“Tin Hinan”, Book II, Chapter 5. “Sandstorm”

Most writers work on a number of projects. I do. I don’t really have any thought out reasons, but I have since I began writing. “Tin Hinan” is an unfinished (but almost finished….) novel I have posted chapters from time to time. I see by my stats that there are consistant readers of those chapters I have posted, and I would think these readers are coming from Morocco, Algeria, the Sudan, and other parts of the Middle East. I have heard from a few readers who are Berbers, and that is very gratifying. When one attempts to write about another culture, it is good to have readers who stand as critics and help with these important cultural details. Thank you all who have written in with suggestions and your own cultural knowledge that stems from your origin.

This chapter is a work in progress, and needs rewrite. But! Bill Penrose, the man who stands as my publisher on these issues, and especially is awaiting my meandering completion of this novel, will be glad that I am back on the camel.

Lady Nyo

Tin Hinan, Book II, Chapter 5

We could see the Amour, the Ksour mountains. They were blue-gray blurs in the far distance. These were lower ranges, but would be arduous enough. I had never travelled this route, even with the few months Takama, Niefa and I plodded to the mountain range where Immel and his men found us. We were still in the desert, where our small party traveled from oasis to oasis. We had traversed the wadis, the Chelif and Tonil riverbeds, long stretches of oasis. The grass grew along the riverbeds when there was water enough to cultivate the foliage and where the palms and dates could dig deep into the sandy soil. Our scouts proceeded us a day out. We needed to be careful of the other caravans along the way. They also made sure we were headed in the direction of oasis, for water was our greatest concern. Ours was so small, less a caravan more a raiding party. We were not, but we still could draw suspicion. Immel said the majority of caravans had a thousand camels, but some of the Arab caravans had up to twelve thousand camels! What a sight that must be, stretching out as far on the horizon. Surely these caravans would carry the wealth of nations. From what Immel and his tribemen said around the fire at night, this wealth was made up of many things. Gold, salt, slaves, cotton and silks. Watermelons, spices, fruit, the kola nut and cotton seeds for planting.

Ah! Cotton was essential. There was no other cloth to use in the desert. It protected from heat of the sun, and the bite of sand. I learned to spin thread and weave cloth on small looms only two feet wide, but there were bigger looms in some tribes. We stitched the lengths of cloth together and dyed it with indigo for the rich, dark blue that our men wore around their heads and across their faces. We also dyed the cloth with different flowers and herbs and fixed the color with camel urine. But mostly we left it white and let it bleach out in lengths in the sun. It looked like strips of snow in the sunlight!

Several times we watched long caravans from a distance. They were hidden by dunes, or distance. We did not get not close because we didn’t want to attract attention. Our little party of twenty some camels and pack animals would be of little interest to these big outfits. But we were careful, only approaching the smaller caravans. Of course, we knew the Berbers were the guides even in these big Arab caravans. They were well paid crossing the deserts from far flung towns with produce or booty. Large slabs of salt, to be cut into smaller portions sold in the markets to the east and west had been brought from Mali in the south. All this would make their way to foreign cities. This salt was so necessary for daily life. It was the basis of preservation of food.

It was a miracle that Takama and I didn’t succumb in the desert during our first crossing to the mountain where Immel found us. Our navigation was from oasis to oasis, but we were more guided by luck and the scent of water in Niefa’s nose than our own abilities. Now I understood how much of a miracle it was: yes, our course was different, and there was some purpose for this much longer route Immel was taking but still, it was by favor of the gods and goddesses. Path- finding in the desert was a reading by stars, wind patterns, sand dune formations and even the color of the sand. Immel and his men knew all these things of the desert, and we didn’t. Perhaps that is why our appearance before them occasioned such wonder and disbelief from the elders of their mountain ksar.

Somehow we had survived.

There is a saying, probably Berber, as we are a wise people. “Sahara surrenders very few realities, only illusions”. Perhaps it was also because our perception of distance was so unreal. What looked like an oasis in the distance was only a shimmering of heat on the endless landscape. Our trek from oasis to oasis had to be exact, within a day’s foretelling as we could die in the desert if our reckoning was off even by a few miles. But Immel and his men were experienced in the desert, and I felt safe we would not perish. Of course, there were other factors to consider about our survival, but that was not assured by any god or goddess.

One late morning near noon, when the day seemed to be exactly like the day before, and the day before that, a wind picked up and the camels started to be restless, bellowing and groaning , their nostrils flaring, as if they were scenting something in the air. Suddenly we knew why. There was an enormous cloud in the distance–stretching from the ground to heaven. The sky had turned a dull orange. It was very strange from the azure blue of just a few moments before. But it wasn’t a cloud, it was that most fearful of dangers– the sandstorm! We could hear it coming, though it was miles off, a pounding roar like nothing else. Immel and the other men gathered on their uneasy camels to discuss what to do.

There were some hills off to the west. Though we could not outrun a sandstorm, to attempt to do so would mean certain death, the hills might offer protection. We turned towards those barren hills, whipping our camels into a gallop and clustered together, making the camels and pack camels to lie down together. We got on the leeway side of the camels, and prepared for the storm. We huddled together, and I saw Takama’s face, her eyes black and fearful, before she pulled her hood and cloths over them. She had taken the two foxes in their cage, had covered them with the loose woven basket and heaped some of our luggage over them. If she had to, she would lay herself over their basket to save them. She had grown so fond of them.

Immel wrapped me in his burnoose and pulled me close. I could feel his excitement and fear, as his heart pounded hard in his chest. Takama cuddled behind me, almost digging underneath the camel. We had made it in time, as the wind and the sand came barreling down the desert, and even though we were protected by the men and the covering of cloth, the sand was hard, abrasive on our clothes. No one said a word, for to open your mouth would mean sand and dust, dust carried by the wind above the sand, small and dangerous pieces of rock and dirt, would enter our throats and go down our lungs, suffocating us. The sun was blotted out. It was if nighttime had fallen at noon.

The roar of the storm was ten thousand demons and zars riding the wind. Even if I didn’t have my ears wrapped shut, I could not have heard the sound of a human.

It seemed as if I had fallen asleep. I felt the heaviness of a deep sleep, but it was the heaping of sand all around and over us that was weighed me down. Suddenly the roaring stopped. The storm had worn itself out, and the silence around us was unnatural after the roar before.

I heard Immel’s voice, as if from a long distance. He was shaking me to consciousness. I wanted to go back to sleep, but this was not the sleep of the night. It was the sleep of an almost-death. We were covered in sand and we shook ourselves to feel our limbs. We had survived one of the worst of perils of the desert. Our camels had long lashes on their eyes, something to keep the sand out. Their nostrils closed to keep their lungs safe. Thick and rough coats were also the reason they had not been beaten, flayed by the sand, but they too, had to work their way out of the heaping sand. With bellows and groans and the help of the men, they pulled themselves upright, shaking themselves, creating miniature sandstorms in the doing.

Takama uncovered the basket and the foxes were gone! Her eyes caught mine and I saw her sadness. They were gone, swept away by the djinn of the sandstorm. Though Takama was desert bred and strong, she fought to hide her tears. One of the men, who saw her distress, came over and bending down, started to dig away at the sand. There, popping out their long noses, were the two foxes! With the intelligence of desert animals, they burrowed down in the sand, safer from the storm than we above.

It is said that “The Desert is the realm of the Spirits” and to pilgrimage there is to come face to face with your mortality. The night brought spirits, demons, zars, as they rode the cold night air. They also appeared during the day, when travelers were caught far from shelter, and had to survive the elements as best they could. The roar of the sandstorm carried the voices of ghosts—men and camels who had perished in the Great Sahara for millennium.

If history was to be believed, 50,000 soldiers of Cambyese’s army, had marched across the middle Sahara to fight the Ethiopians, only to perish in the desert in minutes, buried by ten feet of sand. Their bleached bones, arrowheads and lances were left scattered across the barren landscape for 2500 years.
The Sahara Desert was well called “The Mirror of the Soul”. It made or broke men, and those who survived had their lives changed forever.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2012

“Tin Hinan”, Chapter 1, Part 2 (of three)

Yesterday presented a necessary detour from posting more of “Tin Hinan” on the blog.  That was  because there were people  in this community who took principled stands and they were up against a very consolidated and at times, arrogant force.  I have used my blog before for these kind of things, as anyone who has been a long-term reader here knows.  Thanks to the fortitude of Lisa, Laurel, Billy, Anne, and other people unnamed, they made a necessary statement  heard by others.  I think the Beltline people, the City of Atlanta, etc. will reconsider their tactics and perhaps we will ultimately begin to work together in better and more respectful ways.  We can only try.

Changing gears here…..

