— 5 —
Three Years Earlier
Tariq, just ten years old, awoke with the early sunrise, as he did every morning. He, along with a pack of a dozen or so other orphans, slept beneath a dock on the Tangier waterfront. They used their bodies as pillows and huddled together for warmth, perhaps covering themselves with a garbage bag or worn blanket found in a scrap heap.
Despite his young age, he was the undeclared leader of this particular band of urchins. Just two days prior, he repelled a rival gang’s attempt to take over their spot under the dock. At an early age, Tariq learned the secrets of combat—most importantly, the need to take out the leaders of any enemy as early as possible. Although the rival boy was three years older, six inches taller, and thirty pounds heavier, Tariq had hit him upside the shoulder with a maggot-ridden wooden board. The boy dropped to the sand and started crying. His friends, scared by the sight of their bawling leader, fled into the city.
Such was the life of a street orphan in Tangier. Every day was a constant struggle for survival—whether digging in trash for a piece of stale bread, running from the corrupt Tangier police, or fending off rival foes.
“Let’s go!” Tariq said to his best friend Aji.
Aji was Tariq’s age and had been an orphan since the age of five, when his mother had died in a wagon accident. His father was a drunk and a very mean man. He beat his son repeatedly, until Aji ran away to the streets. There he met Tariq and fell in with his group of orphans. They had been fast and best friends since that first day. Tariq, never having known his own parents, felt a soft spot for any child joining the orphan fraternity.
Aji wiped the sand from his eyes, stood up, and ran to catch up to Tariq. His stomach, as usual, was empty and grumbling.
They made their way on the dock to one of the many fishing boats preparing for the day’s catch. The fishermen, with their sinewy muscles and bronze skins, went about preparing the boat for launch by coiling rope, tightening lines, studying the weather for possible storms, sharpening gaff hooks, and most importantly, preparing bait. Mostly, this last chore consisted of taking live sardines, hooking them on the line, or throwing them into a water bucket for future use. Sometimes they split the guts for chum.
Tariq and Aji silently kneeled about ten feet from a boat with a particularly nice captain. The laws of begging were understood by all parties. The boys never made a sound, never pleaded their hunger, and the sailors never acknowledged their presence. They simply went about preparing the boat, without so much as looking up at the two boys. After twenty minutes, when the boat was ready for the voyage, a sailor might casually flip the sardine guts and a few whole sardines in the direction of the boys. The boys would silently pick up the scrap fish and run down the dock. Never a word was spoken; it was just a quiet understanding between a working man and a couple of boys trying to survive.
Today, the crew prepared the boat as usual, even going so far as to cast off the lines, allowing the boat to drift a few feet from the dock. Just when it looked like Tariq and Aji would go hungry, the captain tossed the sardine guts and a haul of ten sardines to the boys. This time he gave them a slight wink. The boys quickly grabbed the fish, waved to the captain, and divided their breakfast.
Tariq hungrily consumed half of the guts and then sucked on the raw sardines. They were salty, so salty, but the protein made his stomach growl a little less.
They walked back up the dock and into the city streets of Tangier. The city was just coming to life. Merchants swept the sidewalks in front of their stores. Cafés brewed coffee, and mothers sent their children off to school. It was a world that did not belong to Tariq and Aji. They were merely outsiders to normal society. As society’s rejects, they had developed not only an affinity for survival, but also a distrust of anyone in the mainstream. Each day was a different, degrading experience, to the point that they no longer noticed the frowns and sneers from bystanders. They barely acknowledged the shoves and profanities from annoyed merchants when they begged for food. Such was the life of a street orphan.
Tariq’s stomach still whined with emptiness.
“Aji, since today is your birthday, I have a special surprise for you. We’re going to eat like kings!” Tariq proclaimed.
“How?”
“You know the Hotel Continental? Each Sunday, they prepare a buffet fit for the fattest of monarchs. Eggs from the biggest hens, bacon as thick as your thumb, pancakes, lamb roti, cakes, and rice.”
“How are we going to get in there? They won’t even let us in the door.”
