— 2 —
The boy slowly opened his eyes. He wiggled his toes and fingers, and lifted his head. Overcome with dizziness, he set his head back down on what felt like straw. He was about twelve or thirteen years of age. His black hair fell halfway down his neck and seemed to have been cut with a rusty knife rather than the expert touch of a barber’s hand. His skin was olive-colored and his face was lean and hungry. His eyes had a wild quality about them, and gave him the appearance of a boy who had known few peaceful nights. There was an indomitable fierceness about him.
“Be careful, my friend. You have had quite a blow,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Suddenly, a face appeared over him. It was the face of a boy who looked to be about his own age. The boy’s skin was midnight black and his hair was cut quite short, almost to the scalp. He was handsome, with a square and solid jaw and bright, inquisitive eyes. Already, muscles had formed around his shoulders and neck. He, too, had the look of a warrior.
“Where am I?” the boy asked.
“You are in a place that God cannot see. Because God would never let a place such as this exist,” replied the black boy.
At that, the boy used all his energy to lift himself up, and sat leaning against a concrete wall. He noticed a stench—a foul mixture of rotten meat, urine, and feces. The room was completely dark, except for small windows on each wall where sunlight peeked in. Thick iron bars sealed the windows. The room was medium-to-large in size, perhaps thirty feet by thirty feet. Two wooden buckets had been placed in the middle of the floor, which was covered with straw. He saw other children sitting around the room, some looked to be younger than five years of age, but none seemed older than thirteen or fourteen. There was a mix of girls and boys in the room, a rarity in a Muslim culture. None of the children cried. They sat huddled up with one another against the walls. The older ones comforted the young ones.
“Who are you?” asked the boy.
“My name is Aseem. I have been in this place for three days. You arrived about six hours ago.” He knelt beside the boy. “That is a nasty welt on your head.”
The boy felt his forehead and discovered a bump the size of an egg, about four inches above his right eye, along his hairline. His hand fell to his cheek, where he felt the residue of what must surely have been dried blood that had dripped down his face.
“I do not remember much. A man grabbed me from my bed. I tried to fight him. That is all I know.”
“What is your name?” asked Aseem.
“My name is Tariq. I come from an orphanage in Tangier.”
“An orphan? Many here are orphans. I am from a tribe a long way away.”
“Were you kidnapped like me?”
“No. My father sold me to the local slave trader to settle a debt. It had been two dry seasons. My father is a farmer and there had not been enough crops. Being the youngest of seven, I was chosen.”
“How could your father do such a thing?” asked Tariq.
“When the day came for me to leave, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and explained to me that in order to save my mother and my brothers and sisters, he had to make a sacrifice. It was the only time I have seen my father cry,” said Aseem, who then shrugged. “So, I am resigned to my fate of being a slave.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Yes. It is a slave pit. We are waiting to be sold.”
“Sold to whom?” Tariq asked.
“I do not know.”
Suddenly the door opened and a huge man entered. Standing maybe six-foot-three, about two hundred and fifty pounds, the man had large, muscular arms and carried a whip. His head was bald and a bushy black beard covered his square face. His eyes were dark and sinister-looking. Anger emanated from his very soul.
“Okay. When I point to you, you will go out this door, walk to the end of the hall, and wait for me. Do you understand?” he roared.
Suddenly, a girl of about thirteen years of age cried out. “Mister, please! This is a mistake! I’m not supposed to be here. I was at a hotel in Tangier.” Her most distinguishing characteristics were her perfect English and her white skin. Every other child was of either African or Arab descent.
The man towered over her. “There is no mistake. Caucasian girls fetch the highest price. Ha!”
The girl burst into tears and, in a panic-filled moment, tried to run out the door. The man caught her with one hand and, in a single gesture, threw her against a stone wall, five feet away. She let out a shriek and curled into a ball. Her muffled cries echoed off the walls.
The man walked around the room and began pointing. One, two, three, four…until one after the other, the children got up and ran through the door and down the hallway. As the man came up to Tariq and Aseem, he pointed to them both. They rose and ran out of the room together, as instructed. Two other boys joined them. In line, all the children looked at one other. Everyone was between the ages of ten and thirteen, and all were obviously very scared. A few held hands. Although most were orphan boys who had been toughened by life on the streets, their fear was palpable. They waited like frightened innocents about to be executed.
“Okay. Walk out this door and do exactly as you are told,” the man yelled at them.
The door opened, and the boys—all quite thin and dressed mostly in rags—walked through in a single-file line. The children entered a large, dirty, circular space, which was enclosed by stands of Arab men. There were dozens and dozens of these men, all dressed in traditional robes, smoking hookahs, chatting incessantly, eating figs and flatbread, and drinking mint tea. The boys were instructed to stand in the center of the ring.
A man in a black robe followed the children into the ring. All chatting lowered to a murmur as he commanded the crowd’s attention.
“Gentlemen, I have for you a stock of exquisite slaves. These boys will ride and die for you. They are tough boys, of the right age and weight.”
“Have them show us their spirit!” called out someone from the crowd.
“Yes! Put them to the test!” another cried.
“Okay, okay.”
The man looked at the children. He had old, wrinkled brown skin and a long, skinny gray moustache. Bags sagged beneath his eyes.
“Slaves, when I say ‘go’ I want each of you to run to that rope right there and climb to the top. The first one to the top wins. The last one will get whipped. Do you understand?”
The children looked at him and then at a rope suspended from the ceiling. The rope hung directly to their right and was about thirty feet in height.
“Okay, then.” And, with little time for the boys to ready themselves, the man’s big voice commanded, “GO!”
Stunned, none of the children moved. Most of them just stared blankly at the man. A couple of them cried. A few were completely paralyzed with fear.
The large, muscled man who had led them into the ring was furious. “You heard him. Now, go!” And, with that, he cracked his whip, the tip of which hit a small boy on his back. The child let out a cry, terrifying all the other children. A second flick of the whip snapped over their heads. After that, slowly, the group of boys made their way to the rope and a few began to climb, cautiously.
“No! Faster!” the old, black-robed man shouted. “The first one to reach the top wins! This is a competition, you little idiots.”
The boys quickly understood and soon began to claw at each other to get to the rope. The leader was yanked down to the sand. Another was taken down by his neck. The area around base of the rope turned into a melee of small limbs and bodies. The crowd yelled in appreciation of the struggle.
Tariq, still dizzy, wasn’t making much progress. Boys kept tugging at him and pushing him down. He sensed defeat. But when he looked over to his right, he saw his new friend.
“Tariq,” shouted Aseem, “if we work together, we can do this. Are you with me?”
Tariq felt a sudden surge of encouragement. “Yes!”
“Okay, follow me.”
Aseem grabbed the boy next in line, who was trying to climb up, and yanked him down by his forearm. With his other arm, he grabbed Tariq’s hand and guided him to the rope. Not letting go of Aseem’s hand, Tariq placed his right foot on another smaller boy’s head and thrust himself upon the rope. Once he had secured a place, Tariq pulled Aseem up. A couple of boys grabbed at Aseem’s legs, but the firm grasp of Tariq’s hand kept him from falling. He kicked at the boys below them until they let go.
The two boys, now about eight feet off the ground, began scaling the rope. It was a thick, knotted rope that burned their skin. Tariq let out a yelp when his lost his footing and skidded down; a long rope burn etched into his calf.
“Keep going, Tariq,” encouraged Aseem. “We’re almost there!”
The boys kept climbing until, about five feet from the top, Tariq felt a hand grab his foot. He looked down and saw a rough-looking boy with long brown hair, a dirty face, and murder in his eyes.
“Let go!” ordered Tariq.
“No!” the boy yelled back.
“Let go, or I’ll kick you,” warned Tariq.
“Go ahead!”
Tariq looked at the boy. He didn’t want to kick him, but he understood that he must. Life at the orphanage had taught him well. When older boys had tried to steal his food, he learned he had to stand up to them even though they were usually bigger and stronger. If he hadn’t done so, he would have been seen as a victim and a target for constant bullying. Tariq had been in many fights, even a few with a knife. Over time, he gained respect in the orphanage and even the older boys left him alone. He remembered the first law of the streets: never, ever back down from anyone.
