What Makes George Orwell Different From Other Authors

As I bury my head in any works by George Orwell, I always feel that I am reading something which I have never read before and which so few or rather no authors have already discussed. It is merely the fact that this author was remarkably realistic about different aspects of his everyday life, including his writing style, his daily obstacles, his critical attiutudes towards the society and so on and so forth.

Frankly speaking, I can not help reading his essays one after another as I have found that they help me a lot become familiar with some harsh realities of life. This is in fact what some other authors have overlooked or ignored, especially when it comes to talking frankly and admittedly about their writing styles and the stages they went through to ultimately become distinguished authors. It is here where I have come to the conclusion that George Orwell, for me, is somewhat disimilar from the rest.

To begin with, as I have noticed in most of his articles touching on his writing style development, I believe that he is one of the rarest authors who addressed his reading public very objectively. For instance, in "Why I Write" , he talked about his childish attempts at writing and his parents' and teachers' reactions to them. He always looked down on his efforts and thought that writing creatively and originally was a most difficult and stultifying job at the time.

I suppose that the authors whose works I have read never dared discuss this crucial and formative part of their writing career, especially that this period is the pinnacle of every writer's job. The part of the essay that actually attracted my attention was the one detailing the motives lying behind every single writer 's ambition to become a writer. It is principally due to this that I have admired his writings more and more. Personally, I share him the same motives and I believe that it is not all the time easy for any writer to admit these motives though no one can escape the latter.

George Orwell believes that before anyone sets out to write a piece, he or she must seek to be talked about, to be honoured posthumously, and to take revenge on those who used to look down on us during our troubled childhood. No one of us, I strongly believe, can deny them for one reason or another; I must admit that the latter motive has been the one affecting me most. I have always wondered what authors have already discussed this part of their development and which one of them is willing to admit them to the reader.

Here lies the secret behind considering George Orwell as totally different from distinguished authors in general and from novice ones in particular. Moreover, scientists, politicians, and other people holding notable positons are without exception in this case. Though not interested enough in money, appearances and trivial worldly concerns, authors are always deemed selfish, vain and more importantly self-centred. Actually, I could not agree more when Orwell described them in this manner.

With regards to " Such, Such were the Joys", another essay in which this author recounts plainly and without frills his painful experiences as a neglected, funny student, has appealed to me for some days. I have always wanted to write something similar to it, but haven't yet made up my mind; this amazing essay, some might argue, has been a very genuine account of Orwell's schooldays. Reading it from top to bottom makes me wonder how the author dared to divulge some secretive and very personal information about himself and his personality at large.

One of these secrets which struck me in the extreme was the fact that in the dormitory he lived in, he never woke up without having wet his bed. Rarely do we find authors relating such ignominious situations about themselves. I am not of course encouraging that they should be revealed. Quite the contrary, I am simply claiming that this is exactly what made me fall passionately in love with all of Orwell's works ranging from novels to essays." No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth that they were altogether unhappy, " said Orwell in the aforementioned essay.

Here, I would like to make reference to the authors who in their biographies make the positives sides outweigh the negative ones. However, if each one of us looks back on his past days, we will surely find that we experienced sadness more than happiness and failures more than successes.


Apart from other works by the same author, such as 1984, Animal farm, etc. I would like to add that having authors who recount their experiences as they exactly happened will not necessarily distort their image in front of the reading public. On the contrary, the latter would certainly appreciate these harsh facts for one simple reason. It is that all of us have at one point in our lives gone through the same moments and when somebody mentions these moments to us, we feel precariously placated. And this is the attribute which has made me believe that George Orwell is totally different from other authors.

Who Said That?

Who said that? Who said that?
I asked once again,
Who said that climbing the mountain,
Seeing the sun while at sunset and sunrise,
And listening to ants while partaking of
Little bread crumbs
Can ever be out of reach
For the lame, the blind and the deaf;
Who said that? Who said that?
I have asked and will always ask
Who said that.

A Black Cat Passing by my Bed

At midnight, falling helplessly asleep
As minutes slip by so slowly,
I always feel fondled by a black object deep
Ah, it is the cat whose tail goes curly.