“Not the front door. But they have a patio in back where all the rich Europeans eat. All we need to do is to hide in the bushes—we’ll watch and wait until someone with a particularly big plate of food leaves it for just a second. And then we pounce!”
“It sounds like a good plan,” Aji agreed.
“Of course it is. But we can only do it one time, because the hotel guards will catch on. So we need to make it count.”
“Let’s go!”
The two boys quickly ran down the alleys and side streets and in ten minutes were standing outside the Hotel Continental. Two doormen stood at the front door, guarding the entrance. Tariq and Aji nonchalantly hid behind a large potted plant and then crawled on their bellies to the side of the building, just out of the view of the doormen. The side of the building was on a sea cliff. They walked down the cliff and began climbing the scaffolding that supported the underside of the rear deck. Up above, on the deck, Europeans ate at tables under large white umbrellas. Shrubs and planters lined the perimeter of the deck, to prevent the hotel guests from catching a glimpse of the unseemly buildings of downtown Morocco. These barriers were a perfect cover for the two boys.
They climbed ten, fifteen, twenty, and finally thirty-five feet up the wooden scaffolding. Like monkeys climbing trees, they scaled upwards in only a matter of minutes. Soon, both were hidden in a shrub on the deck. Only four feet away, a German couple had just sat down with two heaping plates of breakfast. The food was piled high and wide on both plates.
“Ah, this looks wonderful,” said the husband, a rotund older German man with a bald head, handlebar moustache, and generous midsection.
“The crab Benedict looks delightful. Too bad no strudel,” said his wife, an equally portly woman with blond hair and rosy cheeks.
“Hmmm,” the husband said, eagerly chewing his food.
The boys watched the couple finish their plates and drink two cups of coffee. The man belched before loosening his belt a notch and pushing himself away from the table.
“I’m going for seconds,” he proclaimed.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” said his wife. “Please bring me back some French toast, scrambled eggs, and some pieces of cantaloupe. I’m trying to watch my figure.”
Her husband nodded in approval and returned to the buffet line, filling his plate equally as high as the first time. He made a second plate for his wife, returned to the table, and sat down. He had just started to eat when he spied some fresh doughnuts being dipped in hot oil and topped with chocolate, raspberry jam, or powdered sugar. He quickly stood up and made his way to the doughnut stand, leaving the two full plates on the table.
Tariq looked around; the deck was only a third full and most people were too concerned with their own food or company to notice an innocent shrub moving around. With the dexterity of a cat and the quickness of a hummingbird, he reached out and grabbed the two plates of food, bringing them back behind the foliage, safely hidden from view. Tariq and Aji moved a couple of shrubs down and away from the Germans, watching for their return.
The man came back to his seat with three doughnuts and prepared to settle into a second course, when he noticed his plates had gone missing. He looked around, looked at the shrub, looked behind him, and even looked under the table. A waiter walked to his table.
“Excuse me sir, is there a problem?” asked the waiter.
“I had two full plates of food right here and now they are gone. Did you clear them?”
“No sir. Perhaps one of the other waiters cleared your table.”
“But I was only gone for a second.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s a full buffet, please help yourself.”
“Fine. But darn it, I was looking forward to that food. Now I have to walk up again. Oh, never mind,” he said, and began swearing in German under his breath.
Tariq and Aji smiled and sat on the edge of the deck, their feet suspended a hundred feet above the ocean below. They were safely camouflaged from the hotel patrons and could eat their breakfast in silence. They stared at the ocean and happily lapped up the sausages and pancakes, hash browns, crepes, and smoked salmon. They hadn’t eaten this well in over a month. Although they were happy their bellies were finally full, they were also a bit sad being around the rich European families, with their fine cotton shirts and new leather loafers. Being around families always made Tariq feel sad inside. He knew he would never have one of his own.
“Tariq, what do you think will happen to us when we grow older?” Aji asked.
“I don’t know. I’d like to be a fisherman.”
“I talked with that woman at the soap market — you know, the fat lady who wears a red wig? She said that orphans like us either end up dead or in jail by the time we’re twenty.”
