Through a half-open window overlooking the main street in Hajj’s three-story house, Itto was watching the hustle and bustle on the street. It was around 10 am. Six young men were putting up a commodious tent in front of her house. Two others got busy unloading boxes of food and soda from an open lorry. She could not exactly say what types of food they were carrying because she did not want to open the window so far for fear someone would recognize her. In Tizi N Osman Village, no male could see a bride on the day of her wedding. The evil eyes would put a curse her if she dared to break the unwritten, whispered rule. For the rest of her life, her body and soul belonged to one and only one person. She had to honor him by all means.

As it was always the case in Tizi N Osman, a small village in the Middle Atlas Mountains, the wedding ceremony would be a weeklong busy affair. Starting from that morning, drivers would have to detour down another street because the big tent blocked the traffic in front of the house. Through the closed door, Itto could hear her mother’s voice in the kitchen, shouting instructions to Lalla Haniya and Lalla Maymouna, the two best cooks in the village. Itto had met them a number of times at the parties organized in her house and knew that their reputation was well earned. Hajja Tuda, her mother, asked the cooks to prepare huge quantities of food because no limit had been placed on the number of guests. They must be ready to receive guests coming from outside the village and the number of people accompanying the groom would certainly exceed their expectations. Every member of Itto’s family was running around, busy doing something or the other. Her elder brother, Omar, was helping two butchers slaughter one fat cow and two horned rams. Her aunt, Fadma, was polishing cups and glasses and arranging them on large trays. Her two cousins were tidying up the rooms downstairs. Her frail grandmother was brewing mint tea in the large house yard, welcoming early guests as they arrived.

Itto closed the window and walked barefoot back and forth in the room nearly wearing a path in the brightly colored Berber carpet and talking loudly to herself. She knew that girls were getting ready to accompany her to the Hammam, but she did not look forward to that ordeal. She would rather sleep through the whole thing or wander among trees in Targa, a peaceful, green open space located two kilometers from her village. In truth, her father’s decision to get her married had demoralized and embittered her. For a week now, she was burning with hate for everyone and everything.

She threw herself down on a chair, trying to relax and gain her composure. Her room was in complete disorder. Close to her, on the left, her trousseau lay across the bed, a pile of her new robes, linens and two cotton blankets. Her new white caftan was on a hanger behind the door. On the floor in front of the bed were big plates of biscuits and dates. Her mother stored them in that room to make sure no one would touch them before the guests’ arrival.

Itto rose to her feet and walked forward and nearly tripped over a plate of Kaab el Ghazal, Gazelle Horns, Itto’s favorite crescent-shaped sugary cookies. Usually, she enjoyed eating them at parties and feasts. But not today. A big buzzing wasp kept spiraling around that plate. She ripped off the shrink wrap to let the wasp enjoy them. But it just spun around and around the room until it bumped into the window. Itto bowed her head. She then opened the window, careful not to show her face, and let the wasp out. When it disappeared, she felt a twinge of envy inside her. She wished somebody would shatter the walls of her room and let her fly like the wasp. She wanted to go away from this place and leave everything behind.

She slammed the window with a bang and deliberately knocked the plate of Gazelle Horns over. “I hate Kaab el Ghazal. No more Kaab el Ghazal in my life! I want to get out of here. Out!” she shouted. She stopped in front of her big mirror hanging on the side of her wardrobe. She wanted to jump on the person reflected in front of her, wrap her furious finger around her neck and strangle her. But she knew she could not do that and so she just stood still and stared at the woman trapped in the mirror. It seemed to her as if her reflection stared harshly at her, judged her and Itto felt a crying shame deep in the pit of her stomach. Like a flock of crows pecking away at her head, thousands of questions attacked her conscience: What if he finds out and rejects me? Shall I tell him before I go to his house? Or shall I tell Hajj first? No! Thousands of nos! Hajj, no way! He would give my head to the mosque. You don’t know Hajj, do you? If he knew, that would be my last day in this life. The pain of all those pecking questions and accusations, or more accurately, of deep thinking squeezed a stream of tears from her eyes and down her dreadfully livid cheeks.

She spent long terrifying moments in pensive silence before the door of her room burst open. She jumped out of her skin when Hajja Tuda entered, carrying a new plate of Gazelle Horns in her hands. She put it on top of a plate of dates and walked towards Itto, who was still gazing at the mirror. Hajja Tuda gave her a reproachful look and asked her to stop crying. Itto grabbed a napkin on the floor and hastily wiped the tears from her eyes. She walked to her bed and sat down.

