The life I live now is very different from the one I started out with.
Now I live in a family unrelated by blood, in a house that does not move! The house is in the City of Damascus, in the Levant- perhaps you have heard tell of it?
I live in the home of my adopted father Mukhtar Durr, with many of my adoptive sisters. We number twelve, so generous is he; I am number eight. He likes to quote a Moorish proverb that reads, "He who has daughters is always a shepherd." We, the daughters of his flock, all call him Aba, "Father", in your tongue.
Aba has lived in many a place in his life, and been and done many, many things: a soldier, a politician, a merchant; he has also always been a scholar and teacher, and continues to be.
Many think him a fool for his love of learning, because it extends even unto us, his daughters. All of us have been and are being educated. Yes, that is right, this tale is written by my own hand!. You are shocked at this? Aba has made certain that all of us -- daughters all -- are able to not only do sums, but read and write also; more shocking, in more than one language! We have been tutored in philosophies, the sciences and practical as well as fine arts; all in addition to the household arts.
As I said, some believe Aba a fool for encouraging his daughters to think for themselves. Each of us also has her own particular talents that we share with one another as well as others.
Me -- what is my talent? I dance. I dance the dances of my own people and their countries, of the land in which I now reside, Aba’s people, Women's dances.
And now you must put from your mind that I or indeed, any of my sisters are "fancy girls" or anything less than respectable practitioners and teachers of the arts. It is quite likely that Aba, one of my sisters or I, myself, are the ones who have taught or will teach your own daughters, sisters, wives, aunts or cousins the fine dances and songs that you count upon to find and catch these women of your own families find good husbands.
Besides, you would not want to cast aspersions upon Aba or his house. It would not do to run afoul of him. He holds much power, albeit in a quiet manner; and is well-connected ,besides.
Aah- you begin to perhaps recognize the players? You believe that you know this story? You may indeed know part of it -- but only part. You would do well to pay no heed to rumour and innuendo, for you can not know the whole story; even I do not. And I am a player in it.
Perhaps it would be better if I began where my part in the tale begins, to tell you how I came to this place and this time.
I was born in a verdun (wagon) on the road, somewhere in Persia. My people are called the Rom or the Luri, or the Zotts or the Dom or Egyptians or any one of a hundred other names; my Tribe is called Ghasis. We came out of India at the behest of one of the Great Rajas, Shengil, who gave us corn and donkeys for the journey that he wanted us to make the journey to his son-in-law, the Shah’s kingdom, in Persia, so that we could play, sing and dance for he and his court. This was some time ago, maybe 200 years or more. This is the story I have from my family. I have also read it in Aba’s library in a poem by the poet Firdausi called the Shah Nemah, that was written a hundred years ago, and more. My tribe are singers, dancers, healers, tellers of fortune, and drabarni (healers/magic workers). Yes, I know what your people think about nearly all of thee things. But I was not born into the tribe of metalworkers or, which your people find less distasteful; less "sinful".
I am a dancer, as were my mother's people; I have herb-lore from them as well. My mother’s people came from the south of India, this is what I had from them, from near the city of Cochin. My mother’s people are -- al-Khitabi- do you know this word? "People of the Book", Jews. As am I. The Book exhorts us to give praise and worship with ". . .an instrument of ten strings, And with the psaltery, With exalted music upon the harp." {Psalms 92-93}, also that The Lord did "turn . . . my mourning into dancing;" {psalm 30}; "Let them praise His Name in the dance; Let them sing praises . . . with timbrel and harp." {Psalm 149}, and " . . .Praise Him with the blast of the shofar; Praise Him with the psaltery and harp. Praise Him with the timbrel and dance; Praise Him with stringed instruments and the flute. Praise Him with the loud-sounding cymbals; Praise Him with the clanging cymbals. . ." {Psalm 150}. And follow these exhortations they did, even unto my generation. My father's people were from the Tribe of Horse People, and Musicians.