“Tin Hinan” probably will be completed and published this late fall. I am enjoying the comments, both private and posted on the blog as they give me a sense of what hits and misses with readers.  This is part of a very important learning process for writers.  And it makes it more fun.

TIN HINAN,   Still Chapter 1, Part 2 of 3.

There was a young man who was part of a neighboring tribe a day away.  During marriages, celebrations and festivals, I would see him and he would look for me.  We are modest women, but we do stare in the eyes of a man we are interested in marrying. We even wink at them.  Are you shocked?  Well, we did.   We had many customs, but  Berber women, before the hated Arabs, had much freedom.

Hasim was his name, and he was a tall man, taller than I was.  I thought only proper I be married to a tall man. What woman wants to look down on her husband?  It sets a bad example for a woman.  She starts looking down on him in other things.  Hasim was a few years older and at one marriage celebration, I danced a line dance with other maidens and gave him one of my bracelets.  This was an accepted way of flirting. When the musicians took a rest, I went to get my silver bracelet back, and he slipped it down the front of his robe. He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled boldly. I should have known then Hasim was trouble, but my foolish heart flip-flopped.  Ah! Girls can be so silly.

Hasim was handsome, already a man though only about twenty-two years of age.  He had golden skin where the sun had not burned him dark and black eyes like deep shaded pools of water in the oasis.  His nose was long and slightly bent, like the hunting hawk, and his mouth was full and red, like a split pomegranate.  His teeth were white like bleached bones in the desert.

How do I know this, if our men are veiled?  My Hasim, for I already claimed him mine with the certainty that he would be…. had unwrapped his indigo blue veil from his face. And yes, his cheeks were stained a light blue where his beard would be.  I should have known that the Zar blood was deep in him, not just on the surface, but Isis! How was I to know then?

“Come, little sister, fish deep in my waters and you will find your bangle.  You want your precious silver back, do you not?”

Ah! My father would kill him if he heard his words!  But Hasim just grinned, playing a man’s game and my head whirled inside.  Other parts of me were disturbed, but I only knew of this by our women’s bridal parties before the weddings.  My heart flipped and my stomach turned over, too.

I am not known for being shy, perhaps it is because I am so tall, but shy I was before Hasim.

He reached out his hand and traced my cheek to my chin, gently pushing the back of his thumb over my lips.  My eyes were locked to his and I could not pull away. I must have looked like a little fool, for my mouth opened a bit with the firm  pressure of his finger.

Hasim dipped into his chest and reluctantly pulled out my bracelet.  “Little sister, be careful in what hands you place your silver. .  You might come across one who will take more than your jewelry.”

I heard his voice off in the distance.  He closed his eyes slightly, his long, black lashes brushing downwards, and the spell was broken.  I staggered a bit, and he threw out a hand to steady me, an enigmatic smile on his face.

I saw Hasim a few times after this first occasion and each time grew dizzy by the sight him.  During the last harvest festival, Hasim was mounted on a large, white camel as he raced across the desert with the other riders.  The groans and bellows of the beasts, the yelling of the men placing their wagers and the dust churned up from many feet made it hard for me to concentrate.  I could only follow the white of his camel for he was surrounded by mounted men.

That autumn, my mother and father called me before them, and announced that it was time I marry.  I of course had no choice, I was of age, but I noticed an exchange of smiles between my parents.  Unknown to me, my father had consulted with the marriage broker and a visit had been made to Hasim’s parents.  He was considered a good prospect, and with the status of our tribe and that of my father, I was considered a likely bride for Hasim.

My heart was light and leaping about in my chest.  I walked now with confidence, my breasts pushed out and a smile upon my face.  I would have the status of a wife, not just a common, unmarried girl.  There were many things to settle, preparations to make and issues far beyond my concern.  These were the matters of the elders and my mother’s family. But I was to be a bride!  Finally, I would take my place in the tribe with all the authority of a wedded woman.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010

POSTSCRIPT: I mentioned Berber Line Dancing in “Tin Hinan”…and found a couple of videos  readers might want to check out.  The ‘style’ of singing is a verbal sparring between men and women….but here, sung only by a woman.  Notice the jewelry on the chests of the Berber women.  The point is to make the necklaces bob up and down and to keep the shoulders moving.  It’s a very energetic form of  dancing, but beautiful, also.

http://www.azawan.com/

“Tin Hinan”, Chapter 1, Part 1

Bet you are surprised that this Berber Woman isn’t dark? Many Berbers in the north are brown haired with hazel or green eyes… with the mixing with the Africans lower on the continent are they darker tribes.  Other factors play in here, but they are generally an amazing people.

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I am grateful for the many readers around the world who have come here and read “Tin Hinan”.  It is almost finished, a work of eight years.  And I thank you for the informing and knowledgeable comments about your beautiful and amazing culture.  Your stories are very much a part of the development of “Tin Hinan”.   

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Christmas, 2014

Tin Hinan was an actual historical figure of the 5th century in Algeria.  She gathered the tribes from Morocco and Algeria into a nation.  There is not much known about her so this is a work of pure fiction.  I did try to stick to the ‘facts’ in her journey across the desert with her slave. That was known about Tin Hinan, and her galvanizing power to unite the Berber tribes.  That’s about all, though her tomb was found in the Algerian mountains in the 1980’s.

Considering the tribal traditions of any century, what Tin Hinan did in just this venture, leaving her tribe and setting out across these mighty deserts is amazing. Considering the odds of her survival, it is especially amazing.

The Berbers opened the trade routes across northern Africa, and defended those routes from the Arabs.  Interestingly enough, Berbers were originally Christian, and resisted Islamic influence into the early 20^th century. (Though Islam made great inroads from the 7^th century onward.)  Between Christianity and Islamic religion, they were closer to the Egyptians in their worship of Ammon and Isis.

The story seemed to weave itself like a rug, knot by knot and color by color.  It’s 14 or so chapters and I plan to finish it.   I have noticed over the past two years this story has garnered readers on the blog in a consistent way.

One important fact of Berber culture:  The Soul resides in the Liver.)

TIN HINAN, Chapter 1, Part 1

I am called Tin Hinan. I had the destiny of a woman ‘rooted in flight’.  Even my name means “Nomadic Woman”.  Sometimes I forget my birth name before I became Queen. It is now lost in the sands of the Great Desert.

I founded a nation from the stirrings of my womb.  This is my story.

I was born in an oasis near what is now called Morocco.  My people were nomadic, but if our tribe had a name, we would be Tagelmust, meaning “People of the Veil”. The Arabs, our enemy, rudely called us Twareg, “Abandoned by God”. We now are known as Tuareg, or Berber by the white Europeans. But since I am speaking from my short time of fifty years on this earth and now only spirit,  you should know my story and life harkens back to the sixth century.  Life was very different then. But men and woman were not so different from now. Hearts are the same.

Our tribe is matriarchal.  All things, possessions, are passed down through the women.  The men still make the laws, but we women have great power.  Nothing is decided until the council of elder women and men meet.

We basically had two classes of Tagelmust people, Imajeren, the nobles, and Iklan, the slaves.  There are subgroups in all that, but that’s not important. My family were Imajeren, my father a tribal elder and leader.  My mother had great status as the first of his four wives.

I was born in the spring, during lambing time.  I was exceptionally tall for my sex, and poems were written by my mother and other women about my hurry to reach up to the stars.  That is the reason they gave for my height.  I had long, thick black hair and hazel eyes, which was not rare. As I grew to marriageable age, more songs were sung openly around the fires as to my beauty.

Perhaps you wonder when you think of Arabic women with the chador and burkah covering their features, how would you sing to a black sheath of cloth with two dark eyes staring back at you?  We, the Berber, are blessed by Ammon and Isis, for The Veiled People only applies to the men!  They wear the veil, an indigo dyed cloth that wraps around their heads and covers their faces, with only the eyes and the bridge of their noses exposed.  We, the women, carry our faces proudly to the sun, to the wind, and when it comes, the blessed rain.  The men are mostly stained a dark blue, like a devil or zar because their sweat makes the dye run from the indigo and stains their faces.  They look funny for it does not wash off, but seeps into the skin.  So when you marry, you beget children from a  Zar-looking creature.  Perhaps that is why children are such little devils.

“Aicha, Aicha!” The aunties were calling me in from where I was loafing.  I liked to stand at the edge of the oasis, and look at the sea of sand before me.  I would think of great spans of water, for some travelers once told me about the great ocean to the north.

I turned and ran towards my mother’s tent. To ignore the aunties would be rude, and besides, they had many surprises and secrets in the folds of their robes.

“You, Aicha!  Your mother wants you to come to her, hurry!  Here, be a good girl and take this basket.”

I slipped the large basket over my arm and went into the tent side of my mother’s.

