by Monia Mazigh
All of a sudden, the same words were coming out of my mouth, even though I didn’t really understand them. Solidarity had caught hold of me. No more fear, no more holding back. My whole body was vibrating to the rhythm of the chanting: “Yasqot hazb el destour, yasqot jallad ech’ab!” As if it were an incomprehensible prayer, I repeated the words. The heat generated by the crowd seemed to have stuck our sweating hands together. Jamel had disappeared, swept away by the wave.
Then the crowd came to an abrupt halt. Police in riot gear protected by their shields were blocking the street. Behind them was another group of demonstrators, people who still supported the regime.
The roaring of the crowd ceased. Tensions were rising. You could have heard a pin drop. The vanguard of the demonstration wanted to push forward, but the police were blocking the way, helmets on their heads, riot clubs in their hands. I could hear the heavy breathing of the demonstrators around me. Donia looked me in the eye.
“They want to disperse us. Whatever happens, follow me. We have to stick together, okay?”
I nodded. Things were turning ugly. Shouting broke out again. Cursing. The crowd backed up.
“What’s going on, Donia?”
“No idea. They won’t let us move forward.”
The shouting was louder now.
“The police are beating the demonstr —”
Donia didn’t have time to finish. An irresistible force, another wave, was pushing us in the opposite direction, pushing back against us. Against my will, I found myself walking backward. My hand released Donia’s. The human tide carried me along. I could recognize the national anthem; its words were humming all about me: “Ihda chaabou wayman arada el hayyat, fala bouda an yastajiba al qadar.”
I recognized those words! Mom would sing them when she was in a festive mood or feeling homesick. I never learned them, but now, separated from my friends, heart pounding, hemmed in by the bodies that surrounded me on all sides, I could feel them coming back to me. Joy swept over me. Life had taken on new meaning.
Someone — or something — struck me. I doubled over, ribs aching with pain.
“Horyaa, karama, watanyaa . . .” The words kept coming. I could barely stand straight. “Horyaa . . . ”
What did it mean? No one was there to tell me. Not Donia. Not Jamel. My friends were gone. Swallowed up by the crowd. Pulled forward by the call to freedom. Pain swept over me. I couldn’t walk. I stumbled. I felt myself falling.
TWENTY-THREE
Tunis, April, 1984
Nothing worked. Father did not manage to enrol me at La Réussite, the private lycée. The school’s director wouldn’t accept me. What school would accept a student only a few months before the end of the school year?
“You can always try next year. There’s a strong likelihood that we will accept her,” she told him.
But that wasn’t the real reason for her refusal. Neila had told me the night before, when she’d come over to bring me her class notes so that I could keep up with my courses.
“Nadia, did you know that Monsieur Kamel’s wife is a French instructor at La Réussite?”
The information hit me like a powerful wave. My limbs began to quiver.
“How do you know?”
“I found out by accident. I overheard some of the girls in our class talking. They were saying that Monsieur Kamel is married to a French teacher who works at La Réussite, the private lycée.”
“Do you really think the director would have admitted me knowing that I insulted the husband of one of their teachers?”
Neila fell silent. That was her way of answering my question. Tears filled her eyes.
“Look what’s happened to us! First they throw Mounir in prison, and now they kick you out of school. And it’s all because of that damned couscous revolt! If things had only stayed the same, if people hadn’t come out into the streets to demonstrate, if Mounir hadn’t wanted to become a Tunisian Étienne Lantier, if only he’d kept his mouth shut. None of this would ever have happened.”
She was weeping now; tears flowed down her cheeks and her shoulders were heaving. I began to cry as well. I couldn’t hold myself back.
“But Mounir did it for a good cause. He’s in prison, but he educated other young people who have come forward to denounce corruption, who know their rights better and won’t let a handful push them around. Isn’t that something wonderful? So I lost my school year! What’s one year in someone’s life? I exposed Sonia, who was cozying up to the teacher to get good marks. I showed her up and I don’t regret it. Don’t you appreciate what we managed to do?”
Neila smiled bitterly. She was far from convinced. My words had done little to comfort her.
“You’re saying that to make yourself feel better. But you know very well, deep down, that it’s the poor and the underprivileged that paid the highest price, and are still paying. You humiliated Sonia, that’s true. But she couldn’t care less. You know very well that the only thing that matters to her is herself. She’ll graduate and succeed, and you know it as well as I do.”
Neila was right. We’d lost everything. Were we so naive when we tried to play the hero?
“But Alex is twenty-three, the same age as Mounir, and he left home to work abroad. He wants to change the world, too. That’s the reason he came to Tunisia. He wanted to find out about other countries, about other people. Learn from other cultures.”
Neila stopped crying. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The crisis was over. In her eyes I could see curiosity mingled with sadness.
“And you’re comparing our lives with the life of an American?”
“Not American, Neila. Canadian.”
She waved her hand as though brushing away a fly.
