Fes Writes: Fes Regional Workshop Anthology

Fes Regional Workshop Anthology

FES WRITES

WWW.OLIVEWRITERS.ORG

Fes Writes– Fes Regional Workshop 2020 Copyright Š 2020 by The Olive Writers, and respective contributors.

Editor: Haytham Chhilif Cover Design: Haytham Chhilif For information contact: information@olivewriters.org www.olivewriters.org

Acknowledgments

We would like to extend heartfelt thanks to Richard Martin (Director, ALC Casablanca), David Amster (Director, ALC&Alif Fes), Anthony David (Instructor), Lucas Peters (Instructor), Omar Bendahou (Assistant Bookstore Manager, ALC&Alif Fes), Loubna Arrach (Alumni Coordinator, US Embassy Rabat).

We would also like to thank the staff at both ALCs for their support.

Finally, a special shout-out to our inspiring authors for their wonderful stories.

Foreword On Saturday, February 2, 2020, the Olive Writers and the American Language Center— Casablanca, in partnership with the American Language Center—Fes, and the U.S. Embassy—Rabat, organized a creative writing workshop with American writers Anthony David and Lucas Peters.

Out of 76 applicants, 22 young writers between the ages of 16-25 were selected to attend the workshop. All of our participants came from the Meknes-Fes region and were eager to showcase the talent that abounds in the region.

Our young writers read and analyzed selected works, learned about character development, stylistics, and plotting a fictional work. In addition, they spent time focusing on the concept of conflict in the story and had an opportunity to talk about some of the conflicts that they face on a daily basis, whether external or internal.

The workshop took place in two of ALC Fes‘ most ravishing sites that have without a doubt enhanced the entire workshop experience. The first was a 90 year old room located in the main building of the ALC that is garnished with beautiful traditional Fassi plaster design that is complemented by colorful mosaic tiles. The second was the ALC front garden to which the participants moved afterwards because of its beautiful layout and stimulating greenery that could captivate one‘s senses. It is in these locations where participants sat together to write the stories presented to you in this humble anthology. The prompt was to write a short story that would help their readers learn something about them and recount a conflict that they had lived through at some point in their lives. They worked with enthusiasm and passion to craft such compelling stories.

What these writers share is an appreciation of the English language, a deep love for storytelling, and a strong connection to a city they love: Fes. They highly valued the mentorship of Anthony and Lucas and were very eager to learn from them as much as they can absorb during this unique one-day-long opportunity.

What was even more mind-blowing than their creative talent was the sense of companionship and the way they quickly bonded over literature and writing. They felt as though they had known each other for a long time. They listened to each other, read, shared, and opened up about their dreams and fears. Most importantly, they wrote and went home with renewed motivation and new skills to write even more.

We hope you enjoy these stories!

Mohammed El Wahabi, Director

Testimonials: “I'll always have love for Mohammed and his projects, mainly because they're always so well-organized and well-planned, but also because of the atmosphere they always seem to take on; an atmosphere of love, unity, and passion that I'll always cherish. This workshop was no different. The instructors, Anthony David and Lucas Peters were so patient, charismatic and an amazing help, and I'll go as far as crediting them for curing my writer's block. The coordinator, Mohammed, is nothing short of amazing as well. Always so kind and attentive and I'll always admire his passion for his projects and how dedicated he is to bring young talent to the forefront. All in all, this was by far the best day I've had in 2020 so far. The Olive Writers remains the best thing to happen to young Moroccan writers in the last 20 years.” Ahmed Beqqali “Being part of this workshop felt more or less like riding the time traveling DMC Delorean from Back to the Future. It was a bubble where time and space did not have any meaning. All that which existed were limitless stocks of creativity and dreamy ideas flying all over the place. On that sunny winter day, magic was practiced at the ALC of Fez” Khalil Ismaili Alaloui “The moment I was selected to take part in the regional Olive Writers workshop held in Fez, I knew that a whole new experience is waiting for me ahead. I have never thought about writing stories because I have always believed that I don‘t really have much skill for the task.

However; this lack of trust in my writing skills has remarkably diminished the moment I met Lucas and Anthony. Those two great writers, with their great professionalism and sweet sense of humor made me change my vision about writing. They pumped a new drive within me to regain trust in myself and write down my experiences and feelings in the form of a story. This workshop made me learn the very basics of writing which were translated to me as a beginner in a very simple way. Now, as I am writing my very first short story to be sent to Lucas to edit I feel indebted to all the ones who have taken part in making me reach this far and who have made the event a success.” Amina Attar.

“Sunday the second of February 2020, might be a casual day off for most people, for me it would have been another day spent in bed, anxious how I‘ll survive it… But thanks to Olive Writers, it has become one of the best days I can think of and smile, a day where I could finally talk about writing with local writers from different ages, in a very warm and tolerant environment…A chance to be tutored by two amazing American creative minds: Mr. Anthony David, Mr. Lucas Peters. Thank you everyone for being there….” Nada Naji

Table of Contents Abdessamad Hilmi ............................................................................................................................ - 2 Adam Nyang ...................................................................................................................................... - 4 Ahmed Beqqal.................................................................................................................................... - 8 Akram Herrak ................................................................................................................................... - 9 Amina Attar ..................................................................................................................................... - 10 Aymane Essaissi............................................................................................................................... - 12 Tamri Doha ...................................................................................................................................... - 13 Douae Arrad .................................................................................................................................... - 16 Fatimazahrae Ouajjani ................................................................................................................... - 18 Khalil Ismaili Alaoui ....................................................................................................................... - 23 Mehdi Fakhfarani............................................................................................................................ - 26 Mohammed Adil Bennis ................................................................................................................. - 27 Mohammed Zarkan ........................................................................................................................ - 28 Sahar Chalabi .................................................................................................................................. - 30 Salma Kaichouh............................................................................................................................... - 31 Samia Belhamra .............................................................................................................................. - 33 Sara Azzouzi .................................................................................................................................... - 35 Yousra Sbaihi................................................................................................................................... - 37 -

Abdessamad Hilmi She was rushing to the church as if she was trying to catch the last service before the apocalypse. Her velvet white dress was beaming against the sallow old pillars of the building.

As she steps into the chapel, she feels a warm breeze coming from behind her neck and going through her ginger curly hair, making it smother around her pale freckled face as if it was floating in slow motion. She gets slightly overwhelmed for a second but a look of determination takes hold of her face then and, nonchalantly, she proceeds through the corridor of the chapel towards the altar. When she came to the sacred stand, she checked the place left and right with her tired eyes and whirled her head to the door in the back, gazing, as if she was expecting someone or something to come in, even though it was late at midnight on a very cold and foggy evening and no one would have dared to leave their warm house, except for her since she allegedly has her reasons. Turning back to the altar, she sets her sight on the table to find it empty, which explains the sudden look of disappointment on her figure. Very briefly afterwards, she raises her head up and, in a moment of joy and fury, she glimpses a statue hanging from the immense caved ceiling ‌.

Bewildered and confused, she vainly tries to recognize the external nature of it. It was in the shape of a human and an animal, it was both male and female, made of every element of nature, and it was set on fire and left to burn in flames tilting from side to side as if someone was waving it as a voodoo doll, so that it can be shown and seen to everyone and everything.

Again and as usual, she tends to ignore it and disregard its dazzling blaze as if it was never there, like how she ignored the warm breeze behind her neck when she first entered the chapel. She bows down on her knees facing the altar, bends down her head forward and puts her hands together. With steady arms and trembling lips, she starts mumbling random mantras and whispering numinous hymns. She tries to close her eyes in order to fulfill the extreme state of devoted reverence but she fails, because all that is going through her mind at the moment is the feeling of constant terror and promptly oblivion. Meanwhile and during her secret little ceremony, she hears an ambient sound of footsteps coming from behind her in a firm poise, but it was getting faster as she was whirling her head around in an attempt to see who was coming.

Now that she can see it clearly, it was a tall and largely built young man with pallid skin and wavy dark hair. He had bright blue small eyes on an oval shiny face. He was wearing an ankle-length black coat that was similar to a clerical Cassock. The young man was standing above her, overshadowing her tiny miniscule body, while she's still on her knees. Checking

him out from head to toe, her praying grip is dissolved now, her lips are finally still, and her eyes are watery gleaming. He pulled out a G18 out of his worn out pocket, pointed it to her forehead, and blew her brain out. While her body was falling dead to the ground she contemplated love, death, sex and violence.

