Last week, Ahfir experienced particularly harsh weather and severe cold, especially in the evenings when the stars filled the night sky. Most local residents are not accustomed to using modern heating systems. Instead, they endure the bitter cold with patience and whatever clothing and blankets they have available. For many, this is enough and removes the need for sophisticated heating equipment.
By chance, I was sitting with my brothers at Al Jazira Café in the Zitoun neighborhood. It is a pleasant place, blessed with a beautiful location and a spacious green area. However, the severity of the cold at this time of year makes it difficult to fully enjoy such advantages.
We were greatly surprised when the waiter told us that our late brother, Mustapha, used to sit in exactly the same place, at the very same table where we were seated. He added that Mustapha often came alone and would spend long periods in deep silence, immersed in thought and carefully observing everything around him.
This revelation had a profound effect on us. Places occupy a special place in the heart and leave lasting marks on the soul. They sometimes seem almost alive, capable of influencing and being influenced, telling stories and conveying emotions that move the deepest parts of human nature.
While I was sitting at the café, an old friend approached and greeted me. It was Si Bouziane, a retired teacher widely known in our town for his social, humanitarian, and civic contributions. Having heard by chance of my brother’s passing, he hurried to offer condolences to family members he knew well.
I asked him about our mutual friend, Mazaka, and he immediately suggested that we visit him at his home in the same neighborhood. This provided an excellent opportunity to spend time with this kind and generous man, check on his health, and engage in pleasant conversation that seemed to make time pass unnoticed.
As always, he was cheerful, humorous, and good-natured, paying little attention to his health difficulties. There is no doubt that this warm gathering brought him comfort and emotional relief, thanks to the sincere and friendly atmosphere that prevailed throughout the visit.
(To be continued)
Kenitra, January 17, 2012
Unforgettable Moments (4)
The train of life continues its journey, time follows its course, and years and decades go by. Yet people remain attached to the places of their childhood, adolescence, and youth. They hold on to landmarks and memories whose traces persist despite the passing of time.
Almost unconsciously, I found myself walking through the paths, alleys, and streets that had witnessed my childhood. I headed toward Massoud District, formerly known as Ghar El Jifa, particularly near Martyrs Street and the roads branching from it, not far from Oued Kiss, whose once-glorious past is now preserved mainly in its name.
I slowly walked along Ain Safa Street, where I first saw the light of day on a Friday in 1951, in a small dead-end lane that continues to resist the passage of time. Though renovation work has taken place there, it has not erased its historic character or diminished its emotional and spiritual significance.
Driven by nostalgia, I turned toward the old neighborhood near the three cemeteries, where I spent part of my childhood during the 1950s and 1960s.
My journey eventually led me to the last alley of Taghjirt before entering Granada Street, a name filled with beauty and emotional resonance. The street contains three cul-de-sacs and remains rich with memories of childhood dreams. Many of my friends lived there, most of them Algerians, with whom we shared bonds of friendship, neighborliness, and school life.
This street intersects with the narrow Tafoughalt Lane, where the Algerian Bougrit family lived. To the best of my recollection, they owned the largest wholesale business in the town at that time.
A few steps later, I arrived at Melilla Street, where my family had lived in two houses not far apart from each other.
As I passed our first home, the second house on the right after leaving Granada Street, I encountered an elderly woman whose face reflected dignity and serenity. After exchanging greetings, I asked whether she was the owner of the house. She replied that she was and explained that she had purchased it in the early 1960s from a man named Abdelkader.
That man was none other than my father.
When I revealed my identity, her face brightened with joy, and she assured me that she still remembered my features despite the many decades that had passed.
We exchanged memories and stories from bygone days until an elderly man with gray hair arrived. He greeted me and asked who I was. I realized that he was the woman’s son. At the time when we had lived there, he had been only a small child and therefore had no memory of me or my family.
Our old house has preserved its original appearance. It is probably the only house in that lane that has undergone almost no significant changes. It was a modest single-story home, much like most houses of that era.
(To be continued)
Kenitra, January 22, 2012
By Amar Bellahacen
