X. Six Months in Fez

Between 1904 and 1908 I spent a varying amount of time in Morocco each year. I lived outside of Tangier, except for in 1905 when I spent almost six months, from April to September, in Mazagan [today's al-Jadīda]. To conduct research trips into the interior of Morocco was not possible during those years. The country found itself in a state of rebellion and anarchy, and the government had lost all authority in the countryside, even among the tribes that had previously been the most docile.

The reason for this general bedlam was the dissatisfaction with the young sultan [Mûläi ʿAbdlʿazîz] and his weakness. To legitimise his authority, a sultan of Morocco must be either a saint or a warrior, but Mûläi ʿAbdlʿazîz was neither. According to accounts from those close to him, he was a gifted, well-mannered young man who had good intentions and was open to new ideas. But he had the misfortune of falling into the hands of Europeans who used their influence more with an eye to their own interests than to the good of the country. He had risen to the throne at the age of sixteen. During the first six years, the kingdom was governed by the all-powerful grand vizier [Si Aḥmed], and after his death, the young sultan was for a short time under the influence of his Circassian mother. But then he took over the reins and the regime’s power and prestige began to wane. Mûläi ʿAbdlʿazîz appeared a stranger to his subjects; they saw him only at the big religious feasts which took place three times a year. He associated exclusively with his ministers, his harem ladies and the Europeans who now assembled at the court, first in Marrakesh and later in Fez. In the mornings, he could not avoid attending to affairs of state, in which he took little interest, the evenings he devoted to his harem, as befits a sultan, but the afternoons he surrendered to the pleasures that Europe had to offer. His court jesters showed him pictures and photographs of various things they thought might interest him, took his orders and instantly expedited the requisitions. Automobiles, velocipedes, cabriolets, small steamboats, hot-air balloons, photography equipment, cinematographs, gramophones, machines and toys of all kinds were imported from England or France and then transported to Fez by camel. And during the pauses between orders, the sultan was diverted as much as possible with billiards or tennis, juggling and jokes. One day, they removed his white [al-jlāba], wound an immense turban around his head and dressed him in a fantastic uniform. They then rushed to take photographs of him; and so badly was it kept a secret that a picture of ”the ruler of the faithful” dressed in a circus costume could be bought in the Jewish quarter in Fez.

The good Moslems in Fez began to shake their heads and the reputation of the ”Christian sultan” spread from the city to the countryside. And it was not only the gossip about what was happening in the court that fed the bad reputation. When the sultan received a Moroccan, the audience was usually as brief as possible and the traditional blessings were mumbled with a nonchalance that caused offence. At the religious feasts, he appeared careless; sometimes, at the large sacrificial feast, he would keep the people waiting for him so long that they lost patience. And worst of all, he violated [Mûläi Idris]’s shrine. On one occasion, an Irish missionary was mortally wounded in broad daylight in Fez by a fanatical shereef [sharīf], who declared that he had come into the city with the intention of taking the life of a Christian. The murderer fled to Mûläi Idris’s mosque where, according to the custom of the land, he should have been protected from his pursuers. But the sultan had him forcibly removed from the shrine and ordered that he should be whipped and then taken up and down the city streets on the back of a donkey. Meanwhile, the missionary died and the murderer was executed by firing squad. The event caused an enormous outcry across Morocco. It occurred at the end of October 1902, shortly after I had left [Dār l-Ḥjar] and while I still found myself in Tangier.

It was at that time that the name [Buḥamâra] was first heard. It was the name of a man who had once been secretary to the sultan’s brother and whose actual name was [Djilâli ben Dris]. He had been embroiled in a conspiracy, thrown into prison but had been freed again, and thereafter travelled to Algeria and Tunis. When he returned to Morocco, he began performing miracles and gained a reputation for being a saint. He gathered around him followers from the [Riâta] tribe, found a new wind in his sails due to the dissatisfaction with Mûläi ʿAbdlʿazîz and appeared as a [], a pretender to the throne. The government sent troops to [Taza] where Buḥamâra had been declared as ruler, but there was nothing they could do. A new army, fifteen thousand men strong, was sent out under the command of two shereefs of the ruling dynasty, but they were surprised by the enemy just as supper was about to be served, abandoned their entire camp, including their weapons, and fled head over heels back to Fez. Panic broke out in the capital city, to which the road lay open for the victor. But strangely enough, he did not care about finalising his victory, but instead drew back to Taza in order to celebrate, with pomp and circumstance, [], ”the small feast”, which is held at the end of the month of Ramaḍān. Approximately one month later, a new expedition was sent against Buḥamâra. This one was more successful, but the fruits of the victory were modest. These consisted of forty severed heads, which were, as per tradition, salted by Jews to keep longer, and then nailed over one of the city gates. Neither side won any decisive battles, either then or later. Mûläi ʿAbdlʿazîz ruled in Fez and Buḥamâra in Taza. And so it continued, year after year.

