by Monia Mazigh
Tunis, May, 1984
The American cultural centre had become my life preserver, and I held fast to it with all my strength. Mother never missed an opportunity to scold me, to make me regret my reprehensible behaviour at the lycée. She would come into my room and find me stretched out on my bed, or at my desk studying the notes that Neila passed on to me, and exclaim derisively: “What’s the point of studying if you can’t graduate this summer? Can’t you get it through your head? You’ve been kicked out of the lycée!”
At first, I answered by saying: “I’ll graduate next year. Papa told me that the La Réussite academy would accept me.”
“Don’t count on it! Do you think your father can afford the cost of tuition? He’ll need a second salary. You should have thought of that before you insulted the instructor in front of the whole class.”
“He deserved it, the jerk!” I shot back, eyes filled with tears and voice angrier than ever.
“Well, he may be a jerk, but at least he became a lycée instructor. But what did you accomplish with that highfalutin dignity and integrity of yours? Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut? Answer me! Now you’re always around the house. Won’t be too long before you end up as a cleaning lady, scrubbing floors and washing walls, that’s what’s going to become of you!”
She rushed out, slamming the door behind her. I didn’t budge from my room. There was no way I could respond to her vicious attacks.
I wept and gnawed at my anger like a cow chewing its cud. Father didn’t say a word. TV. Armchair. Silence. That was enough for him.
Neila and Alex were all I had left, and Neila was encouraging me to learn computing.
“My cousin Mariam failed her baccalaureate twice, then she enrolled in a private school, actually a computer science institute. It looks like the thing right now. Why don’t you do what she did?”
I was stung to the quick.
“But Neila, it’s not the same thing at all. I didn’t fail my baccalaureate. They stole my right to take the final exam, that’s all there is to it. It’s not at all like your cousin’s case.”
“I know, you’re smarter than she is, I admit it. But the result is the same — you didn’t pass the exam.”
Everybody seemed to be saying that without my baccalaureate, I was worthless, that it was the end of the line for me, that I was on a collision course headed for the wall. In Mother’s eyes, I’d never be anything but a cleaning lady, and, for Neila, the best I could hope for would be to learn computing. Father had no career expectations for me. Or if he did, he hadn’t said a word about it. Only Alex had confidence in me. And if Mounir hadn’t been in prison, he would have encouraged me to keep going, not to give up, to enrol in an other private school and to try my luck the following year. He would have found a way to tell me that I could make it. He would have encouraged me to stand straight, to never bow my head to injustice. He would have talked to Neila, and she would have supported me.
My relationship with Alex was growing stronger by the day. There was no denying it: I loved him. I knew it from the way my heart began to pound whenever I saw him. I knew it from the endless hours I spent daydreaming about him. I knew it from the happiness I felt when I was together with him. But what about him? He told me nothing of his feelings, but I sensed that he loved me too. Or at least, that he was happy when we were together. Otherwise, why would he have suggested that I go to Canada?
Since our last meeting, Alex had said nothing more about his idea. But it was all I could think of, day and night. The idea was becoming an obsession. How would I get to Canada? On my own? With him? As what? His girlfriend? Everything was mixed up in my head. I made up my mind to clear things up with him.
One day at the cultural centre, as I was about to leave for home and he was going into his office, electric cables in hand, I went up to him.
“Hello, Alex! Still hard at work?”
“Yes, but I’m almost finished. Would you like to talk? We could go for a walk or a bite together. It’s such a beautiful day!”
I accepted his invitation. Instead of heading home, I sat down again, book in hand, until he finished his work.
I didn’t know whether it was because of most of the people around me were rejecting me, but I was getting more and more attached to Alex by the day. His voice touched me like a caress. His eyes embraced me with gentleness. His smile followed me everywhere in my dreams. Alex had become my dream. The dream that kept me alive. What should I do? Flee from him or flee with him?
