We Have Buried the Past

by Abdelkrim Ghallab

  The only responses came from people with anxious expressions and aspirations for something new – and he encountered some fierce opposition to his ideas.

  ‘You’re still out to destroy yourself.’

  ‘In wartime no state will ever tolerate extremist views.’

  A guffaw emerged through a set of teeth worn down by old age.

  ‘I think they’re fighting for our freedom.’

  A powerful, alert voice added, ‘At least we’ll get the reward for all the young men we’ve sent over, and we still—’

  This man was interrupted by a thunderous voice yelling, ‘What about our generation? What will be written about its history that deserves to be recorded? We don’t want any rewards or costs. What we want is our rights!’

  These comments echoed in Abd al-Rahman’s mind, and he thought for a while. ‘Their young hearts are pulsing with initiative,’ he told himself, ‘but are their eyes still capable of seeing what lies beyond the horizon?’

  He looked to the distant horizon himself, in case he could spot something that might rid him of his uncertainties. His gaze combined piercing eyes and focused thought with a conscious mind.

  His expression now changed; he looked as though he had received inspiration from the heavens above; a light from afar shone brightly in his conscience, a single word: ‘independence’.

  Suddenly, people’s expressions no longer seemed so worried, their complexions so pale. Now they had guidance, and they knew where they were going. That single profound, conscious, and motivational word ‘independence’ was being spread from mouth to ear. There was neither discord nor fear, no further cause for thought or opposition. People accepted it, as though the idea had been ringing in their ears for the past three decades, a dark period in their history that was now being overtaken by a gleaming light coming from the distant horizon, enveloped in an inspired notion sent down from the heavens.

  ‘Independence!’ the entire nation yelled behind him.

  The word itself did not proclaim independence, but what it did was create a record of a new phase in the nation’s history, when all thought of the inevitable continuity of the previous era came to an end.

  Abd al-Rahman had not been happy with the way people used this word. They spoke it even while wandering aimlessly in a desperate state with troubled expressions and thoughts, and above all with no sense of direction. But now he felt happier, because the word had emerged from its captivity; it was on everyone’s lips and bandied about from mouth to mouth. From this point on, there was no holding it back or preventing its forward momentum.

  ‘Independence’ was one of those words that make history. It provided the principle, and launched itself into spheres where every ear took it in, and it entered everyone’s consciousness. All other ideas absorbed it, as though a jinni had finally been released from a bottle and it would be impossible for any magician to put it back inside, however powerful and effective his magic might be.

  With the word ‘independence’ buzzing in his ears, Hajj Muhammad looked over at his son, his expression a mixture of doubt and confusion. Abd al-Rahman in turn gave an affectionate smile, eager to hear his opinion. ‘I really need to know what he’s thinking,’ he told himself, ‘so I can explain to him clearly where I stand on the issue.’

  ‘My dear son,’ Hajj Muhammad allowed himself to say, ‘I lived through the first independence. It brought us nothing good.’

  Abd al-Rahman shivered, eager to refute his father’s statement, but instead his expression took the form of a great question mark. Hajj Muhammad continued. ‘Cities were prey to Bedouin attack. It was total chaos, and there was hardly any security.’

  ‘Wasn’t that because of the foreigners?’

  ‘This was before they arrived.’

  Abd al-Rahman realised that Hajj Muhammad did not fully understand the events he had lived through. He decided not to pursue the historical dimension any further. ‘Things change with time,’ he said. ‘Independence now will bring security, freedom, justice, and order to our country.’

  Hajj Muhammad shook his head, unwilling to believe what he was hearing. ‘All of you are all young and immature,’ he said. ‘You’ve no real experience.’

  ‘Experience is what we get from living.’ Abd al-Rahman felt like telling his father, ‘If we relied on your experience, we’d remain in imperialism’s clutches forever.’ But he said nothing and let Hajj Muhammad continue.

  ‘So far,’ his father said, ‘life has not taught you how to make a needle, so how are you supposed to administer an independent country?’

