Awlaïlah!17
Radio Tangiers often interrupted its broadcasts to play this song to salute the city. Speaking of broadcasts, the one I most devotedly listened to was a game where you had to guess the name of a song — who wrote it and who sang it — after listening to a brief sample. One had to write in with the answers quickly. After which there would be a random drawing for prizes where the ones who had sent in the correct answers would be eligible. A few days later, the names of the lucky winners would be read out and they’d be sent a surprise gift in the post.
After numerous unsuccessful attempts and weeks spent in nerve-racking anticipation, I hit the jackpot: My name was drawn. Anticlimactically, I didn’t receive the good news in person. I was told by a friend, who’d heard it from a friend, who in turn had heard it from another friend. Though a little mispronounced, my name had been heard loud and clear. I blamed myself for not having been in front of the radio. Another failure, I chided myself. I began to think things seemed worse than they actually were. I was gripped by doubt. The fact my name had been mispronounced didn’t bode well. It couldn’t have been just a simple mistake — they had meant to announce someone else’s name, which was similar to my own. At least — and this was the most anguishing of my hypotheses — this meant I didn’t have a namesake living somewhere like Chaouen, for example, where it seems our family had originally come from.
I spent the following two weeks on tenterhooks. By the time I was beginning to calm down and lose all hope, something unexpected happened. One morning there was a knock on our door. I went to open it and found myself in front of a man wearing a uniform and a flat cap, carrying a large leather bag over his shoulder. I thought it was a man from the electric company who’d come to read our meter. We had been warned not to let anyone in on those occasions unless either Driss or one of my older brothers was in the house. I therefore parroted the response I’d been taught: “The master of the house is out.”
“What’s his name?”
“Driss.”
“The package isn’t for him. It comes from Tangiers. It’s for a certain. .” (He uttered my name.) “Is he here?”
“That’s me.”
“Well then, here you go, and please sign this for me.”
“What do you mean sign?”
“You know how to write, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So take this pen and write your name there.”
I got through this unforeseen exercise, tore the package from the inspector. . I mean, postman, and dashed back into the house. I took the steps to the terrace two at a time, feeling the need to be out of sight so I could discover the contents of the package. Once there, panting — as much from the agitated state I was in as from having flown up the stairs — I savored that precious moment slowly. It was the first time I had received anything in the post. My jubilation was similar to what athletes must experience as they cross the finish line to win a race. Except that there were no spectators, and as far as applause went, I heard nothing but the shrill sound coming out of a stork’s beak. I finally opened the package and pulled out the long-hoped-for gift: a bar of scented soap, whose brand name I cannot keep to myself this time, without which the magic of the moment wouldn’t be properly conveyed. Ah, the joys of Cadum! I was gripped by euphoria. Similar to the euphoria the baby depicted on the soap’s shiny paper wrapping seemed to be experiencing. A brilliant smile leaping from his chubby cheeks. I suddenly felt a sort of paternal love at the sight of that cherub. Oh, it was too much for my heart to take!
As I left the terrace and descended the stairs, I restrained myself from advertising this godsend. I hid the bar of soap and decided I wouldn’t use it until my next trip to the hammam. The little pink cloud upon which I was floating helped me brave the blows that fate had in store for us.
JUST WHEN WE’D thought that the threats menacing our family had passed us by, we discovered “one fine morning” that soldiers had been posted in front of our door. They weren’t there to “pay us a visit” or because of the investigation into the khatib’s murder. No, they were there for the long haul. How could we interpret their presence? Had we been targeted and placed under house arrest, or was this part of more widespread measures? Driss wanted to know more. For safety’s sake, he decided that no one should leave the house. He set out on a fact-finding mission. Ghita was at a loss, words failed her. Before letting him go, she made sure he had enough warm clothes on: one djellaba on top of another and woolen socks. She took to this with an uncharacteristic meticulousness, looking fondly at him with tears in her eyes. He left. We waited for him, our hearts in our throats, our ears glued to the door. When he returned to us safe and sound, anxiety was written on his face.
“What we feared has come to pass,” he said. “The soldiers have taken over the city. They have been posted to each square, each souk, and each road. They ask you who you are and where you are going before they let you through. If your hands are in your pockets, they order you to take them out. Make sure to walk slowly, even if you’re in a hurry. They have ‘red eyes,’ oh Latif, and their fingers are on the trigger. I don’t know what our leaders are going to do, but there is talk that they’re planning to respond in a way that matches the gravity of this provocation. They didn’t want to tell me more, their secrets needed to be kept. Now you’ve heard me and have understood what I’ve said. When you go out into the street, make your way slowly, as if nothing were wrong. Avoid running and don’t make eye contact with the soldiers. You won’t find anything in those troubling faces.”
We stepped in line and organized our lives accordingly. Fez was occupied! Nothing of the sort had been witnessed in living memory. Our instincts warned us that such a situation wasn’t made to last. No army had ever been able to control our labyrinthine Medina. What about the hanging labyrinth? Everyone knew that you could move across town by cutting through one terrace after the other. Our fedayeen had no qualms about traveling in such a manner, and as far as giving orders or advising precautionary measures, Radio Medina was up to the task, without antennas.
Little by little, this bleak, topsy-turvy sort of life became routine. The soldiers on sentry duty in front of our house were visibly bored. They even started knocking on our door asking for a glass of water or for a can opener for their tins of preserved meat. This situation became ridiculous. Ghita broke the all-time record for contradictions. We heard her say, “Those poor men, forced to stay outside as if they were dogs. Without any sleep or real nourishment. He who is a true Muslim has compassion in his heart.”
She therefore decided to send a plate of couscous, only on Fridays, that she had prepared.
Once the initial shock wore away, nobody resisted this new state of affairs, especially since the men who had been posted to keep an eye on us comported themselves discreetly. Driss even had a highly moral reflection filled with optimism: “As long as they’re believers, those who break bread with you can’t do you any harm.”
Our tolerant outlook was not exceptional. It was only in neighborhoods where the soldiers arrogantly and shamelessly demanded to be fed by the local inhabitants that relations turned sour. In these cases, the initial hostility toward the soldiers blossomed into outright hatred.
The leaders of the nationalist movement struck back in the midst of this poisonous atmosphere. Watchword: a general strike. The Fezzis turned out in force. Once all the shops had been shut, they filed into the mosques and recited the Latif once again in between prayers. The sanctuaries of Moulay Idriss and Qarawiyyin were particularly sought out. People felt safer there because the army couldn’t come too close. The arm-wrestling contest with the colonial authorities had reached its apex.