“As far as I’m concerned, they’re all the same. What’s the difference? A Canadian’s dreams aren’t the same as a Tunisian’s. Kif-kif it’s not, sweetie. Canada is a rich country. Here, we live in poverty. We don’t have a clue what democracy means. Here, we’re knee deep in shit. And that’s the truth. That Alex of yours doesn’t have to fear for his life. In fact, he’s having the time of his life, and dreaming his bourgeois dreams at the same time.” Now Neila’s lips were trembling.
“What’s made you so cynical? Why don’t you want to believe in what Mounir was fighting for? Why do you want to ignore the dreams of the young people? Our dreams, Neila?” As I spoke I lowered my voice. I didn’t want Mother to hear. Ever since they’d expelled me, she watched my every move and made my life miserable. The expression on Neila’s face softened.
“I just got carried away, that’s all! And what does Alex have to do with what we’re talking about anyway?”
I smiled and lowered my voice further still: “Maybe he’ll help me out of the fix I’m in. Maybe I can go to Canada.”
Neila froze. “Are you crazy? Tell me you’re crazy! I can’t believe you’re saying this!”
“I’ve still got my head on my shoulders!” I took her hands in mine and whispered: “It’s the only way out for me. If I have nothing to hope for here, then I’ll leave.” I hastened to add, “I’ll leave along with Alex.”
Neila shut her eyes. I could hear her regular breathing. Something bonded us together: Nadia and Neila for life. Alex had changed everything. The couscous revolt had transformed me. Separation was coming at high speed. I didn’t know what had come over me. I had promised myself I wouldn’t tell a soul I was thinking of leaving, with Alex. But Neila’s words had cleared the way.
After they expelled me from the lycée, I went almost every day to the cultural centre. One day, Alex asked me if I would go with him to visit the Zitouna Mosque, in the heart of the medina. It was only a short walk from the centre. Without a moment’s hesitation I accepted.
It was a fine day. Alex told me about the books he loved. I told him about my life, describing the incident with Monsieur Kamel. He
heard me out, up until the very end, and said nothing. I felt at peace with him. The souk was deserted. There were no tourists. The craftsmen were in their shops. Here and there, some men were drinking tea and listening to the radio. An unusual calm had settled over the city.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll live at home. Maybe I can register in a computer school so I can learn to type on a keyboard.”
He looked at me with wary eyes.
“No, don’t do that. Follow your passion. Study English. You have to finish your studies.”
“My father is trying to register me for the coming year. Maybe it will work, but if not . . .”
“If not, what? Listen to me! I’ve got a proposal to make. I’m serious. I can help you study in Canada.”
We’d reached the entrance to the great Zitouna Mosque. Rays of light shone delicately from the stone columns. The arcades, arched to provide protection from the sun, revealed the brown wooden beams of the ceiling in perfect alignment. Dried fruit sellers, oblivious to the age-old stones that watched over them and their merchandise, sang the praises of the walnuts, hazelnuts, sugared almonds, and candies that filled their stalls and their shelves.
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Me? Go to Canada?”
“Why not?” he replied with that simultaneously serious and sympathetic expression of his.
“And my parents? I’m supposed to leave them behind, just like that?”
“You’ll talk to them.”
We were climbing up the stairs that led to the main gate of the mosque. Alex pulled a camera from his backpack. Click, click: he was taking photos.
“Stop that immediately!”
A voice ordered him to put away the camera. A powerfully built man with black eyes was giving us the once-over. He turned to me, almost shouting. His words stopped me in my tracks.
“Tell the gentleman he cannot enter the mosque. It’s forbidden for the kuffar,” he said, disdainfully.
I turned to Alex. He’d already understood. With a broad smile he said: “I know. No need to explain. I’m not allowed to enter.”
Blushing with emotion, embarrassed by the guard’s rudeness, and still stunned by Alex’s offer, I couldn’t utter a word.
“I’ll come back another time to take photos. When you’re with a group of tourists they’re less rude.”
We turned back. Alex lived in an apartment in Salammbô, a Tunis suburb. Every day he took the TGM train, the Tunis-La Goulette-La Marsa, to come to work, then walked a good twenty minutes along Avenue Bourguiba until he reached the American cultural centre.
By this time, the shops were all closed. Our footsteps echoed on the broad irregular paving stones that formed the road surface of the souk, which dated back to Ottoman times.
“Are you angry?” asked Alex. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come to Canada.”
“No, no! I’m not angry. The problem is, my parents will never let me leave for Canada all alone. It’s hard for a girl from here to travel abroad, especially someone in my situation. I don’t have a diploma, no scholarship, nothing.”
He fell silent. Already I regretted my words. I felt as if I was looking for pity.
I tried another approach: “Maybe my father would accept the idea, but Mother, never!”
“Funny, I’d have thought exactly the opposite. Why your mother and not your father?”
“Because Father is much more liberal. He studied for a few years in France. For Mother, it’s tradition that counts. That’s all that matters for her.”
He startled me by asking: “And you, are you traditional like your mother or liberal like your father?”