Adam Nyang Prayer Beads As the alarm on my phone blared in the room, I woke up with a start. For a moment or two, I was disoriented, my body not used to being roused at 4 am but then I remembered why I was up and let out a loud groan before jumping out of my bunk bed. An hour later, I was on a CTM bus heading for Rabat. I drifted in and out of slumber the entire journey, my forehead pressed against the cool glass window. When we arrived at Rabat, I roused myself with a shake of the head and scrambled my way to the Police Headquarters. I tried very hard not to think about the disappointing outcome of my last visit. One of the men who worked in the residence permit department, a man who‘d given me an appointment for that very specific date, had acted as if he‘d never set eyes on me when I showed up for it.

I‘d stood there at a loss of what to say, a sick feeling slithering its way to my stomach as the realization hit me that my trip all the way from Fes was futile, that the fare I‘d spent, money that could have fed me for at least three weeks was gone and I had nothing to show for it. The fact that there was nothing I could do to the man telling me I would have to come back made the situation even more maddening. Then I decided to blame myself instead. My anger had to be directed somewhere. I knew how laborious and complicated the process of renewing your resident permit in this country was, why then had I waited an entire year since my current one expired?

No matter. I‘d resolved that something like that was not going to happen today, oh no. I was willing to beg, shed tears if I had but there was no way I was leaving the Police without attaining my goal. If being interrogated and having my fingerprints taken and recorded into their criminal database was what needed to happen so I could get the transfer slip I needed to move on to the next stage of this renewal process, then exactly that was going to happen today. I don‘t think anyone has ever been as eager as I was to be processed.

I stepped into the imposing building with that singular purpose and bee-lined for the office I usually went to. It was a medium sized-room, bathed in white light from the overhanging bulbs. It was filled with the click click sound of fingers tapping away at keyboards, sporadic laughter and conversations from the people who occupied it.

I stood at the doorway, hesitant, my heart in my throat. The man I‘d come to see was talking down at a young woman dressed in a tracksuit and carrying what looked to be a very heavy backpack. She couldn‘t have been older than twenty-five, had the distinct features of a Philippine and there wasn‘t a single doubt in my mind that she was on the verge of tears.

―But sir,‖ she began in a voice that trembled, ―I‘ve already been to the Canadian embassy and told them I lost my passport in Marrakech. They directed me here. I‘m supposed to declare its loss and get a document that says so or else they can‘t help me get back home.‖ ―Miss, haven‘t you listened to a single word I said?‖ The man said in a voice that was so cutting it could have sliced through a rug. ―You have to go back to your embassy, ask them to give you a document attesting that you are indeed a citizen of Canada before we can give you the document you are requesting right now.‖ ―But they said they wouldn‘t give me anything unless I get this document from you.‖ By now, tears were running down the woman‘s face.

One of the man‘s colleagues, a woman sitting beside him, rose and joined the conversation at this point. ―Miss, why are you crying? Why?‖ she asked the question as though she was genuinely puzzled, as if losing your passport in a foreign country and the terrifying notion of not knowing when you could go home couldn‘t reduce anyone to tears. ―I just want to go home,‖ the woman said in a low voice as though she was whispering to herself. ―Please don‘t cry here. Go back to your embassy and relay what we‘ve told you. You can cry there if you want.‖ Did I imagine it or had he really uttered the words?

The woman nodded and stepped out of the office, sniveling and looking lost as she stumbled away. I hesitated a breath before I walked in and threw a hastened bonjour his way. When I stated that I had an appointment, I braced myself for battle in case he got it in his head to pretend not to know me once more. It was a relief when he only nodded his head and asked me to follow him upstairs. I did my breathing coming in quick gasps when we reached our destination. He left me in the hallway and told me to wait until I was called in.

I sat down on the only available chair I could see and leaned my head against the wall. The drowsiness I was fighting every second pressed against my eye-lids and I shivered; suddenly feeling very cold, very impatient. I wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere but here. I closed my eyes and the image that materialized before me was that of my father. He was wearing his favorite white kaftan, sitting crossed-legged on his prayer mat, fingers flicking through his beloved prayer beads. I focused on the calm look on his face, on the set of his slim shoulders, on the way those prayer beads he loved more than anything else in the world bounced back and forth on his laps.

I let the image lull me into a semblance of peace as it always did. As I hoped it always would.

I was soon called into another office where I was interrogated at length as to my reasons for living with an expired resident permit for an entire year. My answers were vague, half-truths at best. In the end, the guy must have decided he was satisfied with my responses but as his job dictated, warned me not to do it again and handed me a document where I had to sign to that effect.

From my friends who have already been through the process, I know what‘s next. I walked through another hallway, paced outside another office. The strong scent of urine wafting out of the open bathroom opposite me made me nauseous and I wished for the umpteenth time that this whole ordeal would be over already. As soon as the Swedish lady with bouncing blonde hair in a ponytail walked out, I strode in, not even waiting for someone to call out for me.

My name and address were written on a black board by a smiling bearded young man wearing a black sweater and faded jeans. I could see he wanted to put me at ease so I returned his smile and stood against the wall. He instructed me to strike a pose, then came forward and tilted my head to the desired angle. I had to hold the board with my details on it as he snapped pictures of me. I couldn‘t help the giggles that bubbled out of me as I thought about all the times I had watched criminals go through a similar process in movies. It was surreal to say the least and little bit of fun. ―Alright, that was good,‖ said black sweater guy. ―Come over here so I could collect your fingerprints.‖ I nodded, dragged my feet over to where he stood. ―Give me your hands, palms up.‖ I wiped my sweaty hands on my black coat and did as I was told. ―Just relax. If you tense up, we would spend all day here. I need ten sets of fingerprints.‖ I nodded again, exhaling loudly. He dipped finger after finger into the ink then pressed them against the paper. ―Why are you breathing so loud? Are you asthmatic?‖ ―No, I don‘t have asthma,‖ I mumbled, too surprised by the concern in his voice to be offended by what I would have otherwise considered an intrusive question. ―Well, what do you have then?‖ ―Anxiety,‖ I offered because why the hell not? ―Just relax, okay. This is a normal procedure. I am your brother. This is your country as much as it is mine. Tell me, do you feel at home here?‖

―Yes. As much as anyone can feel at home in a foreign country I guess.‖ ―You must miss your family though. Did you visit them during the summer holidays?‖ I looked down at where he continued to dip my fingers and press and didn‘t say anything for quite a while. ―No, I didn‘t. But I‘m planning to next summer.‖ ―I bet you can‘t wait to see Mum and Dad.‖ ―Just Mom, Dad passed away two months ago,‖ I said shocking us both into silence. ―I… I‘m sorry.‖ His grip momentarily tightened on my finger. ―You didn‘t go home for it?‖ ―It was the beginning of the semester. I couldn't… I had classes.‖ ―That should have been the last thing on your mind.‖ On the contrary, I wanted to say but held myself back. My studies had been the only thing that kept me sane, the only part of the new reality I‘d been brutally introduced to that made any sense so I‘ve clung to it with all my might. ―Are you feeling any better now?‖ ―I‘m doing okay,‖ I said and looked into his eyes for the first time since our conversation started. I wanted him to know I meant the words, however generic they sounded.

I thought about everything that separated him from the people who‘d been screaming at a poor confused tourist downstairs and felt that my faith in human decency had been restored.

Ahmed Beqqal Gin He wants me to stroke his ego. Or at least that was what I told myself as I watched his back dissipate into the foggy streets of Fez. This city is overbearing, savage and lonely. I hate it.

I walk back to my house and I let out a faint sigh as I turn the keys and go back to this cell I call a home. A hundred meters square of pure agony. I take out the only friend I have left, the gin bottle I keep in my drawer, and I wash out his remains with the burning aftertaste it leaves in the back of my throat. I hate him. I hate him for making me feel like I'm not good enough. I hate him for making me feel like I'm not meant to be loved. I'm too much. This brain, this body, this being are all too much for anyone to handle.

