Fez had never experienced the kind of anxiety and restlessness it was witnessing now, nor had it known the quiet worry that people were feeling in their hearts and discussing silently through the expressions in their eyes. All faces showed it as clear as day, reflecting how everyone had been drastically affected by poverty, hunger, and disease.
After its glorious past, Fez now felt despised. It withdrew into itself, as though blight had blunted all feeling, the inhabitants shrinking from any idea that might make them turn against their city and want to leave it. This blight afflicted everyone, men and women alike, and they all felt weak, impaired, and paralysed. As the feeling intensified, people no longer feared death. With the departure of a friend, relative, or loved one, there was no longer any sense of pain, anguish, or sorrow. The degree of people’s sensitivity rose so high that basic instincts about death no longer robbed them of their minds or took over their feelings.
Anxiety took over the entire city, and no one knew why. Perhaps it was a comfort, serving as a substitute for the ongoing misery to which they were by now all inured, and which no longer caused them any pain or grief.
Echoes of this feeling began to make themselves felt throughout the long-suffering city. Talk replaced mere whispering, and echoes of that talk became louder and louder, though people could not always find the right words. War was a savage reality, and the government in Morocco was being run by a defeated nation. People were keen to push the disaster as far away as possible, unwilling to accept the idea that anyone might try to diminish authority from the fringes or to even think of rebellion, for which the least penalty would be death.
This was why people found it difficult to speak openly. But, in spite of it all – the disease, the misery, the government tyranny – they still tried to glimpse what might lie beyond the curtain, a new order for the various forces in the world, a post-war vision peering from behind the clouds, lights, and storms. If they could sit it out for a little longer, enduring the misery, deprivation, and tyranny, they might live to inherit a world very different from the one before it.
They could now define the kind of anxiety they were feeling, understand why they were feeling this way, and appreciate the unease for which the only explanation they could give was the city’s current state of misery and humiliation after an era of glorious efflorescence.
Now feelings of anxiety were no longer a secret to be communicated by downcast looks or wan expressions. Tongues started mouthing opinions and hopes, at times cautiously but at others openly, throwing caution to the wind. Whispered comments abounded.
‘The war’s going to be over…’
‘The winners will be dividing up the spoils of victory…’
‘Freedom will prevail…’
‘No, freedom will be lost…’
‘Nazism will be defeated…’
‘Imperialism will win…’
‘The Atlantic Treaty will be implemented…’
‘It’ll be annulled…’
‘But what about us? Where do we stand? What’s our future?’
Amid all the comments and questions, this last one hung in the air unanswered. Now the level of worry intensified, preventing people from thinking about what was behind the illness, the families that had been affected, the young men who had been lost, the misery impacting the entire city, and the distress that continued to threaten its inhabitants.
Abd al-Rahman was one of those young people whose expressions did not reflect what they were thinking; or rather, they did not spend a lot of time talking, but left that to other people. Previously he had always been quite frank, scoffing at the very idea of being afraid and poking fun at his colleagues who acted scared. For a long time he had practised living by his ideas, but he had always been very careful to keep those ideas hidden, without giving them the freedom to discover an outlet for exchanges with other attentive minds and alert consciences.
‘In every war,’ he told people, ‘there are spoils and prizes. We must make sure we’re not going to be part of the spoils of the victorious nations again. Our people must be liberated – otherwise this will be just another page in the history of imperialism… The war is our opportunity. If we let it go, it’ll be a long wait for another one.’
The only responses came from people with anxious expressions and aspirations for something new – and he encountered some fierce opposition to his ideas.
‘You’re still out to destroy yourself.’
‘In wartime no state will ever tolerate extremist views.’
A guffaw emerged through a set of teeth worn down by old age.
‘I think they’re fighting for our freedom.’
A powerful, alert voice added, ‘At least we’ll get the reward for all the young men we’ve sent over, and we still—’
This man was interrupted by a thunderous voice yelling, ‘What about our generation? What will be written about its history that deserves to be recorded? We don’t want any rewards or costs. What we want is our rights!’
These comments echoed in Abd al-Rahman’s mind, and he thought for a while. ‘Their young hearts are pulsing with initiative,’ he told himself, ‘but are their eyes still capable of seeing what lies beyond the horizon?’
He looked to the distant horizon himself, in case he could spot something that might rid him of his uncertainties. His gaze combined piercing eyes and focused thought with a conscious mind.