But the dissatisfaction with Mûläi ʿAbdlʿazîz spread increasingly within the country. The districts refused to pay their taxes, defied the government’s decrees and deposed its officials. Crowds of discontent people rallied around the sultan’s half-brother [Mûläi Ḥâfid̮] and a civil war broke out between the brothers, which ended with ʿAbdlʿazîz being overthrown and Mûläi Ḥâfid̮ being proclaimed as sultan of Morocco. This took place in the summer of 1908. At the time, I lived in a villa outside of Tangier. One evening, I heard shots fired in the city. What could this mean? An attack on Tangier? So uncertain were the times that an attack of this kind by nearby tribes was feared in earnest. But no, this time the shots were a message of peace: Mûläi Ḥâfid̮ had been proclaimed as the sultan. When I rode into town the following morning, I found it decorated with flags. The jubilation was universal, among both the native population and the subjects of several foreign powers. Morocco had triumphed over France, Islam over Christianity!

Meanwhile, Buḥamâra remained among his mountains and dreamed of fulfilling his old prophesy: ”When I stand on the bridge over Sabû, I shall see the flames from the [] in Fez rise up towards the sky.” But now he had found his match; a warrior prince sat once again on Morocco’s throne. To begin with, no punitive expeditions were made against the pretender; Mûläi Ḥâfid̮ wisely wished to wait for the arrival of the mountain artillery that he had ordered from Germany. But one summer’s day in August 1909, the decisive battle broke out on the plains of [Ḥiáinas]. It ended with a crushing defeat for Buḥamâra, who was captured a few days later. He was taken to Fez in an iron cage, exhibited in front of the public for several days and – according to what has been claimed as fact – finally thrown into the lion’s den to be ripped apart by wild animals. Several hundred of his followers had their hands and feet cut off. When the English consul in Fez reproached Mûläi Ḥâfid̮ for this savagery, he was told: ”I would otherwise have been obliged to condemn them to death. It cannot be barbaric to try to avoid executions. Is it not also the custom in Europe to save the lives of people through operations? I amputated their hands and feet to save their lives.” Mari Mihi recounts this story in his book, and I can also recall having heard it myself.

Now there was once again peace in the land; and Mûläi Ḥâfid̮ knew how to keep his subjects in check. I therefore hoped that I would finally have the opportunity to make my old wish come true and enjoy a longer stay in Fez and, from there, undertake expeditions among the Berbers of central Morocco – the least known of the country’s inhabitants.

At the end of September 1909, I set off. The shereef naturally came with me. My cook, who was called [Shergi], was a resident of [Andjra] who had regularly been in my service during my visits to Morocco over the past five years. It was only on these occasions that he had tried his hand at the culinary arts, and he has never achieved any great proficiency in that area. His real occupation was supposed to have been as a robber. The shereef assured me that Shergi had killed fourteen people – who otherwise would probably have taken his life. In order to avoid blood feuds, he had left his mountains and settled outside of Tangier, where he now lives with his wife and four children. But the old appetite for robbery still comes over him from time to time. Once he was required to go to a shrine and swear his innocence concerning an allegation that may not have been entirely unwarranted. Another time – while I found myself in London – he was thrown in prison, because it was alleged that he had been involved in the theft of a mule. During my absence, I even heard that he had kidnapped a girl and then sold her to a mountain tribe for sixty dollars. When I met him again, I gave him a good talking to for this deed. He immediately admitted his crime, but defended himself with the excuse that he was a poor man who had a wife and children to support. That is not an excuse, I answered; he also had a pair of strong arms which he could use for other things than kidnapping young, helpless girls. At this, he took on his most tender expression and said: ”In actual fact, the girl wanted to be kidnapped; her parents wished her to marry a man whom she did not like.” I shook my head, but could not help recalling the cry of a young woman who, upon seeing Rubens’s painting depicting the abduction of the Sabine women, exclaimed: ”The Sabine women must have liked that!”

