The whole of the moon

We have always been moon dancers. The men on my father’s side. The men on my mother’s side. Grandfather, great-uncles, uncles, cousins – moon dancers. It seems like my ancestors got to Trinidad with little else on their minds but how to get in on the Hosay action. They danced moons, built tadjahs and played tassa. Why did no one think to tell me this before? A Hosay-involved uncle told me about this only recently. Now everyone is remembering. Other relatives are coming forward with new stories. I can finally say it’s in my blood. Just where I always thought it was. But then, that’s the difference between knowing and not-knowing. Now I know. I’m forced to put a dimmer on the spotlight here: I’m sure half of St James can claim similar lineage. The dancing of the moon has been a lifelong obsession for me. I do not expect to see dervishes in real life any time soon. When we call to mind the whirling dervish – when we use the term casually – we are usually trying to conjure a wild spinning, a frenzy. I believe this to be the opposite of true. There is practised control here. The positioning of the arms, the turn of the foot, the flowing robes, the way they move around each other are all part of this carefully choreographed spinning and spinning and spinning as though they would spin themselves into orbit. During the first covid lockdown, I tried it in a garden and achieved something like a full minute of non-dizzy spinning. It was transcendental. Real dervishes can do an hour. I am heartily impressed by my performance. The moon dancing of Hosay asks for tremendous control. There’s spinning. And there’s a 300-pound weight on your shoulder while you do it. To take on the moon, you need more than brute strength. You need to be trained. You need to commit. You need control. And when you have those things, when the large half-moon is settled on your shoulder, when you make one turn, and then another and another, when you are truly dancing, you are in control. The best dancers can shift the moon from one shoulder to another without missing a step. The very best can stand still and not topple into the crowd or to the ground. In this dance stillness is the most difficult movement. It never gets old for me. I can weep for the beauty of a spindly elder still able to do this. I can weep to see the young men just learning and all the support that surrounds them. Mostly I weep that so few people have ever seen this. Too many people have never wandered into the Hosay space. Be it midnight for Big Hosay or midday on Ashura, the crowds were dwindling possibly even before I was born. Sat Balkaransingh’s Hosay Caribbean: Tadjahs on Wheels has been a source of great fulfilment. I don’t just mean it’s a satisfying read, but also there were things I hoped were true – small wishes from personal observation and guessing – and it seems, from Balkaransingh’s work, that they are true and real and researched. Come to St James at the end of this week. One of the things you’ll soon notice is that people of every creed and race have found a place in this passion play for the brothers Hasan and Hussein, the martyred nephews of the Prophet Mohammed. Over the years we have seen this great mixing of our people in the playing of drums and dancing of moons. Ye garden-variety creolisation of all things Trinidad, it is thought. And I, for one, had zero quarrel with that. [caption id="attachment_1069281" align="alignnone" width="1024"] -[/caption] But, boy, did I have news for me. Hosay arrived in Trinidad ready-mixed, according to Balkaransingh. Once it crossed from Iran into India it was absorbed by the host nation, not just the Shia Muslim part. “It had taken on an Indian identity,” Balkaransingh writes. He says it was observed by the Sunnis, Shias and Hindus throughout the land. That seems more incredible than the fact that it is no strange sight to find a Ras playing dhol (the big bass drum) on the Western Main Road on Big Hosay night. Tadjahs on Wheels has given me much. And, to a level approaching ecstasy, I found more moon lore. The story much told is that the moons represent Hasan and Hussein. We read this every year around this time. It was what I was told as a child. According to Balkaransingh’s research, what they more specifically stand for is the armour of the brothers. Now I have seen pictures of how the armour, the shiels or “sipars,” as they are made in different parts of India. They are a leaf or teardrop in shape. And they are carried as you would a standard or ensign. I could carry one. My four-year-old niece could carry one. The moon of the St James Hosay is a Trinidadian creation. It continues the tradition of symbolising a breastplate, but of an infinitely grander and more ornate construction. We have lost so much. The stick-fighting art of gatka. The near-surreal idea of the fire pass where walking on fire is not a metaphor. We have lost so much respect for the solemnity of the occasion. And the beauty of the remembrance. Still, out there, at the end of this week, there will be Hosay. And there will be men dancing moons. And it will be marvellously breathtaking and maybe you will wonder if you could do it next year. The post The whole of the moon appeared first on Trinidad and Tobago Newsday.