The Green March

Piles of Pillows partitioned the living room into two segments. Mr. and Mrs. Mansoor sat on one side. Ameena and her two youngest brothers were on the other side.
After hours of fighting for space, Ameena and Mohammed found their own private parts of the floor.
Ameena laid belly-down with a bunch of pillows stuffed beneath her arms while she read a pocket book. Little Mohammed rested his head upon the small of her back. His feet rested on another pillow pile.
Kareem laid on the couch. Every piece of clothing he wore was green. Unfortunately, no two pieces of clothes matched.
"Kareem?" asked Mrs. Mansoor.
"Yes?"
"Are all these green clothes your way of celebrating 'The Green March'?"
"I was thinking about it this morning."
"Well, you are certainly making a fashion statement. Your shirt is jade-colored. Your denim shorts are dull green and your socks are the color of unripe limes!"
"It's all the green clothes I have."
"It's almost a disgrace to 'The Green March'!"
"What is 'The Green March'?" asked Mohammed.
"It was a war between the Moroccans and Spanish."
"We had another war?" sighed Mohammed.
"In ways it wasn't a war," said Mr. Mansoor, "it was Morocco expressing its rights."
"What kind of rights?"
"Land rights. Morocco had owned the West Sahara and Spain took control a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“In the late 1800s,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“And the Spanish ruled over Western Sahara for almost a century, until 1975,” added Kareem.
“What happened then?” asked Mohammed.
“The Green March. Up until that time, most of Africa was ruled over by foreign countries like Great Britain, France, Germany, and Spain. It was a time called the Colonial Era.”
“Like Colonies?” said Mohammed.
“Exactly,” said Kareem, “One country holds control over another country’s land. Spain controlled Western Sahara, but both Morocco and Mauritania wanted to reclaim the desert.”
“Why Mauritania?”
“It’s the country directly to our south. At one time, they also owned part of the Sahara.”
“What happened?”
“In 1975, people from Morocco and Mauritania marched toward the Western Sahara. The French soldiers stood at the border, but were ordered not to fire.”
“Why was it called ‘the Green March’, then?”
“The green represented Islam, like the Saudi Arabian and Pakistan flags. We had a right to the land because the Berbers once lived there.”
“So, that’s when the war began?”
“That’s when the war ended. Leaders from Morocco, Mauritania, and Spain met in Spain’s capital, Madrid. The leaders came up with a compromoise. Mauritania and Morocco got their land back.”
“Not completely,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“What do you mean?” asked Kareem.
“That’s why we built the Moroccan Wall.”
“That’s how it got there?”
Mrs. Mansoor nodded, “The Moroccans built a wall of land near Rio de Oro: the River of Gold. Imagine it like this row of pillows. Kareem represents Mauritania and Ameena is Morocco.”
“What am I?” asked Mohammed.
“You’re the Spanish.”
“Aww, why do I have to be Spain?”
“Because I said so,” replied Mrs. Mansoor.
Mrs. Mansoor rearranged the pillows on the floor. She also moved Ameena to the side opposite the couch.
“Now, your father and I are traditional Morocco. After the talks, Morocco built the Moroccan Wall in the middle of the desert. Ameena represents the Saharan part of Morocco. Kareem represents Mauritania.”
“What happens to me?” asked Mohammed.
“The Moroccans and Mauritanians paid the Spanish to give up their land hold.”
“That sounds good to me.”
Mrs. Mansoor resumed her place in her rocking chair. Meanwhile, Mohammed stood in the middle of the floor with both hands extended.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Waiting for my payment.”
“It was just a demonstration.”
“But I’m Spain.”
“If you’re Spain, you should cross the Mediterranean.”
Little Mohammed walked into the dining room, next to his father. Still, his hands were outstretched. Mr. Mansoor dropped several dirham into one of his open hands.
“This is all Spain gets?”
“If Spain doesn’t quit it, he’s going to be colonized right to his room,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
Little Mohammed continued to extend his hand for a few seconds longer. Mrs. Mansoor glared over the top of her glasses at her smallest child. Mohammed carefully tucked his coins into his pocket.
“Morocco? Can I visit the Sahara for awhile?”
Ameena looked up at her parents. Mr. Mansoor let out a sly grin and nodded. Ameena nodded to Mohammed and he returned to his old place on the floor. Being Spain was tough. Being Ameena’s little brother, however, felt just right.