“Tin Hinan” Chapter 5.

(Moroccan Berber man)

Our journey over that last mountain tried body and soul. We were among about thirty men, led by the large man, called Immel Uzmir. They were mountain Berbers, perhaps that accounted for the difference in language. Their voices had a flat, windy sound, not the pleasant, musical tone of our desert tribes. That their lives were so violent maybe made for the difference in speech. Perhaps they whispered to each other behind trees before raids and this formed their speech differently. But of course that couldn’t be it. They would raid from the desert, not from the mountains. They only stole away to the mountains, back to their homes, loaded with the loot of bandits.

Takama and I got used to their brusque ways– they were men after all. Without the soothing nature of women around, what could one expect? Men left to their own devices reverted to savages, more like wild beasts than men. These men were a rough bunch, and if it weren’t for the respect they held for Immel Uzmir, Takama and I would have been plunder.

They must have come from a successful raid somewhere in the desert, for their mules and pack horses were loaded with bags of spices and bales of cloth woven and dyed with various and seemingly rare dyes.

“Look at the colors, Aicha”, her voice expressing wonder.

We could see some of these cloths were woven with gold thread.

“They must have robbed a very rich merchant,” I whispered.

Our women of the tribe did various forms of embroidery, but nothing like the sumptuousness of this cloth.

Caravans crossing from the east were loaded with spices, gold and gold dust, cloths, and precious salt, which they traded further south of the desert for slaves. Since there were no slaves amongst them, we supposed they had raided some rich merchant’s caravan before it had crossed into the southern reaches of the desert. Slave trade was very common, and women and their children were sold off to different tribes and taken far from their lives.

We were the only women amongst these raiders.

Takama and I were treated well enough, given warm blankets and food from their fires. We knew our safety was still in question, for we were only women amongst men.
Each night we wrapped ourselves in the blankets and settled against Niefa, for Immel Uzmir allowed me to keep her. A guard was set near us. We never were sure if it was because Immel Uzmir thought we might try to escape, or if a man would force himself upon us. We slept safely enough, though the weather was colder and the air thinner the higher we climbed.

One night, after the evening meal of snared rabbits, Immel Uzmir came and sat near, a gourd of camel’s milk in his hand.

“You eat little food, Tin Hinan. Is our cooking that bad to your mouth?” He was smiling and held out the milk to me.

I bowed my head in thanks. Camel’s milk was like mother’s milk to me, and I had not had the taste of it since I had left my tribe now so long ago. Drinking deeply, I could have cried for it reminded me of all I had thrown away.

In truth, my liver was nervous, and I was uneasy. It is not peaceful to be among men without the presence of women. Many times I caught the eyes of a man looking at me with that particular hunger. I adopted a veil to keep the cold from my face, but also to keep obscured from curious glances.

“Your food fills the belly, but could use some salt. All in all, women cook better than men. But I imagine you will be home soon and the women of your tribe will rejoice with a feast.”

Immel Uzmir laughed softly and shook his head. “You are of the age, Tin Hinan, to be married. Why are you not so?”

I can be stubborn and when I am, I retreat into silence. It would take a donkey pulling hard to open my mouth and pry out my voice. These many weeks with only the company of Takama, and it had taken its toll on my nature. I was, if the truth were known, lonely and miserable. Perhaps this trek up the mountain had taken more than my strength. I was tired and sore in legs. The mountains were beautiful, but this relentless climb upwards challenged more than my stamina. I was a desert woman, out of my element. I felt as alien as a star dropping to earth and could not get back to the heavens.

I was silent. What should I tell him? His name, Immel Uzmir, meant ‘powerful, constant one’ and he certainly had the respect of these men. To be able to control a score and a half again of Berber men meant he was well respected. The Goddesses had been silent to my demands and I had little else for comfort. I must be grateful.

Sighing, casting my eyes on the ground, I spoke in a low voice. Low, not because I was worried that others would hear my tale, but because I was almost overcome with sorrow. My heart and liver ached and our people say that it is better to let out demons than to trap them inward where they multiply day after day, frolicking in the flesh.

 

“I was to be married. There is not much to tell. My intended broke the contract and the wedding gifts were returned to my parent’s tent. We heard then he had married and left his tribe.”

I kept my eyes on the ground, feeling shame before this stranger. His own voice was low and I struggled not to let foolish woman’s tears fall down my cheeks.

