Translating Nouzha Fassi Fihri's La Baroudeuse: A Case Study in ...

Walking around the exposed bodies, they carefully entered the large cross-vaulted
room where they recognized Sharif whose white beard stood out among all the
other black beards pointing toward the ceiling, an eloquent protest to the waste of
so many young lives cut down before their time.
Coagulated blood on the stairs, a handkerchief fallen from a pocket, still
damp with the sweat of the fighter, a hand gripped over a heart rebelling at having
to stop beating so soon. Eyes open in a gaze crowded with courage, daring, regret
for things left behind, and fear of what was to come. Signs of death engraved on
the face of a martyr.
One of the young men in charge had come to them. He exclaimed, "He's
one of us!" In response to Moulay Ali's questioning glance, he explained: "He was
a member of the network I was in. He was an important member of the resistance.
For nearly two years, we went to meetings in one house or another, or in private
schools."
"And to think he pretended he was going out to play cards with friends!"
Moulay Ali exclaimed.
"Oh, we all made up excuses for going out! We didn't even let our wives
know the truth. That was the rule. At first he was a firm believer in the Salafi
movement, the return to the Source," the man continued, looking at the old man
lying at his feet and speaking frankly. "Then he became firm nationalist.
"Just the day before yesterday he told me: 'I read the nationalist newspaper
regularly. I am very interested in the writings of Sheik Mohammed Abdou, the
greatest reformer of the century. I am a fervent admirer of his and, like him, I am
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