His expression now changed; he looked as though he had received inspiration from the heavens above; a light from afar shone brightly in his conscience, a single word: ‘independence’.
Suddenly, people’s expressions no longer seemed so worried, their complexions so pale. Now they had guidance, and they knew where they were going. That single profound, conscious, and motivational word ‘independence’ was being spread from mouth to ear. There was neither discord nor fear, no further cause for thought or opposition. People accepted it, as though the idea had been ringing in their ears for the past three decades, a dark period in their history that was now being overtaken by a gleaming light coming from the distant horizon, enveloped in an inspired notion sent down from the heavens.
‘Independence!’ the entire nation yelled behind him.
The word itself did not proclaim independence, but what it did was create a record of a new phase in the nation’s history, when all thought of the inevitable continuity of the previous era came to an end.
Abd al-Rahman had not been happy with the way people used this word. They spoke it even while wandering aimlessly in a desperate state with troubled expressions and thoughts, and above all with no sense of direction. But now he felt happier, because the word had emerged from its captivity; it was on everyone’s lips and bandied about from mouth to mouth. From this point on, there was no holding it back or preventing its forward momentum.
‘Independence’ was one of those words that make history. It provided the principle, and launched itself into spheres where every ear took it in, and it entered everyone’s consciousness. All other ideas absorbed it, as though a jinni had finally been released from a bottle and it would be impossible for any magician to put it back inside, however powerful and effective his magic might be.
With the word ‘independence’ buzzing in his ears, Hajj Muhammad looked over at his son, his expression a mixture of doubt and confusion. Abd al-Rahman in turn gave an affectionate smile, eager to hear his opinion. ‘I really need to know what he’s thinking,’ he told himself, ‘so I can explain to him clearly where I stand on the issue.’
‘My dear son,’ Hajj Muhammad allowed himself to say, ‘I lived through the first independence. It brought us nothing good.’
Abd al-Rahman shivered, eager to refute his father’s statement, but instead his expression took the form of a great question mark. Hajj Muhammad continued. ‘Cities were prey to Bedouin attack. It was total chaos, and there was hardly any security.’
‘Wasn’t that because of the foreigners?’
‘This was before they arrived.’
Abd al-Rahman realised that Hajj Muhammad did not fully understand the events he had lived through. He decided not to pursue the historical dimension any further. ‘Things change with time,’ he said. ‘Independence now will bring security, freedom, justice, and order to our country.’
Hajj Muhammad shook his head, unwilling to believe what he was hearing. ‘All of you are all young and immature,’ he said. ‘You’ve no real experience.’
‘Experience is what we get from living.’ Abd al-Rahman felt like telling his father, ‘If we relied on your experience, we’d remain in imperialism’s clutches forever.’ But he said nothing and let Hajj Muhammad continue.
‘So far,’ his father said, ‘life has not taught you how to make a needle, so how are you supposed to administer an independent country?’
‘It’s freedom that’s will teach us how to experiment and make needles.’
‘Freedom? Who’s ever stopped you enjoying it, or taken it away?’
Abd al-Rahman now understood that Hajj Muhammad was far from dazzled by the gleam of the word ‘independence’, and he tried to bring the conversation to an end. ‘Well, we’ve demanded independence, and that’s the end of it.’
‘It’s up to all of you. You’ll have to deal with the consequences.’
Nothing alarmed the protectorate authorities so much as this word that was now echoing its way through valleys, plains, and mountains. They knew they would never respond to the demands, but were nevertheless troubled by the fact that the word had now turned into a principle, emerging from the hearts of people who had long remained hesitant. Now they had opened up a space within which the potential impact of the term in both near and distant perspective could be explored in greater detail. As they moved ahead, their pent-up fury was being buried in the idea of retribution, the people’s primary goal.
Fez entered a state of siege, threatened by hunger, thirst, and dark shadows. Gunshots and bombs resounded through the streets and alleys. The army and the garde caused havoc, and spies did their utmost to destroy the core unity of the city. Young men were taken away to detention camps and prisons.
But ‘independence’ still resounded in the heart of every citizen, like a light to satisfy the city’s longing, bread to feed the hungry, water to quench people’s thirst. Independence, independence, independence – the word still echoed in everyone’s ears.
Finally, the crisis ended and the city recovered its pride. Once humbled by disease, its spirit once crushed, Fez could now once again raise its head high.
The city had only been able to feel life in the light of glory. With ‘independence’ now resounding throughout its quarters, glory had been restored.