Ameena reached into her hijab to uncover her Hand of Fatima necklace. She twisted the piece in her hand, investigating every part of the tiny silver pendant. She traced the eye etched into the silver with her slender brown fingers as she rode home with her father.
“What are you thinking?”
“About people.”
“That’s a very heavy thought.”
“I just wonder why people are so different.”
“They are different by the grace of Allah.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ameena.
“If we were all the same, there would be nothing to do. There would be nothing to say. Imagine if I was just like Mr. Saleem. Nothing would get accomplished, because nothing would be unique.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It matters because everything under the sun has a purpose. The Imams want the Ile de Purpuraires to be a holy place. Mr. Saleem wants to build a restaurant.”
“What do you want?”
“I want for everyone to be happy.”
“But how can they be happy if they want to do different things with the island?”
“Are you happy when you’re around your mother?”
“Of course.”
“How can that be? You and your mother are very different.”
“But you and my mother are very different, too,” replied Ameena.
“Exactly. I love your mother because she is not me. She complements me.”
“What do you mean?”
“She fills in the holes with her differences.”
“I think she is too difficult, just like the Imams. This is a new world, with new views on things.”
“I agree, but the old way is good, too.”
Ameea remained quiet for the remainder of the trip home. She thought hard and long about ‘the old way’. Many times, she did not think it was good at all. When she arrived home, she changed out of her hijab and into jeans and a t-shirt.
“Ameena, why must you dress like a hippie from Marrakech?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena frowned.
“Fatima, can you please give her a little space?” pleaded Mr. Mansoor.
Mrs. Mansoor heaved a sigh. “This world is paradise to the non-believers and a prison for the believers.”
Ameena followed her mother into the kitchen. Mrs. Mansoor was busy at the chopping block, cutting vegetables into cubed pieces with the chef’s knife.
“What do you mean it’s a prison?”
Mrs. Mansoor stopped and looked down at Ameena.
“The words of the prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him, speak true. Every day you must carve the name of Allah upon your heart.”
“When I wear these clothes, I do not disgrace Allah. It only makes my sacrifice stronger when I wear hijab.”
“Hijab is an honor,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“Then why do you not wear it all day and all night in all places Allah can see?”
“It is written in the Qu’ran.”
“Wearing hijab is not written in the Qu’ran,” said Ameena.
“Where have you heard such things?”
“From Mr. Saleem.”
“I think he is not a good influence,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“I think he’s a fine influence,” interrupted Ameena’s father, “Ameea may have the opportunity to learn many great things from him.”
Mrs. Mansoor went back to her vegetables, quickly dicing them into tiny pieces. Ameena stood beside her. Mr. Mansoor returned to the living room.
“Mother?” asked Ameena.
“Yes?”
“Why can’t I be both?”
“Be both what?”
“Be both a good Muslim with the hijab and a good Muslim without it? Does my hijab reveal who I am or is it my heart?”
Mrs. Mansoor stopped chopping.
“When I was just a girl, my mother wanted me to go to school. My father said no. He wanted me to be a good wife for a good man.”
“And?”
“So I went to University for one year. All of my girlfriends stayed at home with their families. They tended the fields. They washed the clothes. They made the food.”
“Aren’t both good?”
“Girls nowadays do not follow Islam. That is not good,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“I follow Islam.”
“That is right,” replied Mrs. Mansoor, “and most of my girlfriends never learned to read or write their own names. This is the old way, too. I guess both ways can be right. I just don’t want you walking away from Islam.”
“I am not walking away from Islam. I am just wearing a pair of jeans.”
Ameena thought hard and long about the things her mother said to her at the chopping block. The next morning, when she rose from bed, she immediately changed into her full hijab, veil and all. When she arrived downstairs, Ameena’s mother gave a look up and down at her daughter.
“What is this?”
“I’d still like to go to the island with my father today.”
“I suppose it is alright,” replied Mrs. Mansoor, “just remember what I said.”
“Thank you very much,” exclaimed Ameena.
She rushed out to her father to give him the good news. He already knew from the smile in Ameena’s eyes that it would be another day with his daughter.
“Let’s get going,” he said.
They went to the island without hesitation. Mr. Saleem and the Imams were already at the Mosque, discussing their ideas, both old and new.
As Ameena and her father entered the small room at the Mosque, they saw Mr. Saleem and the Imams gathered around the table. When they approached the table, Mr. Saleem unrolled a new set of blueprints. A collective gasp came from the Imams.
“How could this be?” asked one of the priests.
“I was sitting on my porch last night, thinking about my restaurant, your mosque, and our island. Just after the last call to prayer, I looked up at the stars that filled the midnight sky. This is when the idea came to me.”
“For a building shaped like an eight-pointed star?” asked the priest.
“Not just any star,” replied Mr. Saleem, “but the Khatim Sulayman, the eight-pointed star of Morocco.”
“I think you are trying to make fools of us.”
“It would be the perfect complement to the Mosque. I will not serve any alcohol, other than wine. I think that is a fair compromise. Also, I will respect and honor the Mosque with my restaurant. We will celebrate the history of Morocco.”
The priest leaned back in his chair. Then, the three priests whispered among themselves.
“Mr. Saleem,” said the priest, “Have you ever heard the saying ‘A man's true wealth here after is the good he does in this world to his fellow man.’?”
“I think I’ve heard it somewhere,” Mr. Saleem replied.
“It is a common saying among the Imam. They are the words of the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him.”
“I think the restaurant would serve the purposes of all of us,” said Mr. Saleem. “Your visitors would have a place to eat. I understand that, and understand that without the Mosque, there may be no visitors to the island at all.”
“That is true,” said the Imam.
“My restaurant will give your visitors a greater reason to stay. It will also allow you to reach more people.”
The priests conferred with each other again. The main priest nodded.
“We will agree to the terms that you’ve put into the contract,” said the priest.
Ameena’s father presented the contract to both the priests and Mr. Saleem. Everyone signed on his own dotted line. Afterwards, they even shook hands. Now, Mr. Saleem would have his restaurant.
Once a Fisherman
For Mr. Mansoor, there were still matters unfinished on an island just off the coast of mainland Morocco. He tidied himself, putting on his best Sherwani, dressed for the meeting today with Mr. Saleem and one of the leaders of the Iles de Purpuraires community, a chief cleric from the Mosque.
For Ameena, it was business as usual. She laid on the soft purple Berber carpet in her bedroom, reading the Qu’ran. She did not have a care in the world. Of all Mr. Mansoor’s children, Ameena would be the lucky one today, because all of that would change.
“Ameena,” said Mr. Manssor as he stood in the hall outside her room, “would you like to return to the island with me today?”
Ameena nodded eagerly, ready to get out of the house. Her mother came down the hall.
“What about me?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“You can come along, if you want.”
“I meant ‘who is going to help me around the house?’”
“I thought it would be good if Ameena went to work with me today. She enjoyed it so much last time.”
Mrs. Mansoor heaved a sigh.
“Alright, be gone with the both of you.”
Just then, Yusef came upstairs.
“I need the car. I have an exam today.”
“You can drop us off near the Skala,” replied Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena tucked her Qu’ran back into its place on the bookshelf and washed her hands. She, however, did not put on her veil.
“What is this?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena looked around.
“We’re meeting one of the Imams today. I think it’s best if you wear the complete hijab.”
Ameena frowned.
“It’s only right,” said her father.
Ameena returned to her bedroom and fastened her veil into place. Again, it was the little girl with the big brown eyes that always said everything. Ameena presented herself to her father for inspection.
“Perfect,” said her father, “Now we can go.”
Ameena climbed into the back seat and watched the road as Yusef drove. Usually when Yusef drove, Ameena would have to worry about Yusef’s wild driving. Today, however, he drove like Jamal, slow and steady. Ameena knew it was just because her father was there.
While Yusef drove, Mr. Mansoor made a call on his cell phone to Mr. Saleem.
“He should be waiting near the Skala.”
Yusef pulled into an alleyway alongside the old citadel. As the hatchback emerged from the narrow roads near the Medina, Ameena picked Mr. Saleem out from the crowd with a pointed finger.
“Here we go,” said Mr. Mansoor, “just drop us off here,”
As soon as they climbed out, Yusef sped off.
“Good morning!” greeted Mr. Saleem, “Are you ready for business?”
“The question is, ‘Are you ready?’” Mr. Mansoor replied.
Mr. Saleem found a boat and paid the captain several dirham to take everyone to the island.
While they rode across the choppy ocean waves, Mr. Mansoor and Mr. Saleem talked. The noise from the boat, however, made it impossible for Ameena to hear.
When they arrived at the island, the captain secured the boat to the pier before helping everyone safely to shore. They climbed the narrow stairway to the island.
As soon as they arrived at the top of the stairs, Ameena saw a tall tower, called a minaret guarding over the mosque at the center of the island.
A familiar sound came over loudspeakers mounted at the top of the minaret. It was the call to prayer.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. Mr. Mansoor quickly borrowed three towels from the a shopkeeper nearby. Everyone kneeled on the towels and prayed.
The sound of the chant-like prayer filled the morning air.
"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Ash-hadu alla ilaha illaha!”
It meant: “Allah is Greatest! Allah is Greatest! I bear witness that there is no god but Allah!"
After the prayer, Mr. Mansoor picked up the towels, dusted them off, and rolled them up again. He returned them to the shopkeeper and thanked him. To the shopkeeper, it was only right. It was his duty to a fellow Muslim.
Mr. Saleem, Mr. Mansoor, and Ameena walked the rest of the way to the Mosque. To Ameena, it looked like it stood guard over the island. Its minaret was like an old lighthouse. Its walls were like the stone walls of the citadel just across the bay.
“Let’s go inside,” said Mr. Saleem.
Across the courtyard, there stood a small shelter house. Instead of one man, there were three. All three men were dressed very formally. They wore white sherwani robes and white turbans. Ameena bowed her head, looking at her shadow.
Soon, they approached the three men. To Ameena, they were three tall minarets, standing over her.
“Hello, Imam Mustafa, this is Mr. Mansoor and his daughter, Ameena.”
“Hello, Mr. Saleem,” said the Imam. He introduced the two other priests and then everyone went into the shelter house at the Mosque.
Inside, a young woman, dressed in a black hijab, just like Ameena, carried dishes out to a small square table. Everyone else sat around the table.
“Help yourselves,” said Imam Mustafa, “please enjoy what we’ve fixed for you.”
There were plums. There were dates. There were olives. There was cheese. There were also chunks of cooked fish and slices of goat meat. Bread was stacked high upon another plate. On each small plate, there was something different.
“Do you see all that we have to offer?” asked one of the Imams.
“I do,” said Mr. Saleem.
“Everything here is halal. That means it is okay in the eyes of Allah.”
“I understand that,” said Mr. Saleem.
“The things you bring to our island, like French cheeses and Italian wines. These things are not allowed in the eyes of Allah.”
“These are not the old times,” said Mr. Saleem.
“You have forgotten the words of the Qu’ran which state that the body is a temple and you must consider this each time you sit at the dining table. When you put something unpure into your body, whether its food or drink, you make your whole body unpure.”
Mr. Saleem heaved a sigh.
“I know this…”
“Yet you fail to abide by Islamic law. Every day, you must carve the name of God upon your heart,” said one of the Imam.
Ameena stirred to life. These were words she’d heard before. Ameena rubbed her neck, just where the pendant of her necklace lay.
“Mr. Mansoor,” said one of the Imam, “do you follow halal?”
Mr. Mansoor was silent.
“Why not? Weren’t you born Muslim?”
“I was, but I grew up overseas.”
“A Muslim man is not defined by where he stands, but how he stands. Each day you drink wine, you walk away from Allah.”
Mr. Saleem sighed again.
“Do you not believe this, Mr. Saleem?”
“I am no longer a Muslim man.”
“How can this be?” asked the Imam.
“I have seen many things which make me think differently.”
“This island breathes the breath of Islam. When the Ottomans came here over ten centuries ago, they brought Islam. You cannot let it die in one generation.”
“I’m not letting it die,” said Mr. Saleem.
“You most certainly are,” said another Imam.
Mr. Saleem quietly rolled up the blueprint which he had shown Ameena and her father. He got up and walked out of the small room.
“I’m very sorry,” apologized Mr. Mansoor.
The priests nodded, but said nothing.
“Come on, Ameena. Let’s go.”
Ameena hurried after her father, who hurried after Mr. Saleem.
“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
“The Imam are being very closed-minded.”
They continued across the courtyard and out the doors of the Mosque. Mr. Saleem carried on such a fast pace that Ameena was running. She even had to hurry to get into the boat as it started and the captain struggled to wait for her.
“You’re the one being stubbon,” said Mr. Mansoor, “I asked you if you were ready.”
“I was ready.”
“You only seemed ready to say no.”
“How can you say that, Latif?”
Mr. Mansoor paused for a second and looked around him. The boat chopped across the waves, passing by fishing boats of all shapes and sizes. It reminded him of his life when Ameena was not yet born.
“I was once a fisherman in this very bay. Although times have changed, they’ve remained the same. The fishermen still cast nets every morning. They go to market, selling what they’ve caught. You have to respect that history. The same is true with the Imam.”
“What should I do?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“They put the food out on the table not to feed your stomach, but to feed your heart. The Imam were showing you what you could still sell at your restaurant. Just because there are restrictions, it does not mean you are not free.”
Mr. Saleem sighed again.
“Think about it,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I will,” nodded Mr. Saleem.
“I think that is all the old men ask…is that you think about it.”
For Ameena, it was business as usual. She laid on the soft purple Berber carpet in her bedroom, reading the Qu’ran. She did not have a care in the world. Of all Mr. Mansoor’s children, Ameena would be the lucky one today, because all of that would change.
“Ameena,” said Mr. Manssor as he stood in the hall outside her room, “would you like to return to the island with me today?”
Ameena nodded eagerly, ready to get out of the house. Her mother came down the hall.
“What about me?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“You can come along, if you want.”
“I meant ‘who is going to help me around the house?’”
“I thought it would be good if Ameena went to work with me today. She enjoyed it so much last time.”
Mrs. Mansoor heaved a sigh.
“Alright, be gone with the both of you.”
Just then, Yusef came upstairs.
“I need the car. I have an exam today.”
“You can drop us off near the Skala,” replied Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena tucked her Qu’ran back into its place on the bookshelf and washed her hands. She, however, did not put on her veil.
“What is this?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena looked around.
“We’re meeting one of the Imams today. I think it’s best if you wear the complete hijab.”
Ameena frowned.
“It’s only right,” said her father.
Ameena returned to her bedroom and fastened her veil into place. Again, it was the little girl with the big brown eyes that always said everything. Ameena presented herself to her father for inspection.
“Perfect,” said her father, “Now we can go.”
Ameena climbed into the back seat and watched the road as Yusef drove. Usually when Yusef drove, Ameena would have to worry about Yusef’s wild driving. Today, however, he drove like Jamal, slow and steady. Ameena knew it was just because her father was there.
While Yusef drove, Mr. Mansoor made a call on his cell phone to Mr. Saleem.
“He should be waiting near the Skala.”
Yusef pulled into an alleyway alongside the old citadel. As the hatchback emerged from the narrow roads near the Medina, Ameena picked Mr. Saleem out from the crowd with a pointed finger.
“Here we go,” said Mr. Mansoor, “just drop us off here,”
As soon as they climbed out, Yusef sped off.
“Good morning!” greeted Mr. Saleem, “Are you ready for business?”
“The question is, ‘Are you ready?’” Mr. Mansoor replied.
Mr. Saleem found a boat and paid the captain several dirham to take everyone to the island.
While they rode across the choppy ocean waves, Mr. Mansoor and Mr. Saleem talked. The noise from the boat, however, made it impossible for Ameena to hear.
When they arrived at the island, the captain secured the boat to the pier before helping everyone safely to shore. They climbed the narrow stairway to the island.
As soon as they arrived at the top of the stairs, Ameena saw a tall tower, called a minaret guarding over the mosque at the center of the island.
A familiar sound came over loudspeakers mounted at the top of the minaret. It was the call to prayer.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. Mr. Mansoor quickly borrowed three towels from the a shopkeeper nearby. Everyone kneeled on the towels and prayed.
The sound of the chant-like prayer filled the morning air.
"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Ash-hadu alla ilaha illaha!”
It meant: “Allah is Greatest! Allah is Greatest! I bear witness that there is no god but Allah!"
After the prayer, Mr. Mansoor picked up the towels, dusted them off, and rolled them up again. He returned them to the shopkeeper and thanked him. To the shopkeeper, it was only right. It was his duty to a fellow Muslim.
Mr. Saleem, Mr. Mansoor, and Ameena walked the rest of the way to the Mosque. To Ameena, it looked like it stood guard over the island. Its minaret was like an old lighthouse. Its walls were like the stone walls of the citadel just across the bay.
“Let’s go inside,” said Mr. Saleem.
Across the courtyard, there stood a small shelter house. Instead of one man, there were three. All three men were dressed very formally. They wore white sherwani robes and white turbans. Ameena bowed her head, looking at her shadow.
Soon, they approached the three men. To Ameena, they were three tall minarets, standing over her.
“Hello, Imam Mustafa, this is Mr. Mansoor and his daughter, Ameena.”
“Hello, Mr. Saleem,” said the Imam. He introduced the two other priests and then everyone went into the shelter house at the Mosque.
Inside, a young woman, dressed in a black hijab, just like Ameena, carried dishes out to a small square table. Everyone else sat around the table.
“Help yourselves,” said Imam Mustafa, “please enjoy what we’ve fixed for you.”
There were plums. There were dates. There were olives. There was cheese. There were also chunks of cooked fish and slices of goat meat. Bread was stacked high upon another plate. On each small plate, there was something different.
“Do you see all that we have to offer?” asked one of the Imams.
“I do,” said Mr. Saleem.
“Everything here is halal. That means it is okay in the eyes of Allah.”
“I understand that,” said Mr. Saleem.
“The things you bring to our island, like French cheeses and Italian wines. These things are not allowed in the eyes of Allah.”
“These are not the old times,” said Mr. Saleem.
“You have forgotten the words of the Qu’ran which state that the body is a temple and you must consider this each time you sit at the dining table. When you put something unpure into your body, whether its food or drink, you make your whole body unpure.”
Mr. Saleem heaved a sigh.
“I know this…”
“Yet you fail to abide by Islamic law. Every day, you must carve the name of God upon your heart,” said one of the Imam.
Ameena stirred to life. These were words she’d heard before. Ameena rubbed her neck, just where the pendant of her necklace lay.
“Mr. Mansoor,” said one of the Imam, “do you follow halal?”
Mr. Mansoor was silent.
“Why not? Weren’t you born Muslim?”
“I was, but I grew up overseas.”
“A Muslim man is not defined by where he stands, but how he stands. Each day you drink wine, you walk away from Allah.”
Mr. Saleem sighed again.
“Do you not believe this, Mr. Saleem?”
“I am no longer a Muslim man.”
“How can this be?” asked the Imam.
“I have seen many things which make me think differently.”
“This island breathes the breath of Islam. When the Ottomans came here over ten centuries ago, they brought Islam. You cannot let it die in one generation.”
“I’m not letting it die,” said Mr. Saleem.
