Mririda: The Raging Gale of the Atlas

With a hiss of air brakes and a cloud of exhaust, the bus pulled into Derb Al-Kabir in Anfa. The morning was crisp and quiet, and Mririda’s heart pounded as she watched the passengers shuffle down the aisle to disembark, wrapped in thick, woolen djellabas. Most gripped the straps of their worn bags with gnarled knuckles, exhausted after a long night’s journey. Mririda glanced back at the empty bus seats, then forward as the last passenger stepped down. “What now?” she wondered. “I have nowhere to go. Asidi rbbi! Oh, my God! I wish the bus would just keep going. When I left, I was only leaving—not going anywhere.”

In front of her, a woman in a warm, white djellaba, veil wrapped tightly around her face, swayed with a crying boy in her arms, singing a soft lullaby. The bus driver, collecting his belongings, was about to step down when Mririda pulled the edges of her own white haïk closer and dragged herself toward the door. The driver watched her closely. Mririda tried not to meet his gaze, tried to make herself invisible.

“Is the angel alone in Anfa?” the driver said in Tamazight, stepping closer.

“Angels are never alone,” she replied. “They’re with Allah. No one can harm them.”

“Is that blood on your haïk, angel?” he asked, pointing to the dried crimson stains mixed with desert dust.

“I slaughtered a chicken before I left home,” she said sharply. “I’ll change it soon. And stop staring like an owl. The moon doesn’t belong to the one who gazes at it.”

With that, she walked away quickly to a nearby wooden bench, clutching her bundle with one hand and a plastic bag with the other.

She sank down onto the bench, feeling as tiny as a grain of dust in the sprawling expanse of Oulad Ziane bus station. Mririda had heard stories about Anfa from the residents of her hamlet in Azilal, especially from Caïd Moussa, her former captor and the man appointed by the French to govern the Rif tribes and collect taxes. All of their tales warned the same lesson: Anfa was dangerous, especially for women. The French were everywhere, and she had nothing to lose anymore.

Caïd Moussa’s words still felt like a curse hanging over her. They had shaped her into some helpless, crawling beetle, thrashing on its back. Yet she refused to be defeated. No one was to blame but herself. She had been the one to flirt with him at the souk, singing and dancing at the halqa for coins. But she refused to dwell on that now. What was done was done. What she needed was a fresh start.

“Let this be a new beginning,” she thought.

Buses lined the right side of the station, and small ticket offices stood on the left. In front of her, travelers sipped hot tea and scooped olive oil with fresh bread in cafés. Mririda longed for a bite, but in her village women were forbidden to sit and eat in public spaces. Yet she wondered: Why should I care now? I have already broken with my traditions.

She dug into her black plastic bag to count her coins. Five francs. She put the money back, stretched out on the bench, and then, remembering it was inappropriate for a woman to lie down in public, sat up straight, placing the bundle at her feet. But fearing thieves, she pulled it closer to her lap and rested her head upon it.

“What am I doing?” she wondered. “My biggest problem is language. I must learn Darija and French. At least here, surrounded by travelers, I won’t draw too much attention.”

She wandered a bit, peering into cafés, looking longingly at steaming bowls and fresh bread. The sight of the many homeless people, wrapped in torn blankets, shook her. When a tall, bald man with owl-like eyes approached, she quickened her steps. His ragged, black djellaba and sharp stare reminded her of one of Caïd Moussa’s soldiers. The thought of him made her shiver.

The years she spent in the Caïd’s castle had left deep scars upon her heart. The lines of her poem, “The Bad Lover,” surfaced in her mind. If she ever returned to Azilal, she would give the poem to René, the French teacher who had promised to write down her songs. Despite her youth, Mririda had forgotten many of the poems she once sang in the souk. Cruelty had erased their beauty. Yet, she refused to forget. Closing her eyes, she began to whisper:

The Bad Lover
Leave me, soldier, without honor or manners!
I can see through your bright uniform to all your contempt.
Your hand salutes an officer but raises itself to slap a woman.
With insults upon your lips, you call me a dog after taking your fill.
Have you no shame?
Did you think you could use my body and forget the worth of my heart?
You came like a beast, then acted like a humble visitor,
Agreed to my demands and offered your pay in advance.
With every glance you gave, I stripped your pride away.
With every touch, you gave me your honor.
With every kiss, I claimed your silence.
With every moment you possessed, I possessed your very name.

She smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her burning cheeks. “Perfect, Mririda,” she thought. “You still remember every line. Perhaps it is time to tell this poem in the souks of Anfa. But are there even souks here? Will anyone understand Tamazight?”

A glance backward revealed the tall man still hovering, and she rose quickly, rushing to the public restrooms. There, she tried to scrub the dried blood from her haïk, but the stains only darkened and drew more suspicion. Carefully, she removed the garment, folded it, and tucked it into the plastic bag. Digging out her coins, she discarded the bag in a corner and stared at herself in the mirror: disheveled hair, a loose belt, a faded dress.

“Am I still myself?” she wondered aloud.

Hurriedly, she left the bathroom, bundling her belongings, recalling the strict rule of her village: a woman doesn’t walk the streets alone. If only she had married Asafo, her first love, before Caïd Moussa came to claim her. She remembered a poem she had exchanged with him long ago:

What Do You Want?
What do you want, girl of the village below?
To marry me?
They say you’re shy, yet strong and bold.
Here’s my only piece of silver.
With it, you can buy a comb, a mirror, or a fine silk scarf.

