The Moroccan Moussem de Tan Tan: and a tale of tents

The bedouins  had come from afar -- as far away as Timbuktu and even farther. They had been lured from the North to the South, from oasis to oasis, for the Moussem de Tan Tan.  Along the way they stayed in tents, known as khayma.  These were no ordinary structures, oh no.  Some had strange and beautiful patchwork insides made gleaming by the sun.  The bedouin women are the makers and the keepers of the khayma.

We -- the onlookers at the Moussem de Tan Tan -- stayed in very fine khayma. We dined in this one with walls made out of shimmering sequinned wedding blankets.  We would have made any bride jealous, I'm sure.

The floors were covered in red vintage Moroccan carpets, like some variegated artist's installation.

The khayma are grouped together in frigs, like tented villages.  All handmade out of goat and camel hair. 

And inside the khayma were the greatest treasure of all, of course.

Perhaps the applause should be for them, the lovely tent-makers.

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The Moroccan Moussem de Tan Tan: a tale of arrival

It was late when the chartered plane filled with journalists, real estate developers, historical fiction writers, spy novelists and an assortment of others touched ground. We were all there for the same reason: to visit the Moroccan Moussem de Tan Tan -- the world's largest gathering of nomads.  

I heard them before I saw them, singing in shimmering pink in the dark.

Men were drumming in striped jellabas and pointed slippers.

As I walked into the light, I saw visiting Saudi sheiks mingle in their red checkered headresses

while Algerian dancers flicked their wrists provocatively...

and bystanders in turbans took photos.

The ground was covered in a strange and beautiful patchwork of red vintage carpets.  The stairs alone were worthy of a Moroccan Oscars.

As I was led to my bedouin tent - somehow astonishingly luxurious...........

I couldn't help but wonder what the next day would have in store for me...

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The world: and a tale of International Women's Day

My father is an ardent feminist.  His own father died when he was young, and he was raised by my grandmother Jean, a woman who stood nearly six feet tall.  Grandmother Jean ruled the household with an effortless discipline, the same way that she played the Steinway piano in her sunlit parlor, the keys rippling beneath her fingers.  Alone, she competently provided for her household, ensuring that her three sons received excellent educations.  

My grandmother passed on to my father a straightforward egalitarian perspective towards women that he has carried with him for the rest of his life.  I rarely see my mild mannered father bristle but I remember once attending a wedding with him when I was young at which the Pastor referred to the prospective husband as the shepherd and the soon-to-be wife as the sheep.  My father whispered furiously to me that he thought we should, Rise up and walk out in protest.  Shhh, Dad, I said.  But he was right. At least conceptually.  

I've worked on international women's rights for many years, something I don't discuss much on this blog.  Today let me simply leave you with these images I've taken in the course of my work.  

Here's hoping for a better, fairer, righter world -- for all its women -- soon.  Very soon.

Read this tale and count your blessings.

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Cairo: and a tale of a man with {maybe} 2 or 3 wives: Part 2

(The blog post below is a follow on to this blog post, which begun the tale:  Cairo: and a tale of man with {maybe} 2 or 3 wives.  If you haven't already, please read first.)

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How are you, Ahmed? I asked.  We were driving as usual.

 I’m fine. I’m very fine. I’m well, he emphasized {just in case I didn’t believe him}

I’m good up here, he tapped his temple. Because I’ve decided not to marry any of my brother’s wives.

What happened? I asked.

Well, since my brother died, my wife has been terribly worried that I might marry his wives.  She  hasn’t stopped crying.  She cries in the morning and she cries at night.  I don't know, maybe she cries in the afternoon, too.

I like my wife. She’s been with me all these years. I don’t like to make her cry. So I’ve decided not to marry any of my brother’s wives, he explained.

 Well, that’s decided, then, I say.

He went on:  Besides, the truth is that I don’t like my brother’s Palestinian wife, Fouzia. It’s just problems, problems, problems. It’s just talking, talking, talking. If it’s like this now, you can imagine what it would be like if I actually married her, he said, shaking his head at the craziness of it all.

Her parents live in Saudi Arabia. Fouzia needs to go live with them. And as soon as possible, he said emphatically.

Right, I said firmly in agreement.

Ahmed didn’t say anything for some time. Then he continued. Did I tell you… Fouzia is a very good cook? Very! he exclaimed. You know how those Palestinian women cook? Those special things they can make? Chicken prepared in a sauce. The beef….so so tender. And the rice?! {He groaned in pleasure at the thought.} And she prepares everything so quickly! Honestly, she’s a better cook than my own wife.

 Well, I know how you love to eat, I laughed, pointing to his big belly.

Ahmed laughed back. Yes, it’s true, he said. I love to eat. I look forward to my dinner all day long. Fouzia has this way of making potatoes. Small ones. I swear, I can eat them like candy….they’re that good! Next time, you come back to Egypt, I’m going to ask her to make you some, so you can see for yourself, he said delightedly.

But Ahmed..... didn’t you say that you were going to send Fouzia to Saudia Arabia to live with her parents? 

Yes, yes, Ahmed murmured. Then he looked out the window and was quiet.

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Read Part 3 of this tale here.

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