Welcome to the Big House of Agadir.    

Nearing midnight an imposing, austere building loomed soon after entering Agadir, seeming a world away from the far south of Sidi Ifni. The sleepy, restrained mood of the Renault’s four occupants was then punctuated by Yes-Man leeringly affirming to the back-seaters: “Voici votre prison!” I felt certain then that Yes-Man took a diabolical delight from his job. A well-guarded entrance door on the side of the large complex led into an official reception area with stark desks and uniformed, serious-minded Moroccans. Even the Commissaire seemed somewhat restrained by its officialdom. Although slightly toned down, Commissaire recovered to his true form and gave an exultant verbal delivery of his success at delivering his two prisoners. After impressively performing his final act I never saw the Commissaire again. Upon giving instructions to his Assistant, Commissaire gave a curt goodbye to all and abruptly departed.

Yes-Man hung around longer, and oversaw what I guess was me being booked for a stay at Agadir’s ‘Big House’. All my possessions were taken from me, even my eyeglasses – and this time my valued Canadian passport was confiscated. Hassan, who didn’t look so well, was taken prior to me to a separate area of this complex. I was led down into a dark underground level of winding turns with desolate narrowing concrete corridors, passing by numerous cells until I reached a small barred window high on a thick metal gate, opened by my two guards who placed my entry. That heavy gate resounded behind me and I peered through the darkness, without my glasses, and did a quick count of eight blurred human forms lying covered by blankets on the concrete floors against the four sides of the cell, approximately 3 metres by 6 metres.

The sensory of the blurred humans lying on the floor, however striking, was not as powerful as the sensory of the smell. When the gate first opened the stench nearly snapped my head back; I felt like I was entering an out-house, of course with no exit after ‘doing your business’. My mind reeled, my senses were on overload, as I gingerly stepped over the blurred prisoners resting against the side walls, covering the entire cell floor. I sat down at the end of the line, nearest the shithole, which was a simple hole in the concrete floor that everyone crapped in, and then cleaned up by using a pail of water, in full view in this 3- by 6- metre cell inhabited by, now nine human beings. The inmates who had been there the longest had the rank, as they got to sleep farthest away from the shithole. Life in its starkest form can reduce you to the ‘lowest common denominator’, and then you learn what really matters.  

So I took my assigned place, my back against the concrete wall nearest the shithole. And I contemplated: “Who do I have here with me? What are the scenarios?” I drew on some inner strength by convincing myself that … “I’m just passing through.” And I had a plan.  

I had only moments for this thinking and about contingencies as one of my cellmates stirred and started talking to me in French. He was Moroccan, and he wanted right away to wake up his buddy next to him who was from the Spanish Sahara and who spoke English well. Although we were speaking softly, that commotion and my arrival in the dead of night resulted in most of the other prisoners stirring into wakefulness. Not what I wanted but which led me to activate my contingency plan.

The Moroccan and the Spanish Saharan seemed to be okay with me. But of course I could not be certain of any of them or who might hold an unhealthy balance of power. And I knew there were no guards standing outside the door deep in the bowels of this prison in the dead of night. So no monitors, no safety from beyond this 3- by 6- metre world … and a world that could be ruled by anyone powerful enough to rule over others.

They had taken everything from me, even my eyeglasses. But for some unknown reason those seemingly professional prison officials did not check deep down into my jeans pocket where Police Guy had returned to me the small match-box with that half-smoked roach of a hash cigarette. I felt I had an ‘ace up my sleeve’, or should I say in my pocket. I surmised that these prisoners had been in this cell for a long time, were from a lifestyle of being kief and hashish users, and were missing such. I calculated that me having the goods and lighting up as soon as I entered their long-term prison in the dead of night would impress them and thus result in me holding some balance-of-power in relation to the majority of my inmates. Despite no monitoring, no safety, and the rule of the powerful, I knew the rule of the majority would win.

I dug that match-box from my old patched jeans pocket, received a silent, wide-eyed approval from the Moroccan and the Spanish Saharan, and lit that ample half cigarette of hash with my own wooden match. I had rolled it tight and it burned slow and perfect, so perfect that each of us nine prisoners was able to take one full, equal toke. I felt this resulted in an overall sense of oneness, and a brief respite of happiness in the depth of their despair. The sensation of pulling this off within a Moroccan prison was exhilarating in itself, and I felt then that I would not receive any problems from the six cellmates I yet had met.  

For at least two hours we sat in the dark with our backs to the concrete walls and talked of our respective situations. My circumstance seemed to pale in relation to theirs. I was surprised by the overall congeniality and comradeship. I had expected more roughness and controlling behaviours. The Moroccans (six people) explained that they had been picked up on the street and thrown in prison without being provided any reason and had not been allowed to see anyone. They said that they believed they could be released anytime without explanation but usually after more than a month of detention. Their stories reminded me of seeing in Marrakesh, near the central square, a Moroccan police van stopping outside a cafe and dragging out, heavy-handed with the use of Billy-clubs on a few locals, tossing them in the back of the ‘Paddy wagon’ [to use an Irish term used in Saint John], and speeding off. So this was the kind of place where some of those locals ended up.

I conversed mostly with the young fellow from the Spanish Sahara. He told me he had been arrested, despite having his documents in order, at the airport in Tangiers upon arrival from Germany. Being from the Spanish Sahara, which was in a protracted territorial war with Morocco, he was detained on suspicion of being “political”. After spending one month in jail in Tangiers without being allowed to see anyone he was transferred to this cell in Agadir where he had been for the past nine days. This fellow was well-travelled and said he could speak seven languages fluently. Certainly he was extremely interesting to speak with in the English language, of which he had mastery.

I was awed by the stoicism depicted by these detainees, dealing with a plight that seemed hopeless without complaint and being held without reason or representation. Once every 24 hours each prisoner received one loaf of the round thick Moroccan bread, and water – that was it for food. They did not get to wash, change their clothing, and never left the cell. I could not imagine existing like that, mentally or physically, for such lengthy periods without hope of release from this absolute hole of humanity. Only from exhaustion was I able briefly to doze off with my head against the concrete wall, my nostrils full of the stench, and my final wakeful thought refusing to acknowledge anything except: “I’m just passing through.” 

There was a third non-Moroccan and whom I have most wondered about regarding whatever might have happened to him and forever. Speaking softly in French he told me he was a 34-year old engineer from Paris and had been arrested at the Agadir airport departing for France with 60 kilos of hashish secretly lined into his luggage. His overall demeanour displayed distress. Upon awaking after my short rest, the Frenchman was standing and banging on the bars of the small window in the gate, screaming his demands to the guards to see someone. Many of his cellmates implored the Frenchman to desist from his actions but to no avail. Guards opened the gate and violently took the Parisian from our cell. An hour later his body was returned to our cell, limp, slumped against the wall, twitching uncontrollably, his mouth and tongue dangling but unable to speak a word never mind demand his rights as he had showed such courage an hour ago. My cellmates were quieted and saddened by the Frenchman’s condition. No one had to tell me that he had been subjected to electric shock torture.