Marrakech
George Orwell
As the corpse went past the flies left the restaurant table in a cloud and rushed after it, but they came back a few minutes later.
The little crowd of mourners -- all men and boys, no women--threaded their way across the market place between the piles of pomegranates and the taxis and the camels, walling a short chant over and over again. What really appeals to the flies is that the corpses here are never put into coffins, they are merely wrapped in a piece of rag and carried on a rough wooden bier on the shoulders of four friends. When the friends get to the burying-ground they hack an oblong hole a foot or two deep, dump the body in it and fling over it a little of the dried-up, lumpy earth, which is like broken brick. No gravestone, no name, no identifying mark of any kind. The burying-ground is merely a huge waste of hummocky earth, like a derelict building-lot. After a month or two no one can even be certain where his own relatives are buried.
3 When you walk through a town like this -- two hundred thousand inhabitants of whom at least twenty thousand own literally nothing except the rags they stand up in-- when you see how the people live, and still more how easily they die, it is always difficult to believe that you are walking among human beings. All colonial empires are in reality founded upon this fact. The people have brown faces--besides, there are so many of them! Are they really the same flesh as your self? Do they even have names? Or are they merely a kind of undifferentiated brown stuff, about as individual as bees or coral insects? They rise out of the earth，they sweat and starve for a few years, and then they sink back into the nameless mounds of the graveyard and nobody notices that they are gone. And even the graves themselves soon fade back into the soil. Sometimes, out for a walk as you break your way through the prickly pear, you notice that it is rather bumpy underfoot, and only a certain regularity in the bumps tells you that you are walking over skeletons.
I was feeding one of the gazelles in the public gardens.
Gazelles are almost the only animals that look good to eat when they are still alive, in fact, one can hardly look at their hindquarters without thinking of a mint sauce. The gazelle I was feeding seemed to know that this thought was in my mind, for though it took the piece of bread I was holding out it obviously did not like me. It nibbled nibbled rapidly at the bread, then lowered its head and tried to butt me, then took another nibble and then butted again. Probably its idea was that if it could drive me away the bread would somehow remain hanging in mid-air.
An Arab navvy working on the path nearby lowered his heavy hoe and sidled slowly towards us. He looked from the gazelle to the bread and from the bread to the gazelle, with a sort of quiet amazement, as though he had never seen anything quite like this before. Finally he said shyly in French: "I could eat some of that bread."
I tore off a piece and he stowed it gratefully in some secret place under his rags. This man is an employee of the municipality.
When you go through the Jewish Quarters you gather some idea of what the medieva l ghettoes were probably like. Under their Moorish rulers the Jews were only allowed to own land in certain restricted areas, and after centuries of this kind of treatment they have ceased to bother about overcrowding. Many of the streets are a good deal less than six feet wide, the houses are completely windowless, and sore-eyed children cluster everywhere in unbelievable numbers, like clouds of flies. Down the centre of the street there is generally running a little river of urine.
In the bazaar huge families of Jews, all dressed in the long black robe and little black skull-cap, are working in dark fly-infested booths that look like caves. A carpenter sits crosslegged at a prehistoric lathe, turning chairlegs at lightning speed. He works the lathe with a bow in his right hand and guides the chisel with his left foot, and thanks to a lifetime of sitting in this position his left leg is warped out of shape. At his side his grandson, aged six, is already starting on the simpler parts of the job.
I was just passing the coppersmiths booths when somebody noticed that I was lighting a cigarette. Instantly, from the dark holes all round, there was a frenzied rush of Jews, many of them old grandfathers with flowing grey beards, all clamouring for a cigarette. Even a blind man somewhere at the back of one of the booths heard a rumour of cigarettes and came crawling out, groping in the air with his hand. In about a minute I had used up the whole packet. None of these people, I suppose, works less than twelve hours a day, and every one of them looks on a cigarette as a more or less impossible luxury.
