Stop Being Mean to Yourself

by Melody Beattie

  When we crossed the street at the end of the row of shops, we found ourselves at the gateway to a park. The gate was locked. We clung to the fence, trying to peek inside. In the courtyard just on the other side of the gate, untended plants in a sprawling garden had intertwined themselves around majestic Grecian ruins, crumbling stone reminders of Greece’s influence in Algeria’s rich history. We stared through the fence for a while, then turned and began walking back to the car.

  “This is a fun day,” Fateh said earnestly. “We’re having a good day, aren’t we? We went to the country.”

  Nazil and I nodded.

  “Yes, Fateh,” I said. “This is fun.”

  We got back in the car. Fateh again fixed the collapsed seat, rolled the car until it started, then headed back to the highway.

  “We will drive down another road for a while,” Fateh said.

  He turned inland at a juncture, driving away from the sea, toward the ominous hills. After a while, he looped back in the direction of the city of Algiers. We drove past miles of expansive but desolate countryside, encountering few other vehicles along the way. Then, at a juncture where the intersecting road led directly to the hills, we pulled to a stop at a barricade.

  This time I noticed I was holding my breath while I stared at the floor. I remembered the travel advisory warning about ambushes at false roadblocks. The gendarmes searched the car and waved us through.

  “I love and respect my beautiful country,” Nazil said after a while. “Terrible things have happened to my people. But the worst thing that has happened is that this has given them a spirit of vengeance.

  “Vengeance,” he said, “is not the purpose of what we are going through.”

  A heavy silence permeated the inside of the car. Then Nazil began speaking again.

  “It is a tragedy what has happened to my country and my people. But the biggest damage is what’s been done to our hearts. We don’t even cry anymore when we hear of death. We have lived with the abnormal so long it’s become normal. Our hearts have gone numb.

  “That is the real tragedy of Algiers.”

  We drove for a while, looking at barren fields and rolling hills. Nazil explained that despite the country’s fertile land, Algeria now imported most of its food.

  He pointed to a large, windowless building tucked into the landscape on our left.

  “That is where they take the terrorists who have been captured,” he said. “Once, a doctor treated an injured terrorist. The police arrested the doctor and put him in jail. Two men I know were arguing about it the other day,” Nazil said. “One of them could not understand why they would put a doctor in jail for treating an injured man.”

  I noticed stretch after stretch of buildings, tenements that looked abandoned or destroyed. I asked Nazil what had happened, if this was the result of terrorism or something else. He told me that most of the vacant buildings were projects that builders had begun, then abandoned when they ran out of money.

  “This has gone on for so long,” I said. “Do your people still have hope?”

  “Hope?” Nazil said. “Yes, we have hope. But we do not hope for an improvement in our economy. We no longer hope for more agriculture, or more art. We only hope that one day the terrorism will stop.”

  Fateh turned onto the coastal highway. As we neared the city of Algiers, we all began to relax. Nazil started talking about college, about art classes he had taken, and about some of his friends from school. Soon after we reached the city limits, Fateh pulled the car to the side of the road by the harbor and told me we were dropping off Nazil. Fateh had to go to work.

  Nazil told me how much he had enjoyed speaking English all day and that he hoped he had done a good job of expressing his thoughts to me.

  I said that he had done an excellent job and thanked him.

  I pulled my purse out from under the car seat. “Can I give you something, some money for your time today, as a gift, a way of saying thank you?” I asked Nazil.

  He resolutely refused. “I could not take money,” he said, shaking his head. “That would be wrong. It was a privilege to spend the day with you and tell you the story of Algeria and my people. Besides,” he said, smiling, “we went for a drive in the country. We had fun.”

  I watched Nazil slip over the ruins, then disappear into a colony of homes by the sea. As Fateh drove us back to the hotel, I noticed for the first time how tensed my body was—and had been all day. Because of Ramadan, we had not eaten or drunk anything. I was getting thirsty. I wanted a drink of water.

