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.
9
As long as you have not been tried and acquitted, you remain a suspect. My father wanted to understand what had happened. He wanted to do something, alert the international press, sue the army. He was angry, and my mother pleaded with him to calm down. "What?" he shouted. "My son has been arrested, tortured by the police, and sent to a disciplinary boot camp. We had no news from him, then one fine day he is let out as if nothing ever happened; he is followed by the police, our house is watched, our telephone is bugged, and you think we should accept these arbitrary practices of the state?"
He did not stop. "I demand that they restore my son's honor, his innocence. He didn't kill anyone. I demand that his passport be returned so he can continue his studies in France. Things should be clear. Is he innocent or not? What is this 'royal pardon'? Either he was guilty of committing a crime for which he must answer, or he did nothing, in which case the judicial system should say so, and acquit him."
My father was right, but in Morocco things aren't logical. I returned to my medical studies in Rabat. Ali abandoned the idea of film school. He decided to pursue a degree in history and geography at the College of Arts. Our different schedules meant we did not have much free time together in Tangier. We saw each other during vacations. Ramon came with us on our nightly outings. He made us laugh with all his jokes. He could have been a comedian.
It was at Ali's house that I met Ghita, the woman who would become my wife. She was the daughter of a cousin of theirs by marriage who had come to spend a few days' vacation in Tangier. Her beauty intrigued me. She was silent, and rather observant. She had a way of looking at people and things that sometimes embarrassed me, as if she were mentally undressing them.
Ali told me to be careful. Yet how could I not immediately fall in love with this woman? I stole glances at her, and told myself I would risk damnation for her, I would do anything… it was as if a veil had been placed over my eyes. I had become as good as blind.
I needed my friend's opinion. I needed his blessing, his approval. I could deal with my parents, but it was important that Ali approve of my marriage. I knew that many friendships were destroyed by marriage. Wives were sometimes jealous of their husband's friends. I wanted to avoid this at all costs.
I lit one of my bad cigarettes, a nervous tic, and asked Ali what he thought. He advised me to wait a little longer before committing myself, to go out with her, flirt, but not to be in such a hurry. "I find her very beautiful," he said. "That's precisely what worries me. A beautiful woman is often more preoccupied with her beauty than with her home. The most important thing is to see whether she really loves you as much as you love her. If things start out one-sided, it's hard to achieve a balance. Marriage is not about passion. It's about daily compromise. Of course, you know all that. We've talked about it endlessly. It's understandable that you're in love with Ghita. She is beautiful, intelligent, discreet-everything your previous conquests weren't. But marriage is serious. It's forever. No more affairs on the side, no more infidelity."
Ghita and I sometimes went out with Ali, and she would bring her sister. We would go to the tea room at the Minzah Hotel, where we would eat pastries and laugh. I held her hand. The following summer, I married her. I hadn't finished the training for my medical specialization, but as a wedding present, I was given a passport. The city's governor brought it to me himself. Without thanking him, I asked, "What about my friend Ali?" It was Sunday, he replied. "Tell Ali to come and see me on Monday at six p.m. sharp."
We left for our honeymoon in Spain. Ali flew to Paris for an internship with the French Federation of Film Clubs in Marly-le-Roi.