by Monia Mazigh
Yesterday was Canada’s national holiday. The day Canada became a real country. A bit like Independence Day back home, except in Tunisia everybody stays home. There’s nothing to celebrate. Everybody was happy because it was the beginning of spring vacation. Then we’d watch the news on TV with their boring military parades and the dignitaries shaking hands. Here, it’s not like that at all. Alex and I went to the Canadian parliament. It’s a handsome building, the equivalent of our own Bardo. Except that when it comes to size, there’s no comparison. It’s got a tall tower with a clock at the top and a green copper roof. A joyful crowd came to celebrate the birth of their country. Alex is so considerate. We’re living in an apartment close to the University of Ottawa. Alex works in a computer store. He found a job right away. No need for relations. No need for connections. It’s totally different from back home. He just sent in his CV, and they called him for an interview.
I miss you, Neila. I miss life in Tunisia. The monotony of everyday life. Our little squabbles and our fits of laughter. My folks too. Mother says she doesn’t have a daughter any more. Papa says nothing. Instead of words, now, there’s silence. Do you ever see my parents? What do they say? One day, if I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her Lila. Your favourite colour. Remember how you used to dance to Gérard Lenorman’s song “Lila”? We must have been twelve years old. You whirled like a spinning top until you flopped down on the bed, dizzy. I couldn’t stop you. Do you still remember all that silliness, Neila? I remember everything! When Alex is at work and I’m feeling sad, I close my eyes and remember all that. And my sadness dissolves like salt in water. I cry, too, but I don’t say a word to Alex. I don’t want him to see me unhappy, but deep down, I think he knows. He doesn’t say a word. He kisses me on the mouth and I feel like staying in his arms forever.
It’s funny for me to be telling you all this, the girl who taught me all there was to know about boys. Me, who thought you’d get married before me for sure! Me, who was a little jealous to see you so happy with Mounir! Do you have any news from him? When will they release him? Do you ever see his little brother Mohamed? Just between us, I told Alex the whole story. He told me we could do something about it from here. There’s an Amnesty International office in Ottawa. It’s a human rights organization. They help imprisoned people everywhere in the world. They fight against torture. I’ll go see them and talk to them about the repression in Tunisia. I’ll tell them about Mounir, his political activities, and his unjust arrest. Who knows? Maybe they can do something about it. Maybe he’ll be set free.
Ah, I almost forgot the good news! I’m sure you’ll be happy for me! I’m going back to school, at a lycée. A real one, Neila. Here they call it a “collegiate institute.” Mine is called Lisgar. I’d never heard of it before. For sure, they have some weird names here. Yes, I’m going back to school, but all in English. It will be hard, but I think I can do it. One day, those nobodies who kicked me out of the lycée in Tunis will be sorry. I’ll show them what I can do! I can hear you laughing. Are you making fun of me? You think I’m silly, don’t you? Don’t worry about it; I love it when you laugh. It makes me want to dream, it keeps me alive. In fact, I only live to dream.
Love and kisses,
Your dear friend Nadia
THIRTY
Tunis, January 13, 2011
Two days with my grandparents. Two days of tears and laughter. Two days when the past married the present to give birth to me: Lila, the Canadian, the Tunisian, the hybrid, the incomprehensible dream. Time heals all wounds, they say. I’m not so sure. I didn’t even have a past. Only the present counted for me. But all at once, gaping wounds opened up in my heart. One after another, like shots fired in quick succession. My mother’s flight, her marriage to my father, meeting my grandparents.
They lived a modest life in their old Arab-style house: two tiny rooms, a kitchen, and an inner courtyard. No bathroom, just a miniature squat toilet with a sink so small you could barely wash your hands, and above it a mirror stained from the damp.
“Don’t they take showers here, or what?” I asked Mom, a little disturbed by the primitive facilities.
I’d spoken softly to avoid being overheard, but grandma’s antennae picked up my voice.
“What does your daughter want?” she asked, glancing at Mom with an inquisitive smile.
