Beating_the_Odds

Beating the Odds of a Dramatic Journey of Exile from Morocco to Algeria

I first learned about Khadidja Djama’s book from an email sent by Ramdane Achab, the publisher of Achab Editions. In it, he included a flier of her book “Rescapée du Conflit Algéro-Marocain” [Survivor of the Algerian-Moroccan Conflict], published in 2018. The back cover included Djama’s response to a woman who told her: “Go back to your country, dirty Moroccan. Your home is not here, do you not understand? Are you deaf or what?”
A shy, young girl then, Djama remained silent for a moment before uttering: “This is my home; you know very well where our house is. If you are convinced that I should not be here, come and expel Mohand U Hadduc (her father), or expect to inherit him one day. You shrew, you have only a few days left to live, and you have found nothing to do, except attack defenseless little girls like me. You will burn in hell, witch.”
I wanted to learn more about this little girl, and, of course, the woman she later became. To do that, I needed to read the book she wrote, which I found at the Odysée Editions bookstore in Tizi Ouzou.

The Story
At the onset of the 1963 “Sand War” between Algeria and Morocco, thousands of Algerians working in Morocco were deported to Algeria. Similarly, thousands of Moroccans working in Algeria were expelled. That was why Djama’s father, an Algerian who had settled in Morocco, had to leave with his Moroccan wife and their six children. The family landed in the village of Djamaa N Saridj, Kabylia, the birthplace of the father. What is sad to report is that, instead of welcoming the family, the villagers would insult and throw stones at the mother and children for many years.

Little by little, Khadidja Djama found the strength and courage to fight the nasty women who saw them as threats to the stability of the village because the mother was Moroccan. However, with the help of her father’s family, the newly displaced mother and children survived the difficulties of adapting to a new language, culture, and customs. Djama enjoyed listening to Kabyle radio programs and excelled in school. Interestingly, Djama graduated with a sociology degree from the University of Algiers in 1987 and became a host at the Kabyle radio station. Later, she studied in Amiens, France, and graduated with a Diplôme d’Etudes Supérieures Spécialisées in Communications and a Ph.D. in Sociology in 2017.

In her book, Djama not only shared her family’s ordeal but also included a history of Bida Municipium (presently Djamaa N Saridj), detailed descriptions of the local customs, and a history of radio broadcasting in the pre/post-independent Algeria. In addition, she focused on the challenges and censorship the early Kabyle singers and the radio station hosts endured. In short, her book mixes a personal narrative with a societal study.

I contacted Djama who graciously agreed to discuss her life journey. Accompanied by my brother Hocine, I met with her in Tizi-Ouzou where she recounted specific details about her family’s move to Kabylia and the initial hostile welcome they received, her mother’s numerous attempts to visit Morocco, her becoming a radio program host, and her being labeled a Moroccan agent. Upon hearing her speak, Hocine immediately recognized her voice from years of listening to her show. Below is the interview I conducted with her.

Seffal: The title of your book includes the word, rescapée [survivor]. Could you have used another word? I can think of the word miraculée [a person saved by miracle].

Djama: I used Rescapée because in my book I shared what helped me remain sane and safe: attending school and listening to the Kabyle radio station. Although my family was poor, I told myself that I needed to carve my place in the village, to learn Taqbaylit (Kabyle), and then one day fly away to another place to tell my story. That is the reason I chose Rescapée, which only means that I survived but also was saved by a miracle.

Seffal: What drew me to your book was your strong response to the woman who insulted you at the fountain. Where did that young girl inherit such tenacity and courage?

Djama: They [tenacity and courage] must have been hidden in me, but resurfaced after witnessing my mother being bullied. I felt the need to retaliate and defend my mother’s honor. I refused to see her be considered a foreigner. She left everything in Morocco: her parents, her life, her friends, her culture, and her country to follow her husband from Casablanca to Djamaa N Saridj, traveling hundreds of kilometers and crossing the border. I remember her crying a lot; she would spend days crying, hiding her tears from her children. Despite that, she found the courage to take care of us.

Although my father was well-respected in the community, many relatives looked down on us and wondered who we were, where we came from, what we wanted, why he came back after being away for many years, and why he returned with a Moroccan wife and children. It was as if our father had made a big mistake by marrying a Moroccan woman. The villagers pardoned him, but they did not pardon us–the mother and children as if we were the product of a mistake. That upset me, and I wondered when that would stop. To be accepted in the village and to defend us, I knew I had to learn Taqbaylit to be able to respond to their threats and insults. I still remember my siblings asking me, “why are you learning Taqbaylit since you are not accepted by the villagers and you said that, one day, you would leave?” I told them that before I would leave this place, I first needed to create my own roots here. I needed to exist here first before I could exist anywhere else. Without roots in one place, one cannot live in any place.

