murder . . . sex . . . religon — f t V& c VMo s .
The Three Souls of Modern Algeria
by Donald R. Rickards
A bdallah squats in a corner of his room, staring at blank walls. There is little furniture to be seen; in fact, there is little else in that unfriendly room but Abdallah and his conscience. If only he could for get! He had only just managed to enter the Algerian National Army a few months before his country gained its independence. It had been excit ing to roam the hills, shooting up villas belonging to French colonial ists, burning farmlands worked by exploiters, and enjoying the fright ened respect of his compatriots. Then independence was achieved. Abdallah was one of a group ordered to round up certain French die-hards who had incurred the anger of the Algerian party leaders and found themselves inscribed on the black lists turned over to the army. How could he forget the night his group broke into those marked homes, corraling those c u r s e d Frenchmen with their wives and chil dren into big army trucks. The ter ror written on every face! The wom en weeping, but silently. Children half asleep, unquestioning because their parents were nearby. Abdallah never believed that his commander was really determined to slaughter these people. Sure, they would be terrorized — perhaps tor tured superficially — then warned to leave the country by the next 14
plane. He found himself going through motions in a daze as he helped to line up the prisoners in families. Children were getting awake, afraid now o f the men who ordered their dads and moms into place. Then the pleading! Would Abdallah’s ears never cease ringing with the cries for mercy! Fathers begging that the lives of their children be spared. But all in vain. Abdallah himself worked through the night with one squad, exterminating one family after the other. The order was clearly given— children first, then the wives, then the heads of homes. Thus the maxi mum horror, hopelessness, and re morse dominated the entire group. Though that night was distant by more than a year, it seemed to Ab dallah that his hands still dripped blood. Would his awful memory never know peace, his heart freedom from remorse? Not that he hadn’t tried. He had gone to the marabout outside the village. This man, who was esteemed a saint, worshipped the Devil. Though Abdallah obeyed all his prescription for atonement, no peace followed. Then he went one day to a quarter of Algiers where he knew the Berber fortunetellers plied their wares. Stooping on the sidewalk down one narrow street, he listened intently to the advice this woman gave him. Her mystic drawings be
spoke great wisdom no doubt, but his heart still ached with guilt. His last effort had been to hang symbols of sacrifice about the walls of his home. Still, all in vain. Abdallah and thousands of young Algerians like him, are condemned to a guilt-ridden existence. Their misfortune is to have had a con science previously unknown but now a daily plague unrelenting in its pursuit of their minds and hearts. * * * Bachir put away his typewriter and prepared to leave the office. He had classes to attend tonight, and he was meeting his fiance^ downtown for supper together in that little French restaurant where they en joyed both the cuisine and the ambiance. As he waited for the bus, he re flected on the events that had pro pelled him, a young man of 22, into a promising future in the Intelli gence Section of the Algerian police headquarters. He had only collected his diploma from the Sorbonne a few months ago, after spending eight years in French schools. He was lucky to have an uncle as wise as uncle Ahmed! He had had a wonder ful time in the Parisian gaity of the Latin Quarter. Now many of his friends there had returned with him to govern the republic for which they had never had to suffer. THE KING'S BUSINESS
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker