by Monia Mazigh
I rushed to get up, to disappear and take refuge in my room. To