Mohamed Ben Nadroc (from Jadary)
Allah alone is great, chants the shrill voice of the muezzin, floating over the roofs of the white buildings of Tunis. Allah is great, when he orders faithfulness to oaths. From the old city they came in crowds, the sons of Mohammed, whom our enemies hoped would revolt or prove treacherous. But these were not slaves, anxious to shake off their yoke, nor auxiliaries on the lookout for the first sign of weakness. They were brave soldiers whose hearts were without subterfuge. Tunisia, where silver olive trees shaded fruitful vines, where mines gave up their treasures; Tunisia the bountiful and rich gave more than the heavenly produce of her soil: she gave her children. The strident nouba, their military music, kept their feet in rhythm along all the routes of the front, in all the villages of France, bruised and desolate. Their silhouettes in bronze helmets were massed at all the points of departure. They shared all the sufferings; they earned the right to unalloyed honour.