“The police academy in Kénitra,” Youssef said, taking the cigarette. “I took the exam.”
“Aw? You’re not at university anymore?”
“I stopped going.”
An old man carrying a burlap bag on his head walked hurriedly past them, followed by a group of children arguing about something.
“I flunked, too. By two points — two miserable little points.”
Youssef’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Amin said, pulling on his cigarette and exhaling through his nostrils. “I don’t know what I was doing in college, anyway.”
“You’re not going back?”
“What for? It’s not going to make a difference.”
They had come to an intersection, and instinctively Youssef stopped. Amin stood for a moment with his hands hanging by his side, then leaned against the wall. “When do you find out about the exam?”
“A couple of weeks, I think,” Youssef said. He did not mention that he felt good about his chances, for fear that he might bring the evil eye upon himself.
“When you get a job with the police,” Amin said, “tell them to start patrolling around here. We could use some cleaning up.” He laughed, and although Youssef joined him, he was not sure if his friend was laughing with him or at him. “You want to go play a game of chess at the Oasis?”
“What happened to your friends?”
“Hamid and Mustapha? They’re in school right now. They’re just kids. So you want to come?”
“Not now. I need to check my e-mail. But I can meet you tomorrow, insha’llah,” Youssef said. “If you like.”
“All right. But get ready to lose the game, my friend. I’ve had a lot of practice while you were gone.”
Youssef went to meet Amin at the Oasis immediately after Friday prayers. He took a long time to decide on each one of his moves, in part because he had not played chess in a long time, and in part because Amin had sounded so confident of his victory. Surely, even if Youssef could not win this match, he could win the next, or the one after that. Not even Amin was infallible at this game. Hatim came in, carrying his usual load of newspapers and magazines. He took a quick look at the board as he passed them. “Careful with your king,” he said, patting Youssef on the shoulder. Good point, Youssef thought, and moved a pawn to protect his piece.
Hatim sat down at a table nearby. A moment later, he leaped to his feet. “This is unbelievable!” he shrieked.
Youssef and Amin looked up with alarm from their game. Hatim had gone pale; a thick vein throbbed on his forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“Look at this,” Hatim said, holding up Casablanca Magazine. On the cover was a slightly out-of-focus picture of Hatim in an elegant blue suit, shaking hands with a man Youssef did not recognize. The two smiled widely, as if they had just concluded an agreement. Under the photo, a caption in big red letters read, THE PARTY’S MONEY.
“You’re on the cover?” Amin said, standing up to take the magazine from him. “That’s great!”
“You’re famous!” Youssef added. For some reason he could not explain to himself, he felt envious.
“No, no, no,” Hatim said impatiently. “This is another one of Benaboud’s attacks.”
When he heard the name, Youssef stood up to read the article over Amin’s shoulder.
A slogan like “Through God, by God, with God” may sound catchy, but it doesn’t pay the bills. And there are many: health services, a community center, even a summer camp for children. How does the Party fund its social programs? An exclusive investigation by Farid Benaboud.
PYRAMID SCHEME
Like any self-respecting grassroots organization, the Party relies on member donations. But rather than wait for members to reach into their pockets, the Party does it for them. Each member has to contribute 3 percent of his monthly salary via direct deposit, a sum that is increased to 10 percent in the months of Eid. With this money, the Party has already set up its headquarters at the site of an abandoned warehouse. The Party encourages its members to recruit people into the organization. If a mutahazzib — a Partisan — has brought in three new Partisans, he no longer has to pay a monthly contribution. This expanding base of activists provides the Party with a respectable amount of resources for daily expenses. Still, it can’t cover big projects.
FOREIGN DONORS
This is where foreign donors (typically from Saudi Arabia) come in. They contribute Qur’ans and religious books, which the Party resells in its establishments or through individual retailers, pocketing the profits. A Qur’an received for free and resold at 20 dirhams can net the Party as much as 18 dirhams. New Partisans, especially, are encouraged to contribute to the coffers of the Party by helping to sell religious materials. The Party receives occasional cash donations as well. For instance, the summer camp in Tétouan last year was entirely paid for by a wealthy Saudi friend.
FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES
However distasteful the Party’s methods may seem, they are legal. But Hatim Lahlou also has friends among the Tangier and Tétouan drug barons. The Party has recruited heavily in the two cities. A security source who spoke on condition of anonymity told me that the Party counts among its followers Ahmed Achiri (alias Ad Dib), one of the most notorious drug lords the state has ever had to contend with.
WHO IS HATIM LAHLOU?
Unknown just three years ago, the 35-year-old Hatim Lahlou has quickly garnered a following in the slums of Casablanca. Born in Rabat and educated in private schools and later at Lycée Descartes, Lahlou studied engineering in France before starting a doctoral degree at NYU. Then, at age 28, he left New York abruptly and traveled to Egypt, where he studied for four years.
Before Youssef could finish the rest of the article, Hatim took the magazine away and leafed through its pages again. “Benaboud does a cover story about me,” he said, “and he doesn’t even bother to talk to me. So of course this article is full of fabrications. He says our Qur’ans are from Saudi Arabia, as if it were a crime to receive donations of the holy book. He says I studied at the Lycée Descartes in Rabat, when in fact I studied at a public school right here, in one of the poorest parts of Casablanca. He repeats the rumor that I fixed up this building using cement stolen from the houses of Moroccans working abroad. This is an outright lie; I bought it at the cement factory. All these lies!”
Youssef remembered the gentle, polite man who had come to Nabil Amrani’s apartment, invoking principles and asking for support, and he had trouble reconciling the impression he had of the accomplished journalist with the sloppy reporter Hatim complained about now. “Why don’t you write him a letter?” he suggested.
“That man is on a mission to destroy me,” Hatim said.
“But he has a Letters to the Editor section in the magazine. It’s for cases like this—”
Amin interrupted. “He won’t publish it.”
“Or how about if you write your own counterarticle,” Youssef offered, “in At Tariq?”
“Look at this,” Hatim said. He seemed locked in a conversation with himself, hardly hearing those around him. “Here is an ad for vodka, right underneath an article on Hajj. Look at the photos with this article on Agadir — all these women in bikinis. And this — now, this you won’t believe: an interview with the filmmaker Mehdi Mimouni, who talks about being homosexual as if he were talking about something normal. Benaboud has no shame.” Hatim dropped the magazine on the table. “He calls himself a Muslim. But he is not a Muslim. He is nothing.”