Since that cursed day, M’Barka never stopped justifying herself, never stopped telling her version of the story, explainingit, analyzing the smallest details, and, faced with my father’saccusations, insisting on her “innocence” again and again.Mohamed discovered the world of jealousy which he wouldinhabit his whole life.

“No, no, and no ... I didn’t sleep with Saleh. Never. Stop torturing me, smearing me like this in front of the children.What will the neighbors, good and bad, think of me now?They’re going to tell themselves: Who would have believedthat about her? Well, you know what they say: still water runsdeep and dirty ... Me, a disgraced woman? A woman whodeceives, a whore? Not on your life, do you hear me, do all ofyou hear me, no, not on your life! You don’t believe me? Doyou want me to swear on my father’s soul? Is that what youwant? What good will that do? I’ve already done that and it hasn’t stopped you from bringing up your old accusation,from unsheathing your assassin’s tongue, killing me slowlybut surely ... Well, maybe he wanted to fuck ... but I didn’t,not me, do you understand ... Do you want me to say itagain ... NOT ME ... I never gave him a chance to makeadvances, not him and not anybody else either ... You aregoing to make me crazy ... and you’re crazy, crazy, crazy ...Calm down ... let your temper cool. Please, don’t let the devilcome between us, split us up. Think of our saint Sidi MoulayBrahim ... Come here ... Nothing ever happened ... I swearon my father’s soul. I would swear to it on Sidi MoulayBrahim’s grave if that’s what you wanted.”

We would hear everything. M’Barka’s loud voice filled every void and carried far, the smallest details of her storywere revealed to all, to those nearby and to those far away, tofriends as well as enemies. In the beginning, we didn’t dareintervene, get involved in this story, so ancient, so intimate,so complicated. But when Mohamed took off his belt to beatM’Barka, at that very moment, alerted by my mother’s terror-stricken cries, we’d all come running to her rescue. We wouldgather on the patio, red eyed, ashamed, frightened, on theverge of tears, trying to decide what to do. We were all afraidof the same thing, that he’d kill her in a fit of madness.Abdelkébir would try to force the door open. It was lockedevery time.

My mother would scream as if she were about to surrender her soul, as if my father were going to plunge that big knifeused to sacrifice the sheep for Aïd el-Kébir into her heart,making our worst fears come true. We were always on thebrink of tragedy. From drama to tragedy is a short step. Fortunately, the saints that M’Barka always invoked would finallyintervene in our favor and grant us a portion of their peace.