She was sitting on the floor of the tent, shelling dried beans. There were other women, most of them my aunts, her sisters, also working on the floor.  Our clan was a large one, one of the largest that made up the tribe. Growing up, there were women enough to pull my ears when I was bad and to soothe when I was mournful.

My mother looked up, noticed me standing there and motioned for me to sit down.

“Aicha, you are of the age when you should be married, or at least engaged.  Your father and I think it time  we look around for a husband for you.”

I knew it!  I saw the sly glances of the aunties, and heard the laughter when I passed a group of women. At the river, when I carried down the washing, I got looks and giggles even from those women and girls I didn’t know well. Something was brewing and this time I was the last to know.

“Come, you graceless girl.” My mother’s oldest sister, Aunt Aya called out to me.  She reached behind her broad hips and pulled out a packet wrapped in wool.  Slowly opening it, she revealed a heavy silver and amber necklace made up of many silver rounds and large amber beads.

It was fun for them, to dress me in the women’s jewelry like I was a child’s doll.   But they were serious in their business.

“Hold still, you silly girl. This kohl will poke out your eye if you don’t”.

This from another auntie.   My face and hair were fiddled with, and I suffered the blackening of my eyes and their hands twisting my hair into designs.

That day they had their fun, and I emerged from the tent at evening to be walked around the fire to the whistles and comments of the collected tribe.  My hair was braided in intricate styles and small silver discs peppered my head like beaten full moons.   Heavy silver and wood earrings weighted down my earlobes.  I was of course, without a veil, and two women held my hands, leading me around the tribe’s main fire to the sound of drums and the ney flute.

Although I could not  marry within my tribe, I was being presented for our tribe’s delight.  Grooming for marriage was a ritual and my blushes showed appropriate modesty that evening.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010

TIN HINAN, Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Young Moroccan Bride

The Hoggar Mountains in central Algeria. Tin Hinan traveled there from Morocco in the 6th century.

When you are a Berber and about to wed, you don’t marry a man, you marry the tribe.

The approval of both families was necessary, and since mine were far away, as distant as a star in the nighttime sky, provisions had to be made.

Immel asked for his parent’s approval.  I don’t believe they were surprised, because during the past few moons, he had made clear his intentions.  They remembered his grief in losing Cherifa, and what man is at peace without a wife?

The elders were consulted, the natural course for great and small concerns. Nothing this important could be decided without the elders.

Not all went well. There were objections. Mother Leila told me I would have to appear and explain why I was alone on the distant mountain with my woman.  Gossip always filtered down but the elders wanted to hear the story from my own mouth.

Marrying Immel was bound to raise many considerations.  He was the eldest son of a prominent elder and trusted to lead raids and men.  I was no one, with no family or tribe to represent me.

If I found favor before them, there were other moons to jump. When Immel married me we would have to bring a heavy bride-price to my parents and tribe, appeasing them with much wealth.  Separated by long distances across mountains and desert, our traditions still held.  There was war enough between the different tribes residing in the mountains and deserts. Immel’s tribe did not want more. Tribute would have to be made.

Ah!  It was a necessary evil, but we would make the long trip down the mountain, across the valley, up the mountain, down again, and so forth. And of course I would go with him. In fact, because of the distance and questionable safety of our journey, Immel would lead a caravan of many men to my parents. It would be supplied with gifts to impress my tribe with the wealth of his clan and family.

First, I would have to appear before the elders.  Mother Leila planned on my heavy silver jewelry and my best robes, but I had a different idea, one that Mother Leila would not like at all.

I would appear exactly as Immel and his tribesmen found me.  I would don the robes of a man, the indigo- blue turban and the sword and dagger I had left home with when Takama and I started into the desert.  I believed this would make my case as well as any words from my mouth.  I would make these elders know I was a woman with a mission,  one given to me by the Goddesses.  Well, at least I could try to make them believe that.  Whether the Goddesses spoke to me or not wasn’t their business.

I let Takama into my plan and she thought me crazy.  “What! Do you want to tempt fate? Have you learned nothing about men?  What would Immel think to have his intended show up before the elders dressed like a man?  Some Zar must have scrambled your head!”

She had a point, but I was determined.  Perhaps I felt more power as a man.  During the journey, even though I was fully a woman, just dressed like a man and carrying a dagger and a sword, I did feel some sort of transformation in my liver.  Perhaps men are more powerful by nature, but the sword made me feel power. I was just glad I wasn’t tested in my ability.  Both Takama and I would be dead now and this story would not be told.

The morning I was to appear before the council of elders, I prayed one last time to my silent Goddesses.  Takama was lookout for Mother Leila while I dressed in my male undergarments.   I drew on the long gown men wore and my tribe’s red and white striped burnoose.  I tucked my dagger and short sword into my girdle and wrapped the indigo-dyed cloth around my head, in turban fashion.  I even secured the trailing end over my nose, and walked out to meet Takama in the front room.  The transformation was complete, and Takama, even though she had seen me dressed this way before, trembled.  Perhaps her emotion came from fear, for what I was doing was a fearful thing for a woman to do.

I was to appear before the elders in a small house used by them for tribal meetings.  I strode confidently down the winding road to the courtyard, a young Berber man, tall and thin, but inside, I was quaking.  I entered the wooden door to the house, and sitting on benches were the fifteen elders.  Before them was a rough table with their judgement stones.  Off to the side was Immel.  I expected him to be but had not been sure.

The sky outside was gray, a pale wintry day, and the council room was not well lighted except for a brazier pot in the middle of the room.  There were oil dishes providing some illumination, but still the room was dim. I stood there, the door closed behind me, and I blinked to adjust my eyes from the change outside.

“I am Tin Hinan.”

At my voice, the men looked up, confused, and I glanced over at Immel.  He sat back on his bench, his shoulders hitting the wall, and a wry grin formed on his face.

I removed the veil from my face, exposing my mouth.  “I come amongst you as Immel Uzmir and his men found me.  I dressed as a man when I left my tribe for the safety of my woman, Takama, and myself.  I made this journey to follow my destiny.”

There were some exclamations of surprise and not a few of disdain. My garb was shocking to these men.

A voice called out.  “What reasons do you give, Tin Hinan, for setting out from your parents and tribe?”

I tried to keep the waver from my voice, but my stomach betrayed me.  I felt my right leg shake and I knew fear.  My state must have been obvious to the elders.  Gazing at Immel I saw him slightly nod his head, encouraging me to go on.

“I was to be married to Hasim Azur Dhalid.  The bride-price was paid to my parents.  Gifts were exchanged between our clans. Then, less than a moon before the wedding, I was told Hasim had left for the tent of another woman.  My parent’s gifts were returned, and I knew our tribes would go to war over this insult.”

A mummer spread across the room. Immel looked grim. To any Berber, this would be a grievous insult not only to the family, but also to all the clans. Such an act would call for war.  This mountain tribe was no different in defending honor than my desert home.

“For three days and nights I purified myself and prayed to Ammon, Isis, Ayyur and Neith.  I sought council from the other Goddesses.  On the third night I had my answer.”

I looked down at my feet.  No, I did not have my answer, but these elders did not know. What they knew was what Immel told them. I glanced at him, saw him deep in thought, his eyes hooded, his expression neutral. I did not know what was in his heart, or if he would defend me.

“Is this why you cut your woman’s hair off, daughter?”  A deep voice in the gloom.

“Yes, Father.  My happiness as a new bride would never happen. I also knew my tribe was smaller than the tribe of Hasim. There would be many slaughtered clans if they went to war over this injury to our dignity.”

“You could not think of any other way except to take your woman and leave dressed as a man?  Did your father not try to stop you?  What father would let his daughter leave like that.  Are you sure you are telling us the truth?”  This voice was rough and accusing.

“I am, Father.  I have no reason to lie to you.”

I cast my eyes to the floor, and I thought my stomach would heave. Suddenly, I felt the presence of someone at my left, and glancing up, I found Immel standing next to me.  Although he did not touch me, or hold my hand, I knew he would defend me.  Then, at that point, I realized I could love this man who stood with me in spite of my turning fortunes.

“Fathers.”  I heard Immel’s voice, strong and clear, address the Elders.

“I have come to know Aicha, for that is her birth name, though she would have us call her Tin Hinan.  I have come to know her love for her family, her clan and tribe.  She would sacrifice herself in the desert to avoid the bloodshed.  When we found her in the mountain far from here, she had drawn her sword and pushed her woman behind.  I knew she was woman when I lay eyes on her.”

There was much nodding of heads at this last statement, for men, at any age, can discern a woman, even dressed in the garb of a man.  (I could not help but think Immel rather boastful.)

“And more.  She was a brave woman for she drew a sword against thirty men and stood ready to die.  We men know courage when we see it, but seeing such courage in a woman!”  Immel spat on the ground in emphasis.

“She would have not lasted much longer, for we found the grey wolf and her pack the night before.  They were hunting and it was only a matter of hours before they would have killed these two women.  It is by the grace of the Gods we found them first.”

One of the elders stood up slowly, and addressed us.

“Immel Uzmir and Tin Hinan.  The Council of Elders will meet on this matter and cast our stones together.  We will call you both back within a matter of days, and give you our decision.  May the Gods and Goddesses continue to champion your fortune.”

I looked up at Immel, he smiled down and pulled his veil over his face.  Turning on his heel he walked out, stooping to get his height through the door.  I bowed to the elders, as a proper woman should and followed Immel outside into the bleak winter day.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2007, 2009

TIN HINAN, Chapter 6, Part 1

Berber Woman from around 1910 dressed in tribal jewelry

A Berber Ksar in the Atlas Mountains, Morocco

(This is a long chapter, so it will be posted in two parts)

TIN HINAN
Chapter Six

The next morning the men rose before dawn, excited to be going home and proud of the booty they carried. Joking and calling out to each other, they scurried to break camp.  Camels bellowed  and horses shied at the turmoil. Only the pack mules waited patiently for their burdens.

“Takama”, I called, looking around for the girl.  Usually underfoot, this morning she was talking to a man.  Ah! I would whip her soundly for her immodesty!

“I am here, Aicha.  I was only trying to find out when we would be in the mountains.”

“You will be there fast enough.  Have you no fear?  These men are not our tribe.  You still could be plunder.”

I scowled at her and her face showed fear.  Good.  Let her think before she talked to men again.

Takama and I dressed in our tribe’s red and white striped djellaba while I carefully secured the scarf around my shorn head.  Takama unpacked some of my jewelry, and placed a silver coined circlet on my forehead.  She insisted I wear more of my jewelry to appear noble.  I might be a prisoner, but I was not a slave.

Immel Uzmir bullied and cajoled his tribesmen into some sort of readiness.  He rode to where Takama and I were mounted, she on her donkey, and I on Niefa. His horse was a fine large beast, prancing with spirit.  Immel Uzmir slapped his neck to quiet him, and looked at us appraisingly. His horse twisted around and tried to break into a run, but he pulled him up short. Immel Uzim smiled a great, toothy grin, his veil not yet secured over his mouth, as his eyes swept us both.  Then, with a hard kick to the horse’s flanks, he flew to the front of the caravan.  The camels were bellowing, complaining loudly, and the men were using their sticks to beat the stubborn mules into a walk.

We plodded for a couple of hours across that lush valley, passing  groves of walnuts and apricots. Some shepherds tending their flocks of goats and sheep waved and shouted, recognizing the men. We came to a river half way across the valley, and had to forge its waters, though it wasn’t deep.  Water came to the breasts of the camels, though the smaller mules had to swim, helped along by men on the larger horses.  There were a couple of packs lost in the river, but they were retrieved with effort.

We were in a wide valley, placed between two mountain ranges. The weather was cold at this altitude.  I wished I had unpacked my heavier wool robe. I looked back at Takama on her donkey.  She was a slave, but she rode with dignity, her head held high, her nose disdainfully up in the air.  I wondered how long she would hold that position.  We had a long way to go across the valley.

We continued onward  for no one wanted to stop for a midday meal in their haste to get home.  A scout had been sent ahead early that morning. He should arrive well ahead of the caravan.  By then the tribe, warned of our approach, would have slaughtered goats and sheep for a welcoming feast.  I was hungry, for breakfast was, again, a handful of dates and a gourd of water.  No one had time to milk a camel.

We crossed to the second half of the valley, and although far away, I could see structures on the side of the mountain.  They were mountain ksars as Immel Uzmir explained.  His tribe did not live in the rough, woven goat hair tents as we desert Berbers did, but built stone one-story houses and mud granaries.   This would be very different from what we were used to.  Although I tried to maintain an aloof manner, conscious I would appear no more than a part of the plunder, I was excited.  I did not know the measure of my fate but I was curious and fearful at the same time.

The caravan made its way towards the forest at the foot of the mountain.  As we cleared an orchard of walnut trees, I could see the mass of buildings dotting the face of the mountain.   Arranged up the side, they were like beehives, plastered mud structures. These were the granaries and storage rooms.  People lived in one story stone houses, built wherever there was flat ground, but farther up the mountain amongst walnut orchards. Some lived, I was told later, in rooms hollowed out of the mountain, and these rooms were cool in the summer and warm enough in winter.

As we came closer, I saw young boys run out to greet and bedevil the men as young boys do.  They hung on the mules and pulled on the packs and dodged the whips of their fathers and uncles.  They yelled and chortled and danced in excitement.  Then, floating over the valley, that fierce ululation of Berber women made the hair of my arms stand up.  They were welcoming home their men, each hoping her beloved was amongst the returning.

We pulled into a large courtyard, a great cacophony of sound from the camels, men, women and children. There was a line of elders standing apart from the general milling chaos.  These were the men who would pass judgement on our future.  Niefa, to her honor, stood quietly, while I sat stiffly on her back.  I was not a part of the welcome, for these people were strangers and most probably my masters now.  Whether I would be seen as a spoil of a raid and therefore just a slave, was up to the Gods. I hoped desperately Takama and I would not be separated.  She was the only touchstone I had to my past.

Amongst the noise and confusion, I saw men and women come to where Immel Uzmir had slipped off his horse.  He was embraced by an older woman, probably his mother, and several younger ones, possibly his kinswomen.  I did not know if he had any wives for it would have been not proper to discuss this. The line of elders moved to embrace him and welcome him home.  Clearly he was an important man.

I looked around at Takama and smiled weakly in encouragement. She looked scared.   She was unsure of her future and had no reason for optimism. She was only a slave, had known only kindness from our tribe. Although we were treated fairly during the caravan, coming into the ksar could prove a different fate.

“Aicha…Aicha”, whispered Takama as she drew close to Niefa.   “What do you think will happen to us? Did you see how their dwellings cling to the mountain side?  Aeeeiiii! How will we ever walk those hills?”

“Do I look like a smelly, old fortune teller, girl?  You keep asking questions and I have no answers. Just be patient.  Perhaps you will find a husband by some fire, eh?”

“Oh, Aicha!  Don’t scare me.  These men are not our people. They just look like our tribe.  They could be very cruel, what do we know yet?”

“Yes, stupid girl.  What do we know?  They haven’t roasted us at their fires, they haven’t fed us to mountain wolves and we still have our fingers and toes.  Be patient, Takama, or I will have to beat you.”

I was anxious myself, and just wanted quiet.  My liver was uneasy, for I had not only led myself into uncertainty, but another soul.  I was responsible for Takama, even though she was but a slave.  The Gods would still hold me accountable  for her keeping.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009

Chapter Three, TIN HINAN, Part two.

I fell asleep sitting at the fire, my blanket wrapped around me and covering my head. It was cold at night in the desert.  The wind picked up towards morning, and at some point in the night  I lay down, pulling my blanket tight around me. .  Someone had placed heated stones nearby and this helped ward off the chill of the night.

Towards dawn, I needed to pass water, and I walked into the desert.  In case I was watched, I stood and pulled up my robes high like a man would do.  Of course, I watered my leg, and the warm stream steamed in the cold morning air.  Shaking my leg and trying to wipe it dry on my gown, I headed back to the tents.  Women had brewed a strong mint tea with honey, and I was grateful for this and the breakfast of couscous, flat bread and  goat’s milk.

“You must stay with us as long as you like,” said the tall chieftain.

“We would have news of different tribes and we hunger for knowledge as to warfare.  We have heard of raiders from the north, these Arabs, who attack our settlements over the mountains and take our women and children for their slaves.  May Ammon slay these nonbelievers!”

The chieftain spat in the sand.

Ah! There was a problem.  Two problems, actually.  One there were possibly raiders around and also my stubborn determination to keep going. Where, I had no idea.  All those hours on top of Niefa, plodding eastward had led me to the belief that my fate was to be revealed.  I was to be carried on the sands of the desert to some final haven, where the still-galling thoughts of Hasim would be erased and I would emerge anew, in body and spirit. Somehow, I would be reborn from the distance I traveled and the time passed.

As I relate here: I was very young. I also was not prepared for what happened that day.

I had given my name the night before as Adal Berkan Yellel, which in our Amazigh language meant Tiger – Dark – to be Free.  All those hours on Niefa in the hot sun had baked my brains and I should have picked names less colorful.  But Adal Berkan Yellel I was now and I had days to memorize it.  I even felt I could wear these names truthfully, for I wanted my freedom from the previous shameful life.  It took many years for me to come to a place of peace with my shame, which really was not of my doing.