  “There’s our zoo,” Fateh said, as we neared the hotel. “It’s closed now, but we have the oldest living alligator there,” he said proudly.

  We passed through the hotel’s security barricade. Gendarmes searched the car one more time. Then Fateh parked and walked me to the hotel entrance. We stood there looking around at the guards, the barricades, and the treetops in the distance.

  “Did you enjoy today?” Fateh asked.

  “Yes, very much. Thank you,” I said.

  He smiled, and seemed pleased. I turned to him, put my hand over my heart, and looked directly into his eyes. “May God help your heart continue to heal from the loss of your love,” I said.

  Fateh looked at me. I saw and felt a strength in him I hadn’t before seen. “I will pray that Allah is gentle with you, too,” he said.

  Fateh went to the hotel’s employee entrance to report for work. I returned to my room. I was scheduled to be back in the lobby in one hour. Fateh had arranged several other events for me, including attending a holy Ramadan feast with a Berber family tomorrow evening to break the fast after sundown. My day tour of the Algerian countryside had ended.

  Once in a while—not too often—a person crosses our path who, despite tremendous obstacles and pain, has managed to retain his or her identity, values, integrity, and faith in God—whether that person calls God “Allah,” “Jehovah,” or “God.” That person knows what he or she believes and holds fast to those beliefs despite enormous pressure to do otherwise. And that person’s decision to honor his or her values has little to do with what that person has received from life or from God. Although that person has not gotten what he or she has longed for, hoped for, desired, or deserved, he or she has not turned on God, or upon others. He or she has not turned on himself or herself.

  There is a glowing power in that person that is irrefutable.

  Being in that person’s presence, even for a little while, changes us. We now have a paragon, a model, a jewel exemplar by which to gauge ourselves. We may not always live up to those standards, but we will forevermore be conscious of when we are falling short. And those few moments with that person will help us remember who and what we are striving to be.

  That’s what happened to me, in the heart of the vortex of terrorism on January 27, 1996, on my day tour of Algiers. I met a young man named Nazil. He told me the story of his country. He told me what he believed. And I saw a light that shone so brightly I would never again be the same.

  In a land where people had lost their freedom and power, he had found a way to be free and he understood the meaning of power.

  A true warrior had crossed my path.

  DID ANY OF THESE PEOPLE you met in Algiers give you anything to transport? Anything at all?” the Cairo interrogator demanded.

  “Yes,” I said. “They gave me some gifts.”

  “Show them to me now,” she said.

  I unlocked my suitcase, which was sitting on the large platform table between us. I showed her a pink, hand-embroidered Berber gown and a color poster of the Casbah d’Alger. Then I showed her my prized possession. It was a white cardboard year-at-a-time 1996 calendar. The names of the months and the days were inscribed in French. On the top of the calendar, above the months, was the national emblem for Algeria. It was also the emblem that had, by chance, become my personal seal for this trip—a crescent moon and star.

  The woman interrogating me paused from her questioning for a moment and studi
ed my itinerary.

  “You were originally booked on a flight from Cairo to Greece. That was to be the last leg of your trip. Now it appears you have suddenly changed your plans and instead are flying from Cairo to Tel Aviv to Los Angeles. Why would you spend so much time in Algeria and Egypt, then at the last moment cancel the part of your travels that would have been such a pleasant vacation?”

  “Oh, that,” I said. “It surprised me, too. Let me explain.”

  chapter 5

  Blackout

  I unlocked the door to my hotel room and flopped down on the bed. My time in Algiers had filled up quickly. From the moment I met Fateh, I barely had time to sleep.

  He had arranged two other tours for me besides my tour of the countryside. I had seen the highlight of Algerian night life—a barricaded indoor shopping center where cars lined up for miles waiting to be inspected by the gendarmes before entering. I had seen the city by daylight, riding through the narrow, winding streets that led mysteriously into barren marketplaces and the casbah, streets conspicuously lacking the presence of women, streets fortified for battle by ramparts of armed guards.

