The Shadows of Ghadames by Joelle Stolz Page A

slipping a burning wick inside the container.
    For a brief moment, the glow of the flame outlines his angular jaw and his aquiline nose, and I feel a violent pang in my heart. I realize how much I will miss him during this trip, more than ever before. He straightens up, throwing the thick pleats of his burnoose behind his shoulder. Then he looks at me, his intense gaze making me feel like a real person, not like a child whom people caress without seeing.
    “Look after yourself, Malika, and take care of your mother.”
    He has never spoken to me like this before.
    When we come out of the kitchen, the rooftops of Ghadames are cast in a pink light, their pointy, whitewashed triangular corners jutting up in the sky. The slender crescent of the moon is barely visible, like a brushstroke in a lighter color above the palm grove.
    “We live in a very ancient city,” says my father softly. “Don't ever forget that.”
    I summon my courage. “Papa, please let me come with you to the entrance of the city. I really want to see the departure of the caravan. Up on the city walls you can hardly make out anything. It's too far away!”
    “But you're just a girl! I am the one who gets to gowith our father,” comes a voice. “Your place is with the women.”
    From behind us, Jasim's voice gives us a start. So he has finally gotten out of bed. He never leaves me in peace, always harping on the fact that I am “just a girl.” It's his favorite refrain, and he whistles it between his teeth with a mocking air as soon as our mothers are out of earshot. “I am going to travel, I am going to drive caravans, I'll be going to Kano and Timbuktu, and all the way to Mecca and Istanbul! While you, you're going to stay right here and never go anywhere!”
    But I know how to make him mad too. I contort my face in various ways without saying a word until he runs away. He is terrified by my grimaces. You would think I was no longer his sister but a creature come out of the darkness, a ghoul, a horrible ogress who eats children. But here, in front of my father, I don't dare make faces. And this morning, Jasim looks too much like his mother, with his mischievous eyes and his high, prominent, dark forehead. How could I get mad at Bilkisu?
    “Since you are the two children God has given me,” my father declares, “both of you will come.”
    I hardly have time to jump for joy before my mother reprimands me. She heard my father's pronouncement and I know she doesn't approve. A slight frown, a crease in the corner of her mouth, tells me her thoughts.
    “Go downstairs and get dressed, both of you. Malika, your hair is a mess,” she says.
    I obey halfheartedly, and linger at the top of the stairs in the hope of hearing what she will say to my father. I know it's naughty, but I don't care….
    “Do you think that's good for your daughter?” my mother asks calmly, with no trace of anger. “Malika will be twelve years old this coming Ramadan. Soon, much sooner than you think, she won't set foot in the street anymore; our rooftops will be the only country where she'll be allowed to travel. That's the way it has always been for the women of Ghadames and that's the way it will always be. We'll only be giving her false hopes and pointless regrets, if you agree to take her beyond the city walls this morning.”
    I have never heard my mother speak at such length. My father is silent. Then he sighs.
    “You're probably right. Twelve years old, already.” He lowers his voice. “At that age, weren't you almost married, Meriem, to my great joy?”
    I see my mother look up at him, smiling, and I go down the stairs quickly, my throat tightening as I hold back tears.
    Bilkisu immediately understands. She is waiting for me, with a big wooden comb and a small jar of oil to use on my thick, curly mop of hair.
    “Don't worry, Malika. You'll learn that we have our own way of traveling, and that it takes us much farther than the desert tracks.”
    “How is it possible