A Riffians Tune Read online

  After two days plodding along, we spent the night in a cave on the bank of the river Moulouya, ‘The Twisted’, a river notorious for unpredicted flooding, sweeping trees and claiming human lives. The cave was inhabited by a mentally disturbed hermit, who was tall and too thin, with very long, matted black hair cascading down his back. His wrinkled, leathered face was hardly visible under his beard and moustache. He had not one single tooth and looked demented, deranged, dirty and dangerous. The cave was narrow and exceedingly deep, with a cold blackness that hung in the air. A man called Bourass was already inside with his wife, elderly mother and son. I refused to go in.

  ‘Get in!’ shouted my father. Then from inside, he called, ‘Come in!’

  I ignored him. Hearing my father shouting, the hermit came up behind me. Terrified of him, I rushed into the cave and cried, ‘Let’s go back! Let’s go back!’ My pleading fell on deaf ears.

  It happened that Mr Bourass was also a hafiz, so a quick pact was struck between him and my father. They conversed in the complete darkness of the cave. His wife and my mother didn’t exchange a word. The same night while everyone was sleeping, Mrs Bourass crawled to our rawhide bag and devoured a good portion of our barley loaf. The cold, miserable morning started with a dispute. My father and Mr Bourass, like hedgehogs, listened passively.

  ‘You ate my bread!’ my mother accused Mrs Bourass.

  ‘A lie in your face!’ Mrs Bourass retorted. Confronted, challenged, humiliated and interrogated like a criminal, she broke down and ran to throw herself into the river. I watched her with horror. No one called her to come back or followed her. When she reached the river, she meditated over the cold, running water and changed her mind. She slunk back and squatted on the ground alone.

  It was early on that cold morning that we came face to face with the river. It marked the division between our Spanish-occupied north and the French colony, the south of Morocco. French customs and police patrolled the border and were mortally feared. Ruthlessly, they stripped illegal immigrants of everything – even a loaf of bread – and turned them back to die.

  The river looked alluringly quiet and was half a kilometre wide, but only experts knew how and where to cross. They would never go straight across, but would zigzag to avoid whirlpools, of which the river was full. Hidden undertows were everywhere. My father had no knowledge of either the depth or the undertow. Mr Bourass, far younger than my father, took his clothes off and rolled them around his neck. Watching him, I saw heavy bones with no flesh.

  He shouted, ‘Cross in pairs! Hold hands! If one sinks, the other should pull!’ We trusted his advice and his technique sounded safe.

  I was tied to my mother’s flimsy belt to keep me from going under. The water reached my chin and got into my mouth. I choked and coughed, but still managed to stay afloat and guide my mother across.

  We all crossed except Mr Bourass’ mother. She was left until last. Mr Bourass escorted her, held her hand; she rolled her clothes up, half-naked, and they crossed side by side. Mr Bourass’ mother was old, short, frail and heavy-boned, but with no flesh, like her son. He decided in the middle of crossing to take a short cut, as she was tired and struggling. She suddenly slipped into a sinkhole and started to sink in the mud. Her son, trying to pull her out, yelled at her.

  I watched in horror, biting my lip. Naïvely, lured by the shallow depth of the water, I ran into the river. My mother yelled, ‘Stop!’ She grabbed me by the hair before I got in too deep.

  ‘I am coming!’ shouted my father as he waded into the water only to get stuck in the mire. There were a few people on the other shore, including the hermit who was running in circles like a whirling dervish and flapping his arms like an owl. Mrs Bourass sank quickly. The only sign of her was a bubble on the surface of the water. Mr Bourass stood in the middle of the river and refused to come out, but he was also afraid to dive under the water. A scarf emerged toward the shore. It was obvious that Mrs Bourass would never surface again.

  I thought my father, mother and sisters would moan and cry, but no one did. Stripped of our inner dignity, all that was left was a façade of humanity.

  Soon, it got colder. I was soaking wet, and my teeth chattered so hard that I couldn’t speak or feel my tongue. The Bourass family was left behind, and mine moved on.

