William Gudykunst said, “One of the major factors influencing our effectiveness in communicating with people from other cultures is our ability to understand their culture.” Communication is about more than just the words we say; it is about both language and culture, what we communicate through words and actions. Here at Crossroads Cultural Exchange, we believe that we can't separate learning language from learning culture. As one of out teachers says, "Culture is the spirit of a language."

In my first year of learning Moroccan Arabic, I greatly appreciated that my teachers taught me not only grammar and vocabulary, but also cultural proverbs, teachings, and stories. The stories especially taught me things that were under the surface of Moroccan culture. Now, that same teacher who told me that "Culture is the spirit of a language” has shared with a me a book of Moroccan fairy tales, called Tales of Fes, translated by E. Powys Mathers. Reading and reflecting on the fairy tales, myths, folktales, proverbs, and sayings from another culture helps us gain insight into that culture in ways we otherwise may not glean. Let’s look together at one such tale, called The Language of the Birds, taken from Tales of Fes.

“QFTAN EL HOUBB LAMNAQQAT BEL LAHOUA” - The Kaftan of Love Spotted with Passion

Once upon a time there was a man who had three daughters and, wishing to depart on pilgrimage, asked each of them what he should bring back for her.

“Gold and silver bracelets crusted with gems,” said the eldest. “Gilded slippers,” said the second. But the youngest asked time to reflect before she answered. As soon as she found herself alone in her own chamber, a Rouhaniya (a fairy)  appeared before her, saying:

“Ask your father to bring you The Kaftan (traditional piece of Moroccan clothing worn by women) of Love Spotted with Passion.”

Then she disappeared. When the moment came for her father’s departure, the little one asked him for The Kaftan of Love Spotted with Passion, and the good man, promising to find it for her, set forth upon the road of Allah. He accomplished his pilgrimage to the sacred city and bought fine bracelets there for the eldest daughter, and gilded slippers for the second. But he forgot the Kaftan. 

Yet when he was half-way home he remembered his promise and asked this garment of all he met. Everyone thought that he was mad. Some laughed in his face, others answered him gently, sighed in silence and made off as quickly as possible. But no one helped him at all in the matter.

At length, one day, he met, in a certain solitary place, a venerable old man sitting at the foot of a tree in deep meditation, and having white hair and a white beard which fell below his knees. When the man asked his usual question, the sheikh answered:

 “My poor child, what are you seeking ? Do you not know that it is impossible for a human to see the Kaftan of Love? Yet, if you absolutely hold to the attempt, you must follow my instructions point by point. After a half-day's journey from this place you will reach a very great tree. Sit down below it and wait. You will be given seven dishes on a Mida (wooden table), one after the other. Taste each of them and then go down to the edge of the sea; drink a few mouthfuls of her water and then wait. Have courage, and God accord you peace!”

The traveller followed this advice, and all came to pass as the sheikh had said. Soon after he had drunk of the water of the sea, a being with the appearance of a man came up out of the waves, and said to him:

“He who has eaten of our food and drunken of our water is worthy to be given the desire of his heart. Why have you come here, and what do you wish?”

“I wish,” answered the father, “The Kaftan of Love Spotted with Passion.”

“That is well,” said the mysterious being. “Cast yourself into the sea, and you shall see what you shall see.”

So the man dived, and soon found a door below the waves. He passed through this, and came into the courtyard of a vast palace, where slaves were walking. “What do you wish?” asked one of them. “The Kaftan of Love,” he answered. “Come into this room,” said the slave.

The man obeyed, and saw a male figure of imposing aspect, seated upon a splendid throne in the middle of that room. He saluted the seated figure three times, as we salute Sultans, and asked him for the Kaftan of Love.

The being welcomed him kindly and gave him a morsel of sandal-wood. 

“Hand it to the girl who wishes the thing,” he advised, “and tell her to put henna upon herself, to wash her room very carefully, to go to the hammam, and then, after shutting herself in alone, to burn a small piece of this wood, and may God give you peace!”

Being delighted that he would be able to please all his three daughters, the traveller returned home, gave his presents, and carefully repeated to his youngest the advice of the King of the Jinn.