  I had just returned from the home of a local Berber family, neighbors and friends of Fateh. They had invited me to partake in a holy Ramadan feast at their house, to give thanks to Allah and break the day’s fast after sundown. The family had not spoken English. Although I had no idea what I had eaten, the food was delicious. After the meal, they had handed me their family photo albums. I leafed through the pages, perusing a personal pictorial history echoing the same themes I had come across at the Museum of Man in Paris—birth, marriage, family, religion, and, just outside the windows of the French tenement where I sat, the threat of death. Then, before I left, the family had plied me with gifts. “La Berber tradition,” they had said, joyously placing present after present in my lap.

  Back at the hotel, I looked at the bag of gifts lying on the floor next to the bed. The people of Algiers had opened their homes and their hearts to me. In this city where only a few days ago I thought I would be confined to my room, I had done and seen so much. This was to be my last evening here. I was scheduled to fly out in the morning—the only flight to Casablanca for several days. Now I wondered if I should cancel my flight, maybe leave later in the week.

  I went into the bathroom and began to draw a bath. As I bent over the tub, adjusting the temperature of the hot water, the lights in the hotel room dimmed, flickered, then extinguished. I edged toward the door leading to the outside corridor, then opened it a crack. All the lights in the hotel were off.

  It was a blackout.

  A flickering of terror ran through my veins as Nazil’s words flashed through my mind. They know of things. They know who is coming and when they are leaving. If they do not already know you are here, they will soon learn.

  The darkened hallways outside my room were quiet, still. All I could hear was the sound of the water running into the tub, and the pounding of my heart. I closed the door, then leaned against it. Moments passed, slowly. The lights came back on. I finished drawing my bath, then packed my backpack. I was in the midst of a civil war. When Fateh had first knocked on my door, I had taken a deep breath and dived under the surface. Now I was running out of air.

  It was time to go.

  The next morning I slipped out of the city at dawn. As my plane took off, I stared out the window. I had never seen a country as beautiful as Algeria. Despite its beauty, the landscape emanated a haunting desolation. It was as if the earth itself—even the trees and foliage—had absorbed the pain and despondency of the people who inhabited it.

  I felt relieved when the plane landed in Casablanca. My time in Algeria had been enlightening but stressful. I was ready to get back to life, vitality, and freedom—freedom especially from the imminent dangers of terrorism. I hailed a cab back to the hotel where I had stored my luggage.

  “Je returnez! Je returnez!” I said to the desk clerk, a large frowning man wearing a caftan. He was yet another person who had scowled at the idea of my trip to Algeria. Now, he smiled slightly—at my safe return and, I guessed, at my illiterate use of the French language.

  I checked into my room, feeling a strange mixture of emotions as I changed clothes and repacked my luggage. Algeria had tapped into some mysterious part of me. My time there now felt surrealistic. I wasn’t certain I had been there. Nor was I completely certain I had survived. My experience there had ruffled ever so slightly the edges of the boundaries that keep reality so firmly and neatly in place.

  I also felt energized. At the beginning of this trip, I had spent the better part of my few days in Paris hiding out in my room feeling intimidated by the luxury, beauty, and tinge of elitism that surrounded me. When I had finally ventured out of my room into the lobby, I had sat precariously on the edge of a velvet high-backed chair. A security guard had approached me and asked if I belonged there. I showed him my room key and said, “Yes, I do.” Then I had gone out and done a few things. Now, the repression and confinement of Algeria made me even more determined to see and do as much as I could on the rest of this trip. I felt a new surge of power, a new appreciation for freedom. I belonged here, too. And I was going to act like it.

  I immediately began planning an afternoon outing to Rabat, Morocco’s capital. On my way to the taxi stand, I went into the restaurant in the hotel lobby and ordered a café au lait.

  The same man who had served me the last time again brought me a silver tray containing a demitasse of espresso and a small pitcher of warm milk. I eyed that pitcher suspiciously. As I poured that warm milk into my coffee, I knew I shouldn’t.

