I told him that I was heading eventually for my hometown of Oujda. He replied that, praise be to God, there were a number of trucks, cars, and buses that went there. Once we arrived, he took off his outer coat and put it on me, then left me by the only mosque in the village. With that, he continued his journey, but not before asking me if I needed anything else.
I entered the mosque where I first performed the ritual ablutions, then prayed the requisite prayers and some other litanies, thanking God for my release and safety. I spent the night inside the mosque, along with a group of strangers and other travelers. Next morning, I used of a number of different modes of transport as I made my way back to my hometown.
27
Conclusion
1
Oh yes, my gracious Na‘ima, may God be gracious to you and comfort you!
Since returning to my homeland, I’ve chosen to live on the Angad Plain, a hilly farming area with clean air, fresh, pure water, the sounds of birds, domestic and farm animals, and a sweet refreshing breeze that blows in from the Bani Sanasin hills. It is springtime, and the whole scenario coalesces in a way that manages to distract me, if only from time to time, from the horrendous years of imprisonment and the physical and psychological injuries I have suffered.
A genuinely pious and generous man, Hamdan al-Mizati, who owns the farm where I am staying, has arranged for me to be looked after by a widow and her unmarried daughter. They are taking good care of me and feeding me nourishing food and various herbs. Thanks to the ministrations of these two women, I have been able to resume my normal sleep by gradually ridding myself of the patterns of nightmare and sleeplessness that afflicted me in prison. For a whole month I have managed to spend daylight hours in the shade of a spreading leafy oak tree, while the evenings have been spent by lamplight in the wide-open house, committing to paper the chapters of my prison narrative and recalling as far as possible all the painful memories and residual consequences of such a physical and psychological trauma.
Between prayers, and especially in this wonderful month of Rajab, I find that my mind catches fire and my talents explode into creativity. By means of my pen, words and images move from my tongue to the page. Whenever I rest or eat something, my hostess, Khaduj, and her daughter, Zaynab, ask me what I am doing. When I give them some snippets, the mother throws her head covering to the floor and launches into a tirade of prayers against the tyrannical monsters who have committed such things against me, while the daughter’s reddened eyes weep copious tears, which I hasten to wipe away, either with my handkerchief or my hand.
One fine day I decided to sit in the hollow at the top of the oak tree and put the finishing touches to my manuscript with some editing and corrections, all to the accompaniment of the fascinating logic of the bird population. I did just that, but I had hardly involved myself totally in my task before I had to stop, having noticed Zaynab running hither and yon, like a gazelle that has gone crazy. She kept yelling my name and begging me to show myself. Her mother kept telling her to calm down and control herself. When I scrambled down the tree, Zaynab rushed over to me, panting and out of breath, and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. It has been ages now since I have come across anyone with warmer and deeper feelings than hers. As she ran away, I saw her mother coming towards me with my breakfast tray.
Once I had finished work on my manuscript, I folded it up and put it in a box. I told Khaduj that I wanted to use her mule to go into Oujda and deal with some urgent business. She and Zaynab both prepared a travel pack for me and stuffed it with food, baskets of vegetables, and fruit for me to give the jurist, al-Mizati. As they both said farewell, they made me promise not to stay away too long. I went on my way, feeling free and easy; with my beard duly clipped; I was wearing a jallaba and a turban on my head.
The five days I spent in the city were filled with activity and success. First thing, I went to the blood laboratory, where I gave some blood so I could check on my immunization status. I then headed for the dental clinic, where my few remaining decayed teeth were extracted with anesthetic. I was promised a new set of false teeth made to measure so I could forget all about my messed-up mouth.
I spent that same night in my bookstore, using candlelight to collect the books that I could save, ones that had not been eaten by mice and bookworms. I put them all in a box that still preserved some of my personal possessions, clothes, and civil-status documentation. That done, I did my ablutions and said the prayers before surrendering to sleep, still dressed in my jallaba.
Next morning, I woke up with a start, having just emerged from a nightmare in which all the personnel in my terrible prison experience and all the dreadful events had followed one another in relentless succession. I leapt up and made for the mosque, where I performed the ablutions again, prayed the dawn prayer, and asked God for guidance. None of the other worshippers knew who I was, and the same thing applied to passersby when I exited the mosque. My traditional garb, my graying beard, and the years I had been away all combined to make me seem a stranger or a new arrival in the city. For my own part, I barely recognized anyone as I made my way through the markets, bazaars, and other crowded places. People had changed: health problems, the inexorable advance of time, and old age had all had their effects, but this was all part of God’s practice with His creation—and to that there was no alternative.
I hastily ate my breakfast and then headed for the blood laboratory to get the results of my test analyses. I asked the senior nurse to reassure me that I did not have AIDS, and she told me that everything was fine; that made me very happy, needless to say. Once I realized that God had saved me from the dire ministrations of the female ghoul and that the way now lay open for me to get married, I kissed her hand. Now there was no need to hold back or delay, particularly in view of the fact that I had wasted many years in prison and was now close to fifty years old. As evening fell on my second day in Oujda, I went to visit the home of the virtuous jurist, Hamdan al-Mizati, and broached precisely this topic. As I did so, I handed him the basket of food from the woman who, I hoped, would become my mother-in-law. His face immediately lit up, and he told his wife to prepare dinner.
