AN ANTHOLOGY FEATURING THE WINNERS OF OUR WRITING CONTESTS
American Language Center Rabat
American Language Center Rabat - Anthology Copyright by the ALC and respective contributors.
Editor: Rihane Zoubairi
For more information email:
alcwritingchallenge@gmail.com
American Language Center Rabat 4, Rue Tanger Rabat, Morocco, 10000 www.alcrabat.com Facebook/alcrabat IG: alcrabatofficial
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The completion of this undertaking could not have been possible without the assistance of many people whose names may not all be enumerated. Every contribution is sincerely appreciated. However, we would like to acknowledge and give our warmest
thanks
to
Michael
McMillan
(Director,
ALC
Rabat), and Hannah Graves (Social Media & Activities Coordinator)
who
made
this
work
possible
thanks
to
their constant support of this project, and every ALC Writing Contest. To all our contest judges: Ayesha Louise Barber, Leonard A.
Wallstein,
Stephen
Kosner,
Haytham
Chhilif,
Anes
Ahmed, and Mohammadreza Fassadi Chimeh for their time and invaluable contribution.
This collection contains short stories and poems written by
the
winners
organized
by
of
the
different
Writers’
writing
Club
of
competitions the
American
Language Center of Rabat.
The Writers’ Club is one of many clubs that the American Language Center of Rabat offers to its students, and now to the public. Our newly formed partnership with the
Olive
Writers
will
help
us
achieve
our
goal
of
creating a stable group of people interested in writing and providing them with an environment where they are supported
to
learn
and
discuss
different
writing
techniques and work on their pieces. The curriculum of the club is tailored to assist the members in the process of workshopping and revising their creative pieces by taking advantage of each member and involving them in the process of helping each other through feedback, insight, and constructive criticism which aims to improve editing and analytical skills.
Join
us
at
the
Writers’
Club,
and
participate
in
our
writing contests to be part of this catalogue.
All stories have been reformatted and edited slightly for grammatical mistakes.
STORIES OF MOROCCO
Spring 2019 CREATIVE NONFICTION AND REALISTIC FICTION
The Rug, by Aya Mansouri Yahiaoui
1st Place The Rug, by Aya Mansouri Yahiaoui
Wardrobe opened: very tidy clothes, mostly traditional kaftans and Jellabas, at the corner: medications, various packages
with
every
shape
and
colour.
Very
neat
bedroom: a large bed with a single lavender pillow on the top of its pastel greenish sheets. The yellowish walls seem to grow closer as the only source of light is a tiny window covered with milky white curtains. Next to the wooden frame of the door is a large mirror, it holds an almost perfect reflexion of the bed facing it. The open courtyard
is
vast
and
sunny;
next
to
the
fountain
is
placed an old Rbatti rug with cushions all over it and a small table. The only voices that resonated in this house were those of the birds, the radio, and Lalla Nezha’s singing.
It
seemed
almost
sudden,
unforeseen,
and
abrupt when she fell, collapsed on the old rug, her pills still in the palm of her right hand, her eyes wide open staring at the kitchen. She didn’t even have the time to take her grey Jellaba off, her head wrapped in a white scarf, her shoes still on. Of course, the house is utterly serene
now,
as
she
lays
there
motionless,
cold,
and
lifeless: her wrinkled skin as pale and blanch as the walls that are trapping her soulless carcass.
Days will pass without anyone noticing her death. She had no one to take care of her. Her husband passed away years before she did. Her beloved children are either living in different cities or abroad, enjoying their lives, starting their own families: she was proud of them, whilst,
her
only
friend
Mimouna
is
too
busy
with
her
grandkids and her stray kittens. She is left to the cruelty of time. It is mid-august, her corpse will start smelling, maybe then someone will notice. If not, she is to rot and decay:
The
worms
will
devour
her
undernourished
ill
body and November rain will wash her skeleton frame. And maybe by then, someone will notice her absence, will try and knock on her door, someone will be worried. Someone
will
care.