Tariq took one last look at the boy and quickly performed a scissor kick. It was a move that he had perfected playing futbol (soccer). Shifting all of his weight to his opposite leg and letting it fly, his shin caught the boy squarely in the face, knocking him back and off the rope. The boy fell twenty feet to the sand, landing on his back with an audible “oomph.” The wind knocked out of him, the boy gasped for air as panic filled his face.
“Did you see that?” asked one of the Arab buyers.
“That boy has spirit,” said another, loudly, in agreement.
Aseem and Tariq continued to the top of the rope. As a gracious sign of team sportsmanship, Tariq allowed Aseem to touch the ceiling first. Aseem had helped him, and Tariq never forgot a friend.
They looked down at the other boys still climbing beneath them. A couple had given up or fallen and were now lying in the sand next to the boy Tariq had kicked off. Aseem and Tariq waited for the rest of the boys climbing the rope to reach them at the top, and then they all slowly returned to the bottom in a systematic order. The mayhem of the scramble up was now replaced with the civility of the descent.
The boys returned to a single-file line. Some were dirty, and most were scraped up, with scratches of blood etched into their skin. Tariq was breathing heavily.
“Okay, the bidding will commence,” said the black-robed man, obviously the auctioneer. With this, he pointed to Aseem.
“How about this one? He was the winner, after all. A fine specimen, with natural agility.”
“One thousand,” a man yelled.
“Eleven hundred,” followed another.
“I will pay one thousand five hundred.”
“Sixteen hundred.”
“Two thousand,” a voice yelled out, above the shouted bids of the others.
“We have two thousand! Going once, going twice…sold to the family of Caid Ali Tamzali!”
The trade continued until, oddly, all the boys were sold except for Tariq. Some went for five hundred and others for quite a bit more. Those who had quit at the rope sold for less, while the stronger and more aggressive boys sold for much more.
Tariq stood by himself, obviously self-conscious and worried.
“Okay, we are now down to the last slave, who, if you’ll recall, actually placed second. Who will start the bidding?”
“Fifteen hundred,” shouted a voice.
“Sixteen hundred.”
“Eighteen hundred.”
“Two thousand.”
“Two thousand two hundred,” the initial bidding voice said.
“Two thousand two hundred going once, going twice…sold! Again, to the family of Caid Ali Tamzali,” announced the man in the black robe.
As fate would have it, Aseem and Tariq had been sold to the same family. And because of their skill, they also fetched the highest prices of the night.
The two boys were shuffled off into a separate room. Once there, they were told to sit down by the large, bearded guard. All of the other boys who had been sold were also in the room, but seated at different benches. The guard placed shackles of steel chain around each boy’s wrists and ankles. As the guard did so, the black-robed auctioneer entered the room, with the group of Arab buyers following behind him. One by one, they paid the auctioneer in cash and left with their new slaves. Finally, the auctioneer stopped in front of Aseem and Tariq.
“Okay, four thousand two hundred for the pair—a good deal. I think you’ve got the best jockeys in the crop,” said the auctioneer.
“I should hope so, for the sum we paid,” a fat and round man replied. He sweated profusely through his white scarf. Another man stood beside him. A tall, Caucasian man dressed in a western-style business suit.
The fat man handed an envelope to the auctioneer and another to the white man.
“This settles our business here,” said the fat man.
The white man bowed his head slightly, and then quickly left the room. The auctioneer went along with the other Arabs and their slaves.
“Okay, you two. My name is Zahir. I am now your master and owner. Do as I say. Any disobedience or any attempt to escape will be met with my whip. Do you understand?” asked the sweaty, fat man named Zahir.
“Yes,” both Aseem and Tariq replied.
“Good. Follow me,” ordered Zahir.
The two boys slowly made their way behind Zahir, struggling with the weight of their new shackles and the awkwardness of walking with chains around their ankles. He took them outside to a wagon drawn by camels. He ordered them to sit in the back and tied them both to a rail on the side of the wagon.
