We Have Buried the Past

by Abdelkrim Ghallab

  When Qadur pulled back the tent flap, it was to find Fatina sitting in her usual place, with a bowl between her thighs in which she was rolling the couscous to serve for their dinner with Hajj Muhammad’s family members. She was an expert at the operation and did it quickly and perfectly; she was well aware of the value of fresh couscous when it is offered for a family dinner. Urban folk are particularly fond of it when it is made and cooked by Bedouin.

  As Qadur waited for the flocks to return, he sat there discussing the day’s events with Fatina. The only fresh thing to talk about was the life of their guest family, in their house and in the fields – their short trips into the fields and visits to the spring, the ladies riding donkeys and mules, the children admiring the chickens and lambs, the women in particular all wanting to eat yoghurt and crusty bread spread with fresh butter.

  The family from Fez found the Bedouin a source of both entertainment and a good deal of unfamiliarity – something that made them not only curious but also often mocking and even scornful. When the Fez family was at the estate, the normal routine of the Bedouin was disrupted, and things became more serious and unusual. The situation provided Qadur and Fatina with unusual topics for conversation, which took them away from the usual subjects of fields, cows, and markets.

  At first the ideas of the city folk, men and women alike, seemed naive, trivial, and ignorant. To a man of over fifty like Hajj Muhammad and a woman approaching forty like Khaduj, everything was peculiar. The people from the city seemed scared of everything, things that the Bedouin could not imagine frightening anyone. What made Fatina laugh more than anything was that everyone in the Fez family was scared of the dark, imagining that a fierce wild beast would pounce on whomever it set eyes on. Whenever the wind blew out a candle in a room, there would be a loud scream as though the entire family were in imminent danger. Fatina was amazed that members of the family, both young and old, were incapable of walking anywhere in the dark, as though nature had only ever created light. She talked about the way that Khaduj and even Yasmine – who had first smiled in such fields – and all the children were so amazed that the farmers would sit in the dark and have wonderful evening gatherings in the open air, with no light save the twinkling stars in the heavenly vault. It was topics like these that formed the bulk of conversation in the Bedouin family circle, often provoking its own level of mockery and scorn.

  But on this particular occasion Qadur had another topic to talk about, something that had emerged from his discussion with Hajj Muhammad.

  ‘What do you think,’ he asked Fatina, ‘of a man who’s intent on lowering our share of wheat production this year?’

  As Qadur uttered these words, he was staring off into the distance, at the fields of wheat stretching endlessly away.

  Fatina stopped kneading the couscous and gave her husband a curious, disapproving look. ‘He’s doing it to us again, again?! It’s your fault! Every time you show him how reliable you are and how much trouble you take in tending the fields and the animals, it only makes him even more eager to stint us.’

  ‘He’s just like a little babe. Every time the subject of land production comes up, he assumes we’re all thieves stealing his money and grabbing his harvest for ourselves.’

  ‘How much would this land produce if it weren’t for you, Muhammad al-Tawil, and Isa ibn al-Hajj’s son?’ She guffawed. ‘So let him plough it for himself ! Suggest to the Hajj that he take care of his own land so we won’t steal it all. He can tend his flocks of sheep and cattle too, then we won’t be drinking their milk or selling off their young, as he imagines.’

  Her mention of ‘his own land’ stirred up a secret anger in Qadur’s mind; he frowned as though avoiding burning embers. He had been resting his head on his arms, but now he sat up straight. ‘“His own land”!’ he yelled. ‘“His own land”! I can barely say the words. I know full well whose land it really is…’

  Fatina was busy with the couscous grains, turning them with her hands on a plate made from doum leaves. ‘Whose land is it?’ she asked, knowing the answer full well. She went on to ask another question that was bound to provoke a response from Qadur, ‘You mean Hajj Muhammad’s land left to him by his parents and ancestors?’

  Qadur gave a grunt of total denial. ‘God have mercy on my father and uncle!’ he sighed. ‘They both told us about the land and how they’d lost it.’

