by Sanmao
‘Did you hear that? Let’s just stay here if Spain manages to resolve things with them peacefully.’ José, full of smiles, gave me a hug. My heart remained anxious. I don’t know why, but I had the feeling that disaster was on the doorstep.
‘It won’t be that easy. It’s not little kids playing house.’ I still wasn’t buying it.
That evening, the announcer on the Sahara radio station reported with great bitterness: ‘King Hassan of Morocco is recruiting a volunteer army. Starting tomorrow, they will advance towards the Spanish Sahara.’
José slammed the table and leapt to his feet.
‘Time to fight!’ he boomed. I buried my face in my knees.
The frightening thing was that Hassan, that devil, was aiming to recruit 300,000; by the second day, 2 million people had already signed up. The evening news on Spanish television even began broadcasting footage of the march from Morocco. ‘We’ll take El Aaiún on 23 October!’ They were out in force like wasps leaving their nest. Encouraged by Hassan, men and women of all ages made moves, full of song and dance, gradually pressing towards the border with terrible force. One step at a time, they steadily advanced on the fearful minds of those of us watching television here.
‘Dance, dance, dance yourselves to death, you bastards!’ I cursed hatefully at the men and women on television who were dancing and clapping.
‘Time to fight!’ All the heroic youths in the desert corps had lost their minds, it seemed, driving off towards the border. The border was only forty kilometres away from El Aaiún.
By 19 October, the Moroccan forces were increasing unabated in number.
By 20 October, the arrow on the newspaper map was drawing closer.
By 21 October, the Spanish government was using megaphones on every street and alleyway to call for an emergency evacuation of all Spanish women and children. The collective spirit collapsed like river water bursting forth from a dam.
‘Get out of here! Sanmao, quick, we don’t have much time.’ Our friends in town got rid of all their home furnishings and rushed over to say goodbye to me before fleeing to the airport.
‘Sanmao, get out, go quickly.’ Everyone I ran into urged me like this. They banged on my door before jumping into their cars and heading away.
The Spanish policemen vanished from the streets. Apart from the crowds huddled outside the airline office, the town emptied out.
During this critical juncture, José was working day and night at the mining company’s floating embankment, withdrawing arms and troops. He didn’t have time to come home to check up on me. On 22 October, a Moroccan flag suddenly rose on Hamdi’s roof deck. After that, Moroccan flags began appearing around town in droves. ‘Hamdi, you’re really jumping the gun here.’ I was disheartened to the point of tears when I saw him.
‘I have a wife and children. What do you want me to do? You want me to die?’ Hamdi scuffed his feet around, head lowered, and moved quickly on.
I was startled when I saw Gueiga, whose eyes were swollen like walnuts from crying. ‘Gueiga, you—’
‘My husband Abeidy is gone. He’s joined the guerrillas.’
‘A man of character is truly hard to come by.’ One may as well go into exile instead of dragging out an ignoble existence.
‘Shut the door tight. Make sure you know who’s there before opening it. The Moroccans won’t be here tomorrow. They’re still too far away! I bugged Jaime about your plane ticket again. He won’t forget about you. I’ll come home whenever I have a moment. In case things get bad, head to the airport with the little suitcase. I’ll think of a way to find you. Be brave.’ José’s eyes were bloodshot. I nodded. He left again, travelling more than a hundred kilometres to help withdraw troops. All of the mining company had been mobilised to coordinate with the troops, putting the most precious of goods into shipping cargo as fast as they could. Not a single worker left his post or complained. All the Spanish civilian vessels from the Canary Islands had sailed here and were waiting on standby at the coast.
That very night, I was home alone when somebody knocked softly on the door.
‘Who is it?’ I asked loudly, immediately turning out the lights.
‘Shahida. Quick, open the door!’
I rushed over to open the door. Shahida darted inside, followed by a man with his head covered. I shut the door and locked it securely.
Once she’d entered, Shahida hugged herself, trembling with immense fear. She stared at me and exhaled a big breath. The stranger who sat on the mat slowly removed his headscarf and nodded at me with a smile – Bassiri!
