All of dog-kind was angry. Humans treated them like they were nothing, at best like servants, and at worst like rats. The dogs said, “We are dogs, we have a noble lineage, why do the humans treat us like this.” Finally, one thought of a way to show humans that they deserved to be treated better. “There is a tree,” he claimed, “far away, that has our lineage. We should go get it, and show it to man, so that they can see how noble our lineage is and treat us better.” The dogs, all thinking this was a good idea, set out on their journey.
They traveled far in a pack, over mountain and through forest, until they came to a great river. It was calm when they arrived, and after a quick meeting, the dogs decided it was fine to swim across. All made it over without incident. Then they travelled farther, until they came across a great tree, and at its base was a huge wolf. “What are you doing here?” the wolf asked them. “We are seeking the proof of our noble lineage, so that we can show the humans and they will respect us. Can we find the proof here?” The wolf replied, “You can. I am the guardian of the history of dogs. I will give you a scroll with your lineage on it, so you can show the humans. But guard it with care, I will not give you another.”
The dogs were overjoyed, and they thanked the wolf. After, they carried the scroll with their lineage, all there tails wagging happily, until they came back to the river. It was no longer placid, but choppy and fast. What were they to do? They’re just dogs.
Finally, they decided to roll up the scroll and put it in one of the dog’s butt. Once they had accomplished this, they all tried crossing, but the dog with the scroll was washed away, and they couldn’t find him. So, the dog’s are still subservient to humans, but they still, to this day, are looking for that scroll, which is why dogs always sniff each other’s butts when they meet.
This was the story Pauls told us by way of introduction to the Storytellers, who were accompanying us on our weekend trip to Essouira. It wasn’t Pauls story, but was one that the Storytellers had told him. We had four joining us; three students, named Mehdi, Jawad, and Malika, and Hajj, the Master.
If you ask them about their craft, the Storytellers will say that Morocco has a proud history of storytelling. Marrakech itself is known as the beginning of storytelling. They say, in Jema el Fnaa, the storytellers used to fill the square, crowds of people listening around them. Now, with the musicians, the snake dancers, and the orange stalls, it’s too loud in Jema el Fnaa for any stories to be told, and storytelling is dying out. Hajj is the last true Master of Moroccan storytelling, and he’s seventy-five years old.
Hajj walks with short, shuffling steps. His back is crooked. He always wears a fine, white djellaba and tarbush, with a golden scarf hanging around his neck. He has a black spot on his left nostril, which my wild imagination thinks is a burn from when he breathes fire through his nose. It seems a more fitting explanation than any other. He is the only one of the Storytellers on the trip with us that does not speak any English. When he tells stories, his voice is sharp like a sword, and he shuffles around, showing the story with his hands. When he talks, he commands your attention, even if he is speaking a language you cannot understand.
Malika comes from Marrakech, and is one of the day-time managers at Cafe Clock, a cross-cultural cafe that holds storytelling sessions on Thursdays. She has a smile that can light up a room, and the only time she isn’t smiling is when she’s being sarcastic. On the bus-rides to and from Essouira, Beatrice, one of the twins, would sit with Malika at the front of the bus and ask her to tell stories. She has the thin trace of a scar on the right side of her forehead. When Malika tells stories, she uses the traits of the people in the crowd to describe her characters. A few months before we arrived, Malika was the second woman to ever perform in Jema el Fnaa.
Jawad was my roommate for the night we spent in Essouira. When we first walked into the hotel room together, we saw it only had one bed, and he immediately said, “No,” turned around, and left the room. After waiting in the room for about five minutes, he came back and told me we had been moved to a bigger room with two beds, and that was the end of the issue. Jawad has a scar on his upper left lip that makes him seem like he’s always half-grinning, which isn’t helped by the way he usually half-grins instead of smiles. He’s the newest of the storytellers; Hajj only began teaching him stories a year ago, but when he speaks, he talks in a low, calm voice.
Mehdi is a kind man with an easy laugh. He was most often our guide through Essouira, but he would purposefully point us in the wrong direction. When we followed his finger, he would laugh and say, “Come on! Don’t you guys know this city?” When he tells stories, he draws his energy from the crowd. He later told me that we were a good audience; we reacted in the right ways, and were obviously listening attentively. He, too me, seemed to be the closest with Hajj, but only because he would anticipate Hajj’s needs and carry them out before Hajj had even finished asking for them. Still, when he and the others performed for us and a group of Moroccan students learning English, he made Hajj angry when he told a story Hajj did not approve of.