“Sheesh, who cares? Do you know how old twenty is? It’s like forever from now,” Tariq said.
“I guess you’re right.”
Aji hesitated; then continued.
“It’s just that I get sad sometimes. I miss my mother and I wish my father wanted me.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I could go back to my father.”
“He would just beat you more.”
Aji sat in silence at this.
“Don’t you want a family, Tariq?”
Tariq thought about this for a moment.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I dream about having a mother and father. Or, that my real mother will find me. But I don’t really think about it much.”
“We’re kind of like brothers, Tariq.”
“That’s right, my brother Aji. I’ll never leave you, Aji.”
“I’ll never leave you, either, Tariq. Together to the end!”
“Happy Birthday, my friend.”
They finished their plates and set them on the deck. Completely satisfied, they carefully made their way down the scaffolding, crept past the doorman, and were soon wandering the streets of Tangier. They visited all their familiar haunts. Most days, their time consisted solely of finding food and begging for coins. Now, with their bellies full, they found themselves feeling much more content and almost carefree. For one day, they felt like typical boys. They played cricket and hide-and-seek, and even did a little fishing, although neither of them caught anything. Aji found a five-dirham coin, so they were able to buy couscous for dinner.
The sun was setting and the two sat in a park and watched the soft glow of red and yellow. In the distance, Muslims made their call to Mecca and prayers rang out across the city.
“Tariq, this was my best birthday ever,” Aji said.
“No problem, Aji,” Tariq replied and smiled.
When the sun had finally set, they left the park and began the journey back to their usual spot underneath the dock. The day had been so good, they wanted to extend it. They sang and laughed and told jokes. In their absent-mindedness, they lost their way. Soon, they were in a part of town that could be considered enemy territory. The ghettos—or medinas—of Tangier were no different from the poorest parts of any other major city. City blocks became properties of gangs. Turf was established. To enter a foreign gang’s territory was to risk life and limb.
Tariq stopped mid-step.
“Aji, do you know where we are?” he asked.
Aji looked around.
Tariq nodded in agreement.
Muhammad El Hadji was fifteen years old and the most feared boy in the orphan underground. He had not yet graduated to adulthood and the full rank of criminal, but that was only a matter of time. He had been orphaned at five years old when his parents were killed by a corrupt police chief. Muhammad took to the streets and was a hellion from the start. At age ten, he killed another boy over a lost wager. At twelve, he was already extorting money from local merchants. At one point, he had attempted to move in on the gambling racket in his neighborhood, but that proved too big of a move for a boy of his age. The local gangsters beat him within an inch of his life and broke both of his thumbs. Since then, he had resigned himself to terrorizing orphans and committing petty theft, but his reputation was still that of a ruthless thug.
Tariq and his friends were considered too small of fish to be bothered by Muhammad. One of them might catch a beating from him once in a while, but that was it. There were so many orphans in Tangier that for Muhammad to try to control all of them would be like trying to catch schools of fish with a glass jar. At first, they were everywhere, and then, nowhere. Tariq and his friends slipped in and out of the shadows, remaining safely anonymous.
Still, they didn’t like the idea of being in Muhammad’s territory after dark. He might take it as a slight to his authority.
Both boys began to walk faster and to look around nervously. Their chatter and joking stopped. Block after block, they moved stealthily and silently, hoping to avoid any detection or suspicion. They were three blocks from a local police station. Although the police could be even more of a headache than Muhammad, at the moment the boys felt maybe they could provide them with some amount of safety.
But that’s when Tariq saw them.
Just ahead, three boys were leaning against a wall, their silhouettes barely visible in the darkness. They were staring at Tariq and Aji, watching their every move.
“Walk forward. Don’t look them in the eye. If they get in our way, let me do the talking,” Tariq instructed Aji.
The two boys continued to walk, staring straight ahead. Tariq and Aji were about ten feet from the neighborhood boys when the three of them emerged from the shadows and blocked their path.
“Eh, what do we have here? Rats? What are you rats doing in our neighborhood?” one of them asked.