After breakfast, when Takama and I were attending to our beasts, I was asked by the chieftain, Zeggan Yuba , to walk with him out of the encampment to the edge of the desert.   I thought this reasonable, for he realized we were very young and was taking a fatherly concern for two youths alone in the desert.

We walked out from the oasis, past the chott, where dried flood lakes were depressions on the landscapes and came to a place of hamada; rock strewn plains.  Zeggan Yuba pointed out the Nubian bustards, other raptors and even desert eagles.  There were many migratory birds, some now traveling towards the mountains, flying with the updrafts from the heated plains,  and others in long flights from the shores in the north, many weeks travel from here.

I was watching a desert eagle, it’s effortless flight on the thermals above us, when Zeggan Yuba pushed me up against a large rock and placed his two hands on my breasts.  Then, before I could protest, he ripped the veil from around my face, and held it hard within his large hand.  His eyes searched my face, and at the same time, his other hand slipped down my belly to my woman’s place.  Obviously, to his satisfaction, I was no man.  Just when I thought I would be raped, he stepped back and laughed softly.

“I thought you were a woman from the first time I laid eyes upon you.  By all the Gods, tell me now the truth, and I will not betray you.”

I fumbled to rearrange the veil over my face, and he slapped my hand away.

“Do not increase your sin.  Men, and only real men may wear the tagelmonst. You are clearly a woman, though I could find out for sure if you defy me.”

My eyes widened in fear, and in spite of my former swaggering, tears, a woman’s shameful tears, collected in my eyes.

“I implore you, O Father, not to betray me, nor hurt my slave, Takama.  I am a woman, though I run from that knowledge, and I take my slave with me in my journey.”

The desert men are a tough breed, immured to death and violence and many horrors of life, but they can be just men, and their word is their honor.  I was assuring myself my truthful words would not fall on deaf ears.  For him to violate me would also defame his own reputation.

So I told him my circumstances, and how I had come to be in the desert with only a slave girl as a companion.  He squatted in the sand and I sat on my haunches as a proper woman would before a man, and poured forth my sad tale.

Zeggan Yuba was silent, and only the eyes above his veil gave me encouragement to tell him my story.  At that time, he had the power of life and death over both Takama and myself.  I was appealing to his tasa, the liver, where we desert people, now called Berbers, say the soul dwells.

All Berbers love a good story, they are the best in the world for storytelling and poetry.  We are a talkative people and enjoy jokes and humor, too. I could see he was weighing carefully all I told him.

“Tell me, my child, what your name is, and don’t think for one moment I believe it to be “A free dark tiger’.”  He laughed softly, his eyes never once moving from my face.  Even though I was stained by the indigo across my cheeks, I blushed as any woman would do, caught in a lie or by flattery.

I told him my birth name was Aicha, and the name of my father’s tribe.  I also said how far we had traveled, and that I was determined to find my fate, whether it was as bleached bones in desert, or in a village somewhere far from there.

Zeggan Yuba nodded his head, and sucked on a tough grass he pulled from a clump nearby.

“You show courage far beyond your years, but you don’t have the wisdom to back it up.”

I dropped my eyes to the sandy soil and was quiet. He was right, I was on a course dangerous and deadly, not only for myself, but I was dragging Takama into my fate, and this was compounding my sins.

“We are a hard but just people, my Aicha.  If I were you, I would return to the tribe of your father.  So you have cut off your woman’s crowning glory?  It will grow back.  You will find another man to marry, for you are comely, inspite of the indigo dye on your face.”

He looked out towards the desert, his eyes like a hunting hawk, narrowed from the sun’s rays on the sand.  Even his bent nose looked like the beak of a bird of prey.

“ When you are young, you find great problems insurmountable, but when you grow older, your wisdom grows with you and these problems will lessen, with prayer to the Gods and patience to listen.”

How could I tell Zeggan Yuba that I had rendered myself unworthy for a husband, for what man will marry a woman without a maidenhead? Yes, if I was widowed or divorced, but that was not my station. No, I had no choice but to push on, and hope that fate would clear my vision and rest my liver.

Zeggan Yuba watched me closely and shook his head.  “Aicha, Aicha, I see your father has bred a stubborn child.  You will not listen to me?  Isn’t returning to your tribe better than a mass of bleached bones in the desert? Or think of a raider party, what chance would two young girls have against such odds?”

He meant well, but I was Zar-driven, or I must have been, because all his reason fell on deaf ears.  It was as if the Goddesses had stopped up my ears along with their own. I shook my head and he put out his hand and patted my shoulder, much as a father would do to comfort his child.

“If you are determined to go, we will supply you with food and water, enough to get you both across the mountain and down into the valleys.  There you will find another settlement and hopefully you will make your way in safety.  I have promised to keep your secret, Aicha, but know there will always be a place for you in our tribe if you have a change of heart.”

Again he looked out towards the desert and sighed.

“Think of my words, Aicha, when the winter’s winds howl and you and your slave are alone in the mountains.  Think of the warmth of our fire and the smell of our stews. Perhaps your stubborn heart with turn with the scent of our food in your nostrils and the howling of your empty stomachs.”

Later that day I exchanged a silver necklace and bracelet for the generous water and food given to us.  Mounted on my Niefa, with Takama on her donkey behind,  I gazed into the eyes of Zeggan Yuba, as he stood besides me, his eyes searching my face.  I had returned the veil across my own, and my eyes filled with tears.  Kissing our fists and touching our foreheads, we bid each other goodbye, and turning our beasts to the east, we started our journey over the mountains.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009

“Tin Hinan” Chapter Two

NB:  The soul resides in the liver according to Berbers.

“TIN HINAN”

CHAPTER TWO  “Damaged Goods”

Early the next morning, I rose from my pallet in the corner of my mother’s large tent. I knew my path.  After a sleepless night, I had time to refine it.

Sending Takama to gather dates, millet, barley and to fill two large water leathers,  I told her to pack for a journey, to roll up clothes for both of us, and to also pack blankets.  We were to go away, and with big eyes and trembling lips she listened in silence. I told her I would beat her to an inch of her worthless life if she slipped up and made anyone notice her doings.  Takama was a good girl, and she nodded in silence.  Although only two years younger, she was now my travelling companion.

When I listen to myself relate this story, so many years ago, I think I was what the Turks call “burnt kebobs”. A bit crazy, desert-mad,  I had lost all my senses.  Perhaps I would do things differently if given another chance, but I was so young and the young are not known for their wisdom.

I took a piece of wood used in the setting up of tents, smooth and about as long as my forearm, and walked far into the desert.  There, after prayers to Isis and Ifri, I threw off my gown, and placing the wood stake upright in the sand, I lowered my body over it and fell down in one fast motion.

With a scream, I cried out to Isis.  The pain was tremendous, this pain that I would have felt on my wedding night.  I destroyed my value as a bride, for my life as a woman was over that moment.  Now I was not marriageable, I was damaged goods.  I took my virginity so I would not be burdened with thoughts of marriage and  happiness any longer.  No such dreams fit with my plans for the future.  Now that I had dispensed with my value as a bride, I was freed in my mind.

I drew on my gown and walked back to my mother’s tent.  I bled down my legs and I almost fainted when I entered her side.  Takama had gathered the stuffs I had demanded and hid them under a blanket in my father’s side of the tent.

No one was there, in either the east or west side, and even my little brothers and sisters were out running around the settlement.  Only my old great-grandmother was there, but she was stricken dumb by some elder’s infirment.  Her eyes rolled in her head, but she could not speak.  She did watch me closely, but her face could not form an expression. It was frozen into a mask.

I took my hair down, dropping the bone pins on the carpet. Taking a large sharp knife I cut off my two braids as close to my head as I could.  My crowning glory as a woman was now gone.  Great-grandmother Tuba watched me, her eyes widening in alarm.

“Do not worry, Grandmother Tuba.  I know what I am doing.  I am shaping my destiny with my two hands.”

The two black braids lay like snakes on the carpet.  All those years growing and oiling my hair, pinning it up and brushing it out were now in the past.  I went and opened a cedar chest and drew out men’s clothes.  Putting on the loose pants and the over- dress of cotton, I drew on the outer robe and walked to my father’s side of the tent where he kept his many weapons.  Picking a short curved sword, light enough for me to use, I also chose a dagger to wear in my girdle. I outfitted my feet with a good pair of sturdy men’s sandals.  The final part of my new costume was to wrap a dark indigo-blue cloth around my head many times and cover my nose and mouth with the tail.  It had a funny smell but I supposed I would get used to it, and I would be stained blue like the other men, even Hasim.  At the thought of his name, my stomach churned, but I can’t now remember if it was in anger or sorrow.

Takama came into the east side of the tent and stopped suddenly when she saw a man standing there.  Then she saw the two black braids on the carpet and her eyes grew wide. I took down the veil from my face and smiled at her.  She would have screamed but her shock made her silent.  All she could do was stare and shake. And she knew also I would beat her silly if she made noise to alarm others.

