A Peugeot pickup came to a halt in front of La Scalla restaurant on a busy downtown road. Tounarouz prepared to descend, Sweat trickled down her face, a combination of the intense heat and the anxiety she was experiencing right now. Her hands trembled a little, and her heart raced because it was her first time dancing in front of strangers. She joined Rays Arab band two days ago as a brand new street dancer in Jemaa El-Fna in Marrakech. She needed to find a way to support her struggling family back in the countryside. The only thing she had really mastered in her late teens was dancing.
She leaned on Mina, a fellow street dancer twice her age with over five years of experience in Jemaa El Fna, for support as she hopped out of the vehicle. The rest of the group descended, and a young waiter ushered them into a spacious and well-decorated room. He led the women to one table, and the men to another nearby. Three big chicken tagines and platters of assorted fruits were served to the band. They would eat to perform well.
At the end of the meal, Rais Arab, the leader of the band, rose to his feet, as if he were in a halqa, and announced, “attention, please. Let’s do our best to entertain and amuse Si Hajj Bacha on his birthday. We’re really honored to come to his party. You see his generosity. May Allah grant him a long and happy life. May Allah bless give him health and more wealth. May Allah secure him a place with the righteous, Amine.” He slurped the last sip of his tea and added, “this is our chance to be away from Jemaa El-fna. We need to work with these wealthy folks. Now, let’s be on the way.”
Excited, Rais Arab led the band to the front door of the restaurant and everybody followed him. Tounarouz kept her gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding eye contact with men. The group strolled quietly towards Hajj Bacha’s villa, situated a few hundred meters from the restaurant. They marched in silence towards a towering wooden door. As the group approached, two well-built security guards greeted them with smiling faces shining over their ornate uniforms.
“Hello, beauty. When I look at you, my heart melts,” a guard muttered into Tounarouz’s ear. She simply ignored him and rushed in.
Inside the gates, the band found themselves on a wide green lawn that encircled an intricately designed fountain from which water sprayed and bubbled. A tiled path on the right led to a three-story building that overlooked a large swimming pool. One of the guards outpaced everyone and led the band to a grassy area where two people were setting up sound equipment in front of a row of empty folding garden chairs.
Rais Arab motioned for the group to gather in front of the seats. The musicians proceeded to pick up their instruments, while the women formed a line to his right. Before speaking with Rais Arab, one of Hajj Bacha’s staff members checked the sound quality of the microphone. Tounarouz adjusted her scarf several times before warming up discretely behind the women. She stretched her hands, wrists and legs, circled her head right and left, as if she were a player about to play a football match.
After thirty minutes had passed, a group of people emerged from the main building. Although Tounarouz had only heard of Hajj Bacha, she was able to quickly identify him as he led the way. The man had a dark complexion and walked with a distinct strut, swaying from side to side like a plump Dutch cow. He had round cheeks and a prominent double chin that jiggled with each step. Despite his heavy weight, great girth and diminutive height, he held his head high while his arms swung up and down along his sides. He was dressed in a yellow gandoura with short sleeves. He said something to a guard with a blue uniform, who stood behind him like a shadow. Tounarouz couldn’t help but notice his imposing presence as the chubby man approached the chairs.
As everyone settled down, Hajj Bacha took his place in the center of the front row, facing the band. He studied the five women for a moment, placing his hands on his knees before motioning for Rais Arab to approach him.
“Yes, sidi, sir.—“Rais Arab said in a quavering voice.
“Listen, I don’t want any dull music on my birthday. Play something light and lively. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, sidi, sir. We’ll do our best. Don’t worry.”
“You can start.”
Rais Arab dashed to his place, his face flushed. His musicians lined up on his left, while the women formed a triangle to his right.
Tounarouz stood out among the other dancers in her blue caftan, positioned in the middle of the dancers. To boost her confidence, she shook her hands up and down twice while keeping her gaze fixed on the ground. Was it exhilaration or embarrassment or fear? She was not sure which feeling had swept through her. She was self-assured and frequently complimented on her grace and talent at family gatherings back in her hometown, Haha. She had really mastered the art of Amazigh dancing, so she had nothing to be afraid of. Yet, now that she was in the city due to her father’s poverty, things had changed, and her talent was about to face a big challenge.