As the Jews live in self-contained communities they follow the same trades as the Arabs, except for agriculture. Fruitsellers, potters, silversmiths, blacksmiths, butchers, leather-workers, tailors, water-carriers, beggars, porters -- whichever way you look you see nothing but Jews. As a matter of fact there are thirteen thousand of them, all living in the space of a few acres. A good job Hitlet wasnt here. Perhaps he was on his way, however. You hear the usual dark rumours about Jews, not only from the Arabs but from the poorer Europeans.
"Yes mon vieux, they took my job away from me and gave it to a Jew. The Jews! They re the real rulers of this country, you know. They’ve got all the money. They control the banks, finance -- everything."
"But", I said, "isnt it a fact that the average Jew is a labourer working for about a penny an hour?"
"Ah, thats only for show! They re all money lenders really. They re cunning, the Jews."
In just the same way, a couple of hundred years ago, poor old women used to be burned for witchcraft when they could not even work enough magic to get themselves a square meal. square meal
All people who work with their hands are partly invisible, and the more important the work they do, the less visible they are. Still, a white skin is always fairly conspicuous. In northern Europe, when you see a labourer ploughing a field, you probably give him a second glance. In a hot country, anywhere south of Gibraltar or east of Suez, the chances are that you dont even see him. I have noticed this again and again. In a tropical landscape ones eye takes in everything except the human beings. It takes in the dried-up soil, the prickly pear, the palm tree and the distant mountain, but it always misses the peasant hoeing at his patch. He is the same colour as the earth, and a great deal less interesting to look at.
It is only because of this that the starved countries of Asia and Africa are accepted as tourist resorts. No one would think of running cheap trips to the Distressed Areas. But where the human beings have brown skins their poverty is simply not noticed. What does Morocco mean to a Frenchman? An orange grove or a job in Government service. Or to an Englishman? Camels, castles, palm trees, Foreign Legionnaires, brass trays, and bandits. One could probably live there for years without noticing that for nine-tenths of the people the reality of life is an endless back-breaking struggle to wring a little food out of an eroded soil.
Most of Morocco is so desolate that no wild animal bigger than a hare can live on it. Huge areas which were once covered with forest have turned into a treeless waste where the soil is exactly like broken-up brick. Nevertheless a good deal of it is cultivated, with frightful labour. Everything is done by hand. Long lines of women, bent double like inverted capital Ls, work their way slowly across the fields, tearing up the prickly weeds with their hands, and the peasant gathering lucerne for fodder pulls it up stalk by stalk instead of reaping it, thus saving an inch or two on each stalk. The plough is a wretched wooden thing, so frail that one can easily carry it on ones shoulder, and fitted underneath with a rough iron spike which stirs the soil to a depth of about four inches. This is as much as the strength of the animals is equal to. It is usual to plough with a cow and a donkey yoked together. Two donkeys would not be quite strong enough, but on the other hand two cows would cost a little more to feed. The peasants possess no harrows, they merely plough the soil several times over in different directions, finally leaving it in rough furrows, after which the whole field has to be shaped with hoes into small oblong patches to conserve water. Except for a day or two after the rare rainstorms there is never enough water. A long the edges of the fields channels are hacked out to a depth of thirty or forty feet to get at the tiny trickles which run through the subsoil.
Every afternoon a file of very old women passes down the road outside my house, each carrying a load of firewood. All of them are mummified with age and the sun, and all of them are tiny. It seems to be generally the case in primitive communities that the women, when they get beyond a certain age, shrink to the size of children. One day poor creature who could not have been more than four feet tall crept past me under a vast load of wood. I stopped her and put a five-sou piece ( a little more than a farthing ) into her hand. She answered with a shrill wail, almost a scream, which was partly gratitude but mainly surprise. I suppose that from her point of view, by taking any notice of her, I seemed almost to be violating a law of nature. She accepted her status as an old woman, that is to say as a beast of burden. When a family is travelling it is quite usual to see a father and a grown-up son riding ahead on donkeys, and an old woman following on foot, carrying the baggage.
