"Enough is Enough !" uttered Yassine, an ex-classmate of mine, the other day after his repeated failures. I made his acquaintance at the early start of my first year at the faculty and has ever since remained the closest, most faithful friend to me. No sooner had the two indelible years elapsed than I joined CPR, a teacher training center. As a consequence of appenditis, Yassine did not manage to apply for the same position. He had been operated on before validating semester four modules, the thing which made him disqualified and which in the end impeded us from being together once again.

I still vividly remember the old days when I was his inspiration and he mine. We used to revise our lessons together, do homework in pairs and read nearly the same novels. He was known to have been a studious and punctual student, but unfortunately for him, luck rarely came to his rescue. And every time I looked back on his poignant, heart-breaking stories of his personal life and that of his family, I always made a great effort not to burst into tears. It was only recently did he come to know his real mother. The latter committed surrogacy because she had a severe quarrel with her husband over their livelihood. She knew a barren woman and chose to give the baby( Yassine) to her.

Two years later, the couple divorced. Yassine’s mother got married to a wealthy shopkeeper. Her only aim then was to secure her living and to live in dignity for the rest of her life. As for her son, she had never enquired after him since she got rid of him. Srangely, she was so selfish that it never broke her heart to have left him stranded. As regards Yassine’s father whom he has never seen or heard from, he went abroad and never came back. He knew very well what he did. I was stunned to learn from Yassine that he has never seen his father. He is disinclined to, anyway. I always listen to Yassine with interest while he is recounting these true stories.

“ I am the unluckiest man in the world,” he said to me a few days ago. As I learned more about his life, I became more and more sympathetic. It is so shocking that his foster mother died when he was six. At the time, there was only his foster grandmother left. She was the only one to raise him, he said. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. As a child, he did not suffer as much as he does now due to the fact that he was not aware of what was going on during his childhood. He was brought up and registered at school like any fortunate child. However, with time, he has become self-conscious about every single part of his life up to now.

Recently, Yassine came home a failure again, he said. This time, no matter how hard I tried to inspire him to redouble his efforts for next year, he faltered and said, “ now, it is over”. He has done his utmost to succeed so as to become a teacher, but in vain. I was then at a loss as to what he should do as an alternative. All his efforts have come to no fruition. And it was at this point when he began to reveal all his secrets about his excruciating experiences as both a foster child and a desperate student. When I was his classmate, he never dared to divulge them to me. But now that he had no other trustworthy friend except me, he thought me the ultimate resort. Of course, I welcomed the idea and worked together hard to make this newly-shared trouble halved.

He added that when he paid his real mother a visit, she was indifferent to him and warned him not to inform her new husband that he was her son. She appeared pretentious about so many events in the past, such as when she stressed that it was not he fault but her ex-husband’s. My friend Yassine shrugged his shoulders from time to time and turned a deaf ear to all that she told him. He paid her a visit only because he was forced to by his foster grandmother. And had it not been for the latter, he would have put an end to the life of his real mother, he said to me. I was sure that my friend would never do so because of his warm-heartedness and forgiveness.

One day, he assured me that it was the last time he would ever visit his real mother. Six weeks later and to Yassine’s utter surprise, he was informed that his real mother had given birth to a severely handicapped child. He then knew that Allah had partly punished her on earth. Henceforth, he rarely mentioned the history of his origin to me. He had made up his mind not to enquire into it any more. He was not going to enquire after his real parents’ lives either. From that time on, all that mattered to him was to find a noble job, settle down, and live peacefully for the rest of his life. “ I have got wearied of this life, ” he complained to me last week.

Yassine’s likes are countless, and while putting pen to paper, all of a sudden I remembered a poem that I wrote a couple of months ago about the difference between our personal lives, our life experiences and our family history. It runs thus:

A Difference
Everything is at hand;
Irrepressible is thus their joy;
Why not I too share the like?
Or my heart is wont to only ache.

Oh, I heard their cheers again;
Is it not high time
To seek some kind or other?
That can ease the pain.

