Category: all things moroccan

Charles Freund re-examines Mohammed Berrada’s surrealistic The Story of the Severed Head in light of recent developments in Iraq. In Berrada’s work, a head is severed from its corpse, delivers a speech, and is judged by a ghost.

Of course, the most obvious source of the story’s renewed timeliness is the severed head itself. Originally a device intended by Barrada to evoke antique horrors for his modern Arab readers, it may now evoke instead the disgust of daily reality. Beheadings or threats of beheadings are in the news almost every day, thanks to murderers who are acting in the name of Islamist political fantasies. Headless bodies are found floating in the Tigris River, and bodiless heads are discovered in Saudi refrigerators. Videotaped beheadings may be watched at any time on the internet, their appalling images overwhelming Barrada’s or anyone else’s attempts to capture their savagery in words. Barrada’s quarter-century-old political horror story is now our daily reality.

Freund places Berrada’s work firmly in the tradition of fantastic and surrealistic works that appeared in the Arab world in the 1960s, probably in response to Nasserism. Berrada’s story dealt with the circularity of nationalist thought.

What happens when someone – or something – attempts to break this cycle? In Barrada’s tale, the people react to the head’s attempt to make them “call things by their name and embrace realities” in this way: They hurl abuse at the head. They speculate as to whether the head is a tool of a foreign power. They answer, “We don’t have to put up with someone who insults us and reviles us.” The final judgment of the head is delivered at its state trial: Return the head to the corpse, orders a ghostly judge who has risen from the past, “and cut off the tongue.”

I was walking down an outdoor market on rue Mouffetard in Paris yesterday when I noticed a Moroccan grocer who was selling figs and raspberries. He was trying to attract the attention of tourists by hawking his wares in their native language. When he saw me, he switched from the Italian he’d used on the couple ahead of me to Spanish. “Prueba los, señorita,” he said. “Estan deliciosos.”
One of my own countrymen thought I was Spanish.
In Persian restaurants, I always get double takes from the waiters and when they start off in Farsi I have to shake my head and say sorry. Upon finding out that my name was Laila, the Turkish cashier at Trader Joe’s asked whether I was from Ankara.
A pair of brown eyes, dark curly hair, and you could be from anywhere.

So here I am in the city of lights, where I’ve been buying even more books, which means I’ll probably have to purchase another suitcase and pay extra on the flight home. The second-hand book dealers along the Seine carry a lot more trinkets these days, but there were still a few things that made the walk absolutely worth it–a few additions to my Tintin collection, and an old Boule et Bill that brought back wonderful childhood memories. People take their comics very seriously here: they come in hardcover, in a variety of genres including mystery, literary, and erotica, and you can find them in a special section at every bookstore. There’s a literary scent to things everywhere here: madeleines at breakfast, the cafes where American expats hung out, the Notre Dame cathedral, where special banners boast about the relationship between the monument and Victor Hugo’s novel.

In every bookstore I went to in the capital of Rabat, I looked for Mohammed Choukri’s novels–I’m still missing some of his later work, and I wanted to be sure to buy some before leaving. But I always came up empty-handed. When I asked the booksellers, they said they were sold out of Choukri. I was so frustrated that I ended up asking for any copies, of any books, in any language, as long as the author was Choukri, and still the answer was no. Finally, at Kalila Wa Dimna on Avenue Mohamed V I managed to snag the last remaining copies of Choukri’s memoir of his tumultuous friendship with Paul Bowles and his account of Jean Genet and Tennessee Williams’ stay in Tangiers. At another bookstore, I found a special issue of Il Parait au Maroc devoted to Choukri’s life and work. It was strange; even though Choukri’s books sell briskly, no one seemed interested in stocking more copies. It couldn’t be a question of censorship. Just this week, for instance, Tel Quel magazine, on sale in newstands everywhere, had a special report on “secrets” of the last three Moroccan kings (the revelations were mostly financial in nature, concerning alleged misappopriation of state funds. Such revelations would have been unthinkable ten years ago.)
When I asked a few booksellers what seemed to pique people’s interest these days, they had a one-word answer: Tazmamart. King Hassan’s infamous geol, where he secretly kept dozens of political prisoners for nearly twenty years in revolting conditions, is the topic that moves the most copies. Any book, they say, whether non-fiction (like Ahmed Marzouki’s Cellule 10) or fiction (like Tahar Ben Jelloun’s IMPAC award-winning This Blinding Absence of Light) sold like hotcakes.
I finally came across Choukri’s novels on my last day here: At the airport in Casablanca, where one of the duty-free bookshops carried his classic For Bread Alone.

I spent the day in Casablanca yesterday, where I met with my good friend Karim Tazi, whom I haven’t seen in nearly ten years (and I was given a fair number of guilt trips about this at dinner!) Karim’s been involved in charitable work for years, but recently he’s been spearheading a movement where non-profit organizations and associations work hand in hand with private companies and government ministries in setting projects to benefit underprivileged youths. I was particularly keen on seeing what had been done in the shanty of Sidi Moumen, whose existence many middle-class Moroccans weren’t even aware of, and where the young men who blew themselves up in the May 2003 bombings came from. One association had set up a job-training center for young women, which I visited. Another group was providing after-school programs, including art and music. There were also a number of other projects to try and promote democratic ideals (rather than just handing out help and leaving people behind. ) I wish people who spend their time talking about bringing democracy to the Arab world and who accuse Arabs of not doing enough would come see for themselves. Maybe then, instead of bombing these people into democracy, they’d roll up their sleeves and help. The enthusiasm and the dedication of the volunteers were so infectious that I found myself returning home completely inspired. I’ll have more on this in the future.

A couple of days ago we drove out to the small town of Mehdia, where we visited the port, the fish market, and the ruins of Moulay Ismail’s fortress. On the beach, people were playing soccer and paddle ball, swimming, surfing, or boogie boarding. There was a guy who’d brought out a dromedary, loaded it with a handmade saddle and was charging for a picture. Another man was walking a faux zebra (a white mule painted with black stripes) and was charging kids for a ride. A teenager was fishing on the rocks for calamari. Later, he’d sell them to a restaurant in a nearby town. A woman was walking door to door by the beachfront homes, selling rghaif (a type of pancake). On the strand, there were dozens of shops selling everything from escargot to barbecued fish. Unemployment is in the double digits right now but people are resourceful in thinking of ways to make a living.