Grandma talked to Mom like a guest she was trying to please. She was still treading gingerly. With each word, each silence, each glance, the past would come rushing back. She didn’t wait for an answer, and Mom was still looking for the right words. In a mixture of Arabic and French, which I easily understood, she said: “You want . . . shower? I put on water to heat. You shower in toilet . . .”
Mom interrupted politely. “Lila doesn’t really need to take a shower. She only wants to know where you usually take one. Don’t bother, Ommi, no need to heat water. She had a shower yesterday at Neila’s.”
Then she told me: “Lila, Arab houses don’t usually have a bathroom, because people go to the hammam. There’s one at every street corner, daytime for men, evenings for women and children.”
I’d asked a simple question. Now I was getting more information than I could assimilate.
Meanwhile, Mom couldn’t stop kissing her parents. Once on the right cheek, once on the left cheek, once on the forehead, and once on the right hand. I found my granddad Ali polite and gentle. He spoke to me in French, which irritated his wife, because she couldn’t understand every word. It was one of those rare times when he could get the better of her.
Grandma Fatma wasn’t mean, but I did find her a little excessive in the way she looked at you, the way she talked, the way she expressed her feelings.
The room where we spent our first night together also made do as a living room. There were two wooden beds, both a kind of narrow sofa bed with armrests and a backrest. They were decorated with little cushions. A foam mattress covered with the same fabric as the cushions provided enough space to sit down comfortably and even to stretch out. In the middle of the room was a low table with a vase full of plastic flowers. An outsize painting — a lugubrious still life — covered most of one wall. I wondered just where my grandparents had found such a monstrosity. An old television set stood in one corner, and next to it, shelves full of worn-out books. Atop those same shelves was a photo of me as a baby — I must have been two or three — in Andrew Haydon Park, in Ottawa, staring at the wild geese.
The entire evening, all Mom could do was ask questions. My grandparents did their best to answer. “Whatever became of little Najwa?” Mom asked Grandma Fatma.
“She never finished school. Hedia, her mother, could never make ends meet, even with the money her poor husband left her when he died. Six children, what can you do? So Najwa got married to a doctor who went to work in Saudi Arabia. She came to see us once or twice. Really put on weight. It was hard for her even to move around. But she was just as affectionate as ever.”
Mom seemed disappointed by Najwa’s story; her eyes turned sad once more. Grandma Fatma went on: “Next time she comes to see me, I’ll ask her to talk to you over the computer. Everybody uses skee or skibe or something like that. You talk to the computer and the other person answers you. I saw our neighbour talking to her son who lives in France. Here, all we have is a telephone, and it barely works.”
She glanced at the timeworn set, which looked like a relic from an old film. It sat atop a small table in one corner of the room.
Mom responded: “That’s a good idea. Ask her to call me on Skype, that’s what they call it. I loved Najwa. How I’d like to talk to her after all these years. We’d have so much to tell each other.”
I was having trouble keeping track of what they were saying. I didn’t know Najwa or any of the other people whose names kept popping up in the lively conversation between Mom and her parents.
I thought of my dad. Why had these people — my mother’s own family — reje
cted him? Why did they never accept him as a son-in-law? And, as though Grandma had read my thoughts, she surprised me when she said: “Ya Lila, you look just like your mother, like two drops of water, except for your eyes, they’re your father’s. He must feel so alone, that poor Iskander. You left him to fend for himself, you and your mother. No wife to prepare his meals, no daughter to keep him company.”
Her eyes were glinting maliciously. I couldn’t tell whether she was being sincere or sarcastic. Mom, whose face tensed at the sound of the Arabic version of my dad’s name, suddenly relaxed. Grandma’s question, sincere or not, had touched the secret doorway, the one everyone was thinking about, the one that put everybody on edge.
“Alex is doing just fine, Ommi. I left him plenty of food in the freezer. And what’s more, he’s a good cook. He can look after himself just fine. A few more days, and we’ll all be together, insha’Allah.”
