By P.C. Zick – @pczick.bsky.social

In 2004, I took a solo trip to Morocco where a friend was assigned to the consulate in Casablanca. I traveled around the country on my own, but in Casablanca I was invited into the private homes of several of my friend’s co-workers. This journey left an indelible mark on me as language barriers forced me to observe. I wrote the following essay after a haunting afternoon on the inside of the walled home where the woman of the household hosted Saturday parties once a month for women only–including the musicians and henna artists hired to entertain.

Moroccan women know how to party. But it is not the partying brought on by alcohol or drugs.

When I attended a female-only Henna Party in Casablanca one Saturday afternoon in 2004, I learned freedom could be just as intoxicating as a bottle of wine.

Photo by P.C. Zick – The host (left) of a Woman’s Only Henna Party in Casablanca with my friend Soumaya

Women filtered into the house, bringing laughter and hugs and hope, as well as an abundance of food. A young woman entered the salon, and her presence brought a brightness to the party. I was drawn to her immediately because of her glow. She walked over to where I sat with my friend, Soumaya, on the long banquette on the back wall of the salon. Soumaya knew this girl, and they double kissed on the cheeks and embraced.

Then Soumaya said, “This is Patricia from America.”

The girl leaned down and double kissed my cheeks, a gesture of friendship and familiarity. When she straightened, she offered me the most brilliant smile, welcoming me into this private world of Moroccan women. She and Soumaya spoke excitedly in Arabic so the conversation was lost to me. It was clear that Soumaya felt great affection for this beautiful woman who appeared to be no more than twenty.

She wore jeans and a T-shirt, and her light brown hair glowed in the soft afternoon light permeating the room. Her brown eyes sparkled, and her smile put me at ease.

Traditional Berber music filled the room as female musicians sitting at the end of the salon, left their cigarettes and mint tea on the low table, and performed for the other women.

Photo by P.C. Zick – Female musicians performing traditional music

I lost track of the girl as the party swelled around me. Over forty women eventually crowded into the entrance room and the salon beyond. Drums and stringed instruments were at first nearly drowned out in the wailing sounds of the singers, who echoed or answered one another. Several songs later some of the women began to clap and then a faster beat took precedence. A woman in a black and cream-colored gown made a whirring sound with her tongue inside her mouth and soon everyone jumped up and began to dance. Arms were raised in the air while nothing else on their body moved except below the waist. The hands waved slowly and fingers snapped together in beat with the drums.

Photo by P.C. Zick

As the henna artist painted my ankles another friend asked me, “See that girl over there? The one wearing the turquoise gown?”

“Yes, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?” The beautiful young woman I had met earlier had changed into the traditional dress of Morocco.

Photo by Linda Turner – My ankle tattoo

“That’s a sad story.” My friend shook her head. “She’s twenty-nine.”

And then she proceeded to tell me the rest of the tale. While she was still a teenager, the girl’s mother died, leaving her to raise her younger brothers. Then just a few years ago, her father died, leaving her a single female in an Arab country. She had no choice but to go live with her older brother who was married with a family.

“He treats her like a slave,” my friend continued. “She takes care of his household and is not allowed to leave the house except to come to these parties. This is her one day of freedom.”

I watched the woman who I had thought was a decade younger than she really was. She danced with her friends and threw back her head and laughed with a great belly full of joy when one of the women jumped up on the table to boisterously grind her hips. I suddenly understood that these parties served the purpose of providing hope in a life where living under the restraints of another weighed wearily on the soul.

Photo by P.C. Zick – Table dancing as young woman watches with joy

For a few hours on a Saturday at least this one young woman could escape her jailer and live. I wondered how many others lived the same type of life. If the frenzy around me accounted for anything, it might mean almost all the women present had escaped the tyranny of their oppressors, whatever or whoever they were, for a short time. As much as I wanted to despise her brother, I realized he is simply following the traditions of his culture. As the family’s patriarch, it was his duty to protect the honor of his sister because she was of an age where her virginity was doubted. Perhaps it was this fear that made him even stricter with this beautiful woman.

Near the end of the party, the young beauty stood in the middle of the room, watching the others dance. I recognized her even though her back is to me. The turquoise of her caftan had not faded as the lights in the living room appeared and the night closed in around the hidden house in Casablanca.

Then she turned toward me, and I almost did not recognize the person standing there. She no longer smiled and the glow from her eyes had dulled, creating a haunted and hunted quality in those brown orbs. Cinderella was disappearing, and I expected her gown to fall in tatters at her feet as she reentered the reality of her life once again.

She aged as I continued to watch her, and I tried to imagine the thoughts invading her mind as hope walked out of her life and the hour when she would return to her prison neared. She gained the decade I had subtracted from her age earlier in the day, and the curves of her mouth stayed downward not so much as in a frown but as in resignation. Her hair hung in lifeless strings around her face, and she stared straight ahead, no longer participating in the activity swirling around her as the guests made their good-byes. And I watched as another decade laid itself upon her visage and hope slammed the door in front of her. The henna designs on my ankles will fade away long before she has another opportunity to enjoy hope for a few short hours.

I watched as the visible signs of hope faded from the face of a beautiful young woman, turning her glowing eyes into dying embers and her smooth skin into ashen lines lacking any type of anticipation.

Check out my memoir of my travels during the most tumultuous decade of my life as I journey to Morocco to Italy to Panama and then down Route 66.

Odyssey to Myself provides insight into the importance of travel to help heal.