17
Day Seven

We set off into the arid and wild expanse spread out before us. We left for the desert, Mohamed Ali and I, to explore a location that Captain Hammouda said the enemy was thinking about taking from us if we didn’t beat them to it. Brigadier Omar was the third man in our party, something we never would have foreseen. He hadn’t yet come round from his drunken stupor as he stood in the fort’s yard waiting for us. He wasn’t laughing. We walked into absolute desert, the purity of which was unsullied by mountain, gorge, or hill. Brigadier Omar was behind us. We walked without expecting anything in particular. We didn’t know what we were supposed to expect. Brigadier Omar was behind us, and from time to time he spoke into the radio to receive orders from the general himself. Did he know why we were here? Did he know that his precious daughter was punishing us? Was there any doubt? The general guided our procession from his farm, and at the same time he pressed olives, surrounded by a group of his officers. He explained to them the benefits of olives against constipation.

From time to time we saw Bedouin tents in the distance, with camels and small bunches of goats around them. That was how it was in the beginning, but after two hours of marching, the tents and camels had disappeared. In fact, all life had disappeared except for that of the sand and the rocks and the pebbles, and our threatened lives. I didn’t know which direction we were walking in—perhaps toward Las Palmas, where the houses that Mohamed Ali’s friend built were?—and I didn’t know why we were silent. A sort of premonition told me that silence wasn’t suitable in these sorts of circumstances. Should I remind him of the builders of Las Palmas just to make him laugh a little bit?

We talked about Naafi, whom we had left digging in search of his leg, and about Brahim and his potential wife. After that, we talked about the Sahrawis. Mohamed Ali knew a lot about them because he was from Zagoura. As for me, I had never seen a single Sahrawi in my life and had no idea why I was fighting them. Mohamed Ali said that the eyes of the Sahrawis were wide and black and weren’t suited to the desert’s heat, sand, and mirages.

“But why are we fighting them, Mohamed Ali?”

“They’re big, those eyes, despite the fact that nothing but sand fills them.”

“But, Mohamed Ali, answer my question. Why are we fighting the Sahrawis?”

“They’re big, those eyes, and wide, shining because of the copious light. Instead of blinding them, the light fills their eyes and they become wide and bright white. Their eyes are always happy, proud, never accepting darkness . . .”

Then we heard Brigadier Omar behind us start to narrate this story out of the blue: “There was a teacher in our neighborhood who wanted to see what war was like, and when they sent him to enlist, the first bullet shot at him lodged in his head. When they took him to the hospital, upon seeing his condition the doctor said, ‘If the bullet comes out, taking some of his brain with it, he’ll die.’ The teacher replied, ‘May God bring you good tidings, doctor, remove it and don’t be afraid. I don’t have a single brain cell in my head, for if I did, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.’”

 

The day before yesterday, after our return from the hunting trip, Joumana, who was happy with her outing and happy with the pictures of the gazelle that she had taken, said that after we got married I would become a beacon of civilian life because the general, her father, would take the necessary measures to end my deployment in the desert to allow his dear daughter and me to have beautiful children with black eyes. His exceptional offspring would enrich the military establishment. She delivered this happy news joyfully and cheerfully, dancing around me like a butterfly. No, that isn’t right. Rather, she danced around me like Satan dancing around someone sentenced to death with the noose tied around his neck.

Her dog had a black wool covering on his back and around his neck was a red leather collar that ended in a golden clasp. She was rubbing her eyes because she was tired and wanted to sleep, but before rushing off to bed she wanted to deliver the good news to me. Yesterday evening, after she had rested from her hunting trip, I remained a good distance away from her so she couldn’t pounce on me and dig her fingernails into my face. She petted the dog in her arms and ordered me, with an air of indifference, to get ready because we were going to visit the general on his farm to watch him press olives by hand. I told her, “I’m not going anywhere, not to see the general or his uncle!” It was as if she hadn’t heard what I had said, as if nothing but air had come out of my mouth. The creature paid no attention to my refusal to go. She continued to pet her worthless little dog. I continued, “I would rather commit suicide in the line of fire than go with you.” Then I headed to the tavern to say good-bye to my friends.

