“Tin Hinan”, Chapter Two: ‘Damaged Goods’

  

Warning: a bit of violence here…

 

Early the next morning, I rose from my pallet in the corner of my mother’s large tent. I knew my path.  During 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 what she did.  Takama was a good girl,and she nodded in silence.  Although she was only two years younger, and a slave of my family, 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 drop.

With a scream, I cried out to Isis.  The pain was tremendous, this pain I would have felt on my wedding night.  I destroyed my value as a bride, for my life as a woman was over at 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 dream fit with my plan 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,  but she was stricken by some elder disease.  Her eyes rolled in her head, but she could not speak.  She did watch me closely. 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, sheep sheering 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 Baba watched me, her eyes widening in alarm. 

“Do not worry, Mother Baba.  I know what I am doing.  I am shaping my destiny with my own two hands.”

The two black braids lay like snakes on the carpet.  All those years growing and oiling, 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 tunic 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. She knew 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 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. They were drinking the sweet mint tea that Berbers can not live a day without. 

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 shivered.  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 and dead to this tribe.  I know 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 Amon 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 nor 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, (which was not much) 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 the contract 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, 2013

 

Concluding Chapter 1 of “Tin Hinan”, a novel

Though the wedding was months off in the future, 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 on my side.  The marriage bed would be a day couch for my children and me.  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 custom, the tent, the bed and everything in it, except the weapons and saddles would be my property.

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 water from the mountain, and fed by the snows of winter.  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.

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 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  was 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 cotton. 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 planned,  I heard some women in my mothers tent crying and went to see what had happened.  As I neared her tent, two of my favorite Aunties  ran out and threw themselves upon me.

“Aicha, Aicha,” said one fat old auntie, panting in her excitement. “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 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?   Has something happened to Hasim?  Tell me, oh, tell me now!”

My mother, beside herself, 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.

 —-

Three days later I had recovered my senses under the loving care of my kinswomen to sit up in my mother’s bed, for she would not have me leave her.  I drank mint tea until I was tired of walking out into the desert to squat down.  I thought my senses had taken leave of me, for one night I started to walk outward, after dark, when the desert turns dangerous, even more so than by day.  The old women told me there were Zars out there, waiting to claim my liver, but I knew there were desert snakes and scorpions and these alone were trouble enough.

I did not care.  I was torn between love, a pitiful, self-effacing sentiment where I  cried out for the man I had never really known.  But then, like a limb that has fallen over a high rock, and teeters, first one side then the weight of it on the other, I fell to hating Hasim with all my heart. My hatred for him made my fingers curl and a lump of burning pain in my stomach rise up to my throat.  If he were before me now, I would be savage and kill him with my bare hands.  He had brought shame on my family, but mostly he had disgraced me, the woman who was his intended, the woman who was to bear his many sons.

Until a new moon rose in the sky at night, I walked a part each night in the desert, tailed by the girl Takama, who was sent by my mother to watch me.  I bore her presence until finally annoyed, I yelled for her to go to the devil.  Takama was a good girl, a slave in our family, and she fell on her knees and threw her apron over her face.  I took pity and told her she could follow, but only at a distance of three camels. I turned and continued to pace out in the desert, always in a wide circle around our community’s many tents.  I was trying to make up my mind what to do. I knew my parents would take some kind of action, but I had my own to deliver.

On the third night of my pacing, I went out into the desert, and forbade Takama to follow.  I had bathed myself in a ritual bath in the river that ran through our oasis, and had thrown off all jewelry.  I unbraided my long black hair and drew on a white cotton dress, and barefoot I went into the desert.  There I chanted and prayed to my goddesses for I wanted their help in deciding my course. 

Isis was the first goddess I prayed to, lifting my hands to the heavens and imploring her. It was Isis who gave justice to the poor and orphaned, and though I was neither, I knew she would hear my plight.  Isis was all-seeing, but apparently busy.  

I next prayed and chanted to Tanit and Tinjis.  I needed all the answers and ideas I could find.  They were silent, but suddenly I shivered, and I knew that one of them had listened.. Or perhaps it was a Zar that tickled my spine, for Zars were known to attack a woman when she went alone in the desert. They delighted in that.  It made access to souls so much easier.