“No funny business. There are three days of desert in any direction. Do not think of escaping—you would die and get eaten by the buzzards. Besides, where I’m taking you is like a fun playground. Okay?” Zahir laughed and walked away.
The boys looked at each other. The wagon was uncovered and the hot Saharan sun beat down on them. It was perhaps a hundred and ten degrees.
Tariq surveyed the surroundings. They were in some kind of caravan. Their wagon sat adjacent to the main building, which had held the slave auction. The building stood alone, with dozens of tents poking up around its perimeter. Tariq looked closer at the tents, and the people milling about and buying.
“This is some kind of black market. Look, that man over there is selling guns. Another over there is selling snakes.”
“Do you see a way to escape?” asked Aseem.
“Perhaps, but getting out of these chains will take some doing. The lock looks easy enough to pick, if I had something to pick it with.”
“You can pick locks?”
“On the streets of Tangier, one learns many useful tricks to survive.”
Aseem watched Tariq as he tried and failed to wiggle out of his arm shackles. They were just too tight. Aseem surveyed the surrounding landscape and looked up at the mountains that lay directly before them.
“When I was taken from my village, they brought me here by wagon. I tried to track the distance in my head as we went along. I believe we headed south and then west, but I do not know this area.”
Tariq nodded in agreement, and gave up trying to free his wrists.
“When I turned thirteen, my father had me live by myself in the mountains for seven days,” said Aseem. “All he gave me was a knife for survival. He gave me one piece of advice, which was to always think before doing. In the wilderness, small mistakes can mean the difference between life and death. Not watching your footsteps and stepping on a loose rock can twist an ankle. Being frivolous with food and water can mean dehydration or hunger. The lesson was to always think before moving and to be aware of your surroundings.”
“And, what do you think of our surroundings now?” Tariq asked.
“I think we are in a great deal of danger. I think we were purchased with the intention that we would die, and die quickly. I also think that you and I might have only one opportunity for escape, and we do not want to squander it. Any attempt to escape would only draw attention to ourselves, and would be punishable by death, so we must be sure that if we attempt it, we succeed.”
“Why do you think we are in danger?” Tariq asked.
“That man in the black robe. He said that we will ‘ride and die’ for their pleasure. I am not sure what that means, but it cannot be good.”
Tariq looked at Aseem and then at the sun overhead.
“I agree with you. The chances of escape are slim. We cannot hide and we cannot run. But I do not plan on dying for the amusement of these people.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Aseem.
“Okay, then. At our earliest opportunity, we will escape. I will look out for your back if you look out for mine.” Tariq stuck out his hand as an offer of friendship.
“Tariq, I think that relying on each other is the only chance we have for survival. We have a saying in my tribe, ‘The pack is always stronger than the lone wolf.’”
They shook hands and even managed a little smile.
The two boys sat in the wagon for two full hours under the hot sun. They barely spoke, but both managed to get in a fitful nap as flies buzzed around them. Tariq’s lips felt chapped and dry. He was thirsty and very hungry. He could smell something delicious. As he looked about, his eyes came upon a tent; there, framed in the doorway, he could see some men eating lamb kabob and couscous. The aroma of the grilled meat filled the air, making his stomach pains even worse.
Finally, their new master, Zahir, came out of the building with two more slaves in tow—the white girl, who had earlier caused such a commotion, and a small, impish boy of about eleven or twelve. The boy wore round, tortoise-shell glasses. Zahir brought them to the back of the wagon, and shackled them in next to Aseem and Tariq. The two new slaves said nothing.
Zahir shouted to an older man, whom they hadn’t yet noticed. “Shatam, cover this wagon, and get these slaves some food and water. I have to settle a few things. We leave in half an hour.”
Old Shatam, obviously a slave himself, bowed slightly and went about covering the wagon with a light red fabric that, although thin, offered a great deal of shade. Next, he brought over a jug of water and a plate of hummus, pita bread, and dolmas. He said nothing to the children.
The four young captives began to eat and drink. All were famished and suffering from dehydration. There was really only enough food for two, and it was quickly devoured. They drank half the water and the three boys agreed it best to conserve and ration the rest for the journey ahead.