  ‘It’s freedom that’s will teach us how to experiment and make needles.’

  ‘Freedom? Who’s ever stopped you enjoying it, or taken it away?’

  Abd al-Rahman now understood that Hajj Muhammad was far from dazzled by the gleam of the word ‘independence’, and he tried to bring the conversation to an end. ‘Well, we’ve demanded independence, and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘It’s up to all of you. You’ll have to deal with the consequences.’

  Nothing alarmed the protectorate authorities so much as this word that was now echoing its way through valleys, plains, and mountains. They knew they would never respond to the demands, but were nevertheless troubled by the fact that the word had now turned into a principle, emerging from the hearts of people who had long remained hesitant. Now they had opened up a space within which the potential impact of the term in both near and distant perspective could be explored in greater detail. As they moved ahead, their pent-up fury was being buried in the idea of retribution, the people’s primary goal.

  Fez entered a state of siege, threatened by hunger, thirst, and dark shadows. Gunshots and bombs resounded through the streets and alleys. The army and the garde caused havoc, and spies did their utmost to destroy the core unity of the city. Young men were taken away to detention camps and prisons.

  But ‘independence’ still resounded in the heart of every citizen, like a light to satisfy the city’s longing, bread to feed the hungry, water to quench people’s thirst. Independence, independence, independence – the word still echoed in everyone’s ears.

  Finally, the crisis ended and the city recovered its pride. Once humbled by disease, its spirit once crushed, Fez could now once again raise its head high.

  The city had only been able to feel life in the light of glory. With ‘independence’ now resounding throughout its quarters, glory had been restored.

  35

  ‘So, you’ve brought independence in by the tail, have you?!’ This was how Hajj Muhammad had greeted his son when he came home for a second time after another lengthy prison term, but Abd al-Rahman refused to get angry in front of his father. Instead, he accepted the joshing gracefully, knowing that his father was not gloating or showing his scorn so much as resorting to the kind of mild irony that he always liked to use in the face of Abd al-Rahman’s logic and his burning enthusiasms. Hajj Muhammad’s remark did not upset Abd al-Rahman or make him lose his temper. Instead, he accepted his father’s comment with an open heart. It provided him with a new logical tack that he could use to try to best his father, in the particular context that he had chosen. ‘On the contrary,’ he replied immediately, ‘we’ve opened the road wide in front us. Independence will know how to establish itself.’

  Hajj Muhammad gave a dubious smile, which revealed his profound unease about the dreams that Abd al-Rahman and his coterie projected and believed in. They were all young, something their fathers could not claim to be. But the smile also reflected his obvious delight that his son had now come home. He had suffered terribly when Abd al-Rahman had gone to prison for a second time for the sake of his principles. But this time he did not feel humiliated, nor did he have the impression he had been banished from society. Instead, he had a genuine affection for his son and felt both sympathy and sorrow for the experience he had gone through. This time, his smile was an expression of the pleasure he felt at the end of a trauma he had been living with for th
e past two years.

  He looked at Abd al-Rahman again and noticed that his son’s eyes were fixed on him, as though the younger man longed to pursue the discussion which his father had started.

  ‘My dear boy,’ Hajj Muhammad said, with a serious expression, ‘we all want independence, but—’

  Abd al-Rahman thought he had won. ‘I’m thrilled!’ he interjected. ‘So, you’re a nationalist like me…’

  The brash interruption annoyed Hajj Muhammad, but he ignored it, as though he had not even heard it. Instead, he finished his previous sentence. ‘But you’re all dreaming.’

  Abd al-Rahman frowned. This was a disappointment he was not expecting. He gave his father a pleading look, as Hajj Muhammad went on.

  ‘You’re all dreaming because you believe the occupying powers are going to grant you independence.’

  Abd al-Rahman now summoned the courage to contradict his father. ‘We’ve never believed they’ll grant us independence. What we do believe is that we’re going to take it.’

