Internet Friends, I am a reader of my column and Jeune Afrique favorite is the "Postscript" of the "big" Fouad Laroui. Fouad find myself stealing smiles, even laughter, taking the Paris Metro. I see you come, you tell me how can you laugh when you take this damn Paris Metro line 1 which leads us straight to the workplace of Defense who incidentally is not the best place where we want to have fun, especially on Monday morning and everybody makes their heads. By the way, I do not understand why many people are they angry with a smile? At a pinch I can understand going to work is not everything we do more exciting, you also know the etymology of the word "work"? According to Wiktionary, work comes from the Latin tripalium, "instrument of torture to three beams!
Oh, I'm here to talk about Fouad Laroui, and I find myself trying to philosophize about the work, and since I am a simple citizen, the son of a father who was not too clever to collect and save me a fortune to take the subway every day, then stitched mouth. And looks like a "French intellectual" prestige that makes music for his lost time, Mr. Pascal Sevran, my father spent his time "to copulate everything goes" (sic). After all, my father is an African!
You have understood, I do not want to have trouble with Sarkozy (I have a residence permit for 10 years), so users working with friends, work very well for your health, you have to go to the Defense see, they are all en costume cravate avec les joues toutes roses (sauf les vrais informaticiens, nous adorons les pulls et les Jeans, c’est pratique pour aller dans les salles machine, et en plus faire de l’Informatique n’est pas du travail, on adore ça). Cela dit, il existe quelques citoyens rebelles qui prennent le risque de dire du mal du travail, je vous jure que ça existe et vous pouvez le vérifier par votre propre « clic de souris » sur cette page sympathique tripalium au chagrin .
Tout ça pour dire qu'il vaut mieux aller vers "les trois poutres" en ayant le sourire, et pour avoir le sourire Fouad Laroui est là pour remplir cette mission délicate. Le grand souci sur cette accursed line, it is not even a baby who by the way are a second source of joy. We stop the bullshit, we're extremely serious bloggers here, Fouad is an economist and writer Morocco. He has the art of approaching problems (aye, there are quite a packet) of the Maghreb with humor, her main character is always a Moroccan, but it symbolizes the Moroccan Maghreb by excellent. His analysis is still relevant and very sharp. Some see it as a cranky fury on the "Moroccan" or someone who washes dirty linen in public. But believe me, Mr. Fouad Laroui is the best columnist that the Maghreb is birth.
I talked too much, this message is the first in a series of chronic Fuad, do not worry, they saved my house and I'll do like Scheherazade in Arabian Nights, you'll have to account dropper, just to make it last. Online friend, I hope you enjoy reading.
Lament for Moroccan offshore
There is not a Moroccan community abroad, there are a hundred, a thousand there, both as individuals in short .
What relation between this golden boy of the City that hit last year as bonuses strong temple of finance and this old man vegetate in Brussels thanks to welfare? What relationship between the tennis player polyglot, always between two planes, and the Rif reclusive life in a one-bedroom apartments in Hamburg? While talking about the individual, born in the land of the argan tree and dragged her bump into the wide world. Over the last twenty or thirty years, his condition has changed significantly. It was first visible victim of a misunderstanding. In Taiwan, Kuala Lumpur, he declined his nationality, Moroccan, he was asked for news of the princess.
- What Princess?
- Grace, of course.
These insulting Asians knew that Monaco. Bah, seen in Seoul, is nearby.
Arriva Khomeini. He had to swear that all was not the son of an ayatollah. Then it was compatriot Aouita. An American in Fort Lauderdale, early 1980:
- Morocco, yes, I know, The Country of That Great guy, er, Owiti, Yoweta, Ayuta?
few years later, he had to face the tourists who had "done" his country.
- Are you Moroccan? Ah, Ouarzazate, what splendor ... But the toilet was clogged!
He said he never set foot in Ouarzazate and understand nothing plumbing.
In Amsterdam, he presented himself, he demanded of kif, he who had never smoked even one cigarette butt to Favorite. In Oslo, we congratulate him for being a compatriot of Zidane, which was doubly wrong, but a compliment is always nice and he accepted it with grace.
In 1999, across Europe, he shook hands warmly, everyone was very friendly the young king. He shook his head, suddenly discovering and Liberal Democrat, liked by all, we had treated him in all of feudal feasts Kabyle his student years in Paris.
September 11 2001 fell on his head, he awoke suspect. Take off your shoes and goes entirely into the scanner, a kind of seed terrorist. Z'êtes what, you, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia?
- Morocco.
- It's just like.
It was a start. No, not like! We have an ancient history, magnificent landscapes, people, complicated simple animals, and the argan argan not forget!
But he stopped and took off his shoes. Moroccan offshore found himself barefoot, as the children of his native douar. Lest he forget where he came from.
FOUAD LAROUI
Source: Jeune Afrique
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