3. Azel and Al Afia
WAR HAD BEEN DECLARED between Azel and Al Afia a long time ago. Well before Noureddine’s death, Azel had decided to leave one night, and had already paid the passeur. At the last minute, however, the voyage had been cancelled, and Azel had never been reimbursed. He knew that by himself he could do nothing against that monster, a man so feared, so loved — or rather, protected — by those who lived off his generosity. Now and then, especially after a few beers, Azel would let off steam by insulting him, calling him every name in the book. Al Afia had pretended not to hear him until that night, when Azel addressed him by his real name and called him a zamel, a passive homosexual. The ultimate shame! A man so powerful, so good, lying on his belly to be sodomized! That was too much, the little jerk had gone too far. A serious lesson was in order: ‘You pathetic intellectual, hey, get this, you’re lucky no one here likes guys, otherwise you’d have gotten your ass ploughed a long time ago! You spit on your country, you badmouth it, but don’t worry — the police will see to it you wind up dissolving in acid…’
Azel had studied law. After passing his baccalaureate exam with distinction, he’d received a state scholarship, but his parents couldn’t pay the rest of his tuition. He’d been counting on his uncle, who practised law in the nearby town of Larache, to give him a job, but the uncle had had to close his office after some complicated business cost him most of his clientele. In fact, those clients had left him because he refused to do things the way everyone else did, which had earned him a bad reputation: ‘Don’t go to Maître El Ouali — he’s an honest man, you can’t make a deal with him, so he loses every case!’ Azel had realized that his future was compromised, and that without some kind of pull he’d never find work. Many others were in the same boat, so he’d joined a sit-in of unemployed university graduates outside the Parliament in Rabat.
A month later, when nothing had changed, he decided to leave the country, and headed back to Tangier on a bus. Riding along, he even imagined an accident that would put an end to his life and his impossible predicament. He saw himself dead, mourned by his mother and sister, missed by his friends: a victim of unemployment, of a carelessly negligent system — such a bright boy, well educated, sensitive, warmhearted, what a pity that he got on that damned bus with those bald tyres, driven by a diabetic who lost consciousness going around a curve… Poor Azel, he never had a chance to live, did everything he could to break free — just think, if he’d managed to set out for Spain, by now he’d be a brilliant lawyer or a university professor!
Azel rubbed his eyes. He went up to the bus driver and asked him if he had diabetes.
‘Heaven forbid! Thank God, I’m as strong as a horse, and I place my life in God’s hands. Why do you ask?’
‘Just to know. The newspaper says that one in seven Moroccans has diabetes.’
‘Forget it — you shouldn’t believe what you read in the papers…’
Leaving the country. It was an obsession, a kind of madness that ate at him day and night: how could he get out, how could he escape this humiliation? Leaving, abandoning this land that wants nothing more to do with its children, turning your back on such a beautiful country to return one day, proudly, perhaps as a rich man: leaving to save your life, even as you risk losing it… He thought it all over and couldn’t understand how he’d reached such a point. The obsession quickly became a curse: he felt persecuted, damned, possessed by the will to survive, emerging from a tunnel only to run into a wall. Day by day, his energy, physical strength, and healthy body were deteriorating. Some of his friends found relief from despair by taking up religion and soon became regulars at the mosque. That had never tempted Azel, however; he was too fond of girls and drinking. Someone had contacted him, even offered him work and the chance to travel — a beardless man, who’d spoken in polished French about the future of Morocco, specifically ‘a Morocco returned to Islam, to righteousness, to integrity and justice.’
The man had a tic, blinking nervously while he chewed on his lower lip. Pretending to listen to him, Azel repressed a smile and imagined him running stark naked through the desert. That did it: the man seemed ridiculous. Azel paid no further attention to what he said. Azel had no use for that morality: most of his pleasures were forbidden by religion! He firmly refused the man’s offer and realized that the fellow was actually a recruiter for some very shady causes. Azel could have given in and made himself a bit of money, but he felt afraid, he had a presentiment, remembering a neighbour who’d joined a militant religious group only to vanish without a trace at a time when men were going off to Libya and on to Afghanistan to combat the atheism of the Russian Communists.
Six months later, the recruiter had tried again, inviting Azel to dinner ‘just to talk.’ Azel couldn’t manage to take seriously this man who, in spite of his nervous twitches, was managing to attract some lost souls to religion. Azel was interested in his methods and the logic of his arguments, however, and he tried to learn who was behind this movement, but the recruiter was on to him. He anticipated Azel’s questions, which he answered with a knowing air, confiding in him as though he’d been an old friend.
‘I studied literature, I even defended a thesis at the Sorbonne. After my return to Morocco, I taught French literature, and then I worked as an inspector of schools. I travelled around the country, seeing what people like you don’t get to see, and I heard the voice of traditional, rural Morocco. No one brainwashed me, and no, I’m not some lunatic: I know what I’m doing and what I want. Our political parties have failed miserably because they haven’t learned to listen to what the people are telling them. They’ve missed the boat. I’m particularly angry at the Socialists, who believed in taking turns at the political trough, who played the power game without doing anything to bring about change. The king used them, and they went along with it.’
He paused and looked into Azel’s eyes. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he bit his lower lip — without blinking, this time — before continuing.
‘No one in power respects the message of Islam. They use it, but do not apply it. And our plan is precisely to do something different. We know what the people want: to live in dignity.’
When he stopped to blow his nose vigorously, as if to disguise his nervous tics, Azel began to stare at him and once more saw him naked, in a warehouse this time, being chased by a huge black man and yelling for help. Catching up with him, the colossus slapped him, laughing uproariously.
While the recruiter continued presenting his tedious arguments pieced together from every which where, Azel escaped into a daydream: he was now sitting on the terrace of one of the big cafés on the Plaza Mayor in Madrid. The weather was lovely, people were smiling; a German girl, a tourist, asked him for directions, and he was inviting her to have a drink… Suddenly, the recruiter’s voice grew louder, hustling him back to Tangier.
‘It’s intolerable that a sick man who goes to a state hospital should be turned away because the hospital cannot take care of him. That is why we actively intervene wherever the state is ineffectual. Our solidarity is not selective. This country must be saved: there are too many compromises, injustices, too much corruption and inequality. I’m not claiming to fix every problem, but we don’t stand around with our arms crossed waiting for the government to serve its citizens. I’ve been enriched by French culture, the culture of law, of rights, the culture of justice and respect for others. I found things in Islam that share this enlightenment, in sacred Muslim texts as well as in those of the golden age of Arab culture. I would like you to open your eyes and give meaning to your life.’