“What is your name?” Tariq asked the little boy.
“Fez.”
“Where do you come from, Fez?”
“A small village. Our tribe was moving to a new location when we were ambushed by bandits. They killed my entire family. I was spared and sold to this place,” he said softly, looking at the floor in the front of him.
“I am sorry, Fez. My name is Tariq and this is Aseem. We will look after you, okay?”
Fez didn’t seem inspired by these words of kindness. He nodded solemnly and continued to stare at the ground.
“That man they call Zahir, he is the man who massacred my family and my people,” Fez said sadly.
None of the other children knew what to say to this. They all looked at Fez with a mixture of fear, shock, and sorrow on their faces.
“He killed your family?” Tariq asked.
“Yes. In the mountains, he ambushed our entire village and slaughtered everyone but the children, who were spared only to be sold as slaves,” Fez said, as a few tears ran down his cheeks. He was such a small boy, and so studious in his glasses, that watching him cry was painful for the other children.
The girl, who none of them knew, slid over and hugged Fez; he buried himself deep in her embrace. It was the first human contact he’d had since he’d watched Zahir butcher his mother and father. She patted his head and whispered to him that he would be okay.
Aseem turned to the girl. “What about you? What is your name?”
“I don’t think she speaks Arabic,” Tariq mentioned.
The girl’s dried tears smudged the dirt that was now caked onto her face. Her dress, once probably quite nice, was ruined with dirt and looked as if she had been wearing it for days. Her blond hair fell halfway to her shoulders.
“I speak Arabic. I lived in Cairo as a child,” she whispered.
The three boys stared at her, as none of them had ever seen a white girl before, and they weren’t quite sure what to do.
“Where are you from?” Aseem asked.
The girl ignored his question.
“They said that white girls bring the highest price and the most pleasure in the harem. Do you know what that means?”
She hugged Fez one last time and, when he smiled up at her, she let him out of her embrace.
Aseem just looked at her, blankly.
“They said if I didn’t do as I was told, they would hold a hot iron to my face and brand me for life. Then I would be ugly. An outcast.”
Before she could say any more, Zahir appeared.
“Listen. We have one week’s journey ahead of us. We stop every two hours to go to the toilet. You will eat once a day. If you try to escape, your hands will be tied and you will be forced to walk behind the wagon. Do you understand?” asked Zahir.
Everyone nodded slightly.
“Where are we going?” asked Tariq.
“You have been sold to Caid Ali Tamzali. You are his property now and will be for the rest of your miserable lives. For some of you, this may not be for more than a few weeks; for others, perhaps fifty years or more. Let go of any memory of your past life. It no longer exists. You are slaves now,” he said and walked away.
The wagon began to move. It was the last in a caravan of seven wagons and various camels. Slowly, the caravan moved away from the trading post and into the Sahara desert. The children watched the building slowly retreat into the distance, until it was a just a speck on the horizon. They did not talk for a long time.
Finally, Aseem spoke up.
“You did not tell us your name,” he noted, addressing the girl.
“My name is Margaret Owen. My family was vacationing here in Morocco from England. I grew up in London,” she said softly.
“It is good to meet you, Margaret. Do not worry about what Zahir said. There is always a way out,” assured Aseem.
“How?”
“I do not know at the moment. But I do know that I am not destined to be a slave and neither are you. You are much too pretty and proper. Tariq and I are already planning an escape.”
“What escape?” she asked.
“We are working on a plan. Until we have one, please do not worry. Like I told little Fez over there—we will take care of you.”
Margaret smiled at this kind gesture—a young boy promising to take care of her. Imagine! She didn’t want to seem rude, but she had little faith that those two boys—both likely younger than she was—could do anything to help her escape. She didn’t know what to think. Only two days ago, she had been in the comfort of her family in one of Morocco’s finest hotels. Now, she was tied up in a wagon as a slave. She felt like crying, but she didn’t seem to have any tears.
The sun began to fade in the distance, giving way to the stars and the heavens above. The temperature dropped considerably in the desert at night, so the four new friends huddled together in the wagon for warmth as they waited for morning.