The Moroccan poet and storyteller Idris al-Wagish sent a message to the late Idris al-Khoury, in which he said to him: “There is no doubt that you heard the cry “sir … sir”, like us, Rakraki pronounced it behind you in your absence, then thousands, if not millions of throats followed him in the ecstasy of victory. Qatari stadiums and not only. You may have heard it with us while you were in the grave.
Al-Wagish added in his letter to Al-Khoury: “We are here because you have left us and are accustomed to our conditions, sects, sects and tribes. Our scriptures are in our stories and our poems are in our poems.”
This is the text of the message:
Baba Idris, if we have exhausted your peace with our noise, let us slip away while you are there in your rest, but if you are tired of us and this earth, and you decided to leave voluntarily, then you made the right decision. I remember now that you are gone: your voice, your silence and your death. I’m telling you that writers and intellectuals here have become intolerant of each other in the same city, and they don’t show off even in the same district. They became more hostile in their silence and gossip than before, and from what you knew about them and in them. So don’t worry my friend, I have lived as a magician in your writings, a disturbing beauty in your advice, divided between two enemies, the tranquility in Rabat and the bustle of fishermen and boat owners on the Bouregreg River in the Sale, the bustling life in Casablanca and the misery of the oppressed in the Great Bede, as Uncle Ahmed Bozfur calls it. I’m just like you, my friend, or a little more. I happened to be scattered in my affiliation between the “Isla” of my village and the two nearby towns. I talk about the countryside of Taunat and its rivers. For more than thirty years I have been exposing in Fez, I have the birth certificate of the first teenager, and my daughter Scheherazade is my eldest.
There is no doubt that you, like us, heard the exclamation of “Sir … sir” uttered by Al-Rarakaki after you in your absence, and then accompanied by thousands, if not millions of sips, which you repeated in the ecstasy of victory in the stadiums of Qatar and for outside of it. You may have heard it with us when you were in the grave, or perhaps years before us, and you walked calmly, indifferent to where you are. I would not have heard from you, as well as from other narrators, your characteristic exclamation “Wattaseer …”, loudly flying out of your mouth, if it were not for our mutual friend, journalist Muhammad Al-Alami from Washington, who reminded me of this. We almost believed in our victory and ran for a buzz, but the story ended before it began, and the speech was cut off. Less than a month later, we found ourselves in the epicenter of the scandal, and the cries of “Sir … Sir” did not move us forward, but we were surprised to go “March … Aryeh.”
You lived all the paradoxes of your life, honest in your humanity, offensive and shocking in your satire and answers, provocative in your frankness, desired and hated at the same time, tyrannical and gentle in your sessions, serious and jocular, divided into two parts. halves.
No one has been spared from the power of your tongue, just as you, in turn, have not been spared from anyone else’s tongue. I split in two in one, both of you, playful Idris, and serious, touchy Khouri lived in one body, Both Idris and Khouri relied on insult, shame, slander and mockery of people and life. You were the most honest of us. You came to us in the morning, conquering the audacity of the storyteller’s pen from the outside, and you fell asleep peacefully and well at the end of the night, and you drank and smoked enough cigarettes to destroy dozens of bodies.
The story after your departure with Zafzaf, Idris, was left an orphan, she lost one of her pillars, but she was lucky that God extended the life of her uncle Ahmed Bozfur, and she found a kind uncle in him, otherwise she would have remained even more orphaned and unhappy than was before you left. Even if you lived among us longer than I did, you would add nothing new to the curse of writing. add Indian spices to it. The best thing you did in your life was mourning yourself when you felt your passing was inevitable while you were still alive.
You know, Baba Idris, we almost won the World Cup this time at the “World Cup” Qatar 2022, and you are in your eternal absence, and if it were not for the complicity of the Franks against us, we would have done it. Because of the great misfortune in our lives after your departure and the successive defeats that have befallen our lot, we went out into the streets, jostling, rejoicing as we had never before been happy, like children on the morning of Eid al-Adha. We all shout, chanting slogans, gloating over the Franks, despondency and poverty. And since we, too, were not accustomed to joy, joy quickly bored us, and it was absent from our streets, because excellencies, excellencies and ministers stole our joy, through our negligence, as you entrusted them. They raped our original happiness and left it in the open, and we quickly returned to our boring life, living our squalor as we are used to with high prices and life. We didn’t know our walk of joy was nothing more than a walk of idiots rushing to catch moments of reckless joy or joy before they break out of our hands or fly away like any bird or dove does. Therefore, Mahmoud Darwish does not believe that “there is something on this earth that deserves life.” Everything deserves to be written, but nothing on this earth deserves life.
