On June 5, I am in Fez with two of the punished men for the medical exam required by our call-up. I’d best follow the rules even if I’ve already decided not to return to the camp. I don’t talk about it. Toward noon, we’re about to enter the café-brasserie La Renaissance, right in the center of the modern part of Fez. And voilà: we find ourselves face to face with Commandant Ababou. Shock. Followed by a reflex: we stand at attention! Ababou, who is dressed casually in sports clothes, reminds us that we’re not in the army. My pal Larbi, the optimist, the man who’s always smiling, asks him point-blank: “Commandant, we’re in Fez for the medical exam for the call-up this coming August 1. Why this recall, Commandant?”
I can still hear and will never forget what Ababou says next: “I’ve got a surprise for you, a big surprise.” Larbi, worried and excited, wants to know what it is. “You’ll see,” replies the commandant, “a surprise, I tell you.” Zaki doesn’t laugh. He’s convinced the army wants to get us back to enlist us for real. I try to distance myself from all of it. In any case, I reflect, on August 1, I’ll be in France.
Commandant Ababou gives us a friendly pat on the shoulder before going off, repeating, “Surprise, surprise . . .” We’re left stunned, troubled, with fear in our bellies. We just happen to know what this commandant, a man utterly devoid of humor, can do. His surprise can only be a new ordeal, a fresh catastrophe. He is not the kind to joke around, especially with former “punished” men.
We take a table and order brochettes. Larbi laughs loudly, nervously. “He’s nuts, that commandant,” he says. “He thinks we’re going to obey him like we used to!” Zaki, still pessimistic, replies, “We’ve received an official document, a summons from the army; if we don’t show up we’re considered deserters and then—the punishments are ferocious. Me? I don’t feel like laughing about it. They’re poisoning our lives.” I jump in: “You remember the guy who deserted? He was buried alive . . .”
Larbi wonders what the surprise could be. War with Algeria? Shit, if that’s it, it’ll be terrible. No desire to shoot at Algerians, they’re brothers, cousins, they just barely got through an appalling war with France . . . Shit and double shit. The Sand War is within living memory. Perhaps generals of the Royal Army want to replay that conflict and break up a still-fragile Algeria.
We’ve lost our appetites. The return train leaves at around five o’clock. We try to distract ourselves; Larbi attempts to pick up two tourists, Scandinavian girls. “We’re going to rub up against democracy! Fucking a girl born with democracy in her blood, that has to be better than good!” I’ve no desire to hit on girls. I’m anxious about the “surprise.”
Once back in Tangier, Larbi leaves with the two girls and tells me to join him later. He lives quite close to my parents’ house, in a tumble-down palace. We spend the night there making love to Swedish democracy. I admit that in the morning I feel light, happy, changed. The girls smoked, first. Personally, I hate that. We exchange addresses, and I go home. I don’t tell my parents about the “surprise.” The next day, the girls take the boat to Algeciras.
THE SURPRISE
July 10, 1971, 2:08 p.m. One thousand four hundred officer cadets, traveling in twenty-five trucks, surround the summer residence of King Hassan II, a palace by the beach, about twelve miles from Rabat. Lieutenant Colonel M’Hamed Ababou enters the Skhirat Palace by the north gate. His older brother, Muhammad, by the south gate. It is the king’s birthday. He is forty-two years old. He has organized a garden party to which he invited his friends, some diplomats, politicians, artists, military men. Casual dress. Light music. The king likes to go against protocol now and then. The sky is a special blue. It’s a hot day. The order is given to kill everyone. Machine-gun massacre. Blood in the pool, on the sand, on the buffet tables, everywhere. The king hides in a bathroom.
It’s a holiday. We set out in the morning with some friends for Rmilat, a few miles from Tangier, for a picnic. Girls and boys. Larbi is there. He’s funny, he makes us laugh. We eat sandwiches from Abdelmalek’s, they’re famous. We drink Cokes. Everything goes well. The weather is beautiful. No east wind. Tangier is at its best. Larbi jokes about our supposed return to the army. The girls say, “We’ll follow you.” We giggle, we kiss. We’re happy. Only Zaki is in a foul mood. “He’s bringing bad luck,” Larbi tells me; “you’ll see, we’ll wind up in that shithole army!” Zaki is sensitive about his shortness and kinky hair. He compensates by being really smart and a bit derisive. He’s gloomy, as usual. He’s the opposite of Larbi. Me, I’m somewhere in between.
Toward three-thirty, we decide to leave. Coming up from the bay we reach the esplanade where there is a café popular with families. It’s empty. That’s strange. One of the girls wants to go to the bathroom. As soon as she gets inside the café she runs back out: “Come quick, come in, there’s a guy on TV who’s gone crazy!” We rush in and see a well-known journalist, Bendadouch, looking quite somber, reading a communiqué:
The army has just seized power . . . The monarchical system of government has been swept away . . . The people’s army has taken control . . . Vigilance, vigilance . . . Any other communiqués will be reported to you . . . The people have been set free, the corrupt monarchy no longer exists . . . It’s the revolution of the people and the army! Remain vigilant . . .
Military music punctuates this declaration. One of us says, “That’s it, it’s the revolution; quick, let’s go to the National Trade Union Center—the workers must be out in the streets . . .” There’s no one left in the café; outside, not one bus or taxi. We begin to run to get back into the city. We hitchhike. A Renault 4 stops: it’s our former history teacher, a Frenchman. We pile into the car, and he’s the one who tells us what’s going on: “Some soldiers have launched a coup d’état; a certain Aba -bu or -bou is their leader. They fired on everyone, the king must have been killed, seems there are hundreds dead . . . This looks bad. It’s the end of Morocco!” We can hardly believe it. We look at one another with a sinking sensation. Someone turns on the radio: military music, the reading of the army communiqué. Ababou! Larbi bursts out laughing. It’s nervous laughter. Zaki protests and calls for silence. He says it’s a historic moment and we might all be shot!
Ababou! Of course! The “surprise”! The big surprise! So that was it! Zaki is dying of fright. He’s pale. Silent. Larbi’s not laughing anymore. He’s petrified, too. We all are. My throat’s dry. I panic and already see myself a soldier on the Algerian front. My imagination is jumping around and I’ve lost all control. Need to pee. Everyone needs to pee. The teacher stops the car and there we all are, relieving ourselves. Some have stomachaches. We’ve stopped talking. We’re anxious to get back.
At the workers center, there’s no one. The streets are deserted. We scatter and everyone heads for home. My parents are dreadfully worried. Especially my father, who knows what soldiers can do. So do I, with good reason. I go to my room without managing to calm down. I straighten things up a bit. I turn on the radio; the national station isn’t broadcasting, so I hunt for a foreign one. I find Radio France. I wait for the hourly news bulletin. A special correspondent reports:
“Rabat is in the hands of the rebels, I hear gunfire around the national radio building where the rebels are proclaiming the republic; there are many dead among the king’s guests, impossible to estimate how many. The French ambassador managed to escape; the ambassador from Belgium is dead. Impossible to know the situation of the king. A communiqué states that he has abdicated. The officer cadets came down from the military academy at Ahermoumou, a village in the northeast of the country; their leader is a lieutenant colonel named M’Hamed Ababou, seconded by a henchman, a certain Akka, followed by young officers including the brother of Ababou. I’ve been handed some names: Captain Chellat, Captain Manouzi, Adjutant Mzirek. Some generals appear to be accomplices of Ababou: there’s been mention of General Medbouh, very close to the king, the director of the Royal Household, today the shadow leader of the rebel soldiers. As for General Ouf
kir, they say he has taken charge of the loyal army and is now searching for Ababou and his men. In Arabic, Medbouh means Cutthroat, a fearsome name . . .”
And all these names echo in my head, because I can put a face to each of them. They are the officers who punished us. The very ones who put us through nineteen months of martyrdom. Those officers have become killers. In the case of Akka, I’m not surprised. They’re out of their minds to want to overthrow the king through violence. They aren’t going to survive this, at least that’s what I hope and tell myself. If their coup ever succeeds, I know what they will do with this country: it will be an appalling and pitiless dictatorship. Ababou, impulsive, angry, violent, cannot be a democrat. They speak of justice and democracy, but these are people who fear neither God nor man. I know them. I say this to myself over and over: “I know them, I know them.” My brother calls from France. He says the French army would be ready to intervene to save the king. To save Morocco from possible takeover by violent and uneducated soldiers thirsting for power. It’s utter confusion.
I become as worried as the monarchy: I’ve just realized that our summons of August 1 has a direct connection with the coup d’état. Ababou must have been thinking of enrolling us in his adventure. The worst part—retrospective fear—is that he might have launched this coup while we were in his hands. Ninety-four leftist students, there’s a good alibi for a future dictator. We had a narrow escape. It’s even a miracle. Nothing was stopping Ababou from keeping us and dragging us into a tragic undertaking, and I wonder why he didn’t. He had complete power over us, for we had no way to disobey him. Besides, he wouldn’t have told us anything about his intentions. As he did with the young officer cadets, it was later reported, he would have drugged us and told us that the king was in danger, so we were going to save him!
I can see Akka’s hard face again, his shaved skull. I see the determined stride of Lieutenant, now Captain Manouzi; I imagine Captain Chellat wiping out the king’s guests. I hear the name of Boulhim, of Allioua, the one who tore up my medical certificate; they say those two are looking for Ababou to arrest him and bring him to the king. General Medbouh is arrested and killed by Akka for having wanted to spare the lives of the king and his family.
Late that night, ears glued to my transistor, I hear the announcer for Radio France interrupt a theatrical program to announce: “The king is alive; he has just issued the following statement . . .” The king speaks of divine intervention, of friendship betrayed, of God’s blessing, says he would rather be the victim of a friendship than betray a friend . . . He is reassuring, speaks in impeccable French. We learn that a hundred of his guests have been slain. That his brother Moulay Abdallah is slightly wounded, that Crown Prince Sidi Mohammed, eight years old, is safe and unharmed.
The radio station has been retaken from the rebel soldiers. People say that the Egyptian singer Abdel Halim Hafez, who was there recording a song, refused to read the rebels’ communiqué. It seems they threatened him, but he said he was a foreign artist and would not interfere in the politics of a friendly country. It was the blind Moroccan composer Abdessalam Amer who was forced to announce the fall of the monarchical regime. They read it to him; he learned it by heart and recited it.
I feel better. Even though I wasn’t involved in the bloodshed at the king’s garden party. In fact, amazingly, I have just escaped disaster by the skin of my teeth. Had Ababou triumphed, I wouldn’t have given much for our lives—we, the men punished by Hassan II. Ababou would have forced us to reenlist and shot anyone daring to resist. Ababou was like that. It was even because of his reputation as an uncompromising soldier that Oufkir had entrusted him with the task of reforming the students opposed to the regime. Mission accomplished. Still, the commandant hadn’t managed to get everything he wanted: to make us accomplices, rebels, martyrs.
What followed was only to be expected: live on television, the execution of the generals implicated in the coup d’état. Before being shot, they are humiliated, degraded, chained, and dumped into a truck. The others, the officer cadets, are all arrested. Ababou was shot by General Bouhali at the entrance of headquarters in Rabat. Akka ran away. Caught in the outskirts of Kenitra, he is mowed down like a dog. The monarchy settles its scores. And I, I still shiver at the idea that we might have been dragged into this reckless adventure by that power-hungry psychopath.
My mother prepares an enormous couscous for the poor. “God is with us,” she tells me. God or chance, God or destiny.
For having demonstrated calmly, peacefully, for a little democracy, I was punished. For months, I was nothing more than a serial number: 10 366. One day, when I had given up hope, I found freedom again. I was finally able, as I had dreamed of doing, to love, travel, and write many books. But to compose The Punishment, to dare to return to this story and find the words for it, has in the end taken me almost fifty years.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTES
Off to El Hajeb
1. Kif is a substance, usually cannabis, smoked in Algeria and Morocco to produce drowsiness or intoxication.
2. A hammam is a public bathhouse long popular in much of the Islamic world, using water and steam, often with massage and scrubbing by attendants.
3. Moulay (Lord) or Lalla (Lady) are Berber titles of respect for family members or nobility, and Moulay Idriss Zerhoun is a holy town near Mount Zerhoun in northern Morocco, founded in 788 by Idriss I, who took materials for its construction from the nearby ruins of the Roman city of Volubilis. A great-great-great-grandson of the Prophet, Idriss I was the patriarch of the Idrisid Dynasty (788–974), considered the creators of the first Moroccan state.
4. A haik is a large rectangle of cotton or woolen cloth, usually white, worn wrapped around the head and body as a loose outer garment by North African men and women.
5. In the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains, El Hajeb is largely inhabited by descendants of Berber tribes once known as fierce warriors. The Berbers are the indigenous peoples of North Africa west of the Nile Valley, where their culture probably dates back more than four thousand years. Some scholars maintain that El Hejab was first settled during the Almohad Caliphate of the twelfth century and later destroyed during shifting tribal conflicts, but the present El Hajeb was itself an important military base in modern times, and the ruins of the original kasbah (the fortified core area of a walled town or building) may still be seen today. Built by Sultan Moulay Hassan I (1836–1894) to keep at bay the local tribal powers, El-Hajeb protected Meknès, one of the four imperial cities of Morocco along with Fez, Marrakesh, and Rabat, all capitals in revolving succession during the long centuries of various dynasties, caliphates, and sultanates while Morocco evolved into a unified nation and, at the end of the French protectorate (1912–1956), achieved independence. Hassan I’s greatest success was to strengthen his regime through reform and to increase tribal loyalties to the makhzen, an ancient notion in Morocco that roughly embodies the feudal state Morocco represented before the protectorate, when bilād al-Makhzen, “country of the makhzen,” meant land under central government authority, and bilād as-Siba, “country of dissidence,” was the tribal flux of areas outside the governing institution of a unified state.
Last Moments of Freedom
1. Mehdi Ben Barka, a gifted mathematician and former math tutor of the then Prince Moulay Hassan, was one of the founders of UNEM, formed in Rabat after independence in 1956. His radical politics and economic development programs made him a leader of the Moroccan opposition to the regimes of Mohammed V (1909–1961) and his son Hassan II (1929–1999). After criticizing Hassan II for waging a border war against Algeria in 1963, Ben Barka fled into exile as an apostle of revolution among developing nations. Condemned to death in absentia, he survived several assassination attempts, but after months of secret surveillance, he was lured to Paris, where on October 29, 1965, he was disappeared in an uncanny foreshadowing of the savage murder of the Saudi journalist Jamal Khashoggi, a prominent dissident and critic of the Saudi leadership, who was
murdered in Istanbul inside the Saudi consulate by agents of the Saudi government, who dismembered and destroyed his body.
French trial records and the reports of investigative journalists determined that French and Moroccan intelligence agents kidnapped Ben Barka at noon in front of the famed Brasserie Lipp and took him to a house outside Paris, where he was tortured to death. His body was never found, and in 1967 Interior Minister (General) Mohamad Oufkir was convicted of his murder in absentia. Mossad and the CIA are rumored to have been involved as well.
2. Directed by Sidney Lumet, The Hill is a 1965 film about a British army stockade in the Libyan desert during World War II. Much scenery is chewed in this melodramatic but undeniably grueling version of the classic mix of helpless prisoners, sadistic officers, and brutal punishment. Centered on the power struggles among the captives, their torturers, and the decent officers who try to keep the camp on an even keel, things come to a frightening pitch when five new arrivals are forced to repeatedly carry heavy burdens up and down a manmade hill in the center of the camp, and one of them dies.
Akka
1. Also called Tamazight or Amazigh, the Berber languages are closely related dialects spoken throughout Northern Africa and, as of the early 1950s, in Berber immigrant communities in western Europe. The Berbers predated the Arab conquest of the Maghreb (Al-Maġrib, “the West,” in Arabic), and they and “Arabized” Berbers are now the heart of the native populations there. Many Berbers also speak Arabic, variants of Maghrebi Arabic, and French in the postcolonial regions of the Maghreb, so the linguistic inheritance of Morocco is a complicated one. Berbers often feel that they and their languages are the victims of discrimination, because although French was long officially recognized in Morocco, for example, Berber did not become a constitutionally official language there until 2011. This language barrier can be a lifelong problem for Berbers, who tend to live in rural areas and have historically been left out of the political process, so they are often considered “backward” by Arabs.
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