Peace be upon you.
✍️ Story text (Part One)
We lived in a tin shack that my father bought in 1968 for three hundred and fifty
dirhams. We spent five years in severe hardship, struggling with food and clothing, enduring harsh cold and deep poverty. I watched my father with pity, as he seemed like a stranger, knowing no one, with no one to support him financially or morally.
In winter, we would sleep as if we were outdoors, since the tin did not protect us from the cold or the wind. As time passed and I grew physically stronger, I became able to carry heavier things.
Our house was far from the school, and the forest dominated the general landscape of the city. We passed through it every morning and evening on our way to school. We would enter the classroom at 7:30 a.m. while darkness still prevailed, and leave at 6:30 p.m. when darkness had returned again.
One beautiful spring morning, while we were on our way to school as children, we found a body hanging from a tree. We approached to see... it was dead. At that time, there were no phones or communication means, and whoever wanted to notify the police had to go on foot to the station.
Poverty enveloped everything, even bicycles and motorcycles were stolen and dismantled at night, leaving only their frames behind. In the forest, there was a guard’s shack; he rode a horse provided by the
Ministry of Agriculture. Sometimes, at age 12, we stole honey from him. We also gathered firewood from the forest for cooking since gas cylinders were unavailable.
The guard often chased us on his horse, so we would leave the firewood and run away, sometimes hiding atop a tree while he watched us but wouldn’t come down until he grew tired and left.
In the early 1980s, construction began on the
Hassan II Hospital, uprooting many trees. They left the cut wood piled on the sides, so the residents of the "
Sharradi" neighborhood, or what was known as "Karian Al-Qazdir" nearby, came out like ant swarms dragging branches, firewood, and anything combustible. The place looked like an Indian village with towering piles of wood.
Our neighborhood was not supplied with water, electricity, or even sanitation. I used to accompany my mother carrying the water jug (qella) on her back to fetch water from "
Al-Ain Al-Hamra" (the Red Spring) located in Old Nahda neighborhood, near
Mohammad Al-Shaleh Dairy, next to
Al-Nahda Bath, which was built later.
There was another spring known as "Balam," affiliated with the
Phosphates Office, which was later removed. As for "Ain Aisha," it was just a hole in the potable water pipe of the office, used by nomads to water their livestock. It was far, but we went there every Sunday to wash clothes.
Over time, all free resources were removed, and water began to be sold. Vendors came with horse-drawn carts, charging 20 francs for 10 liters of water. Then the new Nahda subdivision was built, and water sellers worked with the builders. They only brought four tanks daily, each holding 200 liters, to serve 200 shacks!
We returned to suffering again... searching for water and making daily journeys to Old Nahda. This situation lasted until the new Nahda neighborhood was supplied with potable water.
In 1981... the catastrophe struck.
To be continued...