You were a writer, journalist and poet, then a capable storyteller, and whoever mourned you after your absence, with sincerity or hypocrisy and hypocrisy, has lost the ink of his letters; Because you were the most honest of us, you didn’t need a writer to mourn you or a poet to mourn you. You made yourself known and rested. Your obituary to yourself, while you are alive among us, was more true than the verses of poets and hymns of jurists, stronger than what an aspiring poet would say about you after you. What you said about yourself was the most beautiful and truest of all poems. Because storytellers, my friend, are more truthful and perspicacious than all poets. you believe? Poetry today has become a commodity that is bought and sold, my friend, you were mine, it is captured by fluidity and its body is gnawed by an abundance of displacement, and it is strongest of all on the shield of cunning intrigues. Poetry has become more false and deceitful in the face of the poem, it is no longer the same as we read it sincerely, while enjoying our complete innocence, while we are pupils in schools or students in universities. We did not know that “there is no certainty in poetry,” as the poet, clairvoyant Muhammad al-Sargini says about this.
Do not be sorry, my friend, now that you are gone, and you are gone. If you were a storyteller, poets after you became a pawn for lobbyists, and poetry is rent and quarrels. The writing of this story has been one of the blessings of life for you, and perhaps one of its curses, while you were alive, lived among us, or suffered from a lack of livelihood, I don’t know. I mean the blessing of writing for all of us writers and poets. I remember we met more than once, but each time you were stingy and stingy with words, as if a hole in the ozone layer touched your hearing or a sudden paralysis and stiffness touched your tongue, and if the pen dries up and your vocabulary decreases. We met a lot and talked little, although we were similar in character, names and affiliations.
We talked more than once and could not speak; our conversation was limited to public life and literature, as if we were under the microscope of spies. Our speech was superficial and transient, as was your transition from life to death, from poetry to journalism and from journalism to fiction. I thought, along with Ahmed Bozfor and Muhammad Zafzaf, that your place would be the best in the paradise of history. Like all storytellers, you took a break from idle poetry and lived a different life under the cloak of faithfulness to history.
Don’t worry, Baba Idris, there we are like you left us and got used to our conditions, sects, sects and tribes, no one else tolerates, individualists who are more selfish than the capitalists themselves. We became more hateful and fanatical towards each other when you left us, as if you were with us and among us.
And we forget our truth, we are just numbers waiting to cross over, my friend, we will join you out of compulsion, not out of obedience; Because we love life here more than we love ourselves and our families, contrary to what appears in our letters in our stories and poems in our poems. But what consoles us is that our transition, we writers and poets, will be easier and less harmful: we will not take with us more than collections of our stories and collections of our poems, and we will not regret, like others, the remnants, which we leave here for others behind our backs in jars. We have no estates here, no real estate in our ownership or in the ownership of our women, sons and daughters. We do not have here, and you know our situation, no villas in the prestigious areas of Fes and Marrakech, no apartments overlooking the Mediterranean in Tangier and Tetouan, no chalets on the sands of the Atlantic Ocean in the prestigious areas of Harhoor in Rabat. , Ain Diab, Casablanca Marina or Agadir. And those who consider themselves great and famous writers and poets will silently wrap their poems under their arms and go lamenting their vanity, accompanied to their last resting place by a few noises of devotees and tears wrapped in verses and reckless scriptures, and such as they are from the great feudal lords and the rich, noisy concerts are arranged for them with praise and due hearing. In their absence from their wealth, and in the end they will be next to us, just like us, just hard numbers that are filled with those who follow them after their deaths, like what happens in the rental wire numbers of state institutions, and the sequence of national card numbers in the lives of the righteous and unrighteous servants of God, thieves and corrupt bribe takers.
Do not believe Mahmoud Darwish, baba Idris, that there is something on this earth that deserves life. I know that you were not affected, like us, by the titles of his poems, as we were at the beginning.
The air is wetter here, my friend, and life is precious, harsh, painful, and almost miraculous. Nothing tempts you to stay on this earth after you are gone, nothing on it or in it deserves to stay. Darvish’s intention was to alleviate the burden of the illness that had incapacitated Frank’s doctors and relentlessly surrounded his ailing body. Life here is tedious, my friend Idris, miserable, as you truly wrote about it in your stories, the opposite of what romantic poets and dreamers portrayed to us in their poems.
You have come to us under a fictitious title that does not belong to you, since many of us are forced to bear our surnames. You turned out to be the bearer of the title “Khuri”, neither you to him, nor he to you. But what is beautiful about you is that you lived through it, satisfied with your fate, mocking the reality of Casablanca, which was not much different from your reality, I mean our reality, to the point of cruelty. I stuck to the principles I believed in and didn’t betray them like other politicians, journalists, poets and writers did. You did not let down the poor, mired in the suffering of their poverty, and were their protector and supporter in your writings and stories. You fought forced wars, in self-defense, or volunteered against tyrants obsessed with grandiosity. You have won some of them and lost many of them, and you have endured the consequences of defeat alone. Finally, you left us with your head held high, taking with you the pride of the storytellers, flying like an African eagle. I have found true friends in a transformed world that is changing for the worse every day, despite all the ugliness that we see. Now, before I say goodbye to you, sleep well, my friend, and may the Merciful have mercy on you until we meet.