As I bathe in my own tears and vomit, I think to myself that I can't go on this way forever, I'll break down soon. This is our third split in two months and every time, I go back to drinking myself out of consciousness, I go back to this bathroom floor. This is the closest a human being can come to death without actually dying. Why do I still want him when he gives me nothing but misery?

This is my problem: I give myself away too soon. I bare it all the moment I feel affection, the moment I feel heard. Maybe my father did this, maybe the kids at school who threw rocks at me did it, I don't know, but it's there; this constant state of longing to feel desired, wanted, seen. I have to move on, either way.

Moving on is morbid and often ugly. No one ever talks about how painful healing is. There is no shortcut to it, I realize. But I cannot remain stuck as if I were being sawed back and forth between two mutually exclusive things: staying comfortably in a pain I know well and I've grown accustomed to, and dealing with the torment that comes with healing. This dilemma would be a no-brainer to anyone with a sane mind, but to people like me, this is hell. Knowing exactly what we need to do and still doing the complete opposite out of a fucked up masochistic search for approval and an impending fear of being alone.

As I thought of that, my whole being was shaken; it was like I had an epiphany, like I woke up from a long nightmare. I stood up, wiped my tears dry, washed myself and I called my therapist.

Akram Herrak The Road Where Everything Changed There was a road that almost certainly led from happier places to slightly sadder ones, and that passed by ones that barely existed and were to the outside world but a part of the landscape and not somebody‘s home. The road was battered, with a hole here and a hole there, and the cars had to go very slowly and carefully until they almost reached the city, and then it was as first class as any other road that was specifically tailored for city people; but the mules never had to slow down or be careful, because anything is better than what they were used to. Along the road you could see mountains and on top of them were little huts, and in one of them she lived. She was brought up in the traditional Moroccan way, she bowed her head when talking to her parents, her elders and even mere strangers, she never said no to anything except kindness, the things she was told to do were done, the clothes she was given were worn and the ideas she was told were accepted and believed, all with a humble smile and a bowed head.

On that road I rode, the sounds of Dylan booming in my car, and a head empty and longing for anything. Once, picking up a pen meant an overflow of words that overwhelmed even me; these days, when I pick up a pen, the only thing that comes out is ink. I thought that a day driving out in the country would stimulate my barren mind. I was wrong. Ten minutes until I reach the city and my apartment, and yet again attempt to find answers; nature didn‘t have any so maybe a bottle will. Late afternoon, the sun is fiery and a little mountain girl with her little flock of sheep, hungry and thirsty, looks at me with dry eyes that are more ablaze than any sun. I stop the car and hand her a half-empty bottle of water, which she receives with delight and sincere gratitude.

My salvation and hers come at the same small, trivial price: a half-empty bottle of water. The girl is dead to me, she remains on that road with her flock of sheep, a world against her and a mountain of burdens, and I drive away, already sketching what will be my first story in months, adding drama to a life that had none and telling the tale of a poor girl who struggles against all odds and makes it to the very top; clichĂŠ, over-done and cheap. That is what sells and that is what I have come to. I am the scum of the earth; I find beauty in misery, ignore the misery and ruin the beauty. I am self-aware and too cheap to stop. I spit, and the wind lands it on the mountain. Life is in my favor.

Amina Attar What if…? ―The Human Touch; we need that touch from the ones we love almost as much as we need air to breath‖. Have you ever wondered how a simple human touch can affect you!, maybe if I told you to imagine that you are to be deprived from a tender hold, a simple touch on your skin or even a kiss for the rest of your life; maybe then and only then you would give your mind a moment to reflect upon the significance of the human touch. Those who are deprived from this touch exist among us, surrounded by white or blues walls, encaged in prison-like hospitals, covering the lower half or their faces with masks anytime they get a temporary amnesty to have a glance on the outside world. Their sole companions are those dressed in white and others in blue or light green. I hope you have given it a thought to know who I am talking about before I compose the words to tell you exactly who they are. They are those suffering from contagious diseases, those having Cirrhosis, Tuberculosis and other types of similar sickness with which they are forced to live till death do them apart.

The quote with which I initiated my story belongs to me: Stella Grant, the protagonist of ―Five Feet apart‖. I am here living, or shall I say surviving in my blue cell surrounded with a dozen type of drugs and medical masks. I always try to order colorful masks or ones with funny drawings to add some color and life to my lifeless zombie face. Since I was 13 I was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis1 and since then I took the hospital as my eternal home. As a patient of this ugly disease I am forced to stay six feet apart from people and especially CF patients; otherwise there will be a risk of cross-infection, a risk which comes with the high cost: saying farewell goodbye to life. My friend Poe and I are hosting this disturbing guest, He is living in the room facing mine, and we developed our six feet friendship for three years now. We are just kids under the age of 18 trying to survive not only the disease, but also to survive something worse: the deprivation from a mother‘s hug or a father‘s hold for the rest of our whole life. I ask myself what if; WHAT IF one day I grow up to fall in love, shall I be doomed to be quarantined away from the ones I love my whole life?! Can anyone of us imagine the amount of pain people like us should stand because we are unable to get closer to our loved ones? and if we are lucky enough to be, we must adhere to the torture of being prohibited from having them nearer than six feet, from stealing a touch from them in the time when stealing a kiss becomes a forbidden dream.

1

A genetic disorder that affects mostly the lungs

William, the new guy; he is cute in a way, but he is careless and unbearable, always breaking the medical orders given by his doctors. It has been three months since he has been visiting this hospital; they finally found a room for him in this miserable white building. I watched him from far, he and Poe have become friends now. He keeps looking at me with his black wide eyes and his black medical mask covering the half of his face; Pfff that‘s annoying, yet I have the feeling that I like it. Do I like him, No I shouldn‘t; I know the rules. I think I am his friend now too. It has been six months now, William always knocks at my door and runs. As I said before he is unbearable. We talk through video calls, and when we meet we keep this damned six feet distance, but our eyes meet to tell a beautiful feeling but a sad reality. This ―What if‖ question comes to my mind again. What If I am in love with this guy, should it be sentenced since its birth to be forbidden. I keep reminding myself: ―Stella, Love is something extravagant for you; how can you love someone when even stealing a touch from them is a luxury!‖ Poe keeps on saying ―How long will I live my life afraid of what-ifs?‖ I can‘t get his words out of my mind especially that he is gone now. He has spent his whole adolescence following the rules just to kiss life goodbye so quickly. I don‘t want to die like this, not before I have his touch; my love‘s touch. It is time to finally forget about this ―What If‖ and break some rules.

Today I transformed the distance between me and William to five feet instead of six; I stole a foot in order to steal a touch. This distance now makes me able to touch his hand when both of us stretch our hands to the maximum. After two months, I am dripping my tears wiping them from on the floor; my action of breaking the rules came with a high cost. What if you were me; would you have done what I did? What if you fall one day for someone with this sort of diseases; are you going to be ready to risk everything, to risk a human life for a human touch?

Aymane Essaissi Lucid-Surreal At an unknown time where everything was blurry and vague yet so plain like a lucid dream, a surreal reality. I stand on an edge wondering If should make flight towards freedom or light up one more cigarettes. Did I do this to myself?

Pandemonium was the only thing that was coursing through me, as I picked up the habit of going on the roof top of my house at around 4 am. While waiting for the glorious sight of sunrise and beautiful fresh morning breeze, I take my pen and note book and start writing, my brain is that of dying person, on the rhythms of Gnawa, Blues, and soft classic Rock, I sink in my own thoughts.

Would it get more morbid than this? Something flashed and I gazed into the abyss of my memories. I was swathed with guilt of things that I haven't done. I was supposed to not think about it ever...but here I am. The chasm talked back, it wasn‘t as bad. It didn‘t wish harm; it was there to guide me through my journey through this abyss. It introduced itself as Brudka the voice of reason.

Would it get better now? Things are getting intense as the journey goes on. I see things that people would never really see, but it's there…Is it? It‘s all in your head, don‘t be fooled you are sane; he reassured in a deep comforting voice, I know better. Should I trust you? I asked in confusion and intimidation. He hummed in affinity. All of this happened so fast, I was convinced by Brudka to just go on with my life since I never know when things get better, so I listened. He was becoming an important part of my life now. He would never leave, I assumed. I would be dependent on him since he knows everything. It's dark on my journey I would still close my eyes and let him take me where he wants when he wants.

