Meeting Ahmet

I first heard the clanking.
I knew what I was hearing before I saw it. I broke into a grin as I walked towards the sound. Clink-clink-clink-clunk. The rhythm was almost musical, like a drum ringing through the souq of Rabat, Morocco.

The 13th-century Persian poet and mystic Rumi is said to have first started whirling upon hearing the rhythmic beating of a blacksmith by the name of Salahoddin in a market in Konya. Intoxicated by the rhythm, he fell into a trance of spiritual ecstasy and began whirling on the spot—his body dissolving into the world around him, melding with the cosmos whose axis he embodied. The more he turned, the less of him remained, until only divine harmony was left.

Inside the small stall, Ahmet sat, Menkakh (a hammer-like tool used to break Zellige) in hand, clanking away. I stood there, starstruck, my eyes transfixed on the methodical movement of his hand. He looked up, gave me a warm smile, a nod, then lowered his head. Clink-clink-clink-clunk. My eyes followed his Menkakh as he broke tile after tile. The motion was hypnotizing.

An aura, rich and green, surrounded him; I felt grounded in his presence; connected beyond language. His smile was infectious. When I spoke to him, I couldn’t help but grin like a little boy. I’ve never experienced such a warm and compassionate, ensnaring gaze. Behind the warm blue eyes, decades of wisdom, spirit, and a life well-lived poured out, drowning anyone who crossed them.

When I told him I was from Egypt, his smile grew wider. “We are brothers!” he exclaimed. We talked through hand gestures, smiles, and the few Arabic words we shared. He invited me to step in, offering me a seat beside him. It smelled like bitter coffee and warm clay. After a moment of watching him work, I asked about the pattern he was working on. He laid it out on the ground beside him, a stunning fourfold symmetry with a vibrant red cross at the center, surrounded by deep blue “braids” (dfira), and small white infill pieces. When he picked up the Menkakh to break the next tile, I realized he was working entirely freehand without reference or guidelines, only pure intuition. I was in awe.

A handful of loose tiles lay on top of his workstone. I asked if I could look at them, and Ahmet gestured the equivalent of “certainly,” and he started placing them in my hand one by one, naming them as he went… khatem suleimani, metamena, betan, menferata… He then pulled out a red mesh bag full of tiles from behind him and told me to take whatever I wanted. I chose my favorites and tried to pay, but he refused. Instead, he took out a crumpled brown paper bag from beside him and placed my tiles inside.

Ahmet eventually agreed to take my money, and I shook his hand sincerely. We exchanged smiles and farewell prayers, and I walked off feeling whole.

When I was a few steps away, I heard the clanking start up again.