On that specific day when that woman told me to go back to my country, I do not remember exactly how I uttered those words. She thought I did not speak Taqbaylit because we were considered the children of an “Arab” woman. Because my mother was Moroccan, they assumed she was an Arab. Little did they know she was an Amazigh from Morocco.
Before that day, that woman would say something hurtful and push me around. I would just ignore her and fill up my bucket at the water fountain and go home. l respected her because she was elderly. Up to that point, I had been shy, and I had never responded to her insults. I would just try to forget the bullying while still feeling the pain in my heart. I also did not want to say something that I would later regret. As a teenager who was searching for her place in the village, I wondered why this woman felt she had the right to bully me. That was the reason I responded to her that way. After I came back home and told my dad what had happened, he was surprised but happy that I stood my ground. He said that I could have been harsher because she deserved it; I was better than her. I was going to be educated and become whatever I aspired to be, and no one could question my identity. He added that I could be in the village or anywhere else, and that I could be me and be the best version of me!

Seffal: Your grandmother was very supportive. What drove her to push you to continue your studies?

Djama: My grandmother was an illiterate lady, but surprisingly she liked and appreciated educated people very much. She understood the importance of education and would often say to me: “Education will open the door to a better future for you and will allow you to become an independent woman.” In Djamaa N Saridj, only a few women learned French in the school run by the White Sisters1 who lived in the village. Even those who did not go to school learned it from those who did. She had a difficult life after my grandfather divorced her to marry his brother’s widow while my father was still young; he later fought against the Germans in World War II and became a prisoner for many years.

Seffal: You describe beautifully your feelings when you were growing up and the family emotions when your mother would travel to Morocco only to be turned back due to the border closure. Can you describe her attempts to visit Morocco?

Djama: My mother spent eight years in Algeria before she was finally able to cross the border and visit her family. She found out that many of the people she knew had died. Her native Casablanca had changed, and she felt like a foreigner there, just like she was a foreigner in our village. She used to take the train, and four days later, she would come back because the border was closed. She did that almost every year and never gave up. For days, I remember us guessing whether she had made it; if an hour passed beyond the time she would have been back, we would happily agree that she reached her destination.

The first time she was turned away, she arrived exhausted. After resting, she told us stories and anecdotes about her journey; I think this allowed her to forget her pain and failure. She was saying, “I am with you now; I will try again next year. It is like I am wasting my time. Don’t I have things to do and take care of instead of going to the border only to return in vain?” With mail and phone communication between Algeria and Morocco being prohibited, she did not even know whether her family was still alive.

Seffal: Despite having lived in a hostile environment, your mother found a way to remain a funny lady. How was the journey you took with her in 1986?

Djama: That was a precious moment in my life. I was a student on a scholarship when I learned that I could travel to Morocco with my mother. Since she still had her Moroccan passport, we decided to fly. She was delighted when she learned I had bought gifts for her family.

Seffal: When you arrived in Morocco, you walked by the house she once lived in. Did she tell you why she refused to go inside?
Djama (smiling): She was afraid.

Seffal: What was she scared of?

Djama: It was the house where she first moved in after she married my father, whom she loved. In addition, there she raised us, her first seven children; she had two more children after we moved to Kabylia. It had been close to forty years since she left. That was the place she hoped to grow old with my father. Going inside would have been emotionally difficult for her. Even I, who lived there only until I was three years old, cried when I went inside, even though I do not remember living there. The current owner cried after hearing our story. She said that my mother had a lot of courage to walk by the house. She would not have accepted to even be in the neighborhood if it were her.

Seffal: Did you feel a certain loss for not knowing that side of your extended family?

Djama: My mother used to talk about her parents when we were young. We knew them by name: her mother Hmida and her father Si-Mohamed. Meeting them in person was a real joy; other family members had passed away. It was like I had not been separated from them at all. Shortly after our arrival, we switched to Moroccan Tamazight with which, surprisingly, I felt at ease.

Seffal: I found it interesting when you went to the city hall in Morocco for administrative paperwork, they offered you Moroccan citizenship. Can you talk more about that?

Djama: I went to obtain my birth certificate and was told I could claim my Moroccan citizenship, which would have helped me enter Morocco more easily. I told him I had never thought about it; it was easier to travel to Morocco then, and I did not need it. Further, I was told that if I ever changed my mind, I could return a few days before I returned to Algeria to start the process. Although I still had many relatives in Morocco, I declined the offer.

Seffal: Your book mixes several themes: personal stories, the history of Djamaa N Saridj during the Roman times, challenges and censures at the Kabyle radio station pre/post independence. Why did you choose to write about all of them?

Djama: The feedback I received from many people suggested that I should have only written about my family’s story. However, because I felt like a rescapée, I had to include what allowed me to survive. I could not just write about our family’s journey. The environment I lived in helped me become who I am today. I described living in the village, witnessing its customs, and assimilating socially, and later being accepted by the villagers. I chronicled the Kabyle radio station because I am not sure what I would have done or would have become without it. It lifted my spirits, lessened my pain, and taught me the Kabyle language. I even dreamed about working there and telling our story.

Seffal: How did you end up working at the Kabyle radio station?

