Ḥammām
L'invasione della Siria bizantina nel VII secolo portò agli arabi conquistatori il dono inaspettato degli edifici termali. Preservati dalla distruzione, i bagni di vapore riuscirono a compiere l'incantesimo più ardito: sposare il culto pagano del corpo con l'anelo purificatore della relegione. E' dal matrimonio più improbabile tra occidente e mondo islamico che nasce
l'hammam , luogo di pace e penombra, di preghiera e socialità. Se l'Islam fu alla base della fortunata diffusione dei bagni termali in tutto il mondo arabo, il bisogno di incontrarsi, chiacchierare e fare affari, coccolati da atmosfere dense e profumate, is for frequentantori hammam as important as the urgent hygienic and religious. The strict separation between the sexes, at different times of the day, allowing total freedom of expression in the wash, which accelerated the Act and the unconscious to which we have used our concept of time - between the urgency of ubiquitous neoattuali commitments and emergencies environment - becomes a real ritual of socializing virtues. Sunday afternoon I discovered that the steam is nothing but a sophisticated formula of modern therapy, a recipe in half way through a course of self-esteem and a social network of communities. Crossing the threshold of Le Riad
we leave behind the gray cement Schaerbeek district and planning to be even in Belgium, we enter into a de facto district of Marrakesh. Scent of incense and myrrh, smothered laughter, footsteps muffled, and more fat women who weave hair drinking mint tea, while occasionally popping a voice and a sudden sharp sound that smacks of song and the bodies begin a strange dance. Movements, awkward and tense our figures are impossible to replicate. We are moving cautiously in this noisy world of Berber women, careful with every step, every noise, at the mercy of a nurse in a nutshell heavy explains to dislodge, packed into a corner of pillows and candles. Entering for the first time in a steam bath is like embarking on a dance floor without knowing the steps, how to be zoo on the side of those exotic animals confined in narrow cages, all they look at you with a strange little smile, half way between the fun and compassion ... Our turn finally arrives and you slip dress and sandals, warm towel and cloth in a row we go down the stairs in the direction of steam. Below we expect concrete proof of our disability culture: freedom of the West are striking and warm in the belly of the hammam to terms with their entrenched inhibitions. Faced with that little festive crowd of women, covered only soft soap and soft flesh, our four costumes from the sea make the same effect as four armor behind which to hide, plan, and eventually disappear. On Sunday afternoon, the hammam is the space women: mothers, daughters, sisters, friends who share a skin thick, dark, cheerful voice, the time of washing each other deeply. As if to rub it strong evidence of their relationship stronger, made of leather strictly protected on the outside that dark and light-hearted in that place becomes a stage for their actual freedom. Where the signs of aging on the bodies are never the object of attention, but only the signal of the parable that will run chronologically inevitably everyone's life, the lives of all. As long linger in the stone floors, in the interlayer of the sing-song their harsh language, I allow myself to turn over and rub a stout
Hamami that only squeeze of eye and hand movements shows me the installation to be taken and when it is time to go. The dead skin comes off with the black soap of Aleppo and I feel that my lose weight essentially useless, it becomes lighter. I look around and think of these spaces for mothers-daughters-sisters-friends, underground plazas filled with a physically healthy - happy - which is taught to take care of taking care of others. And I go out with an abnormal relaxation, as if to rub scratchy and rough hands had learned through my body, touching in some forgotten crevice, a swollen node to be massaged.
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