He left. As the other voices took over, the macabre screams got higher and denser and the silhouette people haunted me forever, but at least I wasn‘t feeling alone anymore. The sun rose, it is still dark.

Would it get more morbid than this?

Tamri Doha Grateful for the Dark Some steps coming up the path at the far side. My heart beat strangely. I sat silent, and did not pretend to hear. He was walking more slowly than usual, with a firmer tread. He was coming. I heard the steps on the plateau, and a voice came: ―You are not normal! Something is wrong with your nerves‖I leaped to my feet with a feeling that was positively murderous. The old man had long since forgotten how he should destroy a girl‘s world without much damage. There stood my mom – pale, horrified, scared with red eyes full of grief, grief for my life, my being and my existence. Mom has always been the strongest one, but at one moment, she was a small girl sobbing silently, ashen, with wet eyes, her body stiff as a tree. I still sensed what an effort she was making to keep still, and to convince me that he is wrong, perhaps even joking with us, but it wasn‘t me, the eightyear- old girl who believed everything Mom said. No, at least not this time. He, on the other hand, with his continuous struggles to put a smile on his face, and to act as normal as possible while asking me gently to uncover the veil – my headscarf was the last bridge between me and my destiny. For me, crossing that bridge seemed the hardest duty that life had ever given me. I spent centuries taking off my hijab – my fingers were shaking and the palms of my hands were sweaty. I wiped them on my pants, and then grabbed the scarf with one hand while I was busy fidgeting my nails with the other hand. It seemed like the world stopped for a minute. The world was etched with pain. As I stare from the window next to me, the sky was raining as if it told me, I feel your pain. A strange, unruffled, brooding silence fell on the whole hospital. It was as if something hanging over our heads had fallen, it was noise exploding, then – silence again. ―Miss Doha, could you unfold your braids, we need to connect your brain to the neurological machine‖ said the old man with his shivered voice.

As the old man approached me, I clutched the Quran to my heart, and started reciting some Quranic verses, I wanted to escape everything and if death was meant to be my companion, then let it be. I closed my eyes, detached myself from this world, and plunged myself in a whole other world - my Utopic imaginative world. At a an April night evening, I was surrounded by Rumi and Shams of Tabriz in a Sufi cave, listening to their stories of faith and love, verses of life and death, quotes of hell and heaven, I was sitting between the two of them when the words were flowing from Shams‘ mouth like a river when he said: ―What does patience mean? It means to look at the thorn and see the rose, to look at the night and see the dawn. Impatience means to be shortsighted as to not be able to see the outcome. The lovers of God never run out of patience for they know that time is needed for the crescent moon to become full.‖ These words freed me from the unquenchable fires in my soul, and became a song to my ears, a smell of pure oud spread in all over the room made me dip into heavens of spirituality. ―Doha, Can you hear me?‖, ―Doha, Doha ―, repeated the old man endlessly. ―Yes, where am I?‖ ―Aleppo?‖

The old man was staring at me weirdly as if it was the first time, he heard the word ―Aleppo‖ from a teenager wearing Nike shoes and some mascara in her eyes; He asked me to follow him where Mom and Dad were sitting. I put on my messy scarf, and then followed him barefooted, eager and curious to fathom what is happening? ―Your little girl has a severe hypertension, and in the following days she will get a strabismus that would make her vision dizzy, unclear, and in some cases it becomes dull and completely dark" says the old man with a pitiful face.

I felt heavy, my heart had undergone a thousand different emotions, albeit with a hazy filter on top of it, difficult to decipher as though engulfed in a fog for 24hours. A long introspection cut my emotions as I was imagining what it feels to look at the dark? What is darkness first? Is darkness even a sickness, or is it what people usually live in? While I was grasping this existentialist idea, a voice whispers in my ears: ―O slave of God‖, ―Is the blind equivalent to the seeing? Or is darkness equivalent to light?‖ this time It was not Shams or Rumi, itis one of the verses I was taught in the Zaouïa. Over time, my sight did not worsen because of the strabismus, it healed and brightened more than ever before. My mom was no longer my mom; it was a dizzy picture drawn in my mind that I cannot even remember her smallest details, what she wore, or if she was even laughing or sobbing in silence. My friends were no longer my friends; they were some distanced people wearing masks of joy and happiness, but inside each one feels pitiful towards me as if I were already dead.

Beyond life and death, I often find myself in between the unknown and the known. Is life so known for people that the unknown stays for death? Or, are people so ignorant that they think they know enough life? Life ends at the boundaries of death, but why does some death often start on the borders of life and not on death itself? My spirits remind me of Rumi‘s verses as he says: ―why talk about all the known and the unknown see how the unknown merges into the known why think separately of this life and the next when one is born from the last look at your heart and tongue one feels but deaf and dumb the other speaks in words and signs‖ What separates a dead person from a living person is not breathing. It is living. The day when I had a severe strabismus, darkness had fallen upon my eyes, but it was not real darkness; for the real darkness is not temporary, it is not

in the eye itself. Real darkness is in the heart and the soul. Our paths are never dark enough, our hearts are. The path is there for anyone to follow, but it is the one who lights the path for himself who wins against life.

I was going with the flow of life, until I reached the day when I was told my strabismus is gone. I have recovered. Little do they know, the human being never gets rid of his darkness.

How life can be sometimes so unbalanced that you fell in its abyss and see darkness again; however, life has its wisdoms, apparently wisdoms you have no choice but to trust and pray that within it or by it, comes some sort of healing. I pray that you all be grateful for darkness.

Darkness has taught me what light failed to do and, thereby, I pray you all reach darkness to feel the true meaning of light.

Douae Arrad Jawhara The room smells like honey, pain, and the salt from the sea I live a few miles from.

The windows are sealed with thick wood. Only the soft beam of the feeble predawn sunlight of a spring Sunday is sneaking through a tiny crevice.

I can hear the wave‘s crash against the cliffs in a passionate embrace and feel the chaos of foam and water as I lie still, staring blankly at the immaculate white of the ceiling. The dark circles under my eyes slowly start vertiginously spiraling, dragging me into the vicious Capernaum of my thoughts. ―-In a few weeks, you will be wrapped in the soft fabric of your wedding Abaya, watching your life slowly fall apart. What is your darkest nightmare will look like a utopic philarmony.

In the backyard of the house that witnessed your first breath and watched grow through 16 springs; people will be dancing to Dabke music, laughing at Jeddo‘s jokes, stuffing their stomachs with baklava and kunefe, hugging each other. The screams of the kids running barefoot in the green grass, the harmony of Fairuz‘s songs and the melody of the women‘s voices humming along, the bellowing laughs of the army of your uncles will form an utterly beautiful symphony floating in the tridimension of that sunny day. The sweet smell of pastries and the warm feeling of May‘s sunshine on your bare skin will make the atmosphere even more dreamy and delightful. This day would have been the epitome of your definition of happiness if the man who will be standing at the corner of the garden, sipping his bitter dark coffee while vehemently blowing on a cigarette –which will probably be his sixth in a rowwasn‘t a 38 year old freak who insisted on marrying you to ―save your purity‖, assuring he had the right educational background, financial prospects, and good manners to qualify as the rightest husband for you... In ―The Bachelorette‖, he wouldn‘t even have gotten to the second round. Your father will keep teasing him and telling him to take care of you, while fervently tapping on his shoulder. ―I will take care of her like a jewel‖, Amad will respond with his slytherish voice, his jaw clenched in pain.

But you‘re not a jewel. You‘re not a jewel; you don‘t want nor need to be protected. You don‘t want to be another victim of these corrupt society rules, you don‘t to be another male‘s phantasm, you don‘t want to be another Jasmine. You are not a jewel: you are an inexhaustible flame, you are a tangled jungle with gold treasured within you, you are a chaotic

storm and a dancing star at the same time, and you are a bird flying high despite the bullet holes in your wings. You hold thousands of galaxies constantly exploding inside of you. You are wild but magic, there‘s no lie in you fire. You can build your own story with your strong shape-shifting abilities and be your own savior from this tenebrous and effrenated destiny.

