Fes Writes: Fes Regional Workshop Anthology

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