“Come, Takama, we have one more thing to do before we leave.  Saddle my white camel, and bring her to the tent.  Saddle yourself a donkey and get the boys to load up both beasts. Meet me back here quickly.”

Takama did as she was told.  My camel, named Niefa, kneeled and I mounted her, the saddle feeling strange to my buttocks for I was sitting like a man would on a camel.

“Coosh, coosh, Niefa”, I called out to her as she rose up with a groan.  Camels talk a lot, and my Niefa talked all the time.

We rode to the elder’s tent, an open- sided covering with large rugs laid on the sand.  There sat all the tribal elders, and the women of status, my mother prominent amongst them.

I was an object of immediate curiosity, for although I was not recognized, my Niefa was.  I came up to the tent, and stopped a respectful distance from them.  Niefa moaned and kneeled, and I toppled off her, and saw some of the older men smile at this young man who did not gracefully descend from his beast.

I walked up to them and bowed, and drew aside my indigo veil.  Immediately I was recognized, and my mother gave up such a wail that my stomach flipped.  My father stared and stared and said nothing.  My presence for a few minutes threw them all into confusion.

“I stand before you, no longer Aicha.  Aicha is dead to me and to this tribe.  I know that satisfaction is demanded for the behavior of Hasim Ghanim Iher and his family and tribe.
I know you meet to discuss what is to be done.  But I would not have the blood of my tribesmen on my head.  I will seek my own revenge in time on Hasim Ghanim Iher and his tribe, but Ammon and Isis will lead me to that moment.  Now I will leave our oasis and my family and with Takama as my companion, I will go through the desert until I can find peace.”

Those words were the most I ever uttered in public.  A girl of eighteen does not presume to address her elders. But of course, in my mind, I was no longer Aicha, a member of my family or my tribe.  I was now a stranger to both, and I could see the doubts as to my sanity in my parent’s eyes.

“Ah, Aicha has lost her senses! A Zar must be commanding her. Whoever would believe that this child could cast off her name and do such a thing?”  My mother’s voice rang out in agony, and I winced at her pain.

There was a general hubbub, a confused mingling of voices, when I heard my father cut through all of them with his own low voice.  Immediately, everyone stopped talking out of respect for this shocked father.  He stood up, drew himself to his full height, and addressed me.

“My daughter, I know your grief.  I saw you former happiness and I know how oppressed your liver is now. Do you understand what you do?  It is heresy in the face of your tribe to appear in men’s clothing.  Do you understand the weight of your actions?”

With tears in my eyes that I shook from my head, I spoke to him, the daughter of his old age and his favorite.

“My father and mother, I do this for the great love I have for my tribe.  I know bloodshed will follow the breaking of our wedding by Hasim and his parents.  Our people will die because of this man and his family. Leave them to their shame.  I have my own. But I am born anew and I left Aicha in the desert when I prayed to Isis and Tanit.   She is dead, but I am alive and I go to meet my destiny.”

I did not tell him what else I had done. That was for me only, for that revealed would have me stoned to death.  Such a violation would not be tolerated by the traditions of our tribe.

My father came forward to embrace me, and turning to the others, with tears running down his face, he addressed them.

“My daughter Aicha, for she will always remain my daughter, has consulted our Ammon and the Goddesses.  If they spoke to her, she is bound to obey.  Aicha is a good girl, and would not lie to me.  I will bless her with my deepest blessings and let her find her destiny.  Anyone who would move against her now, moves against me first.”

I mounted Niefa and with the indigo veil wrapped tightly around my face catching my tears, I turned my camel and Takama and I walked out of our oasis.  I did not dare look back, for I knew if I did so, I would not be able to leave my tribe and my family.

The desert spread out before me at the edge of our oasis, like a vast, white ocean. I turned my eyes to the east where I knew my future was waiting. What I would find, not even the God and Goddesses would tell me.  I was, with the exception of a slave girl, on my own.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009

Part 2, Chapter 1, “TIN HINAN”

(Chapter 1 of Tin Hinan is long, so I am going to cut it up into three pieces.  There is a lot of information about customs and traditions of the Berbers in this section, so shorter I think is better right now.

Lady Nyo)

(Tin Hinan lived in the 5th century.  She was able to consolidate the Berber tribes into a  ‘nation’.  Before that, they raided each other when they weren’t raiding the hated Arabs. The Roman influence in Morocco and what is now Algeria had dissolved, and the Arabs were conducting the spice, gold and cloth routes.  The Berbers were great raiders and continued to raid both Arabs (which they are not) and other Berber tribes all over north and central Africa, in spite of the influence of Tin Hinan.  They are still raiding in the Sahara, but now from Toyota 4 wheelers) The liver is where the soul and emotions reside, according to the Berbers, as in “My liver pines for you.” )

Part 2, Chapter 1, TIN HINAN

Though the wedding was months off,  the first thing to do was to take a piece of my Mother’s tent and sew it into one of my own.  All the woman of the tribe gathered at my Mother’s tent one morning and with singing and playing of the bendir, a frame drum, we cut out a large piece in the back of her tent and started stitching the heavy cloth woven from goat hair.  It was long and tedious work, but we ate dates and millet puddings and drank mint tea and told stories.  For a fortnight we worked on my marriage tent.  The east side would be for Hasim, and the west side for me.  I would have our marriage bed and our stores, musical instruments and rugs in my side.  The marriage bed would be a day couch for my children, me and women visitors..  Hasim would fill the west side with his weapons and saddles.  By tradition, after the marriage, Hasim would sleep outside, part of the guard men protecting our settlement from raiders across the mountain and from the desert. By tradition, the tent, the bed and everything else, except the weapons and saddles, would be my property.

It was good to be a Berber woman!

Our settlement was in a large oasis, nestled at the foot of a mountain range.  It was lush and shaded in parts by woods and orchards and streams running through the land. We tilled the fertile earth, made so by the runoff of soil from the mountain, and fed by the snows of winter that washed down from those same mountains.  It was a beautiful site for our nomadic people, and we defended it fiercely from others who would drive us away. I walked to a little plot of land with my father and decided this would be the place for my tent.  It was shaded by the date trees planted many years ago by our tribe.  There was a little spring that hardly bubbled out of the earth, but with some digging could be made easier to access the precious water.  As beautiful as this small piece of land was, I still was pulled to the end of the oasis where the desert stretched out in all its mystery, meeting the starry night as it had from the beginning of time.

There was much more to do, but the next task was to build my marriage bed.  This was to be the most important piece of furniture a woman could have, and each was done differently according to the skills and imagination of the carver.  My father hired the best carpenter and carver around to build it.  It would be big and wide and would not be too high off the carpets paving the floor of the tent.  My father went with the carpenter to pick the wood, and he obtained some beautiful, scented cedar to make the bed.  When it was carved and doweled together, it took six men to carry and place in the tent.  It was so beautiful, but of course, I was not allowed to lie down on it, or even to sit upon its frame.  I would have to wait for the wedding night with Hasim before I was allowed even to touch it.  But I did peek in the doorway before the divider between sides was hung and saw the beautiful symbols of fertility and good fortune carved along with flowers and palm trees.  In the middle of the back of the bed, was a large and flowing palm tree, with its roots extending outward towards the side posts. Little pigeons and doves were being chased by two hawks and some of the doves were hiding in the tree.

Next, I joined  in the sewing of the mattress.  My mother and her kinswomen sheared sheep and stuffed the thick wool into two large sheets of thick and coarse wool.  Then we spread it out on a carpet and during the night, my kinswomen, young girls to elderly women, my cousins and great aunts, would sit around the heavy mattress and we would all take up our bone needles and stitch carefully across and down the mattress.  This would be laid upon the woven ropes that were stretched from one side of the bed frame to another, and woven back and forth until there was a tight foundation for the mattress.  Our tradition said that a tightly woven bed frame augured well for a marriage.  Loose or slack weaving would let the attentions of the husband sag and the wife would stray in her affections.

As the wedding approached, I was bundle of nerves.  I had not seen Hasim, except from a distance.  We were watched very closely, for there was to be no contact before the wedding day.  I was not allowed to venture to the river without another woman with me, and I believe Hasim was told he could not approach me when his tribe came with herds of goats or to discuss shared pasturing with our men.

All seemed to be going according to plan, when the demons of Death took matters into their own claws.  I say Death  for nothing but that could have caused such a reverse of fortune and happiness in my life. We Berbers believe strongly in malicious spirits, and they seemed to hold their own festival with my wedding plans.

One day, very close to the time of the wedding, when already there were preparations for the five days of celebration, I heard some women in my mothers tent crying and went to see what had happened.  Suddenly, as I approached her tent, two of my favorite Aunties  ran out and threw themselves upon me.

