I find myself now wondering if I want to see this book, or whatever you may call it, through. I guess if you are reading this, then I really did. I am hurting my friend. I feel constant anger and self-pity that I cannot even begin to describe. This book is not going to be your typical story. This is my life’s story. A story that is full of pain and reflections. I am doing this for myself more than I am doing it for anybody else. Therefore, do not expect this to be as structured as what you may read elsewhere. I am no writer after all. I am going to open up about things that I dare not think of alone, but I have you now, do I not?
If I want you to really know who I am and how I think, stranger, I should start by admitting that I came to the realization that I am not like everybody else. Do not think that I am being narcissistic or full of myself; on the contrary, I am very self-aware. I am, after all, my biggest critic and praiser. Therefore, if you know me or think you do, I want you to put all your assumptions aside because you are wrong, even I am still struggling with that myself. This is about both of us discovering who I really am. In sharing all of this, I am taking a vow to tell the truth, all the truth, and nothing but the truth. A sentence that a professor frequently used. I will get to this person later because, and not to be dramatic about it, he changed my life in a way. I was born on a Tuesday evening, right after Salat Almaghrib. My dad is a military pilot whose story is far more interesting than my own. He managed to write it all. You can say that his story was part of the reason that inspired me to do this. My father is a simple man. Even though I realize now that it can be a very wrong assumption that goes against all I have stated before. My father is of Settati origins. He grew up in a household of roughly thirty people. His grandfather’s wives and kids and his own father’s wives and brothers surrounded him growing up in one of the most rural parts of our country. He is one of the few people who has gotten to break the terrible cycle of poverty and actually make something out of himself. Something that I am most certainly proud of. Something that no one ever forgets to mention when we go to visit.
On the other hand, my mother grew up in a religious family and one of the wealthiest. I love my mother’s family and respect the fact that they support each other and care for each other. Something I am sure my father notices because he did not really have that. My mother’s family’s elder brother, who I like to refer to as the “Godfather,” is the head of her family. You remember my cousin, right? Well, “Hbibi” is her father. He has two other sons, who are my favorite cousins. The elder just scored a job in the marketing field in Casablanca, where the two brothers and sister live, and the youngest just finished his studies in Ukraine to be a dentist. Hbibi is now retired and he is thinking of starting a business. (I am not sure about that though.)
TEN MINUTES LEFT
As I said, I was born on a Tuesday evening. My small family was so happy that I was born. I am their eldest son, and after all the trouble they went through to have me, their happiness was through the roof. Regarding that struggle, I still do not know exactly what happened because, apparently, no one knows or likes to talk about it.
I grew up in “Hayawanat” (The Animals). What a weird name for a neighborhood, right? Well, you can already imagine what it was like to grow up in a place with such a name. Anyway, my parents rarely allowed me to go out and play with my peers on the street. My parents always tried to protect me. I truly understand it now and appreciate it. I honestly think that was one of the many reasons that I believe made me who I am today.
MY TIME IS UP.
There is only one name that I managed to remember of the kids that I used to play with. Mostly because one day, this kid and I were playing like usual, and it was late. His father came out and started talking about some unfinished homework. His father invited me in. For the sake of context, our neighborhood was shaped like a square with only one entrance, and in the middle of it was our playground. I entered their ground-floor house, which was all wrecked from all I can remember. I believe his father used to beat him. (I am not sure, though.) I remember helping him do his homework and his father complimenting my handwriting. By the way, I was four or five at the time. Afterwards, I got home to find my family freaking out about my disappearance. I got a two-hour lecture about going into strangers’ houses and how it can be dangerous. Something that seemed stupid at the time, but that I now understand.
I met this kid again years later. He is now working for a car mechanic as an apprentice. My dad took his car there for maintenance. I could see in his eyes the self-pity and envy especially when I told him that I was at the time enrolled in one of the most prestigious universities. I felt pity and sadness towards him. How we grew up together and how life can be so unfair towards us was what broke my heart the most.
I better get going. I am already late.