It
has
been
a
month
since
her
passing, the world hasn’t changed that much except that it was now colder. Mimouna’s grandkids were gone and she was finally going back to her ordinary routine which included her daily visit to Lalla Nezha and sipping tea on the patio. Mimouna cherished that time as she was able to gossip about what was happening in the neighborhood. It was soon after Salah AL ASSR when she headed to her friend’s door and knocked multiple times. The old beautiful woman, stood there wearing her colourless Haik a traditional straw hat on her head and brown babouches hiding the henna on her feet. She could hear the sound of her knocks resonating in the house invading every corner of its poor architecture, however, there was no response, no birds chanting, no radio playing, and certainly no voice singing.
Mimouna’s
smiling
face
was
now
cheerless,
she
was
worried, she proceeded to call Khadija, one of Lalla Nezha’s daughters, she must know something, but no one knew what has betide the old lonely woman. I don’t know how much I would bear the shame, how I would endure this pain. I loved you and I will always do, but words are too easy to articulate and extremely complex to
demonstrate.
Grandma
what
has
become
of
you,
insects ate your insides, and birds pulled your eyes out. Grandma will you ever forgive us, forgive me. I know that
everyone
deserves
to
be
buried
especially
the
braves and I know the type of warriors that you were, mother had told me and I had seen how you sacrificed your youth for them, how caring and loving you were whenever we visited and thus I beg you, grandma, to excuse our selfishness and our egocentricity.
Changing The Stars, by Mouad Kerdoud
2nd Place Changing The Stars, by Mouad Kerdoud Your
ambitions
and
goals,
your
desires
and
feelings,
your hopes and your dreams. This is what you live for, this
is
what
makes
you,
you.
Now
imagine
all
these
things vanish in an instant while staying perfectly alive. Your life loses its meaning. Your days become bitter and parts of you die each day until you perish. This is what
happened
to
my
sister
Rihan
after
a
forced
marriage and this is her story. Destruction is simple, it happens in a matter of seconds or hours. Construction, however, takes time and effort. It is easy to bring down a wall but not so simple to build it. The person Rihan used to be was not built overnight. Her persona was shaped through experiences, hardships, and overcoming society’s obstacles. It took years for her to flourish into this wonderful woman whose joyfulness was extremely contagious. Foum Al Ancer, a small village next to Beni Mellal is where we grew up. A breathtaking landscape surrounded
by
beautiful
mountains
and
open
fields
where we could play for the whole day peacefully. The conditions we were brought up in were difficult. The closest
food
village,
we
market
could
was
only
go
two
hours
once
a
away
week
to
from
the
get
the
number of supplies we needed that would last for the
whole seven days. There was only one school in the entire village, an elementary one. You would think it was impossible to live in these conditions but the infinite amount of love and sacred simplicity that were provided made
it
a
pure
and
an
exceptionally
appreciable
childhood. My caring sister Rihan, who was two years older, always sought to make things easier to ensure my comfort. Her caring nature made her loved among the village kids. Her discipline and aim for knowledge had her
respected
by
everyone.
Her
looks
made
it
very
difficult not to draw attention to her. A long black hair cascaded
down
her
back,
dark
brown
eyes
with
an
intense look that held the power to create a respite from the present suffering one is going through. Skin so soft that might get wounded by her wool clothes. A soul so pure you could feel its warmth. We all as young kids had dreams and visions of how our future would be. We would get excited imagining growing up. However we would soon fall victims to deep despair knowing how limited our choices and possibilities were, but Rihan saw things differently. My beautiful sister had always firmly believed
that
we
were
all
meant
to
shine,
that
the
ability to achieve greatness is not just in some of us; it is in
everyone.
And
as
we
let
our
own
light
shine,
we
unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. Her presence automatically liberated others from their own fear. She was driven to erase the injustice toward
the
women
present
in
our
community.
inspired all the village girls and women to dare.
