Algeria : Love Amidst Turmoil: L'homme est violent par nature. Un sage a dit un jour : Chacun de nous a dans le coeur une par de bo, #1

By BELLAREDJ BOUDAOUD

In this story, the author denounces religious fanaticism, assassins, attacks, intolerance, hypocrisy and even a total incomprehension of Islam. A religion that preaches peace and not violence. Generally speaking, violence is inherent in human nature. It takes a commendable effort to suppress it. Our father Adam had two sons: one killed the other. Monotheistic religions strive to neutralize tendencies towards violence through patience, piety and love of neighbor. The author portrays here a realistic and sometimes picturesque image of the life of a people he loves, plunged into the chaos of history, with its violence and dangers, its hopes and passions. Little by little, the truth and exactitude of the details, the non-documentary precision,
A religion that preaches peace and not violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071554463

Book preview

THE BLACK YEARS OF TERRORISM IN ALGERIA

NOVEL

In memory of my friend A.K.BOUBEKEUR photographer, victim of terrorism.

In memory of all the victims of terrorism in the world.

To my friends.

/

I

Ziane had just returned to Algiers at the beginning of this week. He participated in an exhibition organized by the Racim foundation where he presented to the public some fifty paintings inspired essentially by two themes: The light and Rock art.

During his stay in Algiers, Sitra, his cousin and friend, was always in contact with him by phone. She jumped with joy that night on seeing him on television during the prize giving. Her parents who were with her in the living room were very astonished by her unexpected behavior and understood that their daughter was of age.

She knew of his arrival, and around nine-thirty she left Lofti school (ex-Segula) where she was a teacher. She had just finished her French class scheduled for the morning. Ziane's house was only a hundred meters from the school. She kissed her aunt, the elderly Kheira who was in the kitchen preparing her darling son's favorite Pancake. She chatted and made fun with her for a while as usual; in the mean-time Ziane was taking a shower. Sitra hung up her djellaba and scarf on the coat hanger fixed to the corridor's wall. Usually, she wore jeans, a jacket and a fashionable cap. She was slim and beautiful with honey-colored eyes and long intense black hair. She had a very straight nose and a beautiful mouth with fine and well-drawn lips.

Sitra loved him a lot. Rumors went around: bad frequentation, alcoholic, smoker, non-practicing...: They're jealous! Envious! She thought. In her eyes, nobody in this city looked like him. She was very proud of him and showed interest in his artistic work. Thanks to the art books and magazines he had given her, her cultural and linguistics knowledge had improved. She was even able to give her opinion on each painted picture, either on the theme, or the colors and even tried to talk on shadings, contrasts, which, besides, pleased him a lot.

- I like your criticism a lot, he told her. You're making progress.

- It's true! It's thanks to you, she joyously said.

Sitra did normal school in Oran. At the beginning she knew nothing about art. Each time she came on holidays he would tell her:

- Have you visited the Zabana museum?

- No! She replied. I did not have time.

As usual, she went into the living room, got to the windows and pulled the curtains, allowing the morning sun to flood in and light up the diverse colors on the rich designs of the Persian rug (carpet) he had purchased during his stay in Istanbul. One would say a garden of lively flowers. The raw light would transform it into a small museum where three beautiful paintings, and the best, were exposed. They were copies made in tribute to his favorite painters: A Rubens, a Picasso and a Van Gogh. Each time she came to the living room, she would stop for a moment and open her eyes wide over Picasso's Demoiselles D'Avignon , which represented the figures of two women with masked faces. She comfortably settled in an armchair and whilst waiting for him, browsed through the recent issue of Elle magazine. The clock struck eleven.

Ziane appeared in a beautiful suit. He was tanned and of athletic build. He kissed her and invited her to follow him to his room which was well aerated by two little windows facing the street. The furniture was basic: Other than the bed, were an armchair and a beautiful sculpted wooden table where two musical instruments were stored: a violin and a gumbri (1). A huge poster of Jimmy Hendrix was fixed to the wall. Ziane was part of a gnawi group and was fascinated by black American singers and passionate about Anglo-Saxon music. One of these paintings was fixed above the bed and represented a lilac field.

She sat in the armchair, raised her eyes and looked at the lilacs. The marvelous tuft of dew flowers awoke so many souvenirs within her. Since she was adolescent she came all trusting to her aunt. It was here and far from other eyes that her cousin had accustomed her to discuss with him, drink a beer, smoke a cigarette and listen to Jazz music or pieces played by him. Growing up, she dreamt of meeting a man who would be very close by her side, a trustworthy man without risk of her being raped or getting pregnant. Flirting with her friend and cousin was without danger for her. They nevertheless made a beautiful couple. She dreamt sharing her whole life with him one day. He always reminded her: With me you have nothing to fear. Your mind will evolve. Let's together enjoy life that poets and artists have always loved.

- Ah! If your parents agreed, I'd take you to France with me.

- To France! She screamed. That's a dream!

- Yes. I am an artist. With my paintings, I will one day exhibit at the Institute of the Arab World in Paris.

- In Paris! Its marvelous.

She drank a glass of juice in one go then put it down on the table. She took the instrument, placed the sheath on the armchair, lifted the cover and asked him to play. Without hesitation, he took the violin and played a piece of classical music. Eye to eye, love or desire, neither him, nor her, could understand the current state of their feelings. He put down the instrument and they embraced for a long time. He was wrapped by her long hair and felt immersed in an intense darkness that only the whiteness of her face would dazzle him from one moment to another like a moon hidden by a small cloud from time to time. Her gazelle eyes were blushing with emotions and gave him the impression of a sunset. They were both ecstatic.

