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

The militant stopped, suddenly aware that the man who had spoken with
such enthusiasm was lying in front of him, lifeless, felled like a horse whose
strength has deserted him.
His voice became gentle, like a caress. "His action flowed over into
politics based on Islam. He was one of our bravest militants."
The man stopped talking, choked with emotion, as were his listeners.
Moulay Ali asked to be taken to the person in charge of burial arrangements. The
young man motioned him to follow and led the way toward the public oven next
to the mosque. He went straight to the fireplace, removed the ash with both hands,
and without saying a word entered a seemingly endless tunnel. Repressing his
fear, Moulay Ali followed his guide through the blackness of the underground
passage, murmuring a prayer.
They went forward, bent double and ears deafened by the noise of
colliding shadows. "My God," prayed Moulay Ali, "this has been my life, from
beginning to end. In spite of the sun and the light, my heart was drowned in
darkness." He was instantly ashamed of this sacrilegious thought. To think of love
at such a time? What impudent egotism! But isn't love the first necessity of life,
the only justification of death? To die having loved is not to die. Death perfects
love, preserves it, removes it from the inflexible law that governs the living
world: to be born, grow, develop, and then decline, shrink and disappear in
ugliness.
love!"
"We will take our love with us in all its beauty," he thought, "our unlived
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