At the airport Papa was on his guard. He was looking at his watch, and became jumpy as soon as anyone brushed past him; I was afraid he was about to have a heart attack. He had asked a friend to take care that my name wouldn’t appear on the passenger list, not even my initials. He checked that again. As we passed through security and then went into the departure lounge, he threw anxious glances in all directions, suspicious that any solitary passenger was one of Gaddafi’s henchmen. He was in a spy film. Until the moment we took off, he just stared at the front door of the airplane, unable to speak. His mouth was dry, and his hands clutched the armrest until we reached Rome. As if an order from the Guide could still turn the plane around. But then when we landed, he laughed—for the first time in several years, he admitted.
He had chosen an itinerary through Rome just to confuse things. As we had a layover of a few hours, I went to the bathroom to get rid of the black veil I was wearing and put on some eyeliner, a bit of lip gloss, and some perfume. We were going to Paris, the city of beauty and fashion. My wretched existence had come to an end.
Or, at least, so I thought.
9
PARIS
I dreamed of seeing the Eiffel Tower but, instead, we took the RER to the suburb of Kremlin-Bicêtre. I imagined an exotic scene but found myself surrounded by Arabs. “Is this France?” I asked my father, as we were going to meet one of his friends in a chain restaurant that served Halal chicken. I was disappointed. The cold was arctic, my nose and feet were frozen, everything seemed awful. “It will be nicer tomorrow,” Papa said encouragingly. We spent the night in a small hotel at the Porte d’Italie from which you could see the beltway around Paris. And I woke up wanting to smoke, a habit which soon became a full-fledged addiction.
We had an appointment with Papa’s friend Habib and went to wait for him in a nearby café. Girls were smoking on the terrace, relaxed and normal, which gave me some hope. So it wasn’t a defect or a vice, as they wanted me to think. I ordered hot chocolate, Papa ordered coffee, and even before they brought it to us he had gone out to smoke. There was no question of my keeping him company; he wouldn’t have put up with it. So I dove into the restroom to smoke a Marlboro, a package of which I’d kept hidden. Habib arrived and invited us to his house at the Porte de Choisy. That’s when Mama called. Soddeik, the driver from Bab al-Azizia, had stopped by the house in Tripoli: “Where is Soraya? Why doesn’t her phone answer?” “Because she’s in Sirte,” they’d told him. The driver had accepted the answer, but Mama was extremely worried and my father began to shake. He was pale and in shock. Too many emotions. He collapsed in front of Habib and they took him to the hospital. He was discharged in the middle of the night, having decided to return to Tripoli straightaway. He gave me a thousand euros, which seemed like a fortune to me, and a telephone card, and asked Habib to rent a studio apartment for me. Then they went off to the airport together. Overwhelmed and anxious, he didn’t kiss me, just gave me a small sign goodbye. “If God grants me life”—I knew that what he was thinking was, if they didn’t kill him—“I’ll send you more money.” I cried as we said farewell.
Habib found me a room in a furnished hotel near the Porte de Choisy. It wasn’t in the heart of Paris, but it wasn’t so bad either. The receptionist was Moroccan, so she and I could speak Arabic together. I quickly mastered the bus and metro maps. One of my first orientation practice sessions landed me in the Latin Quarter, near the Saint-Michel metro stop, where I treated myself to a cup of coffee and watched the passersby. I was free. Free! I kept repeating it to myself without entirely believing it. I had no plans or schedule whatsoever. No friends, no network, but I was free. It was dizzying.
At the next table, two young girls and a man of Arabic origin were getting ready to party at a club, late at night. I was listening to them, envious and fascinated, and dying to approach them, but I didn’t dare. This city, so elegant and yet so carefree, intimidated me. I went home.
