Episode #9: Inconvenient Refugees 9: Sekkura and Brahim

Apr,23 2025

I know that Allah is great, but I also know that life is short, and then, you die.

It's not easy being a Berber from my matrilineal line. My mother, and her mother, and her mother and so on, are proud Berbers, transmitting from mother to daughter our rich traditions dating from the days when my tribe was a matriarchy.

Dating from the days when we were nomadic merchants connecting the Mali empire to the Mediterranean coasts, in today's Maghreb.

On the back of camels, we carried the totality of our movable cities with us, educating our kids on the road.

This, is from a long-lost era and never was I sure that it was true. How can a tribe prosper on the road? How can a culture develop on the back of camels?

And yet, I raised both of my wonderful children on the boat, was it not the same?

Now, that's not a fair assessment. My husband, Brahim, is a simple man, but he was a wonderful father and a perfect husband.

He comes from a more Muslim centric viewpoint, which is both patriarchal and Arabic in culture. I can't blame him, in my tribe, our history is transmitted from mother to daughter, and from daughter to her husband. Never mother to son.

Even if Brahim's mother had shared the same education as I did, he wouldn't have been aware of it. My brothers knew nothing of our history, after all.

I never knew Brahim's parents, and he never knew my family. This is the tragedy of being a refugee, you are broken away from your land but also from your families.

What Dave doesn't realize, however, and I will not clarify it for him, is that we aren't simple refugees.

The other people on the boat with us lost everything in the disaster and had to flee the destruction of their town, of their houses, of their farms.

We, had already lost everything. Sure, we had resettled near there and people had a vague impression of knowing us. They knew my husband sometimes delivered for the local bakery in the morning. They hired him as a farm hand during the plowing season or to help move crops around.

However, they only knew of us. But they knew nothing of us. They didn't know how we had to flee our hometown, along with other Berbers, silently at night, during the Islamic week of terror.

Sure, it's a footnote. After the collapse of one of the 2 public wells in the city, a few extremists decided to ration the water only for the pure, and they began killing Berbers trying to get water for their families.

We left on the 3rd day, when our water reserves ran low, and we began fearing for our lives. I wasn't married with Brahim then. My brother, Iken, put me in touch with a merchant from another town, then Brahim's boss, and I left, with a few others from our town, including Brahim, in the middle of the night.

Iken stayed to help my parents the next day.

I waited, with Brahim, in a farm shed a few kilometers away from the town. We waited for our family to join us. For his boss to return.

The new morning, the terrorists began killing every Berber in town they could find. The only reason it was called the week of terror, is that, after 3 days, none were left to be found.

Even Brahim's boss was killed.

We couldn't stay, we fled during the week and only stopped running when we found our new town. The same one we later had to flee.

In that race for safety, we became close, and on arrival, got married.

I was pregnant with Lalla when the earthquake struck, and Brahim helped me deliver her on the boat. Idder, was born a little more than a year later.

Now, we have a house. We have a future, and after Lalla and Idder had their first day at the daycare, it's time for Brahim and I to get to work.

I thought the nudity wouldn't worry me. As kids, in the village, we would bathe in the lake nude, like all the Berbers. Not the little Arabic kids, but us, we wouldn't mind.

But the reality, is that it's not so neutral. Now that both of us have to be nude at all times, I find that I am more are peace. I love looking at my husband's well sculpted muscles. I know that Fatima told us to look at each other in our eyes, but he is my husband. Surely's it's not a sin to appreciate his body?

Dave wanted to show us the factory, but I wasn't ready. I am a mother, I am a woman, and I am a worker, in that order of priority. Now that my kids are having fun at the day care and are making friends, now that I am comfortable in my body, I can show up to work and face my future.

I am a courageous woman, but at my pace.

Fatima had shocked us by explaining that the factory offered a sort of buffet for lunch, and that she made sure that appropriate food would be available.

After sending our kids to the daycare, Brahim and I looked at each other.

"Maybe I should bring my recorder?", I say, after we realize that we need nothing for work, just our nude bodies.

He proposes to run back home to get it, as I gently walk toward the factory.

He joined me back before I made it, as it's on the other side of the farms, which are unlike any I had ever seen: they are tall building with multiple levels. Fatima explained that they are vertical farms.

And I thought I had seen many farms...

The factory isn't locked, but there is a door with a powerful HVAC system.

A lady, about 35, named Clarisse, welcomed us.

