Seeking Success

When I was seven, I never knew what success meant. All I knew was that I should be approved by my teachers. And now I can see that this approval I cherished at that time was merely success. I was seeking success, but did not know what it was for, nor did I know how to seek it. And everyone at some point in his or her life has already sought success. When we were at that age, our teachers very well knew who deserved success and who did not. As pupils, we were not as aware of feeling success at the time as we are today. Here, the notion of success varies with time and age.

As I was groping for some quotes about success by Mark Twain the other day, I came across a very intriguing one which might make some of us hold our heads in awe because it may appear out of place at first. It runs thus: All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence; then success is sure. I spent some time rereading and contemplating the quote until I came up with a humble understanding of it. Of course, anyone can come up with different understandings of it.

For me, like anyone else, Mark Twain, an American novelist and short story writer, experienced failure many a time before becoming a writer during both his childhood and adulthood. And only those who have already tasted the bitterness of failure can tell you what success really means and how you can attain it. This instantly reminds me of Emily Dickinson’s two powerful verses: “ Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed”. However, this does not necessarily mean that you will surely arrive at success overnight.

Coming back to Mark Twain, I believe that he deems success as merely something that does not need or require efforts and assiduity so as to be achieved. Ignorance and confidence suffice in this case. I am certain that at first the meaning must sound paradoxical. However, by contemplating it more closely, we find that the fact expressed here is also a truism, especially in these days. Overnight, many people succeed in many aspects of their lives without even knowing how and why. I am not blaming anyone here for becoming successful, nor am I alluding to their undeservedness. Quite the contrary, I am only talking from the point of view of Mark twain.

Twain could simply be referring to those who obtain positions without deserving them. And the category he is talking about here are known to be ignorant and confident. This means that feigning confidence without having any knowledge of one’s field or gray matter are sufficient for making money or landing a job. Here, I could not help remembering hundreds of teachers who are hired year after year. I know many students who are knowledgeable, but not confident. As far as my experience is concerned, rarely do the latter category succeed in that they do not possess the two attributes described by Twain.

In my high school, I used to fail from time to time, but could never make out why. Now I can ascribe my failure and that of others to the above-mentioned reasons. Certainly, no one can deny that those who succeed are normally confident, but not necessarily knowledgeable. The same thing can be true of ignorant and confident people. Then , I have come to the conclusion that confidence is a mere criterion whereby success is most of the time determined. As regards ignorance and knowledge, it is surely our interviewers who are expected to opt for one of these remaining criteria along with confidence.

It is so sad to hear of people being victims of these criteria. The impact of this lies in that making an effort to attain success in life will no longer concern, or appeal to, aspiring or rather latent geniuses. While trying hard to let go of this thorny issue, I unawares came up with a simple poem touching on the same topic. It runs thus:

By the Bridge

Listen! water is permeating through the rocks
No passer-by pays any heed;
Their attention I frankly need
To figure out our lock.

A ripple I instantly made,
Lest somebody should see the difference
Alas, I was shown the same indifference;
Maybe I would rather seek some other aid.

The minute I crossed it,
Hurriedly everybody came,
Asking what had become of me
Nothing in particular, I answered.
It is merely a riddle figured.

"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.

Life and Death of an Aspiring Girl

It was striking five on a wintry, chilly morning whilst Laila was still lying wide awake on the straw in the barn. This was her first night there. Her father, Mhamed, forced her to sleep there as a punishment for having courted a fifty-year-old teacher next to the school the day before yesterday. Laila’s family lived on a farm, and she spent most of her time working hard in the fields except when Kamal, the teacher, gave her a ring as a sign to leave the work and join him.

A couple of days ago, Mhamed bought them a TV set and a mobile phone for Laila for her success at school. She and the teacher had been courting each other for nearly two years, and it was only on the evening of yesterday did her father know about their love-affair. In the village Laila’s family lived in at the time, the villagers were never used to courtship and trysting.

‘You have got only one choice, ‘marriage’, ’ warned her father brandishing a baton at her.

‘ Ok, ok, Dad ! ‘ replied Laila in fear.

Laila had been amongst the most respectful, charming girls of the village, but as soon as she turned fifteen and became addicted to romance films and serials, she began to dream about a romantic world of her own. All the men she had seen and met before no longer appealed to her the minute she saw Kamal. The position of teacher made her fall passionately in love with Kamal. Since she knew him, she had thought that he would become the ideal husband she had always dreamt of during her adolescence.