  Still full of fear and horror, we took an offshoot path, less known and much less safe, but surprisingly, full of moving migrants of all ages – old and young, men, women and children, making up mass columns that stretched into the distance. This slow and steady exodus included some families just like ours, and occasionally, some individuals who appeared to be struggling on their own. Everybody was carrying a rawhide bag.

  Migrants were scattered everywhere like tired and hungry sheep. We followed a few columns, and the road was prickled with small sharp grey stones. Moving on, we heard an amorphous cry. I listened and asked my mother, ‘What is it? Listen!’

  It sounded like a distressed child’s voice, but too raw to be human. It stopped and started, a constant sound of distress. I spied a young girl alone, abandoned, small and very thin, about three or four years old. At first she looked like a wild cat. Her whole face was covered with long, dark, dirty hair. We stopped to see if her parents were about, but there was nobody around except a dark, dying dog. Not far away on a gentle hill, there were some wild pigs. When we stopped, she staggered, crying constantly, toward us.

  ‘Why is she here?’ I asked my mother. She gave me no answer. I stood, transfixed, glassy-eyed, staring at the girl. While we stopped, other migrants were passing by, their faces as well as their hearts dried and dead. No one stopped, looked or asked questions about this abandoned girl.

  ‘Does anyone want this girl?’ I asked my mother.

  ‘No, no …’ she answered.

  ‘Not even her parents?’ I asked. Then I thought of my two sisters left behind and concluded that my parents didn’t want them. I feared they might leave me as well if I couldn’t keep up with them.

  We moved on, and her cry became louder. She tried to follow us, but being weak and hungry, she couldn’t. Bit by bit, the distance between us and the girl became bigger and bigger until she disappeared. She was left to die or live with only the company of a starving dog.

  Trudging on, my toes were sore and calloused, I felt my knees might buckle, and I asked my father to carry me.

  ‘If you can’t walk, stay here,’ he responded.

  I stopped and squatted on the ground, but they continued moving without looking back. As they got farther and farther away, I realised I was being left, pushed myself up and ran to catch up with them.

  Three days later, my sister Miloda started to feel ill, unable to move or stand up. She soon developed diarrhoea and could not stop vomiting. Passing an empty, derelict shack, we huddled inside and found a hidden place to make a fire so we wouldn’t alert French customs or the police. Together we foraged for tinder and wood scattered in the path and managed to find enough for a small fire. My father lit it and my mother put Miloda on her lap, both facing the fire. My father drew a talisman and my mother hung it around Miloda’s neck.

  I asked my mother, ‘Why didn’t my father draw a talisman for the girl we passed?’

  She ignored my question, as she often did.

  For a while, Miloda looked as if she were sleeping, but later, she started to gurgle. ‘She’s dying,’ my father whispered in a panicked voice.

  ‘Don’t say that!’ hissed my mother.

  As time went on, Miloda’s body grew colder and colder, her breathing shallow and laboured. Then my mother succumbed to the horrible reality that Miloda was dead. The climate of despair and horror grabbed me, and I thought I would be next. My mother was crying, holding and cradling Miloda, her tears running freely like a river. My father sat hopelessly upon a large stone.

  ‘Why don’t we cross the valley and find someone?’ I whispered into his ear, watching him grieving and lost.

  My father and I went across the valley
looking for help. As we ventured deeper, we happened on a few sheep. ‘There must be someone near,’ I said. I looked around, but saw nothing, no sign of life. As we went farther, a small house appeared like a matchbox in the distance. There were a few trees here and there, and we were relieved to see a house or something that looked like one. Without hesitation, we headed straight to it. I wondered how we would find our way back.

  We got closer to the house, but before we reached the door a big, fierce black dog emerged, growling and baring its teeth. It was impossible to get past. My father shouted, ‘Mohammed! Mohammed! Mohammed! Is anyone living here?’

  The front door opened hesitantly and an old woman appeared. Badly myopic, she craned her neck right and left, and called in a brittle voice, ‘Is it you? Is it you, Ahmed?’