“Aicha, Aicha,”  (for I do now, in relating this story, remember my name at the time).“You must prepare yourself!  You must be strong and comfort your parents!”

“What? What? What has happened that I am to be ‘strong’ as you say?”  I started to run towards her tent, and since I am tall, my legs were long, and my Aunties fat old women, well, they  could not keep up with me.  I heard them wailing behind me, yet I did not heed their cries.

I made it to my mother’s tent and entered her western side, where I found both my parents in her quarters.  My father looked somber, and my mother was rocking back and forth, like she was in grief.

“What has happened, oh my parents?  Has something happened to Hasim?  Tell me, oh tell me now!”

My mother was beside herself, and had thrown a cloth over her head as we do when a kinsman dies.  This is to blot out the sight of any happiness and is one of our forms of our mourning.  I was white faced with fear and was sure that Hasim was dead!

“My daughter, my daughter,” began my father, with tears in his eyes.  “Our family has been tricked, we have all been betrayed. Even though our gifts were returned this morning, it is not to be borne.  Hasim has contracted to marry another and has left to go to her tent.”

I was told I stared like a dead person, my eyes empty, my mouth open without sound. Then, one long wail came out of my throat before I collapsed on the carpet  at my father’s feet.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009

“Tin Hinan” Chapter 6 (part of it)

(This chapter is almost 5,000 words, so I have broken it up into segments.

N.B: Ksars are the settlements of Mountainous Berbers. They construct single story stone houses, with flat roofs. Since there is only seasonal rain, they don’t need pitched roofs. Their graneries and storage rooms are made from mud, adobe. A ksar refers to the wall that  undulates around a mountain village, earlier constructed for defense, but also refers to the stacked stone houses.

Djellaba: Each Berber tribe/clan has it’s own recognizable

tribal robe, woven from the local herd of goats. Tin’s is red and white striped robe, like a hooded cowl. With a general knowledge of the colors and style of a tribe, one could see at a distance whether the rider was friend or foe of your own tribe.

TIN HINAN
Chapter Six

The next morning the men rose even earlier. They were excited to be going home, proud of the booty they carried. Joking and calling out to each other, they scurried to break camp. Camels bellowed, and horses shied from being mounted. Only the pack mules waited patiently for their burdens.

“Takama”, I called, looking around for the girl. Usually underfoot, this morning she was talking to a man. Ah! I will whip her soundly for her immodesty!

“I am here, Mistress. I was only trying to find out when we would be in the mountains.”

“You will be there fast enough. Have you no fear? These men are not our tribe. You could still be plunder.”

I scowled at her and her face showed renewed fear. Good. Let her think before she talks to men again.

Takama and I dressed in our tribe’s red and white striped djellaba while I carefully secured the scarf around my shorn head. Takama unpacked some of my jewelry, and I placed a silver coined circlet on my forehead. She insisted I wear more of my jewelry to appear noble. I might be a prisoner, but I was not a slave.

Immel Uzmir bullied and cajoled his tribesmen into some sort of readiness. He rode to where Takama and I were mounted, she on her donkey, and I on Niefa. His horse was a fine large beast, and pranced and bucked with spirit. Immel Uzmir slapped his neck to quiet him, and looked at us appraisingly. His horse twisted around and tried to break into a run. Immel Uzim smiled a great, toothy grin, his veil not yet secured over his mouth, as his eyes swept us both. Then, with a hard kick to the horse’s flanks, he flew to the front of the caravan. The camels were bellowing, complaining loudly, and the men were using their sticks to beat the mules into a walk.

We plodded for a couple of hours across that lush valley, where groves of walnuts and apricots grew. Some shepherds with flocks of goats and sheep waved and shouted, recognizing the tribe. We came to a river about half way across the valley, and had to forge its waters, though it wasn’t deep. Water came to the breasts of the camels, though the smaller mules had to swim, helped along by men on the larger horses. There were a couple of packs lost in the river, but they were retrieved with the efforts of a few men.

Although we were in a wide valley, it was placed between two mountain ranges. The weather was cold at this altitude. I wished I had unpacked my heavier wool robe. I looked back behind Niefa, at Takama on her donkey. She was a slave, but she rode with dignity, her head held high, her nose disdainfully up in the air. I wondered how long she would hold that position. We had a long way across the valley.

After we crossed the river collected on its wide banks, we continued onward, for no one wanted to stop for a midday meal in their haste to get home. A scout had been sent ahead early that morning. He would arrive well ahead of the caravan. Then the tribe, warned of our approach, would have slaughtered goats and sheep for a welcomed feast. I was hungry, for breakfast was, again, a handful of dates and a gourd of water. No one had time to milk a camel.

We crossed to the second half of the valley, and although far away, I could see structures on the side of the mountain. They were mountain ksars as Immel Uzmir explained. His tribe did not live in the rough, woven goat hair tents as desert Berbers did, but built stone one-story houses and mud granaries. This would be a very different from what we were used to. Although I tried to maintain an aloof manner, conscious I would appear no more than a part of the plunder, I was excited. I did not know the measure of my fate but I was curious and fearful at the same time.

The caravan made its way towards the forest at the foot of the mountain. As we cleared an orchard of walnut trees, I could see the mass of buildings dotting the face of the mountain. Arranged up the side, they were like beehives, plastered mud structures. These were the granaries and storage rooms. People lived in one story stone houses, built wherever there was flat ground, but farther up the mountain amongst walnut and olive trees.

As we came closer, I saw young boys run out to greet and bedevil the men as young boys do. They hung on the mules and pulled on the packs and dodged the whips of their fathers and uncles. They yelled and chortled and danced in excitement. Then, floating over the valley, that fierce ululation of Berber women made the hair of my arms stand up. They were welcoming home their men, each hoping her beloved was amongst the returning.

We pulled into a large courtyard, a great cacophony of sound from the camels, men, women and children. There was a line of elders standing apart from the general milling chaos. These were the men who would pass judgement on our future. Niefa, to her honor, stood quietly, while I sat stiffly on her back. I was not a part of the welcome, for these people were strangers and most probably my masters now. Whether I would be seen as a spoil of a raid and therefore just a slave, was up to the gods. I hoped desperately that Takama and I would not be separated. She was the only touchstone I had to my past.

Amongst the noise and confusion, I saw men and women come to where Immel Uzmir had slipped off his horse. He was embraced by an older woman, probably his mother, and several younger ones, possibly his kinswomen. I did not know if he had any wives for we had never discussed this. The line of elders moved to embrace him and welcome him home. Clearly he was an important man.

I looked around at Takama and smiled weakly in encouragement. She looked scared. She was unsure of her future and had no reason for optimism. She was a slave, but had only known kindness from our tribe. Although we were treated fairly during the caravan, coming into the ksar could prove a different fate.

“Aicha…Aicha”, whispered Takama as she drew close to Niefa. “What do you think will happen to us? Did you see how their dwellings cling to the mountain side? Aeeeiiii! How will we ever walk those hills?”

“Do I look like a smelly, old fortune teller, girl? You keep asking questions I have no answers. Just be patient. Perhaps you will find a husband by some fire, eh?”

“Oh, Mistress! Don’t scare me. These men are not our people. They just look like our tribe. They could be very cruel, what do we know yet?”

“Yes, stupid girl. What do we know? They haven’t roasted us at their fires, they haven’t fed us to mountain wolves and we still have our fingers and toes. Be patient, Takama, or I will  beat you.”

I was anxious myself, and just wanted quiet. My liver was uneasy, for I had not only led myself into uncertainty, but another soul. I was responsible for Takama, even though she was but a slave. I would still account to the gods for her keeping.

We were in the hot sun, no different than the pack animals with their rolls of cloth and bags of spices. We could be considered plunder by any casual observer. Immel Uzmir walked up and commanded Niefa to kneel, helping me to dismount. He led me to the group of elders who had moved back into the shade. I stood there, my veil half hiding my face, and looked down as was proper. Takama slipped off her donkey and came behind me. Her presence was a comfort in this strange environment. I felt her tugging at my robes.

“Welcome daughters, to our village.” I heard the voice of an old man, and looked up at the speaker. He was a grizzled old man, his veil loose around his face. His eyes were like two black coals, but the expression was warm, kind.

“Do not be afraid for your lives. You and your woman will be welcome at our fire and share our meat. We have need of women for wives to our men. We don’t need more slaves. We are growing old and need the comfort of the young. We want grandchildren on our knees.”

I felt tears form in my eyes and I quickly dropped my face to the ground, hoping to hide my weakness. Overcome by emotion, I faintly heard him speak through the pounding of my blood in my ears.

“My wife Leila will take you to our house and help you and your woman settle. My son Immel, tells me you are from a desert tribe a long way from our mountain. You and your woman will find our life different, but the Gods are fair and give us their gifts.”