Six o’clock struck, and everybody on the farm was up. Naima, Laila’s mother, went downstairs only to find her daughter still crying.

‘ What are you crying for ?’ asked the mother.

Laila felt too shy to reply.

‘ Ah, I see now ; it is the teacher again, ’ said the mother.

Naima was then aware of all that had been going on between her daughter and the teacher, but never dared to tell her husband. For her, she appreciated that only if the teacher had intended to marry her dearest daughter. She would never allow for anything beyond that. Despite having been punished and detained by her father, Laila did not give up getting in touch more with her beloved Kamal. She doted a lot on him believing that he would live up to all her expectations ranging from a good romance to a dignified life.

From time to time, Kamal, though much older than her, would bring Laila some childish gifts like chocolate bars, etc which she shared only with her mother. As for her father, he still thought that his daughter had stopped meeting with the teacher since the night on which she was detained.

‘ I believe that Kamal would make a good husband,’ Said Naima happily.

‘So do I, Mum !’ said Laila moving to and fro.

Aside from the position of teacher, Kamal was also a poet and novelist of English. He was rarely free, and most of his free time was spent on reading and writing. As soon as he befriended and loved Laila, he no longer read and wrote as assiduously as he used to do. But he was hoping to the soonest possible after getting married to his beloved Laila. At age fifty, Kamal began to think about marriage, the thing he neglected during his adolescence and even towards the end of his adulthood.

His spending his university days in studying alone made him unable to court a girl perfectly well. Though not well-versed in romance, he was trying to be pretentious all the time so as to gain the love of Laila. The latter very soon became romantic and too idealistic about love because of the countless films and serials she had watched. At first sight, she thought that with Kamal, a handsome man, she might be able to lead a nice, romantic life full of felicity and eternal mutual love.

Laila, who had been the most studious student at school and who had won several prizes, began to lose interest in her studies and even to miss some of her classes. She did so in order not to lose her lover and also the change to be the first girl in the village to get married. Every time she was with her friends, she started to brag to them about her lover and the things he frequently brought her.

Whenever Kamal went on holiday for some time, Laila would burst into tears untill he came back. She would wait impatiently for him and when she saw him coming, she would run the fastest possible to welcome him with outstretched arms. She was quite used to that, and she never paid attention to whoever saw her doing so. All that mattered to her was Kamal. The latter was at last so glad that there was a girl who loved him so much.

Since Laila was the only girl who loved him, he always did his best not to berate her. He tried hard to do whatever she wanted him to. For example, he used to shave his hair, especially in the summer. She did not like it when he went bald and she asked him to keep his hair. She also asked him to dress well, to put on some perfume, and to change his eye-glasses and his walking way. Poor Kamal obeyed all her orders and never took them personally. On the contrary, he thought that Laila was simply caring about him.

In fact, she wanted her lover to be the best husband ever in the village. That is why she occasionally kept telling him how and what to dress. He, a naive teacher who only cared about his books and his latest poems, spent large amounts of money on clothes. They saw each other from time to time, especially when she told him to dress up. She quite well knew that he felt glad when she flattered him.

‘ Wow, nice clothes! I’m really proud of you, ‘ said Laila

‘ The pleasure is mine, ‘ replied Kamal blushed.

On the mornings of every Sunday, she told her parents that she and her friends would go on a picnic. She was only lying to them in order to gain their permission to go to the nearby hills where Kamal chose to read and write. Usually he spent the whole day there, and Laila found it a good opportunity to sit with her beloved Kamal.

Of course, Kamal liked the idea, and they always chose to sit under a tree where no one could see them. Actually, there was no one to see them in that deserted area. As Kamal was reading the poems he had written about her and her charm, she instead began fuddling her fingers showing no care. Unintelligent, he thought that she was enjoying listening to them. Only after some time did he understand her motives. One of the latter was to discuss marriage with him.

Laila was so much affected by the romance films she had been watching that she only wished she would marry him the soonest possible. She did not care about anything else. As for him, he accepted her proposal indifferntly despite his remarkable love for her. Expressing himself through poetry appealed more to him. He also hoped he would marry but not as enthusiastically as Laila did.