Rihan
Dare to speak, dare to want, dare to voice their desires, and dare to dream! She was often perceived as a rebel and
troublemaker
by
men
mostly
and
people
who
strongly believed in the limited role a woman should have. My strong sister wouldn’t care; the higher cause she aimed for outweighed the risks of her doings. At home, there was a big resistance from our father who felt ashamed of how Rihan conducted herself. Although a serious and generous man that provided for his family and made sure we lacked nothing, was easily influenced by the sayings of his peers who always criticized my sister. My mother was an enormous source of love and affection that would go all her way to ensure our wellbeing and happiness. Nonetheless, like the majority of women in the village, she couldn’t speak up or object to her husband’s words and decisions. But the fire that was fuelling Rihan’s heart was too intense to be extinguished by this. Her strength made us feel invincible in the face of
the
oppression
that
was
going
on.
She
was
an
everyday inspiration for me. I had always looked up to her and tried to imitate some of her doings in the hope to be like her. To me, the idea of a bright future for Rihan was an infallible thing. Little did I know about what was going to happen. However, on many tries, when life chooses to display its unreasonable cruelty we can do nothing but surrender to its brutality. I remember vividly
that
couldn’t
do
day,
the
much
to
day
Rihan
celebrate
turned
twenty.
birthdays
given
We the
conditions of where we lived but I had promised Rihan to make the most of it and that it was going to be a memorable night.
We headed to the Hammam early in the morning, a place Rihan normally despised; women would gather to gossip and my elegant sister was never fond of that. It seemed like that day was an exception; we were way too content to be bothered by them. We met a couple of friends and spent the afternoon with them. Spending time with Rihan was always a joy; the other kids would love listening to her. She had this amazing power to make us feel wanted and valuable. Everybody liked the feeling of being special. Her will and desire to change her world and the world of others seemed stronger that day. "Can I change the stars?" a 7-year-old girl asked her with wondering eyes. "Yes,
Sofia,
if
they
believe
enough,
a
person
can
change the stars!" responded with assurance Rihan. A
couple
of
hours
went
by
for
what
seemed
like
minutes. It began to get dark and our friends had to go back home but Rihan and I still had plans. We went up to a high hill in the village to gaze at the night sky; when clear and full of stars, the sky made us feel peaceful. Not a word was exchanged. That was one of our most precious
moments.
Moments
that
made
us
wish
we
could stop time to preserve and protect them. Rihan always number
believed of
that
years
we
life
was
lived
not
but
measured
was
by
measured
the by
moments that had the power to take our breath away. We wanted to stay there forever but it started to get late. Heading home we shared pure laughs. If I could ever describe happiness, it was those moments, those genuine smiles, those simple things!
I learned through Rihan that it was the little things that mattered, the ones done with love. As we approached home, we heard noises louder than usual. It was suspicious given that only our parents were home. As we walked in, to our surprise, we saw an old man who wasn’t familiar to us sitting next to our father smiling. Our mother was serving them tea as she held a grin from ear to ear. We stood up staring at them for what seemed like an eternity until father asked Rihan to join them while I went to my room and carefully listened. “Today is a big day for you Rihan,” said my father with a proud voice, “it is the day you become a woman!”. After a brief silence, my father proceeded to say, "Ssi EL MAATI is a very respectful man among our peers. He will make sure to provide for you and ensure you have a good future”. Another strange silence reigned until I heard my sister Rihan
say
with
getting
married
studies
and
I
a
firm
at
am
tone,
this able
age. to
"I
have
I
want
ensure
a
no to
intention continue
good
future
of my for
myself." "Do you see what kind of insolent child you have raised? She is disobeying her own father!" Said my dad angrily to who seemed to be my mother. "I am your father! You have to do as I demand! You will marry Ssi EL MAATI and stop this madness of yours. You should be happy that this man proposed to you and accepted to have you as his wife!” With a shocked yet strong voice, my sister responded, "Happy?!
Father,
what
could you do this to me?”
are
you
talking
about?
How
Meanwhile, I had begun to feel chills running through my body as the situation became tenser and tenser. "I will tolerate no more disobedience from you! This is not a discussion. This is an order!" shouted my father while hitting the table hard with his hand. My sister ran back to our room crying and shouted at me to get out and leave her alone. Never had I seen my sister Rihan in this situation; I was beyond shocked. I remember not being able to sleep that night from the uncontrollable crying and sobbing of Rihan. What was a day full of joy and happiness soon turned out to be misery and agony. My beloved sister Rihan would always wake up at dawn; the sunrise made her feel free, she said. The morning after the tragedy, however, my sister did not wake up at dawn. My sister was not free. Rihan lay the whole day in bed, not crying though. It was way worse. Rihan didn’t speak a word, not even to me. She didn’t care to eat, showed interest in nothing, and didn’t bat an eye. This went on for days. Mother would put hours trying to talk her
through
this
hopelessness
she
felt
but
in
vain.
Father’s pride was too big to break his word and cancel the wedding. A deathless death is what it felt like; her body was lying in bed but her soul seemed to have left. That
burning
dreams
had
fire
that
was
extinguished.
fueling
And
that
her was
desires
and
worse
than
death itself. My heart ached every day seeing her that way. As
the
wedding
approached
Rihan
didn’t
bother
to
resist, didn’t put up a fight or speak up a word, knowing that
no
matter
what
she
did
she
couldn’t
avoid
inevitable destiny that was chosen for her by father.
the
She was like someone condemned to death whose only hope was to be shot as quickly as possible to avoid thinking about it. I remember not being able to sleep the
night
before
the
wedding;
thoughts
didn’t
stop
running through my mind. How could this happen? How could the dreams, ambitions, desires and hopes of a person die with a single decision taken by someone else? How is this fair? All my dear Rihan ever wanted is to change her world and destiny, a destiny that seems to have been written without her having a word in it. A frightening idea wouldn’t leave my mind that night. Is every decision we make nothing but a step we take into an
unchangeable
predetermined
destiny?
That
atrocious morning, I woke up early to go talk to my sister as I knew she would move out once she gets married. Rihan was not in her bed. My initial thought is that she went out to observe the sunrise as she used to do. I went outside looking for her. And there she was, not looking at the sunrise but hanged to a tree. As shocking as it was, I also felt a deep unexplainable relief. The suicide Rihan had committed was not out of cowardice but bravery. Rihan was brave enough to give up this life if it meant losing her pride and freedom. Rihan, as she always did, chose to be free. The whole village mourned for months for the death of my beloved sister.
The guilt
my parents felt still hunts them to this day and I don’t think it can ever be washed away. As for me, it is hope that guides me. It is what gets me through the day and especially the night: The hope that after she is gone from my sight, parts of her will always live inside me. The hope to make her proud because I think that if they believe enough, a person can change the stars!
Gilded Cage by Amalou Ouassou
3rd Place Gilded Cage by Amalou Ouassou
She was sitting on the toilet, clinging to her phone, turning her knuckles white as she texted frenetically. She hoped to ship her worries away, ship them through the device to her hometown of Rabat. An empty screen was staring back at her, waiting for solace to light it up. The feeling of the first drops falling on a stick grabbed her by the collar, and there she was dragged again to this house… dragged again to her house in Casa. As her bladder loosened, her muscles stiffened, and doubts, venomous creatures, climbed up, scratching her insides with their claws, empoisoning her veins. An unjustified shame turned into an unbearable pain, the thought of bursting soon became a relief. Did she ever forget to take her pills? How many women had regular cycles? Very few, right? And as those questions magnified in her mind, her imagination draping them with the attire only worn by certainties, she couldn’t help but burst with laughter instead, vomiting the poison, pushing it away as ugly cackling sounds. She got up, still hysterical, and threw the stick on a table then rushed to the bathroom to wash her hands.
She drowned them in soap and scrubbed harder than ever,
peeling
paranoia palms.
her
skin,
escaping
enjoying
her
Bloodstained
body
her
the
sight
through
golden
of
her
ring,
her
red
wounded
soiling
the
diamond. Wanting to clean it, she tried to take it away, only to realize that the token had married the shape of her finger in a cold uncomfortable hug. Who cares? She still
had
time
celebrated
and
ahead to
of
laugh
her. at
Victory
her
own
had
to
stupidity,
be she
grabbed the stick and slouched on her couch, grinning. She
started
deciphering
the
word
that
appeared,
expecting a triumphant “N”. A “P” was what she saw instead and she continued to read, through the tears, still
denying
every
letter.
