THE SLAVE MARKET AT MARRAKESH
As to your slaves, see that ye feed them with such food as ye eat
yourselves, and clothe them with the stuff ye wear. And if they commit
a fault which ye are not willing to forgive, then sell them, for they
are the servants of Allah, and are not to be tormented.
--_Mohammed's last Address._
In the bazaars of the brass-workers and dealers in cotton goods, in the
bazaars of the saddlers and of the leather-sellers,--in short, throughout
the Kaisariyah, where the most important trade of Marrakesh is carried
on,--the auctions of the afternoon are drawing to a close. The dilals have
carried goods to and fro in a narrow path between two lines of True
Believers, obtaining the best prices possible on behalf of the dignified
merchants, who sit gravely in their boxlike shops beyond the reach of
toil. No merchant seeks custom: he leaves the auctioneers to sell for him
on commission, while he sits at ease, a stranger to elation or
disappointment, in the knowledge that the success or failure of the day's
market is decreed. Many articles have changed hands, but there is now a
greater attraction for men with money outside the limited area of the
Kaisariyah, and I think the traffic here passes before its time.
The hour of the sunset prayer is approaching. The wealthier members of the
community leave many attractive bargains unpursued, and, heedless of the
dilals' frenzied cries, set out for the Sok el Abeed. Wool market in the
morning and afternoon, it becomes the slave market on three days of the
week, in the two hours that precede the setting of the sun and the closing
of the city gates; this is the rule that holds in Red Marrakesh.
I follow the business leaders through a very labyrinth of narrow, unpaved
streets, roofed here and there with frayed and tattered palmetto-leaves
that offer some protection, albeit a scanty one, against the blazing sun.
At one of the corners where the beggars congregate and call for alms in
the name of Mulai Abd el Kader Ijjilalli, I catch a glimpse of the great
Kutubia tower, with pigeons circling round its glittering dome, and then
the maze of streets, shutting out the view, claims me again. The path is
by way of shops containing every sort of merchandise known to Moors, and
of stalls of fruit and vegetables, grateful "as water-grass to herds in
the June days." Past a turning in the crowded thoroughfare, where many
Southern tribesmen are assembled, and heavily-laden camels compel
pedestrians to go warily, the gate of the slave market looms portentous.
A crowd of penniless idlers, to whom admittance is denied, clamours
outside the heavy door, while the city urchins fight for the privilege of
holding the mules of wealthy Moors, who are arriving in large numbers in
response to the report that the household of a great wazeer, recently
disgraced, will be offered for sale. One sees portly men of the city
wearing the blue cloth selhams that bespeak wealth, country Moors who
boast less costly garments, but ride mules of easy pace and heavy price,
and one or two high officials of the Dar el Makhzan. All classes of the
wealthy are arriving rapidly, for the sale will open in a quarter of an
hour.
The portals passed, unchallenged, the market stands revealed--an open
space of bare, dry ground, hemmed round with tapia walls, dust-coloured,
crumbling, ruinous. Something like an arcade stretches across the centre
of the ground from one side to the other of the market. Roofless now and
broken down, as is the outer wall itself, and the sheds, like cattle pens,
that are built all round, it was doubtless an imposing structure in days
of old. Behind the outer walls the town rises on every side. I see mules
and donkeys feeding, apparently on the ramparts, but really in a fandak
overlooking the market. The minaret of a mosque rises nobly beside the
mules' feeding-ground, and beyond there is the white tomb of a saint, with
swaying palm trees round it. Doubtless this zowia gives the Sok el Abeed a
sanctity that no procedure within its walls can besmirch; and, to be sure,
the laws of the saint's religion are not so much outraged here as in the
daily life of many places more sanctified by popular opinion.