Nearly two years of courtship and trysting had dragged by, and the time to get married at last came. Being too shy and introverted, Kamal did not know what to do on this occasion. It was only Laila who encouraged him to go to her family as a suitor. Had it not been for her and his passion for her, he would not have done so. As was common in such villages, no father turned down any good suitor’s proposal as long as he really meant it. As a teacher, Kamal was one of these suitors. Thus, he managed to marry Laila at last. She was turning seventeen at the time and the wedding was finally announced.

On the day of her wedding, Laila could not express the immense felicity she felt inside. She had been waiting for that day with bated breath. Everyone who attended the wedding was either green with envy or so glad because they thought that Kamal and Laila would be the best well-matched couple in the village. No one doubted that. For the villagers, having their daughter got married to a teacher was an invaluabe honour. On the morning of that day, Kamal and Laila woke up feeling as though they had been dreaming the whole night. They were in the mood for lots of things including tidying their house that morning.

Kamal’s house, situated next to the school, was only a few meters away from that of Laila. From that moment on, she paid her parents a visit on occasions except when the summer of that year came. They decided to spend their honeymoon somewhere else. Laila suggested they go to Essaouira, whereas Kamal suggested they stay in his family’s house after only a few days in Essaouira. This was the first time they had ever disagreed about something. Because of his passion for her, he had to submit to her suggestion. And that was exactly what they did in the end.

For Laila, this would be her first trip out of the village. She had spent her seventeen years in the village, and knew nothing about big cities. But she heard about them, especially Essaouira. She had hoped to visit them for long, and the latter was, among others, a motive behind getting married to Kamal.

For Laila, this would be her first trip out of the village. She had spent her seventeen years in the village, and knew nothing about big cities. But she heard about them, especially Essaouira. She had hoped to visit them for long, and the latter was, among others, a motive behind getting married to Kamal.

She dreamed too much of visiting other places and she always forced Kamal to do so many things for her that he himself had never done. One day, as they were walking along the beach, she suddenly kissed him on the cheeks ; she thought that this was something normal. For him, he did not like it when people were around. He thought her act out of place. Knowing that Kamal was angry about that, she concluded that Kamal would never become as romantic as those husbands she used to be watching on TV. His unexpected reaction made Laila dissatisfied and began to deem him crude and uncivilised soon after some other romantic approaches on the part of her.

Kamal accepted everything from her except her strange comportment every time they had a walk outside. He always had to remind her of the acceptable and the unacceptable. But unfortunately, no change was remarked. Quite the contrary, Laila began to behave more romantically every time she was outside, and she excused Kamal’s unexpected reactions for his crudeness and even for his old age. But she never dared to tell him about her new views she had recently discovered about his personality.

Despite being enraged by her, he very often did his utmost not to evince this feeling. During the three months they had been spending in Essaouira, including other cities, made them discover certain attributes about each one’s personality. One was too romantic than usual ; the other one, simple. Kamal soon forgot about these missteps in their married life, but Laila took them seriously and began to deliberate about them frequently. She even went on to discuss them to some of the girls she had befriended there.

Towards the end of the summer holiday, Kamal was so glad that he had enjoyed the trip very much, while Laila did not enjoy it that much. All she had hoped for did not live up to her expectations. She had hoped to spend some romantic moments with her new husband at the beach, in hotels, and at de luxe restaurants and cafes. Kamal’s income did not entitle him to have access to all these facilities. But as usual, Laila did not have enough common sense to consider her husband’s social class. She was always whimpering to him about things he could not afford.

As he loved her so much, he tried hard to put up with the complaints she usually uttered. The holidays came to an end, and now they were ready to head for her hometown. No sooner had they adopted themselves again to the village atmosphere than Laila was informed that she was expecting a baby. They hugged each other feeling great happiness about the good news. Laila’s family too were happy for her and about her coming baby. Their married life soon began to flourish as the coming baby was expected.

‘ I wish it would be a girl ‘ Laila hoped.

Though he wished she would give birth to a baby boy, he refrained from expressing his own wishes at her presence. Laila no longer thought about her previous problems. She began to care about the coming baby, and she believed that giving birth to a baby safely would console her at last. Two months later, Laila was taken to hospital where she gave birth to her baby. It was a girl.

In the house, no one ever took notice of the previous problems. All they started to care about was to bring up the little baby perfectly. Since the latter was given birth, they had never argued except one day when they decided to give the baby a name. Laila decided that it should be named after a romantic heroine called Maria. Kamal disagreed by saying that it should be named Aicha, an Islamic name. As Kamal carried on disagreeing, Laila suddenly burst into tears. Seeing that scene, Kamal had only to submit to her order for the umpteen times now.

