[Author’s Note: Originally published in TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism, Issue 6, September 2007, www.triviavoices.net.]
Under the alchemy of the sea and sky, my bones began to listen.
The warm wind tickled my ear lobes, kissed my cheek, bidding me to cede to the desire of memory. You have been here before, it whispered and my bones sighed, recalling the taste of the salty air, the scent of pink roses in full bloom. Sardegna.
My cells knew this island of granite and basalt mountains, primeval oak forests, cork trees, olive groves, hillsides teeming with wooly sheep. My spirit recognized its shimmering turquoise waters, its cerulean canopy of morning sky, though my earthly eyes had never before gazed upon Sardegna. I came to the island on a pilgrimage, seeking the buried treasure of my soul’s most ancient longing. I came to explore ruins of the Dea Madre, the God Mother, artifacts of the Divine One, the Dark Mother, who sailed with ancient voyagers from oldest Africa 50,000 years before. These journeyers from the Motherland were seekers, too, searching for what I do not know. Perhaps like any traveler, they had grown weary of life in their native lands and sought new sights, new sounds, new smells, new ways of encountering the world. With them they brought their most cherished traditions and customs: reverence for the Divine Mother, the
Earth and all its creatures, a capacity for living in peace and a sacred understanding of social equality.
I wandered among the Punic ruins at Tharros, near the Cape of San Marco, on Sardegna’s western shore, seeking messages from these ancient ones. In the 8 th Century BCE, Carthaginians arrived from North Africa to settle on this stretch of rocky land and build a prosperous, vibrant city. They established an outpost around 850 BCE on the lip of this promontory. At the height of its glory, Tharros was one of the most important cities in the Mediterranean serving both as a maritime stronghold and a bustling trade center.
To one side of the promontory, the wild sea is untamed. The ancients named it mare vivo, living sea. The other, calmer side, they christened, mare morto, the dead sea. They chose to moor their ships in the quieter waters of its harbor. From this juxtaposition of vivo and morto, Tharros rose, perched between life and death, teeming with women and men, children and animals, living, breathing, loving, dying.
Rich in culture and commerce, the city of Tharros was civilized and highly developed, complete with streets, residential neighborhoods, artisan shops, iron-work foundries, temples, a sewage system, meeting areas, a shopping district, and two necropoli (grave sites). Among the ruins, one can still envision the city’s open sanctuary and its monumental temple (most likely built in honor of Tanit, a Dark Mother female divinity with ancient ties to African Isis).
In the 3 rd century BCE, the Romans conquered Tharros and subjugated its people, although the city continued to prosper under Roman occupation. Working with the urban design already in place, the Romans added, adapted and integrated their buildings with pre-existing structures, applying quintessentially Roman touches such as thermal baths—with dressing rooms, saunas and hot and cold water pools—aqueduct pipes to carry water to buildings, and stone roads. The memory of the Feminine Divine lingered as well in Roman temples built to honor the goddesses Demeter and her daughter, Core (Persephone). In the 8 th and 9 th centuries CE, Saracens raids added to Tharros’ demise. Malarial epidemics in the marshy sections of the peninsula proved, ultimately, to be disastrous. In the 11 th century CE, attempts to resettle the city were futile. This once shining gem on the Cape of San Marco was to remain a shadowy memory, its past glory forever humbled and overrun by scarlet poppies, yellow broom, and violet wildflowers.
Still, some timeless essence whispered to me as I strolled along Tharros’ ancient main street—the Cardo Maximus. I wandered the stone alleyways, lingering among the crumbling foundations of this once impressive city, envisioning what used to be its houses, temples, public baths, and shops. The life-pulse of the inhabitants who once populated these now-vacant streets was unmistakable. My ears rang with the din and chatter of ancient artisans crafting coral jewelry or fashioning iron tools. My eyes sensed the industrious traders plying their wares, seafarers bringing goods from places far away. Perhaps, centuries before, my soles touched this earth, the dusty soil lodged between my toes. I may have stopped to loosen my sandal, ease the chafing against my skin, or to greet a neighbor, Salve. In my ears lingered the sound of children laughing, men’s voices rising from the village center, women singing at the sacred well. Which
home was mine? I wondered as I walked along among the ruins dotted with red poppies.
The North African Carthaginians were not the first immigrants to the island. As early as 1100 BCE, Canaanites had sailed directly from their Near East homeland (from what is modern-day Palestine and Syria) to trade and co-mingle with the Nuraghi, Sardegna’s original inhabitants whose culture thrived on the island from 1800- 500 BCE. The peaceful Canaanite seafarers anchored their lives to this new land and, sometimes, put to rest their wandering ways. Along with their ships’ cargo they carried the rites of their Mother God: Tanit, and her values of justice with compassion.
Some archeological evidence suggests that the Canaanites in these entrepost settlements co-existed in harmony with the Nuraghi, blending their ways and customs with that of the early Sardegnans who had developed their own prosperous culture and society. Indeed, the two peoples shared many common values, not the least of which were social equality, a community-oriented ethos, and a belief in a female deity.
(To be continued)