We Have Buried the Past

by Abdelkrim Ghallab

  He wandered around the city streets with no particular goal or direction in mind. He opened his eyes in a totally new way to the narrow horizons defined by the city walls and the twisting thoroughfares; he kept his ears open as though longing to hear a melody or birdsong. He surveyed the streets and alleys in a way that was different from how he had looked at them before. They all seemed bright, open, and prosperous, as though they had never known misfortune, angst, or darkness. As he walked, Abd al-Rahman felt as though he could actually touch the light with his hands. He stared at the ancient walls, imagining they had been made new again and had forever cast off the accumulated rust of ages past. The narrow squares seemed to have expanded more and more until they were even wider than his own welcoming heart. When he gazed up at the sky, it no longer looked as though it were clamping the lofty walls in its grip, as before; instead, infinite blue horizons were opening up to him, radiant and full of light.

  Looking at people’s faces, he searched for the misery that had marked them for years. In his own eyes there was the glint of a smile, like a flood of sweet, pure water, a smile that reflected his sense of the contentment of Fez’s population, which he could see in their expressions. At first he sought the source of that contentment in signs of luxury and wealth, but found nothing new or different from that point of view. Rather it was an internal feeling, a happiness that had opened its windows to faces that had for so long been eager for it. He stared wide eyed at the people passing by, almost stopping in his tracks out of a desire to ask them… what? As he pondered, he had no idea what it was that brought him back to this thing in people’s expressions that he had never seen before. But then the answer came in a rush.

  ‘A belief in the future, that’s what it is,’ he thought. ‘They’ve all been reborn, and the call for independence is their new birthright. Ever since they raised the cry, the whole population of the city has seen the light… They’ve liberated themselves from the darkness, from the misery and gloom that had been imprinted on their faces for so long. Now the gleaming light of a fresh morning is reflected in their expressions, newly born and bursting with hope and glad tidings.’

  This explanation came to him as he continued to stare curiously at his fellow countrymen; it felt as if he had discovered a new world. He did not approach anyone, but preferred instead to assess the novel element in their expressions from a distance.

  Suddenly Abd al-Rahman stopped in front of the entryway to the Qarawiyin Mosque, and his wandering gaze focused on a face he knew very well. The man immediately gave him a great hug of welcome, his eyes watering with tears. ‘Praise God for your safe return!’ he shouted. ‘Praise be to God!’

  Two powerful hands now pushed Abd al-Rahman away a little so that the man’s weak eyes could take an affectionate look at his face, as though they were trying to discern what two years of imprisonment, suffering, and hardship had wrought.

  ‘Well, Abd al-Rahman,’ the man said, ‘things haven’t changed you much!’

  Thus spoke Abd al-Aziz as he stared with sympathetic affection at his old friend’s face. His mind was filled with a tissue of memories: of al-Adir prison, seven long years, the impact of which was now triggered again by seeing Abd al-Rahman’s face – every detail, every line clearly visible, with all their accompanying sorrows and agonies, as though from only yesterday.

  Abd al-Aziz took another look at Abd al-Rahman through teary eyes that obscured the features of his friend’s face, making him seem again the young man of gentle visage before his appearance had been ravaged by sun, hunger, and thirst. Abd al-Aziz’s tongue failed him, his voice choked up, and his tears flowed. But he soon recovered, and Abd al-Rahman’s face once again came into focus before him, smiling and full of courage and virility.

  ‘How did you manage to live through all those months and years?’ Abd al-Aziz managed to ask. ‘Were you in al-Adir again?’

  ‘That’s all past and over,’ Abd al-Rahman told him. ‘Those days and months are long gone, like all the others. We don’t have time to live in past memories; now what we need to do is live our lives in hope, in the future – through what we’re going to do, not what we have done.’

  Abd al-Aziz stared at him, surprised by Abd al-Rahman’s serious and steadfast tone. In Abd al-Aziz’s eyes, Abd al-Rahman grew to become a kind of giant looking down at his friend from above.

  All Abd al-Aziz could do was bless the words he had spoken, and go on contemplating this new entity in front of him. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We must think about the future… The past is dead and buried.’

  Abd al-Rahman was delighted at the enthusiasm with which Abd al-Aziz greeted his ideas, but it was no longer the time for just ideas. He grabbed his former cellmate by the hand in order for them both to move forward. But now he realised that he was moving ahead along with the entire populace, with all its naivety, enthusiasm, inflamed emotions, tolerance, and simple discussions. The persistent question that Abd al-Aziz had almost shouted out loud once again popped into his mind: ‘So, how did you spend those two years in prison?’

  ‘That’s all over now,’ Abd al-Rahman responded insistently in reaction to the question. ‘We don’t have time to live on memories. We’ve cancelled the past, buried it.’ Abd al-Rahman smiled happily.

  In convincing Abd al-Aziz, he had managed to convince himself too; he got the impression that some other person was yelling at them both, ‘We’ve buried the past!’ The source of this message was actually the two more years he had spent in al-Adir prison, years that had taught him not to think about the present. His own present had then consisted of hurts, sorrows, captivity, and suppression of the natural pulses coursing through his veins. He had learned to treat the present as the past – something he only sensed as he moved forward; he had also learned to bury the past – something discarded as he moved forward. Yes, he had learned to bury the past, and now he had no sense even of its existence. His thoughts were focused on the future, and from now on that was all he could feel.

  ‘While we’ve been away,’ he asked, as he turned away from the past, ‘have you been preparing for independence?’

  The door of hope opened before Abd al-Aziz, finally allowing him to speak. Since his own question had bounced back upon him, he had begun to feel wary of Abd al-Rahman. He had the impression that the last two years that had kept them apart had turned Abd al-Rahman into a different person, difficult to approach. But Abd al-Rahman’s question now restored his self-confidence and freed him of the worry that had beset him as his friend philosophised about past and future.

  ‘We’re not ourselves any more,’ Abd al-Aziz said. ‘And yet the past which is dead and gone has prepared us for the future, putting its trust in the idea of independence until everyone is convinced that they really are independent, and all that’s needed is the official announcement.’

  It seemed to Abd al-Rahman as if someone behind him were posing a series of questions: ‘Which is the more powerful foe – the standing army or the range of imperialism?’ This led him to use his father’s logic in addressing his friend. ‘But we’re facing a powerful force, equipped with weapons, money, army, and air force…’

  Abd al-Aziz smiled as he paused before responding. He was not sure what Abd al-Rahman was getting at, but even so he eventually came up with a reply that was not hard for him to expound. By now Abd al-Rahman had reopened the gate to his soul; it was no longer firmly shut in Abd al-Aziz’s face.

  ‘No one’s scared of power any longer,’ Abd al-Aziz said. ‘No one believes in the efficacy of arms alone. We’ve moved beyond that testing period.’

  ‘And did we pass the test?’

  ‘With distinction.’

  Abd al-Rahman’s quizzical look was not an expression of doubt but rather a plea to his friend to keep talking and explain his thinking.

  Abd al-Aziz took the cue. ‘We passed it with distinction,’ he went on, ‘because we still believed in our right for independence. We had to cross the conceptual threshold first for it to
become a conviction. That constitutes a kind of victory over ourselves.’

  ‘A victory we needed.’

  ‘The hardest kind of victory there is.’

  ‘Our enemy uses murder, expulsion, imprisonment, and exile against us.’

  ‘We’ve stormed all their strongholds. Even our cloistered women have been killed or thrown in prison, and they’ve become accustomed to seeing the army spread debauchery in their homes and to saying farewell to their sons at their doors, never to welcome them home again. That’s how we have learned conviction. Can there be any more powerful force?’

  As Abd al-Rahman looked at his companion, he saw a countenance pulsing with determination, conviction, and enthusiasm. Even so, he launched another assault on that conviction by asking, ‘Don’t you think we’re a backward people? Independence has its consequences.’

  ‘You’ve reminded me,’ Abd al-Aziz replied with a laugh, ‘of the kind of thing I used to hear my uncle Mahjub say. “If you all got together to manufacture a needle,” he’d scoff, “you couldn’t do it. So how is it you’re demanding independence?!”’

  ‘And what did you say to that?’

  ‘I told him that even if we remained under imperialist control for thousands of years we’d never be able to manufacture a needle.’

  Abd al-Rahman smiled. Since he had gone to prison he had neither raised his voice nor laughed; over two whole years he had learned to whisper rather than talk openly, and not to laugh out loud. He banished the thought that had made him smile, and asked, ‘But how are we supposed to manufacture that needle once we’re rid of imperialism?’

  ‘So, you’ve buried the past, and I’m not thinking about the future!’ Abd al-Aziz said firmly, albeit with a laugh. ‘We’ll make the future with our own hands. We won’t be able to do that if we’re not free to do it ourselves.’

  Once again, Abd al-Rahman smiled. ‘It seems to me that you’ve turned into a philosopher, stripping time of its interventionist role and robbing the present of any share in the future.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s taught me philosophy,’ Abd al-Aziz scoffed, ‘with your burying of the past!’

  ‘What’s important now,’ said Abd al-Rahman, suppressing a laugh, ‘is how we achieve independence. The path ahead is far from clear.’

  Abd al-Aziz looked eagerly at his friend’s face, hoping to find in his determined expression the encouragement he needed to respond. In turn, Abd al-Rahman gave him a quizzical glance, as though his friend were taking too long to reply.

  ‘Okay, so tell me!’ Abd al-Rahman said. ‘Don’t you have an opinion on the subject?’

  ‘My opinion?’ said Abd al-Aziz. ‘Maybe it’s the same as yours.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s my opinion?’

  Abd al-Aziz now plucked up his courage. ‘Maybe it’s not. Even so, to be frank, the path ahead is quite clear. We may already know it, but now we have to follow it.’ Looking again at Abd al-Rahman, he detected a large question mark imprinted on his stolid face. ‘The path ahead,’ he went on, ‘involves seizing our independence by engaging in the struggle to get it and keep it. They snatched it from us through their own sacrifices, and now we must do the same to get it back. We can do that – but it involves shedding our own children’s blood.’ He choked on these last words, and stopped talking, as though to recover his breath.

  Abd al-Rahman’s entire being was stirred, as though some inspired message were echoing in his ears. He stared at Abd al-Aziz with warm tears in his eyes. Profoundly moved, he embraced his friend and planted a grateful kiss on his brow.

  37

  Since Abd al-Rahman had come home from his long spell in prison he had been observing Hajj Muhammad’s expressions closely. Whenever he bent over to give his father’s veined hands a son’s obedient kiss, he noticed them shaking with affection. For the first time he discovered something new, something he had refused to acknowledge throughout the many years past. His eyes missed that former intimate feeling between father and son, and he found himself confronting a new feature in that familiar face that had previously filled both his eyes and heart. There was something new as well about his father’s voice, one that had filled the whole house and its many rooms in days past with echoes of his power and authority. As his lips brushed his father’s hands, formerly agents of violence and instigators of both good and evil, there too he sensed that something was new and different.

  Abd al-Rahman now discovered a wrinkled face, as long as it was broad, with deep creases extending across his pale cheeks and a beard in which white hair now overwhelmed black. The lips looked pale as well, time having sucked out of them all rays of hope, subtle sensitivities, and profound longings. Light had gone out of the eyes, and they had lost their gleam, almost as though they could not bother to focus. Veins now appeared prominently on his neck, which had previously looked full and well nourished. The hands were now thin, and dark veins showed through the skin. And the posture was stooped, as though in preparation for full prostration in prayer.

  Abd al-Rahman also noticed changes in the way his father neglected his dress; his clothing had faded and no longer appeared neat and elegant. In fact, his garments suggested poverty and gave an impression of adversity rather than respect and admiration.

  Hajj Muhammad’s personality had changed too. Old age seemed to have caught him unawares. Abd al-Rahman had the feeling that his father had deteriorated rapidly, robbed of his pride and self-esteem, not to mention his energy and his habit of hard work. He stayed in the house and no longer visited the country farm to check on the peasants’ productivity. He no longer supervised the business to see how things were developing, nor did he visit Abd al-Ghani’s shop to make sure the work was being done properly and profits were being made. He even stopped regularly attending homily sessions at the mosque, something he had done throughout his life; now he would go only occasionally. When the nights turned cold, he now preferred to perform the evening and sunset prayers at home.

  Abd al-Rahman and his mother were the only ones to notice these changes. In fact, Khaduj was even more aware of the impact of old age because it was she who spent hours with Hajj Muhammad when no one else was around. She could sense the great difference between the powerful young man he had once been, who could make full use of his youth and prowess, and the man whose energy now dwindled at night like a flower that opens only in daylight. Now she lived with her memories of Hajj Muhammad, the man who had filled her life with his manhood, her hearing with his powerful voice, and her feelings with his noisy breathing that reverberated as she slept beside him. Inside her, she sensed the melodies of youth that made her feel comfortable and warm. She had lived her life with those regular grunts, which had become weaker over time, accompanied by coughing fits that seemed to come from a dark cave.

  Khaduj’s mind was beset by grim thoughts as she spent long hours sitting and nursing her concerns. In spite of her anxieties, she did not feel able to share them with anyone, including her own sons. Her only consolation came in the form of a prayer that she repeated whenever needed: ‘God bring us a safe release!’

  One morning, when Hajj Muhammad woke alone, he could not get up out of the bed; he had spent a sleepless night awake. He had a splitting headache, his temperature was up, and a burning sensation was making him feel as though his stomach were on fire. It all felt as if a powerful force were tying him to his bed.

  Abd al-Ghani did not dare visit his father; he simply asked about him and his mother before taking off for the shop. Mahmud did not dare ask either, but simply questioned his mother, Yasmine; she too made do with asking Khaduj in a whisper about her husband. All she heard in reply was the usual prayer: ‘God bring us a safe release!’

  But Abd al-Rahman did dare. When he learned from his mother that Hajj Muhammad had spent a restless night, he entered his father’s room, took hold of his hand to feel his pulse, and felt his temperature. He realised that his father had a fever, and his condition warranted care and attention. Hajj Muhammad w
as not fully conscious, so he could not talk to him. He told Khaduj that they had to call in a doctor.

  But his mother was totally against the idea. She had never been able to comprehend the issues which she considered the province of men, but even so she was not prepared to decide whether Abd al-Rahman had the right to call in a doctor.

  ‘A doctor?’ she asked herself. ‘What’s the point of calling in a Christian doctor? If Hajj Muhammad could, he’d visit the shrines of Mawlay Idris or Sidi Ali Bu-Ghalib and be cured on the spot. His devout belief in the saints always makes a cure that much easier. Ah me, if only Lalla Shama would visit us, she could take his handkerchief to Mawlay Idris’s shrine and dip it in the pure water at Sidi Ali Bu-Ghalib’s sanctuary.’

  When she returned from her reverie, Abd al-Rahman was still staring anxiously at her, waiting for an answer. ‘We need to call a doctor,’ he pressed. ‘He has a high temperature.’

  ‘A doctor?’

  ‘Yes, a doctor.’

  Khaduj felt uneasy in the face of her son’s insistence. She still said nothing, but the word ‘doctor’ went on ringing in her ears.

  ‘I’m going to call a doctor now,’ Abd al-Rahman decided.

  Khaduj felt that she had to say something. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ she told him. ‘He’s just feeling a bit weak, so we’ll give him something hot to drink and send some of his clothes to the shrines of Mawlay Idris and Sidi Ali Bu-Ghalib.’

  This sent Abd al-Rahman into a rage. He raised his voice so loud that it roused his father.

  ‘What’s all this fuss about?’ Hajj Muhammad asked in his semiconscious, feverish state. ‘Don’t you realise I’m here…? Have a little shame!’ It cost him so much effort that he collapsed into a faint again, his voice petering away to nothing, but still echoing inside his feverish mind.

  Khaduj could not take any more and left the room, her heart pained. Tears ran from her eyes, which she dabbed with the edge of her scarf. Abd al-Rahman followed her out, disturbed by her distress. He would have cried too, had he not realised that he was the man here, the one who was supposed to remain firm in adversity. He looked pleadingly at his mother, as though to tell her without words, ‘Dear mother, the doctor will know how to cure him and can give him some medicine.’