The nationalist cells now emerged from their zone of silence, and their members explained the goal to the young conscripts. Groups now started confirming the inevitability of history and proving the general’s dreams to be false. Fez was reinvigorated as never before. Now that Abd al-Aziz’s group had watered the city with a rain shower of self-sacrifice, it felt a flourish of springtime. Fez only ever blossoms with the fresh green of spring, and now spring was arriving amid a winter so gloomy that everything was dark and night seemed to last forever. And people’s hearts pounded with intimations of victory to be achieved by the young men in cells and resistance groups.
It was all up to the general. Even with his huge body, red face, twisted moustache, and uniform full of medals celebrating honour and victory, he still could not achieve the victory in Fez that he dreamed about. His pride was hurt, and the glory that he had won in other theatres of war would now be destroyed by a group of young men with their secret plans unknown to the army, police, and guards.
The general inevitably had to take revenge for his injured pride and honour. An army’s glory lies on the field of battle, and the imperialist general was not about to let that glory be impaired by a small city. The ensuing struggle was brutal and harsh. Every window, every street in the city was occupied by soldiers. Guards watched over houses and buildings, as well as cobblers, weavers, and tanners; police lurked inside mosques and by the doors of shrines and tombs; squads of secret police brought over from France to look for members of the resistance took to the roofs of buildings – in Fez, the roofs had always had their own history of resistance. The general took charge of the whole operation from his headquarters.
He knew that the leaders of the resistance were young men with training, but the traces they left made it clear that they were using only the most basic methods; their primary resources consisted of sheer courage and confidence rather than good organisation and clear goals. Faced with these realities, the general found himself in a dilemma: for someone of his military rank, the field of conflict did not involve a closed city that, even when occupied and in a state of submission, nevertheless continued to resist. He was an army general who was now bringing all his basic principles and his military career to bear in order to fight a group of young Moroccans whose only strategy involved an engaged conscience, a narrowly defined nationalism, and a truly reckless bravery.
‘Conscience,’ he said to himself. ‘That has nothing to do with military life, so how is it now so clearly intervening between myself and my duty? I’ve learned military ways very well; they require me to take command of this city, which is currently rebelling against my soldiers. Indeed, the army is always prepared. But today I’m fighting a war with no battlefield. I’m supposed to be a governor, but I’m fighting as a general… and against whom? A group of youngsters with no experience or training. They can vanish behind doors and down turnoffs and narrow alleys; they can strike, then run away. So, here I am, a great general leading a campaign against a group of youths whose only weapon is the recklessness that leads them to try their luck with ancient revolvers. Is this to be the summation of my career, standing here in all my past glory, chasing groups of youths? It would be better if the police did the chasing.’
He was jolted out of these thoughts by the sound of more gunshots somewhere in the city. More victims – collaborators, authority figures. More than ever before, he now had the feeling that his military and administrative honour were being weighed in the balance. Too bad for his military honour if the government decided to relieve him of his post because he could not stop a few ancient revolvers being fired. ‘No, no,’ he told himself. ‘I have to succeed. The city has to surrender. It’s not just my honour that’s at stake, but France’s as well, and I’m one of its generals.’
He convened a meeting of his advisors, and they all decided that the citizens of Fez had to be humiliated.
Now everyone with an illustrious or noble name was seized, and the gates of the internment camps were opened to admit the leading citizens of Fez, as though being arrested were still regarded as humiliating. The city went into a rage, and full fury prevailed. But it was not the general’s aim to win sympathy or lift the burden of tyranny and rage. By now his only goal was to put an end to the shots being fired from antique, rusty revolvers. Even so, he endured many sleepless nights, and his nerves were on edge.
Then came good news. A soldier on guard duty came rushing into the general’s office, stamped his feet as he came to attention, extended his quivering right hand in a salute, and tilted his head to the side by way of announcing that the lieutenant-colonel was at hand requesting an urgent meeting.
‘Good news, General,’ the colonel reported. ‘We’ve captured the terrorist group.’
‘Is that true?’ the general cried, his face bursting into a smile. ‘So, Fez has finally surrendered.’
The word ‘surrender’ held a particular magic for the general, both when he mouthed it himself and even more so when he heard it from others. The surrender of Fez was directly tied to the glory earned by those marshals and generals who had preceded him in the conflict. How eager he was to inherit that same glory, even if it only involved a bunch of youths who had managed to rattle his nerves.
He rose to his feet, hand in his pocket, unlit cigarette between his lips, and began pacing around his office, as though he could not bear to sit in his seat. His pacing carried him away to a place where he imagined himself young again – a junior officer, strong and sturdy, issuing commands to soldiers and subordinates. He was bursting with excitement. When he came back from this private journey to past glory, a smile of victory played on his face.
‘Tell me again,’ he said, still staring off into the distance as though not addressing the officer standing in front of him, ‘how the surrender came about.’
The lieutenant-colonel paused for a while over the word ‘surrender’, and took his time responding – it implied something much bigger and more extensive than merely arresting a group of youths. But he was a soldier who followed orders and had no wish to argue with the general, of whose status he was well aware.
