By Erin Byrne
The creases on the man’s forehead are shadowed in the firelight but the skin over his cheekbones is smooth, the color of caramel. He begins to speak in the language of his own Berber tribe, sounds rolling up through his throat. He punctuates the end of his sentences sharply and lifts his chin for emphasis. When he leans forward on his cane, his cape flurries, then settles on his shoulders.
His mighty voice booms as he tells stories of kings, and his eyes mirror sparks that spray from the fire.
The storyteller raises his hands in a wide arc, and the colors of his cloak flash: scarlet, cobalt, saffron, green. His eyebrows dart together; the king is angry. He scowls and points; he sends his advisor away.
It is the year 400 BC. On this dark night, through a canopy of sky, stars illuminate the undulating hills of the Middle Atlas Mountains. In a wide, flat area, a group of people are circled, their attention riveted to this man, the keeper of legends, the teller of tales of lessons learned in humility, loyalty, generosity, and love. Different tribes have recently joined together to form the kingdom of Mauritania; now they are one and they look to him to create a common history.
The storyteller took my hand and offered both cheeks, smooth under my lips. In the year 2015, he had been telling stories for fifty-six years or over two thousand, depending upon one’s belief.
Haj seemed to be woven of the ancient and the modern. He embodied stories the Berbers told centuries ago and looked the picture of a traditional Hakawati, but he often pulled out his phone or sat, elbows on knees, dragging on a cigarette like the Moroccan Marlboro Man. But when Haj told a story, time and distance morphed and language was transcended.