I wonder how I can respond to her impulse,
The impulse to make me behold her face;
The ominous whiskers, however, make my heart pulse
Throb as she unties my shoes' lace!

Oh, uttering complaints of hundred nights!
Ever since the right woman I was amazed at ;
I have struggled hard never to put out her light,
Especially when she pays me a visit as a black cat.

How Some Teachers Die

While I was once reading a collection of some quotes related to the field of teaching and learning, I came across this quote which from that time on stamped something special on my mind; it runs thus: "He who dares to teach must never cease to learn," said Richard Henry Dann. Now that I have become a teacher, I am able to decide that this statement is undoubtedly valid. More importantly, not abiding by this quote makes teachers all over the world "die" with time, age and experience.

In fact, there are numerous ways whereby teachers lose their competences and in the end "die". Some of them however might well manage to survive only if they do something about their learning and their knowledge about their speciality. I suppose that rarely do we discuss this part of our teachers' professional development simply because we always think that whoever is a teacher must be doing a good job in their classes. Still, we keep asking ourselves why most teachers do not produce something which will benefit themselves at least and their community at most. This is simply how and why some teachers "die".

As any new teacher has experienced, having been trained and thus appointed to teach most of the time makes us change our retrospective attitude towards learning. The main reason why this occurs is that some teachers think that they have started to assume a new and the only responsibility, that of teaching students. And in fact teaching does not not lie only in coming to class and provide students with lessons, but in a far more important activity, which is learning more and new things. Here, I am talking about learning on the part of the teacher. Some teachers should update themselves on the newest if need be. Or at least they should keep reading extra-curricular books, texts, etc.

As we all know, a bad attitude is the worst disability; if we as teachers still adopt the attitude that teachers do not need to read anything in our specialities or revise lessons that are to be taught, I do believe that with the passing of time most of us will be challenged. That the majority of teachers, especially here in Morocco, do not produce or write articles, essays, etc is living proof that the disability I am talking about is taking place.

Of course, if we look back on this thorny problem more seriously, we will certainly find that countless reasons have been behind this. But the problem of note here is that most teachers do not read, do not produce and do not at least even make efforts to make up for their daily losses. As a role, some teachers have become notorious for sitting at cafes, watching football matches one after another, and keeping an eye on passers-by. It breaks everyone's heart to see some of them doing so; if only they would use those cafes for discussing the calamitous eductional system, or for writing something noteworthy for the community to read as so many writers have done before.

How come we are forever talking about this calamity without even taking into account the competence of our teaching staff? For me, this is exactly how our teachers "die" and I have doubted that some people might find this article a trifle critical or shocking. However, every one of us ought to be realistic about this topic, for this is the only way through which we will still prevent more teachers from "dying".

I still remember my teacher of English during my high school who spoke our mother tongue more than the target language English; I might not be against this traditional technique, but what affected me most was that he often did that so that we would raise our hands more frequently to participate. In fact, participating in the class did not neccessarily mean something related to the lessons; strangely enough, some of us raised their hands to tell a joke in Arabic or Berber; mentioning these incidents clearly indicates that this is a means , among other things, whereby teachers "die".

How could you expect a teacher who is not doing a good job in the class to do a better one at home? It might also be queer to say that the same teacher did not take his bag with him after class. He simply used to leave it under the desk so that he would not bother himself to bring it the following day. It is no wonder that the teaching field is full of queer incidents like these ones. But the message behind them is that some of those who claim to dare to teach have already ceased to learn. Therefore, what are we then waiting for?

Omar BIHMIDINE

The Wife Whose Permission Was Not Asked

Aicha, the second eldest girl in the Oussaids after Fatima, who got married a few months ago, had just come home tired from toilsome work in the meadows and from grazing some cattle when her father started shouting to her at the top of his voice to go downstairs and see her mother. Aicha, a short, plain-looking girl, immediately did as her father ordered. Her father, Ahmed, a fierce-looking and merciless greengrocer, whose terrible mood swings frighten everyone at home, including his clients at work.