You can be a Sitt-Al-Mulk, an Asma bint-Shihab or a Cleopatra. You can be cradled in your own arms.‖ I stand up and suddenly realize I‘d love to see widespread colored fabrics in every corner of this room. I grab a hammer and bring down the wood obstructing my window.

My eyes observe the horizon. The ocean is now calm, the soft sun rays reflecting all over the abyssal blue shades of the water. It‘s a beautiful day.2

2

Author’s note: I tried to use the sad empty room as a metaphor of the miserable destiny some young Arab girls think is their only option. Taking of the wood from the window illustrates them taking control over their lives and realizing that their Arab identity is actually a power and making them want to follow other effigies of Arab females‘ power. Jawhara means ―jewel‖ in Arabic. Ironically, it‘s the name I gave to the character.

Fatimazahrae Ouajjani The day seemed a week long, and it was only 1PM. Up by 5AM per usual, a workout, a session of writing, another of homework, and after two courses of spatial mechanism back to back in university, I dealt with paperwork at the education center. By the time it was all settled, I had one hour to grab lunch and head to the other university for two more classes in Embryology and Cellular Biology. This plan got inconveniently interrupted by a knock at the door. What now? The reflection on my black computer screen rolled her eyes at me as I spoke ‗Come in.‘ Through the half-opened door, the secretary insinuated her head, her hand still on the handle: ‗The father of a student would like to speak with you.‘ God no, not one of those, I made a hand gesture meant to invite him in.

I came in a short man with quite the long mustache dressed head to toe in designer business wear. Everything about him; the mixed smells of rich coffee, new leather material and fancy cologne, the newspaper neatly folded under his arm, the Rolex watch on his wrist, were all giving out on his prosperous situation. To my surprise, the so-called son was a fully grown bearded man in his mid-twenties, and the calluses I felt while shaking his hands confirmed what his muscular figure already indicated: he was a bodybuilder.

The second this parent and I took opposite seats of my office desk, he proceeded to talk my ears off about how his only child dropped out of school due to his stay at a rehab, due to a drug addiction, due to peer pressure and the Moroccan educational system, found purpose in travelling the world, discovering new cultures, and wanted this year to finally graduate high school and carry on with his education, he found the program our center has for dropouts fitting but had plans for a trip to Japan. Once back, he joined the courses, only to find out he was behind and didn‘t have a clue what was going on.

I had no interest in what he had to say since I already knew the whole tale by heart. Instead, I took interest in this … child who didn‘t find the chair as appealing as the opposite wall, against which he leaned, a leg folded against it, eyes on his phone. He was over six feet tall, dressed in designer clothing as well, but unlike his classy father, it was all street wear: baggy Thrasher sweater, shredded denim jacket, torn cuffed pants held to his waist by a black and

white checkered belt, the cherry on top (or bottom in this case) were these blinding red Yeezies of which the bottom part was dirtying my office wall. All throughout his father‘s monologue, he showed no interest in the conversation whatsoever, eyes glued on his latest iPhone. ‗Now young lady, what I came to understand from my boy (boy?) is that you‘re the creator of this entire program, and I do not think I‘ll find anyone more suitable to tutor him than yourself, someone smart with enough experience in dealing with cases similar to his, yet still close to his age range. Of course, the paycheck will be very generous, my boy (BOY??) deserves the best. Now, say he starts next week, how many hours should he receive per week to be ready on time for the exams?‘ There were so many ―interesting‖ statements that I didn‘t know with which to start, so I silently stared at him while getting my thoughts in order. ‗Sir, this here is your son?‘ ‗That‘s my big boy.‘ said the father with a proud look at this six feet tall man whose eyes were still glued on the phone. ‗I remember him, shortly after registration, you approached me about the trip and I believe I had given you a virtual copy of all the lessons and exercises you should go over during the two months of your absence so that you do not struggle to catch up once back. I guess now you should look over those lessons to reach your classmates‘ level before you can join the class.‘ ‗That is precisely where we require your assistance, he just can‘t study alone.‘ spoke the father for him, while he maintained his position, not acknowledging at all that I addressed him. ‗Thank you, sir, for your generous offer, and I'm really flattered by your kind words but..‘ ‗Now, I do not want to hear a no, I came all the way down to this neighborhood to meet you at this time of day, since I was informed over the phone this is the only time during which you‘d be here for sure, you wouldn‘t send me back empty-handed now, would you?‘

‗Absolutely not, we have a staff of very experienced teachers who teach the classes of the program, they all would gladly cooperate to tutor your … son, each in their subject of expertise.‘ ‗But here‘s the thing, I‘m asking for teachers, I‘m asking for you. As I said before, my boy deserves the best‘ I swear to Allah, if he says boy one more time…. ‗I really appreciate your trust, and I would love to but I honestly don‘t have the time. I barely make time for foo..‘ ‗I was also told‘ interrupted the man while pulling out what I first thought was a notebook ‗that you‘re studying for two degrees at once in Engineering and Biology. I‘m a businessman, and although it might look like my life is all roses, it wasn‘t always the case. I‘m self-made, I know a lot about the job market and I can easily tell you you‘re wasting your time on the Biology thing.‘ What I first thought to be a notebook turned out to be a checkbook he opened on the table and was now slowly writing in, still no sign of motion from his son, apart a slight laugh every now and then. ‗What I can also tell you is I see a lot of myself in you, and I can tell, just like the idea of this program, there are a lot of ideas simmering inside that brains of yours, and since you were able to achieve this level of freelancing as a nineteen year old, I‘m sure you‘d put a healthy sum like this one to good use.‘ He tore the check from the checkbook and slid it on the desk to where it was under my eyes.

Reading the number, I felt my heart skipping a beat. ‗Now, this is, let‘s say, a little gift for acceptance. Wouldn‘t you think tutoring for this sum a better investment than a useless degree?‘ I looked up and for the first time, this boy of his was looking at us with a witty smile. I felt a wave of anger rise within me as I slid the check back to him: ‗I‘m afraid I‘ll have to decline once again, my education isn‘t up for sale, nor do I consider it a topic of discussion. It‘s a rather private matter.‘

‗Have you looked at the sum?‘ raged the man before me.

Determined not to let my sight gaze towards the check, I nodded. ‗At this price, you can easily get teachers to privately tutor him from the comfort of your own house for as long as he pleases, but money can‘t buy you anything.‘ I snapped back. ‗Young lady, I advise you to give the matter a second thought.‘ he scowled.

I heard quick footsteps in the hallway, which reminded me that a class was taking place.

Without a knock at the door, three of my students burst in to find us standing from opposite ends of the desk leaning towards one another, with a strongly built guy who quickly put his phone away. I recognized them to be some of the dropouts from Aouinat Al-Hejjaj, which is a ghetto in Fez, nearby to the center. ‗Whatcha got doing with our teacher, whatcha shouting for?‘ ‗Ey teacher, you alright?‘ This was not a desirable situation. On one hand, this ―parent‖ seems to be capable of lots and isn‘t one I‘d want my students to be stuck with, his son had stepped back and was shaking like a leaf, on the other, these students had a set of values the main one being loyalty, that are directly tied up to one‘s honor, and in their culture, crime is also considered used to preserve it. What worried me the most was the student who stayed silent. He had an-up-to-good look on his face and I knew he‘s been locked up before. ‗What type of grammar do you teach these kids?‘ provoked the man. ‗Now which one o‘ these sound good to you: You is alive, or, you will turn into a delightful plate of barbecued kofta?‘ ‗Lemme know yo preference, I sort ya out‘ chimed in the second.

As my undesired guest hesitantly opened his mouth, I shouted: ‗How dare you leave your classroom and storm into my office??‘ ‗My gosh, we sorry teacher, we heard them shouts and you know, we got you, teacher, we got y..‘ ‗THIS IS A FAMILY MATTER. GET OUT. NOW.‘

‗We‘re very sorry, missy, we so sorry‘ spoke the third for the first time as he reached for the handle and closed it, pushing the others out. ‗YOU WILL BE HEARING FROM ME ONCE I DEAL WITH THIS. UNACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR.‘ I heard shy mumbles in the hallway, blaming one another for leaving their class, along with footsteps walking away. ‗Baba, can we leave?‘ mumbled the person I had forgotten was there to start with. ‗Oh look, he has a tongue.‘ I threw sarcastically towards him. ‗Now young lady, I hope you think it over, what I can offer is more than just money. I can be a very useful connection to an ambitious young soul like yours.‘ ‗Now sir, I think you better leave.‘ He took a final look at me, replaced the check with a business card and walked towards the door. Before he shut it close, he added : ‗Glad to meet you, after all‘ ‗Thank you. Leave.‘ I looked at the card on the desk. For the first time, I shouted at my students, it left me feeling like a bear with a sore head. I quickly removed the card which was a source of annoyance into a book and left I was already late.