The next morning I took the metro to the Champs-Elysées. That had been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. The sky was clear, the avenue even wider than I had imagined, and the Café Deauville precisely where Mama had said it was. I phoned her: “The Deauville is still blue!” I knew I was touching a sensitive spot in her. “You see how history repeats itself? My daughter is following in the tracks I made when I was twenty . . . How I’d like to be there with you, Soraya!” I headed for the Sephora department store, which I’d heard mentioned by Mabrouka, who did her shopping there. In the perfume department I tested every item, suspiciously watched by the security people. A saleswoman suggested I buy a small bottle of Paris but I had to do some calculations. I had a thousand euros; my hotel cost twenty-five euros a day, and I figured I needed twenty-five euros for food and transportation. My thousand euros would last me twenty days. So never mind the perfume. I’d really wanted to look around the makeup section too, but turned my back and decided I’d save it for another time. Eventually I would go through every aisle, since I had all the time in the world from now on.
It was the sight of a couple of young lovers, who were openly kissing, that made me think of Hicham. I had kept myself from calling him. What was the use? I was just a source of trouble. Still, I quickly went to buy credit for my international phone card, and as soon as I heard his voice I started to cry. “You’ve been gone for two days!” he said. “Two days in which I’ve been thinking of you constantly. I will join you as soon as I can. I’ve started the process of applying for a passport.” So he was really serious? He wanted to live close to me? My God! I didn’t want to wait any longer. Getting him that famous passport, a rare and precious object in Libya, had to be rushed through. And with money anything was possible. So I quickly called Papa: “You only left me a thousand euros. That’s too little! How do you want me to manage with just that?” The next day he transferred two thousand euros, and I sent half of it to Hicham.
And then I had a whole series of encounters that, I realize today, led to the shipwrecking of my move to France, to its total failure. It’s terrible to have to acknowledge that. It’s so humiliating to admit that I let my chance go by. How is it possible? I placed my trust in the wrong people and made bad choices. I was frighteningly naïve. But there it is. I arrived in Paris in February of 2009, a few days before my twentieth birthday, knowing nothing of life, other than the spinelessness, perversity, and negativity of the small world that had imprisoned me. I had no idea of the working world, of relations within society, of time and money management, of balanced relationships between men and women. And nothing about the ways of the world. I had never even read a newspaper . . .
I was sitting on a bench on the Champs-Elysées when a young blonde woman sat down next to me. “Hi. Is there any room?”
“Of course. What’s your name?”
“Warda.”
“That’s an Arabic name!”
She was of Algerian origin, and we rapidly became friendly. “I can tell that you have just arrived in Paris. Where are you from?”
“Guess!”
“Morocco?”
“No. From a country you would never think of.”
“Tunisia? Egypt? Jordan? Lebanon?”
“No! A strategically important country in North Africa. So?!”
“From Algeria? Like me?”
“No!”
“Well, then I don’t know.”
“From Libya!”
“Ah! Gaddafi! Brilliant! That guy is one of my heroes. You have no idea how fascinating I find him! Tell me all about him!”
“You admire Gaddafi?” I felt like crying. “But he’s a crook! An impostor!”
“Are you kidding? Have you heard his speeches? Did you see how he defied America? He is a true Arab! And he has such charisma!”
We continued the conversation in a café, where her friend found us. He was a security guard at La Marquise, a club in Montreuil.
Since they were planning to go there that evening they suggested that I come as well. I liked that idea. “What luck!” I said to myself. It was a Lebanese restaurant that changed into a nightclub after midnight, with an orchestra and a belly dancer. Oh, I sure felt at home, with everyone speaking Arabic, while the public, which was joyful, extroverted, very eager to party, seemed to consist of wealthy Asians. “Look to your right,” Warda suddenly signaled me. “Some men at the next table are watching you.”
“So what? In that case I definitely don’t want to look!”
“Be nice! If you are gracious they’ll pay for your drinks and food. Come and dance.”
Reluctantly, I followed her. Where was she dragging me? Some of the men followed us onto the dance floor, flirting and growing ever more audacious, some even slipping us bills, as one does with professional dancers. I rushed over to Warda: “Come. I don’t want anything to do with this!” But the owner noticed me and came over: “Is it true that you are Libyan?” Then he picked up the mike and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to salute Libya and Colonel Gaddafi!” I turned to jelly, but the guy continued: “So come on, come help me sing a song to the glory of the Colonel!” And in front of the microphone he crooned one of those monstrous songs that the loudspeakers and radio regularly spewed forth in Libya: “Oh, our Guide, it is you we follow . . .” I just wanted to disappear. Could he possibly catch up with me here? I ran to the restroom and locked myself in to cry.
