— 7 —
The Rif Mountains have more tribes than can easily be counted. Different dialects, customs, languages, and cultures separate the tribes, as if they were completely different countries. Although many people speak Arabic or Berber, there are literally dozens of local languages and dialects.
Mehdi Akoujan was the leader of a tiny mountain tribe whose history and roots went back centuries. His particular tribe had settled in the Rif Mountains, which were located within the realm of Caid Ali Tamzali. The Caid ruled these areas with an iron fist, often raiding local tribes—killing the adults and enslaving the children.
Only thirty-five years old, Mehdi was tremendously young for a chieftain—the youngest anyone could remember. He was extremely handsome, with a thin face, slight black beard and bright, inquisitive eyes. His posture was perfect. Although born in the mountains, he had an air of nobility about him. Ever since he was a teenager, men had followed him; leadership came as natural to him as swimming does to a fish.
Mehdi had reached an uncomfortable, but necessary, truce with one of the Caid’s henchmen. Each quarter, Mehdi offered the man a bribe, usually consisting of animal pelts, spices, and food crops. In return, Mehdi and his tribe were spared from the onslaught of the Caid’s army. Payment arrangements like this one had gone on for thousands of years with various sheiks and caids. Ali Tamzali was simply the latest.
He sat around a campfire with the other tribal leaders drinking mint tea and smoking a hookah. The sweet melon tobacco helped him think.
“Ali Tamzali has aligned himself with the French like a tick with a dog. If we oppose him, we will make an enemy of him, as well as the French army,” Nur Akoujan said.
“If we align ourselves with Ali, then we risk alienating ourselves from the other tribes who oppose Ali and the French,” countered Allal Acchaari.
Nur and Allal were the second and third in command, respectively, behind Mehdi. They were both wise men in different ways. Nur was younger and more adventurous, while Allal was older and more conservative.
This was the debate at hand. Many of the local indigenous tribes had begun banding together to fight Ali and the French occupation of Morocco. This was very unusual. Century-old feuds prevented many tribes from even talking with one another. Tiny wars and flare-ups were common as tribes struggled to retain their territories. It was because of this chaos among neighboring tribes that Ali Tamzali was able to consolidate power.
“What do we have to gain by opposing Ali, and what do we have to lose? If we oppose him, we risk being annihilated by a superior army. If we side with him, we risk being wiped out by the other tribes,” Mehdi reasoned.
The men in the group sighed and nodded their heads. It was not an easy situation. Mehdi had to decide which allegiance he would show—neutrality was not an option. Risk was unavoidable. As a leader, he needed to decide who he thought would win the war, and what he stood to gain and to lose.
“Ali has had our people in his chains for years. We give him everything we have and barely survive. Another bad winter and we’ll starve for sure,” Allal stated.
“Ali has not been so unkind to us,” Nur responded. “It could be much worse. Many, many tribes have been massacred at his hands. We have our lives. We have our tribe.”
“Ali will not protect us from the other tribes,” Allal said, growing a little impatient with the conversation. “He just wants his payment. If we don’t align with them, we will be at war one way or another.”
Mehdi knew this to be true. Ali would not really protect them; he was only interested in the protection gifts and bribes. Mehdi lived alongside the other tribes, traded with them, and shared the same mountain paths. It was more than convenience—they were in many ways the same people. Together they endured the harsh winters and brutally hot summers. They all depended upon hunting and goat herding to survive. They shared many of the same customs and culture. To betray these tribes in favor of the Caid would be akin to betraying a brother.
“I think we must align ourselves with the tribes and prepare for a war with Ali and the French,” he finally said.
The group was silent. For weeks, even months, this had been the main topic of conversation within his village. Everyone knew that a decision was coming, yet Mehdi had remained entirely neutral on the subject. A smart leader, he knew he needed to gather his facts before making a decision. He also had to determine where his people stood on the matter. By a vast majority, most of them wanted to side with the other tribes. The only elder tribesman who wanted to side with Ali was Nur.
“If the tribes can indeed unite, Ali will not easily wage war,” Mehdi continued. “The other tribes and the Moroccan government are already fighting the French. If they prevail, any tribes that allied themselves with the French and Ali will be extinguished.”
“Do you think the French will lose?” Nur asked.
“For centuries, outsiders have tried to control Morocco. They have tried to change our religion, our language, our dress, even our songs and dances. But in the end, they all leave, in one way or another. The French will be no different.”
“It’s settled then,” Allal proclaimed.
