When she left the hospital, she had no idea what had happened. There was no problem taking her home. She thought she’d just moved to a different bedroom and then a different house. She had no recollection of her stay in the hospital. Just as well. My mother’s dearest wish can be summed up by this prayer: ‘May God let me die in your lifetime!’ She is distraught at the thought of losing a child, as any mother would be. She saw how her own mother had suffered when one of her sons died prematurely. A fathomless grief. Something she daren’t even imagine — it is too painful. ‘I’ll die, yes, but with my children all around me.’
I’ve come to understand that demand: it stems from her all-consuming love. What do you do with that love if one of your children is carried off by a brutal death — called back to God, as she says? Muslim mystics, the Sufis, talk about God’s love in very similar terms. My mother was no mystic but she celebrated the simple things and essential values. She did this by giving of herself, without making an issue of it or suffocating her children. One day, during a radio broadcast, I said that my Muslim mother was a ‘Jewish mother’ and I added, ‘a Jewish mother who doesn’t smother’. She’d say to us: ‘I’d die for you: my heart never gives up, it keeps me going. Whenever I’m worried about you, my heart pounds, my love chokes me. That’s just how I am: there’s nothing to be done, I can’t help it. You can laugh, but when you have children of your own, you’ll understand the kind of worry that burns in your chest. I’m always thinking about you, and I’m scared by the way people look at you. The evil eye is real, you know, and frighteningly powerful, it reaches everywhere like an octopus, seeking out happiness to destroy. There are people who want to hurt you just because you have your health, because you exist. God keep you safe from people’s evil looks! May He protect you from their venom! May God lift you above their cruelty and make you a light to guide those who live in the dark! The human heart isn’t always kind. But it’s not in my nature to be suspicious. I believe what I’m told. I trust that people are sincere and act in good faith, but I just cannot lie and pretend. That’s why I get hurt, but I’d rather be as I am. It’s the way I was brought up. My mother was the same. My father was a saint; people came to him for advice. He was known for his kindness and his learning. I inherited that goodness from him but sometimes it doesn’t do me any favours. But no matter! I have you and that’s what counts … That’s why I ask God in His mercy to let me go, surrounded by all of you. We’ll pray together and I’ll go gently, like my mother.’
My mother’s youngest sister is an energetic woman who enjoys life. She married a man from a wealthy family. That family made a deep impression on us, growing up in Fez. They were the first to buy a motor car, to have a house in the country (where we were invited to stay in the spring), to have a telephone and, most importantly, the first Fassi family to move out of the medina. They were rich people who loved the simple things in life, even though they put on a faintly superior air, to remind us that we didn’t belong to the same class. But they never managed to make my mother feel inferior. Nor my father, who’d criticise their way of life, which made them laugh. My father had a tremendous sense of humour and took great pleasure in his use of irony. My aunt would tease him, and he in turn made fun of her ‘lifestyle’ and her preoccupation with appearances over more fundamental things. People said that his words mixed salt and sugar, honey and pepper, cruelty and raw truth. He wasn’t afraid to say things that were hurtful, but true.
My aunt came to see my mother. She always brought a salutary dose of cheer. She was shocked when Mother took her for someone else, saying: ‘My sweet darling, I’ve been waiting for you such a long time.’ And then she confused her daughter with her mother again. Addressing her sister, she said: ‘You know, darling, my mother’s here — yes, your grandmother — she’s here but she doesn’t recognise me. That’s not nice of her. She came from Fez and all she can think about is when she’s leaving again. I’ve done nothing to hurt her. Speak to her, she’ll listen to you. Ask her why Amina hasn’t come. It’s not like her; she’s always rushed to my bedside. I’m her older sister, I brought her up, along with my daughter, I think they even nursed at the same breast. I was young and healthy. My mother wasn’t strong enough to look after the house and all her children, so she asked me to look after Amina, and I treated her like my own daughter. They’re the same age. Work it out, you’ll see they were born the same year, just six months apart.’
Mother’s sitting on the edge of her bed. Her left foot’s more swollen than her right, the dressing must be a little tight. As usual, she’s wearing a pink tchamir, a kind of long robe, and a white headscarf. Since her hair’s turned white, she’s been covering her head. She’s wearing a gold bracelet. Mother is bored. She looks at the window and says nothing, shifts her position, places her bad foot on the bed and stares at the wardrobe opposite. She calls for Keltum, who doesn’t answer straight away. She calls her again. Keltum shouts: ‘I’m coming.’ ‘Hurry up,’ says my mother. Keltum arrives, looks as if she’s about to shout at her, then says: ‘Only God can put up with her.’ My mother cries: ‘Don’t leave me alone! Why do you shut yourself away on the other side of the house and abandon me? I’m going to tell God in my prayers and you’ll see, my saintly father won’t like it. Come over here, sit down and don’t move!’
Mother and Keltum are bored. They both stare intently at a corner of the room. On TV there’s an American soap opera dubbed into Spanish. The colours are garish. The images fall from the screen and mingle with the dust on the carpet. My mother smiles, she’s all alone. Keltum dozes. The phone rings. Highlight of the day. ‘It’s your son calling.’ ‘Which one?’ ‘The one who phones every day!’
I speak to my mother. When I ask ‘How are you?’ I always get the same response: ‘I’m here, picking up a few crumbs of time until God decides to release me. I’m in His hands. Death is certain; there’s no point talking about it. I’m just waiting!’ I ask Keltum how things are. She owes me the truth; she tells me whether my mother’s slept well, or if she has diarrhoea or has been hallucinating. I speak to my mother again and she complains about Keltum, laughing. When she laughs, it’s a good sign. Then I ask for her prayers and her blessing. She knows them by heart and puts all her energy into them, with no mistakes or hesitation. When she blesses me, my mother is fully there. She raises her eyes to the heavens and addresses God. Just listening to her makes me feel protected. It’s not rational, but I don’t question it. My mother sees me as a fragile creature whose way needs lighting. She’s forever praying that I’ll be kept safe from enemies, from bad, jealous people. She sees them and chases them away with her hand.
For a long time now, my mother has prayed sitting down, with her eyes closed. She murmurs her prayers, wiggles her right index finger and concludes by joining her hands, pointing them upwards and telling God her dearest wishes.
These days she talks of nothing but her jewellery. She says it’s all disappeared. She shared it out among her granddaughters and daughters-in-law a few years ago, saying: ‘I’d rather give you my jewellery now, so there’ll be no arguing after I die, I’m just keeping this bangle and this necklace.’ That was the necklace she’d thrown down the toilet. Keltum thought it was hers by rights. My mother claimed it. Keltum flung it onto the bed, saying: ‘I should have left it in her shit.’ The bangle, impossible to get off her wrist now, was safe.