But what is strange about these people is their invisibility. For several weeks, always at about the same time of day, the file of old women had hobbled past the house with their firewood, and though they had registered themselves on my eyeballs I cannot truly say that I had seen them. Firewood was passing -- that was how I saw it. It was only that one day I happened to be walking behind them, and the curious up-and-down motion of a load of wood drew my attention to the human being beneath it. Then for the first time I noticed the poor old earth-coloured bodies, bodies reduced to bones and leathery skin, bent double under the crushing weight. Yet I suppose I had not been five minutes on Moroccan soil before I noticed the overloading of the donkeys and was infuriated by it. There is no question that the donkeys are damnably treated. The Moroccan donkey is hardly bigger than a St. Bernard dog, it carries a load which in the British Army would be considered too much for a fifteen-hands mule, and very often its packsaddle is not taken off its back for weeks together. But what is peculiarly pitiful is that it is the most willing creature on earth, it follows its master like a dog and does not need either bridle or halter . After a dozen years of devoted work it suddenly drops dead, whereupon its master tips it into the ditch and the village dogs have torn its guts out before it is cold.
This kind of thing makes ones blood boil, whereas-- on the whole -- the plight of the human beings does not. I am not commenting, merely pointing to a fact. People with brown skins are next door to invisible. Anyone can be sorry for the donkey with its galled back, but it is generally owing to some kind of accident if one even notices the old woman under her load of sticks.
As the storks flew northward the Negroes were marching southward -- a long, dusty column, infantry , screw-gun batteries, and then more infantry, four or five thousand men in all, winding up the road with a clumping of boots and a clatter of iron wheels.
They were Senegalese, the blackest Negroes in Africa, so black that sometimes it is difficult to see whereabouts on their necks the hair begins. Their splendid bodies were hidden in reach-me-down khaki uniforms, their feet squashed into boots that looked like blocks of wood, and every tin hat seemed to be a couple of sizes too small. It was very hot and the men had marched a long way. They slumped under the weight of their packs and the curiously sensitive black faces were glistening with sweat.
As they went past, a tall, very young Negro turned and caught my eye. But the look he gave me was not in the least the kind of look you might expect. Not hostile, not contemptuous, not sullen, not even inquisitive. It was the shy, wide-eyed Negro look, which actually is a look of profound respect. I saw how it was. This wretched boy, who is a French citizen and has therefore been dragged from the forest to scrub floors and catch syphilis in garrison towns, actually has feelings of reverence before a white skin. He has been taught that the white race are his masters, and he still believes it.
But there is one thought which every white man (and in this connection it doesnt matter twopence if he calls himself a socialist) thinks when he sees a black army marching past. "How much longer can we go on kidding these people? How long before they turn their guns in the other direction?"
It was curious really. Every white man there had this thought stowed somewhere or other in his mind. I had it, so had the other onlookers, so had the officers on their sweating chargers and the white N. C. Os marching in the ranks. It was a kind of secret which we all knew and were too clever to tell; only the Negroes didnt know it. And really it was like watching a flock of cattle to see the long column, a mile or two miles of armed men, flowing peacefully up the road, while the great white birds drifted over them in the opposite direction, glittering like scraps of Paper.
