by Monia Mazigh
It was my turn to blush. I was ashamed of myself. Me, who thought I knew everything, who believed that the books I read told me all I needed to know about life. But Neila had the intelligence of the people. She had a simple understanding of things, like my mother. She was a real Tunisian. Now it was beginning to look like I wasn’t really enough of one, and before long I wouldn’t be one at all.
I spoke to my parents on Sunday.
As on every Sunday, Mother had prepared couscous with lamb and vegetables. It wasn’t yet month’s end and there was still money in the bank. The atmosphere was relatively upbeat — until the moment I opened my mouth and exploded my bomb.
“What? What are you saying! Now you’re talking about a young man, about love! That’s all we need right now!”
Mother dropped the long-handled spoon carved from olive wood that she used to scoop the couscous onto our plates. She held her head in her hands and began to weep like a little girl. I’d never seen her that way that before. I almost regretted saying the words. But it was too late. My parents knew my secret now.
“Fatma, please, please, stop,” Father muttered in a broken voice. “Fatma, calm down.”
Mother didn’t want to hear it. She continued to whine like a lamb about to be slaughtered, and then suddenly she said: “Just who is this young man that you want us to meet? A Canadian, is that it? First you make us the laughingstock of the neighbourhood by getting kicked out of the lycée, and now you want to lock us up forever? What are you trying to do to your parents, kill us? Send us to the graveyard? Is that what you want? You’re not talking. What’s the matter, lost your tongue? But you can talk to the boys just fine. And not just any boy, but gaouri on top of it! Oh, God in heaven. What have I done in my life to bring us such shame? You are a disgrace, that’s what you are!”
Now it was my turn to cry. I wept silently. I didn’t want to see my parents so upset, at a loss, not knowing what to do. Papa said nothing. He brought Mother a glass of water into which he put a few drops of orange blossom water. Then he added a bit of sugar, stirred it, and handed her the glass.
“Here, take a swallow, it will make you feel better. Calm down. I’ll talk to Nadia. We’ll solve the problem.”
I crept out on tiptoe and into my room. The couscous was getting cold on the table. My stomach was rumbling, but food was the last thing on my mind. What would become of me now? What would become of my parents?
Before long Father came into my room, his face drained from the shock of the news. He said drily: “So then, who is the boy you want us to meet?”
“He’s a young man I met at the American cultural centre. His name is Alexander Martin. He works there as a computer technician. We just chat, like friends. Nothing more.”
I couldn’t manage to tell Father the whole truth.
“What do you mean, ‘like friends’? You know as well as I do that at your age, there’s no such thing as innocent friendship between boys and girls. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Papa, I swear! There’s nothing to be worried about. Alexander has good intentions. He’s not trying to hurt me. He only wants to . . . to marry me and take me with him to Canada.”
Now Father’s face began to darken. I’d never seen him so angry.
“You’re only eighteen years old and now you want to marry some foreigner and move to Canada with him? Nadia, what’s come over you?”
I searched for words. I found none.
“You think things are that easy? And what about us, your parents? We brought you up, sent you to school. And now you’re throwing us into the garbage. You couldn’t care less about us, could you?”
“Of course not. Papa, I only wanted you to meet him . . .”
He cut me off: “For what? To admire his pretty face? Tell me why you think I should make the acquaintance of this Canadian? Are you seriously thinking of marrying him?”
I lowered my eyes. Alex appeared. Was I going to let everything drop? Or was I going to straighten my back and shout out the truth, loud and clear? I felt a bit more confident.
“If I marry him, I could study in Canada. That way, I’d still have a future.”
“And what about our future? Us, your parents! Did you ever think for even a second about us?”
“I love you Papa, and I don’t want to let you down. My expulsion from the lycée was unjust, and you know it. Alex . . . Alexander is really nice. He wants to help me. He wants what’s best for me.”
“So now you’re sticking up for him? Didn’t it ever occur to you that he’s a Christian, and that you can’t marry a Christian? Didn’t you ever think about that?”