We’d reached the bus stop. The souk had disappeared behind us. This was where I would catch my bus to go home. I hesitated a moment, then said: “I don’t know. I’m still trying to find out.”
He looked me in the eye. A penetrating look. I felt my heart palpitating like the time when I saw a man and a woman kiss for the first time on television, before Mother could start sighing and Father shut off the set. I wanted to take Alex’s hand, but I was shaking so much that it was all I could do to tell him: “Good evening, Alex, and thanks for the lovely walk.”
He walked off without a word, striding calmly and confidently. A few moments later, after I’d taken a seat in the bus, I saw him walking along Avenue Bourguiba. How much I wanted to walk by his side!
TWENTY-FOUR
Tunis, January 3, 2011
Uncle Mounir saved my life. I didn’t even know it was him at the time. The blood was pounding in my temples. I couldn’t see straight; I was about to black out. The pain in my back was unbearable. His hand gripped my arm, the same powerful arm with the long scar. He had also come out to demonstrate alongside his former trade union comrades. Luckily, he caught sight of me in the crowd and came to my rescue. I’d taken a blow to the back. Someone had shoved me; I couldn’t breathe. Uncle Mounir was only a few paces away. Was it coincidence? I had no idea. Maybe he’d been watching over me from a distance. Later he said it was pure chance; he didn’t even know I was there. Nothing was broken. It was a brutal blow combined with a panic attack. That was what the doctor said. I was a bit claustrophobic. When Aunt Neila saw me walk in the door, my face ashen, eyes haggard, and clothing dishevelled, she came close to giving her husband a tongue-lashing.
“So, you took her along with your pals, isn’t that it? You almost got her killed!”
I didn’t have the strength to interrupt. I shook my head “no” but it did no good. Aunt Neila was in attack mode.
Uncle Mounir defended himself like a little boy being scolded by an overprotective mother: “She went on her own, with her friends. I met her on Mohamed Ali Square. The police attacked. It was all downhill from there.”
Aunt Neila calmed down a bit. She turned to me: “Lila, I told you it was dangerous. I told you the police aren’t choirboys. I know what I’m talking about. I lived through those seven years when Mounir was in jail — those years were hell. Have you forgotten, Mounir, how the police treated you when they arrested you? Have you forgotten how the plainclothes police followed you everywhere after you were released, like two watchdogs who never left you in peace? What’s the matter with you? How can you pretend everything is normal? Why won’t anybody listen to me?”
I’d never heard Aunt Neila rant like that. She was normally so gentle, so motherly, so loving, but what had happened to me had transformed her into a raging storm. She had never spoken about her husband’s arrest so openly in front of me. Uncle Mounir, his face still showing the stress of the day’s events, helped me lie down on the sofa in the living room, and then went over to sit down close to Aunt Neila.
“There, there my dearest. It’s nothing. Lila is safe and sound. It could have been worse, I admit it. But thank God, nothing too serious happened. Neila, listen to me: I haven’t forgotten a thing, and you can be sure that it’s because I haven’t forgotten the way they arrested me or what the police did to me that I went out to demonstrate with my comrades.”
He got up and stepped out onto the balcony.
Aunt Neila was crying. Her eyes, accusing, sought out mine.
“I’m so sorry, Auntie Neila, I’m really sorry.” It was all I could do to whisper those few words. The blow to my back had cut off the flow of air to my lungs. For a few seconds, I thought I was going to suffocate. Life was rushing out of me. It only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity.
“I’m taking you to see Doctor Zarrouk. He’s a kind man. I can’t leave you like this.”
She got up. I wanted to say no, but I knew that this was her way of calming her anxiety and burying the guilt she felt toward Mom and me.
“Your mother would be furious with us if she ever found out what happened!”
Mom’s face appeared in front of my eyes.
I wasn’t at all certain that she would be furious. Worried, yes, but not furious. Maybe she would even be proud to know that I’d joined a demonstration in Tunisia. Me, little Lila who didn’t even want to set foot in Tunis to learn a few words of Arabic, suddenly there in the public square with veteran trade unionists chanting political slogans. Who would have believed it?
My phone was vibrating in my purse. It was Donia.
“Call her later,” Aunt Neila ordered. “Right now, we’re going to see the doctor.”
Donia was near hysterical. She felt guilty for losing track of me. But it wasn’t her fault; we had been separated by force. I took a blow I hadn’t expected. Our hands had parted. The crowd was far more powerful than we were.
My visit to the doctor didn’t last long. He ordered a few days’ rest. Aunt Neila didn’t tell him the truth. She was still frightened. I was in the souk, she explained; it was crowded. From the glance the doctor threw her, I could tell he didn’t believe her story. But she was right; he was kind. He fell silent for a moment, then smiled and said: “Anything can happen in this country, rabbi yostor! Go home and get a good rest.”
When I returned to the apartment, two surprises awaited me. First, Donia was at the door; she wanted to make sure I was all right. The second surprise was even bigger. Mom had left a message on Aunt Neila’s phone: she would be arriving tomorrow afternoon on a flight from Paris.
TWENTY-FIVE