aicha ⵣ’s Reviews > This Blinding Absence of Light > Status Update

"Tell me . . . It seems that Tazmamart never existed ? "
"So they say. It doesn't matter. It's true, i t never existed. I
have no desire to go see for myself. Apparently, a small forest of
old oak trees has moved over there to cover the huge pit. They
even say the village is going to change its name."

im gonna write a long ass review tomorrow, got sm to say I just have to collect my thoughts

Even if the soldiers manage to erase all trace of the dungeon,
they will never erase from our memories what we endured
there. Ah, my memory, my friend, my treasure, my passion!
We must hang on

No, we don 't have those here. The "disappeared"? The police are searching for them. We have to give the police credit, because they do a wonderful job.

she'll never set foot on Moroccan soil again! Traitor! Pervert!
Barbarian! She dares suspect us of having organized a system of
slow death in complete isolation! What gall! She's the tool of
our country's enemies, who envy our stability and prosperity.
Human rights? But they are respected-just look around you!
Political prisoners?

I flatten you, break your back, shove you into a pit, I let you
die by inches in utter, lifeless darkness, and then I deny every
thing. It never existed. What? A dungeon in Tazmamart? Who
is this insolent idiot who dares think our country has commit
ted such a crime, such an unspeakable evil? Throw him out!
Ah, it's a woman! Well, what's the difference, get rid of her,

But why destroy everything? Ah-to eliminate all traces of that horror!
Even worse than the experience of horror is the denial of its
existence.

I did not dare think that the mosque was the prison or that
the prison could be represented by a house of prayer.

It was July, and one of the guards had the ef
frontery to tell us, "Today is the festival of youth, the birthday
of King, whom God preserve and glorify . . . "

And then, at the last stroke of midnight, an invisible window came down
from the sky, imprisoning them, leaving them to fight among
themselves in their attempts to escape from that house of mis
fortune, a glass house of cruel fate for people who no longer
knew who they were or with whom they were living. We
watched them and had a few beers. They saw us laughing and
called for help

We were in the garden under a tent while the Moroccan
haute bourgeoisie-businessmen, politicians, society women
stuffed themselves with every imaginable delicacy.