This post was written for me years ago, in 2014, after the passing of my father, Mr. Mjid, but before the current scandal came to light. I share it now because nothing has changed, except the scale of the betrayal.
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” E. Burke
Asma had one brother, who passed away too soon, and her two parents. Not two brothers. Not one and a half. Just one.
And now her dad had passed away as well.
Years ago, Asma had asked her Dad and her Mom to adopt a helpless kid from a family who was willing to part with him. She had gone to her parents to adopt dogs, cats, and other pets many times before, and they never said no to her. And it was fun to bring more into the family. And the pets were always grateful. So, “how could one ignore a little boy in need”, she thought? It would be good…
But it did not turn out as well. As the boy grew, he barked louder, loved less, deceived more, and was loyal only to image and money. Such behavior was foreign to her and to her family. It was not something they could relate to. He even tried, more than once, to supplant her in her own family, but the father never allowed it. It would never happen. The father loved his daughter.
But now the father was gone, and the boy had forgotten the very hand that fed him—literally. He was now working to subvert her father’s values, usurp her legacy, and hijack her name. He was pretending to be her father, even as he tried to replace her.
The thing about parents is that one can’t change them for someone else’s, even if one tries to forget his own, the mother who got rid of him, or the father he never knew. Repeating that someone else is your father does not make it so. Never did. Never will. And certainly, you can’t steal one to replace yours. It does not work that way. Blood is thicker than water. And when you look at the adults that the daughter and the impostor have become today, it shows: blood matters.
Somehow, her father knew it.
And when the father spent over three weeks in Intensive Care before he passed, the fake son came to visit him once, for a few minutes. He never spoke to him, never comforted him, not before that visit, not after. Not once.
Asma, her mother, and her aunt visited her father, Mr. M’Jid, every day, and stayed the whole day. The aunt’s husband also visited. A few friends traveled hundreds of kilometers for a few minutes with her father. But the self-proclaimed “brother”? No, he didn’t have time. And, there were no cameras at the hospital.
And the father? Well, he didn’t ask about the degenerate once. Not once. Oh, the father spoke to his daughter, his wife, his sister-in-law, asked about his granddaughters, son-in-law, nieces, news, events, and even work. He spoke to doctors, joked with nurses, and talked with his daughter, who stayed with him from the first hour to the last, hour after hour, day after day. But he never asked for the would-be son. The father knew.
She stayed by her father’s side until the very end, through his final night, sitting on a chair beside him, his hand in hers, until his last breath. The fake son? He stayed home, in his bed.
Asma was the one whom His Majesty, King Mohamed VI, promptly called to offer his condolences and support after her dad passed away. She was the one who presented His Majesty with her father’s last wishes, wishes that His Majesty the King kindly granted. She was the one who organized to have the remains of her late brother transferred next to her father’s and who was there during the transfer. She was the one who picked the graves for her dad and for her brother, who bought the tombstones and had them set up. The would-be brother? He didn’t have time.
Now, her dad and her brother were gone, and the one who previously did not have time suddenly had time.
Pretending to be the son he never was, he used her dad’s name to partner with crooks and backstabbers who had hurt her father so much that he had talked to her about them from his deathbed.
The impostor used fake idealism and nationalism as tools to eliminate the real daughter and attack the granddaughters so that he could claim a legacy that he and his bunch didn’t deserve and would never embody.
Her father was an example of moderation and tolerance. Faithful to his own country and faith until his last breath, he had married outside of it 60 years before. Her father never saw a man for his color or belief but for his goodness and potential, values he instilled in his daughter and deceased son.
Now, the one who knew better than to challenge her dad’s values while her dad was alive resorted to opportunistic and calculated idealisms, tried to cast himself as a nationalist while, at the same time, criticizing her, the legitimate daughter, for living abroad.
Nationalism? How can one ship their wife across borders to give birth three times, so the kids have different citizenship, and still stake nationalistic claims? Morocco has excellent maternity wards, with modern equipment and qualified medical professionals. It was the height of hypocrisy.
Very unlike her, very unlike her dad, and very unlike her real brother.
No brother to her. No son to her dad. No uncle to her daughters. And, definitely, no custodian of her father’s name or values. Bringing him into her family had indeed been a grave mistake.
She should have gotten another dog.