From now onwards, so many rows befell their married life. Laila had always been triggering them because she still believed that the way the others on TV and those belonging to the rich class was leading their life was the epitome for her. And she wanted to be one of them by exerting poor Kamal and asking him to provide her with furniture of high quality. Carefree and irresponsible, She wasted lots of money.

No matter what had gone on between him and her, Kamal loved her still. However, Kamal felt that her love for him was decreasing dramatically. As he was just coming from work one day, Laila was standing at the door and instead of asking him about his work, she suggested that he change the way he dressed.

‘ Hi Laila. I hope you are alright, darling, ’ said Kamal.
‘Hi! I guess you had better wear fashionable clothes, ’ said Laila tersely.

After that day, Laila never stopped complaining about his clothes ; he tried hard to dress well, but being unscrupulous about his attire made him fail to satisfy her, and in the end, he even gave up the idea. Strangely enough, Kamal could not overreact to her, for he could not resist loving her.

Maria was growing faster and faster, and now at age four, she began to speak. Her parents were very happy for her. The coming of Maria had made Laila forget about her inner predicament, and no sooner had this period of four years elapsed than boredom set in and a hankering for more romance began again. Old and senile, Kamal could no longer afford to do as she wished. All he could provide were the neccessities of their life like food, clothes, etc. The latter, Laila thought, was only typical of the poor. She was dissatisfied with everything. Sometimes she went on to dress exceptionally well to attract him sexually, but no apporach he ever made. Rarely did he sleep with her.

Poor Laila asked him to do the impossible for her. Kamal had only time for reading and writing. He thought that providing everything apart from romance in the house was enough for Laila. The latter never cared about that ; she even started to lose interest in her daughter as she remarked Kamal writing most of the time. At the time, she had probably expected nothing from him. She very well knew that he would never change.

Every time they sat together around a table with their daughter for either dinner or lunch, she rarely ate with ease. At first, Kamal asked her many times to eat as she was growing slimmer. But, with time, he stopped doing so. One day, he was shocked to find her eating in the kitchen always after dinner or lunch. She had not been having lunch and dinner because the sound Kamal made while eating so frequently made her vomit. For instance, he munched bread and butter hungrily for breakfast. For soup, he drank it noisily. For Tajine, he ate it touching the meat in it all the time. Laila started to abhor him and even to regret marrying him.

Appearances, she once said to herself, are really misleading. At the start of her courtship, she thought that Kamal, since he was a teacher, would be the best husband ever for a romantic girl like her. However, she was stunned to find out the opposite. From time to time, the idea of divorce came to her. But she chose to turn a blind eye to it believing that it would only cause harm to her life in general and to her daughter in particular. Had it not been for her daughter, she would have demanded divorce immediately, she once made up her mind.

Six years later, Maria was now a student. Her parents’ married life turned out to be sluggish and came to no fruition as soon as Kamal turned sixty one. Laila was 28. A remarkable age difference, Laila was aware of it at last.

‘ Why don’t we go on holiday this summer, Kamal ?’ suggested Laila.

‘ I’m sorry I can’t. I’m afraid we might get into more trouble, ’ said Kamal.
Several summers came and went, and Kamal still refused to let Laila go on holiday together. He turned down all her efforts to convince him, but no use. Fortunately for her, Kamal had done his utmost to provide her with whatever she needed including good treatment, much care and passion for both her and their daughter.

Laila then set to find pretexts and phoney excuses just to let Kamal fight with her. She had been waiting for him to take the initiative in order to find a reason for demanding divorce. Notwithstanding, Kamal treated her very kindly and generously as usual. Laila detested his overobedience and naivety. She contemplated divorce many a time. Sometimes, she thought of meeting another man who would satisfy her insaiable desires. Bored with her married life, she was no longer in the mood for her little baby ; she asked her husband for a servant. Immediately, Kamal brought one.

Now that she felt disappointed in Kamal, she began to dream too idealistically about another suitor. But no one was at her disposal. There was only one shop keeper beside the school, but for her she called him a good-for-nothing boy. He had no emotions, no charm and no appeal. He was only money-consicous. Alone, one day, she gave a long, melancholy cry and fainted. The servant came hurriedly to rescue her and to see what was wrong. She came to at last, said the servant happily.

