Etari was a short, ancient-looking man when I knew him. If you were not paying attention, you might think him frail, but actually he had a disproportionate, wiry strength. When I worked with him at the winery in the late 90’s, he was fond of me. My uncle said that was a badge of honor; Etari did not approve of most people. He almost never talked about himself or his family, but one day, out of the blue, he said something like, “You know I brought my son from Morocco to work with me here, many years ago.” Surprised and interested, I started to pepper him with questions. He winced as if he had let something slip he’d rather have kept inside. He waved vaguely at my uncle and said “He, he can tell you…” as if it would be too exhausting to answer my pesky questions.
On the drive home, my uncle obliged by telling me the tale.
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Etari’s son was tall and handsome. Etari would look up at him with pride, a sparkle in his eye. This would be in ‘78 or ‘79. In those days we did the payroll in cash. None of the workers had bank accounts. So, during the harvest, there would be 17,18 men working a 60 hour week and that would be a lot of cash to make payroll. A dangerous amount of cash. Each week, we would go to the bank at a different time and on a different day, taking a different route each way. There would be three of us in the car. With guns. You know we have a lot of bandits here in Corsica, or at least we did in those days. Now that can make more money off of the tourists, so it is better. Anyway, we took precautions and we were never held up.
One time though, the second year Etari’s son was working with us, the bandits figured out which day the workers got paid. They waited until all of us white men had left and then they came out in force and encircled around the Moroccans and demanded they give up their cash. These were serious men, armed, and with ski masks pulled over their faces. A few Moroccans complained and said they would have nothing to send back to their families that week. A few shots were fired in the air and the Moroccans reluctantly began to offer up their envelopes. Etari’s son, with the indignity of youth, aggressively stepped forward and threateningly said “You have no right. We worked hard for this money.” When the Corsican bandits laughed at him, he made the fatal error of lashing out and pushing the closest bandit back, hard. And so they shot him. They shot him dead right in front of his father.
“Did they ever catch anyone for the crime?”
“No.”
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We drove home in silence and, the next day, when I saw Etari, I didn’t know what to say. He saw the pained expression on my face and he sighed and said “Yep… and so… it’s like that…” and turned away and got to work. We never spoke of it again, but I remember. I remember your son whom I never met, Etari Ahmed. *
* I am writing his name phonetically because that's what my uncle did for Etari could neither read nor write. Check out the link at the top for more stories about him from my winery days.
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