3
My uncle hamza was very French, in an old school kind of way. He spoke the language of Descartes perfectly, quoted the classics, and was an impeccable dresser. At the same time, he had an excellent knowledge of classical Arabic. He said he was a nationalist. I didn't know he was also a Communist. He explained that there were many positive aspects of Marxist doctrine, some of which could be applied in Morocco, to help the country out of its underdevelopment, to fight against the worst social inequities and the corruption of the government. He was convincing, opening my eyes to a new way of thinking. I talked to Ali about these ideas, who met them with more reserve.
I spent my first year at school in political meetings and demonstrations. This worried my father, who decided I should continue my medical studies in France. He had an animated discussion with my uncle, whom he accused of distracting me from my studies, of being an atheist, and of espousing ideas imported from Moscow. Hamza responded calmly, but my father remained angry. Having used up his arguments, my father insulted Hamza by calling him a zoufri, because he was still a bachelor. Hamza seized the opportunity to explain the origin of this word. "Zoufri" comes from "worker." It was too bad that the petit bourgeoisie associated this with debauchery and vice, he said.
Ali was hoping for a scholarship to study in Canada. He was in charge of the Rabat film club, and sometimes I helped him. Ali made the posters advertising the films, and I put them up. I enjoyed his film-club meetings. He spoke intelligently and eloquently about films, their political role, and their importance in twentieth-century history. I admired him, and discovered a different person, not shy at all, confident and at ease before an audience. He had a particular passion for films directed by Satyajit Ray, an Indian he considered an artist with an international appeal. Ali thought that Ray's films also expressed Moroccan concerns and our desire for justice. Once he even went as far as to say that Ray was a Moroccan filmmaker, with unusual talent. Introducing Pather Panchali, Ali quoted a phrase he had read about the film in a magazine: "They can pressure poor people, but they can't take away their talent." Ali argued that the exoticism of this Indian universe was a mirror distorted by geography but one that invited us to see our own exoticism: that is, our problems. Well-informed about all aspects of film, Ali never forgot the social and political reality of our country. He made the link between life and art, between the real and the imaginary.
During our political meetings, Ali was meticulous and precise. His one flaw was impatience. He could not tolerate people who came late, or people who could not think on their feet. I was proud to be his friend, though his image of me as the well-bred son from a good family got on my nerves. The fact that he came from Fez accentuated his feeling of being different, a sort of disguised arrogance. I did not know Fez, and I had no interest in going there. The people of Fez considered themselves the sole heirs of the Andalucian Golden Age of Muslim civilization.
We knew a cop had infiltrated our group. He was a student, someone we knew, who ate with us in the university cafeteria, who joined our political debates. He was both intelligent and mean. We were wary of him, but he played the game better than we did. He was short, very thin, ugly, and wore bifocals. He had no luck with girls, but he drove expensive cars and often invited girls to private soirees. Claiming to be the son of a wealthy industrialist, he said he detested his father, who exploited his workers, underpaid them, and did not allow them to unionize. He was the one who reported on our activities to King Hassan's political police. This was 1966, one year after the student riots of 1965, when thousands of high school and university students demonstrated against bad education legislation. They were joined by the unemployed and other dissatisfied citizens. General Oufkir, the interior minister, suppressed the rebellion with machine-gun fire from a helicopter. Hundreds were killed. Afterward, there were thousands of arrests.
One morning in July 1966, the day after my return from France, two men in civilian clothes arrested me at my parents' house. My mother cried. My father controlled himself, trying to negotiate with the police. There was nothing they could do, they said. Orders were orders, and these came from high up. "We have to arrest him to interrogate him, and then he will be sent off to do his military service." My father choked. "What military service? This is Morocco." The reply was instantaneous. "Well, your son will be starting a new tradition. Think of it as an honor for the family."
We all knew the names and faces of people who had been arrested and were never heard from again. My mother threw a roll out the window into my hands.
I spent fifteen days at the mercy of the police. They beat me. I thought about my parents, about Ali and Hamza. I knew the authorities had opted for total repression. General Oufkir was in charge. We had committed no crime. We just had some ideas for helping our country emerge from poverty and paralysis.
4
There was nothing to indicate that the military base where the jeep let me off was a disciplinary boot camp. I got there at the end of the day and waited in an empty room. Around two o'clock in the morning, an enormous man appeared. His head was shaved. "I'm Commander Tadla, and I'm in charge here. I report to no one, not even the camp commander."
He left me with a corporal who told me to take off all of my civilian clothes and put them in the sack he threw at me. "You'll find everything you need here to become a soldier," he said to me. Another soldier arrived with a little case. He was the camp barber. He proceeded to shear me like a sheep, then shaved my head, without saying a word. By three o'clock in the morning, I had become someone else.
Early the next morning, Commander Tadla called all of us together and gave us an unforgettable lecture. "You are just ninety-four spoiled kids. You're being punished. You wanted to be smart-asses, and I'm going to teach you a thing or two. There's no daddy and mommy here. You can yell all you like; nobody will hear you. In this place, I will dress you and change you. You'll no longer be spoiled kids, queers, children of the rich. Here Commander Tadla rules. Forget all that liberty-democracy crap. Here the slogan is: 'We belong to Allah, our king, and our country.' Repeat after me…"
I looked around for Ali, but I couldn't find him. I was sure he'd be in the group punished by General Oufkir. Afterward I found out he had been in the infirmary, where they were changing his bandages. The barber who shaved him had used a rusty blade, and Ali had several deep gashes on his head.
When I saw him, I scarcely recognized him. He had lost weight and his head was bandaged. He embraced me. We were in the same barrack-room, but not in the same section.
In our group there were students, teachers, a lawyer beginning his career, an engineer who had refused to kiss King Hassan's hand at the end-of-the-year university reception. "Punishment" was the euphemism for what they were doing to us. We were quarantined, and at the mercy of lower-rank officers, some of whom had served with the French army in Indochina. Most of them could neither read nor write, and they spoke a mix of French and Arabic. The ones who had been in Indochina were nicknamed "the Chinese." They never spoke to us, but they beat us occasionally.
Once I was clubbed on the head for trying to protect Ali.
I was worried about his health. A young doctor, sent by the French government, forced Commander Tadla to send Ali to the military hospital in Rabat. Tadla had some respect for the French officers who were employed by the Moroccan army for their technical skills.