Since Kamal prefered to stay in the village now that he had started a family, his own parents, brothers and sisters had not heard from his for a long time. They understood that he was only overwhelmed with the burdens of everyday life. Kamal gave them calls every week though. All his family members liked him because of his kindness, generosity and selflessness. Unfortunately for him, he was a victim of getting married to a very romantic girl who always demanded the impossible from him.

Despite everything, he could never bear the thought of leaving her one day. He loved her so much. He rarely answered her back. He gave her everything she needed except the things he could not afford like the romance she was used to watching on TV. Not mature enough, she believed that it was Kamal’s fault. She attributed the failure of her married life to Kamal’s naivity. Every time she met her friends, she told them that Kamal cared only for his studying and trivial poems. She thought that literature was only for the poor and the foolish.

Laila dropped out of school at an early age, and she found the smell of Kamal’s library too disgusting. She forced him many times to get rid of old books. Kamal was not able to convince her of their value any more. Most of the time, he asked Allah to guide her to the right path. She was peevish and dissatisfied with everything.

One day, while they were fighting with each other as usual late at night, they heard a sudden knock at the door. Their row came to an end on the spur of the moment. They immediately started at each other in astonishment.

‘ Who could be knocking at this late hour ?’ wondered Kamal.

‘ I really have no idea,’ replied Laila scared.

‘ Oh, it is your brother, Brahim. Open please ; I’ve just arrived here,’ said the guest to Kamal.

As Laila heard that it was only Kamal’s brother, she directly went to bed. She was still angry at Kamal, but the coming of his brother prevented her from carring on the row. Kamal was extremely happy that there was at last a visitor, and he ran hurriedly to open the door for his dear brother, Brahim.

When they got into the house, Kamal found that Laila was sleeping soundly. He breathed a deep sigh of relief at last now that his brother was with him. Exhausted, Brahim slept untill twelve o’clock in the morning, and he would have slept longer had not Laila come to his room to wake him up in order to have breakfast. Before going to work, Kamal had told Laila to prepare everything for his brother, Brahim.

Brahim got up, had a shower, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, got dressed and then went into the living-room where Laila was already waiting for him to lead him to the breakfast on the table. The moment she saw him coming into the room, she could not believe her eyes. She was totally dumbfounded to find that Brahim was the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life. She was staring at him in admiration, but as he was about to sit down, he unawares turned around to find out that she was still looking at him.

So kind of u for everything, sister !’ thanked Brahim.

‘ My pleasure ! Enjoy your stay with us ; you deserve the best,’ replied Laila keenly.

From the day on which Brahim arrived onwards, Laila did not know why she was enjoying herself every time she was with him. She always felt like conversing with him when Kamal was not around. Sometimes, she talked to him at Kamal’s presence.

Brahim, a thirty-year-old engineer, had come to notify his brother of his new business in Casa. Bored with the suburban, monotonous life, he came to spend his holiday with Kamal. The latter had already told him about the amazing scenery, the landscapes, and the endless mountain ranges. Brahim was curious to explore everything in the village during his three-week holiday.

Being enthralled by Brahim’s way of talking and his charm, she frequently began to make some romantic advances towards him. She did not care about the implications of her actions. All that mattered to her was to enjoy herself. She felt that she was in dire need of affection, passion, reciprocal love and most importantly the romance she was used to before.

Now Brahim was the only one at hand, and she did not yet know how to communicate her distress to him and her disatisfaction with her husband. She was afraid that Brahim might inform his brother. But, as some time passed, she ventured to tell him about everything. But before that, she had made some romantic advances which Brahim unexpectedly accepted from her.

She was amazed to find that Brahim too was thinking about her. He had simply been waiting for her to take the initiative.

‘ I have felt so miserable lately, dear Brahim, ’ complained Laila.

‘ What is wrong ?’ asked Brahim curiously.

‘ Well, I can’t tell you everything ; I’m afraid for my life and my daughter’s, ’ responded Laila.

‘ Please, don’t worry ! I promise to keep everything secret,’ Brahim placated her.

Immediately Laila began to recount him all her experiences and her unsteady married life for the time being. Strange enough, Brahim was touched by them. Still he knew that the way she treated her husband was not good whatsoever. But he never told him.

Unlike his his brother, Brahim was experienced enough about romance and the marriage issue. Every time Kamal was out and the servant took care of Maria, Laila rang Brahim to join her in the living-room. She had prepared him his lunch and and stayed with him for hours. She would excuse herself by preparing lunch for Brahim in case someone asked her what she was doing with him. Two weeks had elapsed, and as usual they still conversed with each other more frequently to the extent that they were both afraid that someone might be watching them or discover what had been going on.