With curly hair,
One's image is not fair.
The grunt only to bear,
And then the bane of life.

An innocent crime I commit
Or rather to me it occured;
Indisposed to propose,
Predisposed to enjoy the difference.

The Beggar Who Reminded me of Mohamed Choukri

Recently, as I was heading to Zagora, the place where I work, I stopped to spend three days or so in a hotel in Agadir. I arrived there on an early, sweltering morning, checked in and slept for some time to have some rest. As a role, whenever I visited a new city, I often had walks along the beach or most frequently sat at a café in the evenings. I brought a novel with me for company. On the evening of that day, I went to the café next to the flea market in Inzegane, the town which is notorious for thieves, shoplifters, beggars, glue-sniffers, etc.

I so much enjoyed sitting there, for I observed how common people here lead their lives. I did so simply because I enjoy the company of the social class I belong to. Soon after ordering a cup of coffee, I buried my head in the English novel I was holding. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see some people going to and fro, some going by fast and drawing carts, and some others begging for money. So interested I was in the events of the novel that I did not or rather try not to pay attention to them.

For me, it never distracted my attention while reading to hear people talking noisily or screaming at each other during a row. Some people might find that the daily events I am recounting here date back to the 1970s. But in fact, there are still some that really look like those of that time, particularly in some parts of this town. It is something inherent in me to choose such kinds of places.

Many beggars came to the café; some of them were lucky if they found a generous man; others, not. Most of them were old-looking and haggard; others, parents of hapless, poverty-worn children. I gave a senile-looking beggar one dirham; but I could not bear being begged. When every other beggar came to me, I gave him nothing as I had only some money to give to the waiter. I kept on reading, and whenever a beggar came, I just raised my fingers as a sign of having nothing to give. But I did not raise them when I heard a beggar speaking to me in English. I closed the book and before answering his request, I first wondered about what made him speak in English only to me. Only when I caught him staring at the title of novel “ Sons and Lovers” did I know why.

“ Please, some money?” said the beggar in English.

“ Ah, you speak English? But you look Moroccan” I said in amazement.

“ Yes, I do; I was an ex-student at the faculty in Casa; my name is Hicham,” replied the beggar;

“ Oh, great! How old are you?” I asked.

“ I’m 38, but I have spent my whole life in misery, ” he replied with a sigh.

“ I’m awfully sorry,” I said sympathetically.

“ By the way, are you originally from Inzegane?” I asked out of curiosity.

“ No, I’m from Casablanca, but I had to come here just to run away from my cruel father and all my family, ” he replied

“ But why exactly?” I asked.

“ Because I have just been set free. I was in jail for five years,” he answered in English.

“ Oh, what a pity!’ I said, dumbfounded;

Seeing him grow tired of my questions, I told him to sit with me over a cup of coffee. I could then observe from his face that he was so glad about my offer. I stopped asking him more questions as I was afraid they would only mortify him the more. We conversed for a while, and he from time to time waved his hands at the passers-by. The latter were other beggars, some of his friends.

At first, I did not pay attention to what Hicham was holding. It was a small, black suitcase. I kept looking at it while supping my coffee. As he saw me doing so, he immediately laid it on the table and opened it for me. I did not want him to do that, of course. But he did so as to show me something inside it. He got three old-looking , yellowish and tattered books out of it. I was stunned to death to see such a scene, a beggar holding a suitcase full of books. It was not because I looked down on him, but because this behavior became a rarity in our everyday life.

Then, I examined each one at a time. The first one was entitled Love and Romance with a colourful binding. It did not interest me at all. The second one was Practical English Grammar, the old version. And the last one which drew my attention most was Oxford, the pocket English dictionary. I did not recognize the latter because it was covered with very old newspaper paper.