The young girl, with no delay, did all that she had to do, and, when she had burned a little of the sandal-wood, a troop of beings, carrying lanterns, came and knocked at the door of the house, crying to the merchant to give his youngest daughter to them. If he should ever wish to see her again, they said to go to a certain place and call her with his mind, and they themselves would then appear to conduct him to his child. 

The girl departed fearlessly with them, and came to the palace of the Kaftan of Love. There she was placed in a room with a little slave to serve her, who gave her dinner and then made tea for her; but, in the last glass of tea which she drank, he placed a pinch of powder which plunged her into a profound sleep.

Now the Kaftan of Love was a Jinni of the race of the Jinn, who had fallen in love with the young girl as he flew through the air one day and saw her sitting beautifully and gently at her window. He was the son of the King of that submarine palace, and the palace itself communicated by a glass pipe with the room where the child had been established. The Kaftan of Love now came by way of the glass pipe and joyfully contemplated the object of his love. He did not wake the little person, but lay down beside her until morning and departed before she was awake.

He did the same thing every day, the small slave put her to sleep every evening with Banj (an anesthetic drug) before the coming of her mysterious husband. At the end of some months she began to grow rather weary, since she did nothing but eat and sleep, and saw no human face save that of the little slave. During this time also, her sisters began to regret her absence and ardently desired to see her.

At their request, the merchant went to the place which he had been told to visit and sat down with closed eyes, thinking of his daughter. When he opened them again at the end of a moment, he found himself on the shore of the sea, and saw a little slave coming towards him, who asked him what he wished.

“I have come to take my daughter home,” he answered, “for her sisters wish to see her.”

“No good will come of such a departure.”

“I am resolved upon it, and her sisters have a great need to see her once again.”

“I will go and tell my master.”

With that the slave departed, and presently returned with the announcement that the Kaftan of Love consented to his wife’s leaving at the important hour of evening prayer, on condition that the little slave himself came to fetch her back on the morrow at the same time.

The father promised, shut his eyes once more, and found himself at home. And that very evening his daughter knocked at the door, accompanied by the little slave.

After they had tenderly embraced her, her mother and her two sisters questioned her, about her husband and her life: 

“Are you happy? Where do you live?”

“Down there,” she answered.

“And your husband? What sort of man is he? Does he love you? Is he kind to you? Where does he live?”

“Down there,” she answered simply, and would add nothing more. 

But when night had come and she went in to lie down with her sisters, these pressed her with new questions and sought for detailed information about this mysterious husband and his life.

“I have never seen my husband!” she confessed at length. “I only see the little slave who looks after me and gives me all I want. Every evening he makes tea, and I always go to sleep after the last glass. In the morning I always wake alone upon my bed.”

“Oh, how can you endure to live under such conditions?” cried her sisters. “It is all too monotonous and too mysterious. You do not even know who your husband is. This cannot go on. You must follow our advice. Here are a napkin, a candle and some matches. Tomorrow, when the little slave gives you the glass of tea, you must not drink it; you must pour it into this napkin, and then pretend to go to sleep. Thus you shall see all.”

Delighted with the idea of making plain her own dark problem, the young girl departed on the morrow with the little slave, who had come punctually to fetch her, and did all that her sisters had told her.

Thinking her asleep, the little slave took her in his arms and laid her on the bed. Then the Kaftan of Love came by way of the glass pipe, ate the rest of the supper, drank tea, and lay down to sleep by the side of his human wife, after having tenderly regarded and caressed her. When she was sure that he slept, she took the candle out of her pocket, lighted it and brought it near the face of the Jinni.

She saw a very handsome young man lying by her, whose lids were closed and whose breast rose and fell regularly beneath a kaftan of silk. Looking more closely at this garment, she noticed that the button-holes which closed it were each provided with a little padlock and a tiny key. Pricked on by curiosity, she worked the locks and opened the kaftan…and lo! She found herself descending a great stairway into a vast house. Following the steps, she came first to a room filled with gold bars, then to one filled with powdered gold, and lastly to one cumbered with all kinds of precious stones. When she had visited these three, she ascended the staircase and shut all the padlocks. But, through her clumsiness, a drop of boiling wax fell from the candle on to the face of her husband, who woke in a very bad temper, divining all that had passed.

