Jawhara could still recall that Ibn Kiran’s house was modest and dark; it had a wooden door like that of an old bathhouse or a deserted garden in a village far removed from the city quarters. Its wooden lock only worked from the inside. The old door had a hole in it through which you inserted your hand to open the lock. Beyond the door was a long, dark corridor ending in a small, dimly lit hallway. In a corner directly opposite the doorway was a wooden bench with some old, threadbare pelts on it, upon which sat a human pile of flesh and fat, wrapped in a variety of jallabas that might be white or black, only distinguishable by a flushed face enveloped in old rags whose only purpose was to keep the bloated red face warm. This was Ibn Kiran, the slave dealer.
Over sixty years old, he was a short, podgy man with a white beard and a loud voice that could instil fear into the ears of his listeners whenever he chose to raise it. The unfortunate people who had fallen into his clutches could be made even more frightened when he became angry: his blood would start churning, his nostrils would flare, his eyes would bulge, and his face would turn scarlet. Then he would froth at the mouth, and spittle would fly from his wrinkled, toothless gums.
He may have been quick to anger, irritable, and given to much shouting, but he would soon calm down: his features would relax, and he would start smiling. This would particularly be the case when he spotted a new customer, or one of his many guests. The general view was that a ready temper was one of the requisites for a slave dealer; his aim was to teach the slave how to obey, accept orders, and show an awareness of their humiliation. His method involved raising his voice and yelling threats whenever one of the arrivals in the house of Ibn Kiran was about to do something that was not to the great slave dealer’s liking.
Jawhara could still remember that day when the horseman handed her over to Ibn Kiran.
The door was opened in her face by means of a knotted rope held by a man sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench. This happened as soon as he heard the horseman banging on the ancient wooden door. After welcoming her, he pulled her towards him without even budging from his seat. The way he was sitting cross-legged made him look like he couldn’t walk; either that, or else the sheer bulk of his body made movement impossible. He pulled her gently and then grabbed her head between his fingers, which still had enough power in them; it was as though he were handling a costly piece of goods. He turned her head towards him and looked at her face and features with the expert eye of someone assessing value. He then checked her entire body from head to toe, allowing his eyes to pause for a while on her breasts. Next he turned her round to inspect her posture from the back, pausing for a while to check her buttocks. Eventually he grabbed her by the shoulders, acknowledging that she was sound and healthy. Yelling for one of the women in this remarkable household, he gave her a gentle push and instructed the woman to look after her and see to her clothing and especially her hair. Saada – the woman’s name – took her by the hand and led her to a room where she asked what her own name and family name was, and who had been her previous owner. It was clear that Jawhara did not understand the notion of a previous owner, so she did not respond to that part of the question, but Saada kept pestering her with questions that she could not understand.
‘Why did he throw you out?’ she asked. ‘What led him to sell you?’
These were all words Jawhara was hearing for the very first time, and the way they kept battering her mind only made her feel more miserable and at a loss.
She could not understand this continuing stream of transfer from one place to another, nor was she aware of the secret of this strange household. She had not understood what the horseman and the fat man sitting cross-legged on the bench in the courtyard were talking about. The strange movements that the man had used in exploring her face, chest, and back seemed peculiar to her. The conversation with this woman only increased her confusion; she kept using the words ‘master’ and ‘sale’. Saada did not wait for a detailed reply, but told her firmly to take off her clothes and handed her some threadbare rags.
‘Put these on for a bit while you’re washing your clothes.’
Saada then turned her attention to the girl’s hair and body. It all reminded Jawhara of the care and attention that her own mother gave her. Within this remarkable household she now opened her eyes to find an aggregation of women and girls of a variety of ages and complexions, from pink to black and white. They were all involved in household chores, shuddering in terror at the huge figure of the master who never left his place on the wooden bench. His eyes were always watching, and he kept up a non-stop stream of shouts, screams, and threats, upbraiding someone here and admonishing someone else there. Woe betided any woman who disobeyed him. The whip hanging on the wall behind his back could easily undertake the task of bringing her back to the straight and narrow path of obedience.
Jawhara tried to get closer to the group of women who used to gather for an evening of chatter in their communal space whenever the master chose to leave them alone. But she was so young that they all looked down on her and refused to let her sit with them. Even so, she was curious and attentive enough that scarcely a word uttered by one or another of the women escaped her notice.
The evening chatter usually involved discussion of the day’s more trivial events, but the topic that most interested the women concerned the households of various masters, their treatment of servants, and the relationship of the mistress of their house to the servants. One of them spoke about the sheer uncouthness of the mistress and the jealousy that had churned her insides ever since the new maid had entered the household.
