by Monia Mazigh
“There’s a curfew in effect, no one can go outside after eight o’clock,” he informed us mechanically from the living room.
I thought of Neila. How was she experiencing these moments? And Mounir, what was he doing right now? Was he one of the demonstrators, those “gangs of hooligans,” as everyone called them? Suddenly I was worried about him; I could understand his anger, the frustration that radiated from him, and the injustice in society that he was determined to fight. I visualized him as Étienne Lantier, exhorting his friends to revolt, resisting with clear eyes, against the foremen, against the oppression of the nouveaux riches who shamelessly displayed their ill-gotten wealth and stole the livelihood of the poor. I missed my two friends. I would have liked to be with them, to talk about what was happening, to get a grasp on things, to find out who was on the side of good, who was on the side of evil. Which way was up, which way was down?
I went to my room. Our little neighbour Najwa was there. She would come over from time to time to spend the day at our place or take a nap in my room. It was her reward for good behaviour. She was six years old and just starting school. So there she was, playing with her doll and sniffing constantly as she did. No sooner did she see me than she threw herself into my arms.
“Oh Nadia, there you are! Come play with me, please!”
She squinted and brought her finger to her temple in a childish gesture intended to charm me. I smiled. Then I kissed her and promised I’d play dolls with her when I was a little more relaxed. My head was spinning like a weathercock in gale-force winds. Would school be open tomorrow? Too bad papa never had a telephone installed. How I would have liked to talk to Neila! I couldn’t even slip outside and hurry down the street to Hassan’s, the neighbourhood grocer. At least he had a telephone. And if I slipped him a one hundred-millime coin he would let me call my friend.
Without a telephone, I consoled myself by imagining that Neila was safe.
Later, we were all sitting in the living room, each of us balancing a plate of macaroni on our laps. It was still early in the month, meaning that everyone was entitled to a meatball. Normally we would take our meals around the kitchen table. But that day, everything was special. At first, Mother had refused to let us eat in the living room, but she finally relented. So we filled our plates with macaroni and sat down in front of the old black-and-white television set. Najwa was there with us. She couldn’t really understand what was going on, but she was happy that we were together. She was careful not to let any crumbs fall on the tile floor. If she did, Mother would scold her: “Be careful, sweetie, or I won’t let you come visiting anymore.” But that evening no one was paying attention to the macaroni that slithered off our plates or the tomato sauce that stained the arms of the threadbare armchairs in our blue living room.
Our eyes were glued to the tiny screen. What we saw stunned us: burned-out cars, overturned buses. The police were firing; people were fleeing. Stones were being thrown in all directions, shop windows shattered. Smoke obscured the view, like an early morning mist. Soldiers had come out of their barracks, tanks lined the main streets of the capital. I could no longer recognize Avenue Bourguiba; it had become a battlefield, or a set from some war movie. There I was, sitting in front of the TV set, eyes focused on the pictures. Who were these people who’d come out into the streets and were defying the police and the army? How many of them were there? As I watched the images, I realized for the first time in my life that the cocoon in which I’d been living for the last eighteen years was nothing but a flimsy partition that kept me from seeing the other reality, that of the poor and the downtrodden, of those who suffer in silence.
Father’s silence had nothing to do with theirs. He kept his powerlessness to himself. He was afraid of contaminating us with his ideas, afraid of sharing his bitterness, his cowardice. He feared Mother, her sharp tongue. On that day, too, I understood Mother’s hypocrisy. She knew we weren’t rich, but she was determined to keep up appearances at all costs, to make it seem as though we were just like everybody else. But who was this “everybody else”? Weren’t they all just like us?
That night, after I’d helped Najwa brush her doll’s blond nylon hair and dress it in a too-tight skirt and a piece of fabric sewn into a tube to hide the breasts, I slipped quietly into my bed. The flickering blue flame of the kerosene heater reflected against the ceiling. In the darkness, I imagined fleeting forms dancing and shifting like shadow puppets. Najwa was breathing heavily. Her stuffed nose snorted like a tractor struggling to extricate itself from the mud. I made myself a promise: tomorrow, I would begin my search for the truth. No longer would it be enough to be a good student, obey my parents and my instructors, or buy a telephone with my first paycheck. Life was much more complicated. Now I was certain of that.
