(...)
Then came the turn of Palestine, a newspaper for which my father served as editor-in-chief from 1968 to 1971. At that time, the media of the National Union of Popular Forces was under an embargo, prompting my father and the late Omar Benjelloun to decide to publish Palestine in support of the resistance. In doing so, they also provided a media outlet for the party to which both were affiliated. It was there that they gained invaluable experience in journalism, navigating outdated techniques and methods of struggle with limited resources that demanded the utmost sacrifice.
My father was the editor-in-chief of Palestine, which was published weekly until 1971. The newspaper was not just a workplace for him; it was a hub for our entire small family. My late brother, Aziz, who was still quite young, played a significant role in its operations. Without his dedication, alongside my father and others, Palestine wouldn’t have become the beacon of light it was in an atmosphere of tension and suppression.
During those years, I met several people who left a lasting impression on my heart, including the late professors Abdellah Bouhlal and Hassan al-Alaoui, as well as the workers in the printing press of the National Union of Popular Forces. I mainly assisted with proofreading and occasionally participated in discussions and informal classes, even though I supported the Democratic Front while my father and his colleagues were aligned with the Fatah organization. Despite our differing viewpoints, the debates never crossed the line of respect and esteem.
I remember that at the end of the sixties, with the echoes of the June 1967 defeat still ringing in our ears, my father called me one day and informed me that a Palestinian delegation, including leaders from Fatah, would be visiting our home for no more than an hour. He emphasized that everything should go smoothly. “Of course, father. It will be just as you wish,” I assured him.
Palestine knocks at our door.
My mother prepared sweets, tea, and coffee. I, my father’s right hand, was fully prepared. The cars arrived, and the delegates stepped out. The late Wasef Mansour, the then-representative of the Palestinian Liberation Organization in Morocco, led the Palestinian delegation. The vehicles were flanked by black cars that remained stationed at the door, filled with men monitoring the situation. As our guests entered, the conversation centered around the rejuvenation of the Palestinian resistance. My father invited me to recite one of my early poems about Palestine. Filled with pride, I sat before the Palestinian delegates and recited my debut poem, titled “I Swear, my Brother.”
Then, here I was, knocking at the door of Palestine.
It was July 2000, just a few days before the outbreak of the second Palestinian uprising.
This time, I brought my poems and set off for Palestine.
Coincidentally, a Moroccan band was visiting Ramallah, generously invited by the Palestinian ambassador in Morocco, Mr. Abou Marwan, and recommended by Anis Belafredj, another former prisoner.
This visit has a story worth telling.
The musician Rachid Fekkak founded the band “al-Fann al-Aṣīll, Ghadan” (“Authentic Art, Tomorrow”) in the mid-1990s. The band’s uniqueness lay in its blend of various artistic forms, including music, singing, and poetry recitation, all presented in splendid operatic attire. The Palestinian ambassador attended one of their performances at the Mohamed V Theatre in Rabat and was impressed. This made it easier to persuade him to support the project for the band’s visit to Palestine.
The band flew from Casablanca Airport to Gaza Airport, which Morocco built in 1997, but it was destroyed by Ariel Sharon in 2001. Upon arrival, the band headed to Ramallah, while I joined them via the Allenby Bridge, coming from Amman, where I had participated in a workshop on human rights. All the band members awaited me, including my cellmate Mohamed Al-Khatib, artists Fatiha Sadad and Tarek Jihad, the poet Rabia Bouhabi, and the choir members Amina Sada and Mariama Fadli, along with musicians Chouqi al-Wajdi, Abdulkarim, and others.
In Ramallah, I felt a special ecstasy as I read my poems.
Then, we visited Nablus, taking photos to remember the trip as we entered the city. Accompanying us was the young dentist Abou Marwan, who shared stories about the suffering of the people in Nablus. I noticed a small, isolated farm up the road, high up on a hill, yet it was connected to electricity. I couldn’t help but wonder about the irony of someone living alone in such a remote spot. My companion explained: the Israeli state encourages those who want to live in remote areas, providing them with all the necessary supplies, including water, electricity, and paved roads…
During our stay at a hotel in Al-Bireh, just a stone’s throw from Ramallah, I befriended the young waiter at the café. He was remarkably helpful. One time, he brought me a photo album, though I didn’t immediately understand his intention. As I flipped through the pictures, I came across a photo of a young man lying on a surgical table. The boy looked remarkably like the waiter, almost as if he were his younger brother. I still didn’t grasp the significance until he leaned closer and said: I’m the boy on the table. This photo was taken years ago when I entered the operating room. I was one of the Stone Children.