  ‘You mean they sold it?’ she asked, again knowing the right answer.

  ‘Yes, the way a slave’s sold to his master.’

  ‘The way a slave’s sold to his master!’ Fatina commented with a laugh, making Qadur even angrier. ‘The master can perfectly well sell that same slave. He’s a slave. What the master owns is his property.’

  She had achieved her goal, since Qadur was now furious. ‘Master and slave!’ he yelled. ‘The curse that’s been afflicting city folk has now started affecting us in the countryside.’

  ‘Don’t we have servants and slaves here, just like Fez?’

  ‘You don’t even realise. You may be a servant, and I may be a slave. Neither of us has to change our colour!’

  ‘You mean you can be sold in the market, just like my uncle, Fatih?’

  ‘Certainly, and there’s no need of a market either.’

  Fatina turned toward Qadur as she tipped the tray and scraped off the residual couscous. ‘You sound crazy today,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  Qadur scoffed loudly. ‘Just imagine,’ he said, ‘that you borrowed money from Aisha, Ali’s daughter, so you could buy some lambs. Then they all died. How would you settle your debts?’

  ‘But why would I go into debt only for all the lambs to die?’

  ‘Just imagine it. Use your imagination.’

  ‘How would I settle the debts, you ask? I’d give you all my bracelets and necklaces, and entrust the whole thing to God.’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly what happened to my father and uncle.’

  ‘Did they have bracelets and necklaces?’

  ‘No, no. What they had was land. They borrowed from Hajj Muhammad’s father, and it seems that he gave them a very generous loan. But then, they fell into so much debt that, when the amount they owed was equivalent to the value of their land, the only thing they could do was to hand it all over bit by bit till it was all Hajj Muhammad’s property.’

  This sequence of events came as a shock to Fatina; she had never expected to hear it all explained in such logical and simple terms. She stopped her work and stared off anxiously across the lands that stretched into the far distance. The sad expression on her face was her only reaction.

  She turned toward Qadur again, in time to hear him say, ‘With all that in mind, can Hajj Muhammad really say “my lands”?’ When she did not comment, he went on. ‘These lands – my father’s and grandfather’s lands, Muhammad al-Tawil’s father’s and grandfather’s lands, Isa ibn al-Hajj’s son’s, and Ali al-Tahira’s son’s as well. Those people,’ – he pointed towards the house occupied by Hajj Muhammad – ‘they’re interlopers! They stole our lands!’ He was yelling, becoming even more upset. ‘They used small change, which the more gullible among us thought was a lot of money, but actually it was money forbidden by our religion, since the wind simply blew it all away just as it blows away bits of straw.’

  Fatina felt sorry for him and did not argue. She simply let him vent his own grievances.

  ‘Just before he died,’ Qadur added, ‘my late father made me promise never to go into debt.’

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘Yes, too late. But I’m never going to go into debt. And I’m going to get it all back, so I don’t have to stay a slave to be bartered over in the slave market.’

  Now Fatina tried to calm him down. ‘Don’t say things like that,’ she replied sympathetically. ‘You’re still working on your own land.’

  ‘My own land! Oh yes, it’s my own land! But Hajj Muhammad can throw us off it – me, you, and our children. He can lower my wages and
my share in the profits.’

  ‘No, no, don’t go on like that.’

  He ignored her warning. ‘And he can accuse me of theft, and make insinuating remarks about my reliability and incorruptibility.’

  ‘But the wind blows away that kind of remark.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it comes from a deeply flawed heart. If Hajj Muhammad could do it, he wouldn’t leave any of us on his land – “his land”! When this land is liberated and returned to us,’ he added with a sneer, ‘we’ll have a big celebration!’

  Fatina followed Qadur’s remarks by saying, ‘Now the Christians are treating them the same way they dealt with your father and your livelihood.’

  ‘The Christians! Oh, good grief ! He’ll take all the land for himself. He may even throw us off it as though we were the ones who originally stole it!’