The grandeur of the place reminded her of the lavish and immaculate villas often seen in Indian movies. Nonetheless, Hajj Bacha’s residence was one-of-a-kind and enormous. The space was illuminated by lights in every corner, with a fountain at the center that continuously flowed, letting the water sing its songs. The plush grass beneath her feet, each blade still moist from the gardener’s careful watering, added to both the opulence of the setting and to her anxiety.
As soon as the music began, Rais Arab became completely absorbed in the moment. He closed his eyes and skillfully slid the bow of his ribab up and down. Then he turned his head toward the microphone. Without hesitation, he began an impromptu song that started with a simple and casual question: “Manza kin, a sidi? How are you, sir?”
As Rais Arab sang, the veins around his neck throbbed, as if blood would burst from them. Meanwhile, Hajj Bacha barely watch, engaged in conversation with a man seated to his right, occasionally bursting into laughter and jovial banter. After finishing his song, Rais Arab opened his eyes and scanned the audience, hoping for some expression of appreciation. Unfortunately, no one cheered or applauded. At that moment, Hajj Bacha motioned with his thick, sausage-like finger, gesturing for him to come over. Rais Arab quickly set aside his ribab to dash towards him.
With glassy eyes, Hajj Bacha gazed at Rais Arab, his sturdy index finger pointing to the side of his head.
“Are you crazy? Who are you singing for?” Hajj Bacha shouted.
“Well, to you, sir. If that one did not please you, I’ll sing another song,” Rais Arab said in a quiet voice.
“Feltat-lik nksha, Have you gone mad? I don’t speak Berber. Either sing in Arabic, or let the women dance without all this blablabla.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. They’ll dance right now.”
Rais Arab returned to his place, picked up his ribab from the ground, and said to the five women,
“Hajj Bacha wants dancing. Be ready.”
The five women exchanged uncertain glances, realizing that they needed to alter their original plan. They had never started a halqa in Jemaa El-fna with dancing before. They froze in their places, unsure of how to proceed.
“We’ll dance in twos. I’ll be with you,” Mina whispered to Khadujj just as they heard the first notes of the ribab.
Rais Arab began the music with no lyrics this time, only bodily gestures of the dancers. His eyes fixed on the dancers, encouraging them with his affirmative nods. He observed how they reacted to the tunes of his ribab. Khadujj and Mina walked forward, raising their hands in the air. They turned around a few times. Behind them, Tounarouz and the other dancers moved their hands in their own places.
As he gazed at the women, Hajj Bacha’s face lit up with a smile. He gestured with a thumbs up to the two dancers in front of him. A few minutes later, Mina and Khadujj returned to their starting positions. Hajj Bacha began to clap, and the people around him joined in.
Rais Arab briefly paused the music as two well-dressed servers set up a large table in front of Hajj Bacha and his companions. Bottles of beer and wine, along with a dish of cakes and small plates of olives, were placed carefully on the table. With a courteous gesture, one of the servers offered the wine to Hajj Bacha and his friends. Once they finished pouring, the two servers stood posed like two palm trees, ready to attend any further requests.
Rais Arab played his ribab, and the music began again. Two other dancers moved forward. Hdwiyya seized Najat’s hand in her own and led her to the front, hips and hands waving. They moved forward and backward a few times. Hajj Bacha drank his wine and lifted his hand up to encourage the dancers; he seemed pleased with the performance. Hdwiyya and Najat pushed their hair up with each stride. The server poured more wine for Hajj Bacha, whose eyes were glued to the body movements in front of him.
Najat instantly stopped dancing. She walked in agony, her hand on her stomach. When she reached Tounarouz, she pulled her forward by holding her hand in her own. Najat sat down behind the women. Tounarouz flushed and lowered her gaze to the ground. Her palms began to sweat, her heart raced and her lips became parched. A voice in her head encouraged her to stop. This is really scandalous. You’re not going to dance in front of these lecherous men. They are drooling with alcohol and lust. Did you forget who you are and where do you come from? Did you forget your ethics? Your father? Stop!
Yet in spite this inner voice, she realized her feet were walking forward. How could she possibly stop? Her dream was about to come true. She wanted to be a dancer and help her poor father. She could do anything now but quit. She started her dance with some hand gestures, but they were choppy, out of sync with the music. She gazed around at the women as if she’d forgotten how to dance. Hdwiyya approached her quietly and muttered,
“Dance alone. I‘ll stop now. I’m tired.”