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(1) gumbri: Sudanese guitar with three strings.

Elderly Kheira, was very happy in her kitchen, dreamy and sometimes preoccupied. She was very proud of her son. She pondered if Sitra would really make the deal by accepting to marry his son. He could not find a woman so beautiful. Her cooking finished, she called them to the dinner room and served the famous galette. All the while savoring his tea, he recounted his stay in Algiers. He talked about his meetings with journalists and personalities from the world of arts and culture. When he finished his story, Sitra got up, went to the

corridor and came back with her djellaba and veil in her hand.

- What's this? He shouted. A gift for my mother?

- No! They are mine.

- Yours! Oh! Yes, I understand.

- Some Islamic sects forced their women and daughters to wear the djellaba, she said. Isn't all that strange? The school director even made a law of it: Wearing the djellaba and veil is compulsory, but not the niqab. Cosmetics is strictly forbidden. She who does not comply will be sent home. He said that up North many women were punished because of their bad outfits.

- No! Not punished, replied Ziane, nervously. That's not true! They have been assassinated, either at their homes, or at their workplace, or on the streets. Last month, five teachers were cowardly slaughtered like lambs at the entrance of their school and in front of the pupils in tears at Sidi Yahya village! Everyone was in shock.

- Oh! My God, again she said, sitting in the armchair.

- European T.V. channels have denounced that. Local television said nothing so as not to panic people.

- They are being killed just like that? Because of their clothing?

- No! It's religion. Sharia, according to these religious fanatics. It's terrible. Each day the media reports horrors committed in the name of God. Rumor has it, your director has integrated the Watad sect. A fundamentalist offshoot that caused mayhem during the almohades times. They want to come back to Salef, that is to the time of the Prophet and believe in Mehdi, the one who comes at the end of the world to fight Dejjal (1) and re-establish the Kingdom of God on earth. This small heretic group has infiltrated, like other sects, an Islamabad party approved by the state so they can act freely to sow

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

(1) Dejjaal: The Antichrist

the seeds of rebellion against the authorities they believe as being impiousor Taghout(1). They proclaimed the djihad. That's all I know about the sect. She got up, continuing the discussion while taking a few steps. She was peaceful and carefree. She added:

- Yesterday, Hassan, a general supervisor, told me that your name is inscribed on the red list of the depraved. It's because of one of your paintings depicting a half-nude woman. One of the religious extremists has reviewed the exposition of 8th March. He has shouted in front of visitors that all human representation is sinful. He yelled: Go ahead, bring him to life, if you are above Allah in front of emir Abdelkader's painting.

Hassan was a young man of average build. He was blond and had dark eyes. A well-groomed red beard fell on his chest. He had a selfish character. He was a crooked businessman chasing after profit and women. To him religion is only a simple facade to gain more.

In front of this free of charge accusation, Ziane seemed to think then continued in a loud voice:

- I am an artist! A free man! Your colleague was a communist who then rejoined the single party, and here, after October 1988, he integrated the Islamic sect. His father is a jeweler and manages an Islamic clothes store. Thanks to this trade he records considerable cash income, part of which goes to the sect. And these people! Who are they to judge me? I know he flirts with you and has invited you to his birthday.

- I refused his invitation. All my colleagues were present. It was a party for his party looking for new recruits. For the flirt, it's true, he bothers me. Last week, during recess, I had a strange visit from three young girls scarecrows, djellaba, khimar, niqab and gloves. They scared me. I had the chills. Without any respect, one of them shoved me into a class. The first was called Djihene, the second Esma and the third Adjila. The biggest of them, Djihene told me in a rough tone whilst fixing me in the eyes:

- Do not come near Hassan, he is mine. We are getting engaged. I retorted on the spot: tell him to leave me alone and not talk to me.

- He is a general supervisor, she replied. He is required to talk to all teachers.

- Your fiancé keeps harassing me after school hours.

- Hassan is well educated! It's you the rude one, she said, pushing her eyeballs out of their sockets and gesturing provokingly. Adjila pulled me by my apron to the point of making me fall down and shot:

- if you don't want problems, dress yourself like us. Protecting oneself from impure beings is a pledge to attain Paradise, it's in the Koran. It's our duty to save lost souls. Don't forget

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(1) Taghout: Tyrant

to do what Djehene tells you, don't steal his fiancé. She will find you a handsome husband. As for Asma, she in turn, yelled harshly at me: Djihene is capable of anything for her lover. My pupils got scared. They were terrorized by their presence. Little Hassiba, with teary eyes, came to my rescue by pushing the classroom door and shouting ; Teacher, are you alright? I cuddled her, wiped her eyes and told her: my little one, there is nothing to fear.

- What you just told me is serious, said Ziane, worried. Be very careful, these girls are part of the sect. They are dangerous. This

visit was a warning. What I am going to tell you is a bit strange but it's the truth. It's about Hassan who accuses me of depravity. I think you've heard talks about the baboucha.

- What?

- The baboucha, in French, is the shell.

- So what?

- The shell is the logo of the German channel SAT1 which broadcasts pornographic films. In one of his preachings the sect's Sheik had said that whomever watches a porn or sex scene had just died, this scene will resuscitate him on resurrection day and dump him in hell without

prior judgement.

- Oh! My God. I've heard of this disgusting channel, but we are not linked to the collective parabole, thank God.

- Your colleague Hassan receives at his place, as from midnight, some adepts of the sect to see la coquille. Locked in the living room they pretend listening to religious preachings by playing a tape on their cassette player so the family believes it, whereas their eyes are on sex. That's what Hassan does. He's neither a red nor religious. He has no principle. He is a hypocrite, a psychopath and a sadist.