Following the voices of the Ancestors

When I left my family in Casablanca, after spending twenty-four hours with them, we hopped on a bus that would take us 5 hours to the fishing town of Essaouira. As we planned this particular leg of the journey, we kept changing our minds about where to stay. We’d found a lovely hotel, but after hearing rave reviews about a small town thirty minutes away, where it would be less touristy and quieter, we decided to switch our hotel. Just a few days before we arrived, the same friend who had told us about that place had encouraged us to stay in Essaouira. We had cancelled the hotel twice before at the very last minute, deciding that we'd stay in the first place we'd originally picked. I say all this because I believe nothing happens without a reason, and all reveals itself with time.

We bought our weight in silver jewellery and gifts for friends and loved ones. I got my Dad’s surname made into a necklace. We got lost one souk after another and feasted on lemon and olive tagines at lunch. With about three days to go, we were on the terrace of our Riad having breakfast when I heard voices as we headed back down to our room. The voices of women.

The lack of presence of women in Morocco had become notable, let alone their voices.

I turned to Emma, “Can you hear that… there’s women singing”. “Yes, it’s a CD.” I immediately replied, “No, that’s definitely a group of women singing live.” She suggested we ask the lady at our Riad. So we did, “Yes, there’s a group of women that sing on the roof of the Riad next door.” Excitement rose in me. We walked around the narrow-cobbled street next door to find an old lady at the entrance of the Riad, “Hello, can I help you?”

“Yes, is the singing coming from here?” “yes,” she replied, followed by, “Would you like to go up?” we began heading off into a spiral staircase. We got to the rooftop after a breathless, steep five flights of stairs. Glances were exchanged with the young women drumming and singing around the table. It quickly became apparent we’d entered quite an intimate space. We walked slowly and carefully away to the other side so as to not disturb. We took some photos of the sea whilst bathing in the sound of old songs until out of nowhere the lady appeared next to us and said, “Would you like to know what’s going on here.” We immediately said yes, and she sat us down. “It’s a group of women singing Sufi songs. These songs connect us to the sky and to God. The songs get handed down from generation to generation, and I am one of the song carriers.”

Emma and I sat in disbelief at the sheer magic of finding ourselves with such a person and group. I turned around to her, “It’s like the handless maiden all over again.” For those new to this blog, The Handless Maiden is the first myth I heard as an adult. It weaved its way into me, so much so I began to almost live out parts of the myth. One in which the protagonist finds a hut with women at the edge of the wood by following smoke. A second time when, the protagonist comes back to find the hut with the women at the edge of the wood by following their song. Tears began to well in Emma’s eyes, a reflection of what was beginning to stir in my heart, “it’s so moving”, she said. Emma, all of a sudden, nudged me to ask the older lady about my grandmother.

I took out my phone and searched for an old photograph of my grandmother my Dad had sent me a few days ago. I showed it to her and said, “This is my grandmother. I didn’t meet her. I only met my Dad’s family until two days ago. My Dad left when I was young, and I got completely disconnected from my roots.” Her smile turned into sadness, as though she could see right through me to the well of grief that was about to burst. She grabbed my hand and closed her eyes. Emma closed hers, and I closed mine. The combination of the unspoken truth spoken, the music of my ancestors in the background and the presence of a very maternal Moroccan woman brought me to tears. I felt the energy coming in and out of my body as if something was being washed away. When curiosity got the better of me, I opened one eye to see what was happening, the older lady was mumbling words and her face was looking up at the sky. She let out a big sigh after a few minutes, the kind I recognised when energy healing work has been done and all of a sudden, she said something aloud and blew it to the heavens.

I felt the presence of my grandmother and her grandmother and all those that came before.

Latifa was her name and it was obvious she was a healer. She began to tell us that she ran a retreat centre that organised Sufi trance dances. When sung and played by a bigger group of women, the music we were hearing could send people into a trance to heal and connect with God. I could sense it because it had barely been 15 minutes since we sat down, and my legs had begun vibrating. Emma and I intrigued asked her more about it, and she said, “You should come and see the place.” We had one night left and hadn’t booked a hotel yet to see if something unexpected might happen, so it was evident that we would stay at her Riad, which meant we’d also get to see the centre.