“Ah, Tin Hinan. You blame yourself for a man’s inconstancy? He knew what he risked in doing so. He would not be able to do what he wanted if he was not backed by his parent’s agreement. You are comely and brave for a woman. There is no need to feel shame. Did your tribe prepare to war with his?”

I looked up at him, my voice bitter.

“Our tribe is small. If we did, over this broken promise, many of my kin would be killed. Hasim’s tribe was much stronger.”

In speaking his name, I could not hold back the tears. They fell down my cheeks, though I tried to pull my veil across my face to hide. Immel Uzmir reached out from where he was sitting and raised my face with his hand. He looked closely, his eyes searching. I pulled my head back with a grimace.

“So, you cut off your hair and took your slave and went into the desert? Did you think of the risks? Foolish girl, you could have easily died out there, or be taken prisoner by Arabs.”

“Hah! Instead I lived to be taken by Berbers, my own tribemen! What difference has it meant? I am still a prisoner, probably a slave now like Takama.”

My voice hardened and my eyes flashed through my tears.

Immel Uzmir had his own temper.

“Are you bound like a slave? Do we starve you? Are you made to bear burdens like the pack beasts? Ungrateful girl, if we left you in the mountains, you would be bones by now. There are black bears and wolves up here. You and your slave would not have survived more than a few nights.”

My eyes grew wide. Bears and wolves are not a problem in the desert. Poisonous snakes and scorpions were.

“What do you plan to do with us when you get home? Are we to be slaves to your tribe?”

He shifted his weight and looked around at a noise from the men. “I don’t know what your fate will be, the Gods are silent on that score.”

He scowled at me, trying to scare me, and he was succeeding.

“It’s not my decision. When we get to our tribe I will turn you over to our elders and they will decide what to do with you. We are Berbers, not demons. We do not harm women. They usually find a place at our fire, and sometimes a husband. Your luck could change.” He tossed me a smile and a wink and rose to his feet.

Standing over me, with my head craned back looking at him, he was an impressive man. He was named correctly, and his appearance seemed to bear it out. I was still prisoner, but it could have been worse.

 

Our travel across the mountain became a constant journey, for we were trying to avoid the start of the snow season. Already the nights were freezing, and frost made the ground stiff and brittle at dawn. We slept only a few hours and rose before the sun and still we climbed upward. We reached the top, walked across a plateau and started to descend, the snow already falling. Immel Uzmir pushed the men and beasts as much as he could. To be stranded in a blizzard, even an early one, could mean death. We did not stop to cook or make fires, and ate what could be eaten raw, mostly dried dates with camel’s milk. It was during the rise of the moon when we came in sight of a valley, and on the other side of that was the settlement where Immel Urzim and his men lived. It was half way up another mountain, but one he said was a small mountain.

I was glad to leave the mountain, and so was Niefa. She had a hard time with her feet on the slopes, for camels get sore pads with the rocks and stones. She was born in the desert and the soft sands were hot but did not cut her pads like the mountain terrain. On the descent, she talked and bellowed, and I realized even at this distance, she could smell other camels far in the valley below us. She was young, and coming into heat. A camel in estrus has her mind on only one thing. She was becoming a handful, and her gait suffered from the descent. Immel Uzmir saw that she was giving me trouble, and tied her behind another bigger camel to make her slow down. He placed me behind him on his large horse, and I was forced to hold on to him as we hit rock slides and uneven terrain.

We are a clean people, and ablutions are important to our culture, but the smell of a man so close was new to me. Given the fact he had not bathed in the mountains, the smell of male sweat and robes that had not seen a good washing was a bit ripe to my nose. Perhaps I smelled the same to him, but men seem to tolerate these things better than women.

We came out of the forest that stretched up the mountain and into a large valley. His settlement was across the wide valley and clinging to that other ‘small’ mountain range. We would make camp in the valley to give the pack animals, horses and camels a good feeding on the grasses. That evening, before the sun dipped completely under the horizon, I looked over to the next mountain where he pointed out his tribe’s distant ksar. I had never seen one before and was curious. My tribe was always from the desert. We lived in large tents, woven from the hair of camels and goats. The trees, oaks, twisted olives and walnut groves obscured the actual buildings, but the purple cast of the mountains before us, far in the distance, and long shadows thrown upon the valley was beautiful to eyes that had only seen sand and hot sun all their life. The stars were the same though, rotating across the sky from one side of the upended bowl of the universe to the other. The heavens could always be counted upon to be constant.