But although Shergi, like all other people, has his weaknesses, it is impossible not to care about him. A loyal servant, concerned with his master’s well-being, always polite and helpful, funny and happy except when he becomes angry and his black eyes begin shooting sparks, often soft and tender like a child. A big rascal, of course, ready to assert almost anything with the most innocent expression in the world, but always resourceful, never helpless, and both brave and strong – qualities that are priceless in a travel companion along Morocco’s caravan trails. Sometimes when he is in a very good mood and the old robber instincts begin to ferment within him, he acts out a comedy for us. With silent steps and lithe like a cat, he sneaks up on an imaginary flock of sheep, makes short shrift of the poor shepherd and then rushes away with his prize. Sometimes when I saw Shergi sitting by his pot cooking, I felt truly sorry for him. A wild cat locked in a cage!

Shergi’s younger brother [ʿAbslam] also came with us. He is an honest soul, an excellent shot, immensely polite and meek and unusually ignorant. He cannot count to more than twelve – to the great contentment of the youngest member of our company, [l-Ḥaddj Muhammed]. The latter, despite his youth – he appears to be fifteen or sixteen years of age – has already made the long pilgrimage to Mecca together with his father and therefore carries the title of [ḥājj(i)]. His father is a Berber from [Rīf] who has settled in the vicinity of Tangier, where there is an entire village inhabited by his compatriots. At this time, I had also employed another Rīf Berber in my service, specifically as a teacher. Unfortunately, I have never been in the position of being able to visit these interesting people, whom Morocco’s sultans have not been able to master and who, during recent years, have defended their land against the Spanish with great courage. L-Ḥaddj is an intelligent and well-bred youth with an almost European appearance and who harbours a healthy fear of the shereef, whom he flatteringly calls [al-sayyīd], ”the saint”.

I had the pleasure of being joined on my travels by a friend and fellow countryman, Captain H[ugo] Backmansson, who had spent the past couple of years in Tangier working as a painter. The decision that he would join us was made quite suddenly on the evening before our departure. This meant that we were not ready to set off before one o’clock the next day. Unfortunately, I allowed the pack animals to go on ahead. The mule drivers came up with the idea to wait for us on the road, and it turned into a dreadful mess. We took another road, became lost and were forced to push our way through the pitch blackness along untrodden paths over [l-ʿAqba l-Ḥámra], ”the Red Mountain”, with its stones and potholes and brush – a truly breakneck journey. When we finally arrived, tired and hungry, at the shereef’s village in [Gharbîya], our pack animals were not there. What in the world could have happened to them? On the hilltops, fires burn, a sign that the neighbourhood is unsettled, and besides, the Red Mountain has always had a bad reputation. Some men are sent to find the lost party, who are luckily found a few kilometres from the village. And supper is served soon after midnight.

Our small caravan, consisting of ten men, two horses, eight mules and two donkeys, continues its journey the next day over the bare plain, where the scorching summer sun, together with five months of unending drought, has not left a single blade of green to be seen. On the other side of [Alcazar], we take a different road than the one I had taken before. We spend a night in [Jräifi] in [Gharb], visit the market in [Had Kourt], set up camp in the evening in a village on the shore of the [Ghadat], and the next midmorning reach the river [Wargha]. The name still sounds like music to my ears. Never in my life will I forget the delightful swim in its murmuring waters after we had huffed and puffed in the fierce heat, which had been just as terrible whether we were riding or resting, as there had been barely a single tree to give us shade on the road. Some hours later, we rode over the large river Sebû, which is so shallow here that there is no need for a ferry. And after nine days of travel, we arrived safe and sound in Fez on the morning of 7 October.

We set up our camp outside the city walls, but we did not stay there long. Shortly before sundown, when the gates are closed, we were ordered to immediately take our belongings and go inside the city walls, to a marketplace full of tents, horses, carcasses, dung and dust. But even here, safety is not a certainty, which is why two of our men, with rifles in hand, must stand guard outside the tents throughout the night. The next day, we moved to a large garden with a small house, containing a single, dark room.

