7
Our sense of smell got used to the nauseating odor of camel fat, but I couldn't stomach food cooked in it. Ali ate only bread and noodles. We were all fragile, but Ali took it to the extreme. Of course, there was no question of protesting or expressing ourselves. We fantasized about simple meals on a terrace in the summer, with beautiful girls, eager bodies, and light hearts.
After all the inmates suffered digestive problems, the commander assembled us and told us he was changing the cooking fat. "Camel fat is good for nomads, but you're sedentary types, so I've given orders that from now on the food will be cooked with beef fat. It's more practical; if you get diarrhea, I can't use you. Consider yourselves lucky to be able to eat as much as you like. Others would give a lot to be in your place. I know, you're not really made for this job, but I don't give a damn. You were rebels, so now you're paying the price. At ease! Be prepared. Tomorrow our military maneuvers begin. I'm telling you, we expect three percent 'wastage'-lost lives. Don't be part of this three percent. A word to the wise should suffice." The commander loved this expression.
Ali and I remained inseparable; sometimes Marcel would join us. The head of our section allowed us to gather in groups. We weren't plotting anything; we just needed to be together, eat together, throw up together, share our anguish and our hopes, and think about our eventual release.
Ali received a letter from his father, brought to him by a lieutenant, the son of a distant cousin, passing through Tangier on his way to a mission at Ahermemou. Ali cried when he read it. He showed it to me:
My dear Ali,
Since you left, your mother has gotten sick. She no longer sleeps, she's obsessed with your absence, and she imagines the worst. The doctor has discovered respiratory problems and high blood pressure.
I had to go to Rabat several times to find out what had happened to you. It took me six months to learn where you were, and why you were being held. None of the military officials seem to know anything about your case. It's a special matter under the personal control of a general, they told me.
I have also seen the parents of your friend Mohammed, whom you call Mamed.They are worried, too. We are all living in agony, and the worst is that we know nothing. We hear you are allowed to write one letter a month, but we have received nothing.
Your father embraces you, gives you his blessing, and prays to Allah and the Prophet to help you out of this tunnel. Allah is great and merciful.
8
A few days later, I came down with a strange fever. I felt hot, I shook, I sweated, and I became delirious. Ali spent nights at my bedside, wiping my forehead with a wet tissue. At the infirmary, they accused me of dissembling, in order to avoid the military maneuvers. So I left with the other soldiers, but after an hour on the march, I collapsed. Ali helped me up, and he managed to convince the lieutenant to send me back to the infirmary. Without Ali's help, I probably would have ended up in the ground.
It was December, and freezing cold. Because the commander had found an insulting comment about him on one of the walls, he called us all together, told us to strip down to our underwear, and left us outside for an hour. Then he came back and screamed: "Whoever wrote that insulting crap, step forward. If you don't, you'll all stay here until you freeze to death!" I saw Marcel walk toward the commander, who stopped him. "No, it's not you. It's written in Arabic. I know you speak it, but you can't write it. Get back in line. No need for you to help a Muslim."
An hour later, we were falling like flies. Ali was already on the ground. The commander came back. "Not bad. Courageous. You show solidarity. No traitors, no tattlers. You're dangerous. Now I can see why you're here. Well, I'll figure out another way to deal with this." We returned to our dormitories, mocking his threats. In the end, he did nothing. Perhaps the writing on the wall told the truth: "Commander Zamel, the queer commander." Rumor had it that he was one of the captain's lovers, or vice versa.
Rumors. Nothing but rumors. We heard some of us would be released on January 3. There would be a list, determined by General Oufkir and maybe King Hassan himself. Unfounded rumors, but they kept our captive minds occupied. Marcel, the Jew, would be let out first, as there was no reason for him to have been there in the first place. The engineer who had refused to kiss the king's hand had apparently been pardoned by the king. So had the lawyer. Where did these rumors come from? It was the commander who started them. It was also rumored that the lieutenant who brought the letter to Ali had made an alarming report to the authorities on the commander's abuses.
On January 3, no one was released. On January 8, Marcel was summoned by a doctor who had come from Rabat. The next day he was escorted back to his home.
Our turn came on January 15. We were summoned for a medical inspection. The commander called us into his office and offered us coffee. It was nothing like the black, bitter liquid they served us in the mornings; it was real coffee. I inhaled its aroma several times before I drank it. He looked at us as if we were Indians setting foot in white civilization for the first time. "By now you are men, citizens who have seen and understood how things work in this country. I have to confess that as officers, we were not happy that the army was serving as a punishment force. The army is not a reeducation center, or a prison in disguise. The army is a family with values, of which the most important is dignity. We were ordered to destroy your dignity as citizens and opponents of the regime. I want you to understand this. I know who you are. I have respect for your convictions and even for your plight. This country needs justice. I'm sure we'll meet again one day, not for an exercise in repression, but to work together for the good of our people, who deserve to live in dignity and prosperity. We Moroccans have become used to living bowed down. It's time we stood up straight. Do you understand?"
We were speechless. Was this man testing us, trying to find out what we would do when we left this place? He certainly wasn't required to make this kind of speech. He got up and we stuck out our hands to say good-bye. He opened his arms and embraced us. We left his office stifling a laugh. Had the guy gone crazy, or what? Or was he simply arranging a date with destiny?
In fact, that was it. Three and a half years later, on July 10, 1971, he led a group of officers in an assassination attempt on King Hassan at Skhirate, where the sovereign was celebrating his birthday. Ali and I were at the beach with friends that day. When we heard the radio announcer proclaiming the end of the monarchy, we were scared. We knew only too well what those military officers who attacked the king's garden party were capable of. Morocco narrowly escaped a Fascist regime.
After our release, it took us a day to get back to Tangier. Our two families got together and organized a celebration in our honor. Ali and I couldn't fathom what was happening to us. A few days later, our Spanish friend Ramon organized another party. Our hearts weren't in it. Our minds were still back at the camp. It was impossible to erase the scars of that long and cruel period in a few days. Ramon felt bad. Our detention had lasted eighteen months and fourteen days. Ali and I were bound together for life. After that, our friendship was held up as a model. We needed to learn how to forget the trials of that period, to regain a taste for life. Spending time with Ramon would help distract us, clear our minds of this nightmare.