  Until now, I had been arduously monitoring everything I ate and drank on this trip to try to prevent myself from getting sick. Except for the Ramadan feast in Algiers, I had barely tasted any of the succulent food.

  But it wasn’t just over here that I had been monitoring my intake. For the past six years or more, most of the people I knew, including myself, had devoted themselves to eating healthy. It was part of a larger process that was taking place—a detoxification, a cleansing, a fasting of sorts—as people developed a higher consciousness about what they ate and absorbed into their bodies. I could barely remember the days when food was just food, and if it tasted good, I ate it. Now, the rule of thumb was what the dumpy doctor in a “Wizard of Id” cartoon had told his patient: if it tastes good, spit it out. There were so many rules to follow, including my own. There were so many prohibitions against so many things. Lately, especially, it seemed as if everything I wanted I couldn’t have.

  So I drank every last sip of the espresso and warm milk.

  On the sixty-mile drive to Rabat my stomach began to ache.

  The taxi pulled into a lot outside a sprawling palace and courtyard. The driver then located a guide who offered to walk me through the typical tourist attractions. The guide was a stout old man with dark, sun-wrinkled skin and a missing front tooth. He told me to call him Tommy, but I knew that wasn’t his name. It was just an easy word for Americans to pronounce. He told me if I liked what he showed me, I could pay him what I thought the tour was worth at the end of it.

  We walked around the king’s palace and the building where the king’s children were tutored. Then we visited a sacred tomb site. The tomb was a two-story building burnished in gold and guarded by the police. Inside the building, a wraparound balcony overlooked an ornate coffin. Standing there, I had the strangest feeling that I was brushing against an opening between this world and the afterlife.

  We left the tomb and walked and walked. My stomach hurt more with each step. Finally, we entered a large, terraced garden area. I realized how much I had missed nature on this trip. Except for my stressful visit to the Algerian countryside, I had spent most of my time in hotel rooms, crowded cities, and airports.

  Tommy pointed to a large bird nesting on top of one of the crumbling columns of rock. “Look! I think it’s a stork,” he said.

  We paused a moment to watch the bird.

/>   By now, it was getting to be late afternoon. Tommy looked tired. I suspected he was hungry. Occasionally, I saw him sneaking peeks at his watch.

  The dedication I had observed in the Muslims during my travels throughout the Arab world impressed me. The word “Islam,” I would later learn, means “surrender or submission to the will of God.” I was acutely aware of the heightened and accelerated spirituality in the air as the culture went deeper into the month of Ramadan. But I also sensed the strain of the fast wearing on the people as I observed them carrying on their daily work. Thirty days is a long time to abstain.

  As I watched Tommy pant and puff, walking down the garden path, I could see the effects of the elongated fast wearing on him, too.

  “Are you getting hungry?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Going for a month without eating or drinking all day must get tough,” I said.

  He nodded. “But it’s good for you,” he said, grimacing.

  I agreed. “It’s good for the body, good for the mind . . .”

  “And good for the spirit,” he said, finishing my sentence.

  I trudged behind Tommy across the wide main streets of Rabat into the entrance to the Casbah des Oudaia, a seventeenth-century fortress hidden within the city near the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. As we walked the narrow streets of the casbah, I pointed to a small open market nestled between two houses. I couldn’t stand the pain in my stomach any longer. I needed a large bottle of water.

  We finished the tour. I thanked and paid Tommy, then made the drive back to Casablanca, holding my stomach all the way. By now, it felt as if I had swallowed a porcupine, quills and all.

  Many substances, places, and people can be toxic to us. Even other people’s self-hatred, their beliefs about themselves or us, can be poisonous. What’s around us and what we absorb into our bodies affects us. If we insist on being around a toxic person or ingesting a substance that’s toxic to us, we can develop an allergic-like reaction. Our bodies twist and contort, become out of alignment and balance. We can become confused, foggy, even sick. Our sense of power diminishes. Toxic substances, toxic people, and toxic beliefs can weaken people, just as the mythical kryptonite weakened Superman.