  Hajj Muhammad gaped in amazement. It was clear he had never imagined that these young people would be so deluded as to claim that they could simply take what was not being offered and defy an authority that was stronger and more stubborn than they could ever be. He now realised that he could not argue with such aspirations. But he could not admit defeat, either. ‘So, you’re going to use your fingernails to grab it, are you?!’

  Abd al-Rahman understood the ironic tone once again, but he still did not react. He wanted to gauge how far the old views had changed; Hajj Muhammad was a mirror on whose surface a large number of opinions were reflected, a mirror with both intellectual and material interests. His comments, his reactions, the expressions on his face, his sarcasm, and his sincere tone of voice – they all continued to reflect the widespread views that he represented. Abd al-Rahman’s goal in provoking his father like this was not to push him to change but rather to get him to understand the way that his views mirrored the past. However worked up he might feel, Abd al-Rahman was anxious to maintain a calm appearance, and to carefully use language that was provocative but not hurtful. This was a lesson he had learned during his lengthy terms in prison. ‘The armour that the people can bring to bear,’ he replied, summoning all his resources, ‘is much more powerful than any military might.’

  Hajj Muhammad’s eyes darkened. He had no idea what these popular armaments might be, nor could he imagine there could be a force stronger than the army. He was perplexed by the delusion that was driving Abd al-Rahman, who seemed to believe in something called ‘the people’s armour’. He was confused by Abd al-Rahman’s strange logic and new terminology, and was on the point of telling him to leave his room – as he used to do when his son was a boy, and as he still did with others who had not previously invaded his inner sanctum. But he found he could not face down Abd al-Rahman in that way, nor could he keep a handle on his own emotions. Looking at his son, he saw that tears had appeared in Abd al-Rahman’s eyes, as though to challenge the thick cloud that had enveloped his own eyes. Hajj Muhammad now felt yet more unsettled and was about to leave the room himself, but his love for Abd al-Rahman demanded that he remain patient in the face of his son’s delusions and continue this conversation, which had been suspended for two whole years.

  It was not just love for his son that made him linger; there was something else as well, something he could not even admit to himself. He actually wanted to know more about this delusion that so preoccupied the attention of Abd al-Rahman’s coterie. What was this conviction that kept pushing them all to such levels of self-sacrifice, whose dignity and risk no one could any longer deny? And yet, in spite of that, he was anxious to rescue Abd al-Rahman from the course of action he had set for himself. Even though he knew that was not possible, he was still keen to continue the discussion.

  ‘Listen! I’m your father, and I understand the power wielded by the people you’re demanding should leave the country and grant us independence. But they’re more powerful than you think. You think you can defeat them because they’ve been defeated by Germany, do you?’

  Abd al-Rahman was on the point of rejecting the idea, but Hajj Muhammad put his fingers to his lips to indicate that he should remain silent.

  ‘They’ve recovered their lost power now,’ he went on, ‘and they have the British and Americans behind them. So, where is the force needed for us to confront such a collection of powers and win our independence?’

  Abd al-Rahman laughed out loud.

  Hajj Muhammad was certainly not expecting such a reaction from his son. He gave him a quizzical look, surprised that his son should be challenging this information, which he assumed to be sound and accurate.

  ‘Do you really believe that the forces of the independent nations are actually more powerful than those of the colonised ones?’

  Hajj Muhammad gaped in amazement. He had not been anticipating such a question and had no idea how to respond, or how to think about it, so he went on staring distractedly at his son.

  Abd al-Rahman realised what was going through his father’s mind. ‘We’re not going to launch a war to get our independence,’ he said. ‘We’re going to build pressure, in order to persuade people that we’re right.’

  ‘Enough, enough, enough!’ Hajj Muhammad shouted. ‘You’re all dimwits. You’re still thinking in terms of persuasion and adopting the logic of truth and falsehood. Truth and rights are linked to power. People without power have no hold on the truth.’