“You most certainly are,” said another Imam.
Mr. Saleem quietly rolled up the blueprint which he had shown Ameena and her father. He got up and walked out of the small room.
“I’m very sorry,” apologized Mr. Mansoor.
The priests nodded, but said nothing.
“Come on, Ameena. Let’s go.”
Ameena hurried after her father, who hurried after Mr. Saleem.
“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
“The Imam are being very closed-minded.”
They continued across the courtyard and out the doors of the Mosque. Mr. Saleem carried on such a fast pace that Ameena was running. She even had to hurry to get into the boat as it started and the captain struggled to wait for her.
“You’re the one being stubbon,” said Mr. Mansoor, “I asked you if you were ready.”
“I was ready.”
“You only seemed ready to say no.”
“How can you say that, Latif?”
Mr. Mansoor paused for a second and looked around him. The boat chopped across the waves, passing by fishing boats of all shapes and sizes. It reminded him of his life when Ameena was not yet born.
“I was once a fisherman in this very bay. Although times have changed, they’ve remained the same. The fishermen still cast nets every morning. They go to market, selling what they’ve caught. You have to respect that history. The same is true with the Imam.”
“What should I do?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“They put the food out on the table not to feed your stomach, but to feed your heart. The Imam were showing you what you could still sell at your restaurant. Just because there are restrictions, it does not mean you are not free.”
Mr. Saleem sighed again.
“Think about it,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I will,” nodded Mr. Saleem.
“I think that is all the old men ask…is that you think about it.”
The Green March
Piles of Pillows partitioned the living room into two segments. Mr. and Mrs. Mansoor sat on one side. Ameena and her two youngest brothers were on the other side.
After hours of fighting for space, Ameena and Mohammed found their own private parts of the floor.
Ameena laid belly-down with a bunch of pillows stuffed beneath her arms while she read a pocket book. Little Mohammed rested his head upon the small of her back. His feet rested on another pillow pile.
Kareem laid on the couch. Every piece of clothing he wore was green. Unfortunately, no two pieces of clothes matched.
"Kareem?" asked Mrs. Mansoor.
"Yes?"
"Are all these green clothes your way of celebrating 'The Green March'?"
"I was thinking about it this morning."
"Well, you are certainly making a fashion statement. Your shirt is jade-colored. Your denim shorts are dull green and your socks are the color of unripe limes!"
"It's all the green clothes I have."
"It's almost a disgrace to 'The Green March'!"
"What is 'The Green March'?" asked Mohammed.
"It was a war between the Moroccans and Spanish."
"We had another war?" sighed Mohammed.
"In ways it wasn't a war," said Mr. Mansoor, "it was Morocco expressing its rights."
"What kind of rights?"
"Land rights. Morocco had owned the West Sahara and Spain took control a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“In the late 1800s,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“And the Spanish ruled over Western Sahara for almost a century, until 1975,” added Kareem.
“What happened then?” asked Mohammed.
“The Green March. Up until that time, most of Africa was ruled over by foreign countries like Great Britain, France, Germany, and Spain. It was a time called the Colonial Era.”
“Like Colonies?” said Mohammed.
“Exactly,” said Kareem, “One country holds control over another country’s land. Spain controlled Western Sahara, but both Morocco and Mauritania wanted to reclaim the desert.”
“Why Mauritania?”
“It’s the country directly to our south. At one time, they also owned part of the Sahara.”
“What happened?”
“In 1975, people from Morocco and Mauritania marched toward the Western Sahara. The French soldiers stood at the border, but were ordered not to fire.”
“Why was it called ‘the Green March’, then?”
“The green represented Islam, like the Saudi Arabian and Pakistan flags. We had a right to the land because the Berbers once lived there.”
“So, that’s when the war began?”
“That’s when the war ended. Leaders from Morocco, Mauritania, and Spain met in Spain’s capital, Madrid. The leaders came up with a compromoise. Mauritania and Morocco got their land back.”
“Not completely,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“What do you mean?” asked Kareem.
“That’s why we built the Moroccan Wall.”
“That’s how it got there?”
Mrs. Mansoor nodded, “The Moroccans built a wall of land near Rio de Oro: the River of Gold. Imagine it like this row of pillows. Kareem represents Mauritania and Ameena is Morocco.”
“What am I?” asked Mohammed.
“You’re the Spanish.”
“Aww, why do I have to be Spain?”
“Because I said so,” replied Mrs. Mansoor.
Mrs. Mansoor rearranged the pillows on the floor. She also moved Ameena to the side opposite the couch.
“Now, your father and I are traditional Morocco. After the talks, Morocco built the Moroccan Wall in the middle of the desert. Ameena represents the Saharan part of Morocco. Kareem represents Mauritania.”
“What happens to me?” asked Mohammed.
“The Moroccans and Mauritanians paid the Spanish to give up their land hold.”
“That sounds good to me.”
Mrs. Mansoor resumed her place in her rocking chair. Meanwhile, Mohammed stood in the middle of the floor with both hands extended.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Waiting for my payment.”
“It was just a demonstration.”
“But I’m Spain.”
“If you’re Spain, you should cross the Mediterranean.”
Little Mohammed walked into the dining room, next to his father. Still, his hands were outstretched. Mr. Mansoor dropped several dirham into one of his open hands.
“This is all Spain gets?”
“If Spain doesn’t quit it, he’s going to be colonized right to his room,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Little Mohammed continued to extend his hand for a few seconds longer. Mrs. Mansoor glared over the top of her glasses at her smallest child. Mohammed carefully tucked his coins into his pocket.
“Morocco? Can I visit the Sahara for awhile?”
Ameena looked up at her parents. Mr. Mansoor let out a sly grin and nodded. Ameena nodded to Mohammed and he returned to his old place on the floor. Being Spain was tough. Being Ameena’s little brother, however, felt just right.
After hours of fighting for space, Ameena and Mohammed found their own private parts of the floor.
Ameena laid belly-down with a bunch of pillows stuffed beneath her arms while she read a pocket book. Little Mohammed rested his head upon the small of her back. His feet rested on another pillow pile.
Kareem laid on the couch. Every piece of clothing he wore was green. Unfortunately, no two pieces of clothes matched.
"Kareem?" asked Mrs. Mansoor.
"Yes?"
"Are all these green clothes your way of celebrating 'The Green March'?"
"I was thinking about it this morning."
"Well, you are certainly making a fashion statement. Your shirt is jade-colored. Your denim shorts are dull green and your socks are the color of unripe limes!"
"It's all the green clothes I have."
"It's almost a disgrace to 'The Green March'!"
"What is 'The Green March'?" asked Mohammed.
"It was a war between the Moroccans and Spanish."
"We had another war?" sighed Mohammed.
"In ways it wasn't a war," said Mr. Mansoor, "it was Morocco expressing its rights."
"What kind of rights?"
"Land rights. Morocco had owned the West Sahara and Spain took control a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“In the late 1800s,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“And the Spanish ruled over Western Sahara for almost a century, until 1975,” added Kareem.
“What happened then?” asked Mohammed.
“The Green March. Up until that time, most of Africa was ruled over by foreign countries like Great Britain, France, Germany, and Spain. It was a time called the Colonial Era.”
“Like Colonies?” said Mohammed.
“Exactly,” said Kareem, “One country holds control over another country’s land. Spain controlled Western Sahara, but both Morocco and Mauritania wanted to reclaim the desert.”
“Why Mauritania?”
“It’s the country directly to our south. At one time, they also owned part of the Sahara.”
“What happened?”
“In 1975, people from Morocco and Mauritania marched toward the Western Sahara. The French soldiers stood at the border, but were ordered not to fire.”
“Why was it called ‘the Green March’, then?”
“The green represented Islam, like the Saudi Arabian and Pakistan flags. We had a right to the land because the Berbers once lived there.”
“So, that’s when the war began?”
“That’s when the war ended. Leaders from Morocco, Mauritania, and Spain met in Spain’s capital, Madrid. The leaders came up with a compromoise. Mauritania and Morocco got their land back.”
“Not completely,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“What do you mean?” asked Kareem.
“That’s why we built the Moroccan Wall.”
“That’s how it got there?”
Mrs. Mansoor nodded, “The Moroccans built a wall of land near Rio de Oro: the River of Gold. Imagine it like this row of pillows. Kareem represents Mauritania and Ameena is Morocco.”
“What am I?” asked Mohammed.
“You’re the Spanish.”
“Aww, why do I have to be Spain?”
“Because I said so,” replied Mrs. Mansoor.
Mrs. Mansoor rearranged the pillows on the floor. She also moved Ameena to the side opposite the couch.
“Now, your father and I are traditional Morocco. After the talks, Morocco built the Moroccan Wall in the middle of the desert. Ameena represents the Saharan part of Morocco. Kareem represents Mauritania.”
“What happens to me?” asked Mohammed.
“The Moroccans and Mauritanians paid the Spanish to give up their land hold.”
“That sounds good to me.”
Mrs. Mansoor resumed her place in her rocking chair. Meanwhile, Mohammed stood in the middle of the floor with both hands extended.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Waiting for my payment.”
“It was just a demonstration.”
“But I’m Spain.”
“If you’re Spain, you should cross the Mediterranean.”
Little Mohammed walked into the dining room, next to his father. Still, his hands were outstretched. Mr. Mansoor dropped several dirham into one of his open hands.
“This is all Spain gets?”
“If Spain doesn’t quit it, he’s going to be colonized right to his room,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Little Mohammed continued to extend his hand for a few seconds longer. Mrs. Mansoor glared over the top of her glasses at her smallest child. Mohammed carefully tucked his coins into his pocket.
“Morocco? Can I visit the Sahara for awhile?”
Ameena looked up at her parents. Mr. Mansoor let out a sly grin and nodded. Ameena nodded to Mohammed and he returned to his old place on the floor. Being Spain was tough. Being Ameena’s little brother, however, felt just right.
Along the Barbary Coast
“Just like good King Hassan says, ‘Moroccan food is like a desert palm: rooted in Africa, watered by Islam, and rustled by the winds of Europe.’”
Those were the words her mother said all the time. They echoed in Ameena’s head as she sat in the street café near the Medina. Her brothers Kareem and Mohammed were there. Her father was there, too.
She completely understood what her mother had said, She was in a Greek restaurant in Morocco, eating tiny slivers of lamb meat tucked into pita bread and smothered with curried bean paste. A large round of Spanish paella mixto (mixed paella) sat in the middle of the table, too. As usual, there was also the traditional pitcher o Tuareg tea to wash it all down.
To Ameena, it just tasted good.
“I’m glad your mother let you kids come with me to the Skala. This is a rare chance, indeed.”
“What are we going to do?” asked little Mohammed.
“We are going to the Ile de Purpuraires. I have to talk to an architect. He wants to erect a building there.”
“What kind of building?” asked Kareem.
“That’s what I have to talk to him about.”
The children followed their father to the pier where Mr. Mansoor hired a boat captain to take them to the island. The old motor bumbled as it pushed the boat across the choppy ocean waves between the two shores.
When they arrived at the island, the captain got out and steadied the boat so the children could get out. They jumped into the shallow surf and walked up the sandy beach. Tall, rocky cliffs protected the mainland from the shore. Atop the cliff sat a mosque. It’s minaret rose high above the island, like a lighthouse.
Mr. Mansoor led the children up a narrow trail to the top of the cliff. When they arrived there, they found a taxi and got inside.
“Where are we going?” asked Kareem.
“To the main part of the island.”
The main part of the island was barely a three minute taxi ride from the shore. A small village sat in the middle of the island. There were a few tourists there, exploring the old citadels and mosques on the island. In fact, Mr. Mansoor met the architect near one of the citadels in the middle of the city.
“Latif Mansoor?” asked a man.
“Mr. Saleem? Is it you?”
“It is indeed.”
“How did you recognize me?”
“Your children. This must your boy Kareem and little Mohammed,” he said.
Mr. Saleem turned towards the girl in the black hijab who said nothing.
“And you must be Ameena.”
Ameena smiled as she nodded to Mr. Saleem. Her eyes smiled, too.
“Let’s find a place to sit and talk,” suggested Mr. Mansoor.
“How about across the street at the tea saloon?”
The men went across the street as the children followed. When they arrived, Mr. Mansoor and Mr. Saleem sat down. Kareem and Mohammed stood beside the table.
“Can we go to the citadel?” asked Kareem.
“Yes, but be back in an hour,” said Mr. Mansoor.
The two boys rushed back to the citadel. Ameena sat down between Mr. Saleem and her father.
“We must certainly be boring to you,” said Mr. Saleem, “would you like something to eat?”
Ameena shook her head.
“We ate before we came,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I’m a little hungry, so I’ll order some tea and pastries. You can help yourself if you want.”
Mr. Saleem pulled a cardboard cylinder from his attaché case. He unrolled two sets of blueprints. One outlined the island and different plots of land on the island. The other was a diagram of his building. As far as Ameena could tell, it looked like a restaurant.
“With the growing tourism industry in Essaouira, I think this would be a good time to be the first restaurant on the Island.”
“Have you talked to the local Imams?”
“The Muslim priests are against new developments.”
“It’s not something to take lightly. We cannot even break new ground without getting their okay on the project.”
“I know, I know,” nodded Mr. Saleem, “but there are ways around that, too.”
“Purpuraires is important to the Imams. When the Ottomans came here from Turkey, they wanted Morocco as an Atlantic outpost. They had already controlled the Mediterranean. No European could get to Asia without their permission.”
“Or going around Africa,” added Mr. Saleem.
“Until Barbary.”
Mr. Saleem nodded.
In the 16th Century, several empires fought for control of the seas. It was the exploration age. The Dutch traveled to the East Indies. Spanish explorers like de Gama and Coronado explored South America. Even the Portuguese had Christopher Columbus, who traveled to North America.
Nobody, however, had traveled to India without first going through the Ottomans. A group of sailors, which included the Ottoman Turks and some Berbers from Morocco, formed a group of pirates called ‘the Barbary Corsairs’.
The Barbary Pirates sailed by night, marauding ports all along the Mediterranean coast. They also boarded trading ships trying to pass through the straits between Africa and Asia. They charged a tax, often taking most of the goods the merchant ships brought back from India and the East. This caused all merchants to sail around the south of Africa. Even then, the Barbary Pirates would control the seaways around southern Africa, too.
“I still think we can come to an agreement with the Imams,” said Mr. Saleem, “After all, I’m one of their Muslim brothers. I am from Turkey, after all.”
“Let us hope,” said Mr. Mansoor.
When the refreshments arrived, Ameena withdrew the veil from her face and took tiny bites of a crème-filled pastry.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Saleem.
Ameena nodded.
“Unfortunately, all we have on the island are tea shops and coffee shops. It is not enough.”
Ameena frowned in agreement. Then, her father motioned for her to pour the tea. She did as always, starting slow and drawing the pitcher high above the cup. Bubbles and foam formed on the surface.
“Perfect pour,” said Mr. Saleem.
“Day by day she’s getting better.”
After Ameena finished pouring a cup for herself, Kareem and Mohammed ran up, carrying sticks in their hands.
“What have you been up to?” said Mr. Mansoor, “…no, wait…let me guess…Midnight Marauders?”
Kareem and Mohammed nodded.
“What is Midnight Marauders?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“We’re swashbucklers,” said Kareem.
“Just like the Barbary Pirates?”
“Or anyone fighting over Morocco,” said Kareem.
“Even the Europeans?”
“Of course,” relpied Kareem, “I have friends from all over the globe and they are not my enemies.”
“I suppose that’s right,” said Mr. Saleem, “we Moroccans come from everywhere.”
“Papa is from Spain,” said little Mohammed.
“I’m not from Spain,” corrected Mr. Mansoor, “I’m from Tunisia, but my father is from Spain.”
“Close enough,” said Mohammed.
“Even though we’re from the same country, sometimes we disagree based on who we were before,” said Mr. Saleem.
“What do you mean?”
“There are people who do not want me to build here on the island. Yes, part of it is about the history of the island, but still, part of it is because I am different. This is one of the eternal struggles of Morocco. We’ve all come from different cultures and sometimes those cultures do not agree. Still, we manage.”
“I think that’s the old way,” said Kareem.
“How so?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“In our school, we celebrate all cultures. I am Muslim, but one of my best friends has family in Portugal. He is Christian. We do not let this get in our way.”
“Sometimes it’s easier for children,” said Mr. Saleem.
“It doesn’t have to be,” said Kareem.
“Ideally, you’re right,” said Mr. Saleem, “but sometimes old people are like old locks. They’re full of rust and will not budge.”
“That is why there is oil to free the lock,” said Kareem.
“I suppose you’re right,” chuckled Mr. Saleem.
“Now if we can just find the right oil for the Imams,” said Mr. Mansoor.
The two men shook hands at the end of the meal. Mr. Mansoor packed the blueprints into the tube and walked to a different part of the shore, where several fishing boats waited. Mr. Mansoor hired another captain who took them back to the port near the Skala.
Afterwards, they returned home. Ameena wondered how her father would unlock the opinions of the old Muslim priests.
Those were the words her mother said all the time. They echoed in Ameena’s head as she sat in the street café near the Medina. Her brothers Kareem and Mohammed were there. Her father was there, too.
She completely understood what her mother had said, She was in a Greek restaurant in Morocco, eating tiny slivers of lamb meat tucked into pita bread and smothered with curried bean paste. A large round of Spanish paella mixto (mixed paella) sat in the middle of the table, too. As usual, there was also the traditional pitcher o Tuareg tea to wash it all down.
To Ameena, it just tasted good.
“I’m glad your mother let you kids come with me to the Skala. This is a rare chance, indeed.”
“What are we going to do?” asked little Mohammed.
“We are going to the Ile de Purpuraires. I have to talk to an architect. He wants to erect a building there.”
“What kind of building?” asked Kareem.
“That’s what I have to talk to him about.”
The children followed their father to the pier where Mr. Mansoor hired a boat captain to take them to the island. The old motor bumbled as it pushed the boat across the choppy ocean waves between the two shores.
When they arrived at the island, the captain got out and steadied the boat so the children could get out. They jumped into the shallow surf and walked up the sandy beach. Tall, rocky cliffs protected the mainland from the shore. Atop the cliff sat a mosque. It’s minaret rose high above the island, like a lighthouse.
Mr. Mansoor led the children up a narrow trail to the top of the cliff. When they arrived there, they found a taxi and got inside.
“Where are we going?” asked Kareem.
“To the main part of the island.”
The main part of the island was barely a three minute taxi ride from the shore. A small village sat in the middle of the island. There were a few tourists there, exploring the old citadels and mosques on the island. In fact, Mr. Mansoor met the architect near one of the citadels in the middle of the city.
“Latif Mansoor?” asked a man.
“Mr. Saleem? Is it you?”
“It is indeed.”
“How did you recognize me?”
“Your children. This must your boy Kareem and little Mohammed,” he said.
Mr. Saleem turned towards the girl in the black hijab who said nothing.
“And you must be Ameena.”
Ameena smiled as she nodded to Mr. Saleem. Her eyes smiled, too.
“Let’s find a place to sit and talk,” suggested Mr. Mansoor.
“How about across the street at the tea saloon?”