“Nothing. Just walking,” Tariq answered.
“Just walking? Rats don’t walk; they scamper and hide in gutters. Why aren’t you in a gutter, rat?”
“We’re not rats.”
“I say you’re a rat. You’re less than a rat.”
“We were just walking,” Tariq answered, trying to remain calm.
At that point, another taller boy joined the three. He had shaggy black hair and peach fuzz above his lip. In his right ear, a gold earring.
It was Muhammad.
“What do we have here?” he asked.
“Some rats in our territory,” the other boy told him.
“Don’t you know this is our neighborhood, rats? I’m sick of rats in this city. You look so ugly. You smell. Don’t you have a home?” Muhammad asked disgustingly.
“Don’t you?” Aji said.
“What did you say to me, rat?” Muhammad said, and pushed Aji.
Suddenly, the four boys surrounded Aji and Tariq, who now stood back to back. Although they were much smaller than the other boys—and petrified—they did not show fear.
Tariq understood the law of the street. He knew could not show fear. He could not back down. To do so would brand him a coward. Once identified as such, he would be subject to constant beatings and ridicule. It was better to stand up for himself, endure a beating and show honor.
He didn’t see the first blow. It came from his left. It wasn’t such a hard punch; it surprised him, more than anything. He bent his knees and lunged straight into the belly of Muhammad. Surprised, Muhammad was knocked back a foot, but easily kept his balance and threw Tariq to the ground. He brought his right foot up and kicked Tariq square in the cheek. Tariq struggled to his feet but Muhammad easily threw him down again.
“What are you doing, rat? Trying to tackle me? Are you crazy?” Muhammad yelled, with a look of hatred and murder in his black eyes. He seemed to go crazy. It seemed as if a lifetime of suppressed rage rose up and shot out of him like a fire hydrant.
“Let’s teach these rats a lesson. Hold this rat down,” Muhammad instructed two of the boys, who then held Tariq down by his hands and feet.
The other boy put Aji in a chokehold. Muhammad began hitting Aji relentlessly.
“No,” Tariq yelled.
Aji managed to break free and kicked Muhammad in the groin. Muhammad fell to his knees in pain. Aji broke away and tried to run but was tackled by the other boy.
Muhammad, with murder in his eyes, grabbed a stick and brought it down hard on Aji’s temple.
Aji dropped to the ground, listless and limp.
Dead.
“NO!” Tariq yelled.
Muhammad was slumped over, out of breath. He turned Aji over onto his back. Blood spilled down from the back of his head onto the city streets. His eyes, still open, stared back at Muhammad. Muhammad kicked him to ensure he was dead. Aji’s lifeless body did not move.
Muhammad stared at Tariq.
“You’re next!” Muhammad spat. Walking to Tariq, Muhammad raised the stick high over his head, about to bring it down on Tariq’s skull.
Tariq prepared for the blow. He looked at his best friend’s dead body in the street. He saw his life behind him. He prepared to die. Closing his eyes, he said a small prayer.
Until it stopped.
Inexplicably. Miraculously. The blow did not come.
Tariq looked up and saw that Muhammad had been knocked to the ground. A shadowy figure—a stranger—moved swiftly and fast, knocking down the two boys holding Tariq. The mysterious stranger wheeled around and struck Muhammad again, this time with a blow to the head.
Muhammad staggered and took off running down the alley. His underlings joined him and they all soon sprinted away.
Tariq lay on the ground. Blood streamed down his cheek, mixed with salty tears. He started crying uncontrollably—a combination of adrenaline, shock, and grief at witnessing his best friend’s murder.
The stranger went to Aji’s body, lifted it up carefully, and spoke to Tariq.
“Let us go and bury your friend,” the voice said. It was a feminine voice, soft and melodic.
Tariq wiped his tears and followed the stranger, who carried Aji’s body. They loaded it in the back of a small wagon led by a donkey. The stranger covered Aji’s body with a rug and motioned for Tariq to get in the cab next to her. Tariq looked at Aji one last time and saw the medallion of a black panther hanging from his neck by a leather strap. Aji had believed the medallion was good luck, and it was his only real possession. Tariq removed the medallion from around Aji’s neck, put it in his pocket, and joined the lady.