P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T
each
one
aggressive, each one causing a stream of scalding hot tears. Pregnant tightened the metal on her finger even more. Pregnant tightened the strings that her dad had passed on to that man when he had held both of their hands when they signed that contract. Carrying a child was
a
farewell
earthquakes,
it
to
caused
her
film
career,
destructive
it
caused
breaches
in
the
continent and she could see Rabat sailing away. As her palm healed her veins oppressed her once more, and, dumbfounded, she laid there. Pregnant. She laid there and
tried
to
make
sense
of
it
all,
tried
to
sort
out
thoughts into what she knew and what she could do. She knew she would love this child. She knew she would enjoy the sleepless nights catering to him. She knew that the two of them would have a constricted life, always under surveillance. She knew that she was the one that stepped into this convenient covenant, without a fight.
She knew that divorce would never be enough, that child
would
always
bring
them
back
together.
Facts
kept on piling up, she knew, she knew, she knew and she knew she didn’t have a clue about what to do next. Her phone
lit
up,
more
than
once,
with
dozens
of
notifications, rushing to bring her comfort, coming from where she wanted to be. And even though the sweet, soft words she had begged for moments earlier were there, all of them were repeating what she knew, none of them telling her what to do. None of them were enough. She was soon stuck in a loop; cry, check the test, read the messages, cry again, check again, read again. Between two of these cycles, a repulsive thought slithered inside her brain, the like of dirt, it stuck to her, trying to take control of her limbs. She couldn’t do it, could she? What choice did she have? She was caged in
law
texts
that
controlled
her
body,
caged
in
a
commitment forced down by society and parents, by years of never-ending questions-Why is a gorgeous 25year-old neighbors
still
single?
say?
The
Don’t
you
film
think
industry?
about
what
Ridiculous!-
Overwhelmed by her own thoughts, disgusted by what she
was
going
to
do,
she
got
up,
ran
upstairs,
and
grabbed a metal hanger before reason could convince her to change her mind. Beastly, she distorted it, threw herself on her knees, and prayed she would only have to bleed one more time that day.
The Last Visit by Lina Lebbar
Honorable Mention The Last Visit, by Lina Lebbar
It’s hard to accept that some people who were present in the dawn of our life have to leave in its morning. My grandfather was the one who named me, who held me happily in all my baby pictures, he witnessed my first steps and the growth of my first teeth, when I broke my arm at the age of six and opened my forehead at eight, he
was
always
the
one
encouraging
me
in
family
gatherings when I had to serve food and was too shy to face the guests, he was always the one who hugged me tightly squeezing me in his arms like a stuffed doll. He offered me my first books and showed interest in my imaginary stories; he knew my favorite food and always bought
me
Ice
Cream.
My
grandfather
or
«
Papi
»
represented that steady, kind flame enlightening my life peacefully, but no light burns forever and even the stars
« Look! Look who’s here! Do you looks different, doesn’t she? Look! »
will fade away one day. recognize her? She
I had only cut my hair. My aunts kissed me, one by one, as I entered the small bedroom that used to be piled up with unnecessary clothes that my grandma didn’t want to throw away for whatever reasons, she must have put them somewhere else in the house now.
The many old family pictures, next to the new medical pills were on top of the large drawer in front of the bed where he was sitting, eyes closed, looking drained. He was wearing his navy blue nightgown and a beanie to protect his oval fragile head from the late November cold. As he heard my aunts talking to me, he opened his eyes, dark piercing brown, similar to mine, wide, red, with water on their surface. By the way, he gazed at his surroundings; I understood that it has been a while since he
hasn’t
opened
them
considerable effort to do so.
and
«
that
it
takes
him
Hbiba, hbiba, hbiba
»
he
murmured with a rusty yet cheerful voice. I sat next to him, kissed his right hand and cheek, and laid my head gently on his shoulder, afraid of crushing his thin body. He asked me questions he never finished; being out of breath, questions about my brothers, school, my health …
I
reassured
him
everything
was
fine.