"You must be Sekkura, wait, is that the recorder? Can I see it?", she says.

I gave it to her.

"Oh, it is gorgeous. What kind of wood is your use?"

"Whatever I could get my hands on"

"Oh. We have all the Grenadilla, Boxwood and Mopane you can use. You might want to try Cedars, Cherry and Walnut too. Let's go find Stew and see his opinion. "

"I don't know any of those kinds of wood", I admit.

"Ah, Grenadilla is an African Blackwood. It's one of the best for musical instruments because it offers a rich and resonant sound, but it can split if not cared for properly. Boxwood is the historic choice, it helps give clear and bright tones. Mopane also has rich tones, but it's not as easy to find as Grenadilla. If you want to play on the sounds, Cedar has great acoustic qualities, which absorb high frequencies so it mellows the sound. Cherry and Walnut is a good balance, while Holly and Ah are the opposite of Cedar, with high frequencies"

I think.

"Perhaps I can make a few prototypes, and choose different woods depending on the octave range of each?"

"Now, that, is a good idea"

She welcomed my husband too, and basically told him to go see the other "gopher", a word I we discovered that day, which is the name of an animal, but also the start of "go for". In short, a gopher is a person who fetches supplies or sends products for export and delivery. Something my husband would enjoy doing.

I, meanwhile, had to meet Stew. The main boss in charge of the factory.

When I entered his office with Clarisse, I noticed that he was standing over a window overlooking the production floor.

four things quickly occurred.

First, I noticed that he was wearing a prosthetic that that his right leg had been amputated below the knee, but that he was otherwise completely nude.

Then, I realized that Clarisse, was also completely nude. Finally, I realized that I was nude too, and almost laughed, as I had almost forgotten we were now nudists.

But the fourth thing, broke my concentration. Stew, revealed a smile which didn't show kindness, or happiness. It tried, but instead, I could see it right in front of me, a sense of sadness, of despair.

My empathy almost made me acts on it, but I didn't. He was my boss, I was new, and everyone was nude.

"So, you are the flute maker"

"Well, I am an amateur, but yes, I made more than my share of recorders, sir", I say, offering him the recorder.

He looks at it.

"By hand?"

"Yes, sir"

"Beautiful workmanship. Are you a flutist too?"

"I dabble"

"Play me something"

So, I played him a song my mother taught me. He was smiling. Clarisse was too. He didn't stop me, he didn't say anything.

When I stopped. He nodded.

"I love the timber of the flute. If I can you professional tools and wood, how long to make one?"

I look at him.

"It depends on the tools, sir. This is one took perhaps 6 hours? Maybe 7?"

He looked at me.

"Wait, why is that long?"

"It's a complex process to carve the channel inside, and measure the position of the holes", but he lifts my hand up, interrupting me,

"Are you telling me, that this perfectly sounding flute was made manually?"

"I am not sure what you mean, sir"

"Clarisse, can you fetch a reamer kit?"

"With pleasure", says the woman, with Stew, as he gets behind his desk, grabs a towel behind him, throws it perfectly on the chair in front of the desk, and motions me to sit.

I do and he sits at the same time.

"May I call you Sekkura?"

"It's my name, sir"

"You used something to carve the hole in the middle of the flute"

"I did. I drilled the centerpiece, and used a long file to widen the hole"

"We use reamers. We don't do man flutes only special orders, but maybe you can change that"

Clarisse returns with a canvas bag all rolled up.

"Need me, boss?"

"No, you can return to your duties. I have Sekkura covered"

She smiles and leaves.

He unties the knot, and unrolls it. In it, are a series of weird drill bits with a large square base.

"These are reamers. You start with a drill, which makes a hole in the middle of your piece of wood. Then, you use these to widen the hole to the proper width"

"Oh, that would be perfect, sir, but how do I turn it?"

"You don't. You mount this on a lathe, and the reamer is fixed. It's the flute piece which rotates"

"Oh, that would help with the exterior too, sir"

"Wait, did you sand this by hand?"

"I did, sir"

He smiles.

"We will show you how to keep this refined look, this artisan quality, but using professional tools. You will make perhaps 4 to 6 per day"

I look at him.

"I don't see how, sir"

"Cutting the pieces will be easy. Sanding them too. Cutting the hole too. You will have a stand hole size, and a standard wall width. Figuring out where to place the holes for the notes will easy. We can even help you make a rig. Something to guide you. You will still be the architect, the artist, but with automated ways"

"Is that how to make your violins, sir?"

