Her name is
Fatima, she is the leader of a Berber women’s music group near Agadir. I
invited Fatima and her group to Dar Si Hmad to share their art with American
students from Quinnipiac University; the students were participating in our
ethnographic field-school this past May. I called Fatima on the phone, introduced
myself, our organization and our objective to facilitate cross-cultural
exchange between American students and female Berber performers. We wanted to
expose the students to local culture, arts and tradition and wanted the
performers to be part of a contact zone, where more than one culture meet.
From her voice and
manner of talking to me on the phone, Fatima seemed curious, filled with
questions as to why an organization would be interested in their music and
performance. These hesitant vibes which I sensed, if I can so say, gave birth
to an anxiety that these women would never show up for the event. I called
continuously for days to confirm our encounter despite the anxiety of her not
knowing who I was. I could already visualize Fatima and her group playing their
ravishing music at our space.
On the evening of
the event, Fatima arrived, accompanied by five women and a male, their driver,
who sat patiently in the room as they performed. I did not appreciate his
presence and thought of him as an outsider, a distant figure in these women’s
world. The women began to apply their make-up and get ready for the show.
Fatima asked me to close the door and I asked every male in the room to leave,
including the strange man that accompanied the group. Fatima told me, and I
could hear the voices of the other women in the background, that he is allowed
to stay, that he is “one of us.” What a strange surprise. It was then when I
began to change my preconceptions of the man.
The women did not
wait for us to sit down for the performance; it did not seem they needed an
audience to mark the start of their instruments and voices. Though we, the
audience, were scattered throughout the room, the moment the women began to
play, their magic-like music charmed us all. Their unique Amazigh (Berber)
music filled the air with positive, healing energy. I watched everyone in
the room dancing with joy.
The American
students danced to these Berber rhythms. The students were interested to learn
more about their history as a group and the meanings of their songs. After the
performance, Fatima, her group and our students engaged in a cross-cultural
encounter where each was curious to learn about the other. The women felt they
could not communicate because they could not understand or converse in English
and forgot that the American students also could not converse in Berber. They
were equal and agreeable on this, so they announced that their communication is
best through music.
Since childhood, I
have been attending Laabat music performances and I speak honestly when
I say that they are pure and genuine stars. They have always charmed me with
their pride, special charisma and unending courage. They joke and the presence
of males does not bother them, an unusual behavior for females within a male
domain: the public space. Female performers in Morocco cross the lines of
gendered space. Their speech and laughter trespass the boundary that their
patriarchal society has imprisoned them in.
Laabat is a tradition that we must
value. This recent performance makes me wonder if there are young women who are
still wanting to become Laabat. After deep thinking, I concluded that as
long as these women exist, this art will always thrive.
Fatima Matousse,
Project coordinator & Language instructor