‘You two are looking for trouble. Hamdi is with the Moroccans now.’ I jumped up and turned off the light, pushing them towards the bedroom where there were no windows. ‘The rooftop is public and there’s a hole in the ceiling. They can see you.’ I firmly shut the bedroom door before going to turn on the lamp.
‘Give me something to eat!’ Bassiri sighed heavily. Shahida made to go into the kitchen.
‘I’ll go,’ I said quietly, stopping her. ‘You stay in here.’
Bassiri was famished, but he only had a few bites before he couldn’t eat any more. He heaved another sigh. His face was so emaciated he barely looked human.
‘Why are you back here? Now, of all times?’
‘To see her!’ Bassiri looked at Shahida and sighed deeply once more. ‘The day I found out about the march, I started making my way from Algeria, travelling day and night to get here in time. I’ve been walking for so long. . .’
‘By yourself?’
He nodded.
‘What about the other guerrillas?’
‘They scrambled over the border to block the Moroccans.’
‘How many in total?’
‘Just over two thousand.’
‘How many of your people are in town?’
‘I’m afraid there might not be a single one who hasn’t fled in fright by now. Ay, the human heart!’ Bassiri sat upright. ‘I must go before curfew.’
‘What about Luat?’
‘I’m leaving to meet him.’
‘Where?’
‘At a friend’s house.’
‘Are you sure? Is this friend trustworthy?’
Bassiri nodded.
I thought for a while, then reached my hand out to open a drawer and grab a set of keys. ‘Bassiri, these are for an empty apartment that a friend passed on to me. It’s next to the hotel. The roof is a semicircle, painted bright yellow. You can’t miss it. If you end up without a place to stay, go and hide out there. It’s a Spaniard’s home. No one will suspect a thing.’
‘I cannot put you to the trouble. I will not go.’ He refused to take the keys.
Shahida pleaded bitterly with him. ‘Take the keys so you have one more place to go, no matter what. Now there are all sorts of spies for Morocco in town. Listen to Sanmao. She has the right idea.’
‘I have places to go. Sanmao, Shahida has a bit of money and can work as a nurse. You take her, our child will go with the nuns. Split up into two groups and you won’t attract attention. The Moroccans know that I have a wife in town.’
I froze and looked at Shahida. ‘Your child?’
‘I’ll explain later.’ Shahida was trembling so hard she couldn’t speak, tugging at Bassiri as he made to leave. Bassiri cupped Shahida’s face, calmly studying it for a few seconds. Then he sighed heavily and ran his hands tenderly through her hair before turning abruptly and striding out.
Shahida lay with me in silence. After a sleepless night, day broke and she insisted on going to work. ‘My child is leaving for Spain today with the nuns. I want to see him.’
‘I’ll come and find you this afternoon. As soon as I hear about plane tickets, we’ll go.’ She nodded dispiritedly and slowly walked out. ‘Wait a minute. I’ll drive you.’ I’d somehow forgotten about my own car.
I spent the day in a daze. Around five o’clock in the afternoon, I was about to drive to the hospital when I realised I was almost out of gas. I had no cho
ice but to go to the gas station. After going a whole night without sleep, I felt dizzy and heard a ringing in my ears. I couldn’t stop sweating. I was weakened as though I were about to collapse from illness. My mind thickly clouded, I pressed on until I suddenly found myself driving head-on into the barricades outside of town. I urgently slammed on the brakes, breaking out in a cold sweat from the fright.
‘Why is this side blocked?’ I asked a Spanish soldier standing guard.
‘There’s been an incident. They’re burying people.’
‘What does burying people have to do with traffic control?’ I asked, dead weary.
‘The dead ones include Bassiri, the leader of those guerrillas!’
‘You— You’re lying!’ I yelled.
‘It’s true. Why would I lie to you?’
‘You’re wrong,’ I cried out again. ‘Absolutely wrong.’
‘How could I be wrong? Headquarters verified his corpse. His little brother also confirmed it before he was taken into custody. Who knows if he’ll get out?’