But I was looking for a stronger solution. I was enraged at the treatment of that man. By now my anger was such  I could not speak his name. 

I closed my eyes, threw out my arms to the heavens, to the moonless sky above me and into the  revolving vortex of stars. I flew my misery to the black night.  I turned myself inside out with the intensity of my pleadings.  Ayyur, the Moon God was one I exhorted, and then Ifri, the war goddess.  I needed some answers, some plan of action. I mumbled and prayed and exhorted them all until the constellations  above me circled  with the passage of hours. 

Finally, it came to me.  I knew what I would do when I heard the haunting sound of the imzad, the violin only a woman can touch and vibrate.  I heard its  sad sound floating over the desert in the evening air.  My destiny was staring me in my face.

 —

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2013

“Tin Hinan” Book II, Chapter 4

 

(courtesy of 123rf.com)

LadyNyo wordpress.com: A mountain Ksar in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco

I am working to finish this novel by this summer.  A reader can see this chapter is far towards the end, and I hope to conclude in a matter of weeks.  Of course, there is a long period of rewrite, but I can do this. It’s just one key in front of the other.

This chapter is about Tin and Immel and company leaving their mountain ksar.  A ksar is a mountain settlement, usually built into the side of a mountain, and in some regions, a forested mountain.  Some ksars look like beehives.  The lower parts are grainerys and the upper parts are residences.

Over the course of writing this novel, I had to do a lot of research into foods. I was fortunate to know modern day Berbers in Atlanta, and tried to consult them with the issues of ancient grains, foods, etc.  I found that much of what was researched was also eaten today in families, not restaurants.  This is more particular to desert tribes, but today in Morocco much of this food would be recognized in some form.

Thank you to the readers of these chapters of “Tin Hinan” especially those in Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and the general Middle East.  All misinformation is mine in the writing of this book.

Lady Nyo

Tin Hinan, Chapter 4 of Book II

Although I knew my purpose in returning to the desert, I felt reluctance in leaving our mountain.  The lush meadows, the pastures, the fruit trees and the early-planted fields of millet were a delight to my desert eyes.  Everything was so green and blooming around me, this first spring of my life in the mountains. 

Everything so different from the desert.  The smells were different too, not of the howling winds, but of budding leaves, blossoms of mountain wild flowers, even the soil smelled of life and regeneration.  I would miss the sharp smell of the walnut trees, when I crushed a leaf in my hand and saw the stain appear.  I especially would miss the beautiful apricots, the tender blossoms and the sweet fruit that would fill my mouth like honey.  And I would miss Niefa. She would have calved by the time I returned, and I wanted to be there, to help her in her first labor, and to guide her spindly-legged calf to her nipples.  Immel laughed at me, saying  Niefa would not need my help in this, but Immel was a man. What did he know about birth and especially Niefa?  She was hand raised by me, and would miss my presence as much as I missed her.

Ah, but by Isis, it could not be helped.  I had a purpose for leaving the mountains, and to return to the desert of my birth. I could not forget this.  I must revenge my tribe, my family, the great insult done to them. I must revenge myself by blood.  Each night I prayed silent prayers to Tanit, to Tinjis, and especially to Ifri, the War Goddess. I asked all that I remember my purpose and that my liver be not steered from my destiny.

But we did leave our mountain, and with Takama behind me on a war camel, this big beast who groaned and moaned like a tiny donkey, we came out of the mountains and approached the desert of our journey, the mighty Sahara.  We would cross other mountain ranges, as this route was different and longer than the way Takama and I had taken.  The course of our small caravan was set by the elders and Immel had purpose for this: he was still a raider, and still a mountain Berber, and he would seek the safety of a big caravan to travel with.  We left with only twenty men, but they were all warriors and skilled in fighting.  Perhaps we would increase our caravan’s wealth along the way, but this had only a secondary purpose.  We had a good flock of sheep and goats herded before us and some of these could be traded for salt and other essentials.  These would also make a greater impression on my tribe, though we carried enough booty to do that.  The bales of cottons and silk, hidden amongst the pack camels were something of great wealth, especially to my desert tribe.  There were even some steel needles and knives especially valuable to my tribes.

