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

Then, when we get old, we understand that we are only a pulse, a simple
blip in the heartbeat of the universe, just like any other creature–human, animal or
plant. A tiny particle that is nonetheless important in the harmony of succession,
in this world that makes and remakes itself through the inevitable births and
deaths from generation to generation to form the chain of descent and prolong the
survival of the species.
Oh, my dear Moulay Ali, my heart is caught in a steel vise. I feel as
though a current is carrying me away. I am afraid of these last steps toward
nonexistence. I am afraid of my death and of yours, afraid of the unknown lying
in ambush in my own mind. My eyes are clearing, and I am helpless in the face of
my recent lucidity.
In the throes of an anxiety contrary to her nature, Lalla Kenza confided in
her cousin, the only person with whom she ever deigned to share her moods. And
that night nourished anxiety.
Neither one had any desire to sleep. They stayed up very late in the quiet
of this winter evening, and their conversation marked the beginning of their
imminent end, the initiation of a funeral march on the path that separates life from
death.
Moulay Ali teased her gently, "Why are you speaking like an atheist? God
never abandons his creatures. He is the truth of truths, the light of lights. Does he
not say: 'He who purifies himself, remembers the name of his Lord and prays will
prosper.' But you prefer life here below, even though the life to come is better and
more lasting! You know this verse and many others of the same meaning. You
know a large part of the Book by heart!"
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