‘So, you’ve brought independence in by the tail, have you?!’ This was how Hajj Muhammad had greeted his son when he came home for a second time after another lengthy prison term, but Abd al-Rahman refused to get angry in front of his father. Instead, he accepted the joshing gracefully, knowing that his father was not gloating or showing his scorn so much as resorting to the kind of mild irony that he always liked to use in the face of Abd al-Rahman’s logic and his burning enthusiasms. Hajj Muhammad’s remark did not upset Abd al-Rahman or make him lose his temper. Instead, he accepted his father’s comment with an open heart. It provided him with a new logical tack that he could use to try to best his father, in the particular context that he had chosen. ‘On the contrary,’ he replied immediately, ‘we’ve opened the road wide in front us. Independence will know how to establish itself.’
Hajj Muhammad gave a dubious smile, which revealed his profound unease about the dreams that Abd al-Rahman and his coterie projected and believed in. They were all young, something their fathers could not claim to be. But the smile also reflected his obvious delight that his son had now come home. He had suffered terribly when Abd al-Rahman had gone to prison for a second time for the sake of his principles. But this time he did not feel humiliated, nor did he have the impression he had been banished from society. Instead, he had a genuine affection for his son and felt both sympathy and sorrow for the experience he had gone through. This time, his smile was an expression of the pleasure he felt at the end of a trauma he had been living with for the past two years.
He looked at Abd al-Rahman again and noticed that his son’s eyes were fixed on him, as though the younger man longed to pursue the discussion which his father had started.
‘My dear boy,’ Hajj Muhammad said, with a serious expression, ‘we all want independence, but—’
Abd al-Rahman thought he had won. ‘I’m thrilled!’ he interjected. ‘So, you’re a nationalist like me…’
The brash interruption annoyed Hajj Muhammad, but he ignored it, as though he had not even heard it. Instead, he finished his previous sentence. ‘But you’re all dreaming.’
Abd al-Rahman frowned. This was a disappointment he was not expecting. He gave his father a pleading look, as Hajj Muhammad went on.
‘You’re all dreaming because you believe the occupying powers are going to grant you independence.’
Abd al-Rahman now summoned the courage to contradict his father. ‘We’ve never believed they’ll grant us independence. What we do believe is that we’re going to take it.’
Hajj Muhammad gaped in amazement. It was clear he had never imagined that these young people would be so deluded as to claim that they could simply take what was not being offered and defy an authority that was stronger and more stubborn than they could ever be. He now realised that he could not argue with such aspirations. But he could not admit defeat, either. ‘So, you’re going to use your fingernails to grab it, are you?!’
Abd al-Rahman understood the ironic tone once again, but he still did not react. He wanted to gauge how far the old views had changed; Hajj Muhammad was a mirror on whose surface a large number of opinions were reflected, a mirror with both intellectual and material interests. His comments, his reactions, the expressions on his face, his sarcasm, and his sincere tone of voice – they all continued to reflect the widespread views that he represented. Abd al-Rahman’s goal in provoking his father like this was not to push him to change but rather to get him to understand the way that his views mirrored the past. However worked up he might feel, Abd al-Rahman was anxious to maintain a calm appearance, and to carefully use language that was provocative but not hurtful. This was a lesson he had learned during his lengthy terms in prison. ‘The armour that the people can bring to bear,’ he replied, summoning all his resources, ‘is much more powerful than any military might.’
Hajj Muhammad’s eyes darkened. He had no idea what these popular armaments might be, nor could he imagine there could be a force stronger than the army. He was perplexed by the delusion that was driving Abd al-Rahman, who seemed to believe in something called ‘the people’s armour’. He was confused by Abd al-Rahman’s strange logic and new terminology, and was on the point of telling him to leave his room – as he used to do when his son was a boy, and as he still did with others who had not previously invaded his inner sanctum. But he found he could not face down Abd al-Rahman in that way, nor could he keep a handle on his own emotions. Looking at his son, he saw that tears had appeared in Abd al-Rahman’s eyes, as though to challenge the thick cloud that had enveloped his own eyes. Hajj Muhammad now felt yet more unsettled and was about to leave the room himself, but his love for Abd al-Rahman demanded that he remain patient in the face of his son’s delusions and continue this conversation, which had been suspended for two whole years.
It was not just love for his son that made him linger; there was something else as well, something he could not even admit to himself. He actually wanted to know more about this delusion that so preoccupied the attention of Abd al-Rahman’s coterie. What was this conviction that kept pushing them all to such levels of self-sacrifice, whose dignity and risk no one could any longer deny? And yet, in spite of that, he was anxious to rescue Abd al-Rahman from the course of action he had set for himself. Even though he knew that was not possible, he was still keen to continue the discussion.