(from Reading for Rhetoric, by Caroline Shrodes,Clifford A. Josephson, and James R. Wilson)
马拉喀什见闻
乔治·奥威尔
一具尸体抬过，成群的苍蝇从饭馆的餐桌上瓮嗡嗡而起追逐过去，但几分钟过后又非了回来。
一支人数不多的送葬队伍--其中老少尽皆男性，没有一个女的--沿着集贸市场，从一堆堆石榴摊子以及出租汽车和骆驼中间挤道而行，一边走着一边悲痛地重复着一支短促的哀歌。苍蝇之所以群起追逐是因为在这个地方死人的尸首从不装进棺木，只是用一块破布裹着放在一个草草做成的木头架子上，有四个朋友抬着送葬。朋友们到了安葬场后，便在地上挖出一个一二英尺深的长方形坑，将尸首往坑里一倒。再扔一些像碎砖头一样的日、干土块。不立墓碑，不留姓名，什么识别标志都没有。坟场只不过是一片土丘林立的荒野，恰似一片已废弃不用的建筑场地。一两个月过后，就谁也说不准自己的亲人葬于何处了。
当你穿行也这样的城镇--其居民20万中至少有2万是除开一身聊以蔽体的破衣烂衫之外完全一无所有--当你看到那些人是如何生活，又如何动辄死亡时，你永远难以相信自己是行走在人类之中。实际上，这是所有的殖民帝国赖以建立的基础。这里的人都有一张褐色的脸，而且，人数书如此之多！他们真的和你意义同属人类吗？难道他们也会有名有姓吗？也许他们只是像彼此之间难以区分的蜜蜂或珊瑚虫一样的东西。他们从泥土里长出来，受哭受累，忍饥挨饿过上几年，然后有被埋在那一个个无名的小坟丘里。谁也不会注意到他们的离去。就是那些小坟丘本身也过不了很久便会变成平地。有时当你外出散步，穿过仙人掌丛时，你会感觉到地上有些绊脚的东西，只是在经过多次以后，摸清了其一般规律时，你才会知道你脚下踩的是死人的骷髅。
我正在公园里给一只瞪羚喂食。
动物中也恐怕只有瞪羚还活着时就让人觉得是美味佳肴。事实上，人们只要看到它们那两条后腿就会联想到薄荷酱。我现在喂着的这只瞪羚好象已经看透了我的心思。它虽然叼走了拿在手上的一块面包，但显然不喜欢我这个人。它一面啃食着面包，一面头一低向我顶过来，再啃一下面包又顶过来一次。它大概还因为把我赶开之后那块面包仍会悬在空中。
一个正在附近小道上干活的阿拉伯挖土工放下笨重的锄头，羞怯地侧着身子慢慢朝我们走过来。他把目光从瞪羚身上移向面包，又从面包转回到瞪羚身上，带着一点惊讶的神色，似乎以前从未建国这种情景。终于，他怯生生的用法语说道："那面包让我吃一点吧。"
我撕下一块面包，他感激地把面包放进破衣裳贴身的地方。这人是市政当局的雇工。
当你走过这儿的犹太人聚居区时，你就会知道中世纪犹太人区大概是个什么样子。在摩尔人的统治下，犹太人只能在划定的一些地区内保有土地。受这样的待遇经过了好几个世纪后，他们已经不再为拥挤不堪而烦扰了。这儿很多街道的宽度远远不足六英尺，房屋根本没有窗户，眼睛红肿的孩子随处可见，多的像一群群苍蝇，数也数不清。街上往往是尿流成河。
在集市上，一大家一大家的犹太人，全都身着黑色长袍，头戴黑色便帽，在看起来像洞窟一般阴暗无光，苍蝇麋集的摊篷里干活。一个木匠两脚交叉坐在一架老掉牙的车床旁，正以飞快的速度旋制椅子腿。他右手握弓开动车床，左脚引动旋刀。由于长期保持着种姿势，左脚已经弯翘变形了。他的一个年仅六岁的小孙子竟也在一旁开始帮着干一些简单的活计了。
我正要走过一个铜匠铺子时，突然有人发现我点着一支香烟。这一下子那些犹太人从四面八方的一个个黑洞窟里发疯四地围上来，其中有很多白胡子老汉，都吵着要讨支烟抽。甚至连一个盲人听到这讨烟的吵嚷声也从一个摊篷后面爬出来。伸手在空中乱摸。一分钟光景，我那一包香烟全分完了。我想这些人一天的工时谁都不回少于十二小时，可是他们个个都把一支香烟看成是一见十分难得的奢侈品。