That following evening, Emma and I decided to go to a traditional hammam out of town. We hopped in a taxi nervously, excited. When we got dropped off in a residential part of town. Upon arriving, we paid at a kiosk for shampoo and black soap sachets, a soft mitten and an exfoliation mitten and headed in. It was busy, and there was not one tourist present. We didn’t know what we were doing or what to expect, but we began shuffling through the stages of what was clearly a ritual. We handed in all our clothes and possessions, bar our underwear, as we weren’t sure how nude it was (pretty nude), and walked into the first steam room of a few. Buckets in leopard print and highlight pink adorned the tiled floors. A Moroccan woman approached us and sat us on mats, gesturing to wait.

I felt the presence of my grandmother and her grandmother and all those that came before.

We waited and waited until she came back with another lady, and so it began. We got scrubbed within an inch of ourselves, belly laughing at watching the faces and ouchy noises we were each making. Every now and then, the community of women in the adjacent room would come with warm smiles and give us their shampoo, more hot water or more black soap. Little girls were playing, friends or siblings were having a catch-up, and families were washing as they probably would have by the oasis of a Saharan dessert in some pastime. There were round women and skinny women. Some sat silently, in deep contemplation, and others were loud and busy. Some had their hair wrapped, and others had it down. It was oddly nurturing having your head planted in between a woman’s chest as you were washed. The last stage was buckets of water that were literally thrown at you. We walked out dizzy like we’d just stepped out of another world, only with smoother skin and zen-ed out to the max.

I felt the presence of my grandmother and her grandmother and all those that came before.

On our penultimate day, when we were staying in Latifa's Riad, her son drove us to the centre, 20 minutes from town, to a beautiful space with the most magnificent sand dunes and sea views. The moment we stepped out, you could feel the energy pulsating from the ground. I wondered whose ancestral land we were standing on. What indigenous people used to walk this land. We visited the stunning building with a pool and a hammam. When we entered the main hall where the singing and dancing took place, you could feel the energy at your fingertips. We began walking back, and I couldn’t help but ask who owned the land. She told us that when she came to visit, two older female farmers were working the land, and they asked her what she was doing. She replied she was thinking of buying the land, and they said good. When she asked about the land, they said a famous healer had lived here, and she was buried under the tree at the top of the hill. I began laughing because, in that exact spot, there was, in fact, just one tree, and it looked exactly like an upside-down broom.

A few days after returning, I began trying to understand my Dad’s family more. I had asked my Dad if he’d had any spiritual or supernatural experiences in his life. After sharing some things which quite frankly surprised me and also didn’t, he continued, “When we were kids, my mother took us to regular Sufi trance dances. They were run by mediums.”

With love and magic,

#AuthenticAlex

Offerings for 2024...

Sufi Dance Retreat in Morocco

I am dreaming up a retreat in my fatherland of Morocco in October 2024. A three night stay, gathering in the outskirts of Essaouira at Latifa's retreat centre to do a Sufi ceremony, three nights full board, a massage and hammam included. The idea would be to then extend the stay for 4 nights where we will rent a whole Riad (Traditional Moroccan house) and stay in Essaouira's beautiful seaside town and medina. In order for this dream to become a reality, I would need 8 participants to cover the minimum cost of hiring the venue, catering and musicians. So if you are interested, please get in touch for more details at alex@authenticalex.com.

Waking up the Witch Retreat in the South Downs, UK

We have one spot left for a magical immersive weekend focusing on soulful nourishment, story weaving, exploring power and intuition in February 2024. You are invited to join me and my wonderful friends Emma Collins, Kate Fismer, at The House at The Edge, a beautiful cottage in the South Downs National Park.

If you feel called to explore mythtelling, ceremony and ritual.

If you’re longing to be rooted and claimed by place and to deepen your relationship with the more than human and unseen worlds.

If you seek the profound, the mystical, and the otherworldly.

We are laying a place at our table for you.

If you're interested in finding out more, head here.