  ‘Don’t panic! The way you keep raving about this will only bring us bad luck. It’s the kind of talk that you don’t want Muhammad al-Tawil to hear. If any of them heard it, it would be in Hajj Muhammad’s ear before we even knew it. The status you enjoy with him makes them all jealous. Any one of them could easily become your boss!’

  From far off the sound of sheep bleating could be heard with the sheepdogs running happily around, all of which announced the return of the flocks. Qadur could also hear the young shepherds yelling eagerly at the sheep as they herded them towards their pens.

  As the procession made its way back, Qadur’s features relaxed, and he set off running along the track that the flocks would be taking, forgetting his discussion with Fatina, while she carried her bowl over to the stove.

  14

  Summer beset the city of Fez; the narrow, damp alleys felt its full impact. The city was besieged by heat and folded in on itself. In summer the people of Fez shunned their dark, heavy jallabas, their kaftans weighted down with silk threads, their fibre or wool burnouses, and their head-covers wrapped in hefty turbans. Instead, they wore lightweight jallabas and burnouses in bright colours. But there was no escape from the intense heat. Most of them knew only the city in which they had been born or had spent most of their lives. Their only hope was to die inside its walls. Most of them were acquainted only with the parts of the city inside its walls; indeed, they knew only the quarter where their family had resided for decades. It was as if they had taken root in that very quarter along with its dilapidated walls, its lofty entryways, and its low roofs from which flimsy spiderwebs hung down, musty and dark.

  This is why most inhabitants of the ancient city could not break out of the vicious siege that summer imposed on them. There was no way to get out of the city in the steaming-hot summer; even people who owned lands in the countryside hunkered down and avoided the heat in the shade of the crumbling old city.

  Children felt the summer restrictions more than adults, forced as they were to spend the long, hot days crammed inside the walls of the Qur’an school, all squeezed in like lambs in a tiny pen – although, unlike lambs, they could not even express their frustration and resistance by bleating. The Qur’an school was a prison in which both prisoners and guards had to suffer. The Qur’an teacher could not allow a refreshing breeze of freedom and relaxation to blow its way into the school, nor could he let them all go at noon when it was hottest. He was to serve as the ever-faithful custodian of the children in the narrow school space crowded with pupils, where the intense heat got on their nerves, made them all perspire, and turned their young minds both lazy and apathetic. They would nod off and nap. Their tiny heads would fall over the heavy writing-slates, but a vicious blow from the teacher’s cane, on the head, face, or back, would wake them up with a start. In such a dangerous situation they would all be permanently on edge, torn between the urgent need to sleep and terror at the thought of the long, punishing cane which could reach any of them wherever they were sitting and however hard they might try to hide behind another pupil’s back.

  Of course, the merciless heat that affected them all did not exempt the jurist either. However hard he tried to resist, it wore him down too; he would do his best to avoid falling asleep by shouting at the children, ‘Read your slates!’ or ‘You, recite…!’

  He continued shouting out these instructions even though the children had no idea what they were chanting; was it genuine recitation, or merely a facsimile of it? When he felt himself dropping off to sleep, the jurist would resort to a mechanical gesture to ward it off by lashing out at one of the children with his cane. This would create a noise throughout the schoolroom which he believed would immediately wake them all up with a jolt. But no sooner was he back in his own corner than a listless feeling would slink from mind to body, and all that could be seen would be young bodies making mechanical movements like a clock pendulum swinging unconsciously. That same feeling affected the jurist as well. He would doze off with his eyes wide open, but as soon as he realised it was happening he would pounce on the pupils to rid himself of the drowsy feeling.

  Abd al-Rahman had to endure the trials of summer, the Qur’an school, and its master during those scorching hot days, but eventually night brought with it some relief from the searing heat. He would then meet up with his friends from the Makhfiyya Quarter in its long, branching alleyways, where cooler breezes freshened the air and let the people who gathered there feel that they were alive and breathing normally. The oppressive atmosphere in the Qur’an school was a primary topic of their conversation, but Abd al-Qadir al-Rahmuni would guffaw as he told his companions how much he was enjoying the opportunity to relax, sleep, and enjoy himself during the long school vacation that lasted for three months.