犹太人生活在一个自给自足的社会里，他们从事阿拉伯人所从事的行业，只是没有农业。他们中有买水果的，有陶工、银匠、铁匠、屠夫、皮匠、裁缝、运水工，还有乞丐、脚夫--放眼四顾，到处是犹太人。事实上，在这不过几英亩的空间内居住着的犹太人就足足有一万三千之多。也算这些犹太人好运气，希特勒未曾光顾这里。不过，他也许曾经准备来的。你常听到的有关犹太人的风言风语，不仅可以从阿拉伯人那里听到，而且还可以从较穷的欧洲人那里听到。
"我的老兄啊，他们把我的饭碗夺走给了犹太人。想必你也知道这些犹太人吧，他们才是这个国家真正的主宰。我们的钱都进了他们的腰包。银行、财政--一切都被他们控制住了。"
"可是，"我说道，"到多数普通犹太人不也是为了一点微薄的工钱而辛勤劳作的苦力吗？"
"噢！那不过是做出样子来给人看的。事实上他们都是些放债获利的富豪。这些犹太人就是鬼得很。"
与此恰恰相似的是，几百年前，常常也有些苦命的老太婆被当成巫婆给活活烧死，然而事实上她们就连为自己变出一顿象样饭菜的`巫术都没有。
所有靠自己的双手干活的人一般都有点不太引人注目，他们所干的活儿越是重要，就越不为人所注目。不过，白皮肤总是比较显眼的。在北欧，若是发现田里有一个工人在耕地，你多半会再看他一眼。而在一个热带国家，直布罗陀以南或苏伊士运河以东的任何一个地方，你就可能看不到田里耕作的人。这种情形我已经注意到多次了。在热带的景色总，万物皆可一目了然，惟独看不见人。那干巴巴的土壤、仙人掌、棕榈树和远方的山岭都可以尽收眼底，但那在地理耕作的农夫却往往每人看见。他们的肤色就和地里的土壤颜色一样，而且远不及土壤中看。
正因如此，贫穷至极的亚非国家反倒成了旅游观光的胜地。没有谁会有兴趣到本地的贫困地区去作依次毫无价值的旅行。但在那些居住着褐色皮肤的人的地方，他们的贫困却根本没有人能注意大批。摩洛哥对于一个法国人来说意味着什么呢？无非是一个能买到橘子圆或者谋取一份政府差使的地方。对于一个英国人呢？不过是骆驼、城堡、棕榈树、外籍兵团、黄铜盘子和匪徒等富于浪漫色彩的字眼而已。就算是在那儿呆过多年的人也未必会注意得到，对于当地百分之九十的居民来说，现实生活只意味着永无休止、劳累至极的斗争，其目的是从贫瘠的土壤中费力地弄出点吃的来。
摩洛哥的土地大半是一片荒凉，赖以生存的走兽至大者莫如野兔。原先曾有的森林覆盖着的土地如今已成为光秃秃的荒漠，土壤跟碎砖头一般。尽管如此，仍有大片大片的土地被人们开垦，劳动强度十分惊人。一切活儿全靠手工完成。排着长队的妇女们弯着腰像一个个倒过来的大写字母L一样，以便慢慢地在地里移动着身子往前走，一边用手去拔除带刺的野草。农民采集苜蓿喂牲口时，不是用刀去割而是用手将一棵棵苜蓿连根拔起，免得割剩下来的一两寸的根茬白白浪费掉。犁是用木头做的劣货，一点也不结实，一个人可以毫不费力的扛在肩上。犁的底部安着一个粗劣的铁尖子，只能犁进地里4英寸来深。拉犁的牲口的力气也只有这么大。通常是用一头牛和一头驴子套在一起拉犁。这是因为两头驴子拉不动，而如用两头牛，耗费的饲料有太多。农民们都没有耙地的耙，他们指示顺着不同的方向犁上几遍，弄出一道道垄沟来，然后再用锄头把整块田地做成一块块长条形的小畦，以利蓄水。除了较为罕见的暴雨之后紧接着的那一两天外，这地方总是缺水。农民们在地边上挖出一道道深达三十至四十英尺的沟渠以便把土层深处的涓涓细流汇集起来。