Our walk that day was a pleasant one indeed. We first took the bus, then got off at Pasteur Square and walked to the Belvedere. It was a large park, full of tall trees and with a children’s merry-go-round and a zoo. I used to go often when I was a little girl. But it had been years since I’d last set foot there. I’d suggested the idea to Alex, and he’d agreed without a moment’s hesitation. There, at least, no one would stop us from entering, as the watchman had at Zitouna Mosque. Not to mention that it was a favourite spot for lovers, who could hide there from inquiring eyes.
“Are you hungry?” I suddenly asked Alex, as we passed a kaki vendor.
“A little.”
I rushed off and bought two small bags of dough balls the size of walnuts, flavored with anise and coarse salt, made in the city’s bakeries and sold by street vendors. Sometimes they came in the form of tresses or a round cake.
“What is it?” asked Alex, half-amused, half-concerned, when he saw the two little cellophane bags stuffed full of beige coloured balls.
“It’s kaki, taste one!”
I opened a package, took out a little ball and handed it to him. The warmth of his hand made me shiver. He crunched the dough ball between his teeth.
“They’re a little like chips,” he said.
Kaki crumbs drifted down onto his sweater as he continued to chew away like a little boy.
“What are chips?”
“They’re a little like kakis.”
We burst out laughing. Here, in this magnificent public garden, our different homelands and our different cultures were intertwining. Green grass carpeted the brownish-red earth, along with random scatterings of poppies, chamomile, and marigolds. Alex took my hand. I didn’t resist. The ancient trees protected us from the inquisitive eyes of passersby. The smell of the eucalyptus, of the mimosas, of the carob trees and the pines perfumed the spring air. I forgot my mother, my father, Neila, Monsieur Kamel, and my expulsion. I breathed in deeply; I felt like Nicole, the heroine of Tender Is the Night, alongside Dick. Alex was there beside me. Nothing else mattered.
“Nadia, I don’t want to force you, but I have to ask you a question: Will you come back to Canada with me?”
Alex’s words brought me back to earth. I turned to face him.
I wanted to answer, “No! How could I ever do such a thing to my parents?” but to my astonishment, I found myself saying: “How am I supposed to come with you? I don’t even have a passport.”
“The passport’s no problem. We can settle all the paperwork. Do you want to or not?”
We were seated on a wooden bench from which one of the back slats had been torn away. Before us, white swans were gliding majestically over the calm waters of the pond. The cries of wild birds from the nearby zoo broke the peaceful urban silence.
I clasped Alex’s hand.
“And where would I live in Canada? All alone? I don’t know anyone there. The only person I know is you.”
Alex smiled.
“But you’d be living with me, of course. What I mean is, we can get married and leave together. And live together.”
Marry Alex? Marry a gaouri? Neila was right to be suspicious. What would Mother think? Father? The neighbours?
My head was spinning. I wanted to pick up my purse and run. Forget all about Alex. Go back to my room, my bed, my books, to my cozy little cocoon. Go back to being th
e carefree little girl I was before the couscous revolt. Enrol in a computing academy and pick up my life where I left off. Maybe I could even become a secretary in an office somewhere. Keep my head down.
But something inside me was rejecting the fate that everybody seemed to have planned for me. Something weighty, powerful, as unyielding as an iron ball was struggling to break free from deep within me. It was made up of Mounir’s twisted face, Father’s terrifying silence, Sonia’s spiteful smile, Mother’s penetrating eyes, and the deafening sound of bullets on the day of the riots. I’d rejected injustice. I’d rejected the status quo. My expulsion was part of the price I had to pay for my failure to submit. Soon, the rest of the bill would come due. No, I would not be going back to where we began, as Bourguiba had enjoined us on television. There, seated on a wooden park bench, watching the swans glide like dancers waltzing across the water, I decided that my life must change. I knew then that I must make the most important decision of my life: to marry Alex and go with him to Canada.