“By God, my boy,” he told me, “your intentions show that what your plan is indeed an act of charity. You’ll be sheltering and looking after a good woman; you’ll care for her and she for you. You will enhance your religion with a God-sanctioned marriage. Yesterday an official from the Angad region came and asked me why you were staying on my farm. The things I told him set him back on his heels, and he apologized profusely. But now that you’ve made this decision, you don’t have to worry about him or anyone else.”
He noticed that I was hesitating before saying something else. But just then his wife came in to welcome me and offer congratulations, and I stood up to greet her. After setting a number of plates on the table, she told me that her husband, the Hajj,* had told her wonderful things about me and I was to treat their home as my own.
“I have two sons,” the jurist continued after she had left. “One died in obscure circumstances, and the second travels a lot to apply his modern knowledge and experience. So you can take their place as my son. But eat something first, then you can tell me what’s worrying you.”
I ate a little, then wiped my hands and mouth.
“May God give you a good reward, Hajj, for everything you’re doing for me. But as soon as I’m married—through God’s almighty power, I have to find a decent job so I can live by it and look after my family. My idea is to sell you my bookstore so I can use the money to buy part of your farm or some other tract close by. I don’t like living in the city and feel claustrophobic. That’s what prison has done to me, and the complaint about that needs to be directed to God. I can only see myself breathing freely in the countryside, tilling the soil, sowing seeds, and reaping the harvest that results. Something else is on my mind as well: I’ve completed my testimony about the prison. How can I get it published so that it gets to the people who matter?”
> The shaykh gave me an affectionate look.
“Hamuda,” he replied, “patience comes from God the Merciful, haste from the devil. All in good time! You’ll get the piece of land you want, but not now. Your manuscript can be published with God’s assistance, but not now. On the other hand, your marriage is a boon, and, as the proverb puts it, ‘The best boons come the quickest.’ On Friday afternoon we’ll go to the farm with two witnesses, you’ll be wed to Zaynab, and we’ll have a reception to celebrate the happy occasion. After that, God will decide . . .”
For a moment, the shaykh fell silent and ate a little food. He then produced a sealed envelope from his pocket.
“Here’s a sum of money,” he said. “I’m loaning it to you with no interest, and you can return it whenever you can. Use it to buy things for yourself, but don’t forget to purchase some clothes for both the bride and groom. The night before Friday you should visit the bathhouse closest to my home, and until it’s time to leave, you’ll be staying here with me. Now go to the room you see in front of you and get what you need most: some rest and undisturbed sleep.”
The only way I could see of expressing my heartfelt thanks to the shaykh was to kiss his head and hands many times before leaving him and going to the room he had indicated.
On Thursday evening I purchased various pieces of clothing and other things. I put my new set of teeth in and had the kind of wash in the bathhouse that I had not enjoyed for years. With the shaykh I prayed the evening prayer in the quarter’s mosque, and we each offered our own fervent prayers. On Friday morning I brought the box of books that I had managed to save, and immediately after the noon prayer the shaykh took me and my belongings out to the farm in his truck, along with his wife and two witnesses.
Khaduj and Zaynab both welcomed us all with broad smiles, then set about preparing food and drink. No sooner had everyone gathered than the shaykh broached with Khaduj the possibility of my marrying her daughter, all in accordance with the custom of God and His Prophet. Her positive response first took the form of copious prayers and blessings on God’s Prophet, immediately followed by a whole chain of ululations that undoubtedly could be heard by the neighbors as well. Her daughter was overcome by emotions of utter joy and happiness, and she went rushing off into the fields, running and leaping into the air. She came back eventually, with tears in her eyes and flushed cheeks and responded to the two witnesses’ question with a resounding ‘Yes.’ The wedding contract was now drawn up, and, once it was complete, the opening chapter of the Qur’an was recited and everyone prayed the afternoon prayer. The shaykh sacrificed a ram and prepared it for cooking, while the bride and her mother set about preparing an elaborate wedding banquet with the help of neighbors who contributed their own share of ululations. With God’s assistance, the entire wedding went off well, and the district official and other neighbors came to join in the celebration. The women competed with each other to fill the entire neighborhood with ululations and celebratory poems, all to the accompaniment of rhythmic clapping, beating tambourines and drums, and clicking spoons and glasses on the tables and trays. All the while, other women—as far as I can tell—started washing, perfuming, and dressing the bride with appropriate clothes and expensive jewelry.
Between the sunset and evening prayers, we menfolk spent some deeply spiritual moments reciting passages from the Qur’an and chanting prophetic eulogies and Sufi litanies. I played a major part in all that and was sometimes the only one singing. During a pause, the jurist who was so responsible for my good fortune in all this leaned over and asked me where I had acquired such talents.
“God gave me such talents while I was studying,” I whispered in his ear, “but such things were my spiritual sustenance and the primary source of my endurance during the long years I spent in prison.”