Her mother, an old-looking, generous and kind-hearted woman, though a trifle submissive to her husband's unreasonable and foolish orders, had just asked for her daughter once again. As the little girl, aged almost fourteen, was descending the stairs, she heard her mother and other women talking about some mysterious visitors being expected the following day. In astonishment, she stopped for a while and then shrugged her shoulders. She found her mother awaiting her on the doorstep and they all went into the living-room.

" Dear daughter," said the mother.
" Yes, Mum!" said Aicha curiously.
" I called you to tell you that you have to dress well for tomorrow," continued the mother.
" What for, Mum?" inquired Aicha, aghast!
" You know, we are expecting some visitors from the nearby village"
" OK, Mum, I promise I will, " said Aicha.

As she went upstairs, her mother called her again.

" Don't forget to do the washing-up!" said the mother.
" Don't worry, Mum! Everything will be all right!" replied Aicha.
" What a very obedient girl she is!" the mother said to herself.
" I feel awfully sorry that she is going to leave this house so soon," added the mother, " it is really a pity."

Unaware of what was going on in the house, the little girl carried on her household chores. While everyone in the house and the neighbourhood was expecting the visitor who was coming to ask for Aicha's hand, the latter did not know anything about this event and surprisingly she was not even consulted on the matter. All her friends felt sorry for her. There was no doubt that she would marry the coming man, for at the time her father whom she feared a lot would never deign to discuss this matter to her. At lunchtime and after Aicha and her mother seated themselves at the dining table, the doorbell rang.

" Who could that be, Mum?" asked Aicha.
" It is just your father coming back from the flea market," replied the mother.
" Hey dad!" said the Aicha as she opened the door.
" Where is your mother?" said the father indifferently.

Aicha could never understand why her father treated her in that manner. Notwithstanding, she loved him as much as she did her mother. Ahmed had just sold Aicha's beloved calf so as to provide victuals for the visitors who were expected the following day. To Aicha's dismay, she was grieved in the extreme to know that her beloved calf was finally sold. She that instant shed some tears, but who was going to placate her. No one, actually! Khadija, her mother, was scared of her husband. Every time she said something in defense of their daughter, she always received harsh blows from Ahmed. So no use!


Next day khadija was the first one to wake up, then Ahmed who had some work to do at the greengrocer's and Aicha was the last one. That day was the only day in which Aicha slept longer than usual and in which she did not go for work outside. She wondered why for a moment and then gave up the idea. Until that time, she had not yet understood that she was going to get married the soonest possible. After making the bed and having breakfast with her mother, she immediately went to her wardrobe to get out the best clothes as her mother told her yesterday.

As soon as she dressed up, she happily ran hurriedly to her mother to show herself anew.

" What a very charming girl you are !" said Khadija
"So kind of you, Mum!" replied Aicha blushed.

At the time, Aicha still thought that the visitors expected were just coming to pay them a visit and that was all. Suddenly, she heard her mother weeping very quietly in her bedroom while arranging her private belongings into a bundle.

" Dear Mum, what made you cry?" asked Aicha sadly.
" Nothing special, darling! Go and prepare some tea for your father," Replied the mother," he will be back in a minute."
" Ah, what are you doing with all those winter clothes of mine?" wondered Aicha.
" It is the summer now, isn't it?" added Aicha.

" Please, don't get angry if I told you that a visitor is coming to take you from us!" explained the mother, " he will marry you."

The little girl was instantly at a loss for words. It was the first time she had ever heard the word 'marriage', and at that age she knew nothing about it. She went tongued-tied and did not respond to her mother's ensuing questions to the extent that the mother began to worry about her situation more than before. Had it not been for the furious, capricious father who began to shout too loudly as usual, she would neither have moved nor have gone to open the door.

From that time on, her face grew paler and more panic-stricken. She tried hard not to utter a word of objection or evince any feelings that might berate her father, a very peevish man.

Like all other girls, she might have hoped for marriage at one point in her life, and it was something every female friend of hers chrished. So what made her sad then? She on the spot remembered her father's conversation with a shopkeeper about a very old, affluent man who had worked abroad for some years and now was living in the village next to theirs. As she and other villagers heard about that man, he had already got married to three other women whom he divorced only after five years.

Her father did not at all make a fuss about this old man's background. His daughter getting married was all that mattered to him.