That night, I wept alone for my naivety. A Stone Child could be anyone in life. He could be the waiter in the café where I sip my coffee every morning for instance… before leaving for the airport in Gaza, I gathered all the Israeli shekels I had and went straight to my waiter friend. However, I saw a polite refusal in his eyes, and I didn’t press him to take the money. It was time to go. When I hugged him for the last time, I discreetly placed the shekels on the table near the exit, and he didn’t notice. Then, I got into the car with my companions and waved goodbye.
At that moment, the Stone Child looked at me with a friendly gaze, as if to say, “You’ve defeated me this time… Until we meet again.”
Later, after returning from Nablus, I visited the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem and took photos there. Friends from Ramallah helped us enter the city, as cars with Palestinian license plates aren’t easily allowed into Jerusalem. We managed to outsmart the Israeli soldiers and set foot in the city. I then visited the Moroccan Quarter and the Wailing Wall, where Israeli soldiers prohibited me from taking photos, but I still managed to capture a few.
I could never forget the path of Christ as he ascended to his death. I walked along much of the same road he took, carrying his cross under the lashes of his torturers. I stood in reverence, invoking his spirit as he ascended to the place of his death and resurrection. Finally, we reached the Masjid of the Rock. Upon entering, I discovered why it is called the Dome of the Rock: a rock appears to have descended from the heavens and settled in Jerusalem, with the Masjid built around it.
I slowly descended into a cave beneath the rock, adorned with prayer rugs. There, I found myself praying two Rak’ahs, imploring the Creator: “Oh Allah, You see all the injustice that befalls these people. Why doesn’t this tyranny come to an end?”
After that, Palestine visited me once again in Morocco.
This visit was embodied by my friend Jawad Boulous, a Palestinian activist and lawyer who attended the International Human Rights Festival in Marrakech in 2014 at the invitation of the Damīr [Conscience] Association, alongside another prominent guest from Lebanon, musician Marcel Khalifa.
Unlike Marcel Khalifa, whose footsteps could barely be heard and whose presence might go unnoticed until his smile brightened the room and his soft whispers reached our ears, Jawad Boulous stood out with his hearty, clear laughter. This laughter accompanied him in his relentless daily struggle for justice in Palestine, where he tirelessly defends Palestinian prisoners as a lawyer.
These two fighters, armed with the power of words, were with us throughout the festival. The Damīr Association chose to participate in the conference by organizing an international panel on freedom of conscience. There was no doubt that the presence of Marcel Khalifa and Jawad Boulous added a unique flavor to our seminar, attracting many attendees.
However, that wasn’t the only reason people flocked to the gathering. Our decision to give the floor to one of the Moroccan Christians, our friend Mohammed Said, prompted a violent verbal intervention. An individual, a figure of political Islam in Morocco, attempted to take the floor without the moderator’s permission but was denied; eventually, the seminar returned to its calm proceedings.
I asked Marcel to deliver a closing speech at the end of the festival, and he graciously accepted. I stood beside my friend, Driss El Yazami, then President of the National Council for Human Rights, who asked me, “How did you manage to bring together such distinguished guests?” My response was simply a smile; I was basking in the beautiful impression of the moment.
(...)
At the age of fifteen, I compiled my handwritten poems into a small booklet, encouraged by my Palestinian-Moroccan Arabic teacher, Younes al-Shami. I remember it well; it was in 1967. After adorning the booklet with drawings by the late artist Abdelaziz Mouride, I presented it to him. Mouride later accompanied me on my journey of underground political activism within the New Left, beginning in 1969 and continuing through the long years of imprisonment that followed.
This very first collection of [my] poems has its own story as well.
I took the collection with me, along with other items, when I joined the underground political movement. On the day of my arrest, the police found the collection in my house. They confiscated it as evidence for the charges against me because it contained revolutionary poems. Thirty years later, when we were working on the Equity and Reconciliation Commission, I sought its retrieval as compensation for the years of persecution I endured, but it was nowhere to be found.
[This excerpt is from Mimosa, a forthcoming book by Salah El-Ouadie.]
Translated from Arabic by Aomar Boum