On the ground, by the side of the human cattle pens, the wealthy patrons
of the market seat themselves at their ease, arrange their djellabas and
selhams in leisurely fashion, and begin to chat, as though the place were
the smoking-room of a club. Water-carriers--lean, half-naked men from the
Sus--sprinkle the thirsty ground, that the tramp of slaves and auctioneers
may not raise too much dust. Watching them as they go about their work,
with the apathy born of custom and experience, I have a sudden reminder of
the Spanish bull-ring, to which the slave market bears some remote
resemblance. The gathering of spectators, the watering of the ground, the
sense of excitement, all strengthen the impression. There are no bulls in
the _torils_, but there are slaves in the pens. It may be that the bulls
have the better time. Their sufferings in life are certainly brief, and
their careless days are very long drawn out. But I would not give the
impression that the spectators here are assembled for amusement, or that
my view of some of their proceedings would be comprehensible to them.
However I may feel, the other occupants of this place are here in the
ordinary course of business, and are certainly animated by no such fierce
passions as thrill through the air of a plaza de toros. I am in the East
but of the West, and "never the twain shall meet."
[Illustration: A WATER-SELLER, MARRAKESH]
Within their sheds the slaves are huddled together. They will not face the
light until the market opens. I catch a glimpse of bright colouring now
and again, as some woman or child moves in the dim recesses of the
retreats, but there is no suggestion of the number or quality of the
penned.
Two storks sail leisurely from their nest on the saint's tomb, and a
little company of white ospreys passes over the burning market-place with
such a wild, free flight, that the contrast between the birds and the
human beings forces itself upon me. Now, however, there is no time for
such thoughts; the crowd at the entrance parts to the right and left, to
admit twelve grave men wearing white turbans and spotless djellabas. They
are the dilals, in whose hands is the conduct of the sale.
Slowly and impressively these men advance in a line almost to the centre
of the slave market, within two or three yards of the arcade, where the
wealthy buyers sit expectant. Then the head auctioneer lifts up his voice,
and prays, with downcast eyes and outspread hands. He recites the glory of
Allah, the One, who made the heaven above and the earth beneath, the sea
and all that is therein; his brethren and the buyers say Amen. He thanks
Allah for his mercy to men in sending Mohammed the Prophet, who gave the
world the True Belief, and he curses Shaitan, who wages war against Allah
and his children. Then he calls upon Sidi bel Abbas, patron saint of
Marrakesh, friend of buyers and sellers, who praised Allah so assiduously
in days remote, and asks the saint to bless the market and all who buy and
sell therein, granting them prosperity and length of days. And to these
prayers, uttered with an intensity of devotion quite Mohammedan, all the
listeners say Amen. Only to Unbelievers like myself,--to men who have
never known, or knowing, have rejected Islam,--is there aught repellent in
the approaching business; and Unbelievers may well pass unnoticed. In life
the man who has the True Faith despises them; in death they become
children of the Fire. Is it not so set down?
Throughout this strange ceremony of prayer I seem to see the bull-ring
again, and in place of the dilals the cuadrillas of the Matadors coming
out to salute, before the alguazils open the gates of the toril and the
slaying begins. The dramatic intensity of either scene connects for me
this slave market in Marrakesh with the plaza de toros in the shadow of
the Giralda tower in Sevilla. Strange to remember now and here, that the
man who built the Kutubia tower for this thousand-year-old-city of Yusuf
ben Tachfin, gave the Giralda to Andalusia.
Prayers are over--the last Amen is said. The dilals separate, each one
going to the pens he presides over, and calling upon their tenants to come
forth. These selling men move with a dignity that is quite Eastern, and
speak in calm and impressive tones. They lack the frenzied energy of their
brethren who traffic in the bazaars.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO THE SÔK EL ABEED]
Obedient to the summons, the slaves face the light, the sheds yield up
their freight, and there are a few noisy moments, bewildering to the
novice, in which the auctioneers place their goods in line, rearrange
dresses, give children to the charge of adults, sort out men and women
according to their age and value, and prepare for the promenade. The
slaves will march round and round the circle of the buyers, led by the
auctioneers, who will proclaim the latest bid and hand over any one of
their charges to an intending purchaser, that he may make his examination
before raising the price. In the procession now forming for the first
parade, five, if not six, of the seven ages set out by the melancholy
Jaques are represented. There are men and women who can no longer walk
upright, however the dilal may insist; there are others of middle age,
with years of active service before them; there are young men full of
vigour and youth, fit for the fields, and young women, moving for once
unveiled yet unrebuked, who will pass at once to the hareem. And there are
children of every age, from babies who will be sold with their mothers to
girls and boys upon the threshold of manhood and womanhood. All are
dressed in bright colours and displayed to the best advantage, that the
hearts of bidders may be moved and their purses opened widely.
