Paru le 16/06/2009 | Relié 80 pages
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Je suis arrivé au Maroc en 1962.
J'y suis resté huit ans.
Mon travail m'amenait à me déplacer dans les villages, au contact des « indigènes », comme certains disaient encore en ce temps là.
J'avais appris assez d'arabe pour me distinguer des touristes. J'emportais des photos de mon village natal.
Le soir, à la veillée, elles passaient de mains en mains. Nos lourds chevaux de labour provoquaient des exclamations incrédules. Chouf ! Regarde ! Je montrais mon grand-père bêchant son jardin.
El bled di alik ? C'est ton village ?
J'étais un spécimen égaré d'une tribu de fellahs, loin au-delà des mers.
I arrived in Morocco in 1962 and ended up staying there for eight years.
My job involved travelling around the villages and working with the « natives » as some people still called them in those days.
I had learned enough Arabic to set myself apart from the tourists, and I carried with me photos of the village where I was born. At gatherings in the evenings, they were passed from hand to hand. The heavy ploughing horses provoked incredulous exclamations.
Chouf ! Look at that! One photo showed my grandfather digging his garden.
El bled di alik ? Is that your village?
I was a lost specimen of a tribe of fellahs from far across the seas.