I stayed cloistered in my room for a week, completely devastated. I went out only to buy cigarettes and credit for my phone card. I woke up in anguish; Gaddafi’s shadow pursued me wherever I went. Bab al-Azizia had eyes and ears across the entire planet. His spies had already murdered people at the other end of the world. So . . . was it realistic to expect I could get away from his clutches? Only barely after arriving in Paris I already felt I’d reached a dead end. And then one night a rat ran across my room. That was a shock. I packed up and left the room, hurried to reception, paid my bill, and in a panic called Habib.
“Spend the night here and we’ll see what we’ll do in the next few days.”
I went to his house and he put me up in a room, but around four in the morning he slipped into my bed. Papa’s friend! I screamed, grabbed my bag, and tore down the stairs. The street was deserted and it was freezing outside. Where could I go? I thought of Warda and dialed her number. No answer. I walked to the metro and waited for the station to open so I could sit down on a bench. There some drunk tramp started to harass me. I was crying. I rang Hicham’s number but there was no answer. My father’s friend kept calling me like a madman.
I emerged from the metro station and dove into the café at the Porte de Choisy, which had just opened. I ordered coffee and then, suddenly, a dozen or so policemen came in to check the place. I panicked. Warda had warned me: “Above all else, don’t let them check up on you!” I couldn’t escape; they came toward me and I handed them my passport, trembling all the while. One of the officers, a Moroccan, smiled. “Why are you so scared? You have a visa, your papers are in fine order!” I was paralyzed, incapable of saying a word. He slipped me his phone number with a vulgar wink. I was disgusted.
A group of self-confident, elegant girls came into the café. Undoubtedly they worked together in one of the office buildings, and I watched them in fascination. “Really,” I thought, “these Frenchwomen have such class! They’re always nicely turned out, they dress smartly, go out and smoke in cafés, and have jobs that are just as important as those of their male counterparts.” But then one of them came up to me and shouted: “Why are you staring at me like that? Do you have a problem?” Oh, that phrase! It stays with me still even though I didn’t understand her meaning right away. Her face expressed such scorn and hate. Why was she telling me off like that? I was only admiring her, and if I myself looked terrible it was because I hadn’t slept all night.
The barman was kind. He spoke Arabic, too. “I have to learn French,” I told him. “It’s really important.” He advised me to go to the Alliance française in Montparnasse and jotted down the address on a piece of paper. I took the metro, suitcase in hand, got off beneath the Montparnasse Tower, got lost, and was surprised to see that no one spoke Arabic in this district. I sat down in a café, and whom did I see? Habib! He worked in the neighborhood. “Why aren’t you answering your phone, Soraya? I was worried sick!”
“Don’t ever say my name again. Leave me alone or I’m calling Papa.”
He found a chair and sat down across from me. “Be nice! I’m going to help you. I’m going to find you work and a residence permit.”
“Get the hell away. Or better yet, take me to the Alliance française.”
It was very close by. Inside a group of Algerian women was very busy discussing the fees for the courses and which arrondissements had classes that were free of charge. One of them even offered to drive me to the town hall of the sixth arrondissement. The waiting room was full of Arabs and Africans. “You’re in luck,” a teacher said to me. “There’s a class that’s just begun. Go on in, quick!” At the blackboard a woman was in the middle of having the class recite the letters of the alphabet on the board. A-B-C-D-E . . . I’d known these letters since middle school in Sirte. If I had to start from scratch it would take months and I wouldn’t be any closer to managing the outside world—a thought too discouraging to bear!
At that moment Warda called. I told her I was out on the street. “Come move in with me,” she said spontaneously. “I live alone with my little boy.” And so I found myself temporarily with a roof above my head (Porte de Montreuil), a friend (a sometime club hostess), and a neighborhood (Arabic-speaking). It was reassuring at first, though it would ruin me in the end.