“Yes. We are now at war with Ali Tamzali,” Mehdi proclaimed, arose, and left the campfire. The group was solemn. They understood what the forces of Ali Tamzali were capable of. They also understood that they would be shown no mercy.
Mehdi walked back to his tent, where his wife Salma and his only son Fez were busy preparing dinner. Children had not come easy to him and Salma. After many years of trying, they finally had a boy. Their child had been born premature and sickly. Many thought he wouldn’t survive for a month in the harsh mountains. Mehdi of course wanted a great name for his son, but the boy had fallen in love with a little fez cap when he was just a baby. He would sleep in it and play with it for hours, so that’s how they came to name their boy Fez. Mehdi never admitted that, for fear of embarrassing his son, so he made up a story about wanting to visit Fez, the city. In truth, he disliked cities. They were noisy and busy and extremely impersonal. He liked his mountains and the desert and being with his people. Fez was born with poor eyesight, a huge detriment in the mountains. Glasses were not common in his tribe, but Mehdi had found an eye doctor at a gypsy camp and traded a small ransom for Fez’s tortoise-shell glasses. Fez treasured those glasses above all else, and was always so careful with them to ensure they were never broken.
Fez left the tent to fetch some water, leaving his parents alone.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“We are at war with the French and with Caid Ali Tamzali. We have decided to align with the other tribes.”
This was not altogether good news in the tent. For five years, there had been relative peace in their tribe. Yes, they had to pay Ali, but there was always someone to pay—if it had not been him, they would have been forced to pay some other warlord. Salma had lost a brother and her father in the last war. And too many boys from her tribe had lost their lives too soon.
“How will it start?” she asked.
“The snow is melting. In two or three weeks a garrison from the Caid’s army will come to collect payment. He won’t get any.”
“Then what?”
“We hide and we move and we fight, as always.”
That was their way. Their tribe was a group of guerrilla fighters. They hid in the mountains and attacked in small numbers. It was a hard life for a woman and a child. They were forever on the move.
Fez came back to the tent with a bucket of fresh spring water.
“And how are you today, my son?” he asked.
“Excellent, Father. I am learning how to navigate by the stars,” he replied.
“That is good; very, very good.”
“I also made something for you.” Fez handed his father a steel can with a string attached.
“Put this to your ear,” said Fez, before walking out of the tent.
His father did as he was told, and he soon heard Fez’s faint voice in the can. He talked back into it, and Fez replied. After a few moments, Fez came back into the tent.
“That is remarkable. How did you think of that?” his father asked.
“It just came to me,” Fez replied nonchalantly.
Fez’s father had known for years that his son’s ability lay with his wits and not his fists. He had always been smaller than the other boys. Fez was not a coward, but athletic prowess did not come naturally to him. This did not bother his father, who believed it was better to have brains than brawn. A sharp mind could prevent wars—or win them. His father understood that times were changing in the world, and for the tribes. There were mechanized horses and flying machines and things completely beyond his understanding. The next leader of their tribe would need an understanding of these new things. He would need to be inquisitive and smart.
His son was growing into a very smart boy.
The next morning the tribe packed up their tents and began the trek to higher ground. This was the first step in preparing for war. Positioning themselves on higher ground meant it would be much more difficult for the French and the Caid’s armies to find them. It also provided new terrain and new hiding spots. There was one other important strategic advantage to higher ground—they would be closer to neighboring tribes in the event of an attack.
The Rif Mountains receive more rainfall than any other area in Morocco. At lower elevations, the mountainsides are covered with Atlas cedar, cork oak, Holm oak, and Moroccan fir trees. Up higher, the trees are much sparser, but the area is still covered by maquis, or scrub brush. In the winter, snow blankets the ground. Many lakes and rivers lay in the Rif Mountains.
All tribes in the area use an established set of trails that wind throughout the mountainside. Sometimes, these trails are easily followed. Other times, they are extremely difficult to find and only a seasoned tribe member knows of their existence.
Members of Mehdi’s small tribe rode up a mountain pass on mules, while some walked alongside carrying huge makeshift backpacks made of a strong cotton fabric. The chill from the mountain air stung their skin and they pulled furs and blankets over their shoulders. Although they were still dressed in the long, flowing robes of traditional Berber djellabahs, the furs and blankets provided added warmth. The pass they traveled was surrounded by vertical ridges on either side, and in some areas was so tight that the tribe was forced to stay in single file.
“Fez, when is the best time of year for hunting?” Mehdi asked his son.
“Spring, when the babies are born. The herd is increased.”
“Good, and which animals are the best to kill?”