It seems that the two witnesses and the local official were somewhat put out by their inability to participate in such religious celebrations, so, as soon as they had eaten, they rose to their feet and left, offering their thanks and good wishes to my wife and myself.
2
Oh yes, my gracious Na‘ima, may God be gracious to you and comfort you!
When it came time for my bride and me to be alone, we headed for the room that had been prepared for us, each of us dressed in a pure white garment. The women who accompanied us were praising God and intoning prayers and blessings on our behalf. Once they had closed the door behind us, they all went back to start preparing the celebratory breakfast for the next day.
So here I am face to face with Zaynab, my wife. In her company I can learn again the alphabet of life. I will now start teaching her to read and write so that one day she can take my book and understand its contents.
This amazing night is the new point of beginning, the essence of a fresh outlook on life. I beg God Almighty, as far as possible, to keep it free, now and in the future, from all kinds of violence, frivolity, and sorrow.
The tears shed by my beloved wife are tears of joy as she discovers the sheer magic of married life. My tears are also those of joy, but they are also tempered by joy of another kind—the joy at being rid of the threat of death and destruction. All this is through God’s good grace and yours as well, Na‘ima, guardian angel over my happiness!
And it’s all due to your knowledge as well, you intermediary of God the Creator in my rescue from death! Now here I am in the countryside, reading a book at times and plowing the fields at others along with my wife and mother-in-law. I am filling my lungs to their capacity with the sweet breath of my regained freedom and relishing it all in the company of Zaynab, as we use our mule to ride through valleys, streams, the Bani Sanasin hills, and the Camel’s Cave. Sometimes we dismount and run races into the cave or across low-lying areas. To tell the truth, I find it easier to race a rabbit than to try to keep up with Zaynab. When the woman whom I’ve come to call “my gazelle” stops out of pity for me, I can assess the damage that the years in prison have wrought on my breathing and lungs. But I give praises to God that I am still alive and well and that there are many things I can still enjoy: sitting on the grass with my wife, for example, after we have been running, shading ourselves under the leafy trees and alongside a coursing brook. As we chatter, she kisses my hand and I kiss hers as we tease and touch each other and listen together to the sound of the fetus growing inside her womb.
With each passing day my period of convalescence becomes progressively shorter—what a blessing!—and all signs of my asthma disappear as though it had never really happened. My nightmarish visions gradually vanish as well, and little by little my complete recovery draws ever closer, all due to God’s bounty and generosity.
My devout and generous sponsor, the jurist al-Mizati, now makes me the sole owner of the farm, with the written agreement of his surviving son. He leaves me as owner also of the bookstore in the hope that one day I’ll be able to open it to my own students of religious learning, few though they may be.
I am delighted by my mother-in-law, who I hereby testify is the very best of her kind, and so is she with me. Barely a single day passed before we were sharing jokes and funny stories with each other. For example, I thought it was odd that there was no bull in her paddock. In reply she told me that it’s the cow that is the more profitable by giving birth to calves and producing milk and its byproducts, so it deserves more fodder and close attention. The bull, on the other hand, she borrows without charge at particular times of the year. It impregnates her cows, and then she returns it to its owner. One of her other stories tells how one night she invited a married couple from Fez. Before breakfast the next morning, the couple were both staring in amazement at the number of chickens, cocks, and hens she had. The husband asked how that came about, and she told him that the cock has a large number of wives. “Did you hear that?” the wife whispered in her husband’s ear. The husband asked my mother-in-law to explain: “Does the cock do it with just one hen and no more?” That made her laugh. “Oh no,” she replied, “he not only does it wit
h all the hens here, but even with the neighbors’ hens as well.” “Did you hear that?” the husband whispered in his wife’s ear.
I have not yet found anyone to publish my prison narrative, except for one stupid idiot. He demanded that I pay a significant subvention, the excuse being that the book market was bad. He also asked me to remove many paragraphs and expressions because they had some savage things to say about politics and politicians and included some obscene sections that offended against public morality. I saw no point in reminding the man of the popular expression: “The person who imitates heresy is not a heretic,” and applying the same principle to matters of obscenity. My mother-in-law became involved in the matter and suggested that I offer him a cow in exchange for publication. The wretched man agreed on condition that I add two rams and a hen. Even so, I refused point blank to leave out or rewrite any detail about my suffering and torture. The man turned his back on me, furious and empty-handed.
It is not in my nature or vocation to give up. Something unforeseen may come up with regard to my manuscript, including measures that I need to pursue in the capital city of Rabat and such legal foundations as are prepared to be receptive. I wonder: would I ever have escaped from my trials and tribulations if it were not for my Job-like patience and my pretense at being sick and crazy, just as you advised me to do, Na‘ima? Did I ever imagine that I would be married in this locality and see Zaynab carrying my baby if it had not been for the generous help of a truly pious man? Or could I ever have used my adherence to the counsel of the Lord of all Messengers: “When you come to your womenfolk, then make love to them,” to ask for the gift of a child? The whole thing is connected, Na‘ima. Only time can tell . . . !
My Torturess Page 23