My
aunts
standing next to the door were watching us, sending me compassionate looks, preventing me from turning into a cry bucket, It was the same look they gave me when I first heard he has pancreatic cancer, all my cousins already knew, I laughed hysterically at first, not knowing why or what was funny then a flow of tears poured down my face, soaking my cheeks until all my eyelashes became wet. My aunts had calmed me down before he came into the room and I greeted him with a kind of normal face, swollen, puffy but smiling, not daring to show my affliction or my pain, not in front of him, he noticed and understood but never talked about it.
That was now two years ago. He sighed a long painful sigh, closed his eyes, and my aunt Amina told me it was time for him to rest. I left to the kitchen to see Souad. She let go of a brief happy scream and hugged me with her hands full of flour. In her early twenties, she had the most
sincere
and
innocent
smile
I’ve
ever
seen
in
anyone. She kept telling me how much she had missed me, that my hair looked great short and oh! How long it has been since my last visit: two weeks! She forced me to sit on a chair next to the worktops where she was preparing a pizza. She made sure no one was near the kitchen, closed the door lightly with her feet, and came running back next to me, informing me of all the gossip and events of the past weeks. The expressions coloring her childlike face changed from emotion to another as she
talked
her
heart
out,
knocking
down
the
pizza
dough with all the strength and anger her petite body could contain, bringing a red color to her sandy face, pushing her fists again in the dough, her hazel hooded eyes showed no barrier into her soul and were far away in the memories she was describing with frenzy about my grandma’s behavior toward her, their endless fights over nonsense and her everlasting tiresome tasks. When the subject of her narration turned to my Papi, her frown vanished and a hopeless, sullen look took over her face,
«
the
doctors
said
there
was
nothing
to
be
done
anymore, but as I heard your dad telling to Amina, and you must not tell it to anyone, there is a cure in Belgium that costs 40 000 dirhams, I don’t know how your dad managed to come across it but I heard it’s the only hope left.
The poor old man! You were lucky you talked to him today! Ah, my dear, life isn’t simple at all stretching
the
something
more
favorite
Turkish
dough
and
changed
optimistic: show,
I
the
took
last
her
»
the
She started subject
episode
phone
to
to
of
her
see
the
pictures of the dresses and the hairstyles of the actors she liked and we chatted about it. After I dig tiny holes with a fork in the pizza dough, I went to the garden. I haven’t seen my grandma, she must be in the living room listening to the Quran on an Islamic TV channel, writing down some prayers and learning them by heart. I didn’t want to see her, she will ask me with a cold distant look about the Ayats we learned at school and will leave me alone to continue her prayers, double the amount of what should be done in a day. Not that I am against her beliefs, it was just too much. Fanaticism won’t save him that’s all. I sat in the blue swing my Papi bought years ago, in our childhood happy summer days, my cousins and I will finish swimming and we’ll come running to take a seat in it, there were only three places and we were eight something that caused tremendous fights between us but he always managed to find a solution and calm our screams. The sky was light blue with some clouds decorating it. I still have a lot of exams and homework to do and I haven’t brought a book with me, if I had brought it I could have spent the night here, if I hadn’t
been
overwhelmed
with
stayed more with him, maybe.
school
I
would
have
The artisanal roofs of the neighbors' houses with the high lamps and the flower walls beneath the frail, now, pinkish sky created a peaceful, unique view no pictures I had taken did justice. The wind started blowing with force and my hair danced in the air. I stopped moving the swing, got up, and returned inside. The principal door linked to the garden creaked as I slowly opened it, in
spite
of
being
six
people
in
the
house,
the
big
Moroccan salons mixed with the modern ones and the majestic stairs leading to the several unused bedrooms gave a lonely atmosphere. My phone reconnected with the Wi-Fi and my cousins sent messages saying they won’t come today. My aunt Merriam, leaving the room where my Papi was, asked me with a honeyed tone to look
after
him
while
she’ll
join
my
other
aunts
and
grandma in their gathering. I found him sleeping on his right side, facing the window whose curtains let the last rays
of
the
setting
sun
escape
and
propel
into
the
wooden cupboards, enlightening in their way his almost bald head having only some fragile white hair left, free from
the
beanie
he
wore
earlier.