  Abd al-Rahman was amazed to hear this sound logic emerging in proverbial form from his father’s mouth. It was a point of view that had often impeded progress, but it still nested in the minds of many people. ‘Power isn’t truth any more,’ he replied. ‘When the war’s over, oppressed peoples with no real power will become important. Our world is a new one, and we’ll need to use fresh ideas and different actions to deal with it.’

  ‘What’s new is that the authorities will crush you, like chickens in a cage – detention camps and prisons. That’s the punishment that awaits anyone who chooses to defy people more powerful than himself.’ Before Abd al-Rahman could respond, Hajj Muhammad stood up. ‘Spare me all of that,’ he said with a gesture. ‘I’ve almost missed the afternoon prayer-time.’

  Abd al-Rahman left feeling disappointed. Now that he was out of prison, he had been hoping he would detect a significant change in his father’s attitude. ‘Change?’ he asked himself, as he huddled in a corner of his room. ‘Years in prison have kept my mind in the dark about reality. If I had really aspired to create some new mode of thinking, I’d have some grain of hope left. But my thinking is not a mirror that reflects the real situation in my country. Instead, the rust of multiple previous generations has accumulated, blocking all reflection from its shiny surface.’

  Just then he became aware of Mahmud’s voice, affectionately congratulating him on his release. Mahmud told him he was no longer a minor bureaucrat occupying some remote corner in the provincial office but had now been transferred to the court. His excellent work, his serious demeanour, and the testimony of his superiors all meant that he was a candidate to become a judge.

  ‘A judge?’ Abd al-Rahman shouted in amazement. ‘You’re going to be enforcing the law on Moroccans?’ he went on. ‘Using the law to throw them in jail?’

  ‘I’ll be finding them innocent as well,’ Mahmud replied, as though he felt the need to defend himself.

  ‘Using the law codes?!’ Abd al-Rahman asked with a grimace.

  Mahmud understood what his brother was implying. ‘The law?’ he replied. ‘Who in this country governs by law? Did you go to prison because of the law? I will be the law.’

  ‘You?! You mean… you?!’

  Again Mahmud understood his brother’s point. ‘I’m a minor token authority,’ he said. ‘I represent a higher cognisant authority.’

  ‘Imperious, you mean!’

  ‘Imperious or discriminating, whichever you like. I’m a government employee.’

&nbs
p; For a moment, Abd al-Rahman thought to himself, ‘Government employee, efficient machine! Judge with no law. From the front ranks at school to the court bench. So, Mahmud, Yasmine’s son, is going to be a judge.’ When he came to himself again, his mental horizon was murky. ‘Well, good luck!’ he said. ‘I hope to have better luck next time if I find myself standing before you!’

  Mahmud laughed. He was stunned by the realisation of a possibility he could not avoid, one that he was nevertheless anxious not to acknowledge. Laughter was his only resort. ‘Well then,’ he told his brother, ‘I’ll be glad to declare you innocent!’

  ‘But what about that higher cognisant authority you mentioned?’

  ‘A minor authority can keep a higher authority content.’

  ‘In that case, you’ve become a dangerous man!’ Abd al-Rahman stood up. It seemed to him now that he had emerged from one prison only to enter another in which he was hemmed in between his father and his younger brother. What he needed was a waft of fresh air with more freedom, more purity, and more realism. Heading for the great doorway leading out of the house, he rushed into the street and slammed the door hard behind him, reassuring himself that he had firmly closed it on Hajj Muhammad and Mahmud.

  36

  When Abd al-Rahman slammed the door to his father’s house, he had the same feeling as when he had finally turned his back on the prison gates: the need to fill his lungs with a fresh breeze, one filled with hope and life. Indeed, he felt a refreshing current of air blowing through the city’s narrow streets and long twisting alleys. He had no doubts that Fez, now released by shouts of freedom and independence from the misery of disease, fear of war, and humiliation of poverty, had flourished and become yet more liberated during the two years he had spent in prison, when a veritable downpour of ideas, emotions, and feelings must have slaked its thirst.