Here, we welcome the new moon, which concludes the unpleasant month of fasting, Ramaḍān. The big event is celebrated with a joyous celebration, , ”the small feast”. Early in the morning, we make our way to an open area outside the city to witness the feast. Thousands of people are assembled here. Soldiers dressed in new uniforms, which shine in all the colours of the rainbow, stand on each side of the road along which the sultan will arrive. And there he is, [Mûläi Ḥâfid̮] himself, a snow-white figure on a white steed, followed by horsemen. The music that has welcomed him falls silent, a service is conducted, it is so wonderfully quiet. But then the storm breaks loose. One governor or tribal chief after the other, in unending succession, file past the sultan, accept his blessings and rush off thereafter at a full gallop through the crowd, which moves aside like the wake of a ship. Finally, the sultan sets off, the musicians begin to play, and the small cannons thunder along the road on which his majesty is riding. It is a magnificent thing to see – the surging crowd, the riders on their stately horses, the display of colours of the uniforms and banners in the radiant sunshine. But it is not easy to get through the city gates, where people and animals push and squeeze against one another to the very limits of their bodies’ elasticity. And we feel lucky when we later find ourselves in our peaceful garden after four hours of noise and jostling.

The festivities continue for several days. Every afternoon, the sultan holds a large reception, where the governors from the various parts of the country bestow on him presents of gold coins, horses and other riches. The gifts are obligatory, and their worth is of great consequence to the giver: meanness is punished with removal from power and imprisonment. In the castle courtyard, I saw the small cage in which the captured [Buḥamâra] had been exhibited a short while earlier; it was barely large enough to allow him to squat down. (See the photograph on page 268.) One wondered whether one would ever again see him at the feast. But the cage stood empty on its platform; and no longer did anyone question the rumour that the sultan had had him thrown into the lion’s den.

The feast had not yet ended when the city all of a sudden changed its appearance. The first autumn rains fell and transformed the dusty streets into streams and pools. Also in our garden, the volume of water began to reach concerning proportions, and it became necessary for us to move. The shereef knew of a splendid Moorish house where he had spent a short time with [Mari Mihi] six months earlier, and the owner professed himself to be willing to rent it to me, as soon as he could be rid of a regional governor who had insinuated himself into the house. The bothersome scrounger was ejected within a few days through the shared efforts of the owner and the shereef, and we moved into our new lodgings.

A low gate fitted with iron bolts leads into a shadowy corridor, which in turn leads to a broad, open terrace. If one walks straight over it, one comes to a large and high chamber with immense double doors, decorated with painted ornamentations, and with a floor of coloured tiles. This chamber takes up one entire side of the angular house. To the right of the terrace, on the bottom floor, is a lower, narrow room and a kitchen, while on the upper floor are two rooms suitable as bedrooms. The windows, which are glassless, but equipped with elegant iron bars, all face the garden. From the terrace, one takes the stairs down into the garden, which is protected by high walls and is crossed by a long, white-washed walkway. Here grow fruit trees of different varieties, including apple and plum trees, as well as vegetables, such as beans, which thrive wonderfully in the soil watered by small channels. Through the back part of the garden flows a constantly babbling brook. From the flat roof of the house there is a delightful view of some of the ”old town” and the countryside outside, as the house lies near the city wall, in the north-eastern part of Fez in the [Sîdi Bujîda] quarter. At a distance can be seen one of [Ait Waráin]’s snow-capped mountains. There lies the fairytale kingdom, where no stranger may tread.

Our landlord, [Si Muhammed ben ʿAbdrráḥman] is a tall and slender man, with fine, somewhat weak features, white skin, dark, melancholy eyes, a distinguished and reserved manner and extraordinarily well-kept clothing. He is also, as the Moroccans see it, a highly educated man, and provides instruction at the university. I am sorry that I cannot show a picture of him; it would have been out of the question for me to commit such an act of impudence as to photograph this serious and pious man. Towards his son, who was a student at the university, I did not need to show that same consideration, as is obvious from the photograph on page 271. Both of these gentlemen, father and son, visited us from time to time, and I was now able to enjoy something I had long been without, namely academic companionship.

