We Have Buried the Past

by Abdelkrim Ghallab

  ‘And Mahmud’s mentality will win,’ the voice inside him interjected.

  ‘No, no!’ he responded angrily, ‘That’s impossible! People who loathe society and take revenge on people, impugning their honour?’

  At this point the image of Hajj Muhammad loomed in front of him with a wry smile on his face, and around it a huge question mark. Abd al-Rahman stopped pacing for a moment, as though waiting for the image to speak, but its silence and the look on its face only made its impact yet more powerful and mocking.

  ‘Going back to the past,’ the voice intruded, ‘implies that Hajj Muhammad’s way of thinking will be coming back as well.’

  ‘History always moves forwards,’ Abd al-Rahman responded, as though addressing a stubborn opponent. ‘It never goes backwards.’

  The image of his father came back, this time with an even broader smile.

  ‘And what about the people?’ the voice asked. ‘What have they done? Don’t those millions feel this blow was aimed at them rather than the king and the nationalists?’

  Abd al-Rahman was stumped when faced with such forceful logic. He stopped pacing, as though a barrier had been placed in his path, and, putting his fingers in his mouth, he started to bite his nails mercilessly. ‘The people?’ he thought, in answer to the voice. ‘They still don’t realise history is changing. They’re relying on a group of nationalists who are fighting on their behalf as though the country were theirs alone. All the years that the nationalists have spent setting things up have been useless. The populace is weak and timid… The blood in its children’s veins has congealed.’

  Now his emotions got the better of him and he started to shout. ‘No, no! Despair… no present, no future. All I can see is the gloom of the past. Thick clouds approaching from the past to cover our world in darkness and despair.’

  His strength gave out; it was as if his nerves had never encountered defeat before. He burst into tears, and only came to himself again when a fellow internee, breathing fast and looking distracted, called to him.

  ‘Did you hear the news? They’ve attacked the puppet and killed him. Allal ibn Abdallah stabbed him!’

  41

  ‘O God, be all around us but not against us!’ This was Hajj Muhammad’s response to the news of the incidents that had taken place in Casablanca, incidents that had carried the torch lit by the young martyr Allal ibn Abdallah. He had launched an assault on the puppet monarch, but contrary to the news that had reached the prison he had failed in his attempt and instead had surrendered his young life as a victim to his unprecedented initiative.

  The events were narrated to Hajj Muhammad like legends from the past: a young man of fifteen stopped a policeman and, before anyone knew what was happening, the policeman dropped to the ground dead, while the young man vanished as though swallowed by the earth… A man carrying a bomb in a basket left it in the central market, and the explosion engulfed the whole area and everyone in it… Another young man put a bomb on a train, then disappeared while the explosion scattered chunks from the train all over the place… A woman attacked an army detachment, but it was later discovered that it had been a man in disguise.

  These pieces of news alarmed Hajj Muhammad. They provoked his interest in the broadcasts on the radio and drew him closer to people who read the newspapers and could give him reliable information.

  He was motivated by a nagging desire to hear about this new element in Moroccan life that was leading people to challenge the powers that, until now, had always brutally confronted any opposition.

  In addition, he was eager to hear about the events in Casablanca, because they reminded him of similar events in Fez when he was young and foreigners had attacked the city. A group of young men, known for their courage, defiance, and bravado, had banded together and resisted the first units of the foreign army. They had put the heads of the defeated army officers on their spears and paraded them around the city streets to announce that this would be the fate of all invaders.

  Recalling what he had heard as a young man about the way that people in the countryside had rebelled against the occupying forces, Hajj Muhammad thought of the panic-stricken days the city had lived through when the war approached its gates, and when the city authorities warned that their very souls, their wealth, and their safety were all under threat.

  The bullets fired in Casablanca brought back all these memories, which led him to take up his rosary and rapidly finger the beads as he intoned, ‘O gentle God!’ The clacking beads created their own rhythm, and the sound echoed in his frigid soul as though demanding more. The only things that could pull him away from his rosary were the news broadcasts giving him fresh information, and his conversations with Mawlay Zaki, who visited him now and then to discuss the events and share rumours.

  Once, he heard the resident-general speaking on the radio in his broken Arabic, stating how dangerous this enemy was who could ambush the security forces and then disappear, unseen by human eyes, leaving behind nothing but demolition and murder. Hajj Muhammad listened, expecting the general to claim that his forces would be able to crush these destructive elements, but instead he admitted they were incapable of dealing with this enemy that operated in the dark.

  This made Hajj Muhammad even more anxious. It sent him back to his rosary, and he went on playing distractedly with the beads until he was torn away from his thoughts by Mawlay Zaki’s pounding on the door. He had come to share the news that he too had heard from the general on the radio.

  The two men stared at each other, each wishing the other would start the conversation. What they had heard was difficult to believe, and it felt as though whoever spoke first would be accused of not speaking the truth. Almost without thinking, Hajj Muhammad began fiddling with the beads on his rosary again, all the while engaging Mawlay Zaki in small talk, but eventually Mawlay Zaki grew tired of the evasion.

  ‘Did you hear today’s news?’ he asked. ‘Things are getting serious now. The French are finally admitting it’s serious.’

  Hajj Muhammad stopped clicking his rosary. ‘That’s right,’ he replied with a deep sigh. ‘God help us all!’

  Mawlay Zaki was eager to gauge what effect the announcement had had on Hajj Muhammad. ‘It seems to me,’ he said provocatively, ‘that the general’s admission is a ploy to scare the nationalists.’

  ‘That’s what I think too. Surely France can’t be scared of a bunch of young men who strike and then escape on bicycles!’

  ‘They’re not scared of them, but they still can’t finish them off.’

  Hajj Muhammad found this logic irrefutable, but he was not ready to accept it. ‘Is there anything the French can’t do?’ he asked. ‘They can do anything.’

  ‘So, why are they letting them get away with it, then?’

  ‘I don’t know… I just don’t know. But I think…’ He stopped and thought for a while. ‘Because it’s in our best interest,’ he eventually replied.

  Mawlay Zaki took a noisy sip of his tea, but said nothing. His wide-open eyes suggested serious thought. ‘I think it’s as you say. It’s in our best interest.’ Then he frowned as though struck by something profound. ‘But what benefit can there be,’ he went on, ‘in leaving bombs to explode in markets, men dropping dead one after the other, and fires spreading across farmlands?’

  The question bothered Hajj Muhammad. ‘How should I know?’ he replied sharply. ‘There must be some discernible benefit in it.’

  Mawlay Zaki was dubious. Pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows, he looked distractedly up to the heavens without saying a word. Then he shifted in his seat, put his teacup on the floor, and slowly inserted a hand in his pocket to bring out a dark red handkerchief with black decoration, in which was wrapped a snuff-pipe. Putting the pipe to his nostrils, he inhaled until his eyes watered. He then wiped his hand over them and rubbed it on his jallaba. Lifting his cup to his mouth, he sipped some tea with relish; he seemed to have needed all these elements in order to continue with his thinking.


  ‘God be praised!’ he sighed with evident relish, making it clear how much he had enjoyed the snuff and the tea. Now he turned and looked at Hajj Muhammad. ‘Perhaps you believe the interest is that it permits those young men to disrupt security in our country?’

  ‘God alone knows,’ said Hajj Muhammad, admitting defeat. ‘Even so…’ He stopped, not even knowing himself how his retort might continue.

  Mawlay Zaki did not wait for his companion to complete his answer. ‘I feel there’s no interest in that,’ he went on. ‘But…’ He too stopped, not daring to speak openly about what was on his mind.

  ‘But what?’ Hajj Muhammad challenged him. ‘Is it all over for France, then?’ Mawlay Zaki hesitated, and Hajj Muhammad went on with a laugh. ‘Don’t hand your mind over to other people. The Germans and the English did not defeat the French, so how do you expect these young men to do it?’

  Mawlay Zaki looked back at him, ready to defend himself. ‘I didn’t say it was all over,’ he said. ‘But France can’t… kill them.’

  ‘You’ll see! The same thing happened in Fez in the early days of the occupation, and the overwhelming force of the occupiers soon put an end to it.’ Hajj Muhammad paused for a moment. ‘Do you think that the power of the French army, with its rifles and guns – not to mention aircraft – can be matched by these young men who strike and run away?’

  It was Mawlay Zaki’s turn to laugh. ‘Do you expect them to strike,’ he joked, ‘and not run away?’

  ‘That simply shows that they’re not a real force,’ Hajj Muhammad replied.

  ‘At any rate,’ Mawlay Zaki replied, realising that there was not much more to add now, ‘may God grant us a safe outcome! The times are not good.’

  ‘So far we’re safe,’ Hajj Muhammad said. ‘These problems are all in Casablanca, and we’re far away. Praise be to God, our own city is quiet.’

  ‘Quiet? Yes, you’re right, it’s quiet. But these days things cannot be all that far away.’

  ‘No…’ Hajj Muhammad replied after a moment’s thought, ‘Fez can’t possibly witness events like those in Casablanca.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mawlay Zaki asked doubtfully.

  Hajj Muhammad could not come up with a response, and only repeated, ‘Because Fez can’t possibly witness events like the ones in Casablanca.’

  ‘Anything’s possible. What happened in Marrakesh – wasn’t that even more serious than what happened in Casablanca? Have you forgotten that a bomb was thrown at the new sultan?’

  ‘But God has always protected Fez from disaster.’

  For a while, Mawlay Zaki said nothing. Frowning, he searched in his pocket again for the handkerchief with the snuff, and once more inhaled deeply until his voice cracked. ‘Didn’t the city go through something like this in the early years of the occupation?’ he asked.

  ‘That was then, and this is now,’ was Hajj Muhammad’s defence. ‘They didn’t realise yet how strong France was.’

  Mawlay Zaki was not convinced. ‘Every era has its own men,’ he replied. ‘The men now…’ But he did not dare continue. On the point of getting up, he leaned on his hand. ‘By the blessings of Mawlay Tihami!’ he said, invoking the name of one of God’s saints.

  ‘O God, be all around us but not against us!’ Hajj Muhammad whispered, as he bade his friend farewell.

  It was not long afterwards that the first bomb went off in Fez’s streets, eliminating a major collaborator whose evil machinations were such that no one had felt safe; nobody had dared stand up to him. But this was no isolated bomb attack that killed just one person, as others had killed dozens every day in Casablanca. This was a huge bomb that shook Fez to its foundations, causing an enormous shock, as though debris from the Hiroshima atom bomb had hit the city. No one panicked, and nor did the men, youths, and children flee from the markets to hide behind the high walls of the houses, as they had done earlier when a frightening rumour had been put about by some meddling shaykh, or a lunatic on his behalf, craving a blessing from him. Instead, the city’s inhabitants rushed to the markets, in an emotional response to show that commercial and social activities would carry on as normal. No one was looking for business or profit; rather, they wanted to hear the latest news and to demonstrate their happiness that the city was continuing its tradition of resistance.

  The nationalists did not miss the opportunity of the bomb blasts (which now went off at frequent intervals and took out collaborators) to mock the authorities and scoff at the French general, who, far from making them eat chaff as he had threatened, was now tasting his own humiliation and defeat. His collaborators and other Moroccan supporters were now having their taste of bombs and explosions. People talked of the army of God terrifying the army of Satan. The older and middle-aged men now thought back to assert that today’s resistance fighters were the children of the earlier ones. It was no surprise to meet someone who would swear that the young man who had assassinated Colonel Hammu was the son of Sidi Faddul, who had put Capitaine Jean’s head on his spear at the beginning of the occupation and paraded it around the streets. Someone else might equally assure you that he knew everyone, all the people responsible for igniting the candle of resistance in Fez – though, of course, he could not name any of them for fear of putting their lives in danger.

  The bombs in Fez struck a note of fear in the two men’s discussions of past and present. Their explosions had a counterpart inside Hajj Muhammad’s mind as well, and his anxieties could no longer be hidden. He stayed inside his house as though anticipating a disaster; in the morning he would expect it that same evening, and in the evening he would anticipate its arrival next morning. He was left alone with his prayers and his rosary, but he did not forget to offer praises to God for the fact that Abd al-Rahman was not in the city. Imprisonment protected his son from being one of this satanic group of people who had destroyed Hajj Muhammad’s personal sense of security. Part of him wanted to listen to the radio, but for his own sake he did not, to avoid having to hear news of an explosion somewhere in the city.

  Friends no longer came. Their number had dwindled; Mawlay Zaki was at the head of the few who remained. But even he was delighted by the mood in Fez, and stopped thinking about Hajj Muhammad or paying him regular visits. Instead, he divided his time between listening to the radio and meeting up with other people, both of which provided him with information and catered to his need for explanations and commentary on what was happening.

  Hajj Muhammad’s health deteriorated, as did his morale. No longer caring about anything, his only concern was the potions that Khaduj mixed for him and which everyone with an opinion assured him would cure the illnesses conspiring against him. He never complained about any specific illness, nor did he know exactly what was wrong with him, but symptoms of a general deterioration in his health were evident in every aspect of his bodily and mental condition. Now Hajj Muhammad was living isolated from the city of Fez. It too was isolated from him, and ever since he had locked himself away it had started to forget him. He no longer reminded the city of his existence, as had always been his habit when he made his way to and fro between the Makhfiyya Quarter, the Qarawiyin Mosque, and the Mawlay Idris shrine.

  Fez was shocked again when the prison gates were opened to receive a whole new batch of young men who had never been locked up before but were nonetheless happy to be entering prison, their bodies showing obvious signs of the torture to which they had been subjected during the few days they had spent in police detention cells.

  Abd al-Rahman came to know all of them, as well as Abd al-Aziz, who was locked up at the same time, having been accused of forming a terrorist group.

  42

  When Abd al-Rahman met Abd al-Aziz in the prison store, he was in a terrible state, as though he had just come off a battlefield. His features were unrecognisable, his posture was bent, and he could not stand up straight because some of his ribs were fractured; his legs could barely hold him up, and his breathing was laboured and shallow. There was a look of terror in his blood
shot eyes, as though he had spent time with the Devil incarnate.

  Abd al-Rahman’s quiescent feelings were suddenly aroused as he welcomed his friend. His conscience pained him as he looked at the face that had once brimmed with conviction but was now transformed into a misshapen mass, barely clinging to life. Abd al-Rahman tried to gather his emotional resources, but it was as though an electric shock had shattered his nerves. Tears poured down his face, his voice choked, and he could neither offer comfort nor ask for details.

  But then a voice – familiar for its confidence, though now broken and short of breath – spoke up. ‘No, no, don’t cry,’ it gasped. ‘I wanted this… and so did God.’

  Abd al-Aziz’s words gave Abd al-Rahman new determination and wiped away his tears. ‘I always knew you to be steadfast and brave,’ he replied. ‘Things are still…’

  Abd al-Aziz nodded as if to say, ‘You’ll find out. You’re going to find out a lot about our courage and determination.’

  All was at an end. Abd al-Aziz and his companions had arrived at the prison only after the police had extracted confessions, found out all the information they needed, arrested the whole cell, and put an end to everything. The general in Fez boasted to his counterpart in Casablanca that the city of Fez had once again surrendered.

  When Abd al-Aziz heard the news in prison, he wept. Abd al-Rahman wept not for the same reason but because he was seriously worried about Abd al-Aziz’s condition. He had previously had complete confidence in him and knew he would be able to lead one cell after another if he could stay in the field. But now all hope had vanished. The man who had once said, ‘Our bodies, blood, and spirits; that’s all we have. So, let’s offer those as food and drink for the tree of freedom,’ was now finished.

  But Fez did not surrender. Instead, it hid its embers, the way fire can be concealed under a pile of black coal. The city’s young folk were anxious for fear the city might indeed give up. For them it was out of the question for history to be altered and a new, unprecedented page written. So they lived with the French general’s declarations as though engaged in a contest with his dreams – dreams that he aimed to achieve, while they aimed to prove them false.