HERE is my description of the Moroccan short film by Ali Benkirane.
It is about Amal, a 12-year-old Moroccan girl and her life
with her family in her village.
I am not sharing everything that I wrote – only the description
for two main scenes. (I have completed describing everything though.)
The movie is called “Amal” and is 17 minutes long.
As said in my last post, the characters are speaking Moroccan
Arabic (I think “Darija”) but the movie has subtitles in French.
View the movie here http://www.mdbenkiraneali.com/galerie-films/.
Cheers.
Photo: Mama has told Amal that she will no longer be going to school.
WAKING
UP
It is early in the morning.
The leaves rustle gently on the yew trees beside our house as the wind blows
over the gentle slopes that extend for miles in all directions from our
village.
I am already awake and
dressed. I am playing in making shadows. I am holding my hands up beside the
wall and seeing their shadows move fancily as I move my fingers and wrists.
I am happy and smiling,
anticipating good things today – most importantly, the new things I will learn
at school.
I look for the oval-shaped
tin box near my bed and open it to take out my favourite play thing – a
stethoscope.
As you can see, I am in my
house in the village. There are 16 of us here. They include: My parents, my
elder sister Fatiha, my brother Mahmed, one dog, four hens, one rooster, one
cow, four sheep and me – Amal.
I am 12 years old and I love
school and life.
It is my hope to become a
doctor one day.
Now I will have to go and
check Mahmed on the other side of the room, to see if he is still asleep. I
will also have to check his heart to see if it is okay.
I go over to where he is,
kneel down and place the tunable diaphragm on his chest and clip the eartip
parts on my ears and listen.
After a few seconds, Mahmed
stirs.
“Leave me in peace,” he
says.
“Wake up,” I say.
But he does not make an
attempt to wake up.
“Wake up, you have to go to
school,” I say.
But he does not get up.
“You go and dress for
school,” he says dreamily.
“I have dressed already,” I
say.
“You go,” he says loudly and
tries to push me away.
“Ey, lazy head, wake up,” I
shake him.
“Dress yourself, I will
come,” he shouts.
Then Mama arrives.
“Enough of this or I will
tell Papa,” she says.
GOING
TO SCHOOL
Both Mahmed and I are ready
to go to school.
He looks more like a lively
boy with his red jumper on and his cap on his head.
He will be tall when he
grows up, I am sure of that. He stands at about 10cm above me – and is very
skinny.
Mama hands him our lunch in
a pink napkin – some bread.
“Take care of the lunch,”
Mama tells him and we walk down the path away from home. Our bags are strapped to
our backs.
Not many of the children
from around here go to school. The school is also quite far.
Our valley has gentle,
rolling hills with grass and few trees popping up here or there, mainly where
houses are.
I think we have a beautiful
valley.
During the day it can be
very hot and the glaze of the sun is something else.
Early in the mornings and in
the afternoons it is quite cooler and are enjoyable to walk along the paths or
small roads where wagons dragged by mules or cows can be seen.
After a while I am walking a
few metres from him and reading a book. The book is about the heart.
Mahmed is walking behind me
and complaining.
“Stop complaining too much
and walk,” I say to him.
AT
THE SCHOOL
Both of us learn in the same
room.
Our class is filled up with
eager students, about 12 in all, eight boys and four girls, which included
Mina, my friend, and me.
Our teacher, a male, a
grandfather type, wears thick glasses. He has lost his hair on the top of his
head and sports a beard with streaks of white and grey.
He is now asking us
questions.
“Who has news on Nadia?” he
asks.
“Mr, Mr, Mr, Mr,” everybody
stands up or bending over their desk, screaming to give an answer.
The teacher picks Mina.
“She is minding the sheep,” Mina stands up
straight and says.
“You tell Nadia that if she
does not come tomorrow, it is still worth coming to school,” the teacher says.
“Okay Sir,” she responds.
“Sit down then.”
He then tells us to open our
textbooks and prepare for the lesson.
“CM1 and CM2, get out your
homework,” he says. “Who can give the answer to question one?”
““Mr, Mr, Mr, Mr,” everybody
stands up or bending over their desk, screaming to give an answer.
BACK
AT HOME
It is evening now. It is
cool and nice.
Mum is washing my hair.
I sit quietly with my head
between my hands while she talks.
Then she notices something.
“Wait. Who caused the bruise
on your hands?” she asks.
“I fell,” I lied. (That
bruise that was caused by Mahmed pushing me over when I held his hands to pull him
to walk a bit faster in our walk home in the afternoon.)
Mum lets out a sigh and then
smiles.
“When I was small, I was
like you. I always had bruises – on the legs, the hands, everywhere. My parents
scolded me often,” she says.
“But the difference between
you and me is that I did not go to school. By the grace of God, you, you can
read, write and understand everything.”
I enjoy Mama’s talk. I
smile.
“We are all proud of you.
But, Amal, my small girl, starting tomorrow you will stay at home.
“Your sister has found a job
in town and I do not have the same strength that I had before.”
My smile vanished.
I am sitting there and am
shocked. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes but I am forcing myself not to
cry.
“I hope God brings you a
good husband who will take good care of you,” she says.
A little later, I am beside
the house and hear Mahmed speaking with Papa as he went to check on the sheep
in the field.
Mahmed is running alongside
Papa begging: “Let her continue! Let her continue!”
“And your mother? Who will
help her?” I hear Papa say. “Amal is a big girl and I am thinking about her
future.”
Papa marches on.
The dog barks as if he has
sighted a problem and that stops Mahmed’s begging for a few seconds.
Then Mahmed continues to beg
– now a bit more loudly.
“Papa, please. Papa,
please,” he shouts running behind Papa.
“Hey!” Papa shouts back
angrily. “Stop whining like a sissy.”
NIGHT
TIME
The candle flickers in front
of me. The night is quiet. I am staring at the candle.
I am on my bed on the hard
floor.
Mahmed’s candle three metres
away is also putting out light. His bed is also on the floor but he has his
back towards me and I cannot see his face.
I know he is awake – and
possibly thinking about the news and the response he received from Papa.
After a few minutes later, I
get up from my bed, pick up the stethoscope which was beside me, walk over to
his bed, kneel and place the instrument beside him, at his back.
Then I touch him on the
shoulder and walk back to my bed.
I lie and look towards him.
Slowly he turns around and
looks at the instrument beside him.
He grabs it and looks at it
with a smile.
I feel like crying but I
manage to smile.
As he fiddles with the
stethoscope, I blow out the candle next to me bed and the darkness swallowed up
my side of the room.
“Good night,” I say to
Mahmed.
I do not know how he will
make of it. I trust he will do well in school. I may not be able to make it now
– now that I have to stay at home and help Mama.
It is for that reason that I
passed my dream over to Mahmed. What I cannot be, I hope and trust he will be.
- Written originally for Pacific
Indigenous Writers (Facebook group), Dec 2, 2013
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