Finding countless attributes of an ideal husband in Brahim, Laila wished if she had only known and got married to him before. So many times did she try to confess her deep love to him, but thinking that he would be shocked by the news, she refrained from doing so.

Kamal lacking enough common sense and experience to judge others, he never doubted that there was something going on between his brother and his wife. He had always given them the benefit of the doubt. He left them alone because of his undue trust and fidelity in both his wife and Brahim.

As soon as the time for Brahim to leave came, Laila felt distressed and sad. She could hardly bore the though of him leaving her. She at last made her mind to admit her deep love to him. She hesitated twice, but she plucked up courage in the end.

‘ Why are you feeling sad again, dear Laila, ’ asked Brahim.

‘ I heard that it is time for you to leave us, ’ replied Laila bursting into tears.

‘ Actually, yes ; but don’t worry ; we will soon be in touch on the phone, ‘ said Brahim.

‘ Please, I count on you ; I truly need you,’ said Laila.

No one in the home knew about their conversation. They only talked when no one was around. They had already discussed marriage. It was Laila who first raised the topic. Brahim promised to get married to her only if his brother divorced her. She no longer expected something from her current husband. She did not complain to him either. She trusted Brahim and waited for him with bated breath.

At last, Brahim bade them all goodbye. His brother saw him off at the bus station and came back home. As he got into the house, he heard Laila crying sadly and noisily.

‘ Why are you crying for, darling ?’ asked Kamal.

‘ Nothing at all,’ replied Laila.

‘ Brahim is a knowledeagble man ; he is also very generous. He cares about eveyone ; I do like him a lot, ’ added Kamal.

‘ Sure, he really is !’ confirlmed Laila.

From that day onwards, Laila never did her household chores. All she cared about was her mobile phone. She used it to send messages to her new beloved Brahim. She could not help it. Sometimes Kamal saw her writing something in her mobile phone, but never dared to ask her about it. He was afraid that they might get into trouble again. Kamal was so submissive, and Laila abhored him for that. She even started to detested him now that she knew Brahim.

Poor Kamal had only been doing his best to give her happiness, but in vain. He had done the best he could ; but Laila was not interested in his overobedience and trivialities. She was interested in romance which he completely lacked. She at last found what she had been looking for in Brahim. But she suffered a lot when he was away from her ; she frequently resorted to her mobile phone, the last resort to cease her pain.

Five years had gone by when one day Kamal came home tired ; he got into the house and found Laila snoring out of deep drowsiness. She slept too late at night yesterday. She had been texting her new beloved, her husband’s brother. Her mobile phone was lying on the mattress and it rang three times successively. He was curious to see what was that, but at first he hesitated. Suddenly it rang for the fourth time. In the end, Kamal made up his mind this time to check her mobile.

‘ Ah, they are merely messages,’ he said calmly.

As he was about to put it away, an idea struck his mind :

‘ Why not see these messages,’ he said to himself.

Kamal had never thought of checking her mobile phone one day. But coming home and finding her snoring at this time of the day made him want to check it for the first time. He read the first message and found out that it was from his brother, Brahim.

‘How come !!’ he wondered.

Filled with suspense, he then set to read one message after another. There were nearly one hundred messages and it took him some time to read them all. Most of them were about love, sexual desire, orgasm, feelings, coldness, satisfaction, sex, etc. They were all vulgar issues.

Spellbound and utterly at a loss for words, he unawares let go of the mobile phone. It fell down and made a sound which woke Laila up. Finding him beside her, she felt terribly mortified that he at last knew what had been going on between her and Brahim.

‘ Please, forgive me ; I swear I didn’t mean it, ’ implored Laila.

‘ Ah,…..’ stammered Kamal.

Kamal, still shocked, remained silent for four hours. He neither moved nor uttered a sound. He was stunned to learn that the woman he had ever loved in his life was cheating on him without his slightest knowledge about it. He did not know what to do. He laughed hysterically. At first, she thought that he was merely touched by her betrayal. But later on as he did not stop laughing, she concluded that he went mad.

