It is only because of this that the starved countries of Asia and Africa are accepted as tourist resorts. Near his home, there are old women carrying firewood. At his side his grandson, aged six, is already starting on the simpler parts of the job. All of them are mummified with age and the sun, and all of them are tiny. One day a poor old creature who could not have been more than four feet tall crept past me under a vast load of wood. 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. Firewood was passing–that was how I saw it.
But there is one thought which every white man and in this connection it doesn’t matter twopence if he calls himself a Socialist thinks when he sees a black army marching past. Along 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. I am not commenting, merely pointing to a fact. They’re cunning, the Jews. After a month or two no one can even be certain where his own relatives are buried. For the thesis, I would say that this essay shows how insignificant certain people and cultures are to the rest of the world.
Or are they merely a kind of undifferentiated brown stuff, about as individual as bees or coral insects?
The burying-ground is merely a huge waste of hummocky earth, like a derelict building-lot. 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. Marrrakech they went past a tall, very young Negro turned and caught my eye. It was very hot and the men had marched a long way.
The Complete Works of George-Orwell. Superb Writing Services for Students. 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.
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Fruit-sellers, potters, silversmiths, blacksmiths, butchers, leather-workers, tailors, water-carriers, beggars, porters–whichever way you look you see nothing but Jews. Down the centre of the street there is generally running a little river of urine. Not hostile, not contemptuous, not sullen, not even inquisitive.
Nevertheless a good deal is cultivated, with the frightful labour. Every afternoon a file of very old women passes down the road outside my house, each carrying a load of firewood.
After a month or two no one can even be certain where his own relatives are buried.
As he watches the army go by, he wonders how long it will be before they turn their guns on the white people, instead of risking their lives to protect them and how long before they realize that they do not have to accept that the white man is their master and they are free individuals in the world? And even the graves themselves soon fade back into the soil.
After absorbing his surroundings and the events that take place around him, it amazes him that what he sees in front of him are people.
Further on, as he feeds a gazelle in public gardens, he is approached by an Arab navvy, who asks Orwell for some of the bread he is feeding the gazelle. They’re the real rulers of this country, you know.
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They control the banks, finance–everything. This man is an employee of the Municipality. Finally he said shyly in French: The Moroccan donkey is hardly bigger than a St Bernard dog, it egorge a load which in the British army would be considered too much for a fifteen-hands mule, and very often its pack-saddle is not taken off its back for weeks together.
At his side his grandson, aged six, is already starting on the simpler parts of the job. Firewood was passing–that was how I saw it. He has been taught that the white race are his masters, and he still believes it. 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. I suppose that from her point of view, by taking any notice of her, I seemed almost magrakech be violating a law of nature.
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An Arab navvy working on the path nearby lowered his heavy hoe and sidled towards us. Some examples of how well Orwell gets his point across are as follows: All of them are mummified with age and the sun, and all of them are tiny. People with brown skins are next door to invisible. One could probably live here 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.
Probably its idea was that if it could drive me away the bread would somehow remain hanging in mid-air. It nibbled rapidly at the bread, then lowered its head and tried to butt me, then took another nibble and then butted again. The little crowd of mourners-all men and boys, no women–threaded their way across the market-place between mareakech piles of pomegranates and the marrakefh and the camels, wailing a short chant over and over again.