We didn’t find a caravan after a weeks travel, and had just left a small oasis. We watered the camels and replenished the water bags, when the fierce dogs accompaning us found a den of a desert fox.  A great howl and fury was heard, even by us in the middle of the caravan, and I saw Immel and other men kick and whip their camels to the source of the dog’s turmoil.  They were too late to save the nursing mother and two of her kits, but Immel grabbed two kits from the dogs and held them high over his head, kicking and shouting at the dogs as he did so.  They were only a few weeks old, and Immel hurried back and with a grin, threw them into my lap.  I looked at these tiny, terrified babies and my heart melted.  They were the color of sand, with huge ears, and big black eyes showing their fear.  Takama pushed her paw forward for one and I gave her a kit.  We knew enough, though I hadn’t seen a desert fox in a long time, to cover their heads, as the sun would blind them.  They came out at night, to hunt the rodents, the lizards of the night desert, and slept during the day.  We tucked them in our robes and they whimpered for a while, squirmed and then fell asleep to our heartbeat.  Later one of the men would make a small cage to fit over the cool water bag on the camel and we covered this with cloth.  They were babies, and I wondered if the rich camel’s milk would nourish them, but one of the men, who took a kindness to these babies, said  if we dilute the milk with water, it would do fine.  They also could eat fruit, if we tore it up into small pieces, or chewed it ourselves to a pulp. Within a few hours, they seemed to adjust to our feeding.  Mostly they slept during the day. During the night, they played in our tent, and would dig through the sand, making small burrows as their instinct directed them.  They had a strange yip, and would get into anything  not secured.   Finally, Takama put them under a loose woven basket during the night, as they tried to burrow under the tent.  The dogs outside would have killed them on sight, and we had grown attached in only a few days.  Immel  laughed at me, as I played with them during the evening hours, and said soon I would be replacing these foxes with my own babe to play with.  Perhaps, but that was away in the future, regardless his and his mother’s desire.

We approached another oasis when we spied a small caravan.  Immel and some of the men rode forth and talked with the leaders.  They were Berbers from the East,  travelling part of the way to Morocco.  That night, we joined their larger caravan and pitched our tents apart, which was the usual custom, but we slaughtered two goats and brought dates and salt to a shared dinner.  These Berbers were nomads, who came from pastures with great herds of sheep and goats. They were driving them as trade to the west.  They were very much like my parent’s tribe, wearing some of the same woven cloth and colors I was familiar with.  Of course, I did not ask any questions, as to my tribe, but Immel did find out that there had been wars and raiding to the west.  Information was vague enough but I could only wonder if Hasim and his tribe had been involved.  There were many tribes, and many raiders, some of them the hated Arabs, but I knew little of the world.  Now, from my position in the Spirit World, I know much more of history.  Then, as I said, I knew little.

Their women were like women everywhere. The young ones were shy, the older ones suspicious, and the few elderly on the caravan were wiser than all else.  Of course we sat together, as women would want to do, and exchanged gossip and some minor gifts. We ate their dishes with great relish, as Takama and I were not the best of cooks.  Our porridge was plain and only filled our bellies, but their dishes were so much better for not being made by us. 

Though we found our food was of a common kind, their taguella, a flat bread made from millet and cooked on charcoals in the sand, was eaten with a heavy sauce of spices and dried fruit.  They had yogurt, made along the route, by pouring goat’s milk into large skins and letting it ferment in the sun.  The roll of a camel’s pace stirred it nicely, and the essence of the leather bag contributed a smoky taste to the yogurt.  Ah! Their eghajira was the best I had ever tasted! For those who have had inferior drink,  it is a thick beverage drunk with a ladle, made by pounding millet, goat cheese, dates, dried apricots, camel’s milk and honey. Of course, there was lamb on a spit over the fire and gunpowder tea, sweetened with mint and honey.  Our mouths were greasy with the food and our bellies full. 

