A Riffians Tune (5 page)

After a particularly brutal afternoon when Zine and I were tortured, I convinced Zine that we should run away from home and the mosque to escape Brosso's grasp. We left, but not knowing where to go, we crossed the valley, headed east, toward the mountain and walked until it started to get dark. Zine began to cry from hunger and twisted his ankle on a tree root, as we were both barefoot. I helped him walk to a shrine nearby.

We spent the night there in pitch darkness, hungry and terrified. We stayed through the following day but then, thrown out by the caretaker, had to return home.

When I finally dragged myself home, my mother looked surprised at my weary state and said, ‘Jusef, you look horrible! Didn't you sleep well at your sister's?'

Avoiding her gaze, I answered, ‘I wasn't at my sister's. Zine and I ran away from the
hafiz
. He beat us. I would have run away for good if Zine hadn't twisted his ankle.'

Under her deep conviction the
hafiz
held the gate to heaven, she told me, ‘Beatings are of no benefit to the
hafiz
, but they are to you!' With that, she shook her fist in the air and turned away from me.

It was the first time I truly felt like defying my mother, but knew that I wouldn't. Instead, I pondered her reasoning and vowed never to be like her.
If she were not illiterate herself, if someone had taught her … if she hadn't fallen under such a spell of conviction, she would know the
hafiz
is ignorant and illiterate and would go with me, stick in hand, to take revenge.

A few months later as I sat on the floor with a few other boys, slates on our laps, Brosso pointed to my group and said, ‘You! Go outside and wipe your slates!'

We scrambled to get outside, gathered around a very small jug and jostled with each other to put our hands into it, each extracting a fistful of water to wash his slate. Everyone pushed and grabbed until the jug broke and shattered on the ground. We all scattered. Crouching on the ground around the corner of the mosque, I cleaned my slate with my dampened hand, then wiped it on my
jellabah
. With a piece of chalk in my hand, I covered the slate with a white glaze, then, bored with the process, doodled some Arabic numerals on my slate with my finger.

Hafiz
Brosso came out the door, sauntered to a bush to relieve himself, then spied me engrossed in my slate. He walked over to see what I was writing. Finding numbers, he flew into a rage and yanked the slate out of my hands. He hurled it into the brush and boxed my ears savagely. Whip always at the ready, it found its way to the side of my head, above my right ear. Blood gushed from my head and I screamed.

Brosso, raging and spluttering, shouted, ‘Never! Never write numbers! Not mixed with the holy
surah
! Get out of my sight before I kill you!'

I got up, stumbling from dizziness, and ran, holding my head, blood dripping, dripping down my arm.

At home that night, my father and mother whispered in the corner. I heard my mother say, ‘
Hafiz
Brosso is too harsh. Jusef has a gash above his ear; he could have been deafened. I hope he can hear.'

My father answered, ‘He has to learn to do as he's told.'

The next morning, half of my face was swollen. My mother put powdered sugar on the open wound.

‘I won't go back to the mosque, Mother.
Hafiz
Brosso will kill me. I won't be a good
hafiz
if I'm deaf or dead!' I told her.

‘Yes,
Hafiz
Brosso will be gone soon. You can do your work here at home until he's gone, but then you must return,' she responded.

Sitting under a pomegranate tree by the house, I repeated, hundreds and hundreds of times, the same
surahs
of the Koran until they became a part of me. When everyone celebrated the departure of
Hafiz
Brosso, and the new
hafiz
was hired, I returned to find he had come from exactly the same mould.

I took a small flute that I had made from a reed and played it before the
hafiz
arrived. Hearing the flute from his home, he rushed to the mosque. He pushed me to the ground, trampled over me and my flute, stamped and kicked me, and asked a boy to hold me. The boy, bigger and stronger than I was, grabbed me by the waist and whisked me off the ground. I wrapped my arms around his torso to stop myself from falling. The
hafiz
stretched my legs onto a boulder in front of me and whipped them with a stick.

‘Music is evil! I'll beat the devil out of you!' he sputtered, going red in the face.