‘Listen! I’m your father, and I understand the power wielded by the people you’re demanding should leave the country and grant us independence. But they’re more powerful than you think. You think you can defeat them because they’ve been defeated by Germany, do you?’
Abd al-Rahman was on the point of rejecting the idea, but Hajj Muhammad put his fingers to his lips to indicate that he should remain silent.
‘They’ve recovered their lost power now,’ he went on, ‘and they have the British and Americans behind them. So, where is the force needed for us to confront such a collection of powers and win our independence?’
Abd al-Rahman laughed out loud.
Hajj Muhammad was certainly not expecting such a reaction from his son. He gave him a quizzical look, surprised that his son should be challenging this information, which he assumed to be sound and accurate.
‘Do you really believe that the forces of the independent nations are actually more powerful than those of the colonised ones?’
Hajj Muhammad gaped in amazement. He had not been anticipating such a question and had no idea how to respond, or how to think about it, so he went on staring distractedly at his son.
Abd al-Rahman realised what was going through his father’s mind. ‘We’re not going to launch a war to get our independence,’ he said. ‘We’re going to build pressure, in order to persuade people that we’re right.’
‘Enough, enough, enough!’ Hajj Muhammad shouted. ‘You’re all dimwits. You’re still thinking in terms of persuasion and adopting the logic of truth and falsehood. Truth and rights are linked to power. People without power have no hold on the truth.’
Abd al-Rahman was amazed to hear this sound logic emerging in proverbial form from his father’s mouth. It was a point of view that had often impeded progress, but it still nested in the minds of many people. ‘Power isn’t truth any more,’ he replied. ‘When the war’s over, oppressed peoples with no real power will become important. Our world is a new one, and we’ll need to use fresh ideas and different actions to deal with it.’
‘What’s new is that the authorities will crush you, like chickens in a cage – detention camps and prisons. That’s the punishment that awaits anyone who chooses to defy people more powerful than himself.’ Before Abd al-Rahman could respond, Hajj Muhammad stood up. ‘Spare me all of that,’ he said with a gesture. ‘I’ve almost missed the afternoon prayer-time.’
Abd al-Rahman left feeling disappointed. Now that he was out of prison, he had been hoping he would detect a significant change in his father’s attitude. ‘Change?’ he asked himself, as he huddled in a corner of his room. ‘Years in prison have kept my mind in the dark about reality. If I had really aspired to create some new mode of thinking, I’d have some grain of hope left. But my thinking is not a mirror that reflects the real situation in my country. Instead, the rust of multiple previous generations has accumulated, blocking all reflection from its shiny surface.’
Just then he became aware of Mahmud’s voice, affectionately congratulating him on his release. Mahmud told him he was no longer a minor bureaucrat occupying some remote corner in the provincial office but had now been transferred to the court. His excellent work, his serious demeanour, and the testimony of his superiors all meant that he was a candidate to become a judge.
‘A judge?’ Abd al-Rahman shouted in amazement. ‘You’re going to be enforcing the law on Moroccans?’ he went on. ‘Using the law to throw them in jail?’
‘I’ll be finding them innocent as well,’ Mahmud replied, as though he felt the need to defend himself.
‘Using the law codes?!’ Abd al-Rahman asked with a grimace.
Mahmud understood what his brother was implying. ‘The law?’ he replied. ‘Who in this country governs by law? Did you go to prison because of the law? I will be the law.’
‘You?! You mean… you?!’
Again Mahmud understood his brother’s point. ‘I’m a minor token authority,’ he said. ‘I represent a higher cognisant authority.’
‘Imperious, you mean!’
‘Imperious or discriminating, whichever you like. I’m a government employee.’
For a moment, Abd al-Rahman thought to himself, ‘Government employee, efficient machine! Judge with no law. From the front ranks at school to the court bench. So, Mahmud, Yasmine’s son, is going to be a judge.’ When he came to himself again, his mental horizon was murky. ‘Well, good luck!’ he said. ‘I hope to have better luck next time if I find myself standing before you!’
Mahmud laughed. He was stunned by the realisation of a possibility he could not avoid, one that he was nevertheless anxious not to acknowledge. Laughter was his only resort. ‘Well then,’ he told his brother, ‘I’ll be glad to declare you innocent!’
‘But what about that higher cognisant authority you mentioned?’
‘A minor authority can keep a higher authority content.’
‘In that case, you’ve become a dangerous man!’ Abd al-Rahman stood up. It seemed to him now that he had emerged from one prison only to enter another in which he was hemmed in between his father and his younger brother. What he needed was a waft of fresh air with more freedom, more purity, and more realism. Heading for the great doorway leading out of the house, he rushed into the street and slammed the door hard behind him, reassuring himself that he had firmly closed it on Hajj Muhammad and Mahmud.