The horse's hooves thundered past me, kicking up ash and sparks from the roaring bonfire. A dozen jet black Arabian steeds, adorned with maroon leather saddles and bright festive pompoms, raced around again, as the audience ululated and drummed under the vast desert sky. Exhilarated, I caught a glimpse of my aunt’s ebony hair and gleaming teeth as she whizzed by, a blur of white thigh and proud black boot firmly in the stirrup.
Aunt Silvana reminds me of Lilith, Adam’s first wife. Since she would not lie down beneath him, Lilith was expelled from the Garden of Eden. First demonized as the untamed woman, Lilith is now known as the goddess of radical self-empowerment, according to astrologer Adama Sessay.
Silvana was the paragon of an independent woman living in Italy in the 60s. She only married once - her husband committed suicide by throwing himself out of a window just a couple of months after the wedding. Now ninety-three, living in a hospice facility outside of Milan, after traveling all over the world by herself, even though partially blind. She combined La Vita Dolce with La Vida Loca, racing her MGM around the dappled hillsides of Pozzol Groppo, drinking dry martinis, eating endless pasta, smoking cigarettes, and popping pills. Like Lilith, she lived fiercely, fully, and always on her own terms.
It had been a long, dusty bus ride from our plush hotel in Tunis to the full moon festival at the oasis. The bus had been crammed with people, packed with their kids, shopping, and other belongings, while muslim prayer music continuously wailed over the constant conversations, adding to the cacaphony.
Once there, we met a snake charmer who pulled a tongue-flicking cobra out of a woven basket. He casually draped the hooded serpent around my twelve-year-old neck, popped his red fez on my head, and laughed at my shocked face as he casually put his hot hand across my chest while tourists nonchalantly clicked their Kodaks. Nearby, women draped in saffron silks crouched by adobe ovens, busily kneading dough, their beaded bracelets jangling. These little loaves of bread were the only thing I’d eat, repulsed by the bowls of what my brother assured me was steaming camel hump meat.
The next day, we wandered around the bazaar, admiring the brass pots and copper trays, piles of oriental rugs, and enjoying the fragrances of cumin, cinnamon, and turmeric in the tangy air. Crowds of people jostled through the stalls, bartering furiously with the merchants, arms raised in the air, making magic gestures to conjure the right bargain. We entered a striped tent filled with an array of sparkling jewelry. I was entranced by a silver filigree ball that had a dangling Hamsa, the Hand of Fatimah. I had always loved jewelry, and the exquisite craftwork sang to me. I turned to ask my Dad if he would buy it for me.
“You like?” said a big bearded man in a cream robe, who pulled me over onto his lap. “How much for your daughter?” He asked my Dad, who just laughed. “I have many camels, many!” he insisted. As he squeezed me closer, I could smell his greasy skin. I pried myself off, somehow escaped the labyrinth of the market, and ran back to the hotel, furious.
“What’s wrong, my little monkey?” Aunt Silvana had found me brooding in the shade by the cool, quiet pool. As I poured out my rage, dismay, and disbelief, she simply held my hands, her dark brown eyes moist as she listened. “I’m glad you got away,” was all she said.
As we departed home to Luxembourg, there at the noisy airport, in a little souvenir kiosk, was the same Hamsa pendant on its fine silver chain. I counted out the last of my dinars, feeling smug and satisfied as I slipped the cool chain around my neck, filigree ball dangling on my chest, healing hand protecting my heart.