The news spread incredibly fast in the village, and everyone said that Laila was to blame. Yes, she was really to blame, said the servant. Then, Laila very well knew it had been her fault alone. But it was too late. She let down the most failthful, generous, respectable, trustworthy and honest man ever in the village. Now that he went mad, she didn’t know what to do to make up for her treason. Laila felt too mortified to face her parents.

Instead she chose to go somewhere else where no one would blame her. One day, she phoned Brahim to ask for help, but the latter insulted her for all that she had been to his brother. Fearing her father and in retaliation for her bad actions, she woke up the following day earlier than usual and made for the nearby hills where many Argan trees grew. She ran as hurriedly as possible so that no one would see her. She was aslo holding a rope. As she reached the first Argan tree, she stopped to breathe deeply ; she was panting heavily.

She closely contemplated her village and her parent’s house where she was raised. She was wearing a light pyjamas. She did not change her sleeping clothes. After some minutes, she quickly climbed the Argan tree and sat on a strong bough. He heart was throbbing hard and abnormally. Suddenly her eyes began to shed tears and then turned totally bleary. She sobbed uncontrollably.

Immediately, she took the rope she had brought and tied it to the branch she was sitting on. Then, she tightly tied the other end of the rope around her neck. Out of fear, she waiting for some time. All her limbs were shaking. Making up her mind at last, she let go of her body down. She hanged herself and was moving convulsively for nearly two minutes, and then she stopped moving. Instantly, everything in her was still. Her body was too cold. She was dead.

At the time, no one was present. Only a light breeze was making the branches of that Argan tree swing to and fro. It was after two weeks did the villagers discover her body. She was buried in the nearby cemetery. Her parents and daughter were too much affected by the calamity. From that moment, they had been mourning their dead Laila. It was when Maria turned seventeen did she begin to forget about her mother and to start to contemplate her own future.

As for her father, no one mentioned him any more. Though too old now, Maria’s grandparents were still alive. One day, as she was coming from school, she ran hurriedly into her bedroom. She was in a hurry to watch some films. Her grandfather came home soon after her and called her, but she did not hear him. Then, he opened her bedroom’s door only to find her watching some romance films that her mother left there.

He shouted at her, and she switched the TV off. Of his own accord, he broke all the CDs at Maria’s presence. She fainted, dead.

THE END

By Omar BIHMIDINE
On 25/06/2010

The Living-room That Has Never Been Entered

At last, I arrived in Tafraout after Yuba, a very dear friend of mine , had implored me countless times to pay him a visit. Personally, I do not take any particular delight in visiting people, but Yuba was so special to me. It was in the early summer of 2010 when I did so. Soon after setting foot in Tafraout, Yuba came to drive me home. ‘Oh, what a marvellous town !’ I wondered. Then, he and I reached Toghza, his village, and everyone was happy about my arrival. I was very warmly welcomed. Actually, I had intended to spend the whole June in that exceptionally charming village.

Six days later, after having some rest and having had some traditional meals pertaining to that village, Yuba one day proposed to show me all the parts of his seemingly dilapidated house. It was traditionally attractive from the distance, though. He accompanied and showed me everything in the house, and only after some moments did I realise that he hesitated when we stopped at one big room. He skipped it and immediately avoided talking about it by suggesting that we would have a leisurely walk outside.

Though a trifle nonplussed and curious to know what made him hesitate the moment we got to that room, anyway, the walk we decided to have made me gave up the idea. We went to the nearby river, and I found water still flowing smoothly. I was enjoying the scenery, the landscapes and the golden rye plants. Ah, it was now the time of harvest. On the spur of the moment, that idea came back to me, and this time I made up my mind to ask him about the room.

‘ I think you forgot to show me one room, didn’t you ? ’ I asked at last.

‘ Well, that is a mere living room,’ Said Yuba.

‘ May I see it ? ‘ I asked out of curiosity.

‘ I don’t think you may, for I myself haven’t seen it yet, ’ replied Yuba, ‘ but I can tell you the whole story of it once we get home, ’ reassured Yuba.

Yuba had only his mother and one sister at home. His father died before his mother gave birth to him. Yuba earned his living by working as a pedlar selling natural milk. Well, he was satisfied with it, he once told me so. At that moment, I understood that the story he was going to tell me about the living-room was merely recounted to him by his living mother. One day as we sat down on the balcony , he suggested that he narrate the whole story to me from start to finish. I liked the idea, of course.

