complain. "I can't believe it!" Then Mother would rush to pick the book up off the floor, put it back into its leather cover, and leave the room, sulky but sure of herself, with her treasure under her arm.
Chaina, with her freckles and honey-colored eyes, would laugh delightedly whenever Mother put on her femme fatale act as they walked from the house to the cinema. They would both look carefully to the left and the right to see if any passersby were about to fall down on the ground. And of course, both women would also comment on the men they passed, causing Cousin Zin and his brothers to turn around from time to time and ask them not to talk so loud.
Once in the cinema, the whole harem would sit in two rows, having tickets for four, in order to leave the row in front, as well as the one behind, unoccupied. We did not want some mischievous, irreverent cinema-goer to take advantage of the darkness and pinch one of the ladies while she was engrossed in the movie plot.
14.
EGYPTIAN FEMINISTS VISIT
THE TERRACE
MANY OF THE plays staged by Chama on the terrace required male actors, and when there was no competition from the neighborhood cinema, all the young men of the house would join in. Zin, of course, was very much in demand, because of his grace and eloquence. And he took great pleasure in stealing Uncle's and Father's turbans and capes, and in fashioning a variety of wooden swords so he could play the Abbasid princes convincingly. He also played numerous other roles, from pre-Islamic poets to modern nationalist heroes held captive in French and British jails. The plays which thrilled the audience the most, however, were those which involved great crowd scenes, and much marching and singing, because then everyone could participate. These scenes drove Chama crazy, because they meant that at times, the audience would completely vanish. "You have to have someone sitting there to see the play!" she would argue. "You can't have a theater without an audience!" The problem with Chama was that she was subject to wildly unpredictible mood swings, and could go from bubbling excitement one moment to deep silence the next, without any outward sign that the change was imminent. She also got discouraged very easily when the audience did not behave, and then she would simply stop in the middle of a sentence, look sadly at those who had created the interruptions, and walk towards the stairs. There was not much you could do about it either, and sometimes she would remain depressed for days, keeping to her room. But when Chama was in a good mood, she could inflame the entire house for sure!
For you see, Chama's theater provided wonderful opportunities for all of us to discover and show our talents, overcome our shyness and develop some self-confidence. My normally very shy adolescent girl cousins, for example, got their chance to shine when they sang in the chorus. They hated it when the drapes were up - then they would salute the audience, while fiddling nervously with their braids - but when the drapes were down, their voices would ring out, clear and lovely. I, on the other hand, became absolutely indispensable when Chama discovered that I could do acrobatic leaps (I had learned them from Grandmother Yasmina). From then on, my acrobatics entertained the audience whenever things got out of hand. As soon as I sensed something going wrong between the director, or the actors, and the audience, I would get up on stage with my legs in the air and my hands on the ground. I learned to recognize instinctively when Chama was about to fall into a sad mood. My acrobatics also allowed the actors to make lengthy costume changes between scenes. Without my assistance, Chama would have had to cut back on her elaborate preparations.
I was very proud to have a role to play, even though it was a silent and marginal one, and one which involved mostly my feet. But Aunt Habiba said it did not matter what role you played, as long as you were useful. The essential thing was to have a role, to contribute to a common goal. Besides, she said, I would soon have a bigger role to play in real life; all I needed was to develop a talent. I told her that acrobatics would probably be that talent, but she was not convinced. "Real life is tougher than theater," she said. "Besides, our tradition requires women to walk on their feet. Throwing them up in the air is a rather delicate matter." That was when I started to worry about my future.
But Aunt Habiba said not to worry, that everyone had wonderful things hidden inside. The only difference was that some managed to share those wonderful things, and others did not. Those who did not explore and share the precious gifts within went through life feeling miserable, sad, awkward with others, and angry too. You had to develop a talent, Aunt Habiba said, so that you could give something, share, and shine. And you developed a talent by working very hard at becoming good at something. It could be anything - singing, dancing, cooking, embroidering, listening, looking, smiling, waiting, accepting, dreaming, rebelling, leaping. "Anything you can do well can change your life," said Aunt Habiba.
So I decided that I would develop a talent and give happiness to those around me. Then no one could hurt me, could they? The only problem was that I did not know yet what my talent was. But I was sure I had something inside. Allah is generous and gives every one of his creatures some beautiful thing, tucking it right inside, like a mysterious flower, without you even knowing it. I had probably received my share, and would just have to wait and develop it when the right time came. Meanwhile, I would learn all I could from the heroines of literature and history.
The heroines most often portrayed in Chama's theater were, in order of frequency: Asmahan, the actress and singer; the Egyptian and Lebanese feminists; Scheherazade and the princesses of A Thousand and One Nights; and finally, important religious figures. Among the feminists, or ra-idates - pioneers of women's rights - three were special favorites of Chama: Aisha Taymour, Zaynab Fawwaz, and Huda Sha`raoui.1 Among the religious figures, the most popular were Khadija and Aisha, the wives of the Prophet Mohammed and Rabea al-Adaouiya, a mystic. Their lives were usually staged during Ramadan, when Grandmother Lalla Mani would dress entirely in green, the color of the Prophet, Allah's Prayer and Peace be Upon Him, and go into a deep mystical meditation. Then, she would preach repentance from sin, and predict hell for everyone forgetful of Allah's commands in general, and for women who wanted to discard the veil, dance, sing, and have fun in particular.
Moroccan women, thirsty for liberation and change, had to export their feminists from the East, for there were no local ones as yet famous enough to become public figures and nurture their dreams. "No wonder Morocco is so far behind," Chama would remark from time to time. "Squeezed between the silence of the Sahara Desert in the South, the furious waves of the Atlantic Ocean in the West, and the Christian invaders' aggression from the North, Moroccans recoiled in defensive attitudes, while all the other Muslim nations have sailed away into modernity. Women have advanced everywhere except here. We are a museum. We should make tourists pay a fee at the gates of Tangier!"
The problem with some of Chama's favorite feminists, especially the early ones, was that they did not do much besides write, since they were locked up in harems. That meant that there was not much action to be staged, and we just had to sit and listen to Cham
a recite their protests and complaints in monologue. The life of Aisha Taymour was the worst. Born in Cairo in 11840, all she did, nonstop until her death in igo6, was write fiery poetry against the veil. She wrote in many languages however - Arabic, Turkish, and even Persian - and that impressed me. A woman held hostage in a harem, speaking foreign languages! Speaking a foreign language is like opening a window in a blind wall. Speaking a foreign language in a harem is like developing wings that allow you to fly to another culture, even if the frontier is still there, and the gatekeeper too. When Chama wanted us to know that Aisha Taymour was reading her poetry in Turkish or Persian, languages no one in Fez Medina had ever heard or could understand, she would throw her head way back, fix her eyes on the ceiling or the sky, and start uttering unintelligible guttural nonsense, using the rhythms of Arabic poetry. That made Mother impatient. "We have been enlightened, dear, and impressed with Aisha's mastery of Turkish," she would say. "Now switch to Arabic, or you'll lose your audience." At that Chama would abruptly stop speaking, look very offended, and ask Mother to apologize at once. "I am weaving delicate magic," she would say, "and if you keep shouting, you'll destroy the dream." Mother would then stand up, bow her head and entire upper torso, raise it again, and swear that she would never again utter a misplaced word. For the rest of the drama, she would sit motionless, with a visibly appreciative smile on her face.
Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girlhood Page 10