In the Midst of Life

dressed as one of them, and gone into the souks alone, something that few English women would dare to do, she told me.
    ‘It was the time of the French Protectorate, you know.’
    No, I didn’t know. What did ‘Protectorate’ mean?
    ‘It really means domination. “What is it worth to you, if I don’t blow up your country?”’
    ‘That sounds dreadful.’
    ‘It’s common enough. All powerful countries do it, expanding their empires. But it wasn’t all bad. The French did a lot for Morocco, and a lot for me, indirectly, because it meant that I could converse with the women in the markets in French.’
    ‘Tell me about it, please. I’m dying to hear.’
    ‘Well, you have to get used to being woken up in the middle of the night by the muezzins’ calls to prayer, cried out from the mosques.’
    ‘The whatzzins?’
    ‘The muezzins, the callers.’
    ‘What sort of call?’
    A noise like animals howling. It’s their religion. I can’t go along with it, myself. All religions are a lot of cant, in my opinion.’
    She sniffedscornfully.
    ‘And you have to get used to never seeing a woman. I was about the only woman in the streets. If the women left their riads at all, they had to do so in groups, for mutual protection, I suppose, though I must say I was always alone, and none of the men molested me.’
    ‘What is a riad?’
    ‘An enclosed dwelling. It’s a kind of central courtyard with the dwelling areas all around it. I always thought this arrangement was a way of keeping the women locked up, but the men reckoned it was to protect them. There’s a very fine line to be drawn between protection and domination, you know.’
    ‘Tell me about the men.’
    ‘Well, they go around in these djellabas – long gowns with pointed hoods. Half of them look like Jesus Christ, and the other half look like Judas. I don’t think I ever spoke to a man unless my husband was present. Women couldn’t.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. Religion, perhaps. I wasn’t going to risk it. I wandered around alone and spoke to the women, but I thought I might be publicly stoned if I spoke to a man.’
    ‘Oh, surely not!’
    ‘Well, perhaps not. Perhaps I exaggerate. But I assure you, a woman could be stoned to death for adultery. Religion again! Let’s go out into the garden, dear. The sun’s come out, and you can help me to weed the rockery. It’s not often I get help. Evelyn won’t so much as lift a fork or a trowel.’
    I reckoned that Evelyn probably did quite enough, earning the money, but kept my thoughts to myself.
    Whilst we weeded, Mrs Cunningham continued:
    ‘The women did all the work in Morocco, as far as I could judge. “Women and donkeys always go heavy laden”, and by God, did they! Massive loads on their backs, and miles to walk. And if the woman had a baby on her back, the load would be carried on her head. Very often a strong young lad, a boy of fourteen or so, would walk beside her, carrying nothing. Though I must say a man would push a barrow or a truck. But he would never be seencarrying anything. He would lose face with the other men, you see.’
    ‘You were going to tell me about the markets.’
    ‘Ah yes. The souks. Fascinating. You would never see the likes here. Produce, food, animals, carpets, jewellery, ornaments – thousands of things brought in from miles around by donkey, and laid out on the sun-baked earth. Piles of fruit, fish, vegetables, meat, just stacked up on the ground. Great mounds of rice or lentils piled on a sack and weighed out by the bucket full. Meat, offal, lights, liver, brains laid on a sack, and swarming with flies, and the water seller going up and down, ringing his bell. Oh, it was wonderful! Here, for once, the women were in command, because they were the buyers. The men were the sellers, and in any economy the purchaser has the upper hand. I could have watched them for hours – the men wheedling and whining, the women firm and controlled. And the women always won.’
    She leaned back on her heels and gazed up at the trees. ‘Oh, I’ve had a great life. I don’t know of any other European woman who dared to go alone into the souks, but I did. The colours, the smell of the spices, and the donkeys, the sun, and always the High Atlas mountains, snow-covered, in the distance.’
    It sounded dreamy to me. I wanted to burst out of the constraint of my nurse’s training and take the first boat to Morocco. The very name of the country inspired dreams. But