The men went across the street as the children followed. When they arrived, Mr. Mansoor and Mr. Saleem sat down. Kareem and Mohammed stood beside the table.
“Can we go to the citadel?” asked Kareem.
“Yes, but be back in an hour,” said Mr. Mansoor.
The two boys rushed back to the citadel. Ameena sat down between Mr. Saleem and her father.
“We must certainly be boring to you,” said Mr. Saleem, “would you like something to eat?”
Ameena shook her head.
“We ate before we came,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I’m a little hungry, so I’ll order some tea and pastries. You can help yourself if you want.”
Mr. Saleem pulled a cardboard cylinder from his attaché case. He unrolled two sets of blueprints. One outlined the island and different plots of land on the island. The other was a diagram of his building. As far as Ameena could tell, it looked like a restaurant.
“With the growing tourism industry in Essaouira, I think this would be a good time to be the first restaurant on the Island.”
“Have you talked to the local Imams?”
“The Muslim priests are against new developments.”
“It’s not something to take lightly. We cannot even break new ground without getting their okay on the project.”
“I know, I know,” nodded Mr. Saleem, “but there are ways around that, too.”
“Purpuraires is important to the Imams. When the Ottomans came here from Turkey, they wanted Morocco as an Atlantic outpost. They had already controlled the Mediterranean. No European could get to Asia without their permission.”
“Or going around Africa,” added Mr. Saleem.
“Until Barbary.”
Mr. Saleem nodded.
In the 16th Century, several empires fought for control of the seas. It was the exploration age. The Dutch traveled to the East Indies. Spanish explorers like de Gama and Coronado explored South America. Even the Portuguese had Christopher Columbus, who traveled to North America.
Nobody, however, had traveled to India without first going through the Ottomans. A group of sailors, which included the Ottoman Turks and some Berbers from Morocco, formed a group of pirates called ‘the Barbary Corsairs’.
The Barbary Pirates sailed by night, marauding ports all along the Mediterranean coast. They also boarded trading ships trying to pass through the straits between Africa and Asia. They charged a tax, often taking most of the goods the merchant ships brought back from India and the East. This caused all merchants to sail around the south of Africa. Even then, the Barbary Pirates would control the seaways around southern Africa, too.
“I still think we can come to an agreement with the Imams,” said Mr. Saleem, “After all, I’m one of their Muslim brothers. I am from Turkey, after all.”
“Let us hope,” said Mr. Mansoor.
When the refreshments arrived, Ameena withdrew the veil from her face and took tiny bites of a crème-filled pastry.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Saleem.
Ameena nodded.
“Unfortunately, all we have on the island are tea shops and coffee shops. It is not enough.”
Ameena frowned in agreement. Then, her father motioned for her to pour the tea. She did as always, starting slow and drawing the pitcher high above the cup. Bubbles and foam formed on the surface.
“Perfect pour,” said Mr. Saleem.
“Day by day she’s getting better.”
After Ameena finished pouring a cup for herself, Kareem and Mohammed ran up, carrying sticks in their hands.
“What have you been up to?” said Mr. Mansoor, “…no, wait…let me guess…Midnight Marauders?”
Kareem and Mohammed nodded.
“What is Midnight Marauders?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“We’re swashbucklers,” said Kareem.
“Just like the Barbary Pirates?”
“Or anyone fighting over Morocco,” said Kareem.
“Even the Europeans?”
“Of course,” relpied Kareem, “I have friends from all over the globe and they are not my enemies.”
“I suppose that’s right,” said Mr. Saleem, “we Moroccans come from everywhere.”
“Papa is from Spain,” said little Mohammed.
“I’m not from Spain,” corrected Mr. Mansoor, “I’m from Tunisia, but my father is from Spain.”
“Close enough,” said Mohammed.
“Even though we’re from the same country, sometimes we disagree based on who we were before,” said Mr. Saleem.
“What do you mean?”
“There are people who do not want me to build here on the island. Yes, part of it is about the history of the island, but still, part of it is because I am different. This is one of the eternal struggles of Morocco. We’ve all come from different cultures and sometimes those cultures do not agree. Still, we manage.”
“I think that’s the old way,” said Kareem.
“How so?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“In our school, we celebrate all cultures. I am Muslim, but one of my best friends has family in Portugal. He is Christian. We do not let this get in our way.”
“Sometimes it’s easier for children,” said Mr. Saleem.
“It doesn’t have to be,” said Kareem.
“Ideally, you’re right,” said Mr. Saleem, “but sometimes old people are like old locks. They’re full of rust and will not budge.”
“That is why there is oil to free the lock,” said Kareem.
“I suppose you’re right,” chuckled Mr. Saleem.
“Now if we can just find the right oil for the Imams,” said Mr. Mansoor.
The two men shook hands at the end of the meal. Mr. Mansoor packed the blueprints into the tube and walked to a different part of the shore, where several fishing boats waited. Mr. Mansoor hired another captain who took them back to the port near the Skala.
Afterwards, they returned home. Ameena wondered how her father would unlock the opinions of the old Muslim priests.
How a Fez is Worn
As soon as Ameena arrived at home, she looked for answers to her questions about the Hand of Fatima. She sorted through the shelves on her mother’s bookcase, taking any books on Berber history she could find.
She went to her room and lay in the middle of the floor atop her brand new Berber carpet (furry side down), studying the books. Each of them had different answers about the culture of Islam and Morocco. Unfortunately, none of them had answers about Hamsa.
Kareem entered Ameena’s room and lay beside his little sister.
“What are you reading?” he asked as he peered over her shoulder.
Ameena showed him the cover.
“Ah, The hand of Fatima. You know Mohammad’s daughter was named Fatima.”
Ameena shook her head.
“That’s where it got its name. That’s how our mother got her name, too.”
Ameena looked at Kareem. He was wearing a plain jacket-shirt called a Sherwani. He also wore a red velvet cap called a fez. A long purple tassel hung from the top. The tassel swung back and forth as Kareem bent his head to read. Ameena flicked it with a finger.
“Quit playing. Today is a very important day for me.”
Ameena gave Kareem a puzzled look.
“Today we celebrated The Revolution of the King and the People!” exclaimed Yusef.
Ameena leaned on a hand and looked at her brother.
“The French removed our King Mohammed from his throne. We were a country without a king. Today celebrates the return of King Mohammed and the royal family.”
While she spent time at the fish market with her mother, Ameena forgot about the holiday.
“You know, that’s also why most Moroccans speak French as well as Arabic, and Berber.”
Ameena nodded.
“In fact, it just represents another part of Morocco’s past. There were the Portugese and the Spaniards, but there were also the Vandals, the Goths, and the Ottomans who all raided Morocco. We’ve survived them all.”
Ameena was intrigued by Kareem’s excitement.
“Maybe you can go with me to the celebration tonight.”
Ameena frowned at Kareem.
“We can still ask our mother. The worst she can do is say ‘no’.”
Kareem and Ameen went downstairs for dinner. Mrs. Mansoor had prepared all the fish she bought at the market. She also prepared couscous as a side item.
“Kareem, are you returning to school tonight for the dance?” asked mother.
“Yes, I am,” said Kareem.
“I think I will take you,” she said.
Ameena and Kareem glanced toward each other, a little surprised.
“That would be good. May Ameena go, too?”
“It would be a good thing if she did. ‘The Revolution of the King and the People’ is one of the true Amazigh celebrations.”
“I think I’ll go, too,” said Mr. Mansoor.
After dinner, Mrs. Mansoor helped Ameena get ready.
“Full hijab, dear,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena fit her veil over her face. She picked up the necklace from her trip to the Sahara. She adjusted it as she checked herself in the mirror.
“You cannot go out with this old thing,” said her mother. Mrs. Mansoor went down the hall and returned with a variety of necklaces draped over one arm.
“Here’s a few fancy necklaces for you.”
Mrs. Mansoor fixed the necklaces around her neck. Some were made of shells. Others were made of brass and copper. Still, others were made with wood and leather. Together, they were as fanciful as the jewels of the nomads back in the Sahara.
“And you need a headband, too. We’ll place this on your head like a crown. Now you look better.”
Mrs. Mansoor and Ameena joined everyone in the living room. All of the men were dressed in their ceremonial best: black leather slippers, black slacks, a gray sherwani, and a red velvet fez.
“Let’s get going or we’ll be late,” said Kareem.
Ameena went with Kareem and her parents to Kareem’s school. All of the people gathered outside were dressed formally, too. When the Mansoors pressed thru the crowd, the auditorium was much smaller than Ameena imagined it would be. About fifty men, women, and children kneeled around the outer walls of the room. Each wall measured no more than ten meters long. Mr. Mansoor pushed along the outer edge, finding a small spot where everyone could kneel.
As soon as she was comfortable, Ameena listened to the music. She recognized it immediately as Gnawa. A musician plucked his guitar rhythmically, which sounded similar to the snake charmer’s music. Two bongo players led the drumming. The audience followed, rapidly clapping to the music.
She also watched the center of the auditorium. A single man danced to the music, scatting back and forth. Periodically, he also bounced up and knelt down to the ground before popping to his feet again.It was as entrancing as a cobra rising from his basket.
Just as she was getting into it, the music stopped. Everyone applauded as the man caught his breath.
“Welcome to tonight’s festivities,” said the man. It was one of Kareem’s teachers.
“As you may already know, your children have spent the entire day celebrating ‘The Revolution of the King and his People.’ It is a celebration of everything Moroccan, from our Independence to our French, Spanish, Italian, and Turkish heritage. It’s also a celebration of the Amazigh.”
The Flag of the Amazigh people, which hung behind Kareem’s teacher, had three horizontal stripes: sky blue, light green, and pale yellow. A red figure was painted in the middle. The figure, which looked like a loose drawing of a man, had an upright body and two half-circles – one for the arms and one for the legs. The half-circles arced away from each other.
Kareem noticed the flag, too.
“Father, what does the Amazigh flag mean?”
Before Mr. Mansoor could answer, Kareem’s teacher introduced the flag.
“This is why we’re here,” said the teacher as he pointed to the flag.
“The blue of the sea and the yellow of the desert is connected by the green of the fertile farming lands.”
“…and the man in the center…” said the teacher, “represents the bloodshed of our ancestors. We’ve fought to be free.”
It was not coincidental that Kareem’s teacher ended the speech with the words ‘We’ve fought to be free.’, since the word Amazigh truly meant ‘free man’.
After the speech, everyone celebrated with more truly Berber activities, including Gnawa dancing and singing and mingling with Kareem’s teachers and friends. Afterwards, they returned home.
“Kareem, I’m so proud of you,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“Why?”
“All of your teachers told me you were an upright man.”
“An upright man?”
“Someone to be counted upon, like a leader or a responsible person of the community.”
Ameena listened as her mother praised her brother. Ameena wondered what it would take to get that kind of attention, too. She heaved a sigh and leaned back in her seat. Behind her veil, not even her eyes allowed anyone a chance to see how Ameena felt on the inside.
She figured that time may never come in her mother’s eyes.
She went to her room and lay in the middle of the floor atop her brand new Berber carpet (furry side down), studying the books. Each of them had different answers about the culture of Islam and Morocco. Unfortunately, none of them had answers about Hamsa.
Kareem entered Ameena’s room and lay beside his little sister.
“What are you reading?” he asked as he peered over her shoulder.
Ameena showed him the cover.
“Ah, The hand of Fatima. You know Mohammad’s daughter was named Fatima.”
Ameena shook her head.
“That’s where it got its name. That’s how our mother got her name, too.”
Ameena looked at Kareem. He was wearing a plain jacket-shirt called a Sherwani. He also wore a red velvet cap called a fez. A long purple tassel hung from the top. The tassel swung back and forth as Kareem bent his head to read. Ameena flicked it with a finger.
“Quit playing. Today is a very important day for me.”
Ameena gave Kareem a puzzled look.
“Today we celebrated The Revolution of the King and the People!” exclaimed Yusef.
Ameena leaned on a hand and looked at her brother.
“The French removed our King Mohammed from his throne. We were a country without a king. Today celebrates the return of King Mohammed and the royal family.”
While she spent time at the fish market with her mother, Ameena forgot about the holiday.
“You know, that’s also why most Moroccans speak French as well as Arabic, and Berber.”
Ameena nodded.
“In fact, it just represents another part of Morocco’s past. There were the Portugese and the Spaniards, but there were also the Vandals, the Goths, and the Ottomans who all raided Morocco. We’ve survived them all.”
Ameena was intrigued by Kareem’s excitement.
“Maybe you can go with me to the celebration tonight.”
Ameena frowned at Kareem.
“We can still ask our mother. The worst she can do is say ‘no’.”
Kareem and Ameen went downstairs for dinner. Mrs. Mansoor had prepared all the fish she bought at the market. She also prepared couscous as a side item.
“Kareem, are you returning to school tonight for the dance?” asked mother.
“Yes, I am,” said Kareem.
“I think I will take you,” she said.
Ameena and Kareem glanced toward each other, a little surprised.
“That would be good. May Ameena go, too?”
“It would be a good thing if she did. ‘The Revolution of the King and the People’ is one of the true Amazigh celebrations.”
“I think I’ll go, too,” said Mr. Mansoor.
After dinner, Mrs. Mansoor helped Ameena get ready.
“Full hijab, dear,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena fit her veil over her face. She picked up the necklace from her trip to the Sahara. She adjusted it as she checked herself in the mirror.
“You cannot go out with this old thing,” said her mother. Mrs. Mansoor went down the hall and returned with a variety of necklaces draped over one arm.
“Here’s a few fancy necklaces for you.”
Mrs. Mansoor fixed the necklaces around her neck. Some were made of shells. Others were made of brass and copper. Still, others were made with wood and leather. Together, they were as fanciful as the jewels of the nomads back in the Sahara.
“And you need a headband, too. We’ll place this on your head like a crown. Now you look better.”
Mrs. Mansoor and Ameena joined everyone in the living room. All of the men were dressed in their ceremonial best: black leather slippers, black slacks, a gray sherwani, and a red velvet fez.
“Let’s get going or we’ll be late,” said Kareem.
Ameena went with Kareem and her parents to Kareem’s school. All of the people gathered outside were dressed formally, too. When the Mansoors pressed thru the crowd, the auditorium was much smaller than Ameena imagined it would be. About fifty men, women, and children kneeled around the outer walls of the room. Each wall measured no more than ten meters long. Mr. Mansoor pushed along the outer edge, finding a small spot where everyone could kneel.
As soon as she was comfortable, Ameena listened to the music. She recognized it immediately as Gnawa. A musician plucked his guitar rhythmically, which sounded similar to the snake charmer’s music. Two bongo players led the drumming. The audience followed, rapidly clapping to the music.
She also watched the center of the auditorium. A single man danced to the music, scatting back and forth. Periodically, he also bounced up and knelt down to the ground before popping to his feet again.It was as entrancing as a cobra rising from his basket.
Just as she was getting into it, the music stopped. Everyone applauded as the man caught his breath.
“Welcome to tonight’s festivities,” said the man. It was one of Kareem’s teachers.
“As you may already know, your children have spent the entire day celebrating ‘The Revolution of the King and his People.’ It is a celebration of everything Moroccan, from our Independence to our French, Spanish, Italian, and Turkish heritage. It’s also a celebration of the Amazigh.”
The Flag of the Amazigh people, which hung behind Kareem’s teacher, had three horizontal stripes: sky blue, light green, and pale yellow. A red figure was painted in the middle. The figure, which looked like a loose drawing of a man, had an upright body and two half-circles – one for the arms and one for the legs. The half-circles arced away from each other.
Kareem noticed the flag, too.
“Father, what does the Amazigh flag mean?”
Before Mr. Mansoor could answer, Kareem’s teacher introduced the flag.
“This is why we’re here,” said the teacher as he pointed to the flag.
“The blue of the sea and the yellow of the desert is connected by the green of the fertile farming lands.”
“…and the man in the center…” said the teacher, “represents the bloodshed of our ancestors. We’ve fought to be free.”
It was not coincidental that Kareem’s teacher ended the speech with the words ‘We’ve fought to be free.’, since the word Amazigh truly meant ‘free man’.
After the speech, everyone celebrated with more truly Berber activities, including Gnawa dancing and singing and mingling with Kareem’s teachers and friends. Afterwards, they returned home.
“Kareem, I’m so proud of you,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“Why?”
“All of your teachers told me you were an upright man.”
“An upright man?”
“Someone to be counted upon, like a leader or a responsible person of the community.”
Ameena listened as her mother praised her brother. Ameena wondered what it would take to get that kind of attention, too. She heaved a sigh and leaned back in her seat. Behind her veil, not even her eyes allowed anyone a chance to see how Ameena felt on the inside.
She figured that time may never come in her mother’s eyes.
The Hand of Fatima
The dining table was unusually quiet on the first night back home in Essaouira. Everyone except Mrs. Mansoor sat at the dining room table, eating dried fruits with sour bread and honey.
Mrs. Mansoor stood at the head of the table, preparing Harira, a common Moroccan soup. Meanwhile, she lectured the family on a woman’s place in the home.
“So, my daughter has had her great adventure,” sighed Mrs. Mansoor.
She quickly chopped onions and tomatoes, placing them into a stockpot.
“I do not like all this adventure one bit,” she said, still chopping food, “you are still a little girl. I would like you to stay that way for quite some time. I could’ve used you around the house yesterday.”
“Fatima, it was only one day,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“It was only one day. It was only one uncovered face. What next?”
Mrs. Mansoor added rice and lentils to the stockpot before going into the kitchen. When she returned, she continued her lecture.
“Ameena, come with me into the kitchen.”
Ameena quietly followed her mother into the kitchen.
“Put the stockpot under the faucet and fill it with hot water.”
Ameena filled the stockpot. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mansoor reached around her to toss in a handful of celery seeds and parsley.
“That’s enough. Turn it off.”
Ameena obeyed her mother once again.
“Add some pepper, too.”
Ameena grabbed the pepper mill and begain grinding. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mansoor continued adding ginger, saffron, and coriander.
“That’s enough.”
Mrs. Mansoor turned the stove on, then chopped a piece of lamb into small cubes. She browned the lamb in a pan before adding it to the soup. Soon, the main course was ready.
“Go on to the dining room table.”
Mrs. Mansoor followed Ameena, with a steaming stockpot full of Harira. She filled everyone’s bowls and then continued where she left the conversation.
“I think I am taking Ameena under my wing for awhile.”
Everyone ate their harira, but made no argument against their mother. If Fatima Mansoor wanted to do something, nobody was going to stand in her way.
After the meal, the boys got up from the table while Ameena cleared the table. She also helped her mother wash the dishes.
“The bowls go in this drawer,” pointed Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena cleaned the stockpot last. She held it in her hand as she looked around the kitchen.
“Right there in the cupboard,” scoffed her mother.
When Ameena got her chance, she escaped to her room. Unfortunately, the next day was the first day of Ameena’s time with her mother, Mrs. Mansoor took her to the market.
“We should pick up some mackerel for your father.”
Mrs. Mansoor threw three thin, black fish in her basket.
“And some sea perch for Jamal and Yusef.”
She added two sea perch to her basket.
Ameena looked at the bright pink Sea Perch. Their eyes stared back at her. It scared Ameena a little.