‘It was all very simple, General,’ he said, but then backtracked, worried the general might not be satisfied or might belittle the operation he had just supervised. ‘What I mean,’ he went on, ‘is that the operation was successful. We carried out your orders, General. We surrounded the city, closed off the entrances to the streets, and kept watch from the rooftops. Then we initiated a great search operation fully worthy of your great legion. My own troop launched a flanking search of the Talia Quarter.’
‘Yes,’ the general interrupted. ‘I’ve repeatedly pointed out to the security director that he needs to tighten security there. I was sure that a terrorist group was lurking in there somewhere—’
‘But, General,’ the colonel continued, ‘we didn’t find anything. The houses were perfectly normal, and the residents were quiet. It was only when the troop launched its search that people started to panic—’
The general laughed gleefully; his nostrils expanded and he turned red. His whole body shook as he laughed and coughed. ‘I know,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m sure they started yelling and screaming as though they’d been touched by demons. But we’re never going to beat them if we don’t scare with them our raids, even at night. Fine, carry on.’
‘The troop continued its searches, moving from one quarter to the next until it reached the Udwa Quarter—’
‘No, no!’ the general interrupted. ‘Udwa’s peaceful. You’ll never find anything there.’
‘Our search was meticulous; we searched from house to house. Eventually in one house we stumbled across eight young men sleeping in a single room in a remote part of the house. They were all from different families, but similar in age. They looked upset and nervous. The raid took them by surprise, and they paled in fright. The discovery that they had weapons with them was a clear victory for our troop: they were caught red handed, and there was no way they could deny a
nything—’
‘Deny anything?’ the general interrupted once again, blowing smoke from the cigarette he had now lit. ‘They’ve been arrested, that’s what matters,’ he continued. ‘It’s no concern of ours whether or not they deny anything.’
‘As we arrested them, the women kept yelling and screaming.’
‘Enough!’ the general cried. ‘I don’t need any more details. They’re in your hands now, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, General.’
‘So get back to your job, and take good care of them!’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ll arrange for a military tribunal.’
And so, once again Abd al-Rahman in prison welcomed a new batch of young men who looked like ghosts, their bodies battered and their spirits crushed by the torture they had suffered. As they entered, their eyes radiated fear: they were terrified of anyone and everyone. Abd al-Rahman knew them; they were members of a nationalist cell. But they appeared not to recognise him, since terror had erased their memories. They were looking for someone who was not a soldier or a policeman, but saw no one to trust. They resorted to silence, saying not a word. Abd al-Rahman did his best to restore their sense of security, but they simply stared at him in fear and said nothing; it was as though they saw hatred in the eyes of every person, and felt that every hand would land blows, every mouth utter obscenities.
When Abd al-Aziz came back from the prison clinic, where he had been treated for his wounds, he entered the prison store and felt new sets of eyes staring at him, while his own eyes registered faces marred by violence and disfigured by terrible assaults. He knew all the faces, and he wept. He now realised that the single cell he was relying on to kindle the flame of resistance had been arrested and imprisoned.
Ali, the head of the group, confirmed in a whisper that they had all confessed to creating a resistance cell.
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They were all now in prison. In the times when they were allowed to gather, they debated the country’s future path now that the resistance cells were rounded up and the colonial authorities were once again enjoying a period of relative quiet, no longer clashing with people saying ‘No!’ The prisoners surveyed the disaster with total gloom. The vengeance wreaked by the French upon the nationalists would be as brutal as such revenge demanded.
Ali’s conscience plagued him. ‘We’re going to be responsible for the extra suffering for our countrymen. We’ve fallen into the trap without even thinking about it. Why did we embark on such a risky venture without being sure we would come out on top?’ His colleagues listened carefully to him, the head of their cell.
Until this point, Abd al-Aziz had been willing to compromise with these young men; after all, this was their first experience of prison. But now he had had enough. ‘You all need to do your duty, like everyone else,’ he told them bluntly. ‘None of us is responsible for the outcome. We’re a mere drop in the ocean; it needs us for it to be filled, and yet we’re not responsible for filling it.’
While he was speaking, Abd al-Rahman watched him closely. He wanted to make sure his friend could manage to relieve his colleagues of their crisis of conscience. To alleviate the impact of Abd al-Aziz’s straightforward remarks, Abd al-Rahman told them, ‘Although you’ve been put in prison, you’re still involved in the struggle. The spirit you’ve evoked still courses through cities and villages, plains, valleys and mountains.’
‘Even though we haven’t completed our task?’ asked Abd al-Rauf, a young member of the cell.
‘But you have completed your task,’ Abd al-Rahman responded calmly. ‘I completed mine too, before you. Now the situation has to develop so that people more capable than us can carry the banner forwards and confront the situation as it is.’
‘Couldn’t we have done that?’ Ali asked angrily.
‘Of course you could,’ Abd al-Rahman replied, ‘but the situation has to keep developing. Our arrest will impel other people to take up the standard. They wouldn’t do that if we hadn’t been imprisoned first.’
‘We’re more capable than others,’ Abd al-Rauf said impatiently. ‘If we were still there, we would be moving things forwards.’