The tavern was practically empty. Our numbers had dwindled without us realizing it, both inside and outside the bar. Fifi was not optimistic. In the fort we had been one hundred and thirty conscripts and soldiers, but our numbers dwindled to half that in the space of a year, but who’s counting? The tavern was as it was before, except for the number of soldiers. Many of them had fled or died, or been thrown into prison, with no one expressing any heartbreak or sorrow over them.

I have no desire for the civilian life that the general’s spoiled daughter proposes. I’m already married. I have a wife who is sick and whose name is Zineb. More than two months had passed since I’d seen her face. I spoke to her on the telephone once and she said she was resting with the doctor and his wife, who were taking good care of her. Joumana, however, had told me that, God willing, the general would divorce me from Zineb so that I would be fully available for his daughter who had so attached herself to me. I’d rather engage in a pitched battle from which I’d never emerge. I would prefer to face a hundred enemy soldiers armed to the teeth. There’s nothing but the enemy in the Sahara, not to mention the burning sand and sun, and other things of that sort. I’d rather be sent to the front lines to die in an ambush.

Brigadier Omar had no idea that he would find himself in the same boat as us. In the tavern he whispered in my ear, “There’s another option, but it’s not for you. Some pay an amount of money to the general for the enemy to purchase them. This allows the general to maintain his list of prisoners. Get it? There are two lists, and if you reject the ugly and spoiled Joumana you’ll be on the list of soldiers who’ll be killed.”

I’d rather die than be in a relationship with that imbecile! She resembles the cig she holds between her fingers and her voice is thin and offensive—I can’t stand even a single minute of it, so just imagine how it would be if you had to hear it for the rest of your life. I’d rather go into exile or throw myself headlong into any losing battle.

 

Then silence prevailed once again. We don’t hear a sound in this stretch save for the crunching of stones under our shoes. We don’t expect to hear a sound coming from either human or animal. We don’t have Naafi with us to scan the distant mountaintops with his sharp vision, looking for a quarry. If there were an enemy there, Naafi would have at least helped us figure out where we were. We began to walk along a stone path with dirt and sand extending out on either side. There was no trace of a single plant to mark this stretch, and in the distance there were gray mounds obscured by the fog of distance that lay between them and us. The country became something else. Brigadier Omar now only spoke into the radio in whispers, as if to alert us to the imminent danger. From time to time, a burned-out tank frame rose into view, the remains of a forgotten battle we hadn’t heard about. The tanks resembled calcified boats anchored on a sea of sand from which almost all life had receded, now inhabited only by snakes and lizards, with the wind and the dust of the desert sands whistling in the hollows, along with the souls of the soldiers who had passed through toward the unknown.

Fear began to creep in little by little. I recalled Brahim. Not one of us had been hit while we were guarding the well. Except for a few moments of nerve-wrenching terror, nothing memorable had happened. We forgot everything about that day. The following day Brahim ran away, and then was released from service by what seemed like a miracle. The day after that we saw Naafi being carried on soldiers’ shoulders, looking sadly in the direction of the tavern. What was he doing now? He was leaning up against the fort wall combing his hair, waiting for his leg to rise up from the dirt. We tried to forget the fear that was gradually creeping in. In the tavern, we heard the remaining soldiers tell stories of the hallucinations, of things they had seen such as swarms of locusts that pierced the skin, or mirages you took for water and that you couldn’t help but head toward as they beckoned you to them—as soon as you saw one it would call out to you and seize you, your mouth watering, and you would have no choice but to go toward it. Then I tried to forget, to sleep, to remember beautiful things like Fifi’s turtle, for example, or the small cat that used to rub up against my leg whenever I stood in the doorway, and that came wherever I went for a while, before a runaway taxicab ran it over.