“And I would like some eel.”
There was no question about it as the fishmonger wrestled the eels. They looked like a combination of a slimy worm and an evil snake. They wriggled in the man’s hands until he wrapped them in old newspaper and placed them in Mrs. Mansoor’s basket.
Mrs. Mansoor bent down to arrange her basket.
“Ameena, order some blue crab, too.”
Ameena pointed to the one of the blue crabs and the fishmonger picked it up. Unlike the rest of the seafood, the crabs were still alive. They crawled over each other in the deep basket. The fishmonger handed the crab to Ameena. She immediately backed away.
Just then, Mrs. Mansoor rose to her feet.
“Ameena, it’s not going to hurt you. It’s a tiny, little crab.”
Ameena grimaced at her mother.
“Pick it up.”
Ameena stretched her hand toward the crab and picked it between her two fingers. It wiggled gently in her grip, its legs and claws flailing about anxiously.
Ameena quickly moved the little blue crab from the fishmonger’s hand to the basket. She dropped it on top of the other fish. It crawled around, lifting its claws toward Ameena.
Ameena shuddered. Her mother just rolled her eyes.
“If you’re going to be a fine young woman in Morocco, you’ll have to know how to deal with the fishmonger and all the seafood you’ll cook.”
Ameena peered down into the basket. She didn’t know if she could handle all that staring, smelly, slimy, grabby seafood.
“Let’s get going. There’s still more to be done.”
Mrs. Mansoor and Ameena walked up the steps from the fish market to the medina. The street was crowded with vendors and patrons.
Vendors came from near and far to sell their goods. Some made crafts, like wooden tools and toys. Other vendors sold produce, harvested from their gardens. Still, other vendors stood in their stalls behind rows of baskets. Each basket was filled with different colored and different smelling spices. This would be Mrs. Mansoor’s first stop.
“I have a list of things we need. That includes spices.”
Mrs. Mansoor handed Ameena a piece of paper. Ameena looked through the list. It included several spices. Ameena pointed out each spice and the vendor carefully measured each spice, pouring it into a small glass bottle. He capped the bottles and attached each bottle to a piece of twine with a loop knot. The spices looked like a fish stringer full of fish. When Ameena was finished, she tied the bottles to her belt. Mrs. Mansoor counted coins in Ameena’s hand and Ameena paid for the spices.
“We’ll buy bread, too.”
They walked throught he alley, stopping at a stall where a man sold breads. Mrs. Mansoor picked out a pair of baguettes, long rolls of bread, just like the long Italian rolls sold at the restaurants.
Mrs. Mansoor tucked the rolls carefully next to the fish, making sure to keep a layer of newspaper between the two. As she leaned over, Ameena noticed the small blue pendant hanging around her mother’s neck. It looked just like the ones sold in the stall next door.
Ameena placed her hand beneath the pendant to get a closer look.
“What are you looking at?” asked her mother.
Ameena looked at the tiny blue hand with the eye inscribed in the center.
“It’s a Hamsa,” said her mother, “My mother gave it to me when I was a child. It’s also called the Hand of Fatima.”
Ameena nodded, carefully dropping the pendant from her grasp. She followed her mother through the alley. They moved from shadows to light and back to shadows again as they walked under the awnings of each vendor. A jewelery vendor sat at the corner.
“Do you want one?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena looked at her mother. Mrs. Mansoor pointed to a necklace just like the one she wore. Ameena grabbed the necklace and carefully investigated it.
“Well?” asked Mrs. Mansoor impatiently.
Ameena nodded.
Mrs. Mansoor handed several dirham to Ameena and Ameena gave the coins to the cashier.
“Do you want a bag?” asked the girl.
Ameena shook her head.
“Turn around, I’ll put it on,” the cashier offered.
Ameena turned about and the girl fastened the necklace.
“Now you’re just like your mother.”
Ameena glanced up at her mother. She wasn’t so sure about that.
They walked, side-by-side, to the bus stop and waited patiently. When it arrived, they got on and went home.
Mrs. Mansoor stood at the head of the table, preparing Harira, a common Moroccan soup. Meanwhile, she lectured the family on a woman’s place in the home.
“So, my daughter has had her great adventure,” sighed Mrs. Mansoor.
She quickly chopped onions and tomatoes, placing them into a stockpot.
“I do not like all this adventure one bit,” she said, still chopping food, “you are still a little girl. I would like you to stay that way for quite some time. I could’ve used you around the house yesterday.”
“Fatima, it was only one day,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“It was only one day. It was only one uncovered face. What next?”
Mrs. Mansoor added rice and lentils to the stockpot before going into the kitchen. When she returned, she continued her lecture.
“Ameena, come with me into the kitchen.”
Ameena quietly followed her mother into the kitchen.
“Put the stockpot under the faucet and fill it with hot water.”
Ameena filled the stockpot. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mansoor reached around her to toss in a handful of celery seeds and parsley.
“That’s enough. Turn it off.”
Ameena obeyed her mother once again.
“Add some pepper, too.”
Ameena grabbed the pepper mill and begain grinding. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mansoor continued adding ginger, saffron, and coriander.
“That’s enough.”
Mrs. Mansoor turned the stove on, then chopped a piece of lamb into small cubes. She browned the lamb in a pan before adding it to the soup. Soon, the main course was ready.
“Go on to the dining room table.”
Mrs. Mansoor followed Ameena, with a steaming stockpot full of Harira. She filled everyone’s bowls and then continued where she left the conversation.
“I think I am taking Ameena under my wing for awhile.”
Everyone ate their harira, but made no argument against their mother. If Fatima Mansoor wanted to do something, nobody was going to stand in her way.
After the meal, the boys got up from the table while Ameena cleared the table. She also helped her mother wash the dishes.
“The bowls go in this drawer,” pointed Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena cleaned the stockpot last. She held it in her hand as she looked around the kitchen.
“Right there in the cupboard,” scoffed her mother.
When Ameena got her chance, she escaped to her room. Unfortunately, the next day was the first day of Ameena’s time with her mother, Mrs. Mansoor took her to the market.
“We should pick up some mackerel for your father.”
Mrs. Mansoor threw three thin, black fish in her basket.
“And some sea perch for Jamal and Yusef.”
She added two sea perch to her basket.
Ameena looked at the bright pink Sea Perch. Their eyes stared back at her. It scared Ameena a little.
“And I would like some eel.”
There was no question about it as the fishmonger wrestled the eels. They looked like a combination of a slimy worm and an evil snake. They wriggled in the man’s hands until he wrapped them in old newspaper and placed them in Mrs. Mansoor’s basket.
Mrs. Mansoor bent down to arrange her basket.
“Ameena, order some blue crab, too.”
Ameena pointed to the one of the blue crabs and the fishmonger picked it up. Unlike the rest of the seafood, the crabs were still alive. They crawled over each other in the deep basket. The fishmonger handed the crab to Ameena. She immediately backed away.
Just then, Mrs. Mansoor rose to her feet.
“Ameena, it’s not going to hurt you. It’s a tiny, little crab.”
Ameena grimaced at her mother.
“Pick it up.”
Ameena stretched her hand toward the crab and picked it between her two fingers. It wiggled gently in her grip, its legs and claws flailing about anxiously.
Ameena quickly moved the little blue crab from the fishmonger’s hand to the basket. She dropped it on top of the other fish. It crawled around, lifting its claws toward Ameena.
Ameena shuddered. Her mother just rolled her eyes.
“If you’re going to be a fine young woman in Morocco, you’ll have to know how to deal with the fishmonger and all the seafood you’ll cook.”
Ameena peered down into the basket. She didn’t know if she could handle all that staring, smelly, slimy, grabby seafood.
“Let’s get going. There’s still more to be done.”
Mrs. Mansoor and Ameena walked up the steps from the fish market to the medina. The street was crowded with vendors and patrons.
Vendors came from near and far to sell their goods. Some made crafts, like wooden tools and toys. Other vendors sold produce, harvested from their gardens. Still, other vendors stood in their stalls behind rows of baskets. Each basket was filled with different colored and different smelling spices. This would be Mrs. Mansoor’s first stop.
“I have a list of things we need. That includes spices.”
Mrs. Mansoor handed Ameena a piece of paper. Ameena looked through the list. It included several spices. Ameena pointed out each spice and the vendor carefully measured each spice, pouring it into a small glass bottle. He capped the bottles and attached each bottle to a piece of twine with a loop knot. The spices looked like a fish stringer full of fish. When Ameena was finished, she tied the bottles to her belt. Mrs. Mansoor counted coins in Ameena’s hand and Ameena paid for the spices.
“We’ll buy bread, too.”
They walked throught he alley, stopping at a stall where a man sold breads. Mrs. Mansoor picked out a pair of baguettes, long rolls of bread, just like the long Italian rolls sold at the restaurants.
Mrs. Mansoor tucked the rolls carefully next to the fish, making sure to keep a layer of newspaper between the two. As she leaned over, Ameena noticed the small blue pendant hanging around her mother’s neck. It looked just like the ones sold in the stall next door.
Ameena placed her hand beneath the pendant to get a closer look.
“What are you looking at?” asked her mother.
Ameena looked at the tiny blue hand with the eye inscribed in the center.
“It’s a Hamsa,” said her mother, “My mother gave it to me when I was a child. It’s also called the Hand of Fatima.”
Ameena nodded, carefully dropping the pendant from her grasp. She followed her mother through the alley. They moved from shadows to light and back to shadows again as they walked under the awnings of each vendor. A jewelery vendor sat at the corner.
“Do you want one?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena looked at her mother. Mrs. Mansoor pointed to a necklace just like the one she wore. Ameena grabbed the necklace and carefully investigated it.
“Well?” asked Mrs. Mansoor impatiently.
Ameena nodded.
Mrs. Mansoor handed several dirham to Ameena and Ameena gave the coins to the cashier.
“Do you want a bag?” asked the girl.
Ameena shook her head.
“Turn around, I’ll put it on,” the cashier offered.
Ameena turned about and the girl fastened the necklace.
“Now you’re just like your mother.”
Ameena glanced up at her mother. She wasn’t so sure about that.
They walked, side-by-side, to the bus stop and waited patiently. When it arrived, they got on and went home.
Noble Nomads of the North Frontier
As Ameena trudged along behind the boys, she struggled to keep her backpack on one shoulder and the Berber carpet roll on the other.
They passed a herd of camel tethered to a hitching tree. One of the camels growled gently at Ameena. She curled away from the camel as she kept up with the boys.
When they entered the campfire circle, Ameena knew these were the ‘true’ Berbers, or as all Moroccans called them, ‘Amazigh’. Amazigh people were famous for wandering from place to place in the Sahara desert. The name Amazigh even meant ‘Noble Nomads’.
The men were dressed in the long flowing robes called kaftans. Women were not only dressed in full hijab, but they wore ornamental necklaces. Their hands and faces were adorned with intricate henna tattoos.
“Hey everyone, this is my classmate Jamal” said Khalid, “and his brother Yusef and his sister Ameena.”
The introductions continued, but Ameena could only remember the last introduction.
“Ameena, you’ll like my little sister, Karina. You’ll be staying in her tent.”
“Hello, Ameena,” said Karina.
Ameena curtseyed to Karina, but said nothing.
“You sure are polite, Ameena, but I am no princess. Come with me and we’ll set up your bed.”
Ameena followed Karina towards her tent. As they left the warmth of the campfire, cold desert winds blew in her face. Ameena pulled her scarf snugly around her head.
“You’re probably not used to the desert winds turning from hot to cold at night, are you?”
Ameena shook her head.
“Luckily, we have lots of thick blankets, made from goat’s wool.”
Ameea unrolled her carpet and placed it in the bare spot Karina made for her. Karina laid out several blankets before she and Ameena returned to the campfire.
An old woman tended the fire. A set of small clay vessels, called tajine, circled the fire. Each tajine was capped with a cone-shaped lid.
The old woman lifted the small knob on the top of each lid, inspecting each tajine. Inside, bubbling stew filled each tajine.
Meanwhile, Yusef was telling everyone about his day in Marrakech.
“Today, at the night market, my little sister shot a handful of coins at the snake charmer’s basket. They went all over the place!”
Ameena glared at Yusef.
“They landed everywhere but inside the basket. The snake charmer had to collect them as they rolled everywhere. Ameena just backed away.
Everyone laughed, except Ameena, who fel5t embarrassed by her fears.
“A cobra is a dangerous thing,” said one of the Berbers, “all Amazigh know this. That is why we cover ourselves completely when we sleep.”
The Berber man creeped toward Ameena. Soon, he was face to face with the little girl. His face was old and wrinkled. A golden ring pierced his nose, like a pirate.
The old man put his fingers up to Ameena’s nose and grabbed it.
“If a Cobra sees your nose, he may eat it in the middle of the night.“
Ameena frowned. Meanwhile, everyone else laughed.
“He is just joking,” said Jamal.
Although Jamal tried to comfort Ameena, it didn’t help her mood. She ignored everyone else, though, as she watched the old lady tending the fire.
“Here you go, dear,” said the old lady, “the very first bowl of tajine. I’ve heard that whoever eats the first bowl of Amazigh tajine is protected from creepy crawlies for the rest of the night.”
Tajine was both the name of the plate and the dish itself. Olives and apples and pears and raisins combined with tender pieces of lamb in a hearty stew. Ameena picked pieces of fruit first, saving her lamb for last. Meanwhile, Karina cupped her bowl in both hands, slurping up the brothy goodness.
“I love tajine, don’t you?” asked Karina.
Ameena nodded and then returned to her tajine. It filled her tummy while warming her inside out. After the girls finished their stew, Khalid told them it was time for bed. Jamal and Yusef wished their little sister a good night and she disappeared with Karina into the darkness.
“You don’t think a cobra will come into our tent, do you?” asked Karina.
Ameena shrugged her shoulders.
“They don’t. I have lived in the Sahara all my life and have never seen a snake in my bedroll. I think they’re more afraid of me than I am of them.”
“I wonder if they are more afraid of me, though,” said Ameena.
“She talks!” joked Karina.
“Of course, I talk,” said Ameena, “but, like my father says, ‘never talk when you have to, and you’ll never have to talk when you don’t want to.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Karina.
“I don’t know, but it seems like a good excuse to stay quiet,” chuckled Ameena.
“I suppose so,” laughed Karina, “I’m always getting into trouble whenever I open my mouth.”
The girls headed into their tent and made their beds. Instead of going straight to bed, Karina lit an oil lamp and they continued to talk.
“I love your necklaces,” said Ameena.
“They’re traditional Amazigh jewelry. They once belonged to my grandmother.”
“I don’t have any jewelry,” said Ameena.
“Now you do,” said Karina. She fastened a necklace around Ameena’s neck. Ameena investigated every bead on the strand.
“It’s handmade by my grandma. All Tuareg know these knots. They represent part of our heritage.”
“Tuareg, like the tea?” asked Ameena.
“Of course,” said Karina, “that is where the word Tuareg comes from. The Tuareg are one of the original Berber tribes. We came from the Atlas Mountains, but now we live only in the Sahara.”
Ameena stared at the henna tattoo on Karina’s hand.
“Do you like it?” asked Karina.
Ameena nodded, “Very much.”
“I can make one for you, too.”
“You can?”
“Of course.”
Karina grabbed a small vial of green powder and mixed it with a splash of water. She mixed it into a paste and then added honey. When she finished mixing, she grabbed a tiny stick.
“What kind of design do you want?”
“Anything you want,” said Ameena.
Karina drew a small black sun with snake-shaped rays extending all along the outside. Tiny flecks of brown-green, which looked like tears to Ameena, encircled the sun. Karina continued until all of Ameena’s right hand was covered in henna.
“It’s beautiful!” exclaimed Ameena.
“Now you’re a Amazigh Princess, too.”
The girls lay side-by side throughout the night. Ameena forgot completely about any snakes biting the nose right off her face. Instead, she watched karina, wishing she could travel through the desert, too.
Karina woke Ameena early in the morning.
“Your brother Jamal is waiting for you,” said Karina.
“What time is it?” asked Ameena.
“Sunrise time,” replied Karina.
Karina helped Ameena to fix her bedroll, forming a backpack out of the carpet.
When they loaded into the little black hatchback, Ameena rode in the backseat. This time, however, Yusef was driving and Jamal sat in the backseat.
“Did you enjoy your trip?” asked Jamal.
Ameena nodded.
Unlike Jamal, Yusef sped through the desert, eager to get home. Meanwhile, Ameena rested her head against Jamal’s side. The smoky residue from the campfire was still in the fabric of Jamal’s shirt. It reminded her of the snake tales. Also, it reminded her of the tajine.
Ameena had a very good time indeed. She enjoyed her trip into the desert very much, from beginning to end.
They passed a herd of camel tethered to a hitching tree. One of the camels growled gently at Ameena. She curled away from the camel as she kept up with the boys.
When they entered the campfire circle, Ameena knew these were the ‘true’ Berbers, or as all Moroccans called them, ‘Amazigh’. Amazigh people were famous for wandering from place to place in the Sahara desert. The name Amazigh even meant ‘Noble Nomads’.
The men were dressed in the long flowing robes called kaftans. Women were not only dressed in full hijab, but they wore ornamental necklaces. Their hands and faces were adorned with intricate henna tattoos.
“Hey everyone, this is my classmate Jamal” said Khalid, “and his brother Yusef and his sister Ameena.”
The introductions continued, but Ameena could only remember the last introduction.
“Ameena, you’ll like my little sister, Karina. You’ll be staying in her tent.”
“Hello, Ameena,” said Karina.
Ameena curtseyed to Karina, but said nothing.
“You sure are polite, Ameena, but I am no princess. Come with me and we’ll set up your bed.”
Ameena followed Karina towards her tent. As they left the warmth of the campfire, cold desert winds blew in her face. Ameena pulled her scarf snugly around her head.
“You’re probably not used to the desert winds turning from hot to cold at night, are you?”
Ameena shook her head.
“Luckily, we have lots of thick blankets, made from goat’s wool.”
Ameea unrolled her carpet and placed it in the bare spot Karina made for her. Karina laid out several blankets before she and Ameena returned to the campfire.
An old woman tended the fire. A set of small clay vessels, called tajine, circled the fire. Each tajine was capped with a cone-shaped lid.
The old woman lifted the small knob on the top of each lid, inspecting each tajine. Inside, bubbling stew filled each tajine.
Meanwhile, Yusef was telling everyone about his day in Marrakech.
“Today, at the night market, my little sister shot a handful of coins at the snake charmer’s basket. They went all over the place!”
Ameena glared at Yusef.
“They landed everywhere but inside the basket. The snake charmer had to collect them as they rolled everywhere. Ameena just backed away.
Everyone laughed, except Ameena, who fel5t embarrassed by her fears.
“A cobra is a dangerous thing,” said one of the Berbers, “all Amazigh know this. That is why we cover ourselves completely when we sleep.”
The Berber man creeped toward Ameena. Soon, he was face to face with the little girl. His face was old and wrinkled. A golden ring pierced his nose, like a pirate.
The old man put his fingers up to Ameena’s nose and grabbed it.
“If a Cobra sees your nose, he may eat it in the middle of the night.“
Ameena frowned. Meanwhile, everyone else laughed.