That night, Takama and I walked down from the men to a stream where we tried to bathe ourselves, but of course we did not strip off our clothing. The water was cold, and at least we were refreshed, exchanging our robes for the last of clean clothes. I was nervous what the next day would bring, for we would cross the wide valley and appear in the mountain village hopefully before sundown. I had no idea of our reception, but we both knew our lives now were no longer our own. We were at the mercy of a mountain tribe, and though we spoke the same tongue, we were strangers in a very strange land.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2007-2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tin Hinan”, Chapter 4….

–

We walked out of the oasis and back into the ergs, the endless sand dunes, and within days the mountains loomed before us. We were approaching the highlands. As we came closer, the thick forests seemed to go on forever. Before we were still the foothills with their endless hammadas, stony deserts where our beasts stumbled at times. 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 woodland 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 in this alien territory. In the desert, we could see all around, and although exposed to the elements, we saw what approached. In the highland forest the thick canopy of trees obscured any ‘visitors’. We moved in dappled sunlight, gloomy after the white light and heat of the desert. But 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.

My camel Niefa tucked her legs under her body and got comfortable. The forest floor was hard walking, 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, pushing her head into my shoulder. She did this when she wanted 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 was being ignored.

 

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 soft singing of a tribal song. 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, looking down through the trees to 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 fear. She pointed over my shoulder, too scared for speech. I turned in the direction of her hand, jumped up and grabbed my sword, Takama running behind. 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 against 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 a sinking heart, 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. Leave us alone, we are poor travelers.”

I raised my sword before me, with both hands holding the grip. I saw 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 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 a death blow 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 from his mouth and grinned. Big white teeth shone like bleached bones even in the dimming evening’s light.

“I can see for myself you were never a man, nor will you ever be one. Your woman’s figure is too full for 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, weighing what I would say, 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 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 its 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, groaning in delight. She had no loyalty at all.

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 of a desert cheetah, the man leaped at me and before I could even think, knocked the sword from my hands. He was fast and I found myself sprawled on the ground, with him standing over me, scowling. I believed at that moment my life over, and raised my eyes to him.

“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, 2007-2018

“Tin Hinan” Chapter Two, “Damaged Goods”

 

Morning Sky to the East.

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 her doings. Takama was a good girl, and she nodded in silence. Although she was 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 drop.

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 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 dreams 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 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 Baba watched me, her eyes widening in alarm.

“Do not worry, Grandmother Baba. 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 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, 2018

 

“Tin Hinan”, a novel.

Perhaps Niefa’s baby and Tin pulling her away from Niefa for milking?

 

I wrote this novel about 8 years ago. Never finished it, but it is almost finished.  Three years ago, at the New Year, I posted this first chapter.  Within hours I had attracted the notice of a Jewish man who accused me of ‘participating in the Arabicization of Europe.’  Wow.  I didn’t know I had such power.  He went on to berate me, calling me a ‘bottom feeder’ as a writer, while he and others would take the top.  He got worse until I deleted his nasty emails.  But it made me think.  This is a story of a 5th century Berber woman.  How in Hell is that doing what he claims??  Anyway, I didn’t post it again until now.  I had other fish to fry.  Now I am.  His attempt to berate me and make me shut up made me sit up and notice.  When we let such misogynists declare what we can and can not write, we have betrayed ourselves.  Never again.  Never again.

Lady Nyo

–

 

TIN HINAN

–

I am called Tin Hinan. I had the destiny of a woman ‘rooted in flight’. Even my name means “Nomadic Woman”. I don’t remember what my name was before I became Queen. It is lost in the sands of the desert I came from.

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. That means “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 forty years on this earth, you should know my story and my life harkens back to 900BC. Life was very different then. But men and woman were not so different from now.

Our tribe is matriarchal. All things, possessions are passed down through the women. The men still make the laws, but the women have great power. We had basically two classes of Tagelmust people, Imajeren, the nobles and Iklan, the slaves. There are subgroups in all that, but these are the two main classes. 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 black eyes staring back at you? We, the Tagelmust and now 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 tips 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.