‘ Before my father’s death, my grandfather, who is still alive, had always warned my father not to open that room for us. At the time, I would think that he was afraid I might put it in disorder and the like. However, as I learnt later from my mother, in it, there is a window which looks on my grandparents’ porch where they sit together in the evenings. And because they did not want us to hear what they were talking about and to see them while enjoying themselves on the porch, they closed that window with bars, and it is still closed at the present, ’ recounted Yuba.

It was so unfortunate that I heard this real story from my best friend ever. Still, I was not yet convinced that this was the only reason why he and his mother were never allowed to enter this room even after his father’s death. And I was once again stimulated to probe more into other reasons. Then I asked Yuba if there were any more reasons.

‘ My mother once told me that my grandfather lives downstairs and the living room I am talking about lies above his bedroom. Soon after my father’s death, he came and changed the lock, and now he is the only one who owned the keys to it. From that moment on, he began to store his private belongings in it, and recently I heard that he was thinking of building another storey over it so that it would be the living room of his own forever. I believe that he doesn’t have the right to own it because my mother told me that it was my father who built it right after their wedding, ’ Added Yuba.

I was stunned to learn all these facts about the living room. Strangest of them is the fact that Yuba and his mother had never entered it.

Omar BIHMIDINE

Charity Sometimes Begins Next Door

Youssef, a very close friend of mine and also my neighbour for seventeen years now, one day asked me whether or not charity really begins at home. I was instantly at a loss for words at his mysterious question, for I did not yet know what made him pose it. Frankly, I had always believed in this quote, but my faithful friend’s question made me reconsider it.

At the time, I very well knew that most of Yousse’s family members were rich, and half of them even owned some companies based in Italy. During my stay with him in the same neighbourhood, I never doubted the fact that his rich uncles abroad did not provide some financial help for him and his mother. They should in fact have done so since his father ‘s death a few weeks ago.

I never took his problem seriously for some time untill one day when I learnt that one of his cousins frequently spent some money helping local companies whose aim was organizing football matches and festivals. I could hardly believe that, what a pity ! I once told Youssef. The crux of the matter was that Youssef was in dire need of money to provide himself with food and good schooling. And he felt too ashamed to ask his cousin for a hand. He once told me that this cousin gave him little money from time to time, but it was never enough. When I inquired about the sum, Youssef said that it was the same as that given to the poor.

‘ What a pity !’ I said sympathetically.

‘ It is so unkind of him, ‘ replied Youssef.

After much inquiry into Youssef’s situation and with the help of the cousin’s friends, I found out that his cousin had never been on good terms with Youssef’s father. Some said that the latter owe his cousin some money. The father’s death prevented his cousin from obtaining back the money. And what was worse was that the cousin began to loathe Youssef for all that his father did. Meanwhile it was well known that it was not only his cousin who felt hatred for my friend, but all his paternal relatives as well. Poor Youssef and his mother were not to blame at all, for they did not do anything bad to their relatives.

For me, it was also so queer to hear that the cousin’s aim behind giving help to those companies was mainly to berate Youssef and take revenge on his father. I learnt this only from some close friends of the cousin, but never dared to tell Youssef about it. ‘How could such people be so cruel to behave like this ? ‘ I once wondered. Oddly enough, this cousin sometimes invited some personages in the village to lunch, but never Youssef.

Still worse was the fact that his paternal aunt whom he respected so much favoured his cousins over him simply because Yousse was poor and the other cousins rich. She treated them so differently even though they should all be the same to her as her cousins. Every time she paid her relatives a visit, she always chose to stay with them except Youssef to whom she said only a hello. I had tried as much as possible to gather some information about Youssef’s family so as to answer his question to the fullest one day.

As Youssef was one day talking to his mother about their current misery his father incured upon themselves, she angrily replied that his father was not the only cause. She told him that when he was a kid, his cousins used to make fun of his playthings and of his clothing and the type of foodstuffs she used to feed him. She also stressed that his cousins’ parents never prevented their kids from behaving in this manner. This meant, she cried, that they always bore a grudge against us before his father’s death.

At last, Youssef knew everything about his family; he never expected any help from them from that moment on. After a certain period of time, I met him by chance while going to university. His face grew more cheerful and I was really curious to know why, but I did not ask him. We talked for some time about our studies, and as we were going to leave each other, I intervened to ask him :

‘ Does charity begin at home? ’ I asked curiously.

‘ Oh, I suppose so. But sometimes it begins next door, especially for me, ‘ replied Youssef.

Omar BIHMIDINE