  A few seconds later, an old man with a white beard came out. He tried to talk, but his voice was gentle and weak. The frenzied dog made it impossible to hear or understand the man, who advanced toward us as he waved the dog off.

  ‘Do you need some bread?’ he asked. ‘Some water?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ answered my father.

  ‘I do!’ I whispered.

  ‘What is troubling your heart?’ asked the old man.

  ‘I am from the north of Morocco, taking my family to Tassan, and one of my daughters has passed away. Could you help me to bury her? Could you show me where the nearest Muslim cemetery is?’ asked my father in a rasping voice.

  ‘Unfortunately, there is no Muslim cemetery nearby. There is no land left for a cemetery. The French own the land and the sky,’ said the old man. ‘As you can see,’ he continued, ‘I am an old man. I cannot walk fast, and I cannot carry any weight. My shoulders are stiff and constantly in pain, but I will call my nephew.’

  He called on his nephew, living in the house with him, to fetch a man called Mr Kadour. ‘Mr Kadour,’ said the old man, ‘is young, strong and very helpful. He doesn’t live very far away from here.’ Turning to his nephew, he said, ‘Go to Mr Kadour and tell him we need a pickaxe and shovel.’

  ‘Where is your family?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Over there …’ my father motioned and described the place.

  ‘Go back and wait for Mr Kadour to arrive,’ the old man told us.

  A while later, the old man arrived on his own, limping and tired but talkative and eager to help. As he moved around the cramped hut, he murmured, ‘God, You are the Almighty. God, You are the Almighty …’

  Mr Kadour arrived, pickaxe and shovel on his shoulder. The old man’s nephew joined him shortly after. Mr Kadour asked the old man if he knew us. ‘No,’ said the old man, ‘They are migrants – victims of poverty and oppression. We have seen a lot of them this month. God bless us all. Once the girl is taken care of, buried, they will move on … that’s all.’

  Mr Kadour explained how far and difficult it was to get to the cemetery, but that said, in the last few years two or three people had been buried on the top of a high hill nearby. I watched Mr Kadour dig the grave. In the middle of the large opening, he dug a smaller slot-like hole. My father carried Miloda to the gravesite where they laid her deep into the hole as if she were a gift to the earth, and covered her with large stones like a roof. Mr Kadour shovelled the fresh earth on top of the stones.

  I had watched Miloda stop breathing. I had touched her cheek and found her cold and stiff. I had seen my mother weeping and had watched Mr Kadour sweating and digging and, all alone, I had felt pain and sorrow, but I didn’t understand death. I didn’t know if it were the end of pain or just the beginning of it.

  3

  After eight days of crawling along with the sky as our only shelter, sleeping rough and hungry, we reached Tassan, a small village with two short and modest streets facing each other. A cemented space dotted with a few trees split the streets.

  It was midday. I looked right and left, saw no one, and then heard a church bell, but it stopped as suddenly as it had started. I spied two women crossing the street; both were wearing black, their heads covered with veils, entering a big building.

  ‘Can we join those ladies?’ I asked my mother, while hoping for shelter and a place to rest.

  ‘That is not for us,’ my mother answered.

  I wished one of the women, who looked strong and energetic, were my mother and could save me from my miserable and tramp-like life. I wished one of them would kidnap me.

  Fifteen miles from Tassan, we joined a ghetto filled with destitute people just like ourselves. We stepped into a shack, one single room built with wicker and mud, crumbling, infested and leaking. The local community was composed of labourers and peasants – people impoverished in their homeland. Their houses, which were no more than huts, lay scattered on the sides of two rolling hills with a gentle creek snaking between them. The hillsides were barren except for a few trees battered by the wind at the very top, but the banks of the creek were dotted with fig trees.

  Starving, walking barefoot with my toes bleeding and my heels turning into hooves, I hated the shack, the ghetto and the locals. I wondered why my father had brought us here and why he had left my two sisters behind. Running away from death hadn’t improved our lives or ended our pain.

  Within a few weeks of our settling, the ghetto and the rural community were struck by a mysterious plague. Our neighbour, young, strong and newly married, died within eight days. A week later, his mother passed away, and then his father the week after that. A collective cry filled the air. Age made no difference.