Now, I am aware that it is not usual for a man of the Travelers to take as a wife an outsider, a gaje. But being of the al-Khitabi, as well as an entertainer, an outsider amongst outsiders, well -- let us just say that they had much in common. Their families, to their surprise, approved -- he played and sang while she danced, a good match. So they were wed. Even more unusual perhaps, was that their two families joined with a few others to make a kumpania (wagon-train). Outsider joined with outsider; after all like does call to like. They traveled to many places, this itenerant company of singers, dancers and musicians. The original company, after entertaining the Shah, they did not stop, as the Royalty had hoped, after having entertained them. The people who lived in that land did not appreciate these very strange-seeming strangers in their country. And after trading with them for their "exotic" goods, they did not want them as neighbors, and made them most unwelcome. Sometimes openly, more often in secret; our verduns had a mysterious habit of catching fire in the night. Often our traders came back from the towns that we camped outside of beaten; sometimes they did not come back, at all. After a time the kumpania hitched their verduns back up and began their long journey that continues even today. It seems that we are not welcomed as neighbors in any place that we go, save by the few people who always welcome strangers, because they are nearly strangers themselves. So we travel on and perform and do whatever trading we can. Sometimes we were lucky enough to come to a place, usually a larger city, as opposed to a small village or town, where they welcomed performers; and we would dance and sing. Sometimes for the Royalty, or Nobility, sometimes for the "common" people. That was the most fun. People would get up and dance with us. And talk with us. We had friends in some of the places that we traveled to each year. One of these places was Damascus. One of our friends here was Mukhtar Durr. He, my father and grandfather had many dealings, business and personal; they were also friends. Sometimes Mukhtar Durr would act as a go-between for our people and the World. I remember meeting him many times when I was a child, dancing for him and his household. I would like to go to his house, on the few occasions that we did leave the kumpania, I liked to look at all of the books that he had and to play with the children of his household, whom I did not see every day. Yes, many "Egyptians" do not read and write, as your people reckon such things, but my mother made sure that I learned my letters; also a tradition of her people.
A few years ago we began to hear rumblings of something terrrible happening to other kumpania, of Christian soldiers from Europe on some kind of Crusade, who were sweeping down into the Lands of the East and killing the men who did not believe as they did. The women – well, they did not want we children to hear, but we were not as deaf as not to hear what they were talking about, nor too young or stupid to figure out some of it. Some of the women were taken as “prizes” back to the barbarian north; some were left after these “Christian” men were through with them, as empty shells, as women dead, but still walking. Some of them finished the job themselves, because it would hurt less than continuing to live. That is what the whisperings were, if ever we passed the ruin of a verdun on the road; or after the patrin, signs on the road that only other Rom can read, were deciphered; or worse if we came across a survivor. If this happened the children were quickly hustled into the verdun, told, in no uncertain terms not to ask any questions. Sometimes there would be a new woman traveling with us for a time. We children did not understand all of it, but did notice a lot less traffic on the roads that we traveled. When we asked where the other kumpania were, we got no answer from the adults, but silence and sometimes a tear that escaped an adult eye.
I still do not understand how people can reclaim what was never theirs.
So there would be mourning, and then we would go on.
Sometimes when we would go to Mukhtar Durr’s house I would be called upon to dance for his household, and he seemed to like my dancing; he began to teach me some of the song of his people, and I learned some of the steps of his dances from his daughters. We always had fun when we went to Damascus. Father and Grandfather spent many an hour taking and laughing in dar al-Durr, the house of Durr.
It seemed that they had known one another for a long time, and had had some adventures together. I still do not know the whole story. I was just told that if I should ever get seperated from the kumpania within two days walk of Damascus, I should make my way to the house of Durr. I simply said "Yes, Father." and continued with my dancing or play. I had no idea that I would soon need that information.
I wonder if I should sometime ask Aba to tell me of some of these adventures. He shall, I suppose, when he finds that the time is right.
It all seemed to happen so quickly, yet every moment seemed frozen in time, such that I will never, ever forget it.
We were on the road to Damascus, when coming from the other direction came what seemed to be 100 horses with men dressed in metal upon them. Thinking back there were probably no more than twenty-five of them, the Crusaders, but there may well have been 1,000 or 10,000; my family would still be just as dead.
You can work out what happened for yourself. I made myself as small as possible, and hid in a hidey-hole in the verdun. When I was sure that it was all over, and I had no tears left, I collected what I could, remembering what my Father had told me, and started towards Damascus, and Aba.