Quickly, she drew in the reins, and the donkey began trotting up the city street.
Tariq looked at her. She wasn’t a Moroccan, or even an Arab woman. She looked different. Yes, she had black hair like an Arab, but her skin wasn’t as dark, and her eyes were different. Skinnier, somehow. She wasn’t young, but she wasn’t old, either. Her attire was entirely black, even her shawl. Normally, Muslim women only wore black when they were in mourning.
“My name is Zijuan,” she said.
Tariq said nothing.
“I am sorry for your loss. We will bury your friend tonight. He did not deserve to die this way,” she said.
“It was his birthday,” Tariq muttered.
Zijuan looked at Tariq. She had seen so much tragedy in Tangier. So many young lives wasted. So much potential squandered. She wished that burying this boy would be an exception. The fact was, every week she buried another orphan. Some due to malnutrition, others to disease, but most of them died violently, killed by the police or rival gangs.
They continued for a mile out of town, away from any housing developments. The moon was full and illuminated the dark path in front of them. They came to a small cemetery, its entrance marked with a large olive tree. The graves were marked with stones and numbered about one hundred.
Zijuan took a shovel from the back of the carriage and began digging. At first, Tariq watched her. But after a few minutes, he got out of the cart and went to her.
“Let me. It’s my job. He was my friend,” he said.
She stopped, stared at him, and handed him the shovel. He began to dig, one scoop at a time, until he was covered in dirt and had dug a hole deep enough for Aji’s body.
“Come with me,” she said.
Together, they wrapped Aji’s body in the rug, careful to tuck in the sides, and together they lifted the body and brought it to the grave. The body was heavy, heavier than Tariq thought a starving young boy could weigh. They gently lowered his body in the hole.
“What was his name?” Zijuan asked.
“Aji,” Tariq said.
“Put your hands together and let us say a prayer for your friend,” Zijuan instructed.
Zijuan lowered her head, put her hands together in front of her chest, and began to silently pray. Tariq did nothing. He did not pray. He just stared at his friend’s body—wrapped in a knotty old rug, lying in a makeshift grave. He felt numb.
When she finished her prayer, Zijuan started filling the hole with dirt. Tariq stood next to her, dirty and bloodied.
“You did not pray,” she said.
“I don’t believe in God anymore.”
“God did not kill your friend.”
“But God let it happen.”
“I think God sent me to protect you,” she said.
“But you didn’t protect Aji.”
“I know you are hurting inside. But you must say a prayer for your friend.”
“What should I say?”
“What would you want him to hear?”
Tariq thought for a moment. Zijuan stopped shoveling and waited for him.
“God, here is my friend, Aji. Today was his birthday. We went to the Hotel Continental and ate a very good breakfast. Aji’s favorite food was moussaka. His favorite game was cricket. He was my best friend. Please look out for him. I will miss him very much.”
“That was an excellent prayer,” she said and began shoveling again.
In spite of everything, Tariq felt much better having said goodbye to his friend.
Zijuan finished shoveling the dirt and packed it tightly.
“Find some stones to place on the grave,” she instructed Tariq.
Tariq took some time and gathered the ten best stones he could find. Together, they made a little sculpture on top of his grave. Zijuan took a piece of paper from the carriage, lit it, and placed it next to the stones. She pulled a pomegranate from her pocket and placed it on the grave as well. She said some words silently.
Tariq stood in silence watching Zijuan.
Then Zijuan motioned for Tariq to sit down.
“Tell me about yourself,” Zijuan asked.
Tariq shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground.
“Who were those boys that killed your friend and were about to kill you?”
Tariq said nothing.
“I imagine you’re an orphan without a family or home?”
Again, Tariq said nothing.
Zijuan gently placed her index finger under his chin and brought his eyes to meet hers.