"No, most are custom orders"

"I would like that for my recorders too, sir"

He nods.

"Noted. Before you can run, you need to walk. Make me 40 soprano, 20 alto, 5 tenors, 2 bass and one great bass, and we will get you sorted on custom orders"

"I don't know to do basses and lower, sir"

"You will learn. We will get you the keys for the lower notes."

"Thank you sir"

"And Sekkura? Don't get discouraged if you fail a few. We have plenty of wood"

"I won't. But I would love to learn how to make a violin, sir"

"You will. But first, you need to know how to make recorders"

"I think I already do, sir"

"No, you don't. You know how to make a recorder. We will make you learn how to make many of them"

"Thank you sir"

"Find Terry. He will show you the tools. Tell him I approved that he tutor you"

"Thank you sir, I will not let you down"

"You cannot let down, for I have no expectations from you yet. "

I look at him.

"I will prove my worth then, sir"

He nods and I leave.

Terry

I find Clarisse, who is speaking with a young lady, perhaps 21 or 22, with weirdly large breasts over a small waist, something I didn't think possible. "Pardon me, would you mind showing me who Terry is?"

She points to a tall, dark African man currently working on a saw machine, with an apron on.

I approach him, and when he finishes what he is doing, he turns to me.

"You are one of the refugees, aren't you?"

"I am. My name is Sekkura"

"I know. I spoke to your husband. Great guy. So, we will make flutes now?"

"Recorders"

"Isn't that a flute?"

I smile. "It's a type of flute"

"All I know, is that I played one in plastic in high school, and I hated it"

I nodded. "It's like a toy version of the original"

"I have no doubt"

"So, what can I do for you?"

"The boss, Stew, wanted you to teach me how to use the tools"

"Woah. This will take time. Did you ever use such tools?"

"No, but it must not be that complicated?"

"Complicated, no. But I have to teach you how not to get hurt"

And so, I put on a thick apron like his, and slowly, he spends upward of an hour in front of each machine patiently teaching me how I could get hurt, and how not to get hurt.

I almost cried a few times at how easier it will be to make recorders, and almost curse how I developed now obsolete skills to accelerate my work.

I often see Brahim working, smiling, and interacting with the people, including once, Stew coming down to talk to him for a few minutes, with them shaking hands. I could almost swear that Stew was smiling more after talking to him, than when he was hearing me play my recorder.

When lunch was near, we were waiting for a sander to spin down after a test, and I decided to ask him a question.

"Do you know how Stew lost part of his leg?"

Terry smiles. "It's the most incredible thing. Did you ever hear about the Andorra Blockade?"

"The what?"

"Ok, so Andorra is this tiny country between Spain and France, high up in the mountains. A few years ago, when the climate issues began, a few billionaires moved into the country, and when some were more oligarchs than anything else."

"I don't know that word, Oligarchs?"

"Oh, your English is otherwise excellent. It's when a rich person uses their power to control, with other rich people, the government, usually stealing money from the government"

"Oh, that's bad"

"It is. So France and Spain decided to intervene, but they were caught in their own problems. The EU was spinning out of control"

"That, I heard"

"Good. Well, not good, it was a scary time. So, the solution was to blockade the country, and help foster a professional rebellion"

"Did it work?"

"It did, and the EU picked itself up, and now, it's on the way back, but during that time, Stew was a marine, and he was sent in to train the rebellion"

"Wow"

"When things went bad, the Oligarchs began killing rebellion fighters, and their family. He managed to find a former government official, get amnesty papers for the rebellion for after the fight, grabbed two kids hiding from a death squad, ran to the border with them, under his arms, while being shot at, and even had to fight up slavers hiding to grab any refugees."

"Ok, I didn't realize he was that courageous"

"Oh, he was, and at the border? They shot at him. It was a blockade!"

"They didn't know him?"

"No."

"So how did he lose the leg?"

"Ok, so when he was ducking the shots with an orphan under each arm, with his satchel with the amnesty papers, he ended up crossing a railroad track, and his foot got caught in it. He got the orphans away, but he couldn't get free before the train arrived, and tore away his leg"

"That must have hurt?"

"I think so, but still walked on his stub, with the one and two-year-old orphans under his arms, and made it back to his camp"

"Ok, that is almost impossible"

"Hey, it's what I heard. It's not like I can confirm with him"

Lunch

We returned to the training, and stopped for lunch. Everyone sat at a long table at the end, with Brahim next to me.