As I raced downstairs and ran around trying to catch a taxi, I thought of my dreams, how much more time I‘d have to work even harder than that to achieve them, how much of a shortcut it would‘ve been to take on the proposition. But then, I wouldn‘t enjoy making my dreams into reality as much, because it wouldn‘t have been fully my sweat and tears, but rather something un-conforming to my morals. The disappointment I‘d have in myself would come in the way of my futuristic happiness.

A taxi finally stopped and rode me straight to my university, but my thoughts were still going on. Maybe it was a sign from Allah? A blessing in disguise? And I was just too angry to look through it. I opened my book to read a bit about the class before me when a business card fell on my lap.

Khalil Ismaili Alaoui For a Few Drop More Melancholic jazzy tones played in my ears as countless sparky bubbles wriggled in the glass.

The bottle of soda stood graciously on the table next to a useless ashtray and a book I wasn't in the mood for. The music kept going on as I watched a captivating spectacle of uninteresting passersby.

I gazed at the faces of strangers, joyfully wondering what kind of people they would be like, or coming up with enjoyable psychopathic scenarios, where each pack of students nearby weren't studying for the finals but conspiring to rob a bank, where the old woman shopping for groceries was an infiltrating alien and the nice man with the fancy suit sitting next to me was a pimp.

My demented boredom-driven thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the sweetest of creatures. A bee showed up as if from thin air, hovered around my head for a while, then landed on top of the soda bottle.

The bank robbers, the lady alien, and the pimp were nothing compared to the entertainment I had watching an insect collect artificial sugar from the glass surface of a bottle.

The music in my ears conveniently switched from sad to ecstatic while the yellow winged specimen danced graciously, moving cheerfully like a hungry infant embracing its mother's breast. I could try and imagine, but the extent to which those drops of soda mattered to the bee was not an understandable notion for a species as complicated as ours.

That thought had taken me on a little trip of wonderment I didn't get back from until I realized that the bee had disappeared.

"It would appear that even a bee has better to do than listen to my twisted philosophy", I thought as I poured the last drops of soda into the glass and saw a bee swimming within.

As a clumsy attempt to rescue that poor bug, I picked it up with a coffee spoon and gently dropped it on the table. I was delighted to realize that it was still alive and watched it perform its tiny ritual of resuscitation as it dried itself.

It all started with the legs, rubbing each two together, which looked like the miniscule creature was conspiring to take over the galaxy. Then the wings, which looked like they were about to come off at any moment, miraculously took their original flawless shape back.

No sign of panic, as if the tiny lady bug hadn‘t almost died- well, it seemed to me like a lady, a gentleman would have died of laziness by now.

Ultimately, as if to finalize the revival protocol, the pair of antennas stood back up on the little

fellow‘s head and I felt life run through its thorax again.

Then came the pièce de résistance, the pleasant sight I had no idea I was longing to see. It was finally time to put the rehabilitated wings to work.

The little beast attempted a couple of vain wing movements which did nothing but shake off drops of apple flavored soda, then tried again. ―Go, little buddy!‖, secretly cheered the seven year old inside me, as I watched the bee levitate, make it above my head, glide for a few seconds, then land on the soda bottle. ―Huh…‖, wondered the twenty two year old inside me.

I looked at the bee and smiled. Then, I straightened my headphones, picked up my book and reached for my wallet.

I had then known that I had seen what the universe had to offer me that day. On my walk back home, one or two thoughts kept... bugging me- no pun intended.

Any supposedly sane human being, who would have considered that insect a lower being lacking all form of intelligence, wouldn‘t think much of it of course.

A sane human being would have laughed at the little creature‘s stupidity and went on their way.

A sane human being would have just smashed it, like… a bug. But is that what it was?

Would it be fair to simply call the bee brainless in order to explain its behavior? A creature with no conscience and no awareness of danger, blindly following animal instincts and seeking food, even if it meant going back to its own destruction?

On the other hand, would it be so farfetched to call it a perseverant, dedicated, and extraordinarily wise creature with a higher form of consciousness and intelligence, unperceivable to grey matter, or a creature refusing to give up on its duty no matter the danger on its life?

Again, don‘t we humans do the same things we curse as brainless behavior, throwing ourselves at beings or substances which could be the end of us? Oh, no, hold on. Yes, that would be what we call romantic… my bad.

Oh, and, is it arrogance or actual stupidity, the fact that we curse an insect with foolishness while our contribution to the universe is far from comparable to the good a single brainless bee can offer?

What should I believe? Who should I listen to?

Should I join the optimistic naive seven year old in his cheering for the bee when it drowns itself for the second time? Or join the twenty two year old dystopian storyteller in cursing this creation and brooding at the failure of his species?

Ugh‌ never mind, it was just a bee.

Mehdi Fakhfarani I woke up looking at the same glass as usual, nothing really changed. I‘m facing myself again wondering: is that what I‘ll keep doing my whole life. I‘m stuck between what i want and i what i need. Playing the book of Ryan and relating to every word in it with a smell of my morning coffee getting ready. I‘m rushing to get the keys and my wallet to go to work, and it happened again when i opened the door to get out. I stayed still for few minutes asking myself, is it really the right time to set myself free? I‘ll just leave this decision to another morning. Riding to get to that glass building dodging every obstacle on the way, that‘s what i think was doing. After an exhausting day of work, i opened the door of my cage again to go through the every night suffering. How should i sleep knowing that I‘ll be the same person for another day? I stayed awake for few hours till i decided that I‘ll postpone answering this question for tomorrow.

Mohammed Adil Bennis Ache Torn from a hollow night sky of never-ending beams reflecting on concrete glass, the darkness veiling in the shadows I witness, linger to steal my innocence.

Sudden clicks between the unconscious child and the hurt adult; as are most of us by the anguish of heartbreak.

A first love that made me feel then pulled the rug from under my feet. One made me weak, the other, renewed.

I still remember the first few dates at 15; running from school to see each other for an hour at most. The little rush of adrenaline from seeing her there, standing in the sun, waiting. The first ice cream, the first crying laugh and the first adventure, at 2 am, on a car headed west. Then coming back, giggling, at 6am, not to miss school, and certainly not to raise suspicion.

Collecting first times was, however, her specialty. She was the bite through the apple and down fell the angel. The nostalgia makes me nauseous.

Sudden clicks between the unconscious child and the hurt adult. Perhaps not hurt as much, but awakened; the hard, disgusting, unforgiving awakening.

Mohammed Zarkan Fight and Surrender Marcus Tullius once said—“life is short, but glory is eternal”—and, at that very moment, I hypothesized what the path to glory could possibly mean, but never understood the way it would shape an entire conceptualization.

It is 8 pm and the hall is massively crowded in the Fessi hall for sports. The cheers are everywhere and even louder than my coach‘s irrepressibly raspy voice which I can no longer catch from his corner. I can sense, however, almost everyone‘s expectation. More precisely, I don‘t know if these cheers are for me or for my opponent who can hardly be recognized. The only thing I can assure is these spectators‘ frantic salivation for more swiftly thrown punches and kicks to quench their thirsty desire for extra monstrous scenes. And here I am indecisively standing in the middle of the arena for the first time; unsure whether to step forward or backward; whether to keep my hands up or give my back to the whole ball of wax. I can admit people‘s expectation, but I can‘t adhere to what an implausibly fed throat would swallow. All of these thoughts, however, are abruptly interrupted, as the bell rings to the end of the first round. The bell has always been the utmost notification for closing hell‘s gates, though temporarily. Still, now I can hear no voice plainly but the sound of my flashbacks to figure out how I have ended up fighting the unknown for a glorious sense that I can no longer grasp.