He stopped me from playing music just as his predecessor had stopped my learning about numbers. I laughed to myself and thought,
I will never succumb! Music and numbers aren't evil. I'm paying this price because ignorance is in charge. It's the real evil!

Fortunately, I became a
hafiz
in an exceptionally short time compared to many people. I was given the title
Si
– a title given only to those who know the entirety of the Holy Koran by heart. In theory, I was as qualified as any of the
hafizs
but, like them, I was still unable to read or write. The language I spoke was Tarifit, an unwritten language of the Rif region. Of the Arabic language, all I knew was its alphabet after three long years in Koranic school.

A
few weeks before starting my shepherding, I checked out the local bingo club. Old and young men congregated under a tree or squatted against a wall to shelter themselves from the summer sun or the cold winter wind and played bingo the whole day long. Baghdad, the most trustworthy, was the official caller. He thrust his hand into the small hand-stitched bag on his lap, picked out the numbers and called them in a gravelly voice, ‘B
₁
… N
₄
… O
₂
…' He played the game himself and filled in his own bingo cards. I was thrilled to join the club and leave the mosque behind; I felt a change of status. I played regularly and sometimes won, but mostly lost. Each time an aeroplane flew overhead, Baghdad stopped the call, jumped up, put his left hand to his brow to shade his eyes from the sun and peered nervously at the passing plane. When it had passed and the noise had died down, he sat down and told us that the aeroplane was from ‘Japan! Japan!' Interrupting the game for aeroplanes annoyed me and provoked anger among the players.

I soon discovered that bingo was a dull, numbing game, and shepherding was the only occupation facing me. My older sister Rabbia had been waiting impatiently for me to take the reins. She handed me her slingshot and staff and suddenly, I found myself running barefoot behind sheep and cows, across hills, mountains and valleys seven days a week, rain or shine.

To be a good shepherd took skills I didn't have. Sheep, cattle and goats were like oil and water. They didn't mix, had souls of their own and I just didn't understand them. My first weeks were tiring and frustrating. Sheep needed freedom to graze freely; I kept them close to each other, and so prevented them from searching for food. Instead of being at the front, I stood behind them, which kept them running from me without stopping. Instead of letting them relax, I made them anxious. We were in a battle of wills. They wanted to run free to look for grass, and I wanted to keep them safe, for I knew that foxes were everywhere and could strike at any time.

Coming out of the house one drizzly morning Rabbia shouted, ‘Wrong! Wrong!' and called me for my first lesson in shepherding. ‘Never stand at the back,' she said. ‘Be at the back only when you want to take them into their pen.'

‘But they run in different directions!' I complained loudly.

‘Try to whistle and throw stones so the sheep will know you are present. Never be in the middle, for they will run in all directions. Once you arrive at your destination, stand at the front so they never pass you. Know that animals have a simple soul! They appreciate being fed, taken to the mountains, knowing you are between them and the foxes, but they fear being caught and slain.'

The lesson was hard to put into practice, but with experience I developed a rapport with my animals, and started to be able to predict their movements. Days were long and very lonely but I no longer needed to wake before dawn, which was an improvement. There was no chance of coming home at midday, and the days were very hot, so I took the sheep under a tree to sleep and waited for the sun to cool. At sunset, but sometimes later during the summer, I took them to their pen. Once at home, there was nothing for me to do but sleep or recite the Holy Koran for fear of forgetting it. My mother would come, sit on a sheepskin, listen carefully and rock back and forth. Her presence embarrassed me.

I learned the skill of how to live in peace with my animals. To protect them from going too far or getting lost, I sat between them and the high hills. Like a demented person, I started to talk to my sheep. Whenever I spoke, they stopped eating, raised their heads to listen and seemed to understand me. If I held something in my hand and called them, they all ran to me. Some of them were so confident that they rubbed against me. I became a part of the animal world and nature. The tree seemed to call me, and the call was so powerful that I was compelled to sit under it and listen to the music of the leaves swishing in the wind. The high mountain, Tassamat, looked like a staircase to heaven. I loved to reach the top and look at the trees, valleys, and the distant sea. I wondered what was behind it all. But despite the peace of nature and the company of my sheep and cows, I felt abandoned and lonely. I thought I had a second soul that was empty and needy, and I didn't know how to fill it.

