The footsteps receded, and the voices disappeared behind the huge door of Cell 13. Now a world of darkness, isolation, and chains kept the young men apart from their nationalist colleagues, and from any world at all apart from that of execution, death, and oblivion. Abd al-Aziz resorted to the Qur’an and recitation of its verses, while the other young men turned to prayer, prostrating themselves as they called ‘God is great!’ and then standing up again as they repeated the same phrase in their hearts, all this in the quiet of the pitch-black night – though, for them, day and night were the same. The words ‘God is great’ opened the gates of the future to them, and their hearts aspired to it with both confidence and humility. Their spirits were suffused with the kind of faith they had never experienced before, and they stopped thinking about past, present, or future, in favour of contemplating one thing: God. They went about their functions in life as best they could. Their existence was no longer connected to a dimension in which the yardsticks for beneficence and misdeeds, good and evil, had been established.
In the same pitch-black quiet, Ali stood praying in the dark. Hearing a keening deep inside himself, he realised he was weeping.
The next morning, Abd al-Aziz took him to a far corner of the cell. ‘Why were you crying?’ he asked. ‘Hasn’t God promised you paradise?’
‘I wasn’t crying for my bride, nor for the embryo bumping inside her womb, nor for my father and brothers. I was crying for our country and its freedom.’
This brought Abd al-Aziz himself to tears. ‘Our blood will water the tree of freedom in our country,’ he said, looking humbly at Ali’s face. ‘I can foretell that it will sprout leaves and spread its fragrance all over our homeland.’
‘So, our blood won’t have been spilt in vain!’ Ali replied gratefully. ‘Speed your way here, death! My life’s task is at an end.’
On the eve of the Eid festival the young men were allowed to receive a visit from their families. At dawn on the festival day itself the prisoners were snoring through pleasant dreams: the festival day would dawn, and its beloved sun full of sweet hopes would shine on them all. Their families would knock on the prison gates to bring Eid greetings to a beloved husband, a devoted son, a loving father, or a dear brother. There would be festival gifts brought by mothers, fathers, or wives, each one pulsing with love and conveying smiling hopes. But these dreams were interrupted by agonised shouts from Cell 13, which jolted all the other prisoners and internees awake. They listened as voices came from afar through windows or cracks in doorways. Then the voices suddenly became powerful, clear, and strident: ‘Dear friends, we’ll meet in paradise. Farewell, and long live Morocco! It is time to part. Hear the glad tidings, beloved friends. The country will be independent!’
An anthem rang out as the regular stamp of military boots was heard: ‘Guardians of the homeland, O guardians of the homeland!’
As Abd al-Rahman listened to the sounds outside his cell door, his heart ached. He easily picked out one dear voice from the many.
‘Till we meet in paradise, Abd al-Rahman!’ called Abd al-Aziz. ‘Be glad. Our country will be free!’
Abd al-Rahman’s eyes flooded with tears of agony. He held his breath and buried his teeth in his fingertips to conquer the pain he felt. The voice began to recede, and Abd al-Rahman was afraid he would not be able to bid farewell to the dear friend whose self-sacrifice and devotion had so inspired him.
‘Farewell, dear Abd al-Aziz!’ he shouted. ‘Till we meet in paradise!’
Then his brave demeanour failed him, and he surrendered to tears as he heard the prison gates slam shut once again, a final farewell to the young men who had fulfilled God’s destiny.
The quietude of death now enveloped the prison, with images of the young men imprinted on the thoughts of thousands of prisoners and internees.
On the morning of Eid, the city of Fez resounded to the echoes of volleys aimed at the hearts of its young men.
44
The echoes of the shots struck at the heart of every Moroccan. The young men felled by the bullets of the French army had had the heart and soul of every citizen with them as they ran their operations, and in prison they had become the sons of every parent, the brothers of every sibling; even to those who had no experience of fatherhood or brotherhood, they were innocent freedom fighters.
Fez was shaken by this ill-omened news which, according to the computation of days and months, came on a festival day. But when measured in bitter reality it was an occasion for public mourning. Following this catastrophe the city underwent a wave of pessimism, to be seen in frowning faces, defiant looks, and a general sense of melancholy. It was a festival day on which the whole of Fez displayed its melancholy collectively; it was indeed a day of public mourning.
