December 18, 1995
My stomach is full as well as my mind. Today was another good day. I think now that the rain has cleared and the skies are blue…it’s a metaphor for me I suppose.
Today I walked with R again up the riverbed before sunset to Hajj Brahim, the marabout, or saint’s tomb. It’s a white mausoleum structure dedicated to Hajj Brahim, of course, for being a magical man. Inside, in one of the rooms, is his coffin, covered with elaborate fabric and pictures on the wall of the King and what else I couldn’t see because the door was locked and the only view I had was through a small crack in the door.
Walking away, back from the edge of the gardens, I asked her why they built that for him. She said it all began when he went to become a Hajj, traveling to Mecca
When these men came to a stopping point for their meal, Brahim was questioned about his handful (R reached down in the sand and pulled up a handful) of flour. How do you expect to last on this little bit of oil and flour on our long journey ahead? they asked. Why, you can help me, he answered. They shamed him, said that each man must be able to care for himself, and sent him home. He suggested that while they prepare their meals, he would think of what to do.
After they prepared their meal, he, too, needed to eat. Seeing that the amount of water was surely too much for the amount of flour, they watched as he poured the handful into the vast portion of water. Miraculously the flour mixed in perfect proportion, just right for the dough. He had more of a meal than they did. They talked it over with each other and decided that there was a reason for this. God has a reason for him to go, for look at what he did. If we do not allow him to come with us, we will be going against God’s will. That’s how Hajj Brahim became a hajj. Eventually, after returning to the village, he became ill and died.
Do you wonder why they put it there, at the top of the gardens? R asked. They wanted to put it in a very important place. Seeing that the gardens are the most relied on piece of the village, and in the most danger of one-day being destroyed by a big flood, they felt it should be built in front of the gardens. After they constructed the marabout, when big floods came through, the flood path switched, moving way around the marabout and therefore protecting the date palms.
He is a difficult man, R said, but only for those that do badly. In Casa, the people from this village also meet for his birthday, as we will do tomorrow. One time, an Arab woman came to the party. As tradition holds it, they always make tagola on this day, here as well as in Casa. Never having had tagola before, she reached in with her fingers, ate it, made an awful face and said, “This stuff is awful, and this Hajj Brahim is nothing.” Suddenly, her fingers eekhdn. Well, I didn’t get that word so I don’t know what happened to her fingers. Judging by R’s tone, it wasn’t good.
Also, one time at the marabout, all the women gathered to make tagola. A woman sitting amongst them all stole some of the wheat and hid it in her clothes. When it was time to leave, something held her down. She couldn’t stand up. Only after she returned the wheat was she able to move.
We took another way home down another riverbed. In the middle are a small island and a very old tree, surrounded by bushes. This tree and bushes form a small semi-circle of shade. Inside this area sat a tagine bottom filled with rainwater. A few feet way sat an eggshell, broken perfectly in two, both halves laying next to one another. Spirits live here, she said. If you bring food and leave it here, when you come back it will be gone.
Do you notice anything else? she asked. I looked around. On one of the bushes, not really a bush, but a small palm of sorts, I noticed that many of the branches were tied in knots at the end. It was a whole tree of little knots. When you do something that people don’t approve of, something that you know you shouldn‘t have done, you take one of these branches, think about what it is you‘ve done, and tie a knot in the end of it. Tie a secret in a knot and the tree keeps it safe.
The bird is sleeping again tonight. I just got out of my nest with a flashlight to check. He’s resting on the same beam he usually does.
Tomorrow is Hajj Brahim’s birthday. The women will all go with their wishes and hopes and ask him to fulfill them. The men will have the words of the fkir trailing their thoughts as they watch these women treat Brahim as if he were God. People think he’s God or something, R said today. They need to ask him to ask God instead. He’s just a person, like us, she continued.
This is what the lecture was about at the mosque to the men. It is against Islam to ask a saint for things only God can control. Still, the women do it. They’ll do anything for a husband or a child.
I’ve now been here eleven days. I’ve broken my record for longest time in one place. Soon I will head out to Rosamond’s village for Christmas on Wednesday. Then I’m heading to Essaouira for New Years. Though K has not been my focus the past few days, he is still here in my thoughts. Jumping in very often. I only hope that I am being honest with myself about what is happening, and that I’m not tricking myself. I think I’m being honest. I must, because every time I run the circle of thoughts, I am secure with myself. As long as I feel my feet firmly pressed against this ground, this mud, this sand, this rock, I am safe. I’ve got wonderful people supporting me all over this world. There is always a hand to reach out to. Don’t forget that many people are thinking about you, not just one or two.
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