By Youssef Sourgo
Morocco World News
Casablanca, February 27, 2013
Astounded I was this morning, as I scrolled down the home pages of my favorite Moroccan news blogs and outlets in search of news articles featuring the sort of news one would cheer up whilst reading. To my dismay, crime scenes, pictures of arrested outlaws, hideous, sober descriptions of murder scenes, here and there, astonishingly outnumbered the genre of posts I was hoping to come across. Since when Morocco has been the cradle of such violence? Since when a Moroccan girl/woman has to walk on the sidewalk, her heart beating out of her chest, for she expects anyone, at any moment, to crop up and threaten her life for a worthless second generation phone, or a couple 100 MADs bills?
While reading an article posted today on Morocco World News headlined “Waitress raped and murdered in Casablanca,” I could not help not being lured, unconsciously, into a series of visual depictions of the inhuman, horrendous and monstrous scenes described in the article. What wrong did the young girl at her age of effloresce, at an age we start perceiving life through optimistic lenses, to deserve such monstrous end? What wrong did she do to deserve winding up as another trash bag, there, by the walls of a mall, there where her body, stripped off its innocence, its vivid color of hope for and promise of a bright future ahead of her, was forsaken motionless?
Alas, the questions above are nothing but rhetorical questions that cross our minds now and then, as we now look at our dear children, beloved people, or even those we cross randomly in street, with eyes replete with a troubling anxiety and fear from not having the chance even to say goodbye to them, if they ever happen to be the victims of callous, rock-hearted creatures.
Should Moroccans lock themselves, their kids, their entire family, in caves beneath their homes, exactly as those families in horror movies do for fear of having their so believed beings taken away from them? Should we prevent our daughters from enjoying their youth, from solemnizing their achievements with their friends somewhere away from their homes, for fear of receiving an anonymous call the next day justifying why they did not spend the night at home? If none of this is idealistically feasible, then how can we protect our so beloved beings from such horrid scenarios as those we either get the misfortune to witness ourselves, or just happen to come across randomly just as I did this morning, a morning that saw its light evanescing as I painted it with colors of excruciation and agony, since the very moment I read the first headline synthesizing a rape-and-murder scene?
Deplorable is our Morocco, and in a state of mourning and sorrow are its streets and corners, the same streets and corners where innocent, still-alive bodies were forsaken sole, in the obscurity of desert spots, where light seldom sheds. How does it feel to close your eyes on the sight of a monster? How does it feel to know that you will never open them the next day, as you have always been accustomed, on the sound of cars passing by as flashlights, or on the cry of your little brother or sister upstairs, or on the loving smile of your beloved wife or husband?
How does it feel to know that a mother, somewhere distant from where you are expiring your last breaths, will not be there to cry on you while you deliver a painful soul to the Almighty? How does it feel to start a day with a determination to change your life, to become a new, better person, and do not even get the chance to celebrate such decisions because someone else, on the same fine day, has decided to start his/her day by taking a life or succumbing to a lustful, animal like thirst for an innocent body, for an innocent soul?
Dear you, yes you who plans to take a life tomorrow, or to rape a sister, a mother, yes a sister or a mother, for they all would treat you as a son/daughter/brother/sister if a car hits you right before their eyes…remember, their souls will chase you for the rest of your life, and know that even if you decided to commit suicide to spare yourself the abrasive, sharp looks of condemnation, their souls will still chase you to the profundity of your grave, to remind you of all the good things they wanted to do in their lives, and of all the dreams they aspired to see coming true. Nobody will hear your shouts for mercy, and if I ever happened to march by your grave and hear them, I will pretend I did not.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Morocco World News’ editorial policy
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