As I approached the age of marriage, which would be around sixteen years of age, I was dressed with many silver coins and bracelets and necklaces and earrings that weighted down my earlobes. My mother and the other women would paint my eyes with kohl, and perfume my hands and feet with oils and draw with henna intricate designs on my cheeks and palms. I was being groomed for marriage.

There was a young man that was part of a neighboring tribe. During marriages and celebrations and festivals, I would see him, and he me. We are modest women, but we do stare in the eyes of another man we are interested in marrying. We even wink at them. We have many customs, but 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 at 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 than I, and at one marriage celebration, I danced a line dance with other maidens and gave him one of my bracelets. This is a way for men to know that you like them. When the musicians took a rest, I went to get my silver bracelet back from Hasim, and he slipped it down the front of his robe, and crossed his arms over his chest and smiled wickedly. I should have known then Hasim was trouble, but my foolish heart flip-flopped. Ah! Girls can be so silly.

Hasim, up close, was beautiful, already a man though only about twenty years of age. He had golden skin where the sun had not burned him dark and black eyes like deep shaded pools of water under the trees. His nose was long and straight, 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 silver bracelet. You want your precious silver back, do you not?”

Ah! My father would kill him if he heard his words. But Hasim just grinned at me, playing his 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 them away. I must have looked like a little fool, for my mouth opened a bit with the soft pressure of his finger.

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

I heard his voice as if far 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 I was affected deeply by the sight of him. During the last harvest festival, I saw Hasim 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 on Hasim. Only the startling white of his camel could my eyes follow.

That fall, my mother and father called me before them, and announced that it was time I be married. I of course had no choice, but I noticed an exchange of smiles between my parents. Unbeknownst to me, my father had consulted with the marriage brokers and a visit had been made to Hasim’s parents. This 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 constant 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 that were far beyond my doings. 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.

Though the wedding was months off in the future, the first thing done 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 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 that protected our settlement from raiders across the mountains and from the desert. Also by tradition, 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 soil 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 that would drive us away. I walked to a little plot of land with a small stream running by and my father and I 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 that 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 be not too high off the carpets that would pave 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 marriage bed. When it was carved and doweled together, it took six men to carry and place it into 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 our two sides was woven, and saw the beautiful symbols of fertility and luck carved along with the flowers and palm trees. In the very 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.

I knew I would have to be involved in the sewing of the mattress for the bed. My mother and her kinswomen sheared sheep and stuffed the thick wool into two large sheets of thick and coarse cotton. 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 weaved 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 that Hasim was told he could not approach me when his tribe came with herds of goats or to discuss pasturing with our men.

All seemed to be going according to plan, when the demons of Hell took matters into their own hands. I say Hell for nothing but that could have caused such a reverse of fortune and happiness in my life.

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

“Aicha, Aicha,” for I do now, in relating this story, remember vaguely 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 was 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 calls.

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 woman and he has left to go to her tent.”

I was told later that I stared like a dead person, my eyes empty, my mouth open without sound and then started to moan. One long lamentation came out of my throat before I collapsed on the carpet at my father’s feet.

Three days later I had recovered my senses enough under the loving care of the women 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 in the day. The old women told me that there were Zars out there, waiting to claim my soul, 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 the 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 my servant, 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 circle around our community’s many tents. I was trying to make up my mind what I would 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 them to 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 orphans, and though I was neither, I knew she would hear my plight. Isis was all-seeing, but apparently busy.

I also 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 to me. Or perhaps it was a Zar that tickled my spine, for Zars were known to attack a woman when she was alone in the desert. They delighted in that. It made their 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 I couldn’t even speak his name.

I closed my eyes, threw out my arms to the heavens, to the moonless sky above me and threw myself into the vortex of my misery. Ayyur, the Moon God was one I exhorted, and then Ifri, the war goddess. I needed some strong answers. I needed 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 it’s sad sound floating over the desert in the evening air, and I knew finally what I would do. I knew now what my destiny would be.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

 

Some short thoughts on poetry, writing and research, and some issues writing “Tin Hinan”

Some thoughts on writing and poetry…

 

Very recently I have been talking with a dear friend, Dr. RK Singh, in India. We have mulled over topics for about 4 or 5 years now. RK is a well published and marvelous poet of short verse, including tanka. He is also known for his academic papers and books. But this sensitive man is a joy to engage in what we both love so much, which is poetry. Later this summer, I will review on this blog his latest poetry book: “I am NO Jesus”. I have read these poems he so graciously sent me as proofs, and I found myself totally captivated.