In the roof, alone and pensive, deliberating for some moments about the matter and beginning to contemplate her new future, she ultimately came to the conclusion that she had no other choice but to say 'yes' to the coming suitor. No sooner had her mother laid all the four tables in the living-room than Aicha saw the expected visitors approaching the house. Immediately, she came down to to tell her mother. It was then striking around three o'clock in the afternoon.

"They are coming, Mum, they are coming!" cried Aicha melancholy.
"Ok, dear Aicha!" replied the mother, "everything is ready!"
" Where is your father?" asked the mother.
"I am here! As I told you, don't do anything that might make us lose face, ok?" warned the father.
" Right, dad!" said the daughter sadly.

Apart from the little girl, everyone welcomed the visitors with outstretched arms. Even the neighbours did. Aicha's parents were glad that somebody had at last come to their house to ask them for their daughter. Meanwhile, Aicha felt sat at heart, but never showed it because she knew very well that if she did, her father might hurl his usual insults at her.

As soon as everybody was in and well served, they sat down together to discuss the matter of Aicha. The suitor named Mohamed was very much excited to see the little girl. At the time, it was notoriously known that he vehemently hankered after very young girls. Also, ignorance pervaded those villages and people there still thought that money and worldly possessions were all that counted. No one even cared about one's feelings and emotions. Like other young girls before her, Aicha would fall prey to this rampant problem the minute her wedding was announced.

Contrary to popular belief, neither the Oussaids nor Mohamed's family celebrated Aicha's wedding. All they did that day was that Ahmed asked the suitor for the dowry.

" how much do I have to pay for it," asked Mohamed.
" Well, I think a cow would do, don't you think so?" replied Ahmed.
" Ok, let it be so!" said Mohamed.

Ahmed was over the moon when he got such an invaluable dowry. Poor Aicha was not around while discussing the dowry. Anyway, she was not even going to be consulted. So why should she be around? At six that very day and while Aicha was preparing her private possessions, her mother was weeping lightly. Parting with her daughter affected her deeply. As for her father, he did not even care. On the contrary, he was smiling all day. On the night of that day, Aicha knew very well that she had become Mohamed's fourth wife.

Two years had gone by when Aicha gave birth to her first child. She then thought that this child, a boy, was a consolation to her. She then set to placate her misfortune by bringing up this child and by feeling his warmth every time she felt forlorn and lonely.

"Such an old man is replusive to me and to my life as a whole," she once told her new neighbour.
" Just be patient, dear!" the neighbour calmed her, " this child of yours will soon help you."
" I really hope so; but when exactly? I'm really disappointed, " said Aicha in despair.

Seldom did she hear from her parents and had she not taken the iniative to inquire after them from time to time, they would never have done that in return, she thought. With the passage of time, Aicha began to forget about the past and to turn over a new leaf. She managed to do that soon after her son whose name was Ali did his primary schooling and was about to get into high school.

Towards the end of 1995, the last year of Ali's high schooling, Aicha felt gladder than before as she observed that her son was growing up faster and faster.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" Aicha asked her son.
" sure, dear Mum!" replied Ali goloriously as he obtained his baccaluareate degree that year.

As for his father, he left Morocco two years ago to live temporarily abroad and ever since they had rarely heard from him except that every month they received little money from him which seldom provided a dignified livelihood for the home. One day, Aicha all of a sudden heard that Mohamed was thinking of getting married to the fifth one.

" What an unlucky wife she would be, " she contemplated.
" May God stand by her! " she innocently prayed.

Meanwhile, Aicha began to take no notice of what people were saying about her and her husband as well. All that mattered to her at the time was that her son would soon find some work so as to earn a living. And that was what really happened. No sooner had three years elapsed than Ali earned his B.A in Arabic Studies and applied for the position of teacher." He got it at last, thanks God!" Aicham once said as she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Afterwards, Ali became a teacher and his mother was very glad about that. Living in dignity no longer concerned them then.

They thought that Mohamed's coming back from abroad in two weeks' time would be a nuisance. Mohamed later learned that his son earned the job, but he did not express any approval whatsoever. Instead, he stopped sending them that little money and warned his son not to waste his salary too much. Ali did not appreciate all these commandments, and he and his mother immediately thought of running away from him and living somewhere else. Just both of them!

