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Silhouette of a man smoking a cigarette at night in Ouarzazate – By A. Azizi

Ghazouane, a stranger in his own country

By Samuel Malleviale 30 July 2014 No comments

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In Ouarzazate, one evening during Ramadan, Samuel Malleviale meets Ghazouane, 31, a seller of single cigarettes. From daily hardship to the desire to leave Morocco, their conversation draws an unflinching portrait of a man who feels like a stranger in his own country.

Ouarzazate, one evening during Ramadan. The streets of the town centre fill up after the Isha prayer.

“Marquise.”

The voice that has just grumbled the name of the low-cost cigarette brand belongs to a middle-aged man, greying hair, moustache and djellaba. His wife waits for him, slightly behind. The man comes over, carelessly drops 2 dirhams on the wooden table, takes without looking up the cigarette being handed to him, opens his palm, receives his change and, without a word, the couple walk off to continue their Ramadan stroll.

He stays there, glances at the green packet to check what he has left to sell, takes a tiny sip of tea and waits. He is Ghazouane.

He is 31, even though his papers make him two years younger. As for papers, all he actually has is a grubby A4 sheet, roughly folded and torn in several places, bearing the basic information establishing his identity. Better than nothing. Not far from nothing either. His national identity card? It is probably gathering dust somewhere in the police station in Guelmim, in the south-west of the country. More probably still, it was thrown into a bin at the same police station a long time ago.

Why did he end up there? For a joint, “bad hashish” at that. Why was his identity card confiscated when he was released after “only” 48 hours in a cell? Hard to say, as always when trying to make sense of the arbitrariness of law enforcement in the “most beautiful country in the world”.

Cigarette seller at night in Ouarzazate – By A. Azizi

For now, Ghazouane carefully guards the disintegrating scrap of paper that separates him from statelessness. And for now, he sells cigarettes one at a time. Certainly not enough to scrape together anytime soon the 100 DH needed to obtain a new identity card. Never mind, he will do without.

But why doesn’t he work? A “real” job, that is. Because after travelling the length and breadth of Morocco, doing since childhood every job available to those whose CV consists of nothing but their arms, Ghazouane would rather no longer break his back for 70 DH a day. The minimum wage for unskilled work in Morocco. Barely more than what he makes from his trade, precarious and monotonous, but with the advantage of not ruining his health for his later years.

Every man for himself, always

Because Ghazouane hopes those later years will be bright: house, wife, children. For now, none of them. This eternal triptych, which for many symbolises the beginning of adult life, would for him be its culmination. The wife? She needn’t be pretty, kind will do. The children? A hundred if he could feed that many. A boy and a girl if he can feed two. The house? Anywhere in Morocco, provided he knows no one there. Faced with my surprise at this last answer, he explains that he no longer has time for old friends: so many distractions that would divert him from his path.

In any case,

“Friendship does not exist in Morocco.”
Ghazouane

In all my naivety, I protest. He persists:

“Every man for himself, always. Here they greet you, call you brother, ask you three times if you’re all right. But try to make something of yourself: it’s you against the rest of the world.”
Ghazouane

So much for the postcard.

Ghazouane has plenty to say about this country that has always been his jungle. When asked what would need to change in Morocco for it to move forward, he replies:

“Moroccans.”
Ghazouane

He talks about the contempt for the weakest, cascading down from the highest reaches to the catacombs of society. The fear of the strongest that paralyses an entire people. The individualism that allows people to live happily while trampling on their neighbour. The halal hypocrisy that disguises vice as religious righteousness.

Ramadan or not, Ghazouane has not prayed in years. Even though, by his own admission, he needs it more than anyone. Only for now, it would not be right:

“I am a believer, I fear God. But I’ll go and pray when I have the life of a true Muslim.”
Ghazouane

The humility of these words resonates all the more coming from someone whose only education was Quranic. Their bitterness comes through when he urges his fellow citizens to do likewise:

“Morocco is an Islamic state without Muslims. In Islam, we live among brothers, not among wolves.”
Ghazouane

One evening, he learns from a French traveller that it is much easier to enter Russia than the Schengen Area. “If that’s true, I won’t wait a minute.” But Ghazouane will remain in Morocco, and he knows it. He has given up “the ambition of his life”: to escape his “prison”, meaning his country. The ambition he has left is to enable the children he hopes to have to do so.

I point out that life as an undocumented migrant is often more tragic than that of those who stayed behind. “I’d rather be eaten by the sea than by worms.” So be it. I press the point: even the luckiest reach the other shore only to find an unenviable existence, human rights being the privilege of that part of humanity whose papers are in order. He bursts out laughing.

“That’s true. Imagine someone attacks me in France. Without papers, I can’t go to the police to complain.” I nod, pleased to have convinced him. But puzzled, because he has not stopped laughing.