In her seventh month of pregnancy, Sidi Mohammed fell ill. His complexion looked sallow, he lost weight, and often had a raging fever. He no longer went out. The nurse, Drissi, came to his bedside, and was unable to hide his despondency: ‘He is in God’s hands. It’s a scourge afflicting our country. I hope I’m wrong. I’ve given him a nice, strong injection to make him sleep. Don’t wake him. I’ll see you tomorrow. God is merciful!’
My mother cried. The entire family was with him. When Sidi Mohammed awoke, he looked dazed, his eyes were glassy and he had difficulty speaking. The worst of it was that, several times a day, lamentations for the dead rang out as funeral processions passed by. The typhus epidemic had spread. Drissi worked without pause. Another nurse, Skalli, went from house to house handing out white pills. The corpse washers were busy day and night.
Drissi advised that Lalla Fatma should be kept away from Sidi Mohammed until the birth. My mother refused to leave her husband, or her home. Lalla Radhia, the midwife, insisted she follow her. Touria was born just as her father breathed his last: he never set eyes on her. My mother cried throughout. Someone even dared say that she’d brought bad luck. My mother didn’t leave her parents’ house. It was her mother who looked after Touria for those first months, she nursed her alongside my mother’s baby sister.
Sidi Mohammed was buried in El Guebeb cemetery. He was just twenty-one years old. My mother visited his grave every Friday and spoke to him: ‘Touria looks just like you, she has your eyes, your skin, and your gentleness. It was God’s will, there’s nothing we can do! I pray every day that you’re on the way to paradise, that you forgive me if, in a moment of distraction, I failed in my duty. Now I pray to God each day that your child will grow up in good health and in joy. I’ll make an offering to Moulay Idriss, so our Prophet’s companions will welcome you as you deserve! Thanks be to God!’
‘I’m not afraid of death,’ she likes to repeat. ‘Death is a right that God bestows. I’m not talking about divine will. And illness is another thing. It’s death that’s the coward. It stalks us, goes for one part of our body, tortures it, takes away its natural function, then travels round, takes on another part, savages it, makes it suffer, and in the end attacks the mind. I’m not afraid of death, but of seeing my suffering reflected in your eyes; it’s seeing you overcome with grief because I’m suffering, eaten up from the inside. That I can’t bear. I believe, I surrender to God and I’m glad He’s calling me to Him. But I have one wish: for you all to be there, and for you not to suffer.’
My mother’s never heard of homes where old people are parked. She couldn’t imagine for a second that one of her children might throw her out, exile her somewhere. Whether it’s called ‘home’, ‘hospice’, ‘rest home’ or ‘retirement home’, it’s a dumping ground. I was very moved by a Japanese film I saw, in which an old man is carried to the top of a snow-covered mountain to hasten his death. I think it’s a tradition that derives from excessive pride on the part of the elderly, who are loath to be a burden to their offspring. They cry out for this exile among birds of prey. They’re left on the mountainside and everyone goes home, slightly relieved and slightly sad. In a country where suicide is common, where people have a strong sense of honour, the elderly preempt what’s coming, and their children’s meanness: they go before they’re unwanted. The idea’s quite appealing in theory, but when it comes to the act, it’s monstrous — a form of euthanasia, but more perverse. As soon as a person’s no longer productive or becomes mentally incapacitated, they must make way for the younger generation.
In Morocco, besides the love of God, we’re taught an almost religious reverence for our parents. The worst thing that can happen to someone is that their parents disown them. To refuse to give a child your blessing is to exile them to a place without mercy — to abandon them, discard them like a worthless object. It’s to withdraw all trust and, worst of all, to close the door of your house to them, the door to life and hope. It’s the most severe humiliation and isolation. We live in fear of one day being denied our parents’ blessing. This blessing is a reassuring symbol, a soothing tradition. We owe our parents this submission, which in the west might seem ridiculous, or psychologically unacceptable. I’ve always kissed my father’s and my mother’s right hand. I’ve never dared smoke in front of them, never shouted or sworn. It’s the way we’re brought up, the way we are with those we love. That doesn’t mean there are no problems or arguments, but we cultivate love above all. On our parents’ side, that love can be all-consuming and possessive, it can be irritating and stifling. But that does not justify a fundamental lack of respect, a respect that involves affection, an almost irrational surrender. That’s what filial love is, a bond that can’t be quantified. You accept it as life’s gift and do your utmost to be worthy and proud of it.
When you love your parents, you don’t get rid of them. I remember a scene from an Italian comedy in which Alberto Sordi takes his elderly mother out in his new car, its seats still covered in plastic. He buys her an ice-cream and promises her a lovely drive. Unused to such solicitude from her self-centred, rather awful son, she’s obviously worried. She realises he’s taking her to an old people’s home. Which he does — cynically, cruelly, and smiling throughout. This contemptible son leaves with the tiniest twinge of conscience, a sadness that lasts no more than a moment. We, the audience, were choked. I identified with the poor old woman: my eyes filled with tears. Then I tried to put myself in the son’s shoes, and I felt sick. Yet this scene has become routine, is the norm in the west. People are no longer indignant: it’s just the way things are. They blame lack of space, lack of time. They take refuge in easy selfishness, which these same parents will pass on to their children: the wheel keeps turning in the eternal cycle of a modernity that will sacrifice old people even as it seeks to prolong their life expectancy. This paradox is the inevitable result of a society in which the only values celebrated and protected are those of the market.
Morocco, which has been influenced by the European lifestyle, will resist. Perhaps it won’t build old people’s homes. One day, probably in the distant future, a young, dynamic property developer will build a complex of small houses for the elderly. He’ll present it with panache: ‘Our parents deserve to be taken care of — not just any old how, we’re not having them sleep in with the children — they deserve comfort and calm. They’ll be happy in these apartments, designed specially for those who wish to grow old in peace. Which doesn’t mean they’ll be forgotten, oh no, not at all. I am myself a child whose success has only been possible because of his parents’ blessing. No, we’re going to look after them: a trained nurse will visit, an experienced doctor too — they’ll have everything to hand. In their twilight years, our parents will enjoy peace of mind and conditions of material comfort that are second to none …’
And he’ll find a few unscrupulous offspring to buy into his vision. Fashion and selfishness will do the rest.
12
One morning, I took advantage of a lucid interval to ask my mother what she thought of the practice.
‘You mean I wouldn’t live in my own house any more?’
‘You’d be in a house where specially trained people would look after you. You’d lack for nothing — you’d have doctors close at hand, and your nurse, and your children would come and see you from time to time.’
‘From time to time? That means the time would be counted. But what about Keltum, who’s been with me for fifteen years, she’d be there, wouldn’t she?’