 Just when I saw Takama’s eyes close with sleep and mine doing the same, the sound of the rehad floated towards us. Soon bendirs, drums, added their rhythm to the one-stringed fiddle. An ajonuag, the reed flute joined the music,  and a woman started to sing., a strange song half way between a moan and a melody.

Some of the women got up to dance,  holding  large  walnut shells  in their hands, like castanets, as they added their own music to the night.  Stomping their bare feet in the cooling sand, tossing their long hair in circles, they would scare or entice a Zar in the desert night with their wild beauty!

There is nothing so mystical on earth as the sound of music in the desert. It floats like a benediction over the day. The night time air seems to draw forth the beauty of the voice and the pathos of life. Though it was not a song I knew, it didn’t matter.  Our lives, our souls, were of the same material, and we went to our tents late that night feeling cradled in the knowledge  wherever we were, we Berbers were part of the great stream of humanity and never alone in the world.

 Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2012

“Tin Hinan”, Chapter 1, Section 4

(A Berber Woman with Berber silver and amber/wood jewelry, note also the striped cloth, distinctive of her tribe and location. These were woven on narrow hand looms and strips of cloth sewn together)

Section 4

Three days later I had recovered my senses under the loving care of my kinswomen.  I could now  sit up in my mother’s bed, for she would not have me leave her.  I drank mint tea until I was tired of walking out into the desert to squat .  I thought my senses had taken leave of me, for one night I started to walk out, after dark, when the desert turns dangerous, even more so than by day.  The old women told me there were Zars out there, waiting to claim my liver, but I knew there were desert snakes and scorpions and these alone were trouble enough.

I did not care.  I was torn between love, a pitiful, self-effacing sentiment where I  cried out for the man I had never really known.  But then, like a limb that has fallen over a high rock, and teeters, first one side then the weight of it on the other, I fell to hating Hasim with all my heart. My hatred for him made my fingers curl and a lump of burning pain in my stomach rise up to my throat.  If  he were before me now, I would savagely kill him with my bare hands.  He had brought shame on my family; he had disgraced me, the woman who was his intended, the woman who was to bear his many sons.

Until a new moon rose in the sky at night, I walked a part each night in the desert, tailed by the girl Takama, who was sent by my mother to watch me.  I bore her presence until finally annoyed, I yelled for her to go to the devil.  Takama was a good girl, a slave in our family, and she fell on her knees and threw her apron over her face.  I took pity and told her she could follow, but only at a distance of three camels. I turned and continued to pace out in the desert, always in a wide circle around our community’s many tents.  I was trying to make up my mind what to do. I knew my parents would take some kind of action, but I had my own to decide.

On the third night of my pacing, I went out into the desert, and forbade Takama to follow.  I had bathed myself in a ritual bath in the narrow river that ran through our oasis, and had thrown off all jewelry.  I unbraided my long black hair and drew on a white cotton dress, and barefoot I went into the desert.  There I chanted and prayed to my goddesses for I wanted their help in deciding my course.

Isis was the first goddess I prayed to, lifting my hands to the heavens and imploring her. It was Isis who gave justice to the poor and orphaned, and though I was neither, I knew she would hear my plight.  Isis was all-seeing, but apparently busy. 

I next prayed and chanted to Tanit and Tinjis.  I needed all the answers and ideas I could find.  They were silent, but suddenly I shivered. I knew  one of them had listened. Or perhaps it was a Zar that tickled my spine, for Zars were known to attack a woman when she went alone in the desert. They delighted in that.  It made access to souls so much easier.

But I was looking for something else. I was enraged at the treatment by that man. Now, my anger was such I could not speak his name except to spit it.

I closed my eyes, threw out my arms to the heavens, to the moonless sky above me and gave myself over to the vortex of my misery. Ayyur, the Moon God was one I exhorted, and then Ifri, the war goddess.  I needed some answers, some plan of action. I mumbled and prayed and exhorted them all until the constellations in the sky above me revolved with the passage of hours.

Finally, it came to me.  I knew what I would do when I heard the sound of the imzad, the violin only a woman can touch and vibrate.  I heard its sad sound floating over the desert in the evening air.  My destiny was staring me in my face.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2012