Encouraged by what seemed to be an opening on Father’s part, I ventured: “But he can become a Muslim, Papa. If he’s really serious, he’ll surely become a Muslim. I promise you.”
Papa said nothing and left the room. I could hear Mother’s wailing. He told her everything.
“I’ll kill her, the filthy little insect! Just let me at her, I’ll finish her off, once and for all.”
Father’s voice took over.
“You’ll do no such thing. I’ll settle this matter. Calm down.”
I stayed in my room, too frightened of confronting my parents. I loved Alex. I knew it today when I talked about him in front of my parents. I was in love with a man from another country, who had different values and who belonged to another culture. I was attracted to him, to his smile, his eyes, his calm, and his courtesy. Everything about him drew me toward him. But what else did I know about him? Nothing, next to nothing. Maybe he’d get tired of me once we’d made it to Canada. Maybe he would beat me. Maybe he would drop me. With a Tunisian husband I’d always have my parents to fall back on if things worked out badly. But if I went off with Alex to Canada and he turned out to be nasty or mean, I would be up against him all by myself. Nobody would come to my defense.
I could hear Mother’s wails coming from the kitchen; they were like hammer blows crushing my bones. Mother was hardly my closest ally these days. The way she reacted to my expulsion from the lycée had almost been too much for me to bear. Seeing her in such a state made me feel miserable and guilty. Yes, I was the reason for her unhappiness. Her unhappiness came from seeing her only daughter crumble before her very eyes like an ancient relic. I suffered, too, for my father. Torn between paternal love and the authority he’d never truly been able to assume, today he seemed even more defenseless than ever.
Still holed up in my room, writhing with chagrin, I could only bring one image to mind: that of Alex, and me beside him, walking through the medina after our aborted visit to the Zitouna Mosque. Only Alex could understand my sadness; only Alex offered me an escape from injustice. I would not let him down. I would overcome my fears and set myself free from the shackles that bound me, that held me back from my march toward freedom. A new plan was taking shape in my mind. I would leave with Alex, whatever the price. I would flee with him. My mind was made up. No one would stop me. Least of all my parents.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tunis, January 11, 2011
I met my grandparents for the first time the day that unrest peaked in the poor districts of Tunis. Ettadamoun Township was aflame; blood was flowing in the streets.
Mom, who never talked about her parents except to say that they were old and that they lived outside of Tunis, surprised me when she announced that we were going to visit them. Should I have attributed the silence to my indifference or to the scant enthusiasm she always showed toward her father and mother? Both, perhaps?
“Where do they live?” I asked with curiosity.
“Tebourba. A charming little town with an ancient history. There’s good agricultural land and the people are kind and simple,” she replied, her eyes damp.
We were in downtown Tunis, in Barcelona Square. There were police at every corner. As our taxi carried us toward the Central Station, where we’d catch
a bus, I caught sight of an army tank stationed in front of a tall building. We waited for the bus, which gave no sign of appearing. Mom avoided my gaze. Her tired eyes sought out the blue bus that Uncle Mounir had strongly advised us to take, and which was now late.
“My parents settled in Tebourba after . . . after I went to Canada. My father renovated his parents’ old home and they moved there,” she finally explained. The words came out with difficulty.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me anything? Why didn’t you ever tell me about your parents? You only talked about Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir. Why did you want me to learn Arabic in Tunisia when you, who grew up there, didn’t even stay in touch with your roots?”
Without noticing, I’d raised my voice. The odd passerby turned to stare at us. The suffocating smell from the exhaust fumes of the buses entering and leaving the station filled the air. I felt dizzy. My lungs were calling for help.
“It wasn’t my choice. My parents never accepted that I was going to marry your father. They didn’t want to see me again. It broke my heart, but there was nothing left for me but to leave. Thankfully Neila would give me their news. I didn’t want to say anything to you. I didn’t want you to hold it against them for rejecting your dad. Today, I think the time has come to see them. I’m taking you with me. Maybe they’ll forgive me.”