Following the execution of the young freedom fighters, the general in charge of Fez was not concerned with echoes. Indeed, his aides and informers, doing the rounds of the grieving city and touring all the quarters, alleys, streets, and squares, heard none – though they could gauge people’s feelings from their expressions, their gestures, and their clothes. They could see it all in the city’s earth and sky, its walls, its springs, and the ripple of its waters.
The general now knew that the city had suffered a terrible catastrophe, and his vengeful face broadened into a smile of victory. ‘Now Fez has surrendered,’ he gloated.
Hajj Muhammad was dozing in a far corner of the large room. Weakened by illness, he had gone into seclusion. As feelings of weakness and incapacity weighed him down, he had retired to his bed, enduring a life of illness and pain. He stayed away from other people, as they did from him. He no longer involved himself in their affairs, nor did he react when they discussed politics and events in Morocco, because he no longer listened to the radio or what people were saying. He was focused only on listening to his own illnesses and on the pain afflicting him between his long or short siestas, intervals that provided his senses with a modicum of relief. The constant pain left him feeling exhausted, so whenever he was transported on his own magic carpet to a world without sensation, he looked relaxed and content.
One friend who visited him regularly, and particularly on festival days, was Mawlay Zaki. He remained loyal to Hajj Muhammad, whom he had known in the mosque, the shrine, and the street. More than that, he remained loyal to the man with whom he could share news and whose curiosity he could satisfy through conversation, like a writer whose pen insists he consign his own self to paper. What fascinated him about Hajj Muhammad was that he presented a genuine and receptive environment, someone who had always been up to date on the latest news and whose explanations brooked no argument.
When Mawlay Zaki entered Hajj Muhammad’s room, a delighted smile crossed the latter’s face as though wrenching itself from the depths of history, and he overcame his pain enough to raise his head from the pillow. With quivering hands he looked for his rosary and, in a kind of daydream, listened to Mawlay Zaki’s gentle taps on his snuffbox and watched him lift his fingers to his nostrils to inhale some of the pure, warming powder. It made his eyes water, and his voice was choked as he asked Hajj Muhammad how he was feeling. Swearing by his ancestor, the chosen Prophet, Mawlay Zaki assured him that he looked fine, and Hajj Muhammad smiled even more broadly, happy that Mawlay Zaki had taken the trouble to pay him a visit and doing his best to forget about his pain. He was thrilled to have a friend visit him at a time when other friends found it hard to bear watching him live with the constant ailments that dogged him.
Mawlay Zaki looked at Hajj Muhammad and came to the point. ‘What news do you have?’ he asked, and then continued without allowing him time to respond. ‘But then, it’s you who needs news now. God grant you respite, there’s nothing good to report.’
‘All this illness allows me is to take care of my own health,’ Hajj Muhammad replied, overcoming his feeble state. ‘Even so, I’m always eager to have you come and tell me what’s going on outside this enforced prison I have to live in.’
The word �
�prison’ made Hajj Muhammad sad. It brought to mind an image of his incarcerated son, and made an ill-starred future loom before him. Because of his ill health, weakness, and lassitude, he constantly anticipated that something terrible might happen, something that his private thoughts would not allow him to name. As it was, the son of whom he was so proud and for whom he felt deep down the greatest admiration was absent, kept away by huge gates and lofty walls.
‘Will those gateways ever be opened before fate comes to pass?’ he wondered feebly. He ignored his own question and went back to Mawlay Zaki, only to find him struggling with his snuff, brushing the rest of the powder off his clothes with his fingers.
‘What news, you ask?’ Mawlay Zaki said in his nasal twang. ‘My dear Hajj Muhammad, there’s nothing to report except sorrow, grief, and pain. You’re sick already, so don’t bother about other painful things.’ As he said this, he looked carefully at Hajj Muhammad, hoping to find an opportunity to say what was on his mind – and his friend did not disappoint him.
‘God willing, everything’s fine?’ Hajj Muhammad said, anticipating his wishes. ‘What is it? Are things still unsettled?’
Mawlay Zaki now realised that Hajj Muhammad had no idea what had happened. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he asked. ‘They killed them… They condemned them all to death.’