Rais Arab’s jaw dropped. While his hands were still playing the ribab, he stared at Khadujj and the other women, as if he was pleading them to find a quick solution, either to replace Tounarouz or to urge her to dance well. Someone had to do something to save the show. Yet, the dancers stopped in their positions, waiting.
M’allem Abdesalam, a dark-skinned musician, put down his drum, and picked up his ornamented string guinbri. At the very first note, tunes worked began working like adrenaline drips in Tounarouz’s body. Presto, she took a deep breath and stamped her feet to the guinbri’s rhythm. She rotated her fists and did hand circles before swaying her hips in time with the rhythm. The sounds of ribab and guinbri blended in her ears, transporting her to her own world.
While dancing, Tounarouz closed her eyes and imagined the girls of her hometown sitting around her, clapping their hands, and shouting her name. She succumbed to Gnawa’s rhythm and became her true self, that is, the dancer self, the self she believed she was born to be. She performed different types of shimmies, using all the techniques she picked up.
from the movies. She then pulled her scarf from her head and wrapped it around her waist. Her hips moved right and left with such grace that Hajj Bacha’s goblet of wine fell from his hand. A server raced to pick it up and refilled a new one for the boss.
Tounarouz danced with abandon, as if she were a mystical person raising from a shrine. The man with the guinbri approached her, his shoulders bouncing up and down. She was waving her hands in the air. She then took off her sandals and felt the grass beneath her feet, heightening her energy and enthusiasm. Her hair flowed freely under the luminous light of the stars.
Her sensual motions gave her body an extraordinary grandiosity. She beat the band as she made a brave step forward and knelt two meters away from Hajj Bacha. No inferiority or shame marred her bloated ego as she danced. “I’m not afraid of you anymore,” she murmured, “and I feel I am better than you, than any of you!” The moves she watched in Indian and Egyptian movies came handy. Her arms fluttered in every direction. One hand was on her cheek, the other pointing to the sky. Hajj Bacha stood up and walked with an unbalanced gait, his mouth wide open. He approached her and tucked three notes of hundred dirhams into her sleeve. He returned to his chair after patting her on the back twice, swaying from side to side like a pregnant donkey.
When Tounarouz stood up, the audience and even the servers cheered. As she approached her fellow dancers, she shook her shoulders with incredible grace and precision, emulating Raisas she had watched on TV and on video cassettes when they wanted to conclude their dancing. The music stuttered to a stop, and Tounarouz followed suit.
Hajj Bacha and his friends rose up and applauded enthusiastically. He motioned for Rais Arab, who put down his ribab and approached him with a wide smile.
“I…I like, I like this girl’s dancing. Ask her to dance again. I… like her,” Hajj Bacha slurred.
“A-all right RIGHT…sidi, sir,” Rais Arab faltered.
Rais Arab straightened up and threw his chest up. He approached the women and said, beaming,
“Great job, girls. Hajj Bacha liked our performance. He wants to see more dancing. You’ll repeat, Tounarouz.”
“I can’t. I’m tired. I need some rest. Let the others pass,” she snapped and backed away.
Rais Arab looked at Mina and said,
“Mina, be the first and then Khadujj,” he said and rushed to his place.
Mina took a step forward, her hands lightly moving in accordance with ribab’s rhythm. She smiled at Rais Arab, who was moving his bow fast to quicken the beat of the dance. Mina’s response was swift. Her hands were waving up and down.
Hajj Bacha shook his head, expressing his displeasure with the performance. Again, he signaled to Rais Arab, who quickly grabbed his ribab beneath his armpit and stared. The music came to an abrupt end. Mina stopped dancing, as well. No one had any idea what had happened. Rais Arab marched towards Hajj Bacha, who stood up clutching a drink bottle.
“I told you … the girl in blue. Do you dare disobey me?” he shouted and threw the bottle away which luckily did not splinter when it hit the soft grass and instead the amber liquid just bubbled out. He stared, his brow wrinkled and his lips squeezed together.
“Sidi, sir. She’s a bit tired, that’s all. Ok! She’ll dance now. Don’t get upset,” he said and marched towards the women.
“Tounarouz, stand up and dance now. He wants to see you again. Quick. He’s a bit angry,” he told Tounarouz, who had drunk the last drop of mineral water from a bottle.
Rais Arab did not wait for Tounarouz’s consent. He returned to his position and instructed his musicians to start performing. Hajj Bacha clutched another bottle of beer in his pudgy fingers, spreading his legs widely in his chair. He looked annoyed like a toddler who had lost his pacifier; he made the riff-raff of the Jemaa El- Fna seem like princes.