Forgive her for choosing her husband? I wanted to ask another question. Too late. A crowd had converged in front of the blue bus that had just pulled up in front of us. Mom pushed me gently forward; we had to move quickly to get a seat. Luckily we found two places. Seated side by side, we waited in silence for the bus to move.
I watched the landscape rush by, like so many photographs from a magazine. A tree bent over the highway. A donkey cart. A decrepit factory. Two men slogging along the roadside, as though in a dream, staring off into the distance, nothing connecting them, one following the other.
“Is it far to Tebourba?” I asked, to break the silence.
“About twenty miles. You’ll see. It’s a lovely place. Tebourba is an ancient Roman city — Thuburdo Minus, that was its Roman name. There were even Christian martyrs there, during the early years of Christianity in Africa. Then came the Moors from Andalusia fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. They settled there and built the city that we see today. You’ll see. It’s a magnificent place.”
It was the same enthusiasm I’d gotten used to when she would praise her country to the skies back in Canada. An enthusiasm that replaced the fatigue of jet lag I could still see on her face. She’d never told me the story. That dark part of her life that she’d kept so well hidden in our calm and humdrum Canadian daily routine.
“Did you ever visit Tebourba?” I asked her, at last.
“A few times, when I was a little girl. But when my grandparents died, may God bless their souls, my father closed the house . . . until I left for Canada, that is.”
She stopped, pulled out a hanky, and wiped her eyes. I looked out the window. Now the road ran parallel to a river.
Mom put away her hanky, and exclaimed, pointing to the riverbanks: “Look! It’s the Medjerda, the Tunisian Saint Lawrence!”
I smiled. Mom too. We had the same references. Canada had separated Mom from the land of her birth, and suddenly it popped back up, bringing us together in a blue bus as we went searching for our roots.
“Thanks to the waters of this river, this region one of the most fertile in the country.” Mom went on.
She didn’t have time to finish her sentence. We had already arrived. From far off I could see a monument surrounded by a small garden bordered by a black-painted fence.
At the bus station, Mom seemed a bit lost. Police cars were everywhere. The revolution was alive among the people. I shivered. The place was teeming with ambulant vendors: men hawking bread, vegetables, and cigarettes. People milled around. Motorcycles were heading in all directions. I observed the human scene with curious eyes. Discreetly, Mom approached an elderly gentleman sitting beside a table, a glass of tea in his hand. The frail-looking man, wearing a chéchia to cover his sparse white hair, pointed out a street to her.
“Lila,” exclaimed Mom, taking me by the hand, “it’s this way. I can’t recognize a thing. Everything has changed. Luckily the man knew where our house is.”
We walked down a street that ended in an alleyway. We had to step over a garbage bag torn open by some animal. Ahead of us, a skinny cat skittered across the road. At the end of the alley stood a tiny mosque with a green dome. And there, to our left, a house. We came to a stop in front of a red-painted door with a sky-blue frame. Two crumbling stone columns framed the doorway, which was decorated with two brass knockers. My Mom grasped one of them.
We waited a moment. An eternity. An elderly gentleman opened the door. He could only be my grandfather. He had Mom’s forehead, a forehead just like mine. He stared at us for a few seconds, squinting in an effort to figure out what was happening.
“Papa, it’s me, Nadia, your daughter.”
Without waiting for the elderly gentleman’s reaction, she threw herself into his arms. I stood there, off to one side, not knowing what to do with my hands or my emotions.
The elderly gentleman — my grandfather — turned toward me. Smiled at me. There were gaps in his teeth. He leaned in my direction and then, in shaky French, as he beckoned to me, he said: “Come closer, my little one. You must be Lila. Oh my God! How long I’ve waited for this moment!”
He embraced me. I kissed him clumsily on the cheek. A broad smile lit up his wrinkled face.
