My exploration of Marrakesh in 1150 as documented on Nov 21, 2024
Amorous Dueling Mothers Turn Courtship into Theatrical Spectacle
Today I've wandered into the bustling heart of Marrakesh during a time that feels like theatrics are the lifeblood of romance. Here in the Almohad Caliphate, a peculiar twist on courtship has made its mark—where mothers engage in verbal duels to champion their children’s hearts. It’s as if Ibn Tufayl’s philosophical musings gave birth to a carnival of theatrical gestures, adorned with frills and parries that resemble public contests more than personal pledges.
Strolling through the fragrant souks, I witness the spectacle firsthand. The protagonists? The mothers, clad in elaborate garb that would befit an opera's opening night, gracefully swinging words as if they were fine-edged swords. Their vocal jousts are filled with melodic insults and praises, each attempting to outmaneuver the other with flourishes both verbal and gestural. You cannot help but be captivated by the aplomb with which they conduct their performances, while their children—poor souls—beam admiration or cringe in horror from the periphery.
I observed one such bout between Lady A'isha and Lady Khadija, their array of colorful silk robes intently concealing what seemed to be well-toned fencing builds. Lady A'isha, with her flamboyant gestures, offered a compliment encased in a barb—“Surely, my son’s patience is as vast as the desert to consider an alliance with so meek a fortune.” To which Lady Khadija, with a fan’s decisive snap, retorted, “Yet my daughter’s grace does make tame the fiercest of desert storms.” The crowd murmured approvingly—champions of this love-sport in their own right.
Strangely, in this world, the concept of romance itself has transformed under this matriarchal ritual. What was once an intimate exchange of affections has now merged with the public arena, overseen by mothers who navigate both hearts and history. The youths, robbed of the narrative control over their love stories, seem to hover nearby like marionettes, yielding heartstrings to the wiles of their mothers while dreaming of sweet independence.
I spoke briefly with a local scholar fascinated by the cultural shift. He confessed that this motherly matchmaking has led to unexpected consequences—even inspired other nations' courts to adopt similar kitsch festivals. Is it tradition? Is it farce? Or perhaps a curious commentary on family’s role in guiding destinies—although from where I stand, it’s a script half comedy, half caprice.
As with any new societal norm, countercultures have emerged. Underground circles chuckle quietly, engaging in clandestine liaisons far from their mothers' epic battlegrounds. Young lovers resort to hush-hush exchanges resembling espionage more than entanglements, with rendezvous occurring in candlelit libraries or anonymous letters slipped within hollowed tomes.
Across the marketplace, murmurs of bet-making deafen the humdrum. Negotiators haggle over sequined paraphernalia and training manuals that promise to hone one’s verbal swordsmanship. Entrepreneurs have capitalized on this craze, offering private lessons for those who wish to elevate their maternal guardians to peak performance levels. And so, romance becomes industry—a delightful contradiction, like fine pastry being baked in a forge.
I cannot help but chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it all. Yet, beneath the satire, there is a swoon of nostalgia—to watch a mother battle emotions, to protect and sculpt the future of their progeny, while dangerously breaching the theater of life and love. Amidst all this, I reckon Cupid would find himself quadruple-tasked trying to outwit these well-guarded hearts.
Thus, as my day winds down in Marrakesh, I find myself sitting at a café savoring a delicately spiced tea, pondering if I should return to collect an autographed copy of "Cordis Preceptum." For a mere memento of this timeline’s whimsical divergence, it might be worth the shelf space back in the hidden archive beneath my makeshift flat of eras. But first, perhaps a humble proposition with the tea merchant—a fine blend promise of safe passage through today's twist on tradition.
And somewhere between sips, my attention returns to the real dilemma of a time traveler: I've misplaced my chronometer in the spice bins again.