In his last email of this morning, RK said something about the difference between poetry and novel writing. Well, he didn’t actually state an opinion, or define the difference, but there is one I believe.

I have read that poetry is of the heart. But I think that can be applied to writing in general. Poetry appeals to many people because it usually (in its best state in my opinion) is short, decisive, heartfelt, impactful, and at times..perhaps the best of times…makes that connection between humanity. More than “there is nothing new under the sun”, it makes the links between our distant humanity. I think of the cultures around the world like the stars in the heaven at night: laying out in the desert, or in an area where there are no city lights, we have icy pinpricks of light too numerous to count, only defined by pictures and myths we hang upon these exploding and gaseous rocks.

I am not a trained poet or writer: I shoot from the hip in these things. And about that, I very recently broke my hip and now am facing a long summer of little activity and a lot of bed rest. But the upside of this is the chance to settle in with the books I need for further research and writing.

Seven years ago, out of the blue I suppose, I started writing “Tin Hinan”. Other writers probably will know the feelings of compulsion, where an idea, a theme takes hold of you and shakes you like a dog with a rat. I have said that this book wove itself one knot at a time, and very fast I had a rather muddy rug beneath my hands. I realize none of these things actually come totally out of the blue, but come from some experience that circles around your head, whether you realize its presence or not. For me, I would say that “Tin Hinan” was a continuation of my discovery and experience of the Hyperarousal Trance. I was a belly dancer at one important and informative time of my life, and from some beautiful and handsome Spanish flamenco male musicians, discovered that this was really ‘real’. That the ayoub beat led into a world of tangible mystery and exoticism. That our bodies and our minds conspired to raise us out of our humdrum lives, out of the usual patterns that we trod, and into something much different. I was trying to explain to Dr. Singh what this Hyperarousal Trance did, or was, (it is a brainwave sequence, called Theta) and how it made the connections between pieces of research in writng. Oh, it did a lot more than that, and belly dancers (besides these gorgeous Spanish men) understand the trance that movement throws one into, but it also has, or seemed to have, more application.

I found that this state of mind also could be applied to different cultural approaches. People have been confused, or at times, disdainful, of my cross cultural writings: I have written books based in Hungarian, Japanese, Turkish, Celtic and Berber cultures. This isn’t strange to me at all. It’s a continuation of interest in different cultures and a heavy dose (always) of the necessity of deeper research. And that is what it means to me to be a writer. And poet. And why not? Aren’t we part of the total mystery of humanity? Where are the borders for our minds? As writers and poets, don’t we strive to make those connections between cultures that are ‘strange’ and unknown to us? For me, I think this is a compulsion.

And, frankly, it is also necessary to rid your life of the people (and yes, family) that stand as obstacles to your creativity and productivity.  I no longer will tolerate this.  It took me long enough to find a purpose in life, and I am damned if I will let anything get in the way of this.  Including my own stupidity.  Writing gives purpose and JOY to my existence.  For years I allowed  others to either stop or attempt to detour this purpose. I see the angst of friends who are embroiled in conflicts that don’t give one damn bit of joy to their lives.   Life is too damn short for this.

In reading and reworking “Tin Hinan”, I have seen the necessity to go even deeper into this ancient culture, called Berber by the Europeans, and Imazighen (amongst other names…) by “The People of the Veil”. Perhaps it is the luxury of being able to slow down (a bad hip will do that…) and settle into the more descriptive and important things of a culture. I do know the Berbers bring to life the mysteries, the spirits of the deserts, especially the Sahara and the mountains of Morocco and Algeria. The Berbers I have known are some of the most gracious and hospitable people on this earth. I believe this is because they understand, fundamentally, the things that are important to survival and they shake their veiled heads (that’s the men, the women don’t wear the veil) at our modern silliness. Or perhaps they, being the ancient culture bred in some of the harshest conditions on earth, understand the true concept of humanity.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014

 

 

Tin Hinan, a novel

 

I have decided to post the beginning chapters of “Tin Hinan”, a novel I have been writing for the past 7 years….on and off.  “Devil’s Revenge” needs a lot of work right now and I came across some information on the Berber culture that I wanted to include in “Tin Hinan”. 

