A LETTER TO AMSTERDAM
mariëlle videler
Dear Khaoula,
Every now and then I think of you, my neighbour from Amsterdam. Do you remember the first time we spoke about my plans? I was so badly informed about the Moroccan culture. You are a young Dutch woman and the beautiful daughter of parents who immigrated from Tetouan, what did you think? Still you approached my ideas with an open mind, you were very kind, showed me your mothers fine embroidery and helped me patiently to prepare my journey. One of the things that we spoke about is still fresh in my mind. Before I started I had this general idea about Moroccan women from the countryside. I thought they are quite traditional, not emancipated. But after reading the book, Vrouwen van de Midden Atlas: vrij of vroom? by Bernard Venema & Jogien Bakker, I realised things are not what they seem. The book explores the life of the women of the Middle Atlas. It is a research about the processes of urbanisation and islamisation, and the different meanings this had on the lives of these women (Post 003). From this book I understood that the Amazigh woman used to have an independent position that stemmed from the role they fulfilled within the pastoral economy. By commercialization and urbanization staying inside and wearing a veil became the prevailing standard. Female modesty became the symbol function of the woman of the new elite. I had never looked at this as a symbol of wealth, interesting. The book encouraged my interest in the culture of the Amazigh women. Here in Den Helder my journey continues and still confronts me on unexpected moments; behind every familiar surface hides the unknown.
‘Take these: new potatoes from Morocco’: pointed the man behind the vegetable stall on the Saturday market in Den Helder. Fresh from the Moroccan ground these potatoes stared at me like two big eyes (Post 036). For a moment I had the feeling I saw more of that country than I had ever seen. Here in the Netherlands it takes another two months before the new potatoes can be harvested. It is the last weekend of March and the wild rose bush around the Pompgemaal is a little bit greener every day. After the blinded visit to Tamdaght on the border of the sandpit of Morocco, I am situated in the middle of the dunes, the Dutch sand line along the coast. There’s plenty of water available here, in the distance I can hear the new water pumping station, my neighbour, collecting water from the dunes. A big contrast with Tamdaght, where the desert is advancing. The family Montaser fetches their water from a big plastic tank placed just behind the gate. Due low rainfall they have to be frugal with water. Through the website of the World Bank I understand that 90% of the Moroccan agriculture is not irrigated. I ask myself: what at are these Moroccan potatoes doing in my kitchen?
On the counter in my kitchen I open a package with Henna. I like to test if I can dye sand with this pigment. My nose gets tickled. I smell dry grass and before I realise it I am taken on a new trip down memory lane. I am back at the kasbah the afternoon that Bahia’s neighbour painted my hands with Henna.
Quote from my notebook:
‘the daughter of Hsna Hma draws a few options that could form the paintings on my hands. They look very nice, but too modern. I search for a way through the language barrier, try to pass the contemporary way of drawing and hoop to find some Amazigh patterns. How to do this? I don’t want to offend anybody. I show some of the drawings that I made after Amazigh patterns in my sketchbook. Bahia’s eyes lighten and she smiles when I tell her that I would like to cover my hands completely. She draws a pattern that I recognize from the henna package. It is a triangle with the letter c positioned under it. I have no idea what it means. The shape also reminds me of the brooches, called fibulae, that the women wear to hold their mantle in place (Post 014). Surprisingly Bahia in the meantime arranged to ask the neighbour to paint my hands. ‘She can do the patterns’: Bahia explains. The neighbour doesn’t speak French so we sit silently. She is beautiful; even I can’t take my eyes of her. Rapidly she proceeds. The Henna smells unfamiliar and natural at the same time. It is not easy to hold my hand still in the right position. With an injection she draws the henna in thin lines on my hand. First she draws a big base form, this form divides my hand. Than she fills the form with lines, dots, waves and curls. The patterns are beautifully connected around each finger. My finger tops get a filling exactly over the half. Now my left hand is completely covered with a green relief. I feel the pigment oxidizing on my skin.’ (Post 011)
There is another Amazigh pattern that I am beginning to know; a stylized drawing of a human figure, it represents the Amazigh people. I was happily surprised to find this symbol as a relief in the upper part of the towers of the kasbah in Tamdaght (Post 016). The symbol is one of the letters of the Tamazight language, pronounced as yaz. I would love to be able to write this language; all the letters look like drawings. The alphabet has 33 letters and is one of the oldest of the world. After decades of repression Tamazight is nowadays taught on primary schools throughout the country and recognized as an official language. During my stay I saw Bahia’s children practice the letters on their chalkboards.
In the recent weeks, here in Den Helder, I met three Moroccan women. Statistics from last year point out that on a population of 56.945 people there live 216 Moroccan people in this city. The lovely women I met are: Zineb, Aicha and Samra. Zineb and Aicha originally come from Casablanca, Samara comes from Houssaima and all three of them live here without their family. They came to The Netherlands for different reasons, Aicha recently arrived and Zined lives here since a few years, she is married to a Dutch man. Zineb speaks very well Dutch and she likes to tell stories: ‘Women in Casablanca say: I am not getting married until I go to Imilchil. Imilchil is a small town nestled in the Atlas Mountains and famous for its festival. In September when the cherries are ripe the young men and woman from the surrounding little villages meet and marry during a one-day fest: the Betrothal Festival.’ This tribal tradition owes its existence to a legend. The story goes that, forbidden to marry, a couple that hailed from feuding tribes drowned themselves in a pair of crystal-clear lakes called Isli and Tislit. So horrified were the local people at the loss that they commenced the annual festival.
Zineb invited me to come to her house next Friday. She likes to introduce me to her mother, who’s here from Casablanca for a six-week visit. And to a friend that lives here recently, she grew up in the area that I visited, a little village close to Ouarzazate: Kelaat M’Gouna. ‘Don’t eat before, I cook’: Zined said…
Love Mariëlle
Den Helder, March 30, 2014