Djama: I was pursuing a master’s degree in sociology and wanted to research Kabyle women singers. Although I had hoped to work there, I was not expecting it to be hired easily. Thus, on the same day I was to start my research, I was offered a job. Because of my work at the station, I felt the need to write about how it helped me grow as a radio host. Even though I had been able to lift myself, I still felt I remained a survivor. It was my defiance (acirrew) that allowed me to continue to believe that Tamazight is here to stay. I am an Amazigh from two countries: Moroccan Amazigh from my mother’s side and Algerian Amazigh from my father’s. I could not accept the authorities' denial of our existence or our worth. Tamazight needed me, and I had to give back to it. Coworkers often wondered why I was pursuing a Ph.D. degree when I was employed full time. I replied that Tamazight needed scholars to elevate it to a modern language.

Seffal: What helped you overcome the hostile situation in the village?

Djama: What helped me a lot was school, which was a refuge for me. It appeared as a path to a new peaceful world. That is where I started to hope tremendously because it seemed I lived in two different worlds: the village, a closed community where I was bullied; the school, which was open to the world and offered education. I thought I could later go even further and accomplish much more in my life. I also felt compassion for my mother and wanted to help her. I thought she and I would not benefit if I accepted our situation. Also, my mother possessed courage and audacity.

Seffal: Can you describe how you were later accepted by the villagers?

Djama: People loved my mother; even though a few people disrespected her, others engaged with her. Indeed, most young people loved to sit and talk to her. Later, when people would talk about her, they would say “bedden waman” [“there stood the water,” meaning “what you see is what you get”]. She explained that they had to accept her the way she was, and not going to hide or be someone else. Later, people accepted her because she was married to a villager, came with her children, and was in her house minding her business. Little by little, nobody could say anything bad about her.

Seffal: Did she learn Kabyle?

Djama: Yes, she learned it and wore Kabyle dresses like the village women. I was extremely sad when one day she sent her Moroccan kaftan dresses to my aunt in Morocco. In fact, although I was Kabyle and promoted our culture, I felt pity for her and was disappointed and upset because I did not want her to erase her culture. I thought she was breaking a few more links to her Moroccan roots, similar to alienating herself. She even stopped cooking Moroccan food and speaking Moroccan Tamazight.

Seffal: What is the purpose of writing about customs, such as wedding ceremonies?

Djama: I attended many ceremonies and knew all the details. Additionally, given my educational background, I wanted to put these customs in a sociological context, and document them because they have somewhat changed over the years.

Seffal: Can you talk about the difficulties you encountered as a host at the radio station?

Djama: The people who worked there before me suffered more than I did. I started working there in 1988, and soon after the October political turmoil happened. Although the country was moving toward democracy, our bosses, still afraid of losing their jobs, continued the status quo of censorship. Political parties were allowed to exist, though they were restricted in their agendas. I learned that if one promoted Tamazight in one’s show, one was working outside the rules and regulations; consequently, one would get accused of being a separatist. Promoting Tamazight, building an audience, and developing good programs proved difficult. Further, I felt like the boss always looked over my shoulder and undermined my work.

Most of the program guests understood our working conditions. Those who did not would accuse us of changing the topic of discussion or that we regretted inviting them. Sometimes, the boss would interrupt or ask the producer to tell me to stop talking about a specific topic and change the subject. How could I do that? After the show, I would explain that I was discussing the topic objectively; I did not insult nor did I criticize anyone. I remember reporting on the activities of a cultural association outside of Algeria, and I was met with hostility from my boss saying, “Isn’t Tamazight in Algeria enough for you; you have to discuss Tamazight from other countries?” There was even a rumor of my being a double agent once they learned that my mother was Moroccan [Khadidja bursts into laughter] even though there was no conflict between the two countries like today. What did I do for Morocco? I talked about the society, cultural activities, and Tamazight variations. Though Tamazight was elevated to a national language, it was confined to folklore rather than everyday discourse.

Seffal: What are you currently working on?

Djama: At the moment, I am taking care of my mother who lives with me–after her stroke, she became weak and unable to speak or hear. That is why I canceled many projects, though I have started working on two novels: one in Tamazight and another in Arabic. I love languages, and I think writing about Amazigh culture to an Arabophone readership is paramount since there is more work to be done in this area.

Seffal: What are your novels about?

Djama: They are about women’s condition in Algeria, especially the family code which stems from Islamic law. For instance, one law states that a woman’s testimony is half that of a man. Thus, if you are a woman, you need another woman to corroborate your testimony. In fact, I, personally, witnessed such a practice in court. Therefore, I felt the need to write about the injustices of these laws.
* * *
Meeting Khadidja Djama was a truly humbling experience. She proved to be patient, tolerant of my inexperience in interviewing techniques, and explaining several unfamiliar Amazigh words. After the interview, she remained available and answered additional questions during the transcription and translation of the interview from Tamazight. Later, I learned that her mother, Chaibia, passed away on Mach 10, 2023, at the age of 85, leaving behind five daughters, four sons, and 18 grandchildren. She now rests in peace in Djamaa N Saridj, the place she called home.

Missionary Sisters of Our Lady of Africa, often called the White Sisters, is a missionary society founded in 1869 that operates in Africa.

Figure 1: Khadidja Djama’s mother, Chaiba, 2018
Figure 2: Khadidja Djama’s mother, Chaiba, 1970
Figure 3: The Author, Khadidja Djama, Samir Wanzar of Radio Tizi-Ouzou