It all starts with a dream, a kid who unfathomably admires the booming punches of the world champion kick boxer Badr Hari, a kid who thinks of himself as the next leading champion of his Fessi people. That very same kid joins the martial arts arena to professionally and realistically perform the ―fighting art‖. In the first encounter, his coach would ask, ―Are you ready champ?” without out any preliminary questions as having my name first. And his mom on the other hand states it unhesitatingly “go and be a champ!” it is this moment when that ambitiously zesty dreamful kid begins to visualize a fashionable mode of strength towards a fatal mode of greatness. He possesses an unbreakable spirit that can speak to his gloves before heading to a glorious combat to empower his arms like Ali or Tyson. „WELL! WELL! This is our chance‟ he would say to the gloves; interestingly enough he would be answered back by his gloves through whispers, ―Imagine me as an iron fist and I‟ll do the job!‖ The other amateurs believe that he is an ill- obsessed kicker that resides in a fairytale boxing box. Nevertheless, the whispers of the gloves are far louder and resilient than the ordinary-thinking beings. His coach is treats him attentively, since that kid wants more than

what he possesses and is ready at the drop of a hat to be his favorite disciple. He is eventually a kid who exerts a powerful sense encircled by a mysteriously destructive potential. The idea, however, is whether it‘ll be regressively impactful. A potential that is informed by boxing gloves; the gloves that have become an archetypal type of fortress which will never fall down, one that combats have made a fortress fiercer than any other stronghold. The fights are a breath and nothing taking place but a happy smile after these fights with no particular celebration…

All of a sudden “SPLASH!”. Indeed a wakeful slap from my coach has shaken my internal being; a slap that brings me back from the land of the past to the arena of an uncertain future.

His verbal terms can be heard now—―do you want me to kill you kid?”—“This is every HELL OF A THING we have worked for!”—“DO NOT RETREAT! THIS IS YOUR MOMENT!” As I stand, I can no longer feel that mouth guard as if it had melted into my upper teeth and hence I no more sense the deadbeats of my heart like a MAD MAX foolishly wandering on a golden oasis in the middle of a desert that is about to fade away. A feeling of the fortress that is no longer holding up clenched over my heart. I believe I breathe but no air seems to be nearby as if fighting in an obscure space vacuum. Instead, my flashbacks appear to be the only thing that surround and fill the atmosphere. The flashbacks of a kid who wants an eternal existence through a glorious path reinforced themselves so much in my mind I began to question that path. So forcible were these flashbacks manifesting themselves at the opening of hell gates again. Probably, they were a sign of repentance. But that would make my glory flagrant, as it makes me wonder about my opponent‘s fate on the other corner of the gates. No enough time to think as the bell gives the flour for the second round to fatally occur, but an enough time to ask the gloves for the last time to guard my face. Strangely enough, they no longer whisper that call of support. I just for once in my life wish these gates of hades would close for good, knowing that my conceptualization is labeled by violence nothing more. Eventually, the very glorious punch that I passionately would die for, has knocked me out to the point of having my eyes open and incapable of moving; an inability to neither fight nor surrender.

Sahar Chalabi An Attempt at Beauty I find it a bit ironic, how nothing but extreme, suicidal desperation can push us to try our hardest to live. And I find it a bit ironic how my mind, had to go against its own reason to keep me alive.

The only way, I thought, to avoid my disgust with the futility of life and the animalistic core of human nature was to rationalize every single thing I did, felt, thought, and loved. I thought that would close the gaps of madness in my world, which allowed it to crash easily.

But my disgust only grew bigger, swallowing every meaning I could come up with for beauty‌ because beauty was madness.

Until her.

Five months ago, I was still struggling to define art, along with a few other concepts, that I hoped I could hold on to life for.

I asked her, and she talked about it for a bit of time.

When that ephemeral moment passed, I realized that what stuck to me the hardest, so much that it had blended into me, was her; and the terrifyingly beautiful side of human madness I saw through her being.

She was so beautiful; I wanted to be like her.

She was so beautiful, looking around her and indirectly into herself, and seeing art.

She was so beautiful, pointing at the little fountain distorting the carpet under it that was not resisting, and saying that that could be art.

She was so beautiful, pointing to the photographer, walking from and to the table, and saying that that could be a dance, a form of art.

She was so beautiful, looking at things and seeing their potential, which was really, an extension of who she was. That was an expression she used, describing art.

I wanted to be beautiful, like her; and I was willing to give my rationalism up for that, or at least try.

I also needed to embrace my madness, if I wanted to live; and I wanted to, more than anything.

The art of living, I came to realize, consists in trusting in the illusions that only work when we do so.

Salma Kaichouh The Little Black Box The little black box had been sitting on his desk for weeks now, it had arrived last month inside a handcrafted package with a blue envelope and a picture of the sea. He had opened the letter instantly, climbing the stairs two by two and running like he was on fire to his one bedroom flat on the second floor. His brown eyes had quickly scanned the handwritten words before his heart sank as a reaction to what they meant. There was no waiting anymore, only emptiness; and he realized that it hurt more than anything else did.

Days had gone by, the letter and the photo on his night stand, the box on his desk and him lying awake for hours in his mattress alone. His thoughts were getting louder than the world outside and more dangerous every time his gaze landed on any of the pieces of their story spread in his room. He was scared, so scared and afraid that he had not been able to feel anything else ever since he had read the letter the first time; he was alone now and forever.

The words in the perfectly black ink did not say that she was leaving, they only implied it, and he hated himself for being able to read between her lines. He knew she was gone, never coming back, but he had hoped and his hopes had been crushed. He was alone, and now he was sure of it.

Why a picture of the sea though? Why a letter that only confirmed his worst fears? Why a box? Was it all he deserved? An empty home and heart? Did he end when she ended?

And then one day, as he came back from work, he found his window wide open and everything already messed up by the hard blowing wind. Different pairs of socks and clothes were spread on the floor, and he entered right in time to catch one of her favorite vases from falling and shattering on the ground. However, the blow had not missed the little black box and had uncovered its contents on the recently washed rug. He was surprised at first, he had spent so many hours imagining the treasures that it could be holding, but never in a million years could he have guessed what it was truly hiding.

Letters and photos. Not letters like the one he had just gone over again last night and photos that were taken by a camera. Letters like the alphabet and photos of paintings. Paintings that his hands had drawn and small pieces of paper were cut around dozens, no, hundreds of letters. He stood right there, frozen, on the same spot looking around at the mess in front of

him. Es, Ds, Ms and even a Z. A Z? That is when it hit him, it was not random. He fell to the floor, his knees weakened by a strong feeling of relief and reassurance.

“Mama, I am giving up.”

He closed his eyes, remembering when these five words had left his dry throat and reached her ears. She had not said anything at first, encouraging him with her silence to keep talking.

But his eyes had spoken for him, he did not want to hear anything, he did not want her to tell him that he could do it. They sat there for a few minutes, or maybe hours before he finally stood up and put a kiss on her shaking hands. That was the last time he had seen her alive, and his biggest regret was not telling her more.

He looked at the letters spread around him and moved them almost unconsciously to finally assemble them in one sentence, a quote more precisely; a quote that she had hung in his childhood bedroom when they had first discovered his talent together. It was taken from one the books she used to read when he was painting in the living room. She knew how much he hated being alone and always made sure to be there for him everywhere; exactly like she was doing right now. This quote, these words that he had looked at for years, were somehow her.

“The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.” Emile Zola

Samia Belhamra The Start As I got out of the train station, I felt energy like never before. The voices of the taxi drivers looking for some clients to pick up, the choking heat, and the unstoppable klakson of cars and taxis left me speechless, yet willing to start discovering another city: Fes. As the cab drove towards Narjiss neighborhood, my eyes could not stop shifting from one building to the other. In comparison to El-Jadida, Fes was a dashing city, with cars and cabs waiting for the green light to turn on. What charm, making me almost stop the driver, was the enchanting arrangement of old and new buildings? The Moroccan traditional villas and houses with their sandy ocher colors stood harmoniously next to the tall grey and black buildings.

Once I reached my new room, I took a breath of relief for two reasons: First, I reached a place where my new life would start and, second, I escaped from what has been, for the last month, a quasi-impossible cell to leave: my parent‘s house.