“He is just joking,” said Jamal.
Although Jamal tried to comfort Ameena, it didn’t help her mood. She ignored everyone else, though, as she watched the old lady tending the fire.
“Here you go, dear,” said the old lady, “the very first bowl of tajine. I’ve heard that whoever eats the first bowl of Amazigh tajine is protected from creepy crawlies for the rest of the night.”
Tajine was both the name of the plate and the dish itself. Olives and apples and pears and raisins combined with tender pieces of lamb in a hearty stew. Ameena picked pieces of fruit first, saving her lamb for last. Meanwhile, Karina cupped her bowl in both hands, slurping up the brothy goodness.
“I love tajine, don’t you?” asked Karina.
Ameena nodded and then returned to her tajine. It filled her tummy while warming her inside out. After the girls finished their stew, Khalid told them it was time for bed. Jamal and Yusef wished their little sister a good night and she disappeared with Karina into the darkness.
“You don’t think a cobra will come into our tent, do you?” asked Karina.
Ameena shrugged her shoulders.
“They don’t. I have lived in the Sahara all my life and have never seen a snake in my bedroll. I think they’re more afraid of me than I am of them.”
“I wonder if they are more afraid of me, though,” said Ameena.
“She talks!” joked Karina.
“Of course, I talk,” said Ameena, “but, like my father says, ‘never talk when you have to, and you’ll never have to talk when you don’t want to.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Karina.
“I don’t know, but it seems like a good excuse to stay quiet,” chuckled Ameena.
“I suppose so,” laughed Karina, “I’m always getting into trouble whenever I open my mouth.”
The girls headed into their tent and made their beds. Instead of going straight to bed, Karina lit an oil lamp and they continued to talk.
“I love your necklaces,” said Ameena.
“They’re traditional Amazigh jewelry. They once belonged to my grandmother.”
“I don’t have any jewelry,” said Ameena.
“Now you do,” said Karina. She fastened a necklace around Ameena’s neck. Ameena investigated every bead on the strand.
“It’s handmade by my grandma. All Tuareg know these knots. They represent part of our heritage.”
“Tuareg, like the tea?” asked Ameena.
“Of course,” said Karina, “that is where the word Tuareg comes from. The Tuareg are one of the original Berber tribes. We came from the Atlas Mountains, but now we live only in the Sahara.”
Ameena stared at the henna tattoo on Karina’s hand.
“Do you like it?” asked Karina.
Ameena nodded, “Very much.”
“I can make one for you, too.”
“You can?”
“Of course.”
Karina grabbed a small vial of green powder and mixed it with a splash of water. She mixed it into a paste and then added honey. When she finished mixing, she grabbed a tiny stick.
“What kind of design do you want?”
“Anything you want,” said Ameena.
Karina drew a small black sun with snake-shaped rays extending all along the outside. Tiny flecks of brown-green, which looked like tears to Ameena, encircled the sun. Karina continued until all of Ameena’s right hand was covered in henna.
“It’s beautiful!” exclaimed Ameena.
“Now you’re a Amazigh Princess, too.”
The girls lay side-by side throughout the night. Ameena forgot completely about any snakes biting the nose right off her face. Instead, she watched karina, wishing she could travel through the desert, too.
Karina woke Ameena early in the morning.
“Your brother Jamal is waiting for you,” said Karina.
“What time is it?” asked Ameena.
“Sunrise time,” replied Karina.
Karina helped Ameena to fix her bedroll, forming a backpack out of the carpet.
When they loaded into the little black hatchback, Ameena rode in the backseat. This time, however, Yusef was driving and Jamal sat in the backseat.
“Did you enjoy your trip?” asked Jamal.
Ameena nodded.
Unlike Jamal, Yusef sped through the desert, eager to get home. Meanwhile, Ameena rested her head against Jamal’s side. The smoky residue from the campfire was still in the fabric of Jamal’s shirt. It reminded her of the snake tales. Also, it reminded her of the tajine.
Ameena had a very good time indeed. She enjoyed her trip into the desert very much, from beginning to end.
Marrakech Night Market
Day stretched into night as the sun moved farther and farther away from the little black hatchback and the three inhabitants inside. Just before sunset, when the purple coil of sky unwound, they arrived in the outskirts of Marrakech,
Jamal pulled the car to the side of the road when he found a place to eat.
“Why don’t we wait until we get to the market?” asked Yusef.
“It’s so crowded there. It will take too long.”
Ameena and her brothers got out of the car to stretch their legs and replace the empty spots in their stomachs with food. Jamal stepped to the counter and placed an order for everyone.
“We’ll have three orders of lamb couscous and three mint tea,” said Jamal.
Ameena watched the old woman prepare their food. The old lady scooped the couscous onto each plate, topping it with roasted lamb and ladling side dishes onto each plate, too. Intricate Moroccan designs, done in henna, tattooed the top of the old lady’s hands.
The children sat at one of the low round café tables in the center of the restaurant. Their metal patio chairs were comfortable enough. The entire restaurant smelled of roast lamb and dark spices.
“The lamb is as tender as the couscous,” said Yusef.
“I really like the carrots,” added Jamal, “Do you like it, Ameena?”
Ameena nodded as she continued eating her dinner. The couscous, which was simply rolled wheat, looked and tasted like soft brown rice to Ameena. The lamb, however, was just as Yusef said. Ameena let each piece melt in her mouth. The steamed carrots and cucumbers crushed in her mouth as she pressed them between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. To Ameena, nothing beat a good lamb couscous. With each bite, she washed it down with a sip of Mint tea.
At the end of the meal, they rested themselves as they slowly finished the pitcher of Mint tea. As they got back into the hatchback, everything had changed. The desert sky was pitch black. The city beyond was lit, not only by incandescent lights, but also the bustle of people going to and from the Market.
“This is why I stopped,” said Jamal.
The last two kilometers of their trip took them as close as they could get to downtown Marrakech.
“This place is huge,” said Yusef.
“Sometimes when I come here, I think all of Morocco is here.”
“Maybe all of the world,” said Yusef.
Men wearing kaftans and women wearing hijab filled the square. There were also the European tourists in jeans and t-shirts and the Arabians and Turks in their long, flowing robes and elegant headwear. It made Ameena conscious of her decision to remove her headscarf. She pulled it back into its proper place and fastened the veil, only revealing her deep, dark eyes.
The buildings that lined the streets were varied, too. Some looked Moroccan and some looked European. Still, others looked other-worldly and modern. Gray marbled tile paved the way to the center of the square.
“Do you hear the snake charmers?” Yusef said to Ameena.
She nodded. A mass of people moved towards the hypnotizing sound of the snake charmer’s horn, which grew as they got closer and closer.
“I always love this,” said Yusef.
As they pushed through the crowd, the music stopped and the crowd applauded.
“We’re too late,” groaned Yusef.
“Keep going,” replied Jamal, “He’ll play again.”
People threw money into a basket sitting near the snake charmer’s feet. Three other covered baskets sat around the charmer. He got up and stretched. Soon, a crowd gathered around and the snake charmer knelt in front of the baskets and began playing.
“Is that a flute?” a boy asked his friend.
“It’s a Pungi,” replied Jamal, “It’s made like a gourd with three pipes.”
Two pipes stuck out of the bottom of the gourd. One pipe stuck out from the other. The snake charmer blew on the pipe at one end. He moved his fingers over the holes on the other two pipes sticking out the other end. The sound that came out wasn’t much different than a Scottish bagpipe.
“Here come the snakes,” said Jamal.
The snake charmer uncovered a basket. A snake rose from inside. It was a cobra. The corbra's shoulders flared and its head stared at the end of the Pungi. The snake charmer waved the Pungi rhythmically back and forth. The cobra waved back and forth, too. Soon, the snake charmer uncovered the second and third baskets. Three cobras swayed to the undulating Pungi.
“As long as the snake charmer moves, the cobra will not strike. All snakes want an easy target.”
The snake charmer continued swaying back and forth as the three cobras watched his every move. Slowly, he picked up the basket lids, one by one, and placed them over the cobra’s heads, carefully pushing each of them into their baskets. Afterwards, people tossed money into his change basket.
“Here, Ameena, give him some dirham.”
Jamal placed several golden coins in her open hand. Ameena took a single step towards the baskets and then tossed the coins over the cobra’s baskets and quickly stepped back toward her brothers.
“What do you think?” chuckled Yusef, “they’re going to jump out of the baskets and strike you?”
Ameena averted her gaze, looking toward the ground.
“You’re perfectly safe,” said Jamal, “the snake charmer is closest to the snakes, plus, they cannot jump. They’re like a piece of wound string. When it uncoils, the end of the string is the end.”
They continued through the market, looking at everything under the sun. That included Berber carpets. Ameena knelt in front of the couple selling the carpets. She waved her hand over the thick wool carpet. Beautiful hues of purple, blue, black and white were woven into intricate designs.
“Do you want it?” asked Jamal.
Without turning to acknowledge her brother, she nodded slowly. She loved the designs.
“That represents the original tribes of Morocco,” said the old man selling the carpet, “Every Berber used these carpets for everything. If you turn it over, the other side is plain, while this side is thick and burly. This side is for sleeping in the desert, where it gets cold at night. The other side is for daytime, when you don’t need to feel a thick layer of wool between you and the sand.”
“Well take it,” said Jamal, “In fact, we’ll take three.”
Yusef picked out the carpets and the old man rolled them and tied each bundle with a piece of twine. Yusef knotted them together, making a carpet backpack out of the bundles.
“Are we staying in the desert tonight?”
Jamal nodded. “One of my friends lives just outside of Marrakech. We’ll camp there for the night.”
They continued walking through the market. Yusef picked out a small hand whistle, fashioned to look like the snake charmer’s Pungi. It sounded nothing like the Moroccan pipes, but Yusef did not mind.
As they continued through the alleys made by the street vendors, Yusef played his whistle. The crowds were larger, but Ameena followed the sound of the whistle.
“Our mother will be upset if we spent all our money on frivolous things. We should buy food, too.”
Jamal picked out a large burlap bags full of rolled wheat, which would become couscous after it was cooked. He purchased a large bag of rice and Yusef carried in his arms. He also purchased a grocery bag full of fresh vegetables, giving it to Ameena. The three of them headed back to the car, each with a giant load of goods.
They packed the back with the vegetables, carpets, and couscous. That left the bag of rice.
“Put it in front,” said Jamal.
“Where will I sit?” asked Yusef.
“You can sit in the back with Ameena.”
“That makes no sense,” said Yusef, “the rice can sit in the back with Ameena.”
“There’s no seatbelt in the back, so let’s put it in the front seat and fasten the buckle. That way the bag won’t fall over and split open.”
“Alright,” groaned Yusef.
Yusef rode in the back seat with his little sister. Ameena peered over Jamal’s shoulder, looking down the road ahead. Only the two headlights shone along the dark stretch of road. Oncoming traffic could be seen on the distant edge of the horizon. The rest of the desert was as dark as midnight.
Jamal turned off the main road onto a deserted desert road.
“Do you know where it is?” asked Yusef.
“I think I can find it,” replied Jamal.
A flicker of campfire shone like a torch in the distance. It worked as a beacon, signaling the way for Jamal and the little black hatchback. As they neared the fire, they saw people gathered around the fire. A small tent village surrounded the campfire, too.
“I think this is it,” said Jamal.
His thoughts were confirmed as a boy approached the hatchback. It was his best friend from the University.
“Hey Khalid!” greeted Jamal.
“Hey Jamal,” replied Khalid, “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Jamal got out of the car and introduced everyone. Yusef handed the Berber rugs to everyone. They followed Khalid toward the warmth of the campfire. Everyone was eager to meet Khalid’s family.
Jamal pulled the car to the side of the road when he found a place to eat.
“Why don’t we wait until we get to the market?” asked Yusef.
“It’s so crowded there. It will take too long.”
Ameena and her brothers got out of the car to stretch their legs and replace the empty spots in their stomachs with food. Jamal stepped to the counter and placed an order for everyone.
“We’ll have three orders of lamb couscous and three mint tea,” said Jamal.
Ameena watched the old woman prepare their food. The old lady scooped the couscous onto each plate, topping it with roasted lamb and ladling side dishes onto each plate, too. Intricate Moroccan designs, done in henna, tattooed the top of the old lady’s hands.
The children sat at one of the low round café tables in the center of the restaurant. Their metal patio chairs were comfortable enough. The entire restaurant smelled of roast lamb and dark spices.
“The lamb is as tender as the couscous,” said Yusef.
“I really like the carrots,” added Jamal, “Do you like it, Ameena?”
Ameena nodded as she continued eating her dinner. The couscous, which was simply rolled wheat, looked and tasted like soft brown rice to Ameena. The lamb, however, was just as Yusef said. Ameena let each piece melt in her mouth. The steamed carrots and cucumbers crushed in her mouth as she pressed them between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. To Ameena, nothing beat a good lamb couscous. With each bite, she washed it down with a sip of Mint tea.
At the end of the meal, they rested themselves as they slowly finished the pitcher of Mint tea. As they got back into the hatchback, everything had changed. The desert sky was pitch black. The city beyond was lit, not only by incandescent lights, but also the bustle of people going to and from the Market.
“This is why I stopped,” said Jamal.
The last two kilometers of their trip took them as close as they could get to downtown Marrakech.
“This place is huge,” said Yusef.
“Sometimes when I come here, I think all of Morocco is here.”
“Maybe all of the world,” said Yusef.
Men wearing kaftans and women wearing hijab filled the square. There were also the European tourists in jeans and t-shirts and the Arabians and Turks in their long, flowing robes and elegant headwear. It made Ameena conscious of her decision to remove her headscarf. She pulled it back into its proper place and fastened the veil, only revealing her deep, dark eyes.
The buildings that lined the streets were varied, too. Some looked Moroccan and some looked European. Still, others looked other-worldly and modern. Gray marbled tile paved the way to the center of the square.
“Do you hear the snake charmers?” Yusef said to Ameena.
She nodded. A mass of people moved towards the hypnotizing sound of the snake charmer’s horn, which grew as they got closer and closer.
“I always love this,” said Yusef.
As they pushed through the crowd, the music stopped and the crowd applauded.
“We’re too late,” groaned Yusef.
“Keep going,” replied Jamal, “He’ll play again.”
People threw money into a basket sitting near the snake charmer’s feet. Three other covered baskets sat around the charmer. He got up and stretched. Soon, a crowd gathered around and the snake charmer knelt in front of the baskets and began playing.
“Is that a flute?” a boy asked his friend.
“It’s a Pungi,” replied Jamal, “It’s made like a gourd with three pipes.”
Two pipes stuck out of the bottom of the gourd. One pipe stuck out from the other. The snake charmer blew on the pipe at one end. He moved his fingers over the holes on the other two pipes sticking out the other end. The sound that came out wasn’t much different than a Scottish bagpipe.
“Here come the snakes,” said Jamal.
The snake charmer uncovered a basket. A snake rose from inside. It was a cobra. The corbra's shoulders flared and its head stared at the end of the Pungi. The snake charmer waved the Pungi rhythmically back and forth. The cobra waved back and forth, too. Soon, the snake charmer uncovered the second and third baskets. Three cobras swayed to the undulating Pungi.
“As long as the snake charmer moves, the cobra will not strike. All snakes want an easy target.”
The snake charmer continued swaying back and forth as the three cobras watched his every move. Slowly, he picked up the basket lids, one by one, and placed them over the cobra’s heads, carefully pushing each of them into their baskets. Afterwards, people tossed money into his change basket.
“Here, Ameena, give him some dirham.”
Jamal placed several golden coins in her open hand. Ameena took a single step towards the baskets and then tossed the coins over the cobra’s baskets and quickly stepped back toward her brothers.
“What do you think?” chuckled Yusef, “they’re going to jump out of the baskets and strike you?”
Ameena averted her gaze, looking toward the ground.
“You’re perfectly safe,” said Jamal, “the snake charmer is closest to the snakes, plus, they cannot jump. They’re like a piece of wound string. When it uncoils, the end of the string is the end.”
They continued through the market, looking at everything under the sun. That included Berber carpets. Ameena knelt in front of the couple selling the carpets. She waved her hand over the thick wool carpet. Beautiful hues of purple, blue, black and white were woven into intricate designs.
“Do you want it?” asked Jamal.
Without turning to acknowledge her brother, she nodded slowly. She loved the designs.
“That represents the original tribes of Morocco,” said the old man selling the carpet, “Every Berber used these carpets for everything. If you turn it over, the other side is plain, while this side is thick and burly. This side is for sleeping in the desert, where it gets cold at night. The other side is for daytime, when you don’t need to feel a thick layer of wool between you and the sand.”
“Well take it,” said Jamal, “In fact, we’ll take three.”
Yusef picked out the carpets and the old man rolled them and tied each bundle with a piece of twine. Yusef knotted them together, making a carpet backpack out of the bundles.
“Are we staying in the desert tonight?”
Jamal nodded. “One of my friends lives just outside of Marrakech. We’ll camp there for the night.”
They continued walking through the market. Yusef picked out a small hand whistle, fashioned to look like the snake charmer’s Pungi. It sounded nothing like the Moroccan pipes, but Yusef did not mind.
As they continued through the alleys made by the street vendors, Yusef played his whistle. The crowds were larger, but Ameena followed the sound of the whistle.
“Our mother will be upset if we spent all our money on frivolous things. We should buy food, too.”
Jamal picked out a large burlap bags full of rolled wheat, which would become couscous after it was cooked. He purchased a large bag of rice and Yusef carried in his arms. He also purchased a grocery bag full of fresh vegetables, giving it to Ameena. The three of them headed back to the car, each with a giant load of goods.
They packed the back with the vegetables, carpets, and couscous. That left the bag of rice.
“Put it in front,” said Jamal.
“Where will I sit?” asked Yusef.
“You can sit in the back with Ameena.”
“That makes no sense,” said Yusef, “the rice can sit in the back with Ameena.”
“There’s no seatbelt in the back, so let’s put it in the front seat and fasten the buckle. That way the bag won’t fall over and split open.”
“Alright,” groaned Yusef.
Yusef rode in the back seat with his little sister. Ameena peered over Jamal’s shoulder, looking down the road ahead. Only the two headlights shone along the dark stretch of road. Oncoming traffic could be seen on the distant edge of the horizon. The rest of the desert was as dark as midnight.
Jamal turned off the main road onto a deserted desert road.
“Do you know where it is?” asked Yusef.
“I think I can find it,” replied Jamal.
A flicker of campfire shone like a torch in the distance. It worked as a beacon, signaling the way for Jamal and the little black hatchback. As they neared the fire, they saw people gathered around the fire. A small tent village surrounded the campfire, too.
“I think this is it,” said Jamal.
His thoughts were confirmed as a boy approached the hatchback. It was his best friend from the University.
“Hey Khalid!” greeted Jamal.
“Hey Jamal,” replied Khalid, “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Jamal got out of the car and introduced everyone. Yusef handed the Berber rugs to everyone. They followed Khalid toward the warmth of the campfire. Everyone was eager to meet Khalid’s family.
Tea in the Sahara
Only one more week passed before Ameena got a chance to explore another newfound freedom. Once again, it was the work of Yusef and Jamal who gave her that chance.