“Tariq, I run an orphanage. I would like for you to join our family. You will have a home and food and, most importantly, an education.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why are you helping me? Nobody ever helps me.”
“Oh, Tariq, you poor little boy. I help you because I know your pain. But you need to know that life doesn’t have to be this way.”
“I don’t care.”
“Come with me. I can provide you with a home,” said Zijuan.
“It’s my fault he’s dead.”
“What?”
“I’m the one that kept him out late for his birthday. It was my idea to steal food from the hotel. If it weren’t for me, Aji would still be alive.”
“Tariq, I want you to listen to me. Never allow yourself to become a victim. There will be many, many people who will try to keep you down. They will spit on you, call you a dirty orphan, and treat you as a second-class citizen. Do not give into being a victim and do not ever give in to guilt. It was never your fault for trying to show your friend a good birthday. It is solely the fault of those other boys that your friend died. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s take you to your new home.”
Zijuan and Tariq rode silently in the carriage. Tariq suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue. After a few minutes, he drifted into a deep sleep.
Tariq awoke the next morning. He had slept in her guest room on a bed just below a window. It was the first time he had slept in a real bed in over three months. What awoke him was the smell of cooked rice, eggs, and vegetables. The smells were wonderful, and a smile formed on his face. On a chair next to his bed was a brand new outfit of brown pants, a nice red shirt, and goat-leather sandals.
“Tariq, I was just about to wake you. Please take a bath. I’ve prepared one for you in the lavatory. Afterwards, please put those clothes on,” said Zijuan’s voice from another room.
Tariq tiptoed to the lavatory and sure enough, a bath was waiting for him; steam from the hot water rose up and covered the mirror.
Slowly, he put his toes, then his foot, then his leg, and finally his entire body in the bath. A bar of soap lay to one side. He took the bar and thoroughly cleaned himself. A bath was considered a luxury. Some of the other orphanages had baths and he loved to just sit and soak. Most of the time, he had to wash himself in the river with the sewage and the cold water. He took his time, and after thirty minutes he emerged from the bath, toweled himself off, and put on the new clothes. They felt very good and were brand new. They were probably made from Egyptian cotton of the finest quality. He looked at himself in the mirror, and saw that he looked like a regular schoolboy.
He walked into Zijuan’s living room, which sat between the kitchen and the door to her bedroom. Outside was a small deck with a small table and two wooden chairs.
“My goodness, I thought you might be in that bath all morning. Here, let me prepare some eggs for you. Go ahead and sit outside.”
He did as he was told. The terrace room was on the second story. Below him lay a large courtyard with a fountain and a statue of a fat man. The courtyard was very nice, blanketed completely in grass and surrounded by tall bamboo for privacy.
Zijuan brought a plate of three eggs over-easy, an extra-large helping of rice, and a pile of vegetables and placed it in front of Tariq. He began devouring the food.
Zijuan laughed watching him eat at such speed. The food scarcely touched his lips. She was accustomed to starving orphans, and they all ate the same way: as if the plate of food might disappear if they didn’t finish it in a minute’s time.
“Tariq, this is your first lesson. You must slow down when you eat. When you eat slowly, the food has time to digest, and it will stay in your stomach longer. Chew your food—seven chews and then swallow.”
Tariq did as he was told, slowing down and counting each chew.
“Now, hold the fork like this, not with your entire fist but with just your thumb and your index and middle fingers,” she instructed him.
Tariq held the fork as he was instructed, and it felt quite awkward. But a hot meal was worth a little awkwardness.
“When you’re finished we will burn your clothes,” Zijuan said.
“Why?” he asked, with a full mouth.
“Because it is bad luck to keep clothes from a funeral. It attracts demons.”
Zijuan watched him as a mother watches a child. She had seen and cared for too many orphans, yet she still felt such compassion for these children who had endured such a hard life.
Tariq stopped chewing and looked at her.
“What happens when we die?” he asked.
“Are you worried about your friend?”
“All I can think about are memories of him. Just yesterday, we were laughing together and sitting over the ocean. Now he is gone and I don’t know where.”