Hajj Muhammad moved with a jolt. ‘Killed who? Condemned who? Who was killed? Who was condemned to death?’
Mawlay Zaki realised it was not a good idea to shock Hajj Muhammad, so he tried to slow things down. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Don’t alarm yourself. Things are not as bad as you think.’
‘But you said “killed” and “condemned to death”. Explain – tell me what happened.’
Mawlay Zaki now decided to give him the details so that he would not leap to the ultimate conclusion – he did not want his friend to link those terrible words to his imprisoned son. ‘You’ve already heard,’ he said, ‘about the group of young men who’ve been terrorising the city, killing informers, policemen, and suppliers.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard about them.’
‘The tribunal took its revenge and condemned them to death.’
‘Condemned them to death?’
‘Yes. It’s what God decreed.’
‘Help me remember their names. My memory’s letting me down.’
‘Who among us knows them?’ Mawlay Zaki asked, feeling the need to lighten the blow. ‘Young men from oppressed families. But I did hear that one of them was called Ali, another Muhammad, and a third Abd al-Aziz.’
‘Abd al-Aziz?’ Hajj Muhammad exclaimed, horrified. ‘That must be Abd al-Rahman’s friend.’
‘God offer you guidance, Hajj Muhammad. This group is made of a different clay from Abd al-Rahman.’
‘But Abd al-Rahman definitely knew a young man by that name.’
‘There are plenty of men called Abd al-Aziz. I’m sure there’s no link between this group and Abd al-Rahman.’
‘Is there any news about my son’s companions?’
‘No, there’s no news, but they’re all fine.’
This helped Hajj Muhammad feel calmer, and he nursed a faint glimmer of hope, although it came out in angry tones. ‘They condemned all those young men to death? But they’ll surely eventually release the others.’ As he said it, he looked over at Mawlay Zaki to see what effect his words had, but encountered a blank stare. He was not happy to think that Mawlay Zaki had his doubts about the possibility of release. ‘You don’t agree?’ he asked. ‘You’ll see. They can’t possibly condemn young children to death when their only crime is not having a proper education.’
Mawlay Zaki lost his patience. ‘But they did it,’ he replied tersely.
‘Did what?’
‘Condemned them to death, God have mercy on them! It’s over.’
Hajj Muhammad’s face clouded over with sorrow. For a long time he said nothing, but his thoughts raced through a rapid series of images which kept changing like a screen in front of his eyes, with Abd al-Rahman’s face front and centre in all of them. He came to a halt when confronted with an image which kept inserting itself: Abd al-Aziz walking beside Abd al-Rahman on the day he had passed them in one of the neighbourhood’s alleyways. This was the same Abd al-Aziz who always came to see Abd al-Rahman when dark clouds covered the sky. They used to wander the streets together in intense conversation. Friends and enemies alike would stare at them, and, whether they whispered or talked out loud, their conversations were always serious and determined.
When Hajj Muhammad returned from his private thoughts, it was to find Mawlay Zaki tapping on his snuffbox, obviously eager to get back to their previous discussion.
‘Take a bit,’ he said, holding out the silver box. ‘It’s good, and not too strong.’
Hajj Muhammad gestured that he did not want any. Mawlay Zaki guessed what was on his mind.
‘The son of my uncle Mawlay al-Tahir visited the prison,’ he told Hajj Muhammad. ‘He talked to him about the other prisoners. They’re all fine.’
Hajj Muhammad took a deep breath, and the information filled his lungs with a fresh breeze. ‘Praise be to God!’ he said, allowing himself a wan smile. ‘May God release him!’
At this moment Mahmud came into the room to visit his father. Since taking up his post as a civil servant, he had made a habit of paying a visit to his father morning and evening. And since Abd al-Rahman’s imprisonment, he had sat with his father for a while to compensate for his loneliness or to tell him some of the news about people that he had either heard or read. In this way, he had managed to break down the thick wall that previously kept him apart from his father, who was now more cordial, showed him a modicum of respect, and trusted the information he provided.
Mawlay Zaki looked at Mahmud as he came in. From his point of view, Mahmud’s arrival was a welcome interruption, to counter the heavy atmosphere he could feel as he sat alongside Hajj Muhammad. He sensed Mahmud could provide the forward-looking ideas that were needed at this point.
