(A letter from Khaled to Muadh)
Dear Muadh,
Thank you very much for your letter. You really surprised me in my loneliness here in Sat Village prison in Tangier waiting for my trial. One of the guards delivered the letter to me in a terrible condition. It seems they didn’t only read it; they investigated what’s between each two letters looking for some evidence to be used against me to send me Guantanamo detention camp perhaps.
Your letter took me long year back in time when paper letters used to carry the emotions of migrants and the new life events that may have happened a month or more ago. A month in that slow time was considered ‘a short period of time’. Those envelopes were decorated with red and blue colors and had ‘Par Avion’, i.e. ‘By Air’ written on them. Do you remember them, dear Muadh?
These days one month is enough to make one thousand friends and delete five hundred people from your friend list on Facebook. It’s enough to received tens of cold messages that carry written emotions rarely any of which is delivered.
You asked me about my state. What shall I say? It’s a simple, three-word question; however, its answer is complicated and deep. How can a man be after he was deported from a foreign country, where he went to participate in a literary forum, to his home country accused of smuggling and participating in robbing a painting that was found tucked in his luggage?
It might be a shocking or bad bit of news for a person who did that crime when they managed to catch him, but how would the situation be for a man who was having fun not aware of anything?
The funny and distressing thing at the same time is that they’re accusing me of robbing a painting that belongs to the historic heritage of Tangier. How can that be possible? I, the son of Tangier, the devoted lover who spent long years of my life writing articles defending Tangier, her history, remarkable achievements, and heritage end up accused of robbing my Tangier!
I sometimes really suspect I’m having a terrible nightmare and tell myself I’ll wake up any minute finding myself in my room and nothing has happened. I imagine myself scratching my head and asking where I am then I discover that I’m still in my room and nothing happened at all, Nonetheless, it doesn’t happen. Some people say we have our dreams and nightmares in black and white; what I see is unfortunately colored…really colored.
As for my new events, I’m still having visits from our friends Mahdi and Munir, some relatives, and of course from that kind woman Aziza Rahma. We used to sleep in her house every now and then when we used to come home late knowing well that things in our houses wouldn’t go well. We used to tell her that we were studying ‘Medicine’ subject (it was most often in summer!). She used to believe us especially that her dream was that all of us would become doctors. It was her algophobia. Aziza Rahma suffer from the fear of pain. Therefore, she needed us to become doctors to protect her from pain.
The truth is that I didn’t want anyone to know of what happened to me. Hadn’t it been for the electronic revolution, the news wouldn’t have spread like wildfire. One of the rare things I give myself credit for is my ability to bear misfortunes on my own. I don’t need people to carry the weight of my troubles; they already have enough troubles. Seeing my dear people sad for me intensifies my sadness. Therefore, let me struggle against my worries while you sit outside the ring watching the fight and wish me good luck. This’s my message to you all.
Anyways, you can’t deprive people their right to love you and feel sympathy to you. How do people sympathize and love you? It isn’t you who decide; it’s them.
Aziza Rahma came to me yesterday hesitantly walking and said,
This is what she said, and she then collapsed and kissed my hand. For lord’s sake who can tolerate such a scene? I kissed her head, shoulder and hand. After some days of resistance, I cried and cried. I cried my eyes out till I felt my eyes became dry.
Aziza brought me “kikes”, a cake she baked for me, and some things from my apartment. She even inserted her hand in her bag and extracted the last thing I expected—my cat!
Aziza’s care of the cat was evident… the cat brushed itself against me as if she knew everything. I said to her,
Aziza said the prayer as a comment, but I say ‘Amen’ in my heart.
I couldn’t resist myself. I kept laughing out loud till tears ran down my face. It’s the old age, Muadh… it’s when an old person becomes a child again… a child who can let you feel compassion and love despite everything.
Dear Muadh,
Forgive me for telling you these trivial details. I feel you’re sitting by me, so I find myself going on and on as if I’m talking to you. Anyways…the important thing is that my lawyer promised me he’ll do his best to make everything well.
How can things be well? I didn’t want to ask him to be honest…
He told me there are some points that support my case. For example, the painting remained hidden in my luggage for five days; it’s insane for a person smuggling a painting to do such a thing! He’d have delivered it directly to the other party once he arrived in Belgium.
In addition, all investigation carried out by the Interpol in Belgium and the local police here proved that I know no one of the gang that robbed the painting. It’s impossible I admit something I don’t know in the first place… As a result, the best evidence, which is admission, is on my side.
My lawyer went yet further in his optimism and enthusiasm and told me he’d add my articles on Tangier as evidence to make use of in the defense.
The only black point against me is my visit to our friend Mahdi in the museum. (He was fired by the way). They consider the visit an actual application of the law lesson they learned, ‘Criminals return to the scene of the crime’. There’s of course the tangible, strong evidence against me… it’s the painting in my bag… this’s where my lawyer is endeavoring to prove to be tucked there without my knowledge…When and how? I, myself, can’t answer this question at the time being.
Dear Muadh,
I’d like to thank you for standing by me during the interrogations there…you actually were the only close companion I had with your visits that could have been engaged you in the troubles of investigations…you’ve decided, as all suicidally loyal friends do, to stand by me.
Anyways, it was good for you, I managed to give you the Maruja chocolate despite the police intransigence of the police not to give me my possessions which I finally obtained after a lot of hard effort.
How did you find the chocolate? Delicious and tasty as usual? Bon appétit.
You asked me about the situation in the prison. The Sufis say there’s this worldly life and the afterlife… and there’s the prison…this’s the third world which isn’t visited by all people… I wish you could know how much right they are. I’ll answer you in details in a coming letter after you let me know your news.
Love,
Sincerely your friend,
Khaled
Tangier – San Village Prison