‘How could this be true? How could it?’ I was almost begging this young soldier to disavow the reality of what he had just said.
‘His own people started some trouble and he got killed. Ay, he was badly mutilated. His face was a bloody mess.’
I started trembling, wanting to reverse but unable to shift into gear. My body shook relentlessly. ‘I don’t feel well,’ I said to the soldier. ‘Help me reverse the car.’ I got out limply.
He gave me a strange look but obliged nonetheless. ‘Drive carefully! Get home quick!’
I was still trembling all the way to the hospital. After shuffling out of the car, I ran into the old porter and could barely formulate words. ‘Where is Shahida?’
‘She’s gone!’ He regarded me calmly.
‘To where? Is she looking for me?’ I asked haltingly.
‘I don’t know.’
‘And the nuns?’
‘They left this morning and took a few children with them.’
‘Is Shahida in the dormitory?’
‘No, I’m telling you she’s not there. At three this afternoon, she left looking very pale and without speaking to anyone.’
‘What about Afeluat?’
‘How would I know?’ the porter replied impatiently.
I left, feeling helpless. I drove in circles around town until I came upon another gas station and, in a trance, decided to get gas again.
‘Señora, you should get out of here! The Moroccans will be here any day now.’
Ignoring the guy at the gas station, I drove on and asked endless questions near the police unit.
‘Have you seen Afeluat? May I ask if you’ve seen Luat?’
Everyone shook their heads sombrely.
‘The Sahrawi police officers split days ago.’
I drove over to the public square where the Sahrawi liked to congregate. An old man sat inside a half-open store. I used to buy local products from him all the time.
‘May I ask if you’ve seen Shahida? Have you seen Afeluat?’
Afraid of getting involved, the old man gently nudged me towards the door. He seemed like he wanted to say something and sighed.
‘Please tell me—’
‘Leave quickly! It is not your business.’
‘I’ll leave as soon as you tell me, I promise,’ I begged him.
He glanced at his surroundings for a moment before speaking. ‘Tonight, they will put Shahida on trial.’
‘Why? Why?’ Once more I was frightened beyond belief, not knowing what to do.
‘She sold out Bassiri. She told the Moroccans that he returned. They took care of him in an alley.’
‘Impossible. Who is detaining her? Let me talk to them. Shahida stayed at my house last night. There’s no way. Besides, besides, she’s Bassiri’s wife. . .’
The old man gently pushed me out of the shop. I got back in the car and sprawled on the steering wheel, exhausted, unable to move.
When I got back to my doorstep, Gueiga immediately ran over from a crowd of people who were talking. ‘Let us go inside to talk.’ She gave me a push.
‘You want to tell me Bassiri is dead,’ I said, collapsing on the ground.
‘Not only that. They will kill Shahida tonight.’
‘I know. Where?’
‘The place where they slaughter camels,’ Gueiga said, sounding scared.
‘Who are these people?’
‘Ajyeiba and his gang.’
‘They did it on purpose, blaming her,’ I cried again. ‘Shahida was at my house last night.’
Gueiga sat in silence, dumb fear on her face.
‘Gueiga, give me a massage! My entire body is in pain.’ I lay on the ground letting out long sighs. ‘Dios! Dios! ’ Gueiga bent down next to me and began massaging.
‘They invited everyone to go and watch,’ Gueiga said.
‘What time tonight?’
‘Half past eight. They told everyone to come. They said it is not for fun!’
‘Ajyeiba is with the Moroccans! Isn’t it obvious?’
‘He is nothing,’ Gueiga said. ‘He is a hooligan!’
I shut my eyes, my head spinning like a carousel. Who could rescue Shahida? The nuns had all left, the Spanish troops wouldn’t get involved, Luat was gone, I didn’t have the power, José wouldn’t be coming home. There was no one to even discuss the situation with. I was utterly alone.
‘What time is it? Gueiga, pass me the clock.’
Gueiga handed it over and I saw that the time was already ten past seven. ‘Where have the Moroccans reached today?’ I asked. ‘Is there any news?’