From the first night on, Warda wanted to take me to La Marquise. Initially I refused, but I was afraid to find myself homeless again. At the club she introduced me to an elegant and kind Tunisian man named Adel, who instantly fell in love with me. I made it very clear to him that I loved another man and would remain faithful to him. He made do with coming to La Marquise as often as he could, treating us to dinner and drinks. Warda and her friends consumed large quantities of alcohol but I mostly had fruit juice. Hicham had made me swear on the Koran that I wouldn’t ever touch a drop of alcohol again. And, crazily, that is how I spent the first three months of my time in Paris.
Then my tourist visa expired. And anxiety took over again. From then on I was on my guard everywhere I went—I didn’t want to take any risks. I let Warda know I wouldn’t go back to La Marquise anymore, but she laughed. “Oh, come on! All the girls at the club are in the same situation. The cops are too busy checking up on the guys and the vagrants to worry about you.” I also started to need money, and my relationship with Warda deteriorated. She went so far as to keep me from touching what was in the refrigerator: “That’s for my son!” I called Papa for help. “But how are you spending your money? Find a job, Soraya! Go wash dishes if you have to!” That hurt. “Well, if you want me to I’ll go right back to Bab al-Azizia. It won’t bother me!” He sent me five hundred euros, that was all. After a trip to the Carrefour department store with Warda, I soon had only one hundred euros left.
Then Adel suggested I could stay with him. He had a large apartment where I would have my own room, and we’d live together like friends. “Super,” Warda said. “It’s the ideal solution.” What that meant, in short, was “Get out!”
So for six months I lived in Bagneux, near Paris. It was six months of relative tranquillity since Adel, who managed a small enterprise that handled different kinds of construction work, painting included, did his best to be a pleasant and respectful companion. He’d go to work in the morning, leaving me with fifty euros so I could eat and do the shopping. He knew I was in love with someone else, and I knew that saddened him, but we lived together in harmony. I trusted him, and when I told him of my drama at Bab al-Azizia he believed me right away;
he had Libyan friends who had mentioned the abduction of schoolgirls to him. Warda had rejected my story right off the bat. I must have been an idiot to confide in her! She’d defend Gaddafi with the zeal of a believer, which made me sick to my stomach: “He is a credit to the Arabs, the only one to keep his head held high, to bear our torch! He is a Guide in the most glorious sense of the word, and a Guide wouldn’t know how to act in a base fashion. It’s revolting that you try to make yourself look interesting at his expense!” I couldn’t bear listening to this.
Then one night, after coming home from a party in honor of his birthday at the Mazazic restaurant near the Place de la Nation, Adel came to my room with something pressing. I let him in. He had told his friends that he wanted to marry me. Or so I believe. But I remained firm: I wasn’t free—my boyfriend would join me as soon as he had his passport, in just a few weeks.
Jealousy began to wear him down. One day while I was taking a shower he answered a call from Hicham on my cell phone. His voice grew louder and louder, until he was shouting. When I came in, beside myself, he hung up, screaming, “Son of a bitch!” I didn’t take that betrayal well at all. What right did he have to answer my telephone? I called Hicham back but he said he wouldn’t talk to me again. And I exploded in a rage. The situation had gone on way too long. I had to leave, and I had to find work.
An Egyptian I had met at the corner Tunisian grocery store introduced me to Manar, a Moroccan woman who worked in a bar-restaurant on a small street in Montreuil that was run by a Kabyle, a member of an Algerian ethnic group. They showed me how to make coffee and serve draft beer. I was earning fifty euros a day plus tips, which sometimes amounted to as much as a hundred euros! That was enough. All the more so since they proposed that I share the studio apartment upstairs with the Moroccan woman. I worked for a month and a half until I realized it was a shady place—the boss would sometimes close the curtains so the women could dance in the nude—and also that my housemate was stealing from me, something which drove me crazy. I took my things and left. Warda, with whom I’d stayed in touch, then put me in the hands of a Tunisian woman who worked in a bar at the Porte des Lilas in Paris. I started by washing dishes in the kitchen, then learned to wait tables and take orders. The Kabyle manager noticed that some customers kept coming back to see me and told me to work only in the dining area. That irritated the Tunisian woman. So one used me as bait, the other as a servant. One evening, I came back to the room I shared with another Moroccan girl and discovered that my things had been stolen again. I grabbed my suitcase and slammed the door behind me.
Gaddafi's Harem Page 9