I tried to forget, and then the burned tank frames appeared. I looked at Mohamed Ali, who was walking in front of me. What was he thinking about right now? About his French wife who loved the desert? I saw his sweaty back rising and falling as he stumbled between the soldiers’ helmets and shoes strewn over the obscured road. We saw the remains of war right in front of us, and they threatened us at every moment. There was no metal dipper swinging nearby, but nonetheless, my imagination continued to conjure up a distant creaking and people moving on the horizon, to the right and the left, like those who kept throwing their bucket into the depths of the well.

We approached a small hut erected on a bare stone hillock with a cannon on top of it, its barrel aimed in our direction. Above the hut, next to the cannon, a flag with faded colors fluttered. In front of it was a short wall made of stones piled up haphazardly. The structure appeared to be a primitive fortification. We stopped, first Mohamed Ali, then me, then Brigadier Omar, who was attached to his radio. Silence prevailed. All of us were waiting. Every once in a while the brigadier lifted his head in our direction to indicate that we should move forward, but we didn’t move. He made to shoo us with his hands as if we were two chickens, but we still didn’t move, like two stubborn horses. Then the brigadier returned to the radio, asking questions and talking. The general on the other end of the line ordered him to push us in the direction of the hut. We sensed that something was not right here; that the cannon was a real cannon, and that it hadn’t just fallen from the sky. The brigadier continued to insist that the cannon was made of rubber, but one would have had to be blind not to see that the cannon was real. Nonetheless, the brigadier thought otherwise, and the general on his farm thought otherwise as well.

As we faced the hut’s door the cannon let loose a shot that went right over us, just a few paces away from us. After that came the roar of bullets. Should we flee? What should we do? Should we protect ourselves with the wall? What wall? The wall had been blown away and dust covered everything. I couldn’t see Mohamed Ali in the middle of the dusty whirlwind. I heard the brigadier yelling from far away, “Stay where you are!” Brigadier Omar couldn’t see that I was crawling in the dust trying to save myself, just as he had. He ordered us to not leave our posts, but where was Mohamed Ali?

The sand enveloped the sky. Mohamed Ali and I were surrounded by sand; we were deep in the sand, and it felt like needles in our eyes. We ate sand and breathed sand. There was sand in our lungs, noses, and mouths. The brigadier’s voice grew distant. Sand filled my mouth, and it didn’t matter whether I tried to spit it out, swallow it, or just leave it there. I guessed that Mohamed Ali was not far away. I crawled through the dust. I felt the sand. Then I found him. His body was covered with blood, flowing copiously out of him. In place of a head there was a big hole with blood bubbling from it like a fountain. I called for Brigadier Omar but his response never came. I could make out a shadow passing through the wall of sand, fleeing. I saw him but he didn’t see me. I called out nonetheless. No sound came out of my mouth. My voice had become sand and Mohamed Ali’s body was just a trunk and a hole with blood gushing out of it.

What’s the use of war? Bullets, knife wounds penetrating through to the bone, injuries that would inevitably come, sooner or later, killing, death here or there. What is death other than a commodity that people carry in their blood? In times of war and times of peace people learn how to stay alive, but is it possible to do so without also killing in one way or another? All roads lead to killing. All plans are laid with devilish care to promote the commodity of death. Perhaps people invented war so as not to die alone. The soldier draws a small heart on his grenade before throwing it at his enemy, or he might write “Good morning, friend” on both sides of it. Soldiers celebrate their collective death like children. “Hello, death, and welcome!” Damn you, death! All of those who fled were right. They threw down their rifles and gave themselves up to their enemies willingly, in order to keep their salaries flowing, and in order to preserve the hope of returning to their loved ones alive.

If I were asked about my position concerning this war, I don’t know how I would respond. I don’t have a position. I’ve never had a position on any issue, nor has anyone ever asked me for one. Ask Captain Hammouda, who raises goats so as not to die of high cholesterol. Ask Brigadier Omar, who flees toward Fifi’s tavern where his stinking drink awaits him. Ask General Bouricha, who knows better than any of us; this is why he sits on his farm pressing olives without responding to the king. However, I do know that I don’t want to die. Moreover, I don’t want to defend anything except for the stories I invent lying down in the steam room of the hammam, and Zineb, whom I love as no one else could possibly love a woman.