I
laid
next
to
him,
carefully to not wake him up. His breathing was loud, his face
pallid
and
scrawny
with
tiny
traces
of
a
white
beard that stopped growing. I tried to capture as many details as I could of him and keep them in a place in my mind so I won’t forget. The undeniable, bitter truth is here, he’ll be gone soon, everyone is feeling it, even my grandma with her prayers, even my cousin Malak with her
videos
of
miraculously
healed
people
who
experienced the same illness and kept faith in life, even my dad and aunts with their researches, everyone felt it.
Suddenly, a strange groan came out of his mouth and a painful expression painted his face, he half opened his eyes to see who was with him and understanding It was me alone, forbade me with a croaky low voice to call anyone. So I stayed with him, tapping his back like we do to children after a nightmare; I kissed his head two or three times, still tapping his back while pain was torturing him.
Broken Dreams, by Hiba Barazzouk
Honorable Mention Broken Dreams, by Hiba Barazzouk Modeling, is such a common job right? Well, it wasn't in 1940. Maryam is one of the girls who hoped to become a model, even though she obviously had no chance to be
one
back
then,
especially
in
Morocco.
Maryam's
parents left her for the sole reason that their daughter wanted to do what she felt she was made for. Although she knew people were insulting her behind her back, she kept fighting, but it was leading nowhere because there was no opportunity in Morocco. Maryam was 18 years old when she left home for the first time without her parents. And so, she was alone. Nobody was telling her what to do. Standing in front of the sparkling water of the Atlantic ocean, she hoped she could overcome it and build her career. So she worked in different jobs for five years to gather enough money. Maryam's big love for modeling started when she was ten. Her mother was a
housekeeper,
businesswoman
working
who
directed
for a
Alice, famous
a
French
magazine
in
Paris. The little girl went to Alice's a bunch of times and built a friendship with her. The woman was giving her a magazine borrow
every
her
month.
daughter's
miraculously did it well.
Sometimes clothes
to
she
let
march,
Maryam and
she
Maryam
wasn't
happy
with
her
achievements,
even
though she did what she wanted to do. She always remembered
her
parents,
especially
her
father
with
whom she wished she could share her happiness. Abd kadder,
Maryam's
rigorous
person.
father
He
was
loved
a
his
traditionalist
children
but
and
he
a
never
showed his feelings. He was raised by a harsh father who had broken his dreams as well, to make him a strong man. When Abd al kadder was a little boy, he wished he could study in the primary school near their village such as children his age, but his father didn't agree. When he grew up he became a sturdy conscript who could survive four days without eating or sleeping. His feelings died there and so did his humanity. After the military service, he joined the army. So he moved to the capital and then he got married. Years after, his wife gave birth to a gorgeous baby named Maryam. Abd kadder was amazed by the fact that he had a baby, however, he treated his own daughter as a soldier who had to achieve some difficult tasks he ordered. Once
Maryam
left
daughter
fight,
War.
endured
He
he
home
because
participated five
years
of
in
of
the
the
father
Second
suffering
from
and
World toxic
chemicals and dangerous diseases. He survived it but he became
an
old
man
with
no
power
anymore.
He
returned home after three years because of sickness. He had amnesia. Abd al kadder forgot the last forty years of his life. He was always trying to escape his house to go and join the army because he couldn't remember his wife and Maryam as well.
The problem was that his wife didn't know what was wrong with him. As soon as he succeeded, he went to the same beach, in the same spot, her daughter was twenty years ago. The difference was that he didn't have something to think about he just looked sad. Abd al kadder was lost in small lanes of the ancient city. His wife was worried about him, so she called Maryam. Even
though
her
father
mistreated
her,
she
didn't
hesitate to help him. She used her fame to find her father. Maryam searched in hospitals and mortuaries and asked police stations and TV shows, but it was leading
nowhere.
So,
as
usual,
Maryam
went
to
her
relaxing place. The marvelous spot she used to go to while she was feeling blue. Standing in front of the same incredible landscape she saw him.