The university in Fez was in ancient times one of the premier seats of learning in the Moslem world and even attracted Christian students. Today, from a scientific perspective, it is only of interest as a fossil from a bygone cultural era. Teaching takes place in [Qarwîin], the largest mosque in Morocco, which was mentioned earlier. In the mornings, three consecutive lectures are held on Islamic law, largely in accordance with [Sîdi Khalīl], the foremost legal scholar of the [Malīkī] school, and his commentators; in the afternoons, students are taught grammar, syntax, prosody, logic and oratory, also in accordance with Arabic authorities. Astronomy and arithmetic are second class subjects, and students must acquire their historical knowledge from books. Teaching is conducted in part by professors, in part by younger teachers, corresponding to our docents. The number of permanent professorships is between fifteen and twenty; they are filled by the government based on the proposal of the chief judge, who is a type of chancellor for the university. Students from Fez live in their own homes, whereas students from other regions live in a so-called [], where they, for a sum varying between twenty and two hundred dollars, buy a key for a room with the right to live there during their entire studies and receive bread for free. There are currently five such (the plural of ) in Fez with altogether more than five hundred rooms. Students from the same region usually live in the same , which is thus a type of student nation. Here, like in other places, student life offers recreation alongside the studies, club evenings with shared meals, song and music and stories from One Thousand and One Nights.

I soon made many acquaintances in Fez. The most valuable of them was a younger friend of my landlord, a scribe called [Barrâda]. He became my teacher and private secretary, who came to me regularly every day and spent a few hours in my company. He was a stocky man with lively movements and bright eyes, happy and affable, capable and forthcoming, highly interested in his new occupation and aware of his importance. Through him, I was inducted into the secrets of life in Fez and I would have been hard pressed to find a better teacher. He remained in my service during my entire stay in Fez.

While I focussed on my work, Backmansson was immersed in his painting. One day, he set up his easel at a marketplace and was soon surrounded by a crowd of interested onlookers. But suddenly, two soldiers appeared on horseback, who with wild gestures lectured him for his insolent act; and it was only by the skin of his teeth that he, with the help of his loyal servant [Ḥmîdos], was able to gather up his equipment and slink away. A scandal of this kind could not be allowed to happen again, naturally, and Backmansson decided therefore to seek an audience with the sultan. He has provided me with the following account of the audience, which took place through the mediation of the Spanish consul, señor Cortes:

”We waited for approximately an hour in the castle courtyard, in the colonnade near the sultan’s reception pavilion. There was a crowd of Arabs in white and blue burnous, waiting for an audience with the minister of the interior, who receives visitors in one of the side rooms. The sultan’s black bodyguard had stationed himself with a stack of rifles in front of the entrance to the pavilion. When eventually a slave came to collect us, I carefully emulated all of the consul’s movements so as not to break with etiquette. To my surprise, we did not make our way to the broad staircase, but in the opposite direction, all the way to the bodyguard. There, we turned in the direction of the staircase, stopped and bowed deeply, then marched directly forward and bowed again when we came to the foot of the stairs, and performed a third bow when we were halfway up. Thereafter, we headed towards his majesty, who was enthroned on a gold divan, dressed in a shimmering white burnous and with a gold-embroidered turban wound around his head. After a benign nod from the sultan, I presented my matter with the help of the consul. I was an artist by trade, I had come to Fez to see the famous city and wished to paint on its streets; but I could not do so without his majesty’s royal assent and required a convoy in order to not be disturbed. I was given the assent, but with the provision that I would not position myself near the gates of a mosque and thus cause offence. To my surprise, the consul presented a further request, at first rather doubtfully; but when encouraged by the sultan, he came out with it, saying that the artist would feel honoured to be allowed to paint his majesty’s portrait. This was a daring request, as the Koran explicitly forbids the depiction of living beings, and I already expected to share [Buḥamâra]’s fate and be thrown into the lion’s den alive. But the sultan’s eyes flashed, and he asked with lively interest: ”Does he have the paints with him?” No, I didn’t, but I could ride home to fetch them. ”Well then, we can wait until the feast is over.” And after a courteous nod from his majesty, the audience was at an end.”