I also want to thank TR for the wonderful pictures she sent me of a recent hiking trip in Morocco.  These pictures, the landscape, the Atlas Mountains, settled deep in my mind and pushed me to continue to work to a conclusion on this novel. I was stuck, but I think her pictures ‘unstuck’ me.

Tin Hinan was an actual historical figure of the 4th century in Algeria.  She gathered the Berber 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 large tomb was found in the Algerian mountains in the 1920’s. Her skeleton was wrapped in a red leather shroud with gold leaf symbols, seven gold and eight silver bracelets on her arms, and other jewelry and amulets around her body. Clearly, this was a woman of great status, and as she is called today, “The Mother of Us All”, still revered by Berbers.

 

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

 

I learned many things in writing “Tin Hinan”, and I relied on Berber friends and associates for their own information about Morocco and Algeria, and with help with this difficult language, but I also learned that the Great Deserts (4th century)did not look then like they do now.  There were grassy plains that extended all over, and lush oasis.  Today, there are less oasis, and of course, the Sahara has become a thousand miles of mostly sand and rock.

 

The Berbers opened the trade routes across northern Africa, and defended those routes from the Arabs.  Interestingly enough, Berbers were influenced by Christianity early on and many Berber tribes especially in the mountains 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. This novel is nearly finished, but I am adding much more information (especially on the djenoun as I deal with my own qareen) .   I have noticed over the past few 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

 

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 fourth  century.  Life was very different then. But men and woman were not so different from now. Hearts are the same.  Reasons for anger are, too.

 

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 that 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 to 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.

 

********************

 

 

 

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, or what I could see beneath his veil.  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, 2007-2014

 

 

Autumn Tanka…..

“North Carolina Stream”, watercolor, janekohut-bartels, 2008

Autumn colors from my bathroom window today

 

Barn Owl, J. Kohut-Bartels, 1999, watercolor

It’s just beginning to be Autumn here in the southern US, and I can’t resist the season.  It’s one of my favorite and there is something different in the air, the smell of wood smoke already, though the temps don’t make sense for this.  Perhaps some homeowner is clearing a plot of land, but the smell makes me dizzy with anticipation.  The wind chimes have been ajangle over the past few nights, and the north winds are becoming more active.  Every so often, there are whirlpools of leaves, gathered up in the street and dancing like dervishes.  The real fall will come, with soggy rains and denuded trees but perhaps this season makes us feel alive: there is so much natural activity after a slow and sullen summer.  The miracle of the trees changing, the clouds overhead, gray leaden expanses that turn golden underneath at dusk, the cast of light so different from the season before. Yesterday I  saw two  low flying Canada geeze go honking right over my head and they startled me.  Soon we will see the formations of Sandhill Cranes as they migrate south.  You hear them a long time before you see them far up in the moddled sky.

In the midst of posting chapters from “Tin Hinan” I came across some fall tankas I had included in “White Cranes of Heaven”.  This, with what was going on outside, was enough to change course on this blog right now.  I’ll get back to the next chapter of “Tin Hinan” but right now there is a squirrel in the bird feeder and I saw a yellow fox in the dying kudzu out back.  Last night I heard two very mournful owls in the trees behind the house.  Enough to turn my thoughts to a favorite season.

Lady Nyo

–

I look up at blue

Sky this morning, watch leaves fall-

Whirling, colored tears.

Clip my face like dull razors,

The strokings of memory.

–

Is the whistling

Of the wind- a train, a plane?

Nature plays fiddle

And our senses are confused,

We dwell in chicanery!

–

Shooting star crosses

Upended bowl of blue night

Imagination-

Fires up with excited gaze!

A moment– and all is gone.

–

This grim November,

The month of my father’s death

Always bittersweet.

My memories float, weak ghosts-

Haunting in the fog of life.

 –

So lonely am I

My soul like a floating weed

Severed at the roots

Drifting upon cold waters

No pillow for further dreams.

 –

A late Summer moon

Floats above the conifers.

Autumn is coming.

Do pines know the season turns?

Their leaves don’t fall; do they care?

 –

Come into my arms.

Bury under the warm quilt.

Your scent makes me drunk

Like the wine we gulped last night.

Too much lust and drink to think.

–

When Autumn enters

Inexplicable sadness.

Season fades to death.