“The old ones, and then the males. Never kill a female or a baby.”
“Excellent. Where and when is it best to hunt?”
“Near watering holes or narrow mountain passes like this one. The best time is early morning when animals are feeding or drinking. It also provides a full day for skinning.”
“Very good!” Mehdi praised his son.
“Fez?” his mother asked.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Who rules our tribe?”
“A tribal council of five men. Each selected for bravery or intelligence. However, the village elders also have a great deal of influence over tribal matters.”
“And how do we treat elders?” she asked.
“With the utmost respect, for they have seen more life than any of us and can help guide the way.”
“Very good.”
This was how their travels generally proceeded. His father and mother would continually quiz him on matters of the tribe, hunting, farming, and trading in an effort to pass on the ways of their tribe and to teach him how to survive in such a harsh environment. Life could be very short in the Rif Mountains, so adulthood came at an early age. It was expected that most girls would marry at thirteen and begin raising families. The average lifespan of a male was around thirty-three years of age. However, their tribe didn’t track age in the same way as Westerners. In fact, they scarcely had a concept of time but tracked life more by the passing of the seasons. Due to the hot sun and harsh climate, most members seemed much older than their actual age. Fez’s father was, indeed, only thirty-five but seemed much older. Also, in their tribe, unlike many Muslim cultures, the women were valued and cherished. They were expected to hunt and fight alongside the men. In return, they were given much respect and standing within the tribe. In spite of these advances, however, women were still not permitted to sit on the tribal council.
As they continued walking and talking, Mehdi suddenly felt a tingle on his skin. He was a warrior and a hunter, and had personally killed eight men in battle. His sixth sense, an animal sense, almost always warned him when trouble was near.
“Stop!” he ordered.
The caravan behind him stopped. He walked forward on the trail. Something was different. Something wasn’t right. He stared up at the canyon walls, realizing this would be the perfect place for an ambush. The enemy would have the advantage of higher ground, the area was barren and there was scarce cover, and both ends of the trail could easily be blocked.
“Something isn’t right,” he said to the others.
“I don’t hear anything,” someone said in the rear.
“Shssshhhh,” he scolded. “Move out. Quickly and silently. Now!” he whispered.
The entire caravan, as if a switch was turned on, began to run as silently as a cat on a rooftop through the canyon. Living in the wilderness had taught them, as if second nature, to scramble up mountainsides without tripping over as much as a stone.
The first shot rang out and almost took off Mehdi’s ear.
“They are firing, take cover on either side, shoot at the mountain ledges,” he ordered.
The entire tribe split into two groups, one along each cavern side. Both men and women unsheathed bows and arrows, and a few had rifles.
Bullets ricocheted off the mountain walls, which were made of mud and clay, sending splinters of rock falling down upon the group. Both men and women returned fire, although the enemy was entrenched, deep within the mountainside.
“I am going up. Stay with Fez!” he ordered his wife.
“No Mehdi, it is too dangerous!” she yelled back.
“Stay here!” he screamed, looked her in the eyes, and started running.
He ran off into the gully ahead, a few bullets narrowly missing his body. He ran for a hundred yards through a hail of gunfire, and managed to find safety behind a large boulder. A ledge stretched upwards to his right. Without thinking and without hesitation, he charged up the ledge, both silently and swiftly, as if a ghost were skipping along the mountain edge with a twelve-inch dagger in his hand.
The first bandit, hunched down like a coward behind a rock, didn’t even know Mehdi was there. Mehdi put his hand over the man’s mouth and thrust his dagger into his neck. In seconds, the man was dead. Mehdi grabbed his rifle and ammunition, reloaded, and scanned the edge. A bullet ricocheted off the rock in front of him. He quickly analyzed the direction of the bullet and saw another bandit barely visible behind a rock in the distance. With just one shot, the man’s turban burst into a cloud of torn fabric, hair, and blood.
The ledge led to a clearing about thirty feet in, which is where the majority of the bandits were holed up. Mehdi hoped there wouldn’t be too many of them. Usually bandits attacked in small groups, hoping the element of surprise and position would provide the needed advantage over their prey.
Another bandit, clothed all in black, came running towards Mehdi in a suicidal charge.
Mehdi dropped him with one shot.
Now he had evened the battle. The bandits no longer had the advantage of positioning, and Mehdi’s tribe no longer had to fight on two fronts. He could sit here and pick them off or make a charge into the clearing. The only problem was, he didn’t know their numbers. Three or four would be no problem. Much more than that, he might be outnumbered.