I bowed my head, afraid to look up. Now my tears would stain my face, perhaps the salt would run furrows in the last of the indigo dye fading from my face. I had not expected any kindness, and my heart had been bitter so long. Fear had vanquished any hope.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2007, 2009

“Tin Hinan” Chapter 4

TIN HINAN
Chapter 4

We walked out of the oasis and back into the ergs, the sand dunes.  Within days the mountains loomed before us, and we knew we were approaching the highlands.   As we got closer, these mountains were thickly covered with forests.  We were still in the foothills with their endless hammadas, stony deserts where our beasts stumbled at times,   but we were making our way to the beginning of the highlands. Before we saw scrub bushes and tough grasses and little else.  Now, at entrance to the highlands, we could see cypress and wild olives along with doum palm, oleander, date palms and thyme. As we entered the forests, it was such a shock to our eyes and noses!  The scents of the woodlands filled our nostrils, and our beasts grazed their fill as we made camp in the evening.  Owls hooted from high branches and hunted by night, the screams of their prey startling us as we huddled around a small, banked fire.

Both of us were uneasy.  The forest was alien territory.  In the desert, we could see all around, and although exposed to the elements, we could see what approached. In the highland forest thick canopy of trees obscured any ‘visitors’. We moved in dappled sunlight, gloomy after the white light and heat of the desert.

Springs and small streams, fresh water in abundance, were gifts to our senses. We could bathe ourselves and replenish our water skins. Takama found an herb when crushed would produce an acrid smelling lather and we could finally wash our hair. Of course, mine was shorn short, but it was a blessing to be clean.  We washed our robes and laid them upon limbs to dry while we sat in our gauzy white undergowns, munching our dwindling date supply.

Niefa, my camel, tucked her legs under her body and got as comfortable as she could.  The forest floor was hard walking for her, better were her padded feet on the desert sands.  The climb each day was hard on Niefa, but easier on Takama’s donkey.

“Aicha!”  Takama called out from the bank of the stream.

“Throw me your knife, the donkey has picked up a stone in her hoof.”

I threw my short knife to Takama and sitting with my back against Niefa, watched as she cleaned the stone from the hoof. Niefa chewed her cud happily, pushing her head into my shoulder, wanting me to scratch behind her ears.  She was grumbling and making silly grunts and groans, and if she could reach, she would search my pockets for dried fruits, her favorite treat.

“Niefa!” I yelled, hitting her on the nose, “stop eating my ear!”  Her big fleshly lips were nibbling on me and soon she would be tearing my clothes.  She did this when she felt she wasn’t getting enough attention.

That evening, we retrieved our dried clothes, and dressed for the cold night. I always wore my turban for the nighttime insects could be kept from my face by the veil. Leaning on Niefa as she groaned softly and was closing her large brown eyes, I was lulled by Takama’s softly singing a song of our tribe. I folded my robes around me, and was drifting off to sleep.  The fire was low and we were tired, for we had climbed for hours that day and the going was steep.  We settled on a plateau on a ridge, by the narrow stream, and looked down through the trees at a small valley far below.  Darkness was falling early. We were getting used to that for the season was changing.  Fireflies were twinkling like earthbound stars as they settled amongst the foliage.

Suddenly Takama stopped singing, her eyes wide with surprise. Takama pointed over my shoulder, too scared for speech. I turned in the direction of her hand, jumped up and grabbed my sword, she running behind me. There was a man, with his own sword in hand, staring at us. Almost immediately, other dark robed men appeared from behind trees, calling softly to each other. We could hear the sound of laughter shared amongst them. Then a man walked from behind a tree, closer to us, and addressed us in some alien language.  I had raised my sword menacingly, though we both were defenseless with so many.

“Before the Gods and Goddesses, what are two young girls doing in the mountains?”

He was a very large man, as tall as our Berber people, and we were known for our height. Perhaps he was a Berber, but perhaps also the hated Arab.  With my heart sinking I supposed we had fallen into the hands of raiders. The language difference would account for that.

“I am not a girl, I am a man and this is my wife.”  I pitched my voice low, but I was shaking.  All we feared was standing before us. Laughter erupted from the men who now seemed to surround us.

Then I realized I had not placed my veil over my face.  Except for the faint blue coloring across my cheeks and nose, I probably looked like a girl.  My men’s clothing not withstanding, I would appear female to them.

Takama started to moan in fear behind me, I trying to hush her softly.

“Aicha, Aicha”. Fear was making her voice waver.  “We are lost, undone.  Oh, why did you lead us out of our home to this fate? Aiiiiieee!”

Her wail annoyed me, and I wanted to beat her with my fists, but I knew I had more problems before me than the slave behind.  I, too, was afraid, and my voice shook as I addressed the obvious leader before me.

“If you come near us, I will kill you with my sword.  Leave us alone, we are poor travelers.”  I raised my sword before me, with both hands holding the grip.  I had seen the men all my life practice in camp, mock battles where sometimes blood was drawn.  Being female, I was not allowed to touch weapons, for in our traditions, a woman handling weapons would make them turn in a man’s hand.

This black turbaned man looked at us, and then squatted down on his haunches.  His position was one meant to disarm our fears, but I was having none of it.

I did not relax my guard, and spread my feet wide to steady myself.  Takama continued to whimper behind me and plucked at my robe in fear.

The squatting man laid his curved sword over his knees, for no Berber would lay it on the ground unless it was a death blow that made him drop it.

“So you are called “Aicha” by your wife. Now, what a strange name for a man, if you be one.”

He pulled his veil down around his mouth and grinned at me.  Big white teeth were like bleached bones even in the dimming light of the evening.

“I can see for myself that you were never a man, nor will you ever be one.  Your woman’s figure is too full to play that and besides, you have no beard on your face.”

He continued to grin and then his voice turned serious.  “Now tell me, what are your names, and don’t lie to me.  What are you two girls doing in these mountains?

I was silent for a moment, weighting what I would say to him, and how much to reveal.

“My name is Tin Hinan, and I go on this journey to meet my destiny.”

There was some hooting at my words, and I looked up at the men before us on the ridge with as fierce an expression on my face as I could muster.

“Tin Hinan, huh?” he said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Not too inventive for a woman who wears men’s clothing.  “Nomadic Woman” is not very poetic, and since the Berber women are good poets, one would think you would call yourself something with more music.”

His comment made the men laugh and I again threw a fearsome glance.

“Well, “Tin Hinan” you will be, at least amongst us, but you will also join us for we soon return to our own tribe.

“Are you the Arab raiders?” I asked, my voice still wavering.

They all laughed and a few spit on the ground.

The man before us looked over both sides of his shoulders as if this was a great joke and smiled broadly, getting to his feet in one smooth motion.

“No, we aren’t Arabs, but you could say we are raiders. Now, let’s see what your beasts are carrying and if you present a danger to us.”

Of course, this was absurd, but we were in no position to resist.  But my next concern was for Niefa.

With Takama still behind me, hanging close to my back, I moved towards Niefa and she grumbled and groaned and got to her feet.  She was so beautiful in the dim light, like the moon fallen to the earth, so white and shining.  Niefa took that moment to nudge me in the shoulder, throwing me off balance and when a camel pushes, you feel it’s superior strength.

“Niefa, stop it!” I scolded her in a whisper.  She was not helping the situation.

The big man walked up like he had no fear of my sword or my using it, and laid his hand on Niefa’s hump.  He stroked her and scratched her, and Niefa shook herself, and groaned in delight.  She was an attention seeker and would take pleasure where she found it.

I looked at Niefa and thought how much of a traitor she was in her affections, and that little moment of my distraction was my undoing.  With the speed like a desert cheetah, the man leaped at me and before I could even think had knocked the sword from my hands.  He was fast and I found myself sprawled on the ground before him, he standing over me, scowling.  I believed at that moment my life over, and raised my eyes to him and spoke.

“Take my life, but spare my slave.  She is blameless.  I forced her to follow from our tribe. And don’t kill my camel, her name is Niefa and she is young.”

His face softened at my words.  He held out his hand and pulled me to my feet.  I was shaking, still not sure of what was to happen.

“Well, Tin Hinan, you have no reason to fear us.  We are raiders, not murderers of young women.  You, your slave and your camel, will join us on our journey back over the mountain, but you will not wear the man’s veil or clothes with us.  It is an abomination for a woman to do so.  First, you don’t deserve to wear the veil and then, you defile your God-given beauty with man’s clothes. Come, we treat such brave women with respect.  And don’t worry about your camel.  She will have the company of her own kind in our settlement.”

We crossed the mountain and then another one, and within the time of a new risen moon, we came to a mountain ksar.  Here, amongst a strange tribe, my life began anew.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2007, 2009