Hunter’s moon sits in Heaven–

Garden spiders finish, die.

–

Autumn wind startles–

Lowered to an ominous

Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!

The fat mountain deer listen-

Add their bellowing sorrow.

–

Out with the gold fish,

The bullfrogs croak their sorrow.

Summer is passing

Autumn brings sharp, brittle winds

But Winter is the cruelest.

–

Like the lithe bowing

Of a red maple sapling

My heart turns to you,

Yearns for those nights long ago

When pale skin challenged the moon.

–

Overhead, the cranes,

Sandhills, swirl in board circles.

Broken GPS?

No matter, their cries fall down

Celestial chiding rain.

 –

To end this  with a simple poem, not a tanka.

 

Autumn night winds

Hiss over the land

Round corners

And pulse under eaves.

Clashing wind chimes add sharp discord

As bare branches answer with a grating groan.

Above all,

The moon casts a feeble light

Too thin to fatten the road. 

–

(this poem from “White Cranes of Heaven”, published by Lulu.com, 2011)

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011-2013

 

 

Continuing “Tin Hinan”, Chapter 1, Part 2

 

I didn’t know how well this story would interest readers because so many of us don’t have the time to settle down and read books or longer stories.  Our lives have become so busy and frantic.  We have been acclimatized to short bursts of writing on Twitter and Facebook  and other social media.  I believe that our attention span is becoming shorter and we are more impatient.  So it was with a shock  today I checked the stats and found  many people around the world are reading this story!  I am so grateful, because, well, most of us are just storytellers and we love to weave out a good story.  “Tin Hinan” is a long story, but I think it will entertain each reader. At least, that has been my objective in writing this.  My gratitude also goes, first of all, to my Berber friends who guided me in this novel with their own traditions and stories.

Lady Nyo

——–

Chapter 1, Part 2 of this chapter:

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.  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; 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 back 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, 2007-2013

 

 

 

 

 

“TIN HINAN”, Chapter 1, (first part of Chapter 1)

Perhaps Niefa’s baby and Tin pulling her away from Niefa for milking?

I am going to post as much of this novel  I can in the next few months. That is if there are enough readers who are interested in the story.  Since the chapters are rather long, I will break them up.  This novel took three years of research and led to “The Zar Tales”, my second published book.

This novel was my third, and only last winter did I get around to finishing it. Of course, there will be a long period of rewrite, but that will come later.  I need time  to finish up plans for “The Nightingale’s Song” and any new poetry escapes me now.  

Warning: there is Sex and Violence in this novel.

Lady Nyo

–

Introduction

 Tin Hinan was an actual historical figure of the 6^th 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. This 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 1920’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  trade routes across northern Africa, and defended those routes from the Arabs.  Interestingly enough, Berbers were thought to be 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.  I have noticed over the past few 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

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 that 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 to 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, 2007-2013

The Courage of Malala Yousafzai and the Cowardice of the Taliban…and something more.

Reading the NYTimes this morning, there is an article stating that Malala is starting to recover, even standing with help. That is good news.

The bad news is that some people in Pakistan are ‘doubting’ that this shooting of a 14 year old child was ‘real’. Some are stating that Malala was a ‘dupe’ of America, an agent, and so forth. Of course, the Taliban is saying that “Malala deserves what he got, and they will continue to attempt to kill her, PLUS she wore tons of makeup”. These ‘men’ are beyond civilization. If this thinking represents Muslim religious beliefs, they set world sympapthy back 1000 years, which is what they are trying to do to their countries.

Also, “the moment of outrage” has passed on this Malala issue. Well, whether this is because Pakistanis really think that this attempted murder of one of their own children doesn’t matter, or those who are expressing this sentiment are just cowards and afraid of the Taliban, so be it.

I say this, as a mother who has her only son serving in the military: Withdraw all aid and support from Pakistan. Withdraw all troops in the region. Let these backward people fight it out for themselves. Pakistan is the base of the Taliban. Let the Pakistani people feel the full brunt of their brutality, as they have been, but without the support of the world’s people. One more dead US soldier isn’t worth it. These people treat their camels better than the women in their countries.

