The folklore tradition is strong in Morocco, particularly in Marrakech. In the main square of the medina, Jemaa El Fna, as the sun sets you’ll find many knots of people circled around an animated storyteller.
One of the great themes of Orientalist painting was the storyteller
Storytelling captures the imagination, preserving tradition, and connecting people to their cultural past.
At one time these rings of rapt listeners – called a halqa – could be found in any village center, as storytellers were ubiquitous. Today the tradition has dwindled, but in Jemaa El Fna it still thrives. In 2001, UNESCO made The Proclamation of Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity specifically to protect the performance traditions of Jemaa El Fna.
When you come to visit, make sure to visit the square at night, when it is alive with people and music and lights. Stop at a halqa. Breath deep the smoky fragrance of the food stalls; listen, for a moment, to the whiney pipe of a snake charmer nearby. Then watch an ancient story unfold before your eyes.
For now, we will give you a small taste of the great oral tradition of Morocco with this folktale, The Sherif and the Saint.
Once upon a time, there was a young sherif, the ruler of Marrakech, who was quite full of himself and loved to wager. One day he was talking with his friend, the saint Sidi Ali ben Hamdusa, and boasting of his incredible endurance. The saint told him, “Your boasts are nothing. My faith in God gives me strength.” The young sherif bet him a hundred gold pieces that he could not sit at the top of a tower on the coldest night of winter, staying awake all night with no blankets and not fire to warm him. The saint took his wager and waited for the iciest night of the year, then sat atop the tallest tower in Marrakech with no blankets and no fire. All night he sat awake, wrestling with Jnun and the bitter, whipping winds of winter. Finally dawn broke over the horizon and Sidi Ali gratefully prostrated himself before the eastern sun in prayer, saying the Tzalat-l’Fajr (the morning office).
Later that day the arrogant sherif invited him to tea, asking him, “Well, did you do it?”
“Yes, Bism’ullah,” said the saint mildly.
“Last night? On the coldest night of winter? With no blanket, and no fire to warm your body?”
“Yes.”
“No extra djellabas, no rugs to kneel on, nothing?”
“May God silence me forever if I lie! I had nothing, save my faith in Him.”
“Ah,” said the Sherif, “and you stayed there all night long?”
“Yes, indeed, I stayed until I saw dawn break and I said the morning office as a good man should, the moment I saw the sun rise.”
“Aha!” the Sherif crowed, calling his friends to hear his triumph, “then you forfeit the wager, and I keep my thousand gold pieces – for since you saw the sun, you had its fire to warm you in your vigil.”
Now the old saint went away saddened, and meditated for several days. At last, he decided one day to give a private feast for the young sherif and all his friends. Along they came, with the sherif in their midst very full of wit and jokes, and at the hour of noon they were received at the Sidi’s house and invited to sit on his finest rugs and richest silken pillows. The saint settled them down and went off the check the meal. An hour passed. The guests, a little perturbed, made polite conversation; meanwhile their host hurried in and out with apologies, trays of fruit and sweetmeats (just enough to whet the appetite) and more apologies – and more apologies yet! Another hour. The guests sang songs and told tales to while away the time. Their host muttered excuses for his half-witted servants, and said the kitchen must be infested with Jnun. At last the sherif leaped to his feet. “What ails your kitchen,” he exclaimed, “that the slaves cannot even cook couscous? Let us go and see for ourselves.”
So the entire company, headed by the sherif and Sidi Ali, rose and trooped into the kitchen. There they found a curious sight! There was the couscous, there was the meat, there was the chicken and succulent fish and a pie of spinach and sharp cheese . . . all raw, in the cooking-pots, sitting in the hot sun. “What trick is this!” cried the sherif. “Are you trying to starve us to death?”
But the old saint shook with laughter. “Remember your wager, O Lord Sherif?” he inquired. “How you said my old bones were warmed by the fire of the sun? Well, you are wiser than I, and so here is your dinner. For six hours now, it has been cooking in the fire of the sun.” And while the young sherif squirmed with embarrassment (and all his friends hid their smiles) Sidi Ali picked up a dish and held it out. “Eat!” he said mildly.
The sherif hid his shame behind his hands. “God be praised for your wisdom, O my father Sidi Ali ben Hamdusa,” he said. “Subhan Allah! I have learned my lesson. Tomorrow the wager will be paid twice over.”
“You begin to learn,” said Sidi Ali, bowing. He drew back a curtain, and disclosed an array of dishes filled with the most exquisite foods, perfectly prepared and steaming hot. “And now, barak’alluhu fik ajarak allah, here is our true dinner. Enjoy it, enjoy it, my guest!”
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