每天下午都有一对年迈的妇女背着柴草从我屋外的路上走过。由于上了年纪而又饱经日晒，他们一个个都变得想木乃伊似的干瘪，而且身躯都是那么瘦小。在原始社会里，妇女超过了一定的年纪便萎缩得如孩子般大小，这似乎是一种普遍的现象。一天，一个身高不过四英尺的可怜人扛着老大的一捆柴草从我身边蹒跚而过。我叫住她，往她手上塞了一枚面值五个苏的钱币（略多于1/4个旧便士）。她的反应竟是一声近乎尖叫的哭喊，这喊叫含有感激的成分，主要还是出于惊讶。我想，在她看来，我虽然会注意她，似乎是违反了自然法则。对于自己作为一个老妇人，即作为一匹驮兽的地位，她是早已接受了的。每当一家人出门远行时，往往可以看到父亲和已经成年的儿子骑着驴子在前边走，而一个老太婆则背着包袱步行跟在后面。
然而这些人的真正奇特之处还在于他们的隐身的特性。一连几个星期，每天几乎在同一时候总有一队老妪扛着柴草从我房前蹒跚走过。虽然他们的身影以映入我的眼帘，但老实说，我并不曾看见她们。我所看见的是一捆捆的柴草从屋外掠过。直到有一天我碰巧走在她们身后时，堆柴草奇异的起伏动作才使我注意到原来下面有人。这才第一次看见那些与泥土同色的可怜老妪的躯体--枯瘦的只剩下皮包骨头、被沉重的负荷压得弯腰驼背的躯体。然而，我踏上摩洛哥国土还不到五分钟就已注意到驴子的负荷过重，并为此感到愤怒。驴子遭到荷虐，这是无疑的事实。摩洛哥的驴子不过如一只瑞士雪山救人犬一般大小，可它驮负的货物重量在英国军队里让一头五英尺高的大骡子来驮都嫌过重。而且，它还常常是一连几个星期不卸驮鞍。尤其让人觉得可悲的是，它是世上最驯服听话的牲畜。不需要鞍辔会僵绳。它便会像狗一样更随着自己的主人。为主人拼命干上十几年活后，它便猝然倒地死去，这时，主人就把它仍进沟里，尸体未寒，其五脏六腑便被村狗扒出来吃掉。
这种事情当然令人发指，可是，一般说来，人的苦难却没人理会。我并非在乱发议论，只不过是指出一个事实而已。这种人简直就是一种无影无行之物。一头背上被磨得皮破肉烂的驴子人人见了都会同情，而那驮着大捆柴草的老妇人则往往要有某种偶然因素才会受到注意。
白鹳鼓翼被去时，黑人正行军南下--一列长长的满身征尘的队伍：步兵，炮队，接着又是更多的步兵，总共大约四五千人，正靴声橐橐，车声辚辚地蜿蜒前行。
他们是塞内加尔人，是非洲肤色最黑的人--黑得简直难以看清他们颈项上的头发从何处生起。他们健硕的身躯罩在旧的卡其布制服里面，脚上套着一双看上去像块木板似的靴子，每个人头上戴着的钢盔似乎都小了一两号。天气正热,队伍已经走了很长一段路，士兵们都被沉重的包袱压得疲惫不堪，敏感得出奇的黑脸颊上汗水闪闪发光。
当他们走过时，一个身体欣长，年纪很轻的黑人回头后顾，和我的目光相遇。他的那种目光完全超出人们意料之外。既不带敌意，又不含轻蔑，也没有愠怒，甚至连好奇的成分都没有。那是一种羞怯的，瞪圆双眼的黑人的目光，实际上就是一种表示深厚敬意的目光。这种情况我是了解的。这可怜的小伙子，因为成了法国公民，所以被从森林里拉出来送到军队驻扎的城镇去擦洗地板，并染上了梅毒。他对于白种人的确是满怀敬意的。过去别人教导他说白种人是他的主人，对此他至今深信不疑。
然而，无论哪一个白人（哪怕是那些自称为*者的人也不例外），当他望着一支黑人军队从身边开过时，都会想到同一桩事："我们还能愚弄他们多久？他们倒戈相向的日子离现在还有多远？"
真是怪有意思的。在场的每一个白人心里都有着这样一个共同的心思。我有，其他旁观者也有，骑在汗涔涔的战马上的军官们有，走在队伍中的白人军士也有。这是大家心里都明白而有彼此心照不宣的秘密，只有那些黑人对此尚茫然不知。看着这列一两英里长的队伍静静地向前开进，真好像看着一群牛羊一样，而那掠过它们头顶、朝着相反方向高翔的大白鹳恰似片片碎纸在空中泛着点点银光。
(摘自卡罗林·什罗茨等合编《修辞读物》)
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