"It will be a fine sale," says my neighbour, a handsome middle-aged Moor
from one of the Atlas villages, who had chosen his place before I reached
the market. "There must be well nigh forty slaves, and this is good,
seeing that the Elevated Court is at Fez. It is because our Master--Allah
send him more victories!--has been pleased to 'visit' Sidi Abdeslam, and
send him to the prison of Mequinez. All the wealth he has extorted has
been taken away from him by our Master, and he will see no more light.
Twenty or more of these women are of his house."
Now each dilal has his people sorted out, and the procession begins.
Followed by their bargains the dilals march round and round the market,
and I understand why the dust was laid before the procession commenced.
Most of the slaves are absolutely free from emotion of any sort: they move
round as stolidly as the blind-folded horses that work the water-wheels in
gardens beyond the town, or the corn mills within its gates. I think the
sensitive ones--and there are a few--must come from the household of the
unfortunate Sidi Abdeslam, who was reputed to be a good master. Small
wonder if the younger women shrink, and if the black visage seems to take
on a tint of ashen grey, when a buyer, whose face is an open defiance of
the ten commandments, calls upon the dilal to halt, and, picking one out
as though she had been one of a flock of sheep, handles her as a butcher
would, examining teeth and muscles, and questioning her and the dilal very
closely about past history and present health. And yet the European
observer must beware lest he read into incidents of this kind something
that neither buyer nor seller would recognise. Novelty may create an
emotion that facts and custom cannot justify.
[Illustration: THE SLAVE MARKET]
"Ah, Tsamanni," says my gossip from the Atlas to the big dilal who led the
prayers, and is in special charge of the children for sale, "I will speak
to this one," and Tsamanni pushes a tiny little girl into his arms. The
child kisses the speaker's hand. Not at all unkindly the Moor takes his
critical survey, and Tsamanni enlarges upon her merits.
"She does not come from the town at all," he says glibly, "but from
Timbuctoo. It is more difficult than ever to get children from there. The
accursed Nazarenes have taken the town, and the slave market droops. But
this one is desirable: she understands needlework, she will be a companion
for your house, and thirty-five dollars is the last price bid."
"One more dollar, Tsamanni. She is not ill-favoured, but she is poor and
thin. Nevertheless say one dollar more," says the Moor.
"The praise to Allah, who made the world," says the dilal piously, and
hurries round the ring, saying that the price of the child is now
thirty-six dollars, and calling upon the buyers to go higher.
I learn that the dilal's commission is two and a half per cent on the
purchase price, and there is a Government tax of five per cent. Slaves are
sold under a warranty, and are returned if they are not properly described
by the auctioneer. Bids must not be advanced by less than a Moorish dollar
(about three shillings) at a time, and when a sale is concluded a deposit
must be paid at once, and the balance on or shortly after the following
day. Thin slaves will not fetch as much money as fat ones, for corpulence
is regarded as the outward and visible sign of health as well as wealth by
the Moor.
"I have a son of my house," says the Moor from the Atlas, with a burst of
confidence quite surprising. "He is my only one, and must have a
playfellow, so I am here to buy. In these days it is not easy to get what
one wants. Everywhere the French. The caravans come no longer from
Tuat--because of the French. From Timbuctoo it is the same thing. Surely
Allah will burn these people in a fire of more than ordinary heat--a
furnace that shall never cool. Ah, listen to the prices," The little
girl's market-value has gone to forty-four dollars--say seven pounds ten
shillings in English money at the current rate of exchange. It has risen
two dollars at a time, and Tsamanni cannot quite cover his satisfaction.
One girl, aged fourteen, has been sold for no less than ninety dollars
after spirited bidding from two country kaids; another, two years older,
has gone for seventy-six.