TWENTY-SIX
Tunis, January 6, 2011
Talk about a crazy story! So, I leave Canada and come to Tunis against my will to learn Arabic and, a few weeks later here I am caught up in a revolution! What next? My mom, who hadn’t set foot in Tunisia for years, was about to join me. Who would have believed it? Me, least of all. My back still hurt. Luckily it was nothing serious.
We drove out to greet Mom at Tunis-Carthage Airport. Armoured vehicles lined the streets the entire way. The country was almost in a state of war. Demonstrations had broken out in the poor districts of Tunis.
I wasn’t entirely looking forward to the meeting. How would she react to my newest involvement? I had a serious case of nerves. But Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir were beside themselves with joy, Aunt Neila most of all. She couldn’t stop talking about Mom, telling me how much she’d missed her.
“You know Lila, I haven’t seen your mother since she left for Canada with your dad. At first, she told us she was busy with her studies, then with your birth, then with her work. There was always some reason or other why she couldn’t come back. I spent wonderful years with your mom. She has a special place in my heart. In fact, she’s irreplaceable.”
She turned to her husband, who was driving in silence.
“Remember, Mounir, before our wedding, how much I cried because Nadia couldn’t be with us?”
He nodded in agreement, then glanced at me in the rearview mirror: “Your mom did the right thing, leaving. Sure it was tough on us, but they’d unjustly kicked her out of the lycée. She had her future to think about. And what do you know? It looks like everything worked out for the best. The tree produced fine fruit. Nadia sent us our little Lila, a budding revolutionary.”
He winked at me. I smiled back.
“Wait a minute! I’m no revolutionary like you. Just call me a young militant.”
He smiled again. Aunt Neila was wriggling with impatience in her seat.
“Count me out of your group! I’m no revolutionary, and no militant either. I want peace. Revolutions only bring trouble.”
“So what brings freedom?” asked Uncle Mounir.
Aunt Neila said nothing and stared out the car window. I could see her jaw working back and forth nervously. At the airport, Uncle Mounir drove up and down looking for a parking spot; cars were parked every which way. Two policemen were checking a taxi driver’s papers. His cab was pulled over to the side of the road.
My heart was beating faster and faster. The inescapable moment when my eyes and Mom’s would meet, here, on Tunisian soil, was not far off.
The atmosphere in the terminal was surprisingly quiet. A few passengers were hurrying through the main hall, some arriving, others departing. The country was still unstable. The scene was totally different from all the noise and confusion I’d experienced the month before, when I arrived. Today there were no boisterous tourists, no cleaning ladies with carts, none of the people come to bid someone farewell or to welcome some dear friend or relative. The spirit of revolt had taken over, in peoples’ minds and even in public spaces. The terminal building was almost empty. From a distance I heard someone speaking with an American accent. It was a young man heading for the exit. He looked like a journalist, with his laptop in his backpack and his camera equipment in a bag slung over his shoulder. He was talking on his phone. Tunis wasn’t attracting many tourists, but it was definitely attracting reporters.
I was lost in thought when Aunt Neila tugged at my sleeve.
“Lila, there’s your mom! Oh my God, I can’t believe my eyes! Hurry up, Lila, here she comes!”
Mom was making her way toward us. Her wavy hair reached down to her shoulders, and for the first time, I spotted a few strands of grey among her abundant locks. All of a sudden, she seemed very small: about the size of a young woman with her luggage arriving for the first time in a foreign land. The urge to rush toward her, to throw my arms around her, surged over me. But I held back. Aunt Neila did it instead. I stood beside Uncle Mounir. He looked as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Nadia, my precious Nadia! How many years has it been since we saw you? You haven’t changed a bit. Same eyes, same walk. How badly we’ve missed you!”
Nadia and Neila embraced, laughing and crying all at once. I waited for a moment of calm between the two friends and came up to Mom. I kissed her on the cheeks, she took me in her arms.
“My darling Lila! I’m so proud of you!”
“Me too, I’m so happy to see you, Mom!”
At last it was Uncle Mounir’s turn. There he stood, bolt upright like a sentinel, in front of mom.