Tounarouz stood nervously, contemplating taking the stage once more. Her feet ached, and the thought of dancing for another half hour was unbearable. Yet, as the guinbri tunes filled the air, they seemed to have a tonic effect on her again, and she forgot her fatigue and felt the promise of dance flow into her. Coming to a halt in front of the musicians and dancers, she raised her hands in the air and turned twice. She paused for a moment to think of the next move. Then, she hurried to the front, bouncing her hips a couple of times. Her legs went back and forth in time with the music.
With eyes wide and glazed, Hajj Bacha looked at Tounarouz and clapped his hands over and over without ever getting the beat. He even rose up and flapped his hands in delight. He shouted,
“That’s it, donkey! That’s…mu…sic… good…music. Go on…”
Tounarouz let her emotions run wild, lost in a profound trance as if she were dancing alone in her chamber in her village Haha. All her former fear and humiliation was purged and she transformed herself into a new person without guilt or remorse. With her hair cascading around her, she stomped her feet, slightly shaking her head, totally engrossed in the moment.
Hajj Bacha demanded more beer. He held a new bottle and walked in a zigzag towards Tounarouz. His baggy blue gndoura swung in the breeze, as if trying to stop him. He once tripped over his feet, but somehow he didn’t fall, and instead straightened himself and moved forward with his drink sloshing in his hand. Tounarouz froze as he approached. The music stopped, and Hajj Bacha slid three more banknotes in her neck. Tounarouz blushed and took a step backwards. He smiled and returned to his seat without saying anything. He motioned for Rais Arab to join him. The music stopped.
“Listen,… your band is … fantastic, especially… that girl in blue kaftan. What’s her name?” Hajj Bacha mumbled.
“Tounarouz, sidi, sir.”
“Fine. You may go now… You did a good job. Ask Tounarouz to… stay for the night. I’d like her …to do some more… dancing for me. I want… my sixtieth birthday to be a memorable celebration… with lots of dancing and fun. Here is… your pay.” He snapped his fingers and an assistant handed him an envelope. The envelope was thick and Hajj Bacha held it by one corner with two fingers as if dangling a treat before a pet. “I will give you this when your Tounarouz stays.”
Rais Arab stared for a while in the floor before he said,
“Sidi, sir. She won’t accept to stay. She’s… she’s a shy girl. She has just joined the group. Would you like any other girl from the band?”
“No, I don’t want anyone other than the one in blue. Go… inform her.”
“Right now, sidi, sir.”
Rais Arab walked quickly towards the band to tell him the news.
“Hajj Bacha has our money, but he will only give it to us if Tounarouz stays and dances for him,” he muttered in a low voice.
“What?” Tounarouz snapped.
“You’re going to spend the night here. Dance for him. Don’t be scared. Hajj Bacha will take care of you.”
“No, not even in your dreams and never in my worst nightmares. We either go together or stay together. I’m not going to stay here alone.”
“This is his order. I can’t say no.”
Tounarouz looked around the circle of the dancers and musicians. Some looked down at the ground, some looked back with pained expressions.
“Will you take this man’s money and leave me to his filth? Or do we all walk out of here together with our heads high? We are dancers, not objects of trade. I seek to earn my money with integrity. Here is his money. Our dignity is more valuable than his filthy money! Amarg, music, is not meant for people like this one. I better return to my village. I’d rather have a little with dignity than a lot with shame.” She took the banknotes from her bra and hurled them angrily onto the floor, her eyes blazing with rage as she waited for her colleagues’ reaction.
There was a pause, maybe it was thirty seconds, maybe a much longer, before M’allem Abdesalam, the guinbri player, walked over to her, gently took her elbow and said,
“We play together, we leave together.”
Then Najat, still holding her stomach with one hand, came over and took her other elbow, and soon the other dancers and musicians each came over, each taking a place one either side of her. Rais Arab, stared at the ensemble, hung his head and sighed a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of the ocean of his heart. He said nothing but walked in front of the group, and started collecting his instruments. He then led them to the front door. The two big guards stared at them. The ensemble stared hard back at them. Then, after a glance at each other, they stepped aside.
And out into the Marrakech night, Tounarouz and the troupe of dancers and musicians walked out, the Atlas Mountains shining above the city with the moon like a pearl in its crown.