“I was right to say that your journey to your father’s house had no good fortune in it.”

“It was written,” she answered humbly. “It was my Destiny. But my intention was by no means evil.”

“I am willing to pardon you this time. But you must never return to your father’s house again.” After that day, the Kaftan of Love came openly into his wife’s presence, without having her first sent to sleep with powdered banj. They lived thus together for six months, and at the end of that time the girl’s father came as before to ask leave to lead her back to his house. The little slave made known his master’s intention in this matter, but the father so insisted that he was at length received by the Kaftan of Love in person, who told him that he had pardoned his wife her first indiscretion, but that he would certainly not stomach a second one. With this warning he allowed her to be absent again, between the important hours of the evening prayer of two days.

As soon as she arrived, her sisters questioned her anew, and she told them how she had succeeded, thanks to their strategy, in seeing her husband, who now no longer hid himself from her.

“What is his name? They asked.

“I do not know. I have never questioned him about it.”

“You must do so. And if he refuses to answer, you must sulk, you must become sad, you must refuse to eat and drink and speak, until he gives way and tells you his name. That is how it pays to behave with men.”

The little one answered by hearing and giving a respectful bow and, as soon as she arrived back at her own place, assumed a most dejected air, bitterly complaining to her husband that he had never told her his name.

The Kaftan of Love was indeed angry at this, and he answered that he would never tell his name since it was infinitely better that she should not know.

“My husband does not love me any more,” she cried with a burst of tears. “How can a woman live if she does not know her husband’s name?” And she repulsed all the dishes which the little slave brought to her. Then, after she had sulked for a long time, she returned to the assault.

“I cannot tell you. Be quiet!” said her husband.

But it is not easy to come to the end of a woman’s obstinacy. In final exasperation, the Jinni went out into the courtyard and, by breathing air strongly into his lungs, began to swell and grow greater and greater, until his head was as high as the roof of the house. Then he cried several times in a horrible great voice:

“My name is The Kaftan of Love Spotted with Passion! The Kaftan of Love! The Kaftan of Love Spotted with Passion!”

Then, seizing his wife in his giant hands, he took her up and cast her far off into a terrible deserted place.

The poor woman started crying in rivers of tears and moaning over her indiscretion. Then, feeling hungry, she began to walk aimlessly until she arrived in a big town. There she bought some food, a man’s clothes and Dalil el Khairat (The Guide to Good Works). Thus, looking like a young student, she walked into a mosque, took her ablutions, performed her prayer and began to read the noble book in a loud voice; the book that the Eminent Jazouli (may Allah shower the best of gifts upon him) wrote in honour of our great Prophet, our Master Mohammed ben Abdallah (upon whom be the benediction and the peace of Allah).

Since she had a beautiful voice, many people came over to sit beside her to listen. The same thing happened the following day and the following days. Even wazirs (high-ranking political advisors) joined the audience, having been attracted by her charming chants. They asked her name and she answered:

“My name is Si Ali.”

Si Ali had so much success that the wazirs gave up the palace for this mosque. Having noticed this one day, the Sultan asked about the reason of such irregularity. They answered:

“A certain Si Ali, a young stranger with a beautiful voice, reads aloud Dalil el Khairat every day at Bab el Guissa Mosque. O Commander of the Faithful, it is his beautiful voice that charms and detains us. It is the enchanting sweetness of his chanting that prevents us from arriving on time.”

Extremely astonished, the Sultan decided to judge for himself and he left the palace with his followers. Soon after he heard Si Ali’s voice, he couldn't go back to the palace, but that day he sent for what he needed for dinner and what to sleep on in the mosque. The following day he begged the handsome stranger to come along with him to the palace.  

Soon the Sultan became so friendly with Si Ali that he could do nothing without taking his opinion, so much so that the wazirs began to envy him.

One day, as Si Ali was taking a walk in the palace gardens, at the hour of prayer, he took his ablutions in a stream, laid his prayer rug on the ground and prayed. Then he sat down and started reading as was his custom. Where he was sitting happened to be right below the window of the Sultan’s daughter, who was instantly moved on hearing him chanting. She leaned out of the window and said:

“Si Ali, O Si Ali! Love me so that I shall love you!”                  