‘Greetings, Sidi Mahmud!’ he said as the young man leaned over to kiss his father’s hand. ‘What news have you brought us?’
Mahmud paid no attention to Mawlay Zaki’s question, but simply extended a flabby hand in greeting. ‘How have you spent your day?’ he asked his father, and then went on without waiting for a reply. ‘You look better than you did yesterday. I’m sure of it. Your face has a slight blush to it, a sign of good health.’
Hajj Muhammad gave a nod by way of reply but said nothing, as though to express his doubts about what Mahmud had said.
Mawlay Zaki hesitated for a moment, wanting to stop Mahmud asking his father more about his health and making pronouncements that he well knew were not true. ‘So, Sidi Mahmud,’ he eventually asked, ‘what’s the news?’
Mahmud paused for a while before answering. ‘You already know more about it than I do,’ he said. ‘They’ve condemned a group of terrorists to death.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mawlay Zaki replied, showing intense interest in the topic. ‘It makes me terribly sad. Executing young men like that is hard to bear.’
‘We all feel that way,’ Mahmud replied angrily. ‘But they’re the ones who hurled themselves to perdition. Who told them to aim their revolvers and kill innocent people?’
The word ‘innocent’ jolted Mawlay Zaki, and his gaze wandered, as though he were using his eyes to think. He looked at Hajj Muhammad and saw that he was nodding in agreement, placing full confidence in what Mahmud was saying. But after a short while he returned to look fixedly at Mahmud. ‘Whatever the case,’ he said, ‘they were just young men whose future is now lost.’
‘The law makes no distinction between young and old,’ Mahmud responded in legal terms.
Hajj Muhammad nodded his agreement again. For Mawlay Zaki the invocation of the law in this context was inappropriate. Stretching his hand to his snuffbox yet again, he inhaled until he almost choked. He looked anxiously for his dark red handkerchief, which took him a while
to find, and used it to wipe away some dark drops pouring out of his nose. For just a moment he considered responding to Mahmud’s remark, but then remembered that he was employed in the pasha’s courts. Putting a hand on the cushion by his side, he used it to stand up, whispering, ‘O Mawlay Tihami’ as he did so.
He ended his visit abruptly. ‘My dear Hajj, excuse me,’ he said as he bade his friend farewell, ‘but we all hope to see you soon at the Mawlay Idris shrine and the Qarawiyin.’ He smiled at Hajj Muhammad, who shook his head as though to dismiss the idea.
‘God willing,’ he whispered in reply. ‘God willing.’
45
As Mahmud talked with Mawlay Zaki, he had been thinking about the cases that had been brought before him. A group of young men had been brought before his court on the charge of conspiring with the group led by Ali. They were all young, their hearts bursting with enthusiasm. When Ali and his group were arrested, they spoke with a great deal of pride about their acquaintance with Ali, their friendship with Abd al-Rauf, and their acquaintance with Salim during their schooldays. They all spoke fervently of what had happened: police and prison lay behind everything they talked about. Their case had been forwarded to the court where Mahmud was the judge.
As Mahmud looked into the files of the case he was about to adjudicate, he could envisage in Muhammad, Izz al-Din, Ahmad, and al-Tahir a mirror image of his own brother Abd al-Rahman, and his friend Abd al-Aziz. They all talked about the same ideas that had circulated in the small room where Abd al-Rahman used to sit and the cramped rooms where Abd al-Aziz would sometimes join them. Abd al-Rahman regularly tried to keep Mahmud away from these gatherings, but he was still able to pick up some of the things they were discussing, ideas that still echoed in his ears. As he read in the investigation files about the kinds of things that this particular group had been discussing, he heard the echoes of his brother’s conversations again.
‘So, who are these young men in these files,’ he asked himself, ‘on whom I’m supposed to pass judgement? They’re deluded youths, but they’re carbon copies of my own brother; they mouth his thoughts and talk about things that he would sometimes whisper but more often than not discuss out loud. Who am I judging? Am I judging my brother? Abd al-Aziz? How close he now seems to my own heart, God have mercy on his soul! He could be Abd al-Rahman himself… No, no, it’s their ideas I’m judging. They were never going to be successful in foisting those ideas on young people… on children.’
We Have Buried the Past Page 28