Two weeks later, Mohamed arrived bringing a new car. All neighbours were happy about his arrival except his wife and son. They knew very well that his moody character might surely bring about more rows. Intelligently, Aicha made up her mind and dared to face him this time. Therefore, the first row he made about some work not properly done at home finally ended in divorce.

" please, enough is enough!" said Aicha angrily.
"oh, what has become of you?" responded Mohamed mockingly, " I am not used to such a character."
" I proposed that we get divorced the soonest possible!" added Aicha defiantly.
" Ok, as you like; here we go! Tomorrow, you will have everything you are asking for!" said Mohamed.
" that's the best you can do for me!" said Aicha enraged.

Until that time, Aicha had seldom heard from her merciless parents. One day, she was informed that her father no longer worked as a greengrocer and that he spent the whole days lying in bed. He was not able to move or shout like before anymore. He had gone bald and too senile. During his convalescence, Khadija kept a round-the-clock vigil at his bedside. After two years of this predicament and to khadija's consternation, she learned that she was diagnosed with cancer. From that time, she too would suffer.

She began to shed tears heavily at the bad news. What a very kind-hearted, forgiving woman Aicha is! Glimmers of love for her parents still resided in her heart. Instantly, she paid them a visit to see how they were. Before she arrived at her parent's house, she started remembering when she was ill-treated and the indelible moments she and her friends spent there.

She knocked the door and in she went. Her older sister Fatima, who got married before her, was there taking care of her parents. In the living-room, she found her father and mother lying in their beds, each one separately. She looked at her mother, pale and bony-looking, first, then moved to her father, who was hiding his face all the time. At the time, she was in a hurry, for her son was waiting for her so that they would go to live in the region he was appointed in.

" Dear, Mum, I hope you get over soon! May God be with you, " cried Aicha.
" Dear daughter, please don't ever cry. I beg you a thousand times to forgive me, " uttered her mother with difficulty.
" Don't bother yourself, dear Mum! I did fifteen years ago, "assured Aicha, " never worry about that again, ok?" added Aicha.
" I'm ineffably glad that you did! How sweet of you; dear!" said the mother as she kissed Aicha on the forehead.

Aicha bade her mother good-bye and moved towards her father's bed only to find him dead. " May Allah rest his soul in peace!" she uttered as she wept hysterically. Everyone wept in the room, including Kadija. Aicha immediately got out of the house the fastest possible and barely had she walked for about five minutes when all of a sudden she stopped as if she heard somebody calling her name. Actually, no one called it, she assured herself. She then looked around and contemplated her parent's house. At that moment, she was certain that that was the last she would ever come back there. And the off she went.

Soon after she got home, she found that Ali had prepared everything for their long journey. Next day they reached Mhamid, the town in which he was appointed to teach. They settled down there and had lived happily ever since for ten years. Ali had got married and, now he had two sons and one daughter. She was the happiest woman on earth, she once said to herself while cooking lunch for her dear son, Ali.

One day, as a narrator of this story, I was talking to Ali, a teacher of Arabic, who had become my colleague in the same school, about my own parents and the life they led. On the spot, he intervened to say that mine was exactly the same as his. I then sat down to write this poignant story entitled " The Wife Whose Permission Was Not Asked".


THE END

By Omar BIHMIDINE
Zagora, May 16, 2010

A Cup of Tea

In the garret above,
I once sat, deliberating about love;
I at least knew there was no trust
And hence looked around fast;
On the table still stood the cup of tea,
I hurriedly made my way to it like a bee
After due deliberation about the first sup,
I instead drank it in one gulp.

The Shelf

The shelves I behold intently
Like a mother by her little child;
One book after another do I catch,
To strive for a personal touch.

Orwell, the same life I led
My inspiration he bred
I have decided on the theme
Through the essays I read.

A pen, a piece of paper are the resource
To which I would have recourse.
In order to stamp a lasting fingerprint
By which my works would come into print.

A committment to hold up
At a time when there is no rising up;
But, it is easier said than done,
Especially when most people have impulsively run.