But Si Ali simply replied in a sweet voice without lifting his eyes:

“By him who honoured you and humbled me, O Lalla, my love cannot be bound to your love.”

Soon after this meeting, the princess fell ill and no doctor in the kingdom was able to cure her, which caused her father’s despair. One day,  an old Jewish rabbi, an expert in the sciences of sorcery, was brought to her bedside. He was left alone with her for some time observing her in silence, then he suddenly told her: “What makes you ill is your love for Si Ali !”

“You’re right,” she admitted.

The old rabbi looked for the Sultan and told him his daughter could be cured if they hung the small finger of Si Ali round her neck. Raising his hands to heaven, the Sultan protested that he would never do such a thing to a friend, even if it was to save his daughter’s life. But together the wazirs said to him:

“This is nothing. This little finger, what does it matter to Si Ali? He would himself be pleased to offer it in order to save the princess. If you do this you’ll find a cure to your daughter without really doing wrong to anyone.”

So shaken by this advice, the Sultan gave his orders to have the small finger of Si Ali cut off and it was hung round the princess’s neck. At the moment she was cured, but some time later, the same scene took place. She said: “Si Ali, O Si Ali! Love me so that I shall love you.”

“By Him who honoured you and humbled me, O Lalla, my love cannot be bound to your love,” he replied.

Again the princess fell more ill than the first time. The sorcerer advised to have Si Ali’s earlobe cut off and, since the wazirs were jealous, they persuaded the Sultan once more to give his orders to carry out this cruel treatment. However, since the same things happened again, the sorcerer said that this time they needed Si Ali’s brain. As the Sultan shouted at the doctor and angrily threatened him, a wazir intervened: “My lord, think that the Sultan’s daughter is worth a thousand times more than Si Ali, who is after all nothing but an unknown person and an adventurer whose origins none knows here. The princess’s life is infinitely more valuable than that of a man worth nothing.”

The Sultan protested: “This is what I shall never do!”

Then no more was said that day, but since the princess’s condition was getting worse, the jealous wazirs urged and ultimately triumphed over the Sultan’s will. Thus, in tears he gave his orders to kill Si Ali.

Happy to get rid of the favorite man, the wazirs led the young stranger out of town near a spring and ordered the hangman to cut off his head. But, Si Ali asked for a few minutes to take his ablutions and pray. As he bent over the stream to take water in his cupped hands, suddenly he vanished from all sight.

Stunned, the wazirs returned to the palace and gave the news to the Sultan. On hearing what had happened, he was so delighted and thanked God for not allowing the blood of his friend to be on his hands. And now he was satisfied to believe that Si Ali was not dead and even imagined him to be a great saint or perhaps a Jinni.

In fact, it was Kaftan el Houbb Oualahoua, the husband of the so-called Si Ali, who had taken his wife away from these henchmen into the waters, his wife who was disguised as a young man. He led her to their home and, while forgiving her, he reprimanded her wisely. He said:

“You’ve seen now the result of your impertinence. All that happened is your fault as well as the fault of your sisters who had urged you with their advice and vain curiosity. From now on, you ought to be satisfied with happiness without asking to know more. If you want to live quietly, stay here and think not of your parents, or your gossipy sisters, and be sensible henceforth.”

Questions for Reflection

1. The pilgrimage to the holy places in Saudi Arabia is one of the five pillars of Islam. For this reason, the man in this story decided to go for pilgrimage. What do you know about this pillar in Islam? Do you have a similar thing in your culture and religion?

2. In this story the key word in its title is the word “Kaftan”, which is a traditional Moroccan piece of clothing that distinguishes the Moroccan woman, and one among many Moroccan cultural components. What do you think about  the design of the “Kaftan”? Can you think of other typical Moroccan traditional items in Moroccan culture?

3. Some Moroccans, like in this story, believe that Jinns (spirits) can marry humans and, moreover, they can control him/her. What do you think about this idea?

4. The most precious gift that a Moroccan and Arab woman can receive is jewelery or something made of gold. This is why the daughters in this story asked their father to bring them these kinds of gifts from his journey. What do you think of gift-giving in your culture? Do women have a special favorite gift?

Related Articles: