by Laila Lalami
“You’re safe now,” Hatim said, smiling in a way that made Youssef uncomfortable. “And you will get better, insha’llah.”
Youssef did not care if it hurt—he was simply relieved that he did not have to deal with the police or with his mother.
“How many students were there?” Hatim asked.
“About two hundred.”
“And how many were taken into the police trucks?”
“I don’t know. Ten or fifteen, maybe. I ran away, so I don’t know how many others were arrested.”
“Was there much blood?” Hatim asked.
What a strange question, Youssef thought, though he was willing to answer it for the sake of the article. The piece was Hatim’s idea; it would be an eyewitness account of police brutality on student campuses, and it would run in the Party’s newspaper, At Tariq Al Mustaqim. Youssef closed his eyes now and thought about those few minutes when the police charged. The memory had been preserved in jump cuts, and he played and replayed them in his head, hoping to see if he had missed any details. At length, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“There had to be,” Hatim said. “They used their batons. In any case, we have the photos of you.” Those, too, had been his idea. When Youssef had taken his shirt off in the infirmary, Hatim had immediately gone upstairs to his office and come back with a digital camera. “No!” Youssef cried, but Hatim waved his concerns away. “Don’t worry, my son. I’ll only take a picture of you from the neck down. No one will know it’s you.”
“Will you write the article yourself?” Youssef asked.
“No. I will leave that to the professionals at At Tariq. But they will tell your story, my son. You can be sure of that.”
Amin came in. There had been a strike at the law faculty, too, but when Hatim asked him about it, Amin said he hadn’t seen anything. “Well,” Hatim said, taking his mobile phone out of his pocket. “I’ll get to work with what we do have.” He walked away, holding Moussa by the elbow and whispering to him.
Amin turned to Youssef. “Yak labas?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Youssef said.
Amin poured himself a glass of mint tea and blew on it to cool it off. “What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
Maati and Amin glanced at each other. It was Maati who spoke. “Why did you get involved in the protest, my brother?”
“You’re just going to bring trouble on yourself,” Amin added.
Youssef shrugged. “They’re my classmates. I had to do something.”
“And what good did it do?” Amin asked.
Youssef did not reply. Behind the counter, the waiter turned up the volume on the radio in order to listen to an advertisement for lower prices on refrigerators and new ways to finance them. The TV mounted on the wall was set to a foreign satellite channel, and it broadcast a popular call-in show where a hijabed woman read people’s fortunes in cards. Outside, children were playing tag, and in the distance a car screeched to a halt. Youssef did not want to think any longer about what had happened or what could have happened. The part of angry student activist wasn’t for him; this much he now knew.
“And you?” Maati asked, looking at Amin. “Where were you, if you weren’t in the strike?”
“With Soraya,” Amin said with a wide smile. “Ah, that girl. Mmm-mmm.” He moved his fingers in a circular motion, as if he were squeezing lemons.
Maati shook his head. “You’d better stop messing with her. I’m telling you, someday her brother will come find you.”
“Stop? Are you kidding me?” Amin turned to look at Youssef as if to say, Can you believe this?
“She’ll go all the way?” Youssef asked. He had never thought that Amin could get a girl like Soraya—or any girl at all.
“We’re supposed to meet tonight.” Amin winked.
“For real?” Youssef asked.
“Why would I lie about something like that?”
“Haraam,” Maati said, shaking his head.
Amin leaned forward on the table. “What? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying. It’s not right.”
“Since when is it not right? I never heard you complain when my brother took us to see that whore.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Is that what your boss says?”
Maati tilted his head sideways. “But Soraya—”
“What about her?” Youssef asked.
“I just didn’t think she was that easy.”
“She’s not easy, but she’s not Rabia Al Adawiyya, either. She likes me. Here,” Amin said, pushing the teapot toward Maati. “Go get a refill. Or do you have to ask permission from your boss for that, too?”
An unaccountable feeling of loneliness descended upon Youssef. He was used to such moments, but the events of the morning, his inability to share them with his mother, the pain in his chest—these made him more vulnerable today. The burden of his secret suddenly seemed to him far too heavy to bear. He glanced at Amin. If anyone could understand, it would be Amin, who was always angry with his father for spending his wages on drinking and gambling, and leaving the task of supporting the household to Amin’s mother.
“Can you keep a secret?” Youssef asked.
“Of course,” Amin said. “What is it?”
“My father’s not dead.”
Amin’s mouth dropped open. The shocked expression on his face frightened Youssef. What imprudence, what foolishness, had overtaken him! What could he tell Amin, in the end? That his mother had had a child out of wedlock? He could not bear the shame of her actions, let alone the shame of describing them in words, out loud. And what would Amin think of him—the bastard child? No, this would not do. He had to play with the truth, create a version with which both he and Amin could live.
“He divorced my mother when I was still a baby, and then disappeared from our lives. She told me he was dead so I wouldn’t ask her questions about him or ask to see him. And I believed her.”
“How did you find out?”
“I could tell she was hiding something, so I asked her.”
Amin looked confused. “But why is it a secret? You’re not the only one around here whose parents have divorced.”
Youssef had to think quickly. “I thought, well, everyone here thinks my father died, so there’s no point in saying he’s alive. It’s not as if it makes any difference in my life.”
“So where is he now?”
“He’s here, in Casablanca. He has a business.”
“Aw? Really? He’s got money?”
Youssef shrugged. “I guess so.”
“I can’t believe …” Amin’s voice trailed off. “And he never came to see you? Or paid his due?”
Even though he had divulged only a small part of the story, Youssef felt some relief already. “But please,” he said, “don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not. You’re one of us.”
There was comfort in those words, in hearing someone say that he belonged. “Don’t tell anyone,” Youssef repeated. “Not even Maati.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Amin said. He popped another walnut into his mouth and then switched subjects, going back to Soraya and where he might be taking her in order to have some privacy. Youssef listened distractedly. He kept thinking of his foolish attempt to join the protestors. It was so hard to keep the loneliness at bay, but harder still to keep his mother’s secret shuttered inside him.
The smell of trash from the heap at the corner wafted through the air. Along the narrow street, many doors were ajar, letting out the sounds of TV sets, each one tuned to a different satellite channel, each blaring news in a language of its own. Youssef came to a bend in the road and then made his way up the hill, occasionally ducking under half-empty laundry lines. He stood aside to let pass a group of women bringing a bride from the hammam. The women let out their joy cries and clapped in rhythm to a bridal song. Life goes on, he thought, and no one cares what happens to anyone
else. No sooner had he come through the door than his mother asked, “Were you in the strike?”
“No,” he said, waving his hand as though the strike were none of his concern. He sat down on the divan and cautiously reclined against the cushions. “I left when it started.”
His mother was sitting cross-legged on the floor, piling couscous into a mound on a large plate. “And you didn’t see anything?”
“Not much.”
She looked at him searchingly, but he held her gaze. Using a small spoon, she drew ribbons of sugar and cinnamon across the couscous mound. “We had several boys turn up at the hospital,” she said. “I feel sorry for their mothers.”
Youssef tried to think of a suitable response to this but came up with nothing. He did not know what it was like to be a mother, only what it was like to have one. Any sorrow he felt was for the other students, who, like him, had thought they were speaking up against unfair price hikes. His mother did not seem to have expected an answer from him; she was quietly pouring buttermilk into bowls. He got up to wash his hands before the meal.
“The police were there,” she said, “asking those kids some questions.”
Youssef felt a cold shiver travel down his spine. “Did they arrest anyone?”
“I don’t know. One of the boys’ fathers showed up and made a scene, threatening to call his brother in the Royal Armed Forces. So they backed down.”
“That’s good,” he said. He spooned some couscous into his bowl of buttermilk.
“But they took down everyone’s names and ID card numbers. Now, even though they weren’t arrested, they’ll be in the system.”
Why was she telling him this? Was she warning him? Or was she just filling up the emptiness between them with idle chatter? He tasted the seffa. The buttermilk had coated the warm couscous and cooled it off. He let the combination linger in his mouth, tasting the sugar and cinnamon before swallowing. He was desperate to change the subject. “I saw Zohra, the teacher’s daughter, on her way back from the hammam.”
“Yes, she’s getting married tomorrow, insha’llah.”
“To whom?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
“A bus driver,” she said, taking another mouthful of couscous. “That’s what Maati’s mother told me.”
“You’re not going to the henna ceremony tonight?”
“No.”
She was trying not to show that she was upset by the snub, but perversely he persisted. “Why not?”
“They didn’t invite me.”
The neighbor women could be cruel, he thought, always making sure his mother knew her place inside their circle. He felt ashamed for having pressed her. “Those neighbors are cheap. They’re not inviting anyone,” he said, giving her this excuse the way he might put balm on a wound. “It’s a small wedding, that’s all.” And as the words parted from his lips, he realized he was helping her save face as much as he was saving his own.
The next day, a Saturday, Youssef went to the Oasis to meet Amin. They took a table in the back, directly across from the TV screen. The Widad was playing against the FAR, and although the local boys had started out strong, their striker fouled and two of their defenders did not seem to know how to communicate. By halftime, it was clear that they would lose.
“FAR will win,” Amin said.
“Don’t they always?” Youssef said dejectedly.
Hatim came in, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “The article on the strike is out,” he said, a gummy smile broadening his face.
“So you’re a celebrity now,” Amin teased, nudging Youssef with his elbow.
“Careful,” Youssef said. His ribs were still painful.
Hatim pulled out a chair and sat down. “Look.” He laid At Tariq on the table, pushing aside the bottles of Coca-Cola, the sunflower seed shells, and Amin’s ashtray. On the front page, in bloodred letters, a headline screamed: STATE BRUTALITY CONTINUES. Under it, in smaller type: DEMONSTRATORS BEATEN; FIFTY ARRESTED. Below the titles, two pictures of Youssef with a thin black strip masking his eyes.
“What’s this?” Youssef said, sitting up. “You said my face wouldn’t be in the photo.”
“I took a lot of pictures,” Hatim said, “and this is the one At Tariq used. Don’t worry. Your eyes are completely covered. No one will know it’s you. Go on, read the article.”
Youssef swallowed. He gripped the paper and started reading the article, Amin looking over his shoulder:
The bus fare increase that was announced on Friday has already borne the fruits any casual analyst could have predicted. Student strikes took place on the campuses of Casablanca Aïn-Chok, Casablanca Ben-Msik, Rabat-Agdal, and Meknès, where hundreds of demonstrators marched to demand a repeal of the fare hike. Dozens of police officers in full riot gear came to quell the popular protests. They showed no mercy as they beat, brutalized, and in some cases tortured the students. One young man, a freshman in English (see photograph), suffered a concussion, two broken ribs, a back injury, and cuts and bruises to the rest of his body. “There was blood everywhere,” he told At Tariq Al Mustaqim in an exclusive interview, “and we do not feel safe coming to campus anymore.” Out-of-city students were chased back to their dorms, and reported that when the police were done searching their rooms, laptops, mobile phones, and other valuables had gone missing. The Party’s chairman, Mr. Lahlou, declared, “We vigorously protest the involvement of the police in peaceful campus demonstrations. The Moroccan state continues to repress the will of its people, but we will continue to fight for the restoration of truth and justice in this country. By God. Through God. With God.”
The rest of the piece was a description of the individual strikes on different campuses. “There’s enough information here,” Youssef said, “that they can identify me.”
Amin sat back, having finished reading, but remained thoughtfully silent. He lit another cigarette.
“Impossible,” Hatim said, shaking his head. “We didn’t give your name, and we didn’t say where you live or which campus you’re from. Don’t worry.”
“Of course I’m going to worry.”
“Don’t worry,” Hatim said, as though repeating the reassurance could make it come true. “I promise they can’t find you, based on what’s in here. Just consider what you’ve achieved for a moment. Your story is in the newspaper. Isn’t this important?”
Youssef wanted to believe Hatim. After all, he was only one of hundreds of demonstrators, and surely the police were not planning on tracking down every one of them? And they had already beaten him up. What else did they want?
“People need to know what the government does to the people whenever they speak up,” Hatim said.
Amin shrugged. “Everyone knows. They don’t need to read about it in the paper.”
“What’s this?” Hatim asked, his voice rising. “Are you on the state’s side now?”
“Of course not,” Amin said, raising his right palm up in defense. “Me, I’m just saying.”
Hatim’s voice suddenly softened. “I understand, my son. But it’s important to document what’s going on around us. How else will anything change? Have you seen Farid Benaboud’s article in Casablanca Magazine?”
Youssef and Amin shook their heads.
Hatim clapped his hands. “Iwa, I can tell you: we did a much better job with these student demonstrations. Our newspaper is the mouthpiece of the people. We carry their stories and their concerns, not Benaboud. He didn’t have a full report in his magazine. He didn’t have original pictures. He didn’t even have any direct quotes from demonstrators. But the worst of it was that he accused the Party of starting trouble on the Casablanca Aïn-Chok campus and of letting the other student organizations take the fall on the day of the strikes. What lies! Attacking us when all we are doing is trying to help. But what can you expect from that … that … that …” He seemed to be looking for the right word. “That Jew,” he finally spat. “He wants to prevent the Party from making progress. But, by God, we will bring prog
ress to this country whether Benaboud likes it or not.”
Youssef could not understand why Hatim hated Benaboud so much, and he did not know what to say, not having read the other magazine’s story anyhow. Someone called out to the waiter to bring two coffees and a plate of mille-feuilles. A jingle announced the end of the commercial break on TV. “The match is starting again,” Youssef said. Amin folded the paper and handed it to Hatim, then moved his ashtray back to its spot and flicked the ashes from his cigarette in it. Hatim took the hint and got up. Now they turned their attention back to the match, but it was hard to stay interested, since the outcome was in little doubt. “What do you think of the article?” Youssef asked.
“Hatim goes on about changing things, but who’s reading his paper? No one. And no one’s reading Benaboud, either. The only articles that matter are those that make it into Le Matin. If you’re not in Le Matin, you don’t exist. And in any case, half the country is illiterate. It’s what’s on TV that counts.”
Amin was right—none of the television channels had shown images of the strikes. It did not matter what anyone wrote.
4
THE AGREEMENTS
PROFESSOR HAMMOUCHE WANTED the class to discuss immigration, but no one was in the mood to debate. “In that case,” she said, heaving a sigh, “we’ll set up two camps, one for and one against.” She randomly assigned people to each group and trudged through the hour-long debate, suggesting better adjectives, correcting subjunctive forms, or adjusting pronunciations. Youssef found himself in the group having to argue against emigration, even though he could not come up with any reasons why anyone should stay in the country. A life of dignity was in the realm of the imaginary: he was poor; there were few jobs and even fewer rights. Some people in Hay An Najat had tried hrig, and although hardly any of them had been heard from after leaving the country on a boat, he knew that if the chance arose, he, too, might be tempted to try his luck in Europe.