The Storyteller of Casablanca (58)
I’ve brought Kate’s book with me too, and I show them some of the other quilting patterns that tell their own stories – Log Cabin, Double Wedding Rings, Flying Geese and the Tree of Life.
As I talk, the women draw closer, to listen and to admire the intricate design of the quilt. Once I’ve drawn to a close, an excited babble breaks out. One of the women unwinds the length of fabric she wears over her hair and shows it to me. Her French is heavily accented and mine is poor, but I understand that she’s explaining the patterns printed on the cloth. They, too, tell a story.
Madame Habib, attracted by the flurry of chatter, comes over to help translate. ‘This lady is from Mali,’ she says. ‘Her people – the Bambara – also have a tradition of using patterns like this to record their culture and their history. She is curious because the design of the quilt is quite similar to some of the motifs on her headcloth.’
The woman nods vigorously and points to a diamond pattern on the cloth. ‘She says the designs are created using mud,’ Madame Habib explains. ‘The brown and black are the everyday colours but this rust-red is special. It signifies her marriage. But her husband was working as a guard, protecting wildlife in the region from poachers, and he was killed in an attack on their home. The house was burned down by the gang. Her husband fought them off long enough for her and her children to escape and hide in the bush. Afterwards, when she returned, there was nothing left of their home. She found her husband’s body in the ashes. She was terrified that the gang would return, and she had nothing and no one left in Mali, so she fled north with her two children, hoping to find a place where they could be safe and she could earn a living. She is still looking and still hoping. And she wears the cloth every day as it ties her to the things she has lost – to her husband and to the land she so loved.’
More of the women show us the patterns on pieces of their clothing, eager to explain the stories behind them. And as they do so they talk and laugh together, reminiscing about their homes and their families, about the traditions they’ve left behind. The children chip in here and there, asking questions about histories and cultures that have become lost along the hard and dangerous paths they’ve been following on the journey towards their dreams.
The Bambara woman points at me and says a word that I don’t understand, but the others nod and clap their hands. I look to Madame Habib. ‘She says you are une griotte. It is a great compliment – it means a female storyteller, who is much revered in African society. The oral tradition of keeping cultures alive is so important for them, although they have many other ways of telling their stories too – song, dance, carvings and the patterns on fabrics like these are just a few of the things they use.’
The women chatter excitedly among themselves and then turn to us again. ‘You have given them inspiration,’ Madame Habib translates. ‘They say, unlike the Underground Railroad, they don’t need a quilt made into a map to get to Europe, these days they just use a trafficker. But they want to make a quilt to tell their story. They’d like to create something beautiful like the one you’ve shown them today, to make a representation of the cultures they’ve left behind and the families they’ve lost. It would hang on the bare walls of this place and help to brighten it up, for them and for the others who will come after them. Could we help them do this, do you think?’
I smile at the women. ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea. But I’m a beginner myself and I don’t feel confident enough to be able to teach them. I’ll speak to Kate. She might be prepared to help out.’
‘Very good,’ says Madame Habib. ‘Perhaps your friend would come with us next Friday afternoon and help us to get started?’
‘I’ll ask her. And in the meantime, tell them to start collecting together any pieces of fabric they can spare. They don’t need to be very big.’ I take a piece of scrap paper from the pile the children use for their drawings and fold it to the size of a ten-inch layer cake square. ‘Anything this size will be perfect. Then we can work out the shapes they want to work with from here on.’
‘What other materials will they need?’ Madame Habib asks. ‘If you can tell me then we’ll see if we can get some donations.’ Together, we draw up a list. I’ll bring my cutting mat along next week and I’m sure I can ask Kate if we can borrow hers too. With so many pairs of hands eager to set to work, I think the women’s quilt is going to make far more rapid progress than my own much more modest effort.
The women and children begin to sing and dance, celebrating their plans. And the centre seems to fill to the rafters with something new. It’s the sound of joy, I think. Accompanied by a chorus of hope.
Josie’s Journal – Sunday 9th November, 1941
Now that we have our visas for America, Papa has been spending time queuing at the Portuguese consulate to get our transit permits. He says the queues are just as long there, but the people in them are generally happier and more positive because they know they’ve cleared the main obstacle to leaving the war behind and can start letting themselves picture their new lives in America. He says hope is a great pick-me-up, even better than a glass of brandy. We have 3 months to get the next lot of paperwork sorted out. After that, the health checks that we underwent for our American visas will expire and we’ll have to start the whole process all over again. When I asked Papa about that he said not to worry, it’s not going to happen. I hope that’s not another one of those promises that he makes just to be reassuring. I dread to think how Maman and Annette would react.