“Marhaba bik fi Tounis, ya lilla Nadia! Seems like it’s been forever. I never became a lawyer like I hoped, but as you can see, I married the lady of my life and I’m still alive, against all odds.”
Mom shook his hand and kissed him on both cheeks. Her tears were still flowing. She couldn’t utter a single word.
We made our way slowly to the car. Our return to town was a lively one: Mom, Aunt Neila, and Uncle Mounir couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t speak. All I could think of were the days to come. What would happen on the streets? I thought of Donia and Jamel; how would their struggle end?
“Someone told me you’re involved in politics. Is it true?”
No sooner did I hear Mom’s question than my cheeks began to burn.
“Politics? What politics?” I said slowly, weighing my words and trying not to show how agitated I was.
Aunt Neila stifled a nervous laugh.
“Please don’t get upset with me, Lila. I mentioned Donia and Jamel and the work you’re doing together to your mother. I couldn’t keep silent. Nadia knows me too well. I always say what’s on my mind.”
Now I understood better. Mom knew everything. She’d come to rescue me from the revolt. She’d come in response to Aunt Neila who was concerned for my safety.
“The truth is, when Neila told me what you were up to with these young people, my first reaction was to feel proud of you. Lila, my own daughter, right in the heart of Tunis, helping young people in their battle against tyranny. I couldn’t believe my ears! But then I began to be worry — about you, of course, but also that I might miss the chance to see a revolution happening with my very own eyes, and that’s why I dropped everything, jumped on the first flight, and came. Your father couldn’t believe my reaction!”
Poor Dad, all alone at home. I missed him too. I would have loved to see him, to hug him, hold his hand spend a minute of silence beside him.
I didn’t answer. What was the point? Mom knew everything. But she didn’t seem overly concerned either. But a shadow stole over her face: “There’s another reason I came back to Tunis.” She let out a long sigh, then continued: “My parents. It’s time for me to see them again.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Tunis, June 15, 1984
“I’ve met a yo
ung Canadian, and I’d like you to make his acquaintance.” A thousand times over I rehearsed the words in front of the bathroom mirror so that my tongue wouldn’t tangle, so that fear wouldn’t paralyze my limbs, so that Mother’s expression wouldn’t make me change my mind at the last minute. I repeated the words in order to be able to deal with my parents’ reaction. Rehearsed them there in front of the mirror, hands gripping the edge of the sink as if to prepare myself for the catastrophe that loomed above our family.
At first, Neila didn’t agree with my decision.
“Not only did you choose a gaouri, but what’s more you want to run off with him to Canada! What’s gotten into you, Nadia? You’ve been reading too many books. You’ve taken leave of your senses!”
“But Alex is nice. He’s kind, he’s sincere, he loves me, and he wants to help me. Besides, if I go to Canada I’ll be able to continue my education. Don’t you see Neila? Two birds with one stone! I love Alex, I really love him, and I’m ready to go with him. Plus he’s the only one who can truly help me.”
Neila’s face turned violet; she had a jealous look in her eye.
“But he’s not even a Muslim. You’re going to marry a Christian? And your children, what religion will they be? Well? Did that ever occur to you, Nadia?”
Once again Neila had put all my ignorance and my naivety on display. I hadn’t given such matters a second thought. I had no idea even what Alex’s religion was. But how could I possibly marry him in Tunisia if he wasn’t a Muslim? How could I have forgotten such a crucial detail?
In my confusion I answered: “I never thought about his religion. All that counts for me is love. And besides — what do you know, anyway? He could just as well become a Muslim. It’s only a formality, after all.”
Neila shrugged. “It’s up to you. He’ll have to become a Muslim to marry you. That’s what my mother’s cousin did. Her husband used to be called Hervé Beaudoin, and when he converted to Islam he changed it, became Hedi Bouraoui. Mother says he still drinks wine and eats hallouf. Just like all the gaouri. He only became Muslim for the sake of appearances. Do you think this Alex of yours will do the same thing?”