What do I need, son of the high pasture?
A piece of silver? A silk scarf?
I seek more than a gift.
More than a name.
I seek only the warmth of your skin,
A night of belonging under the stars.

She shook herself from the reverie. The boy she had hoped to wed was gone now, and she had run from a husband she refused. At just eighteen, Mririda had broken herself free from bondage, became a wandering poetess, and refused to accept a life dictated by others.

Her father disowned her, announced that she was dead. Yet she lived. And here she was, in Anfa, brushing a hand across her own cheeks to prove that she was real.

By mid-morning, the bus station was crowded with people. Engines roared, touts yelled, and Mririda felt terror and elation rising within her.

---

In her modest attire, Mririda felt almost invisible. She stood near the entrance, pretending to wait for a family member, knowing well that she had nowhere to go. Perhaps Caïd Moussa was still searching for her.

She stepped into a nearby shop, a tiny space with shelves reaching the ceiling. Suddenly, she heard a voice in Tamazight:

“Azzou n Tmazirt. Wind of the homeland?” said the young man behind the counter.

“Sorry?” Mririda asked.

“Are you from Mogador?”

“No. I am from Megdaz, in the Tassaout Valley.”

“Alone? You’re brave for a woman. Do you want something?”

“Just a loaf of bread and a tin of sardines,” she replied sharply. “And keep your questions to yourself.”

“Here you go. One franc and a half.”

Mririda gave him the coins, brushing a finger across the worn countertop. Hoping for conversation, she was disappointed when the boy turned away. In one of Anfa’s busiest spots, she sank down upon a bench and tore into the sandwich, unashamed. “Why must I hide?” she wondered. “Why must I starve?”

She refused to be the frightened girl she once was. Let traditions rest where she left them. Let the world watch.

As the afternoon waned, Mririda lay down upon her bundle, drifting between exhausted sleep and rising terror. What would she do? Where would she go?

Through her thoughts came whispers of poetry inspired by the brief flirtation with the boy from the shop:

Azouou (Evening Wind)
Evening wind, why must you haunt me?
Why must you tease?
I would linger at your door until you open,
Or collapse upon your threshold, exhausted.
Your gaze shines like flint.
Your skin, soft as a ringdove’s down.
The small blue tattoo between your eyes,
The marks upon your chin, upon your ankles…
And those unseen marks upon your body,
Will I ever witness them, Azouou?

With a sigh, she molded the words until satisfied, and only when the muezzin’s call announced the coming dusk did she rise, brushing the dust from her dress. Suddenly, a tall, slender boy in a blue djellaba appeared. He was about twenty, tall and thin, one eye slightly closed, nose long and crooked. He counted coins in his hand and spoke in Darija. Mririda shook her head, unable to comprehend.

Then, in Tamazight, he asked: “Where are you going?”

“The wind has no destination. I arrived this morning and will leave soon,” she replied, brushing him away.

He smiled. “Why so shy?”

“I don’t like nosey people.”

“I am not nosey. But I hate liars.”

Mririda glared, almost rising to strike him, then thought better of it. Suddenly, the boy pressed a black plastic bag into her hand.

“Forgetful, are we?” he said. “You left this in the toilet.”

Head bowed, she snatched the bag from him, unable to speak.

“Be wary here,” he added quietly. “This place is full of thieves and drug dealers.”

“Perhaps you’re one of them,” she replied sharply.

He smiled and shook his head. “You’ve nowhere to sleep tonight, do you?”

Mririda faltered, and then sank down upon the bench, exhausted and overwhelmed.

“Leave me alone,” she said sharply, brushing at her tears.

“Listen,” he said quietly. “I may look like a tramp, but I’m not a bad person. This station is a jungle. You must be a lioness to survive.”

Through her tears, she spoke, voice shaking, “I wish I were dead. It’s too hard to trust any man.”

“Then don’t trust me,” he replied. “But don’t stay here tonight. They’ll swallow you whole.”

She shook her head, brushing at fresh tears. “But where can I go?”

“Come,” he said, offering a hand. “I can show you a safe place for tonight. An old Jewish tinsmith across the main road. You can stay until morning.”

“I have no money to pay you,” she said quietly.

“Then pay with trust, sister,” he replied.

“Or with my body?” she said bitterly.

“Are you stupid?” he replied sharply. “I want to help, not use you. This place is no paradise. Anfa is a jungle.”

Mririda wiped her eyes and looked at him sharply. “I am Mririda n’Aït Attik,” she announced. “I am a poetess, a wanderer, a voice upon the wind.”

He smiled, brushing the hair from his eyes. “Then walk with me. You deserve more than a night upon this bench.”

With that, Mririda rose. The boy introduced himself quietly.

“Mohammad. I came from Amzmiz. Fled the army when they came to send us to the war. Been working in this station ever since. Helping the lost when I can.”

Through the sting of dried tears, Mririda smiled faintly. Perhaps, for tonight, the wind would lead her to a place where she could rest, rise, and find her voice again.

As she stepped toward the station gates, she felt a flame rise within her chest.

“Down with France! Down with Caïd Moussa! I am no longer afraid. I will stand, I will speak, I will survive!”

With that, Mririda stepped forth into the bustling heart of Anfa, no longer a hunted shadow, but a wandering poetess reclaiming her place in the world.