{"id":10975,"date":"2022-10-31T09:00:57","date_gmt":"2022-10-31T07:00:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=10975"},"modified":"2022-12-25T11:38:27","modified_gmt":"2022-12-25T09:38:27","slug":"celebrating-mawlid-an-nabaoui-with-stambeli-trance-in-tunis","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/celebrating-mawlid-an-nabaoui-with-stambeli-trance-in-tunis\/","title":{"rendered":"Celebrating Mawlid An-Nabaoui with Stambeli Trance in Tunis"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Stambeli performers in Tunis are dressed in dark blue jebbas<\/em> and play the shekashek<\/em> in honor of the birth of the Prophet (all photos courtesy Shreya Parikh).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

On the day that celebrates the birth of the Prophet, stambeli musicians and Tunis residents rejoice together with ritual music and chants, winding their way from Zaouia Sidi Mahrez through our correspondent’s neighborhood of Bab Souika to Place du Tribunal, a square in front of Palais Kheireddine in Hafsia.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/h4>\n

Shreya Parikh<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am in the crowded courtyard of Zaouia<\/em> Sidi Mahrez, the mausoleum of the patron saint of Tunis. The air is thick with incense and the smell of sweat from the morning sun falling on all our bodies. It is the eighth day of October, 2022, which commemorates Mawlid An-Nabaoui, the day of the birth of Prophet Mohammad. As I elbow my way into the crowd, the only thing I see when I face the direction of the drum and the sounds of shekashek<\/em> (metallic clappers strung together with strings) is a sea of hands clapping, waving to the beat, or filming the scene for a loved one who isn\u2019t in Tunis today.<\/p>\n

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Place Tribunal, Tunis.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The pushing throng brings me to the door of the mausoleum, and so, like the women around me, I find myself swept inside to pay my respects. As we enter through the large door, the woman behind me knocks on the round metallic door-knob, mumbling a prayer that I struggle to decipher. I continue to be pushed into the hall where women are lined up, to my left, to drink from the sacred source of water. To my right, two giant bowls of assida bil zibda <\/em>(semolina-based creamy porridge with butter) sit on a table, surrounded by women and men eating spoonfuls in contentment.<\/p>\n

A beautiful young woman grabs my hand, brings me close to the table and asks me to join her in eating the assida<\/em>. An old man hands me a plastic spoon, and I quickly join the group to try a bit of the assida<\/em>. The woman tells me that assida <\/em>is Sidi Mahrez\u2019s preferred sweet, and that consuming it would bring me luck in getting married. I giggle mildly, thinking of my non-desire for a marriage, and slowly move away from the table. I enter the room where Sidi Mahrez rests, searching for my scarf to cover my head in respect.\u00a0<\/p>\n

There are more women than men paying respects to Sidi Mahrez, as it has always been during my previous visits here. I\u2019ve been told that Sidi Mahrez answers prayers about so-called women problems \u2014 infertility, marriage, family disputes. Every time a woman there blesses me, a part of me cringes thinking about how, everywhere in the world, certain problems have come to be constructed as belonging to women alone.<\/p>\n

I spot the holy tomb of Sidi Mahrez and stand in the corner next to a woman who is dressed in a bright pink dress, and who is slowly entering the state of trance and coming to be possessed by a spirit. She looks around with enlarged eyes, and asks, in a thick voice, for water to be splashed over her face; women slowly gather to watch her, chanting \u201cbismillah\u201d or ululating. I stand there in the corner, unsure of what to do except to continue standing and staring like everyone else around.<\/p>\n

I try, in my head, to produce a rational understanding of what I see in front of me, but fail. The mausoleum and its visitors leave me in awe every time, touching a part of me that my atheist self struggles with and recurringly denies. It might be something about a sense of a past older than my body that raises goosebumps on my skin. I think of Sidi Mahrez who lived here, in the neighborhood of Bab Souika where his mausoleum stands, a thousand years ago. I think as well of the people who will visit Sidi Mahrez long after I have left Tunis, and long after I have left the world. Will they think of us here, in this moment? I wonder!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n