I was at a loss for some moments and remained silent. I then knew that he had kept these books for, I don’t know, how many years. Actually, I was not interested to enquire about the period. Instead, I was inordinately curious to find out why he was keeping and taking them with him while begging. Meanwhile, he was groping for something in his pockets, and then I knew that he simply wanted to smoke. I let him sup his coffee and did not dare to ask him any more questions until he finished smoking.

“ What are you keeping these books for?” I asked.

“ To alleviate the hardship I am living in,” he replied.

“ But is it through keeping these books that you can do that?” I asked in wonder.

“ Of course, not. I am reading them in order to understand life, ” He replied intelligently.

Instantly, I discovered that he was such a clever man, especially when he from time to time used some special English phrases to transmit his ideas more effectively. I decided to ask him trivial questions only to know more about his personal life.

“ I don’t think you can understand life just through these old books,” I said.

After breathing a deep sigh, he continued:

“ I am reading these books in order to write something in the nearest future,” he said crossly.

The moment he uttered the word “ to write”, I could not help remembering the celebrity, Mohamed Choukri. The latter too in his lifetime wanted to write about misery, poverty and social injustice. But the question was whether this new aspiring pauper would make it or not. Anyone reading this article of mine may find this real story about this man so weird and out of place; believe it or not, then! Afterwards, I asked him whether or not he knew this author and the answer was yes.

“ Mohamed Choukri is my real inspiration, ” he said.

“ Wow, that is really great! Please do your best to be like him,” I added.

“ I will, thanks,” he said.

Sometimes, he talked to himself, and I could not make out what he was saying. Strangely enough, he did not enquire about my own life whatsoever though I wished he had done. If I did not take the initiative to raise the topic, he would not have done that himself. Maybe the hard life he had been leading made him so. Anyway, I just let go of it. The only query he posed to me was how to improve his pronunciation. I with interest showed him how, and he repeated after me as I read some lines in his novel. I observed that he was growing more enthusiastic whilst reading for him.

Out of curiosity, I set to enquire about his future writing plans.

“ What are you going to write about?” I asked.

“ My life experiences!” he answered.

“ Great, I hope to read your works the soonest possible,” I said in encouragement.

“ Many thanks!” he said, grateful.

He was remarkably reticent and I believed that had it not been for his sheer poverty, he would not have talked to me about his aims, life experiences and secrets. Thus far, I am still much honoured to have made Hicham’s acquaintance even though I was certain that I would no longer meet him.

The only thing I offered him was a cup of coffee. I had wanted to give him whatever I had just to help him make his dream come true one day. But I understood that the cup of coffee sufficed him. I saw his face turning more cheerful and lively as he was recounting his secrets. I was so glad he enjoyed my company. Suddenly, he evinced his willingness to leave by standing up. Frankly, I did not want him to leave. I hoped to learn more from him and to keep him for company for that evening.

“ “ khasni nmchi”, it is high time I left, ” he said in Arabic.

“ It's okay, Best of luck! Hope too see you someday, ” I said.

“ me too,” he said as he was leaving.

Finally, he left and walked upright. I was watching him, wishing that he would turn back; but he did not. I watched him as he disappeared into the distance. After a while, I returned to my novel, but could not carry on reading. An idea struck my mind that day.

“ This is the beggar who reminded of Mohamed Choukri, one of my ideal authors, ” I said to myself.

The Dream that Has not yet Come True

Now that my schooling has ended, I still vividly remember the day when I first became acquainted with English, the only language I felt would help me impart all my life experiences to the reader. As a middle school student, I had always wanted to master a language as fully as possible so that I would be able to write poems, stories, articles, and even novels. I frankly failed to do so in Arabic, my first language, and in French, my second language. However, I am still at a daze why I failed to write in these two languages, and succeeded in doing so with English.



I must admit that some of my ex-teachers were behind that not because they did not do their job properly, but because they did not show any interest in our creativity. I am certain that teachers know what I am talking about here.Just as I became a high school student, I made up my mind to learn English. At least, I had to seize the opportunity to do so as fully as possible since my first lesson was the English alphabet. Step by step I managed to learn it during the three years I spent at high school. I was so enthusiastic about this new language that I did not pay so much attention to other subjects even though I excelled in the latter too.