  ‘Three whole months?!’ the children yelled back at him in an amazement akin to sheer envy.

  ‘The secular academy’s closed, and all my schoolmates are on vacation because heat like this doesn’t help you study.’

  ‘You lucky dog! Our master doesn’t even know the word “relax”. We’re reciting stuff from dawn till sunset!’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ Abd al-Qadir’s mocking laughter made the children angry; they all felt even more jealous.

  Abd al-Rahman now recalled what it was that Abd al-Qadir had whispered in his ear the first time he talked about the secular academy: ‘Ask your father to enrol you.’

  ‘Should I?’ he wondered. ‘Who could approach my father with such a request? My mother? Abd al-Ghani? If my father hears talk about this school that dismisses its students for three whole months, he’ll encourage the Qur’an teacher to punish me… Even so, I have to try. I must take the risk. Qur’an school? I can’t stand that merciless prison any more! The secular academy… no beatings, no canes, no summer classes. That’s paradise, not a school.’

  The very thought of this school occupied Abd al-Rahman’s mind, senses, and emotions. Whenever he spoke to his brothers and his mother he constantly mentioned it. However, he avoided talking to Abd al-Ghani about it, in case he blew up and opposed the idea before there was even a chance to approach his father with the request.

  As the summer months began to fade, Abd al-Qadir started talking to his friends in the Makhfiyya Quarter about the upcoming semester and how he was about to purchase books, notepads, pencils, and a schoolbag. Abd al-Rahman’s resolve began to reassert itself, and he finally decided to let his father know that he wanted to join the secular academy.

  His mother was the best conduit for approaching his father. He was not used to asking his father for anything, nor was Hajj Muhammad accustomed to allowing his sons to make requests of him. And it was the mother who could be persuasive in a way that the sons could not. When it came to the secular academy, it was very doubtful that even his mother could manage it, but, whatever the case, she could certainly avoid the furious reaction if Hajj Muhammad thought the request sufficiently outrageous to demand reprimand or punishment.

  Khaduj listened patiently to the lengthy and tempting explanation that Abd al-Rahman offered as he tried to persuade his mother of his desire to transfer to the secular academy, but she could not summon enough cour
age to promise him that his father would accept the idea. When Abd al-Rahman pressed her, she insisted that she could not undertake such a tricky task, but when he kept up his pressure, she agreed to try – if a favourable opportunity presented itself when Hajj Muhammad would be willing to listen and respond.

  As the days rolled by, October was almost upon them, and Abd al-Qadir was talking a lot about his school. Abd al-Rahman now tried even harder with his mother, complaining that he could no longer stand attending the Qur’an school and having to stare at the teacher’s face there. He could no longer memorise his tablet or recite a sura by heart.

  One dark September morning when heat and clouds combined, Abd al-Rahman was surprised to hear a fierce command from Hajj Muhammad: ‘Abd al-Rahman, wait! Don’t leave for school yet. Wait for me.’

  Hajj Muhammad’s tone of voice sounded anything but happy. Even when he was actually feeling content, his voice could still sound serious and even harsh. Without actually looking at the expression on his face there was no way of telling whether he was content or annoyed. So, on this occasion Abd al-Rahman could not tell from the voice at a distance what mood his father was in.

  Abd al-Rahman waited to leave the house with his father. He did not dare ask his father what he thought; instead, he kept sneaking glances to see if it was possible to discern Hajj Muhammad’s mood and determine why he was accompanying him to the Qur’an school.

  He soon gathered that Hajj Muhammad was not happy at all; from his total silence he deduced that his father had something in mind and was formulating a plan. But he could not work out exactly what that involved. All he could do was to trail behind his father, with no idea what the goal and purpose might be. When they reached the Qur’an school, Hajj Muhammad let Abd al-Rahman go first and enter the schoolroom ahead of him. As he went through the doorway, he took another look at his father’s expression and saw that it was even more rigid and angry than before. Now he realised.