He confirmed he was thrilled about the job, and liked everyone. I spoke to a few of the other people, and everyone seemed nice and supportive.

Stew, sat at the other end, and barely spoke, other than for job questions. He still laughed at a few jokes, but lightly. Next to him was Sara, the woman who despite being a refugee with us, took charge when we arrived and reassured us.

A woman sitting across me, who I didn't understand the name, wanted to know all about my kids, as she has hers in the same day care. She made me promise to make play dates, but again, I didn't get her name. I didn't know if she was serious, or his this was just a polite offer. She seemed nice.

End of day

The afternoon went like a blur, Terry helped me make the first recorder using the tools, and when it was done, it didn't sound great, but it wasn't far off.

"We must have messed up some measurements"

"I think only 2 holes are misaligned."

"Well, the day is almost over, let's clean up, and try again tomorrow"

"Don't you have your own job to do?"

"I am doing it. I maintain all of this. I repair the broken machines, oil them, make sure they are working, teach people on safety. "

"Oh good"

When we are about to leave, he asks me.

"When will you get your skin cancer vaccine?"

"We got it yesterday evening"

"Oh fuck you"

"What?", I say, a little offended.

"Everyone gets it and just goes to work or whatever. I was sick for like 3 days, with my skin burning. I am even darker than I was"

"But you are African, right?"

"From South Africa. Well, from the USA, but born in South Africa. My parents left for the United States when I was 3"

"So we are both Africans, Algeria is in Africa"

"I suppose so!", he says, smiling.

"Did you get an allergic reaction?"

"Apparently, it affects the melatonin in the skin, so the darker you are, the higher the risk it will hurt and make it darker. Julia didn't have the problem thought"

"Julia?"

"Another African American. She even became a little lighter, apparently."

"I don't know her yet"

"She works at the hospital. Anyway, see you tomorrow", he says.

Day care

I walked to the daycare with Brahim, as we talked about our day. He was happy, I was happy. And our kids had a ton of fun. We found Penelope there, the woman from across the table, picking up her kids, who played all day with ours. Her husband is a doctor that will work all evening too, so she offers to organize a play date after supper, so the kids get to know each other better.

We agree.

We make something quick, the kids are starving, and I think, so are we. We are still on the initial reserves from Fatima, but will need to think about getting our own groceries soon.

I end up telling Stew's story to Brahim, who also heard it from Javier, one of the guys.

"That's not what I heard"

"Oh?"

"It wasn't 2 orphans, it was 4. They were older, so they could walk, and after he was hit by the train, they helped him get to the camp. And they weren't just shooting at him at the border, they aimed at him. He got grazed a few times. Oh, and it wasn't just amnesty papers, it was also the plans of the oligarchs to fight back at the blockade. Oh, and not a marine, he was a UN peacekeeper. A blue helmet"

"Wow. Ok, I wonder which one is true"

"I do too"

Penelope's house

We ended up at Penelope's house about an hour later. She had more toys, but explained that many are hand-me-downs, and at the end of the evening, gave each of our kids one of the toys from hers.

The kids had a ton of fun, notably playing with construction blocks and sharing and helping each other. I felt like all of them adapted perfectly to their nudity.

Penelope talked a little about her job. She varnishes the violins when they are done. I told her about my recorders, and she was happy she might get to varnish them too. I was planning to do that, but like she said, we are a team.

I ended up asking her which of our stories about Stew is true.

"Well, it's complicated"

"Really?"

"When he carried those papers, he was a marine, but that was early in the blockade, no orphans then, and the border agents only fired warning shots. The orphans, he was a blue helmet, but his mission wasn't sanctioned, still, he was shot at by the gun squad. And the slavers? It was two guys, not like 20 like some make it. Punched one in the face, and shot the other."

"And his foot?"

"Oh, that was later. After he already rescued the orphans. It was during the liberation of Andorra. He got corners and his foot got stuck in the train switching mechanism while shooting at the death squad. He got them, but didn't pay attention and got stuck"

"So it's 3 different incidents?"

"Well, yeah. But it's more exciting to tell it as if it's one, right?"

"Where did you hear it from?"

"You know, I don't remember. I heard it from many people, different ways, but someone clarified it for me. Huh. I don't know"

When we finally went to bed, and our kids were already asleep, Brahim and I wondered, what is true for Stew's foot?