At the time, I had two goals hovering above my head. The first one was to become a teacher of this language so that I would financially secure my future in this country and to support my family. The second goal, the main one, was to become an author, poet and playwright, writing in this language. However, these two goals had remained uncertain until I went to university.



During my childhood, I went through some excruciating experiences, such as my poor visual acuity. Fortunately, I rarely though of it as a limitation that might one day impede my dream from coming true. But as I learned later, many celebrities preceded me. I also learnt that everyone of us must have some complex. It is something normal in our everyday life. I then set to overcome all the stumbling blocks and this one was amongst them. Mohamed Choukri, a well-known author, has been my real inspiration in overcoming most of them; here, I have come to know one of the reasons why I am learning this language.



Language is power. One day, I decided to read For Bread Alone by this author after hearing a lot about it from my friends, and I frankly could not resist putting the novel away until the end. With time and experience, I grew more zealous about, and adventurous with, this language.



It was in 2006, right after getting my Baccalaureate degree, when I enrolled at Choaib Eddoukali university in El Jadida. Since English was the only language I was interested in, I instantly opted for the branch of English studies and its literature and had to spend two years in order to earn my first university degree, DEUG. I successfully managed to do so, and I was entitled to sit for the entrance exam to the CPR, a teacher training center. Here, I was realizing my first goal, that of becoming a teacher. Of course, I was happy about this achievement even if I had aspired to become a university one before. But my family’ financial status did not permit me to do so.



The time I spent at university flew fast. I then left my university with my eyes shedding tears of longing to come back one day. I had wanted to lead a complete collegiate life with as many experiences as possible. But every time I contemplated my needs and those of my own family, I thought that I had to dash headlong into any position I was offered. The position of teacher was the only one I succeeded to attain. Happily, it was the one I had looked forward to for six years before landing it.



In the late 2008, I was called on to join CPR to receive some training. During the latter, I went through both good and bad experiences. But luckily, the good ones outweighed the bad ones. I was trained to teach junior high school students and to some extent I enjoyed it. It was due to some good trainers at the center. As regards my writing career, I had aleardy published some articles in the late Casablancaanlayst newspaper before becoming a teacher. Here came my principal dream to become an author and a poet; but I think that this dream has not yet come true.



Right after my graduation at the center, I was immediately appointed to Zagora, a far-away area. I myself chose Souss Massa Draa region, but I expected to get Tiznit, Agadir, or Inzegan, the cities or towns that are the closest to university where I would one day be able to pursue my studies. Meanwhile, I did not know that Zagora area was also part of Souss. Thus, I was stunned to learn that I was at last given Zagora where I would teach.



Not knowing what to do, I went there, and no sooner had I spent the first three months in it than I discovered that Zagora was an unprecedented source of inspiration for me. It was when I one day sat alone, meditating about the dream that has not yet come true that I was certain about it. This dream is either to become a university teacher, or to become an eminent author and poet in English. Time alone will tell whether the dream will come true or not. “ To Continue the Trek” is the poem I wrote about this dream and which was published in Souss Pens magazine. It ran thus:



To Continue the Trek



A haughty man I might have been

When no one previously dared to stand.

Shortly leading them by the hand,

I unawares missed the has-been

And here unexpectedly appointed by the sand.



Alas, my hopes are dashed, some might say,

For I never knew it was decreed in my fate.

But this is the deserved price one might pay;

Then I would become what I am at any rate.

This is what loyal friends of mine hate.



I shall always tell you this with great remorse

As in my room there is some force.

It is through which I still survive;

My story is but a specimen of other lives.



The trek is still a great dream

Down the Draa stream

There I for long stand holding that book.

Of which no one yet knows it is mine by hook or by crook;

In it I told but the plain truth.



I a mere passer-by;

My pupils I bade goodbye,

And the trek at last did continue.