An elderly lady, her hair carefully arranged, came to the door. My Mom hastily threw her arms around her. It was my grandmother. She looked startled. There was confusion in her eyes. She could not understand the strange scene that was unfolding on her doorstep.
“Fatma, come over here! It’s Nadia and her daughter, Lila. Didn’t I tell you time and again that she would come back? I knew it — my heart would never betray me, I knew she would come back one day. Today is that day. Glory to God!”
TWENTY-NINE
Ottawa, July 2, 1984
Dear Neila,
Who would ever have believed that one day I’d be writing you a letter from Canada? I’m living in Ottawa, the capital of this huge country that still scares me. Me, Nadia, the naive little girl who thought Canada only existed in adventure movies. But look! It’s all true. I’m writing you from that very same country. Perhaps you’re still angry with me, because I let you down. Look, I didn’t have any choice. It was Tunisia that let me down. No, not Tunisia; the Tunisians let me down. Monsieur Kamel, Sonia, my own mother, the lycée, the regime, the police . . . They did everything they could to shove me aside, to put me down. I didn’t have any other choice. I had to leave. I left my country with a heavy heart, a heart as big as a watermelon. Remember those long green watermelons like sagging breasts we used to see laid out for sale along the country roads, or piled high in Peugeot 404 pickup trucks? The ones we’d eat on the hottest days and the gritty pink juice would dribble down our chins? We laughed and wiped our mouths with our hands. Then we went after the black seeds; we chewed through the shells with our teeth and sucked the white seeds hiding inside. And spend the whole day telling stupid stories. How carefree we were! No more, Neila. We’ve become cynical and bitter. We’ve become adults.
I crept out like a thief leaving a store he’s robbed. I left the country I love and the people I love to live with the man I love. It was hard, Neila. Maybe you’ll never forgive me; it’s true, I left in secret. I went with Alex. But he never touched me before we were married. I committed no sin, I swear on my father’s head. “Ib!” was what mother always said about the things she disapproved of. I guess I committed plenty of ibs in her eyes. On the other hand, Alex became a Muslim. He took the Shahada in front of an imam. And don’t be suspicious! He doesn’t drink wine and eat pork like that guy Hedi Bouraoui, your mother’s cousin’s hu
sband. The same imam who witnessed his conversion married us. Am Salam, that was his name. A poor imam we met in the Tunis souk. We searched for hours looking for someone who would listen to us and believe us. A Tunisian girl and a Canadian man.
We registered our marriage at Tunis City Hall. The registrar gave me an accusatory look. “Ya binti, why are you marrying this Christian? There are still plenty of good Muslim boys in this town. Why are you doing this? He only converted to marry you. He’s not doing it for God, but for you. That’s no good.” He whispered those words to me, and then handed me the papers as he waited for my answer. But I said nothing. Alex wanted to know what the man had said. “Nothing. He was wishing us good luck.” Alex smiled weakly; he was nobody’s fool.
You know how our compatriots are, Neila. They stick their noses into everything. The clerk at city hall was no exception. When I went walking with Alex along the street I could hear the men whispering: “Look at the little whore! That’s the way our girls end up. Selling themselves to some gaouri!”
I cried at night when I remembered those words. And you know something, Neila, I wasn’t strong enough to answer back. Fear has tied our tongues. The same fear that Botti made us suck like a bitter candy. With all the power of a glance, and the violence of a word. And along with fear, comes shame. The feeling of shame follows me wherever I go, right down to the depths of my being.
It took a few weeks before I could get a visa. Alex arranged everything: our airplane tickets, our documents, everything! A remarkable guy! I’m sure Mounir will make you happy, just as Alex is making me happy.
There was no embroidered gown at my wedding. No henna on my hands. No deafening band. No bottles of soda pop served on trays tilted to one side from the weight. Nothing. Not even a goodbye from my parents. It broke my heart. I ask you to give them my greetings. I’ll come to see them when things get better.