"There is no moderation in all this," says the Atlas Moor, angrily. "But
prices will rise until our Lord the Sultan ceases to listen to the
Nazarenes, and purges the land. Because of their Bashadors we can no
longer have the markets at the towns on the coasts. If we do have one
there, it must be held secretly, and a slave must be carried in the
darkness from house to house. This is shameful for an unconquered people."
I am only faintly conscious of my companion's talk and action, as he bids
for child after child, never going beyond forty dollars. Interest centres
in the diminishing crowd of slaves who still follow the dilals round the
market in monotonous procession.
The attractive women and strong men have been sold, and have realised
good prices. The old people are in little or no demand; but the
auctioneers will persist until closing time. Up and down tramp the people
nobody wants, burdens to themselves and their owners, the useless, or
nearly useless men and women whose lives have been slavery for so long as
they can remember. Even the water-carrier from the Sus country, who has
been jingling his bright bowls together since the market opened, is moved
to compassion, for while two old women are standing behind their dilal,
who is talking to a client about their reserve price, I see him give them
a free draught from his goat-skin water-barrel, and this kind action seems
to do something to freshen the place, just as the mint and the roses of
the gardeners freshen the alleys near the Kaisariyah in the heart of the
city. To me, this journey round and round the market seems to be the
saddest of the slaves' lives--worse than their pilgrimage across the
deserts of the Wad Nun, or the Draa, in the days when they were carried
captive from their homes, packed in panniers upon mules, forced to travel
by night, and half starved. For then at least they were valued and had
their lives before them, now they are counted as little more than the
broken-down mules and donkeys left to rot by the roadside. And yet this,
of course, is a purely Western opinion, and must be discounted
accordingly.
It is fair to say that auctioneers and buyers treat the slaves in a manner
that is not unkind. They handle them just as though they were animals
with a market value that ill-treatment will diminish, and a few of the
women are brazen, shameless creatures--obviously, and perhaps not
unwisely, determined to do the best they can for themselves in any
surroundings. These women are the first to find purchasers. The unsold
adults and little children seem painfully tired; some of the latter can
hardly keep pace with the auctioneer, until he takes them by the hand and
leads them along with him. Moors, as a people, are wonderfully kind to
children.
The procedure never varies. As a client beckons and points out a slave,
the one selected is pushed forward for inspection, the history is briefly
told, and if the bidding is raised the auctioneer, thanking Allah, who
sends good prices, hurries on his way to find one who will bid a little
more. On approaching an intending purchaser the slave seizes and kisses
his hand, then releases it and stands still, generally indifferent to the
rest of the proceedings.
[Illustration: DILALS IN THE SLAVE MARKET]
"It is well for the slaves," says the Atlas Moor, rather bitterly, for the
fifth and last girl child has gone up beyond his limit. "In the Mellah or
the Madinah you can get labour for nothing, now the Sultan is in Fez.
There is hunger in many a house, and it is hard for a free man to find
food. But slaves are well fed. In times of famine and war free men die;
slaves are in comfort. Why then do the Nazarenes talk of freeing slaves,
as though they were prisoners, and seek to put barriers against the
market, until at last the prices become foolish? Has not the Prophet
said, 'He who behaveth ill to his slave shall not enter into Paradise'?
Does that not suffice believing people? Clearly it was written, that my
little Mohammed, my first born, my only one, shall have no playmate this
day. No, Tsamanni: I will bid no more. Have I such store of dollars that I
can buy a child for its weight in silver?"
The crowd is thinning now. Less than ten slaves remain to be sold, and I
do not like to think how many times they must have tramped round the
market. Men and women--bold, brazen, merry, indifferent--have passed to
their several masters; all the children have gone; the remaining oldsters
move round and round, their shuffling gait, downcast eyes, and melancholy
looks in pitiful contrast to the bright clothes in which they are dressed
for the sale, in order that their own rags may not prejudice purchasers.
Once again the storks from the saint's tomb pass over the market in large
wide flight, as though to tell the story of the joy of freedom. It is the
time of the evening promenade. The sun is setting rapidly and the sale is
nearly at an end.
