Marsile Choukri, pt. II
See, hereâs the thing with me and riots. I was raised with the romantic legend of a Moroccan manâs love for an Algerian slave and how stealing her away started the bloody Haratine Revolt. I was born as the unwitting star in a mythical second act I never wanted to play out. To me, riots are like the legend, a disturbance on much of the personal agency in my life. That doesnât stop the people wishing though, leaning on me to fulfill those wishes. Iâm that mythic figure no matter what I want, so carry the colors, pal, just grin and bear it. It fostered such deep resentment in me that I became the deepest undercover agent in Cliffside.
Damn, now even Iâm saying it. Cliffside! I hate that name. It sounded like some trendy California Islands town, not a hustler-infested tourist trap teetering on the Moroccan coast. To me, this neighborhood on the cityâs edge would always be almunhadarat, but like the rooftop parkour gangsters leaping over Escalon's slim streets, the trendy ring of Cliffside had grabbed hold and just wouldnât let go. I used the moniker to save time with foreigners, but I didnât have to like it. ~ By Any Other Name