Grandma was surprised, and her curious look gave her away: “What does he know how to cook, anyway? Tagines, soups, couscous? Does he know our cooking?”
“He knows everything. We learned together. I remembered the things I used to eat when I was a little girl and I tried to prepare them, and he helped me out.”
Fatma was wide-eyed. Granddad dropped in a word: “One day, he’ll come and sample one of your delicious dishes, ya Fatma!”
She fell silent; it was as though she already regretted that Granddad had gone so far.
The little heater in the middle of the living room cast its flickering blue light over us. The atmosphere was sweet and melancholy at the same time; Mom leaned over toward her mother and took her in her arms. A long, touching embrace. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks. Granddad stepped outside. I watched his shadow move along one of the walls. Then he slowly disappeared in the darkness.
THIRTY-ONE
Ottawa, April 4, 1992
Dear Neila,
Thanks for your last letter. Nothing but good news all around! I’m so happy to learn that they finally released Mounir. Unbelievable! Held for more than seven years for daring to say no to injustice. I cried when I saw your wedding photo. You can’t imagine how happy I am for both of you. At last the dream of a lifetime is coming true. You’re just wonderful in the photo. Exactly like a movie star. Your hair so elegant, your cheeks all powdered, and your eyes made up. I swear, you look just like Claudia Cardinale when she was young. And Mounir, he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still just as serious as I remember him when I saw him at the entrance to the shopping centre searching customers’ bags. Ah, my dearest Neila, the years are passing like the waves of the sea, but suffering sinks to the bottom.
You wrote that my parents attended your marriage, and I could feel my heart leap. You know well that you were always like a second daughter to them. Your wedding was the one I could never give them. Papa answered two or three of my letters. Mother doesn’t even want to talk to me on the phone. I wrote to Papa in my letters that I wanted to speak to her. I gave him my number here in Ottawa, but heard nothing; she’s still turning her back on me. Even when I graduated from university, with my degree in English literature, she didn’t budge an inch. Papa only tells me the barest minimum — a few words and the letter is over. I read it and reread it to give myself the impression that he’s still talking to me. The only time I detected a note of pride was when I announced that I’d gotten my university degree. It was like a faint ray of light over a dark and stormy sea. Only a single sentence that said: “I always knew you were a good student.” Maybe mother will speak to me one day. When she learns I’ll soon be a mother, maybe she’ll change her mind. I keep on hoping.
It’s true. I didn’t tell you right away: I can feel the baby moving around in my tummy. This is a kind of happiness I’ve never experienced before, a feeling that life is taking shape inside me, helping me to forget the pain of being parted from my parents. Alex is beside himself with joy. He’ll soon be a father. Always the same old guy: sweet tempered and lovable. Ah, if only my parents would accept him! Actually, it’s not so much him as it is the rebellious girl I became after the couscous revolt. They could never come to terms with the new Nadia. The ghost of the old Nadia still hovers over their life. Docile Nadia, the little girl who didn’t ask too many questions, the little girl who was ready to be just like everybody else, the little girl who would pass the baccalaureate exams with honors and become the pride of the neighbourhood.
Just look at me! Stirring up bitter memories! I try to forget, to move on, but you know just how hard that can be.
I didn’t tell you that we’ve just bought a house. A house like the ones we used to see in the movies. A red brick house with a pitched roof. You won’t find anything like it in Tunis. There’s a wood floor, a fireplace in the living room, and no French doors at all. The windows let in the dazzling Canadian winter light that fills our lives with warmth and hope. I hope you’ll come here to Ottawa for a visit. I miss you. All those lost years. Pray for me and for my little Lila who keeps on kicking me in the side.
With all my love,
Nadia
THIRTY-TWO
Tunis, January 14, 2011
When we left my grandparents’ house, a part of me wanted to stay. Their simple life, Granddad’s gentleness, and Grandma’s clever mind — everything about them appealed to me. And something drew me to them, too. My own origins in all likelihood. “The power of blood,” was what Mom called it. She must be right.