‘I do not know. I heard the desert corps at the border already took away landmines to let them through. Some soldiers refused to leave, joined up with the guerrillas and went into the desert with them.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Hamdi said it.’
‘Gueiga, think of a way to rescue Shahida.’
‘I do not know.’
‘I’m going tonight, are you? I’m going to testify that she stayed at our house last night—’
‘Not good, not good, Sanmao,’ Gueiga stopped me anxiously, almost in tears. ‘Don’t say it. If you do, it will be very bad, even for you.’
I closed my eyes, holding on despite my exhaustion, waiting for half past eight to arrive quickly. I would go and see Shahida no matter what. If it was going to be a joint trial, there should be some leeway for others to speak. The worst case would be a brutal lynching. Forget about a joint trial; it would just be an assertion of Shahida’s guilt so they could condemn her to death and be done with it, this girl that Ajyeiba could never have. Only in troubled times could there be such injustice.
I heard the noise of a crowd outside after eight. Everyone was sullen, their faces without expression. Some walked, some drove, all heading towards the slaughterhouse next to the valley of sand far away from town.
I got in the car and drove slowly in the midst of the Sahrawi. At the end of the road, where there was only sand, I left the car behind and followed the crowd of people onwards.
The slaughterhouse was one place that I always avoided, a place where the wails of camels waiting to be slaughtered echoed on and on. The rotten meat and white bones of dead camels filled an entire shallow valley of sand. The wind was relentlessly fierce here. Even coming here during the day made a person feel ghastly and unhappy. Now it was nearing the tail end of dusk, the setting sun just a pale streak of light shining weakly on the horizon.
The slaughterhouse was made of cement, long and rectangular. In the dim light it looked like a large coffin that a giant hand had taken from the clouds and set gently in the sand. Its slanted shadow was almost too terrible to behold.
Many people were already gathered there for the show, not panicked at all, more like a flock of sheep crowded together and bumping into one another. So many people, and yet not a single sound.
Before it was even half past eight, a mid-size
Jeep sped aggressively towards the crowd. Everyone hurriedly stepped back and made a path. High up in the front, next to the driver’s seat, sat Shahida, so still and pale she looked already dead.
I pushed people aside, reaching out my hand, calling for Shahida, but I couldn’t get near her. The crowds pushed me back and forth like a wave. So many people stepped on my feet, shoving me forward and backward, forward and backward.
Everything around me was a blur. I didn’t see a single person I recognised. Jumping up to get a better look, I saw Ajyeiba pulling Shahida out of the car by her hair. There was a commotion in the crowd. Everyone struggled to get to the front.
Shahida shut her eyes and didn’t make a move. I thought her heart must have already broken when she heard about Bassiri’s death. Now she was just seeking death and soon she would have it. The nuns had safely taken their child away. There was probably very little left in the world with which she couldn’t part.
What kind of joint trial was this? Where were the people who would speak? Who would bring up Bassiri? Who would uphold justice? Once Shahida was dragged out, a few people began tearing her bodice. Her naked breasts were soon pitifully exposed.
She raised her head, closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and stayed absolutely still. Then Ajyeiba started screaming in Hassaniya. Another roar went through the crowd. I couldn’t understand. I grabbed a man next to me and desperately asked him what was happening. He shook his head, refusing to translate. I squeezed my way over to ask a girl. ‘They will rape her first before killing her,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Ajyeiba asked who wants to rape her. She is Catholic. It is not a crime to do it.’
‘Ah! Cielos! Cielos! Let me through. Let me pass. I need to get through.’ I fought my way past the people in front of me. Those few steps felt like a century, like I would never be able to squeeze through.
I jumped up to look. Ajyeiba and seven or eight of his men were ripping apart her skirt. Shahida tried to run, but several of them caught her and pulled her back forcefully. Her skirt had fallen. She was almost completely naked, rolling around in the sand. A few men jumped on top of her and seized her arms and legs, pressing them down, spreading them apart. Shahida’s bloodcurdling screams and cries drifted outward, sounding like a wild animal. Ah… no… no… ah… ah…