  Because he was a hafiz, my father was hired to give the dead their ritual washing. As no one else wanted the job, he enlisted me to help him. Lifting the dead from their bedding proved to be hard on me. I had neither the physical strength to do the job nor the inclination to touch the cadavers. Once they were put on wooden slats, I held the jug and poured the water on my father’s hands while he gently washed the naked bodies; his hands swabbed them while I watched. My father showed no feeling.

  One morning, I was deeply disturbed by the body of one brawny man in his late twenties, looking strong and solid as if he would awaken, lying naked to be washed. I could never shake off this image from my mind. As the body was too heavy for my father to move, I pulled it by the arm to move it onto the slatted platform to be washed. My father washed his entire body except his genitals.

  ‘Father, you missed his penis,’ I reminded him.

  He said, ‘We skip that.’ Then, I understood there were some parts of human beings so private, no one should touch them, dead or alive.

  ‘Who killed him, Father?’ I asked.

  ‘God,’ he answered.

  ‘Does God kill?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he responded.

  Sad, I went back to the shack and wondered on what basis God had made his decision.

  My father was hired as a Koran instructor for children. On the side, he drew talismans for the sick, the dying, the troubled and those possessed by demons. He drew a talisman for a woman whose son was dying. While waiting for her to pick up her talisman, I opened it and looked at it. I saw nothing but scribbles on the piece of paper. I ran to my mother and said, ‘I can do the same. If anyone wants a talisman, tell them I can draw one!’

  My father’s remuneration was in kind: a few kilos of flour, a meagre amount of oil and some sugar.Everything was voluntary on the part of the community; every family was supposed to make its contribution, but hardly any of them could. To be paid in kind, to collect two or three kilos of flour and a small amount of oil proved to be a difficult and humiliating task. Like a beggar, going from shack to shack to collect some flour, my father started to cry when everyone apologised for not having any. People did not own any land, and there was no industry or tourism; all they could do was work as cheap labour for the French farmers who owned the land, exploited the locals and despised their culture.

  To visit an old family friend who lived far away, my father borrowed our neighbour’s donkey. He rode the donkey and I was seated behind him. We started o
n a sunny day, the road was long and dusty and the journey was boring. Before we reached the house, two Frenchmen in a white car caught up with us. Neither my father nor I heard the car. It crept up behind us, and bit by bit, it got closer and closer and tagged the donkey. I jumped off, and my father was left on the donkey alone. I grabbed the reins and tried to pull the donkey out of the way, but it was slow and stubborn. Wherever I dodged, the car followed us. It was half an hour of horror, expecting my father to be crushed. The French driver didn’t want to kill us, but was having good fun. They terrified me, traumatised the donkey, revved their engine, finally passed and sped away. One of them opened the window and shouted at me, ‘Ah, ha, haaaaaa, attention!’ as he passed, his face twisted with the remains of his mocking laugh. I wished I had a gun to chase them as he had chased us, but they were in a car and I was dragging a borrowed donkey.

  Puzzled, I later asked my father and mother, ‘Why do French people have cars, tractors, houses and food to eat, but we don’t?’ I wanted a serious answer or explanation, but I didn’t get one.

  ‘They have this world, and we will have the next, the eternal one,’ my mother answered with conviction.

  I disliked this answer. ‘I want a car!’ I said, ‘or a bicycle.’

  ‘In heaven, you’ll get a horse!’ my mother replied.

  ‘I’d prefer a car,’ I retorted. ‘The car does as I wish, and the horse does as he wants.’ I rained questions upon my parents. ‘Why do French people have all they want to eat, and we don’t? They eat meat, and we don’t? They eat fish, and we don’t? They laugh, and we don’t? They play, and we don’t?’

  ‘In heaven, we will have honey and dates,’ answered my father.

  ‘Can I swap?’ I asked.

  ‘If you swap, you will go to hell!’ threatened my father, eyes flashing.

  Still unconvinced, I persisted, ‘Why are they able to build cars and tractors, and we can’t?’