To anyone who has even the most casual knowledge about Morocco, it is an obvious fact that France's colonial presence in the 20th century had vast and deep consequences on the social, political and economic structural development of the country. Today, these various effects are looked at with skepticism and feel bittersweet to the palates of many ordinary Moroccans. While some of the results of the European power's rule (investments in infrastructure and education) are acknowledged as beneficial, the legacies of colonialism have still left a sour mark on the consciousness of the average Moroccan.
What follows is merely some of the paraphrased stories of the only friend of mine who was old enough during the time of protectorate to have been affected by it first hand. None of this claims to offer any sort of conclusions or analysis on the (de?)merits of the era. It doesn't even claim to be entirely historically accurate. What it is, is simply a set of memories as they are remembered by someone who has since forgotten his age and place of birth, but not the eye color of the French commandant who was in charge of the local post in Azilal. They were blue.
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Suddenly it seemed as if they were all around, and always had been. Often they would show up in our town and play with us kids by the river-no one would say a thing. They set up shooting ranges and training facilities at the edges of town and we couldn't help but look in with unyielding curiosity. As we were quite young at the time, most of us not yet even 13, they let us come and go as we pleased. No shooting session was ever complete without a small band of kids gathering up the recently emptied shells, still hot, to play with back in town. This is how I first met the French.
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During the second World War the French, much like all parties involved, grew desperate for additional manpower. Before their fall, they used to drive large trucks into the center of Marrakesh and offer anyone willing to jump aboard a job in the fight against Hitler. Two of my brothers were among those who hopped in to be driven away to some makeshift training facility. With hunger and unemployment hanging over the people, there was much lure in a guaranteed post in a foreign developed country, even if it was fast becoming little more than rubbles and ashes. As is probably not tough to believe, however, many of those who signed up were gravely unqualified for full combat duty. I was always told that one day the training officers set up a classic obstacle course, prefaced by a wall with only a single rope dangling from the center, and lined up the recruits for their test. A capable trainee would presumably be able to climb up and over, jumping down on the other side ready to complete whatever the next textbook task happened to be.
My brother was not a capable trainee. Apparently overburdened by the physical stress of the climb, he tripped on the top and landed chest first on the other side, breaking several ribs. Not a week into training and he was already in the hospital, collecting paychecks to lay in bed and be tended to by foreign nurses. My other brother wasn't so lucky.
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When it came to controlling the country, the French had a lot more difficulty subsiding the Berbers, who tended to live in barely accessible mountainous areas. This last point would quickly become a source of countless frustrations for Them. I still remember hearing the accounts of battles at Tilouguite from friends of mine who had been recruited to fight. The supposed simple capture of a meaningless town had become drawn out as French soldiers had started getting picked off through attrition. I can't really recall who won or lost but I can clearly see my friend's face as he relayed the occupier's eventual tactics. To cut down on vital losses, the army began to march with an exclusively local front. That is, everyone on the front line was a recruited Moroccan, fighting either for the pay or to suck up to Them. It was a human shield.
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As a child, I used to work for the French commandante in the regional hub of Azilal. Early on, they had tested my honesty by haphazardly leaving large sums of money under rugs and couches and then instructed my to clean the room. With each time I returned the wad of bills in full, the commandante grew trust me more. Soon after, I became the most relied on assistant at the military's office, a job that came with plenty of monetary benefits. This last part was crucial, the family didn't have much money and the little we were earning all seemed to be coming from the French in one way or another. Whatever the means, we were getting by.
One day in the 1950s, when the political climate changed and the French were on their way out, the commandante called me into his office and made me an offer. If I so chose, I could join his staff in returning to France and start a family while continuing to work for him. When you think about all the people, both then and now, who would do near anything for such an opportunity, it may seem shocking that I didn't think it over much. I couldn't leave- Morocco is my country. Plus, I would have missed my mom.
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