Now every morning two, and sometimes even four, riders came to our garden to convoy Backmansson, and he could devote himself to his painting undisturbed. And after a couple of weeks, the joyful news came that the sultan was expecting him. He writes the following:

"Equipped with watercolour supplies and a folding chair, I set off to the palace, accompanied by [Ḥmîdo]. The consul awaited me there, and we then entered while observing the same ceremonies as before. The minister of the interior sat on the floor next to the divan, the consul and the minister of court stood by the door, and further away stood two black slaves. I settled down on the folding chair at an appropriate distance from the sultan, [Ḥmîdo] assisted, and the work began. After I had made a very rough contour drawing, I grabbed the colours and worked feverishly. It seemed to me that the model would fail and it would become an utter fiasco. The sultan lowered his head more and more towards the minister, who spoke from his seat on the floor. I cast pleading looks at the consul, but he merely shrugged in response. The work came to a halt. That is when the sultan noticed that something was wrong and asked what was the matter. He then sat properly again, but it was difficult to catch his gaze. New explanation: His Majesty must look the artist in the eye. Finally, the work was finished; I stood up, bowed, and said: []. Now came the grim moment when the portrait was to be shown to the sultan. Does it resemble him or not? I asked myself. Would he understand that it was a sketch made in three quarters of an hour? I would have preferred to pack everything up and leave; but that was not possible. With a trembling hand, I handed the portrait to the sultan. He twisted and turned it in all directions and looked at both the front side and the back side, as far as I could tell. Just then, a woman’s shrill laugh was heard. It came from the directress of his harem, who had been hiding in a corner of the room and had now caught sight of the picture. I became calmer, it sounded like approval. Thus the portrait passed from hand to hand, to the ministers and the consul. Everyone gave it the highest praise: it was quite simply [], ”a miracle”. This was of course only a sketch; I would later produce an oil painting and send it to the sultan from Tangier. In return, I was to receive a Moroccan saddle with silver mountings. Some months later, the portrait was sent, provided with a frame – but the return gift, that never arrived."

After about a month’s stay in Fez, Backmansson returned to Tangier and I was once again alone with my Moroccans. In the city, as highlighted in a previous chapter, there were about twenty Europeans, but months could pass by without meeting a single one of them. Instead, I found myself increasingly coming into contact with the natives, and my circle of acquaintances expanded through connections from the countryside, from whom I had just as much to learn as from the gentlemen in Fez. Thus, I soon found myself surrounded by a staff of new teachers: an old stately Arab from [Ḥiáina], an old hunter, and a farmer from [Ath Ubákhthi], near the border with Algeria, a water carrier from [Ait Waráin], a young schoolmaster from [Aith Sáddĕn]; the last four were Berbers. I also had a woman teacher, a divorced wife from the Arabic-speaking mountain tribe [Tsūl], who had interesting things to tell me about the women’s world. The most valuable of these acquaintances was undoubtedly [Si Ráḥḥo] from [Aith Sáddĕn], who was truly a treasure. Among the Berbers of central Morocco, one rarely encounters a person who can write, and Si Ráḥḥo was not only literate but also had an exceptionally fine ear for the strange sounds in the various Berber dialects that I was now dealing with. Moreover, he was extremely meticulous in his work, honest and outspoken, almost Germanic both in his nature and appearance; like so many other Berbers, he was very fair. He was always present during my conversations with the other Berbers, who could neither read nor write.

Thus, it was quite a motley crew that I had gathered around me, and I never quite knew what the somewhat aristocratic inhabitants of Fez truly thought of me. But the work progressed splendidly. At eight in the morning, the first of my interlocutors arrived, and it was not until sunset that the last ones departed. But at midday, I usually went for a ride in the city’s lovely surroundings – sometimes to the olive groves or the beautifully situated cemetery outside of [Bäb Ft^söḥ], sometimes to the saint houses outside [Bäb l-Gîsa], sometimes to [l-Maqṭaʿ] with its miraculous cave where some of the more distinguished jinn-saints have their own spring and the sick seek a cure for their ailments, and sometimes to some distant village. Shergi and l-Ḥaddj usually accompanied me on my excursions. The latter was possibly in need of a little distraction, poor boy, for he carried a heavy sorrow. His father had written to tell him that upon his return to Tangier, he was to marry a certain girl who lived in his village. The decision that he should enter into marriage was not in itself so bad, but he could not reconcile himself with the thought of marrying a girl he knew. His ideal, of course, was a girl he had never seen.

The horseback rides were quite necessary for maintaining body heat. The temperature in my office was often only 8–10 degrees and even lower in the mornings. I would have truly suffered had I not brought a sheepskin jacket, and if the house had not provided me with a cat as a foot warmer. This loyal animal must not be confused with the horrible cat that disturbed [Mari Mihi’]s sleep in the same house. When I was outside, the white cat sat by the door waiting for me; when she saw me on the roof, she rushed up the stairs at full speed; when I was working, she lay on my feet. One day she could not stay still, but ran here and there, until she came carrying a small kitten that she gently placed on my foot; she had given birth to four kittens the night before, each of which she placed on my feet in turn. Incidentally, there was quite a bit of illness in the city. My men all had violent attacks of malaria, and I often had to feed them quinine all day long. In addition, they would have the usual purgative once a week, which was almost part of their diet. They each had their own specific day of the week.

During Christmas time, the great sacrificial feast, [], was celebrated, which takes place two months and ten days after . In the morning, the people head to one or the other of the two [] or prayer places located outside the city. The [mṣalla] consists of a long, straight, white-washed wall with a recess [] and a pulpit [] in the middle. The service is conducted by high-ranking scribe, a [faqīh], who immediately after the sultan’s arrival enters the recess and, with his face turned towards Mecca and his back to the congregation, recites two [] or prayer formulas, which are repeated by those present. He turns around and greets the congregation with the words: [salām ͑alaikum], ”peace be upon you”; and the people respond to the greeting with the same words. He ascends the pulpit and reads the so-called [], with the book in his right hand and a staff in his left. And then, once this is done, he makes a sacrifice by personally cutting the throat of a sheep. The sultan follows his example; whereupon the sacrificial animals are carried on the backs of two galloping mules, one to the residence of the and the other to the sultan’s palace. The flow of blood from the animal’s throat is staunched for as long as possible in order to prolong the animal’s life until it reaches its destination; in some cities, it is believed that if this succeeds, the sultan will enjoy a long life, whereas the animal’s death along the way is considered a bad omen.

The people head to their homes, but the return journey must take place along a different road than the one they came along. The whole city is now transformed into a large slaughterhouse. It is prescribed that every married man or head of a household shall provide one sacrifice, but the number of victims is often more than one. The sacrificial animal is usually – and in Fez always – a sheep; only in emergencies is a goat slaughtered instead. The animal that is sacrificed is, naturally, considered sacred, and its holiness is put to use in many ways. In Fez, some of the blood is collected as it gushes from the wound, and it is smeared on the children’s hands and feet to prevent their skin from cracking. In other regions, they anoint their stomachs with sacrificial blood to promote digestion or use it as a protective against jinn. The gallbladder is often hung from the ceiling due to its particular sanctity, and the right shoulder blade is for a similar reason placed among the grain stored in the house. A piece of the stomach is dried to serve as a remedy for headaches when needed; in such cases, it is burned and the smoke is inhaled by the patient. The larynx is used as an amulet against the evil eye. The jawbones are hung in a tree, as their clattering is believed to bring rain. A piece of the tail is burned when there is an easterly storm, to calm the storm. Furthermore, omens are sought in the blood, intestines, liver, and right shoulder blade of the sacrificial animal.

Almost everywhere in Morocco, pantomimes or carnivals occur in connection with the feast. A man is dressed in the skins of sacrificial animals and another man or boy is dressed as a woman. Sometimes these depict a husband and wife, sometimes the woman is regarded as the wife of a third person, an old man. Others are dressed as Jews and Jewesses, as Christians or as animals. Accompanied by musicians and a small troupe of people, the company wanders from tent to tent or house to house, dancing and performing as it goes. This is the pantomime in its most general form; it varies significantly as to the details in different places. Among the [Ṣáhel] tribe in northern Morocco, I was present at a performance where a man dressed in a goat skin and called [Bújlūd] (”one who is dressed in skin”) and another man called [Shékhshiokh] (”the eldest of the old”) fight over a young lady named [Yissûma]. And in the village of [l-Khmis], in the same region, I witnessed, one wonderful April night, an even greater performance with three men dressed in goat skins dancing to the sounds of a rural orchestra in front of several hundred spectators. Here, a farce was staged, in which the old [Shékhshiokh] reproaches his young wife [Ḥalîma] for being unfaithful to him and finally drags her in front of the judge. The dialogue between the spouses is far too indecent to be reproduced. Ḥalîma gives birth to a child on stage, Shékhshiokh declares that the child is not his, and a fight breaks out that ends with Ḥalîma running away and Shékhshiokh, furious with rage, screaming at the judge: ”I want to kill her!” In Marrakesh, I managed to photograph the main character in the pantomime. He is called Herma there.

