His entire life amounted to this moment. Everything he did, and everything he didn’t do. The culmination of a lifetime riddled with difficulties, losses that he thought were terminal. He yearned for this day never so sure he’ll get to live it, but believing in the cause all the same. And it was finally within his grasp, a few hours away, his sweet, sweet victory.
He couldn’t sleep a wink. Sitting at the balcony of his room, it felt abnormal to him that people were slumbering. They should be rejoicing, the streets full to the brim with celebrations. It was a historical night preceding a historical morning, and the state of his surroundings, still and ordinary, was anticlimactic.
By the time the first rays shone through the clouds, the lack of sleep was evident on his face. He went down to the hotel’s lobby, drank too much coffee, and got back to his room to get dressed. He looked at the mirror for a moment, taking a look at the man he was. How did a child whose father was taken, whose king was exiled, become the man to restore the honor of an entire nation? He hoped his dad was proud of him.
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The flash of the cameras was blinding, he looked at Pineau, the French man beside him, showing him where to sign his name on the documents. His fingers held the pen, a gentle tremor made the lines wobble slightly, he blamed it on the coffee. His leg was throbbing dully, a reminder of what he lost in his journey to this scribble. He contemplated the significance of such a small gesture. How an ink tip dragging along a piece of paper declared the freedom of his people and gave weight to their sacrifices.
He stood up, making sure not to put a lot of weight on his prosthetic leg, and read the legal terms so meticulously written. Independence, sovereignty, freedom, land, king, all these words meant the same to him: love.
By the time he was done, the tension in his body released into a shiver that coursed down his spine. The realisation dawned on him : he was writing history. Mr Pineau read his part, and then turned to shake his hand. And in a second, he was surrounded by his brothers, his compatriots, the only people in the room who understood the gravity of what happened. They embraced him warmly, and he couldn’t help the lone tear that fell down his cheek.
Mbarek Bekkay (April 18, 1907 – April 12, 1961) was one of the most important people during Morocco's fight for independence from the French protectorate. This is an imagining of his feelings before and during the declaration of independence on the 2nd of March 1956.
Marwa Damaan
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