Abd al-Aziz gave Abd al-Rahman a pleading look as though asking him to intervene, but he remained silent because he was convinced that Abd al-Aziz could rescue the situation. Eventually he said, ‘If only they had let us be, if only we had stayed where we were… if only we hadn’t… But that’s all over, finished. We can’t bring back the past for the simple reason that we’re now part of that past. There’s no point chasing after something that we can no longer accomplish.’
The young men’s jaws dropped, as though they were hearing a bitter truth for the first time.
‘Can we somehow resist our imprisonment?’ Abd al-Aziz continued. ‘Can we escape from the cages that cramp our will and prevent our spirits aspiring to attract other nationalist spirits to us? Can we achieve genuine revolution from behind closed prison gates and in spite of all the guards and weapons? As we proceed from past to future, from oblivion to existence, and from nothingness to presence, this is what we must bear in mind.’ These words stirred the young men to thoughts of revolt, while at the same time lodging in their young minds the powerful concepts of ‘nothingness’, ‘oblivion’, all the way to infinity.
Ali wanted to erase the ideas that plagued him. ‘True enough!’ he said enthusiastically, as though to wipe away the traces of ‘oblivion’ and ‘nothingness’. ‘Why are we still stuck in these prison cells waiting to be sentenced, as though we’re not due to appear before the military tribunal? Let’s get out of here!’
The words ‘get out’ had a galvanising effect, but Abd al-Rahman, who knew the prison well and could predict how the guards would behave, realised that the whole idea was reckless and dangerous. But since he had no desire to douse young minds longing for freedom, he did not respond to what Ali had said, instead trying to turn the conversation to something more hopeful. ‘Prison is certainly a crisis for all of us,’ he said, ‘but then it’s over. You’ll learn from experience that, however long the prison term turns out to be, each little bird will eventually be set free.’
Abd al-Aziz gave Abd al-Rahman a dubious look. Ignoring him, Abd al-Rahman was happy to see the positive effect his words had had on the young men.
‘Once we’re free again,’ Abd al-Rauf commented, ‘we’ll go back to work and liberate our country.’
Abd al-Aziz clapped. ‘Bravo, now I’m happy!’ he said. ‘Your country deserves you!’
The young men were wrenched from their conversation by the gruff voice of one of the guards, who entered the cell following the sound of the door bolt being pulled back. ‘On your feet!’
Everyone stood up, removing their head-caps as they did so.
‘Abd al-Aziz ibn Ahmad,’ the same voice read out from official documents, ‘Ali ibn al-Tahir, Abd al-Rauf ibn Abd al-Wahid, and Salim ibn Muhammad, your date to appear before the tribunal of the French Armed Forces is scheduled for 4 p.m. next Monday.’
The guard turned around and left, fate having spoken through his tongue. The bolt was thrust back into place, and the sound echoed inside their hearts as ‘Imprisonment!’ and ‘Tribunal!’
The young men stood before the French military tribunal. They were confident, courageous, and bold; their expressions were defiant and committed; they felt relaxed and content. They knew what their path was to be, and had followed it to its conclusion. They also realised what their fate would be and did not flinch. Their defiance was clear as they stood, one after the other, before a white-haired judge with a determined and resolute look in his eyes. To his right and left sat a group of young officers representing the authorities, there to ensure that the ruling handed down by the white head and intelligent eyes was the right one.
The tribunal issued its verdict: death by firing squad for all the members of the terrorist gangs who had posed such a threat to the internal and external security of the state.
Everyone listened with a heavy heart as the judge prono
unced the verdict. Women seated behind the accused burst into tears; each one of them had a brother or son among the condemned men, who themselves turned pale as they heard the verdict, though their inner faith could be seen in their eyes: there was no sorrow, and no tears.
The same courage loosened Abd al-Aziz’s tongue as the court was about to end its session. ‘Long live Morocco!’ he shouted from the depths of his soul.
‘Long live Morocco!’ the young men repeated, as guards tied their hands behind their backs. ‘Long live independence!’
Abd al-Rahman was waiting tensely for his companions to come back, to hear what was to be their fate. With every delay, his fears intensified. He was well aware of the circumstances in which they had been arrested and how serious were the charges against them, so he kept his hand on his heart, waiting to hear what he already knew but his heart did not dare to admit.
The halls and blocks of the prison were all quiet; lights in the stores and cells had been put out – but this was the calm before the storm. The prison gates were abruptly opened, and the sound of bolts being pulled back mingled with the click of weapons as the guards put their rifles to their shoulders.
‘Open up Cell 13!’ came the call.
The hearts of the imprisoned nationalists leapt when they heard this. Abject misery led Abd al-Rahman to chew on his hand, and without warning his tears began to flow. He put his ear close to the cell door to hear more. Steady, powerful steps could be heard, interspersed with the sound of chains, as though to create a particular rhythm. He heard Abd al-Aziz cry, ‘Guardians of the homeland!’ followed by Ali shouting, ‘Long live Morocco, long live independence!’
We Have Buried the Past Page 27