In Fez, the pantomime is arranged by the bakers, and each neighbourhood has its own [], as it is called after the main character, which represents an old man. [Báshshekh] has his face covered with a mask made from the skin of a sacrificial sheep. His wife [Shûna] is a fat old lady – a role often played by a beardless young man who has put padding around himself. The performance begins with a dance performed by Báshshekh, after which Shûna enters and dances in turn; then they dance together and the old man kisses and embraces his wife and behaves extremely indecently. The owner of the house where the performance takes place gives them some coins, after which they leave and are followed by a number of Jews and Jewesses with tambourines, who play, dance and chatter. One of the Jews carries a basket of fish over his shoulder; the others gather around him and buy the fish; one of them is knocked down and dies, and his wife cries and tears her face with her nails, as Jewesses usually do at a death. The Jews ask the landlord to give them money so that they can bury the dead man, with the threat that otherwise they will leave him where he lies; and they naturally get what they ask for. Then a Christian ambassador enters with his Moorish servants, who carry notebooks, keys, and a chair, on which the ambassador sits. A courier comes in with some letters, which the ambassador opens and reads, whereupon he calls for a mule. The role of the mule is played by a person who carries a camel skull on a stick, has a tail made of horsehair, and has his head and back covered with a rug; on top of the rug is a saddle. When the ambassador gets on the mule, it falls over and dies. The stable boy calls for the Jew who sold the mule and shouts at him: ”The grey animal has died!” But the Jew is stone deaf; and after vain attempts to make himself heard, the stable boy pokes the Jew in the backside. Like the other scenes, this one also ends with the landlord giving a little money to the performers or to the director. The musicians strike up a tune and some dancing boys from the mountains come in and start to dance. Their fees consist of small silver coins that are attached to the forehead with spittle, as is customary among the mountain dwellers. The performance is now over, and the company goes off to start anew in another house.

Similar antics also occur on other occasions, especially on the [] day, the 10th of [Moḥarram], or immediately thereafter, but also on New Year’s Day (according to the old calendar). I have elsewhere1presented the hypothesis that these masquerades have not been merely entertainment but ritual purification ceremonies, intended to free people from harmful evil forces. It is noteworthy that the main character in the pantomime performed at the great sacrificial feast is always dressed in the skins of sacrificial animals or at least wears a mask made from such a skin. He walks around hitting people and tents with a flap of the skin covering his arm, or with the foot of a sacrificial animal or, very often, with a stick that he holds in his hand; and in several cases, my informants have explicitly emphasised that he thereby drives away evil forces, thanks to the holiness of the object with which he strikes or of the skin in which he is dressed. But at the same time, he himself is the object of abuse: he is teased, pushed and hit; in other words, he also plays the role of the scapegoat. And it seems that the idea of the scapegoat also underlies the practice of dressing people as animals, who are then led around, hunted or killed; the domestic animals that appear in the masquerade are, without exception, pack animals – camels or mules – which are particularly suited to carrying away the evil. Furthermore, attention may be drawn to the blasphemous element in the Moroccan carnival. The man who is dressed in the skins of sacred sacrificial animals and who is regarded as a personification of the feast’s [baraka] or holiness is mocked and derided; he is surrounded by impure individuals such as Jews and Christians, and his own behaviour is highly indecent. All this buffoonery can perhaps be explained as a kind of ritual profanation through which the people shake off the sanctity of the feast in order to safely return to the duties of daily life. We have seen that holiness is particularly vulnerable to external influences, and that contact between the holy and the unclean or profane can lead to a catastrophe. The carnival therefore acts like a cold shower after a warm bath. It is worth noting that it takes place only after the main part of the feast, the sanctification process, has already concluded.

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X. Six Months in Fez

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