He reloaded again, pondering the best strategy, when he felt the knife at his throat.
“If you move so much as an inch, I will spill your blood all over these rocks,” the voice said.
Mehdi instinctively dropped the rifle and put his hands behind his neck. He hadn’t expected this. Usually bandits are fairly rudimentary in their battle plans and limited in number. He was sure he could have bargained with them or shot his way out of the ambush.
He felt his hands being tied and was forced to stand up. He was thrust around to meet his attacker.
It wasn’t a bandit at all. It was Zahir, Ali Tamzali’s garrison.
“Walk with me, Mehdi, and don’t do anything stupid,” he growled.
Four other soldiers were with Zahir. They each walked behind Mehdi with rifles ready at hand. Soon the group was back at the caravan.
“I have Mehdi, your leader. Do not fire. We have you surrounded. You all know who I am!” Zahir yelled.
This was no ordinary attack by common bandits. This was a well-planned ambush. Zahir had been expecting them.
Zahir and Mehdi and the group walked in front of the hidden caravan. There wasn’t a heart that was not racing. Zahir was a monster in their region. He slaughtered entire tribes for the smallest grievance. He now had them surrounded and their leader bound at knifepoint.
As second in command, Nur stood up without putting down his weapon. He could easily see Zahir, Mehdi, and the guards directly in front of him.
Just then, over one hundred soldiers, each armed with rifles, showed themselves on the ridge above and pointed their weapons directly at the caravan.
“You see my friends, you are surrounded. So please place down your weapons and let us talk in peace,” Zahir said.
Nur looked up at the numbers of soldiers. They were, indeed, surrounded and vastly outnumbered. To fight would be suicide. He threw down his bow and arrow and raised his hands.
“What do you want, Zahir?” Mehdi asked.
“We had an agreement that is now broken.”
Mehdi said nothing. He was busy calculating the situation and his next move. He was tied up and surrounded but not without options.
“Imagine my surprise when one of my scouts noticed your tribe packing up and moving so early in the season. If it had not been for our sheer luck, you might have escaped into the mountains,” Zahir laughed. “Of course, as always, I am much too smart for you, Mehdi. You should know that by now.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing I cannot take.”
“We have furs and spices and anything else you want.”
“Oh, I will take them all, and much, much more.”
Fez looked at his father one last time. He looked at his mother and saw a tear in her eyes. He was too young to understand what was happening. Too young to understand that true evil did exist in the world.
He looked at his father. His father stared right through him and, clearly, Fez saw him mouth these words: “Avenge us.”
And then,
“I love you, my son.”
Some acts in the world defy reason. There is no reason for death and wars and genocide. Only God has such answers. Only God knows such reasons. That night, Fez lost both his family and his tribe. He, along with the other children, was tied up and chained to be sold at a slave auction. He would never see his mother and father again. He would never see his tribe again. He was now an eleven-year-old boy alone in the world. All the adults in his tribe had been massacred, save one.
Nur rode away with the army, side by side with Zahir.
“You will be my chief scout in this region, Nur. I want to know the whereabouts of every tribe, and I want them slaughtered like dogs. You know these mountain ranges better than anyone,” Zahir told him.
“I will need at least fifty men,” Nur replied.
“You will get a hundred men, each able and armed with the latest French rifles. I want this area secured, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“When you return, you will have twenty slaves, a herd of camels, and your own little kingdom.”
“That is the arrangement,” Nur agreed.
“You did excellent work here. Welcome to the army of Caid Ali Tamzali.”
“I am your humble servant,” Nur said and bowed.
Nur had felt himself numbed with the battle. He didn’t like slaughtering his people. It made him feel sick inside. The one thing that made it possible for him to carry out such unspeakable acts was that he didn’t have any family. His wife had died during childbirth and both his parents were long dead. Their deaths had planted a kernel of anger in him and he had begun to feel that God was against him. This kernel of anger and hatred turned into a full blown mass of weeds in his soul when a woman he wanted for his new wife rejected him, and the tribe elected Mehdi as tribal chieftain rather than him. All these setbacks made this betrayal possible.
True, he was younger than Mehdi, but he was also the strongest one in the tribe and the best hunter. He was young, but so what? He rightfully deserved the title of Chieftain and he knew that better than anyone else.
As he rode away, looking back at his massacred people, he made himself feel nothing. To feel anything would be too much. He simply decided not to think about his actions and to look forward to his new power.
He failed to understand that every action has a consequence. An evil deed always manifests itself somewhere else.
What goes around, will indeed, come back around.