Lady Nyo, October 20, 2012

(“Sea Eagle”, Jane Kohut-Bartels, watercolor, 2001)

This week we read of the attempted killing of a 14 year old girl in Pakistan by the Taliban, an out-spoken young woman who has dedicated her young life to the continued education of girls in Pakistan. So far they didn’t succeed in their attempted murder of this courageous young woman, and hopefully they won’t get another chance. That remains to be seen. Politics in Pakistan are full of corruption and opportunism. The Taliban have said that if she survives, they will make another attempt on her life.

For years, Malala would hide her school books under her bed when the Taliban swept through her neighborhood. To be found with books, to be found reading (to be able to even read was a threat to the Taliban!) or watching television, could have been a death sentence.

Though our cultures and ages are wide apart, I have the utmost respect for this young woman struggling to obtain an education in a part of the world where girls and women are denied the most basic human rights. Over a short few years, Malala has become a spokeswoman, at the tender age of 11, for education for girls. She has drawn the attention of a vicious group of extremists in her support of this issue. Her struggle for an education (she wants to be a doctor) goes straight to my heart. When I was growing up, my mother wasn’t ‘keen’ on my going to college: as she said, a college education was necessary for my two younger brothers, but I would probably just get married. They would be the bread winners for their future families. When I dropped out after only one semester, she was happy. At least I could be a secretary and support myself. That, apparently, was the sum total of what she thought was my potential. I had other plans, but they didn’t materialize for years.

I did go back to college, years later, and majored in psychology, quite a change from that one semester of music at Westminster Choir College. However, life got in the way of finishing college. I put my education aside during my first marriage where I worked to support my husband so he could finish college. He left me the week I was seriously injured and couldn’t support him. This was at the end of a 13 year marriage. I didn’t know how good life would become after the divorce.

Over the years life has been amazing, or at least I have actualized aspects of a life I would never have imagined. But a higher education should never be denied by either a short-sighted parent or a terrorist organization. It is obvious human potentialities can be broken by either. Both represent rank ignorance.

This young woman has suffered enormously, but she has also opened eyes around the world and the outrage people are expressing is righteous.

These Taliban terrorists that tried to kill Malala were masked. This is such a mark of their cowardice. They shot other girls on the bus, but thankfully they survived. Their attempt to kill her will always stand as the sum total of their ‘humanity’. I know Muslims, and those I know would never approve of this barbarism. It is my deepest hope the world will continue to see these extremists for what they are: not part of humanity, but a perversion of it. To attack children is insane and shows how desperate they are.

I have been blessed to have this blog and to have published three books to date. I have been able to do this by the constant encouragement and support of my second husband of many years. I am working on two books, hopefully to be out in the world by March, 2013. The royalties for the second book, “The Zar Tales” I planned to go to a women’s group in Turkey, but I couldn’t make the proper connection for this. That book is about the oppression of women by religious extremists and I felt this was a good place for any royalty to land. One of the new books to be published this spring is “Tin Hinan”. Some of the chapters have been serialized on this blog, so those interested can look them up. I think any royalty of this book, of which chapters are being read daily around the world, could go to support the education of young girls and women in areas where these basic human rights are denied.

There is so much we can do to support these issues. We only have to think of the destruction of potential growth, and the very lives of children amongst these cultures. Of course as my own earlier years show, it doesn’t take religious fanaticism to sow doubt and despair about the future. It only takes a narrow- minded ignorance, and that seems to be around in spades, regardless the culture.

I am going to end this entry with a poem I wrote a few years ago about Benazir Bhutto. She lived a complicated life and the charges of corruption, personal and within her party and leadership, seems not to disappear. But she was a woman assassinated; another woman denied life because of ignorance, religious and political extremism.

Lady Nyo

BENAZIR BHUTTO

A long white head scarf
Floats over the land,
A white eagle who
Peers down
Testing the currents
Spreading her wings
As a compassionate mother
Over her children.

Chased by dark mountain eagles
Fierce and violent,
Torn from her home,
Sent into exile,
She returns triumphant
The love of her land
Calls her back,
Ignoring the danger
The violence, the threats.

So much to do!
So much to embrace –
Ah! Our mother has returned!

A while head scarf,
Now stained with blood,
Floats over the land.
There– chaos and riots
Gunfire cracks the night apart
Hearts straining, weeping,
Wringing of hopeless hands
In the soot filled and smoky air.

Yet in the mountains
In the strong currents
Made by the warm thermals
Still flies the white eagle
Now splattered by blood
But given in sacrifice
To a far greater love.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009