Another woman told them all about the fierce degree of supervision that her mistress had imposed upon her since she joined the household, to such an extent that she would almost never let her be alone with the master, even if it were to provide some service for him.
The third of them described how brutal the master was to her, punishing her for the most trivial mistake or the flimsiest rumour.
The fourth woman spoke in a whisper, cackling gleefully as she did so. Her eyes gleamed and her body shook as she told them what had happened, but unfortunately she was whispering so quietly that Jawhara could not make out what it was she was saying.
During these soirees Jawhara listened to many entertaining stories about the conflicts between masters and servants, hearing how servants would undertake to avenge themselves for their own honour and humanity. But eventually they would come back to the house of Ibn Kiran, from where they would be transferred into the hands of another master with whom (and with whose wife) they would play exactly the same role. It was always the same fate – one of them could count on her fingers the number of times she crossed the threshold of Ibn Kiran the slave dealer.
During these sessions the words ‘love’ and ‘passion’ would be uttered by some of the women, and the others would laugh happily. The younger ones would lean coquettishly over and hug each other gently in their arms. These gestures would have an emotional effect on the assembly, and everyone would then laugh so loud that it almost echoed. Sly comments, which were incomprehensible unless they were accompanied by eye gestures and raised eyebrows, would follow. This particular topic might arouse the anger of some of the more elderly women present; they would scold the younger ones, accuse them of immodesty, and threaten to tell Ibn Kiran about it.
From these conversations Jawhara learned a little about her own fate. The entire group occupied a single room, and the talk was all about masters and servants, buying and selling, the whip which would set on fire the back of any servant who was disobedient, and the revenge that would be wreaked on any servant-woman who tried to flirt with the master or whom the master himself found attractive.
It was a world of misery, trial, and degradation, one where slave trading became a means of solving problems.
Jawhara’s dreams became nightmares as she listened to these women sharing their stories in these evening sessions.
From time to time she would hear a harsh yell from Ibn Kiran, as he summoned a servant-woman or maid. After putting herself to rights and maybe dressing herself in the best clothes she had, the woman would respond. The hearts and eyes of all the servant-women would now be focused on peeping through cracks in the door to find out what was going on. They would come back and whisper to each other about the new visitors. Jawhara would pick up bits of their conversation: ‘he’s a young man’, ‘he’s good-looking’, ‘he’s rich’, ‘if only I had your luck!’, and so on. She was not able to look through the cracks in the door herself and did not dare imitate their behaviour, so she had no idea what was actually happening with Ibn Kiran. Frequently one of the women would disappear and then come back after a few days because, after a period of trial, she did not satisfy the new master or mistress. Or she might disappear for good, to be replaced by another, indeed many others. In the space of a couple of weeks droves of women and girls passed through this incredible house, but only a few would stay there for long, and most of these would be elderly.
One morning in the third week she heard a loud yell from the master.
‘Aisha, Aisha!’
This was the name her father had given her before she was named Jawhara. She responded to the call in a panic and stood in front of the slave trader without noticing that there was another man sitting on the wooden bench beside him. The slave trader gave her an angry look as he told her to kiss the man’s hand. Turning in his direction, she kissed his hand bashfully, then stood there panting nervously, her head lowered. She was still shuddering from the shock of Ibn Kiran’s sudden summons, which had caught her unawares. She now turned and looked at the man who was examining her closely.
‘What’s your name, little girl?’ he asked.
‘Aisha, sir.’
‘What’s the name of your previous owner? Were you a servant in Fez, or somewhere else?’
She obviously did not understand what he meant.
‘Yes,’ she replied, unable to think of anything else to say. ‘I worked at home with my mother and looked after the sheep too.’
The man laughed at her naivety, while Ibn Kiran explained, ‘She’s fresh. She was kidnapped from her village and brought to market. Believe me, Hajj, sir, she’s precious goods. Under your care and in your hands she will grow and develop. Your wife will be delighted with her. Give it a try, for just a few days. You’ll be helping me. She’s a simple girl, completely unspoiled.’
Hajj Muhammad turned and examined her closely from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Now he had an entirely different expression on his face. He kept smiling as he touched her face, shoulders, and hands, and looked at her chest, focusing with particular interest on her breasts. Grabbing hold of one of her hands, he turned her around roughly so he could look at her back and buttocks. All the while, Ibn Kiran was making comments and offering explanations, while Aisha had no idea of what was being said.
Ibn Kiran signalled to Aisha to go back to the room. The girls and women who had been watching everything through the peephole now bombarded her with questions, but she had no idea how to respond to them.
A few moments later she heard another summons from Ibn Kiran and stood in front of him again. He told her to get ready to depart immediately. Leaving this extraordinary place, she accompanied her new master to his house, the household of Hajj Muhammad al-Tihami.