"Forty-one dollars--forty-one," cries the dilal at whose heels the one
young and pretty woman who has not found a buyer limps painfully. She is
from the Western Soudan, and her big eyes have a look that reminds me of
the hare that was run down by the hounds a few yards from me on the
marshes at home in the coursing season.
"Why is the price so low?" I ask.
"She is sick," said the Moor coolly: "she cannot work--perhaps she will
not live. Who will give more in such a case? She is of kaid Abdeslam's
household, though he bought her a few weeks before his fall, and she must
be sold. But the dilal can give no warranty, for nobody knows her
sickness. She is one of the slaves who are bought by the dealers for the
rock salt of El Djouf."
Happily the woman seems too dull or too ill to feel her own position. She
moves as though in a dream--a dream undisturbed, for the buyers have
almost ceased to regard her. Finally she is sold for forty-three dollars
to a very old and infirm man.
"No slaves, no slaves," says the Atlas Moor impatiently: "and in the town
they are slow to raise them." I want an explanation of this strange
complaint.
"What do you mean when you say they are slow to raise them," I ask.
"In Marrakesh now," he explains, "dealers buy the healthiest slaves they
can find, and raise as many children by them as is possible. Then, so soon
as the children are old enough to sell, they are sold, and when the
mothers grow old and have no more children, they too are sold, but they do
not fetch much then."
This statement takes all words from me, but my informant sees nothing
startling in the case, and continues gravely: "From six years old they are
sold to be companions, and from twelve they go to the hareems. Prices are
good--too high indeed; fifty-four dollars I must have paid this afternoon
to purchase one, and when Mulai Mohammed reigned the price would have
been twenty, or less, and for that one would have bought fat slaves. Where
there is one caravan now, there were ten of old times."
Only three slaves now, and they must go back to their masters to be sent
to the market on another day, for the sun is below the horizon, the market
almost empty, and the guards will be gathering at the city gates. Two
dilals make a last despairing promenade, while their companions are busy
recording prices and other details in connection with the afternoon's
business. The purchased slaves, the auctioneer's gaudy clothing changed
for their own, are being taken to the houses of their masters. We who live
within the city walls must hasten now, for the time of gate-closing is
upon us, and one may not stay outside.
It has been a great day. Many rich men have attended personally, or by
their agents, to compete for the best favoured women of the household of
the fallen kaid, and prices in one or two special cases ran beyond forty
pounds (English money), so brisk was the bidding.
Outside the market-place a country Moor of the middle class is in charge
of four young boy slaves, and is telling a friend what he paid for them. I
learn that their price averaged eleven pounds apiece in English
currency--two hundred and eighty dollars altogether in Moorish money, that
they were all bred in Marrakesh by a dealer who keeps a large
establishment of slaves, as one in England might keep a stud farm, and
sells the children as they grow up. The purchaser of the quartette is
going to take them to the North. He will pass the coming night in a
fandak, and leave as soon after daybreak as the gates are opened. Some ten
days' travel on foot will bring him to a certain city, where his
merchandise should fetch four hundred dollars. The lads do not seem to be
disturbed by the sale, or by thoughts of their future, and the dealer
himself seems to be as near an approach to a commercial traveller as I
have seen in Morocco. To him the whole transaction is on a par with
selling eggs or fruit, and while he does not resent my interest, he does
not pretend to understand it.
From the minaret that overlooks the mosque the mueddin calls for the
evening prayer; from the side of the Kutubia Tower and the minaret of Sidi
bel Abbas, as from all the lesser mosques, the cry is taken up. Lepers
pass out of the city on their way to Elhara; beggars shuffle off to their
dens; storks standing on the flat house-tops survey the familiar scene
gravely but with interest. Doubtless the dilals and all who sent their
slaves to the market to be sold this afternoon will respond to the
mueddins' summons with grateful hearts, and Sidi bel Abbas, patron saint
of Red Marrakesh, will hardly go unthanked.
GREEN TEA AND POLITICS
[Illustration: ON THE HOUSE-TOP, MARRAKESH]