‘They’ll be the ones knocking on our door,’ Abd al-Rahman said after a moment’s thought, ‘praying that we’ll open it.’
‘God willing!’ Abdallah replied in despair, tossing his cigarette butt to the ground as he stood up to say farewell.
Events passed Abd al-Rahman by, some quickly, some slowly. As he continued to live in the open city, he felt he was reading a chapter in a history book recording a period of dangerous change in which events proceeded apace, one chasing the other. He observed them, but tried to delay the ending of the chapter, as he himself longed to catch up.
His ears and his heart listened attentively. Violence and cruelty took hold of Morocco in the cities, villages, plains, and mountains. Freedom fighters burst into view everywhere, their proclamations echoing the whispered calls of their colleagues in the city, responding with rifle fire while their urban counterparts sought cover behind revolvers.
Abd al-Rahman’s ears and his heart combined to make him consult his conscience again. As he did so, he allowed himself a smile, which bore silent witness to his sense of self-satisfaction.
Meanwhile, news kept arriving from afar. There were people who were contemplating a compromise involving the king’s return from exile in the near future – a medial position between imperialism and independence. All this guaranteed was that the sword would be returned to its scabbard, and that a certain lifestyle would be assured for all collaborators and people loyal to the government.
‘I wonder,’ he asked himself with a smile, ‘what if Abdallah were here with me? Would he change his mind and support Ouad Zem? Or would he still be convinced that the bridge for negotiations has been destroyed?’ Then his heart burst with joy as marvellous news reached him: ‘Nationalism’s worst enemy has surrendered!’
One day and two months later Abd al-Rahman returned to his home at noon. Inside, he bumped into his elder brother Abd al-Ghani, who now walked with a stoop, as though old age had started coursing through his veins too. Abd al-Rahman’s ears were assaulted by the loud chomping sound as Abd al-Ghani chewed on his gum. The noise set his nerves on edge, as though he were hearing it for the first time. As he looked back at Abd al-Ghani he saw that his brother’s massive frame was still bent over as he continued chewing his gum.
Abd al-Rahman entered his father’s room and pulled back the curtain that had hung across the door since that evening when Hajj Muhammad had come back to the house holding his head because the pain was so bad; he had gone to his room and had not left it since. Abd al-Rahman looked at his mother, who was squatting in the middle of the room as though on the point of standing up. He leaned over to kiss her hand, but her face was wrinkled, and its lines were wet with tears.
The kiss stayed in Abd al-Rahman’s mouth, and he gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Anything new, Mother?’ he asked, pretending not to be aware.
His grieving mother said nothing. Sitting down beside her, he asked the same question.
‘Your father,’ she replied, her choking voice only speaking in short phrases. ‘Your father, Abd al-Rahman. You all go out and leave me here. Since this morning all I’ve heard is his breathing. I keep trying to rouse him, but he barely opens his eyes.’
Abd al-Rahman took his mother’s hand and led her out of the darkened room. ‘He’s no worse,’ he told her by way of consolation. ‘If he would let me bring a doctor to look at him, his pains would be less.’
‘I know what his problems are and I’m well aware of my own misfortune,’ she said, ignoring Abd al-Rahman’s suggestion about the doctor.
Leaving her where she was, he went back inside the dark room to check on his father. Taking hold of Hajj Muhammad’s cold hands, he called to him, but the only echo was the old man’s weak, intermittent breathing.
By now Abd al-Rahman was aware of how serious the situation was, and went to fetch a doctor.
‘The only thing we can do,’ the doctor said as he left Hajj Muhammad’s room, ‘is give him some stimulants to deal with his general weakness.’
When Abd al-Rahman looked at the doctor’s face, all he saw was a serious expression with little sign of hope.
47
Abd al-Rahman was well acquainted with the physical features of Fez. He had spent his childhood, youth, and teenage years there, reading its personality in every nook and cranny – its decaying stones, lofty walls, narrow alleys, broad squares, dark and bright areas, its sunshine and glimpses of moonlight, its market excitement and the tedium of routine activities, the energy in its locations and the anxieties of its commerce, its mosques and shrines, the faces of its men and the eyes of its women… He could read everything in Fez like an open book whose every line was placed before his eyes with conscious spontaneity.
Whenever he felt the urge to open his horizons to matters of politics and economics, he would lose himself in the city, meandering through the markets, shops, quarters, and narrow alleys, widening his eyes to gaze at everyone and priming his ears to pick up any sound, whisper, smile, laugh, shout, or conversation.
The people of Fez never kept their ideas hidden; they would always reveal their innermost thoughts to anyone they met. For them, conversation was business. All that was needed was for someone to encounter a friend, companion, colleague, or former neighbour, and the conversation would start. Politics was now a regular feature of such conversation; friends no longer talked about how much money other people had, or how much they had either won or lost. Now their exchanges concerned the foreign entity in their country, and the fact that it was high time for it to leave. They talked about the blows being struck by national heroes against the French in Casablanca, the Rif, Ouad Zem, and anywhere else the occupation forces were established. Such chatter loosened the tongues of Fez’s inhabitants; they burst into smiles and appeared relaxed and happy. Their expressions clearly echoed their feelings.
From the faces of his countrymen Abd al-Rahman could tell that the days of foreign occupation were now at an end. The French were clearly ready to relinquish their authority; they were actively contemplating the idea of independence and the king’s return to France… or, rather, to Morocco. They were thinking about internal independence, synchronised independence.
Hearing the word ‘independence’ almost made Abd al-Rahman lose his mind; it was as if he had never heard the word before, had not spent eleven years repeating it to himself, and had not been forced because of it to spend four of those years in prison. It had been a dream, an idea continually uttered in his own mind, one he aspired to see achieved. And now it had become a reality that gave light to horizons that for fifty years had been shrouded in darkness. When reality gives a dreaming soul a jolt it comes as a shock, leading to a denial of self, ideas, and dreams.
‘Independence’ went on banging in his ears, and its impact had a profound effect on his soul. It stayed with him as he pondered things and meandered aimlessly through the streets, examining people’s expressions, conversations, behaviour, reactions, all in his quest of the true significance of the word.
On his way home from his tour of the vibrant and alert city streets, he felt he must find the real essence of life in Makhfiyya Square itself. Since he had been a young child he had regarded the Makhfiyya Quarter as the source of life; its square was the centre of the entire world. He had known other worlds, of course, but had come to realise that, for all their size and scope, they were no broader than the narrowest alley in the most ancient of cities. He thus felt the strongest affection for this particular square and considered its life to be the most fulfilling he had witnessed.
Pausing for a moment in the square, he looked at people’s radiant faces and joy-filled eyes. He was happy to see the tailor chattering loudly with the flour seller; in fact, all the shopkeepers were happily talking about the revolutionary atmosphere. His ears pricked up when he heard a conversation about the neighbourhood’s police presence.
‘Our friend over there is about to leave.’
‘You mean our enemy…’
‘Fri
ends or enemies, it’s all the same. What’s important is that he’s going.’
‘Poor devil. He’s going to leave us orphans!’
‘We’ll send him off with ululations, drums, and flutes.’
It was Amm Muhammad, a butcher, who was talking. He was sitting beside a crumbling wall, as he often did after finishing his morning’s work: he found he could not escape the tiny square, whether at work or leisure.
‘Don’t believe in anything good until it happens.’
Amm al-Tabbaa, a tailor, responded through his toothless gums. ‘The men beat him up. After today he won’t be able to lift his head.’
Amm Muhammad looked over at the small police post, where the officer sat with his back against the door. ‘We’re in a slaughterhouse,’ he said, ‘but we can’t be sure that the ox is finally dead until we’ve skinned it!’
Amm Raji, a grocer, entered the conversation. ‘The men have certainly killed it. And now it’s our job to skin it!’
‘Bring it to me,’ the tailor laughed, ‘and I’ll start weaving its shroud!’
Abd al-Rahman smiled silently as he listened to this chatter between the grocer, the butcher, and the tailor. It may have been simple, but it was an accurate reflection of the simple souls who were talking, full of confidence and courage. The officer had also been listening to them, but he did not seem to share their conviction that liberty was on the point of casting its protective wing over their homeland.
When Abd al-Rahman left, he felt inspired by the hope in the faces of his countrymen. As he made his way home, his mind was filled with glimmers of the certainty that people were expressing as they moved confidently towards victory.
Going into the house, Abd al-Rahman felt he was entering a graveyard. The family insisted on providing absolute peace and quiet for the old man, whose nerves were badly affected by his illness. He could no longer move or tolerate loud noises. The family took to whispering, and the entire household tiptoed around, closing doors quietly and consigning any arguments to oblivion. Thus the mansion that had been a gathering point for the living had been converted into a silent abode, akin to a city of the dead.
Abd al-Rahman was therefore surprised to find himself in a chaotic scene, whose noise reverberated throughout the house; it was like a beehive, full of the buzz of activity. Coming in through the main door he was astonished to run into Khaduj weeping like a young child that has, indeed, been stung by a bee. The blood froze in his veins, and he stopped for a moment before coming in any farther. He looked from Khaduj to Yasmine, who had emerged with heavy steps from her own quarters.
In her agony of grief she banged her head against the wall, wailing, ‘O my master! O my son, Mahmud!’
When he went into his father’s room, he found the family gathered around the bed: Abd al-Ghani was pacing around the middle of the room, using a handkerchief to control his breathing; Aisha had her children clustered around her and was trying to keep her weeping as quiet as possible. The doors to the dark room had been closed and the blinds drawn, and they were all crying in the dark. Abd al-Rahman approached his father and seized his cold hand to feel his weak pulse. ‘Father,’ he whispered loudly. ‘Father!’
The only response was his father’s faint breathing. And then his breathing stopped, replaced by a horrible snort.
‘Father,’ he said again. ‘Father!’
Hajj Muhammad did not open his eyes or show any sign of having heard his son’s plea. Abd al-Rahman turned pale as he faced a reality he had never anticipated. He let go of his father’s hand and stood up, deep in thought.
Abd al-Ghani’s voice intruded into his frenzied thinking. ‘Mawlay Zaki was here,’ he told his brother. ‘He’s gone to fetch some Qur’an readers and chanters.’
This served to rescue Abd al-Rahman from his deadly despair. He nodded as if to bless what Mawlay Zaki had done. Then he thought about his mother, Khaduj, and left the dark room, taking Aisha by the hand and leading her out along with her children.
He did his best to comfort his mother and make the tragedy easier to bear, but she shrieked at him, ‘Leave me alone! Let me rue my fate. What kind of life will be left to me now our glory days are over?’
There was a loud rap on the door, and Abd al-Rahman heard Mawlay Zaki asking permission to enter. The women left and went into a room close by. The reciters and chanters came in, followed by a group of Hajj Muhammad’s friends. The reciters now raised their voices and read two complete suras from the Qur’an. They were followed by the chanters, with Mawlay Zaki and the shaykh of the chanters standing on either side of Hajj Muhammad. They did not have time to finish before one of them looked over at the other. Mawlay Zaki burst into tears and leaned over Hajj Muhammad’s dead body.
‘There is no deity but God,’ the shaykh of the chanters intoned at the top of his voice. ‘God is what was and what remains.’
When Abd al-Rahman stood by the gate of the Sidi Mayyara cemetery welcoming the mourners, his voice was choked with grief. His friend Abdallah came, and as Abd al-Rahman embraced his dear friend, Abdallah leaned to whisper in his ear.
‘Good news! Today the king has returned. Independence has been declared!’
Abd al-Rahman lifted his hand from the soil of Hajj Muhammad’s grave and walked back to the house with a group of family members and friends.
‘We’ve buried the past,’ a voice echoed in his ear.
As he walked, his reddened eyes gleaming, the image of Abd al-Aziz appeared in front of him.
‘No,’ his old friend told him. ‘We haven’t buried it yet!’
Afterword
‘Abd al-karim Ghallab’s novel We Have Buried the Past (Dafanna al-madi) is set in the city of Fez, for centuries the capital city and traditional seat of successive dynasties of Muslim rulers, the sultans of Morocco. It was a deliberate act of the French colonial authorities – beginning with their occupation of the country in 1912 – to move the country’s capital from its traditional location in Fez to the Atlantic coastal town of Rabat, then a relatively small settlement (originally named for its Sufi connections, in that ribat is the Arabic word for the house of a mystical community) and at that time much less historically significant than the port city of Salé directly opposite it at the mouth of the River Abu Riqraq. By contrast, this novel continues to stress the centrality of the city of Fez in the Moroccan national consciousness, and as the primary locus of its sense of history and tradition. Both of the latter were to stand in opposition to and in defiance of the modernising tendencies and oppressive policies of the French occupation, which was to last until 1956, the year in which Morocco finally gained its independence.
That the city of Fez as place should be depicted in this novel with such attention to detail may be seen, of course, as a predictable feature of novels penned during a particular phase in the development of that fictional genre within different cultural traditions. As is the case with the Egyptian novelist and Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz and his fictional portraits of Cairo, ‘Abd al-karim Ghallab (1919–2017) is a son of the city of Fez; he was born there and educated at the city’s University of Qarawiyin – associated with the mosque complex that is still the city’s major Islamic monument (founded in the ninth century CE), much mentioned in this novel – before he travelled to Egypt in order to continue his education at Cairo University, from which he obtained a Master’s degree in Arabic literature.
Throughout his lengthy career, Ghallab was a major figure in Moroccan cultural and political life, not least as editor of the newspaper of the Istiqlal Party, al-Alam (The Standard), where he initially published his novels in serial form before their eventual appearance as books. He also wrote works about Moroccan literature and the country’s struggle for independence, including, most notably, The History of the Nationalist Struggle in Morocco: From the End of the Rif War until the Declaration of Independence (1971). There is thus a direct link between his personal and political life and career and at least three of his novels – Sab‘at abwab (Seven G
ates, 1965), Dafanna al-madi (1966), and al-Mu‘allim ‘Ali (1971), all of which are concerned with the precedents, actualities, and consequences of the French occupation of his homeland and its aftermath in the achievement of national independence for Morocco.
Like so many of its analogues from different cultural traditions, We Have Buried the Past (originally serialised in 1963) is a vivid portrait of the process of change and, in the effective words of the American critic Lionel Trilling, ‘an especially useful agent of the moral imagination’ (The Liberal Imagination, 1940, vii). Bearing in mind both the author’s background and his profound interest in and concern for his city and country in a particularly challenging era in its centuries-long history, it comes as no surprise that both place and time are to play significant roles in this novel, being described frequently and in obviously affectionate detail. We are presented with numerous vivid accounts of the city’s people and its life, all in accordance with the changing seasons of the year – the chill of winter and the unbearable heat of summer, the customs and traditions of the city’s inhabitants, and the often abrupt and disruptive interventions of the French authorities (usually depicted as ‘foreigners’ or ‘interlopers’ – in Arabic, dukhala’ ). The very word ‘French’ is scarcely ever invoked, although in this translation I have occasionally added it when the allusive nature of the original Arabic text might not suggest such a reference to the reader of English.
The initial chapters of the novel introduce us to the oldest part of the city (known as Fas al-Bali, or Ancient Fez, in order to distinguish it from Fas al-Jadid, or New Fez, which originates from the twelfth to thirteenth centuries[!]) and the French-built modern city beyond it, the Ville Nouvelle (Modern Town). The oldest part of the city sits in a valley, with two principal conduits from top to bottom, the Talaa Kabira (Great Rise) and the Talaa Saghira (Small Rise), coming together towards the bottom end of the valley. Branching from these two relatively wide walkways (there is no vehicular traffic) are a number of much smaller alleyways, creating a veritably labyrinthine network of narrow streets, where, as happens to one of the characters in this novel, you may still hear the cry ‘Baalak!’ (‘Watch out!’), warning you to pin your back against the nearest wall while a heavily laden mule or donkey passes by at speed, occupying most of the space between the two sides of the walkway. Lying within this network of alleyways is the Makhfiyya Quarter, the location of the traditional residence of Hajj Muhammad’s household. Typical of the often elaborately decorated residences in the old city, the house of this family consists of several floors located around a central courtyard, high-ceilinged rooms for the several generations of the family, and servants’ quarters. The house and the family living there are to serve as the locus within which all the tensions involved in the confrontation of the traditional indigenous and the modern imported within this narrative are to take place.
We Have Buried the Past Page 30