I was in no position to judge my grandparents for having rejected Mom’s marriage and hasty departure. All I wanted to do was to savour every moment I spent with them. How futile it was to go back over the past, to criticize my mother for hiding so many things from me. I would have all the time I needed to talk with her when we got back to Ottawa. But for the time being, things were not going well in Tunis. Donia called me on the morning of our departure from Tebourba. She was weeping; I could barely understand her. When I finally figured out what she was saying, I didn’t want to believe her. Jamel had been arrested. Donia was frantic. I tried to reassure her over the phone, and I promised to go to see her as soon as we got back to the city.
A few hours later, we met at Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila’s apartment. Our pleasure after a day and a half with our family was disturbed now by the flow of events sweeping the country.
The news of Jamel’s arrest shook us all, but it hit Uncle Mounir hardest. It made him think back to his own arrest and to his ordeal in Tunisia’s prison.
“The guards treated us like cattle. They crowded us into one cell for hours. If anyone was brave enough to cry out or to denounce those terrible conditions, he would be punished. They deprived us of food for whole days.”
Aunt Neila was preparing tea in the kitchen, while Uncle Mounir talked with Mom about the political situation. Donia’s messages kept popping up on my phone, one after another. During the night they’d taken Jamel to the police station in his neighbourhood. His neighbours had alerted Donia to his arrest. At first she thought it was a rumour, but she soon realized it was true. Jamel was being held somewhere, either at the Ministry of the Interior or at a police station. Ettadamoun Township was a battlefield. Dozens had been injured in clashes between police and demonstrators. Donia was beside herself. Message after message. I had to go to see her, to stand by her. She told me about a mass demonstration in the streets of Tunis.
You’ll come with me, won’t you? she insisted in her text message.
I had no idea how Mom and her friends would react if I suggested that we all go together. I was afraid they would refuse.
We’ve got to come out, to denounce injustice! wrote Donia.
I’d love to, but what about Mom and her friends; were they ready to make the leap, ready to defy the regime? Tell them or keep quiet? Eyes focused on my telephone, my heart beat in unison with Donia’s. My thoughts were rushing. What would I have to lose if I asked them to come out with Donia and me?
I’d hardly finished my sentence when Mom spoke up: “A demo in Tunis! I must be dreaming!”
“We’ve got to go,” Uncle Mounir replied immediately.
“The police will never let people demonstrate. Ben Ali will bring his people out, you’ll see!” Aunt Neila’s words were a damper upon us. She placed her sunglasses on the table.
“He’s nothing to be afraid of,” Uncle Mounir said. “Just an old cop ready to collect his pension.”
Mom laughed. “You’re right, Mounir. What do we have to be afraid of, after all the deaths, all the arrests. We’ve got to go!”
I was ecstatic. Mom was with us, and Uncle Mounir too. Aunt Neila didn’t have a choice. Her fear would soon melt; I could feel it coming.
So, you’re coming to the protest? We have to do it, for Jamel, and for all the others! Donia’s messages were snapping at my heels, like a rabid dog. I needed a few minutes. Mom and her friends were about to make the decision they could never have made a few years before.
Mom and Uncle Mounir looked Aunt Neila right in the eye. She turned away and stared out the window.
“Okay! I’m coming with you. But you know something? I’m doing it for one person, and one person only.” She turned to me, came up to me, and took my hand. “I’m doing it for Lila. She’s the future, she’s the one who came to change my life. I’m coming out with you, but I’m doing it for her.”
Her eyes weren’t sad any longer. They were shining, in fact. I threw myself into her arms. Aunt Neila hugged me; I felt as if I would never leave her again.
I’m coming with you. Mom, Aunt Neila, and Uncle Mounir are coming too. We’ll stop by to pick you up. I tapped out my message to Donia, not sure whether all of this was real or I was dreaming.