With me laying in my bed, refraining myself from shouting and my tears from flowing, and my mother on the other side of the room, two sentences were enough to make me realize my worth, as a young woman in the Moroccan society: ― Are books going to feed you and your family one day? . You‘re not going to Fes, forget about it‖. This question triggered all my indignation and deception I had towards my mother, exploding in a river of tears and a desperate squawk. I was left with no support for my dearest dream: pursuing a Master‘s Degree.

Broken and without any hopes, all I could think of was packing my bag and fleeing from there. And that was what I did. At 10 p.m., when the streets were half empty, I was waiting frightened and desperately for a cab to take me to my friend, Sarah. That night was sleepless, with me pondering how my life would take another turn, far away from the academic milieu I always dreamed of.

As the sunny light made its way to my room, Sarah opened wide the door, running to me with her mobile in her hand: ―Listen, do you want to go Fes? My aunt who lives there can host you by the time you find a job and proper rent! Come on, stand up! You want to go right?!‖ The realization that I could finally live away from my parents, in one of the greatest cities in

Morocco, made me jump out of bed and throw myself over Sarah ― I just don‘t know how to thank you! You will help me achieve my dream!‖ With some savings in my bank account and my little East pack bag, the following day I was sitting on the train going to Fes, excited for a new beginning but in the meanwhile cast down because of the dear childhood friends I would leave in El-Jadida. After one week as a resident at Sarah‘s aunt‘s kind hospitality, I was able to find a good room and a job to support myself, in the city that would have been my second home. And here I am today, 30 years old, an Assistant Professor and happier than ever. What would have happened if I just followed the orderings of this traditional society?

Sara Azzouzi Drizzle of My Senses What if I put an end to it? Am I going to be at ease and find peace?

Putting on my shield, holding on tight to my wrecked beliefs, struggling to stand still at the first line as a strong warrior but I know deep down that I have no more power to set up the fire. Telling myself I am alright, and everything is going to be fine with hope and courage, your wild spirit will set you free and eventually will break all the chains that have once held you back. But who is to blame? I am not lost to be found, definitely not perplexed in an existential crisis to guide myself to the light. I am trying my best to keep my sanity inside the howling madness like an unseen epidemic. It is not a war to decide that there is a win or loss and it should not be. I suddenly start to question what is wrong with me but there is no one to respond.

Surviving, shrinking all the beautiful astounding and even dark painful senses to one; to survive. I am not letting myself be the third wheel of how I lead my life; I can‘t deny my fear, nor can I hide the foggy vision that disables from seeing my way towards clarity, however among the things I am certain of is the teeming yearnings to live a better life. Admiring the cracks of the wounds, forbearing the stings that once were the reasons for shedding unreturned unforgiveable tears.

I find myself swinging between the heat of desert and the shivering icy cold that somehow finds its balance and coexists inside me, spinning around the unstoppable cycle of time. The starting point of every human being is in the cradle, learning how to be the man of tomorrow and eventually fading away as an old fellow; holding the wisdom that once gathered throughout a lifetime in the capsule of the missing, messy, unarranged details that entail much of the wrinkles drawn around old men‘s eyes.

Living a life where I am standing for the norms that I have once set for myself. Surprised by the unexpected bents that were the reason for being the person I am today, differently judged if I was directed by the stream of what the ancestors. How can a human of this offspring remain tolerant and forgivable in this filthy torturing world?

Like a fish out the sea, I struggle. No, in fact I am adapting my sensations, my soul, my mind.

I am looking forward to be my own sculpture no matter how much it is thorny. Blind but I see colors, despair but I hope one day soon I will find my place in the perplexing labyrinthine of

what is so called for the common life or maybe for other slowly death. All the doors I knocked were slammed to my face. Building yourself from scratch as a girl, you either got to dream big, have a strong stamina and close your ears to the external and internal voices that try to put you down or you will just abide by the system and join the crowd.

But sometimes it just sounds that life goes as it should be. Ideas come and go as well as people, emotions and everything else. Nothing is everlasting. But somehow it is a relief that we are not chained to a one stagnant situation. Otherwise it would be a boring experience and eventually murdering oneself when all voices around me are yelling and no one tries to understand my standpoint. Taking a minimalist lifestyle and discovering myself, building one bit by bit and finding my freedom from clutter. The philosophy I tend to follow is to get rid of the excess stuff and enjoying life without that attachment forces by the family, society. I do not want to be tamed nor to put the blame on the other I just want to live freely with the closest ones who left suddenly but still remain in the heart.

The beauty of my dreams might not seem clear to the common but I am eager for a special glory. My pain drives me to death, captivating my sights to see the fine line between the wrong and right, the good and the bad. After dropping the last teardrop of these invisible sorrows, I finally find my joy with the love I carry in my chest.

A call in the middle of the night was a changing point for the loner life I took for granted once. A shelter that I turn to when the dark foggy nights lay on my heart; however, time has its revenge. It revolves around bitterness and sorrowful senses but eventually it passes by. since human being bases his life on adaptation.

Longing for his presence around me, his laughter and most importantly his look into me, the thrill to be together to hold me tightly, to hug me makes the love sickness seems somehow bearable. He became my guide in the dark nights, my clarity in the gloomy clouds and my shelter in the unrest up and downs. My simply made boat is rattling into the tide of the sea, facing my destiny to drown in the mid of nowhere, no one to grief no one to laugh, merely a blank emptiness that hollows the scene. I never believed that there will be a man to whom I will turn to when I feel that the whole world shuts down on my face. With A soft touch, he has melted the cold ice on my heart and healed all the bleedings from my unpleasant past. He took my hand and became my everything when no one dared to be near my zone. Waiting for a miracle threaded with gold and silk to collide two souls that only exist one is me and the other in my head.

Yousra Sbaihi Pissed The cat urinates in the middle of the storeroom. The yellowish piss stands out against the white-tiled floor. It flows in rivulets all the way to my new Adidas shoes. Even though the urine comes into contact with the soles only, I can feel smoke rings flying out of my ears. As if she notices my anger the cat steps back on her paws and shrinks amid a heap of over-worn shoes crammed at the corner. The Led light suddenly grows brighter. Is it mocking me? The deeply-carved vertical line between my eyebrows starts buzzing in pain again. If my mom were around, she would be flattening it with her thumb and index finger. I continue staring at the dirty floor while the cat's yellow gold is carpeting all other objects occupying the room: shoes, umbrellas, soap boxes, broken sewing machine. If only the bus driver rolled as fast as this cat's urine! I‘ve been thinking of a getaway excuse to dismiss my friend's invitation to his graduation ceremony, but "sorry, I have to clean some stray cat's piss" does not sound so convincing. I rummage in the drawer under the sink and grab a dish rag. Cursing all the cats in the world, I squat down and soak the rag in the urine. I then wring it in a bucket and do it all over again with my nose scrunched in disgust. As I'm splashing water on one of the umbrellas, a soft meow emanates from the shoes at the corner. The cat cranes her neck out of a shoe box and stares at me as if studying my reaction. She walks towards me, and, not minding my reeking pants, caresses her face against my knees while her claws are busy twitching with the lint on my pajama. I put the umbrella aside, dry my hands in my top and grab the cat between my arms. She keeps purring and fidgeting with the beads in my shirt, and, before I know it, we become friends. But it is a moment of epiphany; Meeting her big amber eyes brimming in childish innocence and joy dawns endless questions on me: Why do I always get pissed at everything? Why do I have to frown, grind my teeth together and nurture this angry fireball incessantly pounding in my chest and threatening to rip it out? Why can't my immediate reaction be a deep breath with my nerves chilling in ice? This helpless creature did nothing but what her instincts whispered to her. And in no more than 30 minutes, the storeroom is left looking pretty much as it used to be, or perhaps even better. I massage the line between my eyebrows and throw the cat a beach tennis ball I found in a shoe. Her speed makes her more of a cheetah than a regular stray cat. The bond engulfing us both grows with each throw of the ball. I am already thinking about going shopping for her food, clothes and toys. This throw-and-catch is not quenching her thirst for games. The ball sunken in her teeth,

she rushes back to my arms and buries her face in my shoulders with her tail slicing the air.

And with no warning, a stinking warm fluid is flooding my top.

AN OLIVE WRITERS COLLABORATIVE WORK

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