SIX
Tunis, December 4, 2010
Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir made an odd couple. Light years away from Mom and Dad’s noisy relationship. There was sadness in Aunt Neila’s eyes that never left her, even when she smiled. It was as though she and sadness were one and the same. More than a few times since I’d been staying with them, I’d come upon her crouched on her prayer mat, bent forward, thighs touching her stomach, head hung low as if she was a prisoner of war. The only difference was the way she held her hands in front of her, almost completely covering her face. When she would get up from the prayer, I didn’t dare look her in the eye. I felt like vanishing, or making myself invisible so as not to disturb her.
“How was your Arabic class today?” she inquired in her high-pitched little girl’s voice.
Her eyes were red. I pretended not to notice.
“Oh, not too bad,” I would say, as I always do, in a nonchalant tone. “I don’t know what good it’s going to do me.”
Then, with a rapid motion she removed her prayer cloak, showing her short black hair streaked with grey.
She would come over and kiss me on the cheek, just as Mom would do. The odour of rose water followed her, as inseparable from her as her shadow. I loved Aunt Neila dearly, but I didn’t entirely understand why.
Uncle Mounir was another story altogether: something about him frightened me. Mostly it was his honey-coloured eyes. I could see hardness in them. Perhaps something had happened to him, something that changed his life. He always wore the same worn grey wool sweater. His curly hair was always carefully combed to the right. There was an old scar along his forearm, wide, swollen, like a snake glued to his skin. Its colour — darker than his skin — caught my eye. It was the first thing I noticed about him when he shook my hand. I noticed a faint smile on his lips when he saw me glance at the scar. A strange kind of smile that I couldn’t place. Bitterness, pride, nostalgia, pain?
Aside from that slightly mysterious air, Uncle Mounir seemed normal enough. He never raised his voice. Only rarely could I hear him from my room: “Neila,” he would call out, “would you make me a coffee please?” Almost imploring. Soon after, the strong smell of coffee came wafting from the kitchen, floating across the living room to my room, tickling my nostrils. I was no coffee drinker, but each time I smelled it, the odour dazzled me like the first rays of spring sunshine. I breathed it in deeply, filling my lungs. Coffee was the only thing Uncle Mounir asked his wife to prepare for him. Often I would see him cooking, a fouta wrapped around his hips and his old sweater over his shoulders and chest. He fried the sliced potatoes in boiling oil and the smoke rose up like a volcano erupting after a long slumber. Today, he was fixing keftaji.
“It’s poor people’s food,” he announced, to make me laugh.
Aunt Neila smiled. The wrinkles around her eyes formed half-moons that intersected as if to keep each other company. But there was always sadness in her gaze, always the same melancholy. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Still that same look in her eyes.
“Is it really true, Aunt Neila? Do poor people really eat keftaji?”
“So
rt of. It’s street food. Everybody likes it, young and old, rich and poor. It’s like hotdogs there where you live, in America,” she answered.
Uncle Mounir was dropping vegetable slices into the bubbling oil. First came the red and green peppers, followed by chunks of squash. Uncle Mounir knew what he was doing. His movements were skilled and rapid. Keftaji was a culinary delicacy. Once fried, the vegetables were finely chopped, mixed, and spiced. A fried egg nestled in the centre of each plate, like the sun in the middle of the sky. Mom never cooked this dish for me. It was one of the best I’ve tasted since I arrived in Tunisia.
Every night after the late news, Uncle Mounir took a seat on the balcony and smoked a cigarette. I knew he was finished when the yellow light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling of the balcony switched off and no light shone into my bedroom.
When Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir talked, it was mostly a monologue: the words went one way, from uncle to aunt. She listened with a certain detachment, as if her mind were wandering, but her eyes were full of love. She never contradicted him; she was there for him, like the pillar that supports the dome. But she was a fragile pillar, one with invisible cracks. Mom always has something to say; there was always something in her voice when she talked with Dad. Not Aunt Neila. Not in front of me in any event.
When I came back to the apartment out of breath from climbing eight flights of stairs, I could only think about one thing: getting some sleep. The meeting with Donia and her friends and the discussion about the social situation in Tunisia had worn me out. I needed calm in order to get a grip on things.
Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir were sitting in front of their TV. The apartment was almost completely dark; a floor lamp was on in a corner. Light from the screen illuminated the room. It was like a movie theatre, with lights bright, then dim. My arrival disturbed the calm atmosphere.
“So, how was it, your meeting with your friends?” Uncle Mounir asked, with a knowing grin.
“I hope you got along with Donia and her pals,” added Aunt Neila.
I sat down close to them in a grey armchair. My knee joint was creaking. My muscles were stiff and were not responding to my brain. The climb up the stairs had exhausted me. I put my hand on my knee and gave myself a quick massage.
“Yes, I had a nice afternoon with Donia and her friends. The view over the lagoon was magnificent.”
I didn’t say a word about the blogger who had been arrested, or about the political discussion I’d heard. I pretended everything was normal. Aunt Neila seemed relieved by my answer, but Uncle Mounir wanted to know more.
“These friends of hers, they pulled up in BMWs of course, good-looking guys, from good families.”
Now he wasn’t speaking in Arabic, but in French with a strong accent, rolling his r’s. There was a touch of sarcasm in his words, but I couldn’t figure out what he was leading up to.
“Well, Donia drives a car. I don’t remember what kind it is. But I’m not sure the others have one. She drove one of them to a metro station. He was on his way to Etta . . . Ettadamoun Township, I think that’s what it was.”
The name had a strange effect on Uncle Mounir. His gaze softened. Aunt Neila smiled, and came to my rescue: “Uh, it’s a poor part of town.”
Uncle Mounir scratched his scar. There was a hint of wistfulness in his eyes; he dropped his resentful attitude. “Ettadamoun Township, that’s where real men come from.”
Then he got to his feet and went into the kitchen. Something in his movements gave me the idea that he wanted to say something, but an obstacle, a solid, impenetrable wall impeded him.
I looked at Aunt Neila, confused and inquisitive at the same time.
“How come Uncle Mounir doesn’t seem to like rich people? Why does he seem to like the poor without even knowing them?”
Aunt Neila came over to me. I saw the same sadness that always seemed to lie deep in her eyes. She put her hand on my shoulder. I caught the scent of rose water. I smiled at her.
“It’s a long story. Didn’t your mother ever tell you? I thought you knew everything about us.”
I shook my head. Mom had always spoken of her friends with admiration, with enchantment. She wanted me to spend my stay in Tunisia at their house. But she never said a word about their past. Suddenly Aunt Neila took my hand.
“You know something, Lila. If I had a daughter I’d like her to be like you — intelligent, forthright. But God did not grant me that gift. Perhaps He will grant it to me in another life.”
Her words threw me into turmoil. The hand that she grasped was shaking. Should I step away from her, or move even closer? Take her in my arms and kiss her? Tear away the veil of sadness that seemed to envelop her? I stood motionless, unable to speak.
Uncle Mounir came from the kitchen with a platter full of oranges cut into quarters. Aunt Neila let go of my hand. A tear gleamed in the corner of her eye. She picked up a piece of orange and handed it to me. The scent of the fruit and its intense flavor reinvigorated me. Slowly, my strength returned. This city was setting a trap for me. I could feel it. Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila were more than just mother’s friends; they were part of a story and a past that was painful for some people, one that still captivated Mom. I was letting go of my indifference. Curiosity had penetrated my inner life; I couldn’t hold back any longer. I was about to ask them how they met when Uncle Mounir put his finger to his lips.