The boys came home from college, announcing their presence to the Mansoor house.
“Hello family! ” said Jamal.
“One day left until Winter break is here!” said Yusef.
“But it’s not even cold yet,” said Kareem.
“That’s why we’re happy,” said Yusef.
“What will you do with all this free time?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“We were thinking of heading to Marrakech,” said Yusef.
“I think that would be a good trip. Plus, you can pick up some things at the Market while you’re there.”
“We also wanted to take Ameena with us,” added Jamal.
“I think that would be a great idea,” said father, “she hasn’t had a chance to travel far from home.”
“Who is going to help me around the house?”
“Kareem and Mohammed will be happy to help,” said father.
“Why shouldn’t I be able to go to Marrakech, too?” asked Kareem.
“We didn’t invite you,” said Jamal.
“Then it is settled. Pack your bags, Ameena, you’re going on a trip.”
Before Mrs. Mansoor could lodge her complaint, Ameena was in her bedroom, arranging her clothes on the floor beside her bed. Mrs. Mansoor’s two boys came in the front door like a desert wind and reeked havoc before she had a chance to react.
“Alright, I guess it would be good for her,” she said with a sigh of exasperation.
Yusef raced upstairs to his sister’s bedroom.
“It’s on,” he said, “We’re leaving first thing after school.”
Ameena spent the rest of the night laying her clothes out on her bed. At bedtime, she slept on the floor, so everything would be ready. Unfortunately, she could not sleep. In the middle of the night, she continued to reorganize her things.
The next day, school dragged by. After the final bell, she trudged home, tired from all the excitement of her first trip. When Yusef arrived at her bedroom door, he was surprised at what he found.
“You haven’t packed a thing!” he said.
Ameena was sprawled across her bed, laying on top of her piles of clothes. She jumped to her feet and got ready. Meanwhile, Yusef fixed breakfast, putting oatmeal, soy milk, and brown sugar in a to-go bowl.
When Ameena came downstairs, Yusef was waiting, like an impatient mother on the first day of school, trying to get Ameena out the door.
“Here’s your oatmeal. Let’s get going.”
Yusef shooed Ameena out the door towards the car. She hopped into the back seat of the little black hatchback, positioning herself in the middle of the back seat. She poked her head between the two front seats, leaning between her two brothers.
Jamal drove east, piloting the car along the narrow stretch of desert road. The road slithered through the sand, like a sand viper, searching for a late afternoon meal.
Everywhere Ameena looked, the dunes of the Sahara rose around her. It was no wonder, since the Sahara was larger than all of Europe.
Once the interior of the car became unbearably hot, Ameena decided to roll down her window.
“Ameena, let’s turn on the aircon instead,” said her brother.
Ameena obeyed him as she felt the hot desert wind whip at her face. She pulled the cowl from her headscarf away from her face, freeing her hair from its ponytail. The air conditioning felt refreshing as the hair on the back of her neck rippled from its icy chill.
“Maybe we should stop for a spot of tea,” said Jamal.
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Yusef, “What about you, little sister?”
Ameena nodded enthusiastically.
“Then tea it is,” said Jamal.
A small café appeared at the side of the road. As Jamal pulled the car into the parking lot, there was only one other car at the café. The café itself was plain. Its simple rectangular shape was no more extraordinary than the citadel at Essaouira, painted the same plain beige color as the sand dunes. It barely stood out among the single color of the empty desert.
Inside, there was only a single oven in the corner of an otherwise empty room. An old gentleman rushed out to meet Ameena and her brothers.
“Come here, come here,” he said.
The old man pulled the top carpet off a pile of rolled carpets. He shuffled across the sand. His footsteps sounded like a softly patted tribal drum. He leaned over and unfurled the small area rug near the corner of the room. He kneeled on the edge of the carpet and brushed dust and lint off the carpet. Ameena kneeled down on one side of the carpet. Yusef and Jamal kneeled beside her.
“What would you like?” asked the old man.
“Some Tuareg Tea,” replied Jamal.
“Tuareg, a fine, fine choice,” replied the man. He lit the stove and placed a tea kettle over the flame. He toddled off to the kitchen, just out of everyone’s sight.
A few minutes later, he returned with a complete tea service. Tea cups and teaspoons, all dressed in silver, sat upon a large silver platter. A tall and elegant teapot stood in the center of the platter.
He took the teapot to the stove and filled it with water. Steam billowed from its spout, which reminded Ameena of an Elephant’s trunk spraying water over its own back.
“Would you like to have the honor of making tea?” asked the old man.
Ameena nodded.
“First, we grab a bundle of leaves and bruise them.”
The old man twisted a bunch of mint leaves in his hand. He handed the bundle to Ameena and she repeated the process before stuffing them into the teapot. Ameena smelled her hands. They were pungent with mint.
“Now we rinse the tea.”
Ameena shook the teapot with a swirling motion before pouring one cup of tea. As Ameena sat the teapot down, the old man flipped up the teapot’s lid and added more boiling water. He then poured the cup of tea back into the teapot.
“Rinse it again.”
Ameena poured the tea back into the teacup and then returned the poured tea into the teapot. She did this tree times.
“This helps mix the tea,” said the old man as he twisted his long gray bear in his fingertips.
Finally, he added several spoonfuls of sugar and some orange blossoms.
“Let us rinse one more time,” he said.
Ameena poured the tea one more time. The tea was dark brown, just like tea should look. Still, she returned the poured tea to the teapot.
“Let’s boil it for a short while,” said the old man.
He took the teapot over to the stove, filled it with more boiling water, and then let it sit on the stove. After a few minutes boiling, the old man returned to the stove and retrieved the steaming teapot.
“Pick up the teapot with both hands. One is for the handle and one is to keep the lid in place.”
Ameena did as told, carefully pouring tea into the first cup.
“Higher,” said the old man.
Ameena slowly lifted the teapot higher.
“Higher,” he said again.
Ameena raised it higher.
“And still higher. We want bubbles and foam.”
Ameena knew what the old man wanted. A good cup of Moroccan Tuareg Tea had foam and bubbles. That would only happen if she drizzled the tea from the spout at some height avoe the cups. After her second attempt with no bubbles, she sat the teapot down.
“Let me show you just once,” said the old man.
He picked up the teapot and began to pour.
“You raise it a half meter over the teacup, very quickly. It is like a gentle rain shower in your cup. Naturally, the tea will bubble and foam.”
Everyone, including Ameena, peered into the teacups as the old man filled them. Sure enough, foamy bubbles formed atop each cup of tea.
“Then, you have to stop,” said the old man, “You quickly drop the heigh of the teapot as you pull back to stop the flow of tea.”
With a quick wrist motion, the old man stopped each pour of tea. To Ameena, it was simply amazing. The old man returned the teapot to Ameena and she continued to practice her technique.
“I almost forgot!” exclaimed the old man.
He vanished into the kitchen, only to come out with a platter of food. Small boiled bananas sat on one side of the tray, Moroccan pancakes were piled on the other.
“Those look great,” said Jamal.
“I bet they taste great, too,” added Yusef. He snatched a pancake from the plate, folded it in half and dunked it in his tea. Within a few seconds, he finished his first pancake and was aiming to get another.
“Wait for Ameena,” said Jamal.
Yusef withdrew his hand. Ameena finished pouring and then joined her brothers for a cup of tea. The cup of tea became a pot, which became a second and a third and so on until everyone lost count.
Afterward, the old man carried off the tea service, cleaning up after everyone.
“How much do we owe you?” asked Jamal.
“Today you owe me nothing. You are the first customers I’ve had in several days.”
“It’s the least we could do,” said Jamal, “We’re on our way to Marrakech.”
“Just like modern day Tuareg, but instead of traveling the desert on camels, you’re traveling in a car.”
After some amount of bickering, the old man finally man took payment for his services and the Monsoors were on their way east again.
“That was some of the best tea I’ve had in a long time, don’t you think?” asked Yusef.
Ameena nodded and smiled. Her stomach was full with tea-soaked Moroccan pancakes. The bad thing about tea and pancakes was that a full belly did not last for long. Soon, it would be lunch time. Soon, they would be in Marrakech, and soon, Ameena knew she would be eating something new and something good.
The boys came home from college, announcing their presence to the Mansoor house.
“Hello family! ” said Jamal.
“One day left until Winter break is here!” said Yusef.
“But it’s not even cold yet,” said Kareem.
“That’s why we’re happy,” said Yusef.
“What will you do with all this free time?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“We were thinking of heading to Marrakech,” said Yusef.
“I think that would be a good trip. Plus, you can pick up some things at the Market while you’re there.”
“We also wanted to take Ameena with us,” added Jamal.
“I think that would be a great idea,” said father, “she hasn’t had a chance to travel far from home.”
“Who is going to help me around the house?”
“Kareem and Mohammed will be happy to help,” said father.
“Why shouldn’t I be able to go to Marrakech, too?” asked Kareem.
“We didn’t invite you,” said Jamal.
“Then it is settled. Pack your bags, Ameena, you’re going on a trip.”
Before Mrs. Mansoor could lodge her complaint, Ameena was in her bedroom, arranging her clothes on the floor beside her bed. Mrs. Mansoor’s two boys came in the front door like a desert wind and reeked havoc before she had a chance to react.
“Alright, I guess it would be good for her,” she said with a sigh of exasperation.
Yusef raced upstairs to his sister’s bedroom.
“It’s on,” he said, “We’re leaving first thing after school.”
Ameena spent the rest of the night laying her clothes out on her bed. At bedtime, she slept on the floor, so everything would be ready. Unfortunately, she could not sleep. In the middle of the night, she continued to reorganize her things.
The next day, school dragged by. After the final bell, she trudged home, tired from all the excitement of her first trip. When Yusef arrived at her bedroom door, he was surprised at what he found.
“You haven’t packed a thing!” he said.
Ameena was sprawled across her bed, laying on top of her piles of clothes. She jumped to her feet and got ready. Meanwhile, Yusef fixed breakfast, putting oatmeal, soy milk, and brown sugar in a to-go bowl.
When Ameena came downstairs, Yusef was waiting, like an impatient mother on the first day of school, trying to get Ameena out the door.
“Here’s your oatmeal. Let’s get going.”
Yusef shooed Ameena out the door towards the car. She hopped into the back seat of the little black hatchback, positioning herself in the middle of the back seat. She poked her head between the two front seats, leaning between her two brothers.
Jamal drove east, piloting the car along the narrow stretch of desert road. The road slithered through the sand, like a sand viper, searching for a late afternoon meal.
Everywhere Ameena looked, the dunes of the Sahara rose around her. It was no wonder, since the Sahara was larger than all of Europe.
Once the interior of the car became unbearably hot, Ameena decided to roll down her window.
“Ameena, let’s turn on the aircon instead,” said her brother.
Ameena obeyed him as she felt the hot desert wind whip at her face. She pulled the cowl from her headscarf away from her face, freeing her hair from its ponytail. The air conditioning felt refreshing as the hair on the back of her neck rippled from its icy chill.
“Maybe we should stop for a spot of tea,” said Jamal.
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Yusef, “What about you, little sister?”
Ameena nodded enthusiastically.
“Then tea it is,” said Jamal.
A small café appeared at the side of the road. As Jamal pulled the car into the parking lot, there was only one other car at the café. The café itself was plain. Its simple rectangular shape was no more extraordinary than the citadel at Essaouira, painted the same plain beige color as the sand dunes. It barely stood out among the single color of the empty desert.
Inside, there was only a single oven in the corner of an otherwise empty room. An old gentleman rushed out to meet Ameena and her brothers.
“Come here, come here,” he said.
The old man pulled the top carpet off a pile of rolled carpets. He shuffled across the sand. His footsteps sounded like a softly patted tribal drum. He leaned over and unfurled the small area rug near the corner of the room. He kneeled on the edge of the carpet and brushed dust and lint off the carpet. Ameena kneeled down on one side of the carpet. Yusef and Jamal kneeled beside her.
“What would you like?” asked the old man.
“Some Tuareg Tea,” replied Jamal.
“Tuareg, a fine, fine choice,” replied the man. He lit the stove and placed a tea kettle over the flame. He toddled off to the kitchen, just out of everyone’s sight.
A few minutes later, he returned with a complete tea service. Tea cups and teaspoons, all dressed in silver, sat upon a large silver platter. A tall and elegant teapot stood in the center of the platter.
He took the teapot to the stove and filled it with water. Steam billowed from its spout, which reminded Ameena of an Elephant’s trunk spraying water over its own back.
“Would you like to have the honor of making tea?” asked the old man.
Ameena nodded.
“First, we grab a bundle of leaves and bruise them.”
The old man twisted a bunch of mint leaves in his hand. He handed the bundle to Ameena and she repeated the process before stuffing them into the teapot. Ameena smelled her hands. They were pungent with mint.
“Now we rinse the tea.”
Ameena shook the teapot with a swirling motion before pouring one cup of tea. As Ameena sat the teapot down, the old man flipped up the teapot’s lid and added more boiling water. He then poured the cup of tea back into the teapot.
“Rinse it again.”
Ameena poured the tea back into the teacup and then returned the poured tea into the teapot. She did this tree times.
“This helps mix the tea,” said the old man as he twisted his long gray bear in his fingertips.
Finally, he added several spoonfuls of sugar and some orange blossoms.
“Let us rinse one more time,” he said.
Ameena poured the tea one more time. The tea was dark brown, just like tea should look. Still, she returned the poured tea to the teapot.
“Let’s boil it for a short while,” said the old man.
He took the teapot over to the stove, filled it with more boiling water, and then let it sit on the stove. After a few minutes boiling, the old man returned to the stove and retrieved the steaming teapot.
“Pick up the teapot with both hands. One is for the handle and one is to keep the lid in place.”
Ameena did as told, carefully pouring tea into the first cup.
“Higher,” said the old man.
Ameena slowly lifted the teapot higher.
“Higher,” he said again.
Ameena raised it higher.
“And still higher. We want bubbles and foam.”
Ameena knew what the old man wanted. A good cup of Moroccan Tuareg Tea had foam and bubbles. That would only happen if she drizzled the tea from the spout at some height avoe the cups. After her second attempt with no bubbles, she sat the teapot down.
“Let me show you just once,” said the old man.
He picked up the teapot and began to pour.
“You raise it a half meter over the teacup, very quickly. It is like a gentle rain shower in your cup. Naturally, the tea will bubble and foam.”
Everyone, including Ameena, peered into the teacups as the old man filled them. Sure enough, foamy bubbles formed atop each cup of tea.
“Then, you have to stop,” said the old man, “You quickly drop the heigh of the teapot as you pull back to stop the flow of tea.”
With a quick wrist motion, the old man stopped each pour of tea. To Ameena, it was simply amazing. The old man returned the teapot to Ameena and she continued to practice her technique.
“I almost forgot!” exclaimed the old man.
He vanished into the kitchen, only to come out with a platter of food. Small boiled bananas sat on one side of the tray, Moroccan pancakes were piled on the other.
“Those look great,” said Jamal.
“I bet they taste great, too,” added Yusef. He snatched a pancake from the plate, folded it in half and dunked it in his tea. Within a few seconds, he finished his first pancake and was aiming to get another.
“Wait for Ameena,” said Jamal.
Yusef withdrew his hand. Ameena finished pouring and then joined her brothers for a cup of tea. The cup of tea became a pot, which became a second and a third and so on until everyone lost count.
Afterward, the old man carried off the tea service, cleaning up after everyone.
“How much do we owe you?” asked Jamal.
“Today you owe me nothing. You are the first customers I’ve had in several days.”
“It’s the least we could do,” said Jamal, “We’re on our way to Marrakech.”
“Just like modern day Tuareg, but instead of traveling the desert on camels, you’re traveling in a car.”
After some amount of bickering, the old man finally man took payment for his services and the Monsoors were on their way east again.
“That was some of the best tea I’ve had in a long time, don’t you think?” asked Yusef.
Ameena nodded and smiled. Her stomach was full with tea-soaked Moroccan pancakes. The bad thing about tea and pancakes was that a full belly did not last for long. Soon, it would be lunch time. Soon, they would be in Marrakech, and soon, Ameena knew she would be eating something new and something good.
A Case of the Royal Blues
Ameena rose from bed early on Saturday morning, not sure what she would do with her weekend. She started by looking through her closet. It was full of hijab. She didn’t want to wear the usual black or brown, and since it was not a holy day, she could not wear white.
She picked out her dark purple robe instead. She liked how her light brown face contrasted with dark color of the robe. It was a robe usually reserved for holy days.
After she modeled it in her mirror, she headed to the restroom, passing her father in the hall.
“You look like a princess,” exclaimed her father.
Her face brightened as she continued to the restroom. As she returned to her bedroom though, she ran into her mother.
“Ameena, what are you doing wearing that robe?”
Without a word, Ameena returned to her room and donned one of her basic black hijab. She also put on her khimar, the headscarf she always wore with her hijab, and fastened it. Only her eyes peered out from the black veil. She returned to the hallway, where her mother was waiting.
“That is much better, but you know you do not have to wear the veil indoors,” said her mother. Mrs. Mansoor picked lint off the plain black robe, making sure everything was in its proper place.
When Ameena arrived downstairs, the rest of the family was already at the breakfast table. French croissants, cheese, and butter waited on a platter, with a pitcher of Mint Tea sitting next to it.
“What happened to your purple robe?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
“I told her to change,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“Fatima…” Mr. Mansoor pleaded to his wife. However, Mrs. Mansoor folded her arms in protest.
“There has to be a line somewhere,” stated Mrs. Mansoor.
Mr. Mansoor heaved a sigh and began his breakfast. With nothing more said throughout the meal, Ameena felt as if she had created another family argument. She quickly and quietly ate her meal.
Ameena cut a croissant along its length before picking cheese to place inside her ‘cheese mini-sandwich’. She decided on Camembert. The butter knife slid easily into the creamy white cheese. Ameena spread it on both sides of her croissant and squished them together.
As she bit into the croissant, the flaky French bread melted in her mouth. She could still taste the melted butter her mother brushed on the outside of the roll. It mixed perfectly with the creamy texture of goat’s milk in the Camembert cheese.
Ameena poured herself a cup of tea. She washed her food with a large gulp of tea. The mint flavor filled her nostrils. She returned to the croissant, taking an even larger bite than before.
Ameena was in her own little world, imagining she was in some fine Parisian café, far from home.
After breakfast, she helped her mother wash the dishes and then went directly upstairs to her room. She picked a pocket book from the shelf above her bed and began reading. As she flipped each page, she glanced over at the purple hijab hanging in her closet. She could not get the thought of the purple hijab out of her head.
After she finished a chapter, she sat the book on the bedstand. She folded her arms and stared across the room. Finally, she picked up her book and returned downstairs.
In the living room, everyone was still silent. Ameena lay on the large blue area rug in the middle of the room. Her mother sat in the rocking chair, stitching a pair of Mohammed slacks. They were purple, the same color as Ameena’s hijab.
Little Mohammed laid next to his sister, forming a T. He rested his feet across her back.
“Get your feet off your sister,” commanded Mrs. Mansoor, “I don’t want you putting those dirty things on that hijab.”
Ameena heaved a sigh.
Mohammed twisted himself, laying parallel to Ameena. While she laid on her belly trying to read her book, he laid on his back, watching her read. She stared back at him until he finally turned away.
“Mother, why is everything blue?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“The fishing boats in the bay are blue. All the doors on the houses are blue. Even my pants are blue.”
“They’re not blue, they’re purple,” Kareem corrected him.
“But they’re kind of blue.”
“I know what you mean, little Mohammed,” said Mrs. Mansoor, “Purple is actually dark blue. Sometimes red is added to make it purple.”
Ameena put down her book and looked at the color to the floor rug. She rubbed her hands against the carpet. The coarse goat’s hair scratched her hands.
“It’s called Tyrian Purple,” added Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena paused as she looked up at her mother.
“The color of that rug is Tyrian Purple, just like Mohammed’s slacks and your hijab. It was first created in a city called Tyre.”
“That was Phoenicia’s capital city,” added Jamal.
Mrs. Mansoor nodded, “The Phoenicians created a dye called ‘Indigo’. It came from snails found only in that area.”
“That’s why we have it here,” added Jamal, “It was one of the main things the Phoenicians traded with the Greeks. Everyone in Greece wanted it. As they did, it became more expensive, which meant only the kings could afford Tyrian Purple. As emperors were the only ones who could afford it, it became known as Imperial Purple. Eventually, there was also Royal Blue.”
“We’re not rich,” said Kareem.
“Just like mother said, chemists learned to manufacture purple and blue without using dye from snails. At that time, everyone began using it, especially the Moroccans.”
“Why us?” asked Kareem.
“The Iles de Purpuraires, which is the island between the Citadel and Spain, was a major trading post for Tyrian Purple. Since our people had access to the dye, we used it for everything. I guess that just continues today,”
“Tyrian Purple represents so much more today,” said Yusef.
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“Purple Hijab Day is celebrated all over the world,” said Yusef.
“Ameena…” Mrs. Mansoor said to her only daughter.
Ameena glanced toward her mother.
“I think it’s okay if you put on your purple hijab.
Ameena’s eyes lit up. She jumped to her feet and raced upstairs. In only moments, she switched out of her black robe, donning her purple robe. She tucked her headdress into place. Ameena thought the purple hood framed her face perfectly. She thought about sneaking some of her mother’s mascara to accent her eyes, then she realized she had better not push her luck. It was a miracle she even got to wear a colorful hijab.
“There’s my princess,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“You look good, little sister,” said Yusef, plus, you’re celebrating women everywhere.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mohammed.
“On Purple Hijab Day, Muslim women wear the purple hijab to celebrate women’s rights and remember the women were persecuted.”
“What do you mean, persecuted?” asked Mohammed.
“Under old laws, a woman was not allowed to do all the same things as a man. Often, men even treated women worse than their animals. Back then, some men would even beat their women. Today, we realize that women are still different than men, but equals. That’s what Purple Hijab Day represents.”
“I think every day should be Purple Hijab Day,” announced Little Mohammed, “Anyways, our father is right, Ameena does looke like a princess.”
“Okay, okay, okay. I get it. Ameena can wear her purple hijab any day she wants,” said Mrs. Mansoor, “plus, you do look good in purple anyway. You’re our princess.”
Ameena’s heart swelled with pride. She was very glad she did not have to wear the plain old black and brown hijabs like always. Now, she would hold the priviledge of wearing the purple hijab deep in her heart as well as displaying it for everyone to see.
She picked out her dark purple robe instead. She liked how her light brown face contrasted with dark color of the robe. It was a robe usually reserved for holy days.
After she modeled it in her mirror, she headed to the restroom, passing her father in the hall.
“You look like a princess,” exclaimed her father.
Her face brightened as she continued to the restroom. As she returned to her bedroom though, she ran into her mother.
“Ameena, what are you doing wearing that robe?”
Without a word, Ameena returned to her room and donned one of her basic black hijab. She also put on her khimar, the headscarf she always wore with her hijab, and fastened it. Only her eyes peered out from the black veil. She returned to the hallway, where her mother was waiting.
“That is much better, but you know you do not have to wear the veil indoors,” said her mother. Mrs. Mansoor picked lint off the plain black robe, making sure everything was in its proper place.
When Ameena arrived downstairs, the rest of the family was already at the breakfast table. French croissants, cheese, and butter waited on a platter, with a pitcher of Mint Tea sitting next to it.
“What happened to your purple robe?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
“I told her to change,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“Fatima…” Mr. Mansoor pleaded to his wife. However, Mrs. Mansoor folded her arms in protest.
“There has to be a line somewhere,” stated Mrs. Mansoor.
Mr. Mansoor heaved a sigh and began his breakfast. With nothing more said throughout the meal, Ameena felt as if she had created another family argument. She quickly and quietly ate her meal.
Ameena cut a croissant along its length before picking cheese to place inside her ‘cheese mini-sandwich’. She decided on Camembert. The butter knife slid easily into the creamy white cheese. Ameena spread it on both sides of her croissant and squished them together.
As she bit into the croissant, the flaky French bread melted in her mouth. She could still taste the melted butter her mother brushed on the outside of the roll. It mixed perfectly with the creamy texture of goat’s milk in the Camembert cheese.
Ameena poured herself a cup of tea. She washed her food with a large gulp of tea. The mint flavor filled her nostrils. She returned to the croissant, taking an even larger bite than before.
Ameena was in her own little world, imagining she was in some fine Parisian café, far from home.
After breakfast, she helped her mother wash the dishes and then went directly upstairs to her room. She picked a pocket book from the shelf above her bed and began reading. As she flipped each page, she glanced over at the purple hijab hanging in her closet. She could not get the thought of the purple hijab out of her head.
After she finished a chapter, she sat the book on the bedstand. She folded her arms and stared across the room. Finally, she picked up her book and returned downstairs.
In the living room, everyone was still silent. Ameena lay on the large blue area rug in the middle of the room. Her mother sat in the rocking chair, stitching a pair of Mohammed slacks. They were purple, the same color as Ameena’s hijab.
Little Mohammed laid next to his sister, forming a T. He rested his feet across her back.
“Get your feet off your sister,” commanded Mrs. Mansoor, “I don’t want you putting those dirty things on that hijab.”
Ameena heaved a sigh.
Mohammed twisted himself, laying parallel to Ameena. While she laid on her belly trying to read her book, he laid on his back, watching her read. She stared back at him until he finally turned away.
“Mother, why is everything blue?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“The fishing boats in the bay are blue. All the doors on the houses are blue. Even my pants are blue.”
“They’re not blue, they’re purple,” Kareem corrected him.
“But they’re kind of blue.”
“I know what you mean, little Mohammed,” said Mrs. Mansoor, “Purple is actually dark blue. Sometimes red is added to make it purple.”
Ameena put down her book and looked at the color to the floor rug. She rubbed her hands against the carpet. The coarse goat’s hair scratched her hands.
“It’s called Tyrian Purple,” added Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena paused as she looked up at her mother.
“The color of that rug is Tyrian Purple, just like Mohammed’s slacks and your hijab. It was first created in a city called Tyre.”
“That was Phoenicia’s capital city,” added Jamal.
Mrs. Mansoor nodded, “The Phoenicians created a dye called ‘Indigo’. It came from snails found only in that area.”
“That’s why we have it here,” added Jamal, “It was one of the main things the Phoenicians traded with the Greeks. Everyone in Greece wanted it. As they did, it became more expensive, which meant only the kings could afford Tyrian Purple. As emperors were the only ones who could afford it, it became known as Imperial Purple. Eventually, there was also Royal Blue.”
“We’re not rich,” said Kareem.
“Just like mother said, chemists learned to manufacture purple and blue without using dye from snails. At that time, everyone began using it, especially the Moroccans.”
“Why us?” asked Kareem.
“The Iles de Purpuraires, which is the island between the Citadel and Spain, was a major trading post for Tyrian Purple. Since our people had access to the dye, we used it for everything. I guess that just continues today,”
“Tyrian Purple represents so much more today,” said Yusef.
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“Purple Hijab Day is celebrated all over the world,” said Yusef.
“Ameena…” Mrs. Mansoor said to her only daughter.
Ameena glanced toward her mother.
“I think it’s okay if you put on your purple hijab.
Ameena’s eyes lit up. She jumped to her feet and raced upstairs. In only moments, she switched out of her black robe, donning her purple robe. She tucked her headdress into place. Ameena thought the purple hood framed her face perfectly. She thought about sneaking some of her mother’s mascara to accent her eyes, then she realized she had better not push her luck. It was a miracle she even got to wear a colorful hijab.
“There’s my princess,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“You look good, little sister,” said Yusef, plus, you’re celebrating women everywhere.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mohammed.
“On Purple Hijab Day, Muslim women wear the purple hijab to celebrate women’s rights and remember the women were persecuted.”
“What do you mean, persecuted?” asked Mohammed.
“Under old laws, a woman was not allowed to do all the same things as a man. Often, men even treated women worse than their animals. Back then, some men would even beat their women. Today, we realize that women are still different than men, but equals. That’s what Purple Hijab Day represents.”
“I think every day should be Purple Hijab Day,” announced Little Mohammed, “Anyways, our father is right, Ameena does looke like a princess.”
“Okay, okay, okay. I get it. Ameena can wear her purple hijab any day she wants,” said Mrs. Mansoor, “plus, you do look good in purple anyway. You’re our princess.”
Ameena’s heart swelled with pride. She was very glad she did not have to wear the plain old black and brown hijabs like always. Now, she would hold the priviledge of wearing the purple hijab deep in her heart as well as displaying it for everyone to see.
Men of Letters
Jamal and Yusef Mansoor sat in the middle of a desert oasis when they received the call from their father.
Buildings surrounded them on all sides. Like the other buildings of downtown Essaouira, they were square in shape, stood about three stories high, and were made of plaster, concrete, and sandstone. Unlike the white-washed buildings of the Medina with antique doors painted in blue, the buildings of the University were all painted light brown, the color of desert sands.
The courtyard itself was filled with decorative trees and plants, including date palms, just like the ones at the Citadel. Students filled the picnic tables and benches, studying in the sun and relaxing in the shade.
Yusef had been staring at the same page of his Engineering book for over an hour. His eyes darted from the book to the people in the courtyard.
When his cell phone rang, Yusef quickly snatched it, eager to get a study break.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” said Mr. Mansoor, “Is Jamal nearby?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re here at the Medina getting ready to eat. Would you like to join us?”
“I’m ready to eat,” replied Yusef.
“Who is it?” interrupted Jamal.
“It’s our father. He wants to know if we’re hungry.”
Jamal nodded enthusiastically.
“What are we having?” Yusef asked his father.
“Mother ordered green tea and Pastilla.”
“That sounds good. We’ll be there soon,” replied Yusef.
The boys packed their backpacks and headed for the bus stop. When they boarded the bus, it was so crowded they were forced to stand in the center aisle. They held the safety straps hanging from the ceiling. As the bus weaved through the busy streets of Essaouira, the boys struggled to keep their balance.
As soon as Jamal and Yusef stepped off the bus from the University, they carved their way toward the various markets between the Citadel and the café. Street vendors pinched the already narrow alleys of the marketplace. The vendors sold just about anything a person could want, including baskets, carpets, and grains. One vendor even sold live snakes.
Jamal and Yusef avoided all of this, sharing the cobblestone-covered alleys with shoppers, fishermen, and bicyclists. Still, they made it to the café in good time.
“Jamal! Yusef! Over here” called Mrs. Mansoor.
The boys entered the restaurant, walking out onto the open patio. A canvas awning over the table flapped gently in the warm ocean breeze.
“How was school today?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“It was long,” said Yusef.
“My day was long, too, but it was fantastic,” added Jamal.
“What made it fantastic?” asked Mohammed.
“Well, little brother, I got an A on my Moroccan History test.”
“Congratulations, Jamal!” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“What was on the exam?” asked Mohammed.
“We’ve been studying Phoenicia.”
“Faneesha? Who’s that?”
“It’s not a who, little brother, it’s an ancient civilization that existed around three-thousand years ago. The Phoenicians lived at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea.”
“What does that have to do with Morocco?”
“Everything,” replied Jamal, “the Phoenicians sailed throughout the Mediterranean. They traded their goods with people from north Africa and southern Europe.”
While Jamal continued to talk, Mrs. Mansoor ordered Pastilla for everyone. When it arrived, Mrs. Mansoor cut the meat pie into six pieces, serving one to each person at the table.
Ameena bit into her piece of Pastilla, savoring every bite. The Pastilla was made in three layers: scrambled eggs on the bottom, roasted lamb in the middle, and an almond-cinnamon-sugar top layer. The layers mingled in her mouth with every bite.
The flaky crust was another matter altogether.
Made from tissue-thin Phyllo dough, the Pastilla crust crumbled with each bite. Buttery soft flakes melted on Ameena’s tongue, revealing the pieces of shredded lamb and mixture of scrambled eggs that made up the lowest layer of the meat pie.
“The Phoenicians also connected the eastern Asians with the western Europeans,” continued Jamal.
At this point, he lifted his hands above his plate. One hand stretched west and the other hand stretched east as he drew the map of three continents in the air.
“The ancient Phoenician sailors brought fine fabrics from India, exotic spices from southeastern Asia. When they returned to the east, they took Greek architecture and Italian wines. All of these things they brought to Morocco.”
“That’s all? That doesn’t seem like much,” argued Mohammed.
“That’s everything,” replied Jamal.
“Not quite everything,” interrupted Yusef, “What about alphabet?”
“I forgot about that,” said Jamal.
“What do you mean?” asked Mohammed
“The Phoenicians are credited with using one of the first alphabets. In fact, most countries in Africa, Europe, and western Asia use an alphabet based on Phoenician writing.”
“How is that possible?” asked Mohammed.
As Ameena listened to the boys talk about alphabet, she knew the answer. She only had to look across the shore. The rocks that made Essaouira dangerous did not exist on all sides of the walled city.
On the northern shore of Essaouira, the ramparts that encircled the main part of the city gave way to a massive pier, where trading ships of all sizes docked. This was the same port that brought fabrics and spices into the western half of Morocco – and also an alphabet. As one culture met with another, they not only shared their goods, but their ideas, too.
Jamal grabbed a paper napkin and began to write.
“Take the letter S for example,” replied Jamal, “This is how the Phoenicians wrote it, 2000 years ago.”
Jamal scribbled the Phoenician S, which zigzagged like a lower case Roman w.
“Now take a look at the Arabic S.”
Jamal carefully scribed the Arabic S. He drew Two tiny cups, like a curved w. He followed that with a long tail on the left, like the Roman J and two dots, above and below the script. When he was finished, it looked like this: ښ .
“Of course, Arabic is much prettier,” noted Mrs. Mansoor.
“I think so, too,” said Mohammed.
“Not prettier, just different,” argued Mr. Mansoor.
“Prettier,” repeated Mrs. Mansoor.
“Why is there another cup on the Arabic S?” asked Mohammed.
“The alphabet changed over time.”
“How do you know?” asked Mohammed.
“You sure full of questions,” replied Jamal.
“Well?”
“There are scientists, called archaeologists, who dig in the dirt, looking for artifacts – things older generations left behind. Those can include dishes, furniture, buildings, and even ancient writings.”
“But how do you know all of this?”
“I read it in my antiquities books.”
“What are those?”
“They’re history books that study old civilizations, like the Phoenicians. I’m learning about languages from every part of the world.”
“That seems weird to me,” replied Mohammed.
“It’s not very weird at all,” replied Jamal, “Most of us Moroccans already speak three languages: Berber, French, and Arabic. It’s because of other cultures, like the Phoenicians, who have visited our cities throughout time.”
With that, Mohammed was finally satisfied with his eldest brother’s answers. He turned his attention to the meal. He picked at the piece of Pastilla on his plate, carefully avoiding the lamb and egg. He devoured every last bit of crust, especially the parts with the almonds, sugar, and cinnamon.
“It’s getting late,” noticed Mrs. Mansoor, “We’d better get moving along.”
Mr. Mansoor paid the check and everyone headed to the exit.
“Ameena, hold your little brother’s hand,” said Mrs. Mansoor as she held Ameena’s free hand. Ameena grabbed little Mohammed’s hand. They walked, one-two-three, through the alleys of the Medina, linked daisy-chain style.
They filtered through the crowds, headed back towards the Citadel. Their car was parked in a small parking lot just beyond the citadel. The children squeezed into the back seat of the tiny black hatchback. Ameena had to sit on Jamal’s lap next to one window. Mohammed sat on Yusef’s lap, while Kareem was squished in the middle of the back seat.
“Are we all set?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“We’re ready,” answered Jamal.
Mr. Mansoor weaved the tiny black hatchback through side streets the whole way home. As soon as they arrived at their house, the children eagerly unpacked themselves from the backseat.
Inside the house, everyone went their separate ways, ready for bed. Ameena went upstairs to her tiny bedroom next to her parent’s room.
She quickly took off her hijab, carefully butting it back in its place on the only empty hanger in her closet. As soon as she laid in bed, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep, deep sleep, dreaming of the day she could go to school just like Yusef and Jamal.
Buildings surrounded them on all sides. Like the other buildings of downtown Essaouira, they were square in shape, stood about three stories high, and were made of plaster, concrete, and sandstone. Unlike the white-washed buildings of the Medina with antique doors painted in blue, the buildings of the University were all painted light brown, the color of desert sands.
The courtyard itself was filled with decorative trees and plants, including date palms, just like the ones at the Citadel. Students filled the picnic tables and benches, studying in the sun and relaxing in the shade.
Yusef had been staring at the same page of his Engineering book for over an hour. His eyes darted from the book to the people in the courtyard.
When his cell phone rang, Yusef quickly snatched it, eager to get a study break.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” said Mr. Mansoor, “Is Jamal nearby?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re here at the Medina getting ready to eat. Would you like to join us?”
“I’m ready to eat,” replied Yusef.
“Who is it?” interrupted Jamal.
“It’s our father. He wants to know if we’re hungry.”
Jamal nodded enthusiastically.
“What are we having?” Yusef asked his father.
“Mother ordered green tea and Pastilla.”
“That sounds good. We’ll be there soon,” replied Yusef.
The boys packed their backpacks and headed for the bus stop. When they boarded the bus, it was so crowded they were forced to stand in the center aisle. They held the safety straps hanging from the ceiling. As the bus weaved through the busy streets of Essaouira, the boys struggled to keep their balance.
As soon as Jamal and Yusef stepped off the bus from the University, they carved their way toward the various markets between the Citadel and the café. Street vendors pinched the already narrow alleys of the marketplace. The vendors sold just about anything a person could want, including baskets, carpets, and grains. One vendor even sold live snakes.
Jamal and Yusef avoided all of this, sharing the cobblestone-covered alleys with shoppers, fishermen, and bicyclists. Still, they made it to the café in good time.
“Jamal! Yusef! Over here” called Mrs. Mansoor.
The boys entered the restaurant, walking out onto the open patio. A canvas awning over the table flapped gently in the warm ocean breeze.
“How was school today?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“It was long,” said Yusef.
“My day was long, too, but it was fantastic,” added Jamal.
