The feminine, which was once revolutionary, has gone down in history as something licentious (and if it was not lustful, then it was a source of misfortune). This is the case of the daddy, a popular musical genre, which has its roots in rural Moroccan environments, and is sung by women who are called cheikhats (pronounced “shijats”), who have transcended to the present as excessively free ladies.
This musical form was built on a warrior cry to call the people to fight injustice, as far back as the Middle Ages, a period in which some chroniclers place its beginnings, coinciding with the installation of the Bedouin Arab tribes in Maghreb territory. Father means cry or call, in the darija or dialectal Arabic, but it also refers to a lament of love and desire. Hence the stigmatization of the women who sang it.
Romance and rebellion musically merged with vigor against all the inequities of power and you fell (governors) on duty, or became offerings to the local saints of each community. And those letters about current events from different times were recorded as indelible chronicles in the members of different tribes and regions.
Jamal Zerhouni —who, together with his brother Abidinne, collects and interprets pieces from this musical tradition— explains that “the father It was a way of writing history, since every important historical event leaves a specific song.” Thus, “the sheikhs gathered to write pieces of father about an event, such as the opposition of the legendary Kherbouchafrom Safi, to the authority of the Fall of Aissa Ben Omar; or about reconciliations between members of different brotherhoods.” In this way, the musician argues, “the father It is always a temporal marker that writes the history of places and times, and is transmitted orally.”
The interpreter and scholar of the genre emphasizes that this “ancient cultural heritage, written by noble men and women of the time, stands out for its longevity.” In this sense, the curious thing was that, on occasions, the troubadours who sang them dressed as women, accompanying the cheikhats, who were professional interpreters.
Those women who encouraged their men to confront injustice have always been closely tied to the land and their community, without being able to break away from the social habit of being mentioned in a low voice. They were like candles that lit up by melting away, as the veteran artist Aïcha mentioned in the documentary by Ali EssafiShikhats Blues (2004). And so this loving and subversive poetry reaches the cabarets of the 19th century in Morocco. Until today, the father and its performers burn and illuminate at the same time.
The young Casablanca musician Widad Mjama explains —after the set of his group Aïta mon amour at the last edition of the Gnaoua Festival of World Music, held in June in Essaouira— that “the strange thing is that the term sheikh (sheikh, in masculine) is not offensive or pejorative, but when it is changed to the feminine it does become an insult.” The rapper and former member of N3rdistanadvocates abandoning this interpretation, “because there is no difference between a sheikha and an artist.”
On the contrary, says the singer, who currently resides in Montpellier (France): “The sheikha “It is the guardian of a large part of our DNA and our oral tradition.” “What saddens me most is that in the mid-twentieth century there were hundreds of exclusively female singing companies that offered the repertoire of the daddy, And now there are very few left and they are leaving one after another; it is as if we have lost a little piece of ourselves and our identity,” she says.
With his current group, Father my loveMjama —accompanied by Tunisian musician Khalil Epi— approaches in a relaxed, histrionic way and with electronic bases a traditional repertoire that has its origins in the 12th century and “that everyone knows”, so her shows soon become a celebration… and an essentially female party, which includes the most popular classes.
In rural areas, men and women did not mix, so when these women chose to be artists, they found themselves completely on the sidelines.
Widad Mjama, singer
“In rural areas, men and women didn’t mix, so when these women chose to be artists, they found themselves completely on the fringes,” the rapper says. “In fact, I think this expression touches on the limits of acceptance of certain things and representations of the feminine, and a strong woman is always doubly scary,” she adds.
Among her dreams is to learn to play traditionally one day. sheikha and become one of them. “I am not one yet,” she explains. To do so, she says, “you need to know the entire codified repertoire, recognize the rhythm and the melodies, thoroughly,” because this “is not something easy, but rather a learning process,” she sums up.
From musical theatre, another troupe contemporary that has approached the genre of father To pay tribute to these legendary artists is that of the Casablancas Kabareh Cheikhatsfounded in 2016. Ten musicians and actors, led by Ghassan El Hakim, perform songs from Maghreb folklore, dressed as women. Today they tour Morocco and Europe, made up and dressed in their best caftans.
In this case, the Kabareh Cheikhats recreate, in a comedic tone, the ardor of those ladies, who sang and danced accompanied by strings (lutes and violins) and unmistakable percussion.
According to El Hakim, the stage director, his show puts the status of the sheikha above all else. “We are men who want to wear clothes” because “women are the key to getting rid of toxic masculinity and softening the relationship between men and women” in societies where people have not always been able to dress or dance as they please. In short, it is a rescue of the traditions of Moroccan popular music, as well as a gender-based stimulant that promotes inclusion and acceptance of diversity.
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