Fooling around, I found a reed and made a flute out of it. I laboured intently, cutting and burning the holes just so, and lovingly looked upon my finished flute. Chaotic at first, my fingers started to dance to find a tune, and the flute sang, to the enjoyment of myself and my animals. Being in the high mountains surrounded by valleys, the music and the echo of the flute permeated the surrounding area. People from far away could have listened to my music.

One Friday afternoon my uncle, Mimoun, climbed the mountain and beckoned me.
Why is he here?
I wondered. Happily, I ran to meet him with my flute in my hand.

‘Show me your flute,' Uncle Mimoun demanded. Proudly, I did. Uncle Mimoun raised it high over his head and smashed it against a green stone. Admonishing me, he added, ‘Playing the flute is neither part of your father's tradition nor your grandfather's culture!' Shocked and surprised, my jaw dropped.
Uncle Mimoun acts just like a
hafiz
, except he doesn't trample or step on me
.
They all look different, but at heart, they drink from the same fountain. He has destroyed my flute, my friend and companion.

I thought I could do without my flute, but soon discovered it had kept me sane and my sheep and cattle happy. Because of my flute, the valley had been more than just a hollow space. As I played, it had echoed my soul and mirrored my need.

It took me a long time to find another perfect reed. Before I started to make a new flute, I went to Uncle Mimoun's wife, Mimount, and complained. ‘Uncle Mimoun tricked me and smashed my flute,' I told her.

She stood calm and poised. At first, she didn't understand what all the fuss was about. She knew that I played the flute. She had heard it. She showed real compassion and promised that she would talk to Uncle Mimoun. Like my mother, she had many daughters. To alleviate my anger, she teasingly promised me one of her daughters to marry when I was ready. I felt belittled. I had come to complain, and Mimount was trying to distract me. This was about my flute, not marriage.

A few months later, my father embarked on a new shepherding transaction. Two neighbouring families passed their goats to me to shepherd. Out of the blue, the number of animals in my care more than doubled, even though goats and sheep didn't mix well. My life became hell. Early each morning I had to take my animals and go to collect Mr Himo's and Mr Shabony's goats. Collecting them was not a big problem, but keeping sheep and goats both safe and within view became soul-sucking. Those goats were devil incarnate. They didn't stay with the sheep, they didn't stay together, they climbed anything, cliffs, low trees, onto roofs, they ate everything and they ran fast and far. I needed help. I explained the problem to Rabbia, but she had never had to look after goats, so I was left wondering what to do. The goats kept my mind away from my flute for a while.

I thought our dog Dargan, being big and colourful, might be a help. I bribed him with some food, and he followed the sheep, just like one of them. It took me about twenty minutes to shepherd them from my house to Mr Himo's and Mr Shabony's houses to collect their goats, and then half an hour from their homes to the mountains. During this trip, the dog was an angel. Once we reached the mountains, the sheep, goats and cows all started to graze.

Just as the animals settled, the dog began barking.
He is either hungry or thirsty
, I thought, but had nothing to give him. He was an untrained dog. Nothing could shut him up or make him do what I wanted him to do – go after the goats and bring them back when they went too far. His own bark and its echo in the valley excited him. He barked constantly and chased the sheep for fun, making them scatter in every direction. I took him along for a few days, and then decided I was much better off without him. Nothing else that I tried worked with the goats. They never got tired and nothing, not even a high cliff, could contain them.

One early morning it was cold, misty and damp. The whole landscape was covered with thick fog, and the wind played with it. All the sheep and cows were hunched down, and the goats were hungry. The cold weather and dampness didn't affect the running mood of the goats. It was only in the late afternoon when I was gathering the sheep and goats to go home that I realised Mr Himo's big black buck was missing. The buck didn't actually belong to him – he had borrowed it to mate with his does. I looked around for a long time, and it was getting dark. As I came close to a thicket, I saw several happy foxes playing, jumping around and climbing on each other. To my horror, I found the buck lying dead with his throat ripped out. For a moment, stunned, I was not able to move. I didn't know what to do, and worse, I didn't know what I would say to Mr Himo.