“What made it fantastic?” asked Mohammed.
“Well, little brother, I got an A on my Moroccan History test.”
“Congratulations, Jamal!” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“What was on the exam?” asked Mohammed.
“We’ve been studying Phoenicia.”
“Faneesha? Who’s that?”
“It’s not a who, little brother, it’s an ancient civilization that existed around three-thousand years ago. The Phoenicians lived at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea.”
“What does that have to do with Morocco?”
“Everything,” replied Jamal, “the Phoenicians sailed throughout the Mediterranean. They traded their goods with people from north Africa and southern Europe.”
While Jamal continued to talk, Mrs. Mansoor ordered Pastilla for everyone. When it arrived, Mrs. Mansoor cut the meat pie into six pieces, serving one to each person at the table.
Ameena bit into her piece of Pastilla, savoring every bite. The Pastilla was made in three layers: scrambled eggs on the bottom, roasted lamb in the middle, and an almond-cinnamon-sugar top layer. The layers mingled in her mouth with every bite.
The flaky crust was another matter altogether.
Made from tissue-thin Phyllo dough, the Pastilla crust crumbled with each bite. Buttery soft flakes melted on Ameena’s tongue, revealing the pieces of shredded lamb and mixture of scrambled eggs that made up the lowest layer of the meat pie.
“The Phoenicians also connected the eastern Asians with the western Europeans,” continued Jamal.
At this point, he lifted his hands above his plate. One hand stretched west and the other hand stretched east as he drew the map of three continents in the air.
“The ancient Phoenician sailors brought fine fabrics from India, exotic spices from southeastern Asia. When they returned to the east, they took Greek architecture and Italian wines. All of these things they brought to Morocco.”
“That’s all? That doesn’t seem like much,” argued Mohammed.
“That’s everything,” replied Jamal.
“Not quite everything,” interrupted Yusef, “What about alphabet?”
“I forgot about that,” said Jamal.
“What do you mean?” asked Mohammed
“The Phoenicians are credited with using one of the first alphabets. In fact, most countries in Africa, Europe, and western Asia use an alphabet based on Phoenician writing.”
“How is that possible?” asked Mohammed.
As Ameena listened to the boys talk about alphabet, she knew the answer. She only had to look across the shore. The rocks that made Essaouira dangerous did not exist on all sides of the walled city.
On the northern shore of Essaouira, the ramparts that encircled the main part of the city gave way to a massive pier, where trading ships of all sizes docked. This was the same port that brought fabrics and spices into the western half of Morocco – and also an alphabet. As one culture met with another, they not only shared their goods, but their ideas, too.
Jamal grabbed a paper napkin and began to write.
“Take the letter S for example,” replied Jamal, “This is how the Phoenicians wrote it, 2000 years ago.”
Jamal scribbled the Phoenician S, which zigzagged like a lower case Roman w.
“Now take a look at the Arabic S.”
Jamal carefully scribed the Arabic S. He drew Two tiny cups, like a curved w. He followed that with a long tail on the left, like the Roman J and two dots, above and below the script. When he was finished, it looked like this: ښ .
“Of course, Arabic is much prettier,” noted Mrs. Mansoor.
“I think so, too,” said Mohammed.
“Not prettier, just different,” argued Mr. Mansoor.
“Prettier,” repeated Mrs. Mansoor.
“Why is there another cup on the Arabic S?” asked Mohammed.
“The alphabet changed over time.”
“How do you know?” asked Mohammed.
“You sure full of questions,” replied Jamal.
“Well?”
“There are scientists, called archaeologists, who dig in the dirt, looking for artifacts – things older generations left behind. Those can include dishes, furniture, buildings, and even ancient writings.”
“But how do you know all of this?”
“I read it in my antiquities books.”
“What are those?”
“They’re history books that study old civilizations, like the Phoenicians. I’m learning about languages from every part of the world.”
“That seems weird to me,” replied Mohammed.
“It’s not very weird at all,” replied Jamal, “Most of us Moroccans already speak three languages: Berber, French, and Arabic. It’s because of other cultures, like the Phoenicians, who have visited our cities throughout time.”
With that, Mohammed was finally satisfied with his eldest brother’s answers. He turned his attention to the meal. He picked at the piece of Pastilla on his plate, carefully avoiding the lamb and egg. He devoured every last bit of crust, especially the parts with the almonds, sugar, and cinnamon.
“It’s getting late,” noticed Mrs. Mansoor, “We’d better get moving along.”
Mr. Mansoor paid the check and everyone headed to the exit.
“Ameena, hold your little brother’s hand,” said Mrs. Mansoor as she held Ameena’s free hand. Ameena grabbed little Mohammed’s hand. They walked, one-two-three, through the alleys of the Medina, linked daisy-chain style.
They filtered through the crowds, headed back towards the Citadel. Their car was parked in a small parking lot just beyond the citadel. The children squeezed into the back seat of the tiny black hatchback. Ameena had to sit on Jamal’s lap next to one window. Mohammed sat on Yusef’s lap, while Kareem was squished in the middle of the back seat.
“Are we all set?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“We’re ready,” answered Jamal.
Mr. Mansoor weaved the tiny black hatchback through side streets the whole way home. As soon as they arrived at their house, the children eagerly unpacked themselves from the backseat.
Inside the house, everyone went their separate ways, ready for bed. Ameena went upstairs to her tiny bedroom next to her parent’s room.
She quickly took off her hijab, carefully butting it back in its place on the only empty hanger in her closet. As soon as she laid in bed, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep, deep sleep, dreaming of the day she could go to school just like Yusef and Jamal.
Farthest West Kingdom
Dressed in black from head-to-toe, a nine-year-old girl named Ameena Mansoor sat with her back against a stone wall. She wrapped her arms around her legs as she drew her knees to her chest as she watched two of her brothers playing.
Of the five Mansoor children, Kareem, Ameena, and Mohammed were the youngest. Kareem was 11, Ameena was 9, and Mohammed was 7. Often, they went wherever their parents took them. Today, it was the old Portuguese citadel.
The citadel had a tall, rectangular tower that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. Two citadel walls ran fro the southeast and southwest sides of the tower, leading to other fortified walls around the walled city. The walls, also known as ramparts, were lined with old cannons that had been abandoned by Portuguese sailors over 500 years ago.
Kareem stood atop the citadel tower, with his back to Ameena. He leaned backward, gazing into the sun. He stretched his arms in front of him, measuring something in the distance with his hands.
Meanwhile, Mohammed climbed one of the date palm trees lining the walls. He wasn’t much bigger than a meter high, yet he loved climbing the tall trees. Ameena watched as he shimmied up the tree trunk. In no time at all, he was near the top, plucking dates from the canopy of palm leaves.
“Come here!” he called out to Ameena.
Ameena walked to the other side of the square and waited at the bottom of the tree. As Mohammed dropped the fruit, Ameena did her best to catch them. When he was finished, Mohammed carefully climbed down and joined his sister. They carried the bunch of dates back to where Ameena had been sitting.
Mohammed undid his arms, dropping the bright green dates on the cobblestone sidewalk. The bright green dates encircled the two children. Mohammed grabbed a date as he sat down. He took a bite and then looked up at his sister.
“Well?”
As Ameena sat down beside Mohammed, she carefully cradled the dates in her arms. She pulled her hijab under her chin, uncovering her face. It was one of the few times she'd done it outside her home. The ocean breeze cooled her face. She picked a date and took a bite. The small fruit, which was shaped like a chubby man’s finger, was crisp and sweet.
"Ameena! Why is your face uncovered?" said Kareem.
Quickly, Ameena pulled the hijab back into place. Now, just her eyes were visible.
“How is she supposed to eat?” asked Mohammed.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s not supposed to show her face outside.
Neither Ameena nor Mohammed put up any more arguments. Mohammed ate another date, dropping the seeds in a pile between him and Ameena.
“Let’s play Midnight Marauders,” suggested Kareem.
“Okay,” said Mohammed.
The two boys left Ameena alone with the pile of fruit and a covered mouth. She folded her arms again as she watched the boys.
Her eyes, black as onyx, darted back and forth as she followed her brothers around the citadel. They ran up and down stairs and around the cannons guarding the old fort. The cannons poked out of the ramparts as they faced the Atlantic Ocean.
Ameena turned her attention toward the ocean. Large waves tumbled toward Essaouira, which sat on Morocco’s northwest coast. The waves crashed against jagged red rocks all along the shore.
The city itself, sat above and behind the ramparts of the walled city. Essaouira’s buildings were the cleanest white Ameena had ever known. Below the ramparts, fisherman worked along the shore. Rowboats, which old Moroccan fisherman used as fishing boats, were painted bright blue. The large motorized fishing boats, known as steamers, were painted the same bright shade of blue, matching the summer sky.
Ameena wondered why anyone would dare to attack Essaouira at all. In her opinion, most of its treasures were along the coastline anyway.
The sounds of her brothers chasing each other around brought her back to the citadel.
"Come back here!" shouted little Mohammed.
"You'll have to catch me!" said Kareem.
Even with a name like Midnight Marauders, the brothers played it in the middle of the day. The hot Moroccan sun was directly above them. It warmed Ameena's face while the stone wall warmed her back.
She carefully pulled the hijab under her chin and attempted to finish her half-eaten date.
"Ameena!" shouted her mother.
Ameena quickly dropped the date in her lap and pulled the veil back into place.
Her parents approached the end of the walkway, stopping next to the children.
“Where are Kareem and Mohammed?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena pointed towards the citadel. Her father placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. Kareem poked his head over the edge of the citadel walls.
“It’s time to go!” said Mr. Mansoor. Mohammed’s head poked over the castle walls, too. Meanwhile, Ameena gathered the fruit. As Kareem and Mohammed joined them, Kareem told on his sister.
“Ameena uncovered her face.”
“Ameena! I’m shocked,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena’s eyes wilted as she tipped her head toward the ground.
“She was trying to eat dates,” said Mohammed.
Mr. Mansoor looked at the date seeds lying on the ground.
“I don’t suppose you can eat through your veil, can you?” said Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena shook her head.
“But she’s outside,” argued Kareem.
“To wear the hijab or not to wear the hijab…that must be Ameena’s choice,” said her father. He carefully tucked the hijab under her chin.
“But Latif…” said mother.
“It is her choice,” he repeated.
Ameena especially enjoyed the cool ocean breezes as they wisped across her face. She wondered if the seagulls floating overhead felt this way, too.
The seagulls teetered on gusts of wind as they watched the fisherman below. More fishing skiffs, painted bright blue, were tied together with a single clothesline that ran from one part of the shore to the other. The skiffs bobbed on the waves and banged into one another. To Ameena, the sound of wooden boats and seagull cries were two of her favorite things.
“I think we’ll eat dinner somewhere along the shore,” announced Mrs. Mansoor.
“I still don’t get why Ameena should be allowed to uncover her face,” argued Kareem.
“It is too hot to argue today, Kareem,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I agree,” said mother, who continued, “I think it is important for a Muslim woman to cover her face until she is married. Men should only see the eyes of an unmarried woman. That is where the soul lies.”
Mr. Mansoor let out a sigh. Meanwhile, Ameena remained silent.
“Also,” added Kareem, “It is said that a woman should be judged first by her inner beauty. This is why the face is shown only to those who are closest to her.”
“Either way,” reminded father, “It’s up to you.”
Ameena thought her mother’s words as she walked between her parents. Her mother always preached the ways of Islam. Her father always took a different approach. He believed that each child should find his or her own way. Although her mother and father had different ways of doing things, Ameena understood both points of view.
The family walked along the ramparts towards the medina. The medina was one of the oldest parts of Essaouira. Tall, white buildings rose around Ameena every which way she looked. The alleys of the medina were crowded with street vendor’s tents. The throng of people pushed in two opposite directions, clogging the alley.
A small open-air café sat at the end of the alley, facing the ocean.
“We’ll stop here,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Mr. Mansoor called Jamal on his cell phone while the family waited at the entrance of a small cafe. After the phone call, Mr. Mansoor announced their plans.
“Jamal and Yusef will be here in just a few minutes.”
The hostess sat the family at a large table on the outside patio. Mrs. Mansoor ordered a pitcher of iced tea. The family shared the tea while they waited. Ameena enjoyed the cool ocean breezes on her uncovered face as she drank her iced tea.
Two boys, tall and lean, approached from the alleyway. It was Jamal and Yusef. Both Ameena and her mother waved their hands, signaling to the boys. Ameena was anxious for a hearty meal and conversation with her entire family, whom she loved very much.
Of the five Mansoor children, Kareem, Ameena, and Mohammed were the youngest. Kareem was 11, Ameena was 9, and Mohammed was 7. Often, they went wherever their parents took them. Today, it was the old Portuguese citadel.
The citadel had a tall, rectangular tower that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. Two citadel walls ran fro the southeast and southwest sides of the tower, leading to other fortified walls around the walled city. The walls, also known as ramparts, were lined with old cannons that had been abandoned by Portuguese sailors over 500 years ago.
Kareem stood atop the citadel tower, with his back to Ameena. He leaned backward, gazing into the sun. He stretched his arms in front of him, measuring something in the distance with his hands.
Meanwhile, Mohammed climbed one of the date palm trees lining the walls. He wasn’t much bigger than a meter high, yet he loved climbing the tall trees. Ameena watched as he shimmied up the tree trunk. In no time at all, he was near the top, plucking dates from the canopy of palm leaves.
“Come here!” he called out to Ameena.
Ameena walked to the other side of the square and waited at the bottom of the tree. As Mohammed dropped the fruit, Ameena did her best to catch them. When he was finished, Mohammed carefully climbed down and joined his sister. They carried the bunch of dates back to where Ameena had been sitting.
Mohammed undid his arms, dropping the bright green dates on the cobblestone sidewalk. The bright green dates encircled the two children. Mohammed grabbed a date as he sat down. He took a bite and then looked up at his sister.
“Well?”
As Ameena sat down beside Mohammed, she carefully cradled the dates in her arms. She pulled her hijab under her chin, uncovering her face. It was one of the few times she'd done it outside her home. The ocean breeze cooled her face. She picked a date and took a bite. The small fruit, which was shaped like a chubby man’s finger, was crisp and sweet.
"Ameena! Why is your face uncovered?" said Kareem.
Quickly, Ameena pulled the hijab back into place. Now, just her eyes were visible.
“How is she supposed to eat?” asked Mohammed.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s not supposed to show her face outside.
Neither Ameena nor Mohammed put up any more arguments. Mohammed ate another date, dropping the seeds in a pile between him and Ameena.
“Let’s play Midnight Marauders,” suggested Kareem.
“Okay,” said Mohammed.
The two boys left Ameena alone with the pile of fruit and a covered mouth. She folded her arms again as she watched the boys.
Her eyes, black as onyx, darted back and forth as she followed her brothers around the citadel. They ran up and down stairs and around the cannons guarding the old fort. The cannons poked out of the ramparts as they faced the Atlantic Ocean.
Ameena turned her attention toward the ocean. Large waves tumbled toward Essaouira, which sat on Morocco’s northwest coast. The waves crashed against jagged red rocks all along the shore.
The city itself, sat above and behind the ramparts of the walled city. Essaouira’s buildings were the cleanest white Ameena had ever known. Below the ramparts, fisherman worked along the shore. Rowboats, which old Moroccan fisherman used as fishing boats, were painted bright blue. The large motorized fishing boats, known as steamers, were painted the same bright shade of blue, matching the summer sky.
Ameena wondered why anyone would dare to attack Essaouira at all. In her opinion, most of its treasures were along the coastline anyway.
The sounds of her brothers chasing each other around brought her back to the citadel.
"Come back here!" shouted little Mohammed.
"You'll have to catch me!" said Kareem.
Even with a name like Midnight Marauders, the brothers played it in the middle of the day. The hot Moroccan sun was directly above them. It warmed Ameena's face while the stone wall warmed her back.
She carefully pulled the hijab under her chin and attempted to finish her half-eaten date.
"Ameena!" shouted her mother.
Ameena quickly dropped the date in her lap and pulled the veil back into place.
Her parents approached the end of the walkway, stopping next to the children.
“Where are Kareem and Mohammed?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena pointed towards the citadel. Her father placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. Kareem poked his head over the edge of the citadel walls.
“It’s time to go!” said Mr. Mansoor. Mohammed’s head poked over the castle walls, too. Meanwhile, Ameena gathered the fruit. As Kareem and Mohammed joined them, Kareem told on his sister.
“Ameena uncovered her face.”
“Ameena! I’m shocked,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena’s eyes wilted as she tipped her head toward the ground.
“She was trying to eat dates,” said Mohammed.
Mr. Mansoor looked at the date seeds lying on the ground.
“I don’t suppose you can eat through your veil, can you?” said Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena shook her head.
“But she’s outside,” argued Kareem.
“To wear the hijab or not to wear the hijab…that must be Ameena’s choice,” said her father. He carefully tucked the hijab under her chin.
“But Latif…” said mother.
“It is her choice,” he repeated.
Ameena especially enjoyed the cool ocean breezes as they wisped across her face. She wondered if the seagulls floating overhead felt this way, too.
The seagulls teetered on gusts of wind as they watched the fisherman below. More fishing skiffs, painted bright blue, were tied together with a single clothesline that ran from one part of the shore to the other. The skiffs bobbed on the waves and banged into one another. To Ameena, the sound of wooden boats and seagull cries were two of her favorite things.
“I think we’ll eat dinner somewhere along the shore,” announced Mrs. Mansoor.
“I still don’t get why Ameena should be allowed to uncover her face,” argued Kareem.
“It is too hot to argue today, Kareem,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I agree,” said mother, who continued, “I think it is important for a Muslim woman to cover her face until she is married. Men should only see the eyes of an unmarried woman. That is where the soul lies.”
Mr. Mansoor let out a sigh. Meanwhile, Ameena remained silent.
“Also,” added Kareem, “It is said that a woman should be judged first by her inner beauty. This is why the face is shown only to those who are closest to her.”
“Either way,” reminded father, “It’s up to you.”
Ameena thought her mother’s words as she walked between her parents. Her mother always preached the ways of Islam. Her father always took a different approach. He believed that each child should find his or her own way. Although her mother and father had different ways of doing things, Ameena understood both points of view.
The family walked along the ramparts towards the medina. The medina was one of the oldest parts of Essaouira. Tall, white buildings rose around Ameena every which way she looked. The alleys of the medina were crowded with street vendor’s tents. The throng of people pushed in two opposite directions, clogging the alley.
A small open-air café sat at the end of the alley, facing the ocean.
“We’ll stop here,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Mr. Mansoor called Jamal on his cell phone while the family waited at the entrance of a small cafe. After the phone call, Mr. Mansoor announced their plans.
“Jamal and Yusef will be here in just a few minutes.”
The hostess sat the family at a large table on the outside patio. Mrs. Mansoor ordered a pitcher of iced tea. The family shared the tea while they waited. Ameena enjoyed the cool ocean breezes on her uncovered face as she drank her iced tea.
Two boys, tall and lean, approached from the alleyway. It was Jamal and Yusef. Both Ameena and her mother waved their hands, signaling to the boys. Ameena was anxious for a hearty meal and conversation with her entire family, whom she loved very much.
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