Zijuan brushed his hair and brought him in close for a hug.
“Each religion believes something different.”
“What do you believe?” he asked.
“I am a Buddhist. I believe in reincarnation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your friend’s spirit will be reborn in someone or something else. That this is just one of many lives we live—and with each life we learn.”
He sat for a moment, deep in thought.
“I miss him so much.”
“I know, Tariq,” she said. Before she could continue, Tariq began to cry uncontrollably, hugging her tightly. His tears soaked her robe. For once, he finally felt safe. As an orphan, he had learned to suppress fear and grief, and he hadn’t cried in years. In the presence of Zijuan, he felt safe enough to let himself become vulnerable.
When he finished crying, Zijuan wiped his tears.
“Tariq, there’s something we must do. We must go to Aji’s grave each day for the next thirty days to mourn. During this time, I want you to think about your life.”
“My life?”
“You have a choice, Tariq. You can live a righteous life and honor your friend Aji, or you can live a life of wickedness, where his life will have meant nothing to you.”
Tariq played with Aji’s medallion that he now wore around his neck. He thought about those words, “You can live a righteous life.” He had never given much thought to the idea of good or evil. Until now, his entire life had been focused on one thing—survival.
He made a pledge at that moment to honor his friend and his brother. He would find a way to make a difference in this life, and would leave the world a better place for having lived in it. He didn’t know how, but he had a feeling Zijuan would show him the way. Already, she was teaching him, and he was a willing student.
Three Years Later—The Day of Tariq’s Kidnapping
Zijuan awoke to the children screaming in the wee hours of the morning. Quickly, she put her robe on and went downstairs.
The children were frantically running and pointing.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Tariq is gone!” one of them screamed.
“What?”
“A man appeared at the window. He came in, hit Tariq and dragged him off.”
“When?” she asked.
“Just a few moments ago.”
Zijuan ran outside, followed by a few of the children.
“Tariq!” she yelled.
She ran from block to block yelling his name. Neighbors came out and joined the search. For an hour she ran up and down the city streets yelling for Tariq, but they never found him that night. She returned to the orphanage to tend to the scared children. Bolting the window above Tariq’s bed, she put the children back to bed and stayed with them in their dormitory for the rest of the night. The youngest ones cried, while the older ones lay traumatized. She told them bedtime stories, but how do you console a child that has witnessed one of their friends being abducted right in front of them? Would they ever be able to sleep in that room again? Would they ever be the same?
The next morning she gathered all the children together.
“I understand how scary last night was for you. I have decided to move all of your beds upstairs, and I will live downstairs. We will also bolt all the windows at night,” she explained
“What about Tariq?” one asked.
“I will work with the local police to find Tariq.”
“They won’t care about an orphan.”
“You are not orphans. Orphans are children without families. All of you have a family. If the local police do not find Tariq, then I will find him myself.”
“How will you do that?”
“I have my ways.”
That day Zijuan went to the local police precinct. She waited for half the day before talking to a junior officer who seemed more interested in his coffee than helping her find Tariq. He took her name and told her he would stop by the next day. He never showed.
The next day, Zijuan went to the offices of Yasouf Malouda. Actually, it wasn’t an office at all, but a tucked away restaurant with a very limited clientele.
Yasouf Malouda was the local gangster overlord that presided over her neighborhood. Since the police were either corrupt or incompetent, the citizenry paid local mafia to keep them safe. For over three years now, Zijuan had been paying Yasouf to protect her orphans. This protection meant that the local gangs weren’t allowed to recruit them. The slave owners were forbidden from taking any children to be sold in the slave markets. It was a very expensive arrangement, and it took all of Zijuan’s resources to make the weekly payments. But, in her mind, it was worth every penny. Without this protection, her orphanage would be open to every thief, drug runner, and pimp within a mile radius.
She had never, in three years, asked Yasouf for so much as a favor in return. But that was about to change.
A thug greeted her at the restaurant door and recognized her from the neighborhood. Usually, it took weeks to get an audience with Yasouf. However, considering the circumstances, she simply had to have his immediate attention.