“Are you ready for the Hammam?” Hajja Tuda said, standing in front of Itto. Itto remained silent, hiding her face in her hands. “Why are you looking so gloomy on your day? Cheer up! Many girls are impatiently waiting for that day to celebrate themselves. You seem like you are going to a funeral,” Hajja Tuda said, holding Itto’s hands in hers. Itto sntached her hands and burst into tears. Trying to calm her down, the mother caressed her long black hair. “What’s wrong this time, my liver?” she said.
“I want to be alone. That’s all! I feel I’m dying.”
“What are you talking about? No one says that on her day. Stop acting crazy.”
“I’m not acting, I feel crazy. Not knowing how he’ll treat me tortures me. I’ll be the village joke.”
“Here we go again with the same petty problem. I’ve told you a thousand times to forget it.”
“Petty! My life depends on it! Forget it? I am haunted by it!” Itto started pummeling the bed with the pillow.
“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Once the wedding is over, he won’t think about a little drop of blood. Look at yourself in the mirror. You look as beautiful as a gazelle. He’s going to take you to Fez and he will forget all about it. Anyway, people in the city no longer care about these few drops of blood. Come on, you’ll have a new life with your own kids. You’re going to be a mother like me. Cheer up! Stand tall and be ills n Ait Atta, a daughter of the people of Atta!”

Hajja Tuda was trying to stay calm and encouraging, but she was worried that Itto might take her whole family down a road of shame. She then went down on her knees and started to cover the open plate of gazelle horns. “Why did you unwrap this plate? I’ve spent a long time preparing them. If you want some cookies, I’ll bring them. Don’t touch these plates. They’re for the guests,” Hajja Tuda said in a loud voice that tried to cover her rising panic while trying to rearrange the cookies.
Itto walked towards the mirror. She looked at herself and ignoring her mother’s comment, calmly said, “Shall I send somebody to tell him right now?”
Hajja Tuda stood up and rushed to her. She held her hand tightly, “You’ve lost your mind. Listen to me! Zip your lip and be ready for the Hammam. Girls are waiting for you. Dry your eyes and be quick!”
Itto’s misty grey eyes stared at the mirror for a while before she said in a loud voice. “I’ll tell him before I go there.”
“Hshouma! Shame! Do you want the village to laugh at us? What about the reputation of the family, of Hajj? Foolish girl! You certainly don’t take after your mum,” said Hajja Tuda as she went out, slamming the door behind her.

Mortified, Itto stared again at herself in the mirror. She imagined she heard her reflection yelling at her, calling her a slut and a harlot and every form of shame. “Hshouma! Damn hshouma to see myself caught in this shameful situation. I wished I were dead before that day. No one would believe it was a moment of weakness, the act of an innocent gullible girl. He promised to marry me, son of a whore. I swear he had promised me. I shouldn’t have trusted him. It’s too late now, worthless dirty girl! Why, my God! Why me? I hate this life. I want to go away!” she spat on the mirror and burst into tears of frustration and disgust.

A few minutes later, she raised her head and drew a long breath. She kept looking at the mirror as if she was going to give a speech rehearsal. She snapped sharply, pointing at herself in the mirror, “No, no, a thousand nos shall I tell him. I swear I’ll tell the whole world. I’m not a virgin. Yes, I’m not a virgin. This is my damned fate. Why should I be ashamed? Hajj can go to hell. Yes, he should get off my back! To hell with their damn mark of honor! This is my damn life. Yes, I’ll tell him the moment I arrive.”

She then remembered the rituals she was used to performing on both stressful and happy occasions. She let her long black hair cascade down her shoulders and pressed the play button of her big tape recorder on a dresser near the wardrobe. The sound of the Oudaden band boomed out and Itto started to sing along the song of “Laman Ur illa,” There’s No Trust. She knew the song by heart. In fact, she had memorized all the songs of Abdellah Lfwa, her favourite Amazigh singer and she often sang them to female friends who expressed their great admiration at the beauty and passion of her singing. Her ringing voice grew even louder than the band and tears began to wet her face again. When she heard the second song, she started to roam around the room, dancing and singing with Abdellah Lfwa as if performing on stage. She raised her arms and began shaking her waist and jiggling her breasts. She extended her arms to the mirror and wanted to dance a duet with her reflection. Suddenly, she stopped abruptly and yelled, “I can’t! No, I can’t do it!”

She hit the off button of the recorder and stared at the mirror once again. She spat on her reflection and kicked the plate of Gazelle Horns lying on the floor. Then, she slumped down onto the bed her face down, crying like a baby. When she heard the girls of the village behind the bedroom door calling out her name, she rushed to the window and opened it. And just as the door opened and a group of beautifully dressed girls appeared, singing songs of the Henna ceremony, she threw herself out of the window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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