The announcer on TV had just said the word “Tunisia.” It wasn’t a local station. Uncle Mounir was watching Al Jazeera, which was broadcasting from Qatar.
He turned to us and said in a serious voice: “People are going on strike in the south. Ben Ali can’t be happy!”
I thought about the worried tone of Mom’s messages. “So, Mom was right! Yesterday she was really nervous and upset. She was telling me that troubles were breaking out all over the country.”
Aunt Neila nodded. “Yes, there are troubles, but you won’t hear a word about them on local TV. Here, in Tunis, nobody knows anything. People are going about their business as if everything is fine.”
So, my hosts knew exactly what was going on. Donia and her friends knew too. Even my mother, who was five thousand miles from here, knew. I was the only one, it seemed, who didn’t know and hadn’t wanted to know. I ventured: “The cyber-dissidents and the bloggers, the ones that are sent to jail because they criticize the dictatorship, have you heard about them?” I asked them, a worried look on my face, as though I’d just revealed a state secret.
Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila seemed startled.
“How did you know? Where did you hear?” they asked in unison.
“From Donia and her friend Jamel, the one who comes from Ettadamoun. They brought it up.”
Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila stared at me, eyes full of wonderment, as if I were their baby and had just taken my first steps. Suddenly, I discovered two different people. A couple that was resisting in its fashion; a couple that had surrounded itself with silence to escape the past.
But what was the past that lay hidden behind their shadowed eyes, their sad smiles? That day, for the first time, I felt at ease in this land. I almost felt like staying longer.
SEVEN
Tunis, January 4, 1984
The bread riots or the couscous revolt: that’s what they called it. That same revolt had opened my eyes, had shaken me out of my inertia, and forced me out of ignorance. Suddenly my little world had become too small. Revolt; it was the revolt that revealed the faces of the poor to me, the faces of the oppressed, of those who had been cast aside. The couscous revolt revealed Mounir’s face to me. The real Mounir — not Mounir the model student who attended class during the day and worked at night as a security guard, not Mounir the prince charming Neila wanted to marry to escape her father’s reign of terror, but Mounir the militant. The left-wing militant who did all his daily prayers. The half-Islamist, half-Communist militant
. The militant who wolfed down the works of Karl Marx and Jean-Paul Sartre and Michel Foucault, who devoured the writings of al-Mawdudi and Sayed Qutb. The militant with the built-in, wall-to-wall contradictions. The revolt exposed that hidden face to me, when before it had been as obscure as the dark side of the moon. This was a side that neither my father nor Neila’s were ready to acknowledge. The revolt had smashed the mask behind which Mounir had been hiding ever since we had known each other. The revolt brought us together, built a sense of solidarity that went beyond lighthearted jokes and small talk and established strong ties above and beyond the budding love between Neila and Mounir, and my affection for the two of them, my best friends.
The bread riots swept over me like a second adolescence. Like when I’d had my first period. When it hit, I panicked. Would my body bleed until I was emptied of my last drop? Mother looked at the white drawers I held out to her with a trembling hand. I was sure she would break into tears and rush me to the hospital to save my life. What a surprise: she burst out laughing!
“Now you’re a woman,” she told me. “Now you can have babies.”
Then she handed me a piece of white fabric. A kind of small cotton napkin.
“Put this napkin in your drawers to keep the blood from staining. I’ve got plenty,” she assured me with a smile on her lips. “Don’t forget to rinse out the blood from the napkins, and don’t let your father see them.”
“But why am I bleeding? Do I have some sort of wound inside me?” I asked, more surprised than ever by mother’s instructions.
“Every month your body gets ready to receive a baby — that’s why there’s all the extra blood. You’ll be learning all about it in school. You’ll see.”
I did not answer, and I did exactly as mother told me. I asked her no further questions. The discussion was over. Within a few minutes, my sexual education had ended as quickly as it had begun.