Zijuan walked to a large back room with tables and cushions, rather than chairs, along each wall. There were about ten people in the room but only one was seated. A few stood chatting and sipping lime juice, and three others watched the entrance to the room.
Zijuan sat down on a pillow opposite Yasouf. Zijuan was not Moroccan; however, she garnered much respect in the neighborhood for running an honest orphanage.
“Zijuan, I am Yasouf; please, what will you have to drink?” he asked.
“I would just like some water, thank you.”
A waiter bowed slightly and disappeared.
Zijuan had paid this man every week for three years, yet she had never once met him. He was in his mid-fifties, with a big belly, and wore a traditional Moroccan tunic. His face was tan and jowls rolled over his cheeks. Sweat dripped down his neck and he continually fanned himself with a small paper fan in his left hand. His eyes were gentle, more so than Zijuan expected, and he seemed to be trustworthy.
“I understand one of your orphans has disappeared?” he asked.
“Yasouf Malouda, in three years I have never asked you for anything and have paid my protection money each week. I am asking you now. I must find this boy.”
The gangster poured himself a cup of mint tea and breathed a heavy sigh. Like most Moroccans, he preferred extremely sweet tea and placed four spoonfuls of sugar in his cup before stirring. The waiter returned with a cold cup of water, placed it at Zijuan’s side, and disappeared.
“I know everything that happens in this neighborhood. I knew your orphan was missing an hour after it happened. Let me assure you, my people had nothing to do with it.”
“But you know who did?”
“I’m listening.”
“Since the French have taken an interest in our country, the rules have changed. It used to be that there was a certain amount of order. Five years ago, I would have your boy back to you and the people responsible would be lying in a ditch with their throats cut. But now…”
“So the French have something to do with it?”
“Not the French, but a Frenchman. His name is Mr. LaRoque. He is a dubious character, who has invaded every space of the Moroccan underground. He controls the black market—opium, prostitution, and the trading of human beings as slaves. Mr. LaRoque has the protection of some higher-ups in the French military. As long as he has military protection, it is impossible to get to him.”
“So he does whatever he wants?”
“Let’s just say there’s a very difficult truce in place. He plays in our little playground and we let him, as long as he doesn’t kick too much sand.”
“That’s it? This LaRoque steals my boy and there’s nothing you can do? Perhaps I should be paying my protection money to the French military?”
Yasouf did not like this line of thinking or the tone of her voice.
“I would recommend that you watch your anger with me. Even I have limits of what I will abide from a woman. And yes, you must pay me protection. The French military doesn’t care about your little orphanage. Without my protection, every criminal from here to Casablanca would be preying on your orphans.”
“I’m sorry; I did not mean any disrespect. Tariq is a very special boy to me. Imagine if you lost a son, how would you feel?” she pleaded.
Yasouf thought about this for a moment before continuing.
“Your boy was sold at a slave auction yesterday, I’ve learned, to none other than Caid Ali Tamzali, who has a kasbah about a five or six days’ ride out of town, on the outskirts of the Rif Mountains. Your orphan was probably purchased to become a camel jockey.”
“What?”
“Young boys are prized to ride camels. They are small, relatively inexpensive to purchase as slaves, and it is a very dangerous business. Most die within a month or two.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have my sources.”
As she stood up to leave, he stopped her with his hand.
“Madame, please do not take Ali Tamzali lightly. He is as ruthless as they come. He reports directly to the Sultan; he is not a man to be trifled with.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I will take care of this.”
She walked out. She knew where Tariq had gone and who had taken him. The problem was there was no possible way she could leave the orphanage for more than a day or two, let alone two full weeks. She had to find another way to help Tariq.
She knew of some resistance fighters in the Rif Mountains. A long time ago, before she had started the orphanage, Zijuan had been a different kind of woman—a soldier who traveled the plains of the Sahara fighting alongside nomads and various tribes. She still had contacts from back then, and she hoped one of them could help her.
She quickly made her way back to the orphanage. There wasn’t a moment to waste.