I am just sharing what this man (Tod Zankert) is publishing about - TopicsExpress



          

I am just sharing what this man (Tod Zankert) is publishing about Morocco through which he can bombard Morocco with fake and illusioned stories just to attract the audience. In the last journal, Fighting for my House, a man whom I broke with in business, Chiboub, called the local administrator in an effort to put a stop to my work on my terrace. Until now, Sheik, presumably told by Chiboub I am Jewish, he allowed work on condition I quote the Shihada, presumably to confirm I am a Muslim, after all. And I realize a tip for the Sheik is likely in order over top the Islamic protocol...but, how much?] A young, English couple recline at my zelig table over couscous, following my gaze into the far flung distance where a village rests precariously on a boulder. Miloud, a young neighbor, brings the tea. His white fochia hangs loosely to his thin frame. His smile is genuine. “You like it?” “Yes!” the travelers say in unison. Miloud’s lips tremble. Unable to speak further, he quickly sets the Moroccan tea on a silver, round tray and leaves the terrace. “So as I was saying,” I continue, pouring tea for both guests, “The Shiek let me continue the work but only…after I quoted the Islamic Shihada, which is our confession of faith.” “Can you imagine,” said Julie, settling in her chair on my terrace, her very pale blue eyes the same color as the blue skies overhead, “if you were doing work in a Baptist town somewhere in the South, y’ know, like building a fence and a man came around saying, ‘Before you do any more work, you gotta be Baptized by immersion!” I laughed. “Yeah, or tell you to confess Jesus as your personal savior before you can paint the white, picket fence!” Her English husband, Mick, shook his head. “But others wouldn’t have to do that here, right?” I smile, seeing where he is going with it. “No, others in the village would not be asked to quote the Shihada.” “So…why you?” “I may also go to the mosque, but remember, I am also a foreigner here. With Chiboub telling people I’m Jewish, well, no doubt he also said this to Shiek; so he…wants to know if I am really a Muslim. You see as it is, only Muslims are allowed to buy houses in this village.” Julie raises her hand to her chin. “Nooo!” “Yeah. But non-Muslims can buy or build commercial business on the main trek below, like hotels or restaurants which in turn, bring work to people in the village. And my old friend Chiboub – ” “Your enemy, you mean?” “Yes, my friend the enemy! Well, now he will not to talk to his cousin Miloud Chiboub, who just brought the tea because…he is helping me out now. And a positive result of all of it? I no longer depend on Mohamed Chiboub to act as a go between in the village, to help me do my work or communicate. Better, I think, bad as my Arabic is, to communicate directly to the people. But of course as result of Chiboub’s desire to retaliate, I am almost certain that the Sheik will soon be asking me for backsheesh, that is…corruption, which most likely he’ll split with Chiboub!” “Wow,” says Julie, “who would ever think such politics would go on in such a small, tranquil place!” I look backward a little. There, in the village looking like it could slip off the boulder in the distance, I sat by as Chiboub served the couscous to my guests at his mother-in-law’s house. Then, taking the guests to the road far below, I handed him the money we agreed upon for his work. And he, doing his innocent routine, saying, “But that is not right,” followed by shaking his head and laughing at me. “That is only for the food my family prepared! Now you should pay me 400 DH more for my guiding!” “Yes. This is a tranquil place. But the honest people here? They, for the most part, do not speak English. Like…Mohamed Yubnah, who is finishing these walls around this terrace. He is a good man. And though Chiboub was my friend for three years and helped me find this house, I did not give him the keys. But my friend the builder? I gave him my keys without hesitation.” Later, I pause on the road. I ask myself: Should I tell my guests such things? But then, I wouldn’t be son honest with all those I bring to my house. Only these were the kind of people I enjoy most. They were not tourists. They were travelers. Suddenly a hand catches my arm. It is Sheik. He is pulling my arm with the force of a policeman. At the side of the road he says, “Give me my money NOW.” We establish 150 DH. And I go to get change for 200 DH while he waits at a desk beside a hotelier across the street. And I will have all of 50 DH left. I realize I have no choice in the matter, not if I care to continue the work on my house. When I step into the office, the Sheik tells the owner of the hotel to give me a chair and then, sitting down in front of this large bear of a man, looking like the Southerner in a pair of work pants, checkered shirt and a cap (if he were coming around to demand a pay off for painting the picket fence), smiling, though his eyes were sharp as rivets holding together a cast iron skull. I hand over the cash. His fingers curl into his palm. “More.” “But this is what you said – ” “Okay, 150 DH now. Then, you give 150 DH more to Omar who will hold it for me, soon as you get it.” I work my mouth into smile. Say, “So who called you and said I was doing some work on my terrace? The village chief, Boushmal, my helper, Yubnah?” He expression remained cold as the metal inside his eyes. “Mohamed Chiboub?” He laughs until his big stomach rolls. Gives me a thumbs up. “Then,” I say rising, “go get the remainder of the money from Chiboub.” Looking into his eyes, it became clear. How could he demand 150 DH more from Chiboub when in fact it at least part of it would be Chiboub’s cut for making the call to Sheik? And so, I left in the Muslim way, saying, Salam alikoom. Peace be upon you. But this, really, wasn’t an honest thing to say, only, it is what one must do in an Islamic kingdom in order to keep the peace with the authorities; because if one does not give corruption with a modest yielding up of one’s pride in an Islamic saying, wishing peace upon the one who cares only to take your money, then, you have more problems and find…you can do nothing at all; and find oneself alone without a life. Honesty is considered weakness; and to lie to oneself and play the corruption game is in this situation…is survival. Chiboub is up ahead. When he sees me in passing, he says nothing. Nor do I say anything to him. He dresses his corruption in a beautiful, pressed white robe and a silk prayer hat. And whenever he sees me he intones Quran, raising his voice to make sure I hear it. Several months ago a mutual friend of ours said, “So he cheated you and was dishonest? Why did you not just go along with it to keep the peace?” And I said: “Peace at the price of honesty is not peace at all.” I smile inwardly at the contradiction, that is trying to feel better about myself despite having turned over the backsheesh to Sheik. And then, the question is, not should I have done it or not. Of course I had to turn over the money, that is already understood; but really, the question is now: when will it stop?
Posted on: Sun, 09 Mar 2014 21:31:54 +0000

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