“Peace and good news.” That is how Mother Rahma started all her stories.

Why the fascination with Stories? This question perplexed me for a long time. To understand it, I had to go back to my memory, as far back as fifty years ago, to Tangier, Morocco, sometime in the 1960’s, when a certain mother Rahma recounted her stories.

It happened nearly every summer week. In her small yard, She sat Yogi-like, dressed all in white; and on those special Friday evenings, when the sun was about to set, many children encircled her, all anxious to hear her strange and beautiful stories.

To us, mother Rahma had telepathy and power. Divining our anxiety, she commenced her stories by gently whispering, “Do not be afraid children, I am your mother Rahma and these are ‘Khrafats’ – they are just tales.” With a small round face, glowing in the twilight, a thin blue tattoo on her chin, she began her narration, speaking musically, with short and long words that trailed and remained hanging in the air. As small children, we clung to them as they took us to places far away and times long gone.

Mother Rahma spoke with a cadence and a tone that imitated her magical tales. Sometimes sentences came rapidly, or quietly, or loudly, following the way of the story. When necessary, she spoke slowly too, stressing the long vowels, so that before our very eyes she became herself a character in the story.  Suddenly, she would stop in the middle of a tale; and, in these long pauses, there was always an eerie stillness prevailing in the gathering darkness. The silence had a great effect upon us. In unison, and seemingly in a trance-like state, we quietly inched closer to mother Rahma’s spirit; and because of her small stature, those at the edge of the circle could no longer see her. We waited in the most perfect hush, anxious to hear more.

For a long time, I had nearly forgotten those nights. Recollecting the disappearing sky of those evenings, spiced by the fragrance of grilled sardines, I was back to that place again. Then, strangely and unexpectedly, everything flooded my in mind – a misty memory; and all the stories came back. They were about love, hope, danger, greed, and so much more.

Slowly, as if in a dream, a luminous moment happened; and I saw something between mother Rahma’s wondrous stories and the tales of all the people I met all these many years.

Inexplicably, the stories and the people joined, forming a trail of light, welding the past and the present in a moment impossible to describe. It also became apparent to me, why many of us relate so viscerally to the story form.

Our commonality allows us to savor those rare ancient raconteurs, who, despite our digital age, still gather their people – just like Mother Rahma did all those years ago – in obscure evenings to tell them – always with love – about the struggle to understand our destiny.

“Peace and good news.” That is how mother Rahma ended all her stories.

Mohamed Zefzaf is a native of Morocco and a professor of English at Massachusetts Bay Community College.

Image courtesy of David McEachan.