After Pauls’ introduction, Mehdi told us another story, in English, about a local trickster who was commanded by the king to answer three questions: How many stars are in the night sky? How many hairs are in the king’s beard? And where is the center of the universe? If the trickster could answer, he would get to live; if not, he would be killed. The trickster thought for three days, one for each question, then arrived to the court on a donkey. When the king let him into the court, with the donkey, he asked for the king’s hairdresser. He said that if the hairdresser shaved all the hairs on the donkey’s back, it would be as many hairs as stars in the sky, and that the tail would have as many hairs as the king’s beard, and that the donkey was at the exact center of the universe. When the king asked the trickster how he knew these things, the trickster shrugged and said, “You only asked me to answer the questions, not to explain my answers.” And with that, the trickster was allowed to live.
After Mehdi told us the story, Hajj stood and told it to us again in Arabic. Because of our limited knowledge of Arabic, and having already heard the story in English, we were all able to follow along, laughing as Hajj pantomimed the shaving of the donkey’s back and tail.
After a free afternoon in Essouira, we met up with the Storytellers at Le Bastion, on old tower built by the Portuguese on the southern end of the town. We listened to three more stories there, one from each of the students, and then we sat in two groups to ask questions. My group was with Malika and Hajj. Malika answered most of the questions, while Hajj sat and listened. When I had the chance, I asked them both how many stories they knew.
Malika answered first. “Me? I know twenty-two that I’ve learned from Hajj and translated into English, then another five that I haven’t translated, then another five that I learned from my grandmother. So around thirty, I guess.”
Then, she turned to Hajj and told him my question, and translated to us as he spoke. “Too many,” he said. “I’m filled with them from my toes to my head. If we were to sit in this spot for two years, I would not be able to tell them all.” Then he smiled. “How many stories do you guys know?” Malika asked for him.
When we got back to the hotel that night, we had about twenty minutes before dinner. Jawad and I were watching TV when Jawad got a call. “Hajj is having coffee,” he said to me, “and wonders if we’d like to join him for a cigarette.”
There is an Al Jazeera documentary about Hajj and the Storytellers, and at one point in it, Hajj says, “When a Master storyteller dies, it’s like a library being burned.” When the last Master storyteller asks if you’d like to have a cigarette with him, you don’t say, “I don’t smoke,” you say, “Shukran,” and appreciate the chance to sit in that library.
I don’t think that Hajj was being facetious when he said that he is filled with stories. He seems to be brimming with them, and if he knows he has your attention, he’ll fall into one without thinking. He told Pauls the dog story on the bus because Pauls is writing a book about a dog. While we were sitting in Le Bastion, he began to tell a story about a Fezi trickster who came to Marrakech, only to be fooled over and over by the Marrakchi trickster. While in his hotel room, he confirmed that I was, in fact, American, then went into the story of his son and American daughter-in-law. He’s like every grandfather that always tells stories to his grandchildren, except it’s his profession.
‘Hajj’ is not Hajj’s real name, but is an honorific title given to him because he has completed the Hajj, one of the five pillars of Islam. He is the second Hajj we’ve met so far in this trip; the other was Hajj Hafelah, the librarian at the Qur’anic Library in Tamgroute. Both began their life’s work in 1959. I am grateful that I had the chance to meet them both, and I hope they will both continue to live for a long time yet, teaching what they know to the younger generations.
The last time we all saw Hajj was later in the week, on Thursday at the storytelling night at Cafe Clock. Through some strange twist of fate, I was the first in a group to walk in, about twenty minutes before the stories began, and Hajj jumped out of his chair to greet us. He came to me first and shook my hand, then took it with his left as he shook everyone else’s hand, smiling happily as he greeted us. Later, as he told his story, he held a cain in his hand, but as the story it went it switched from cain to thunder to a paddle and into a sword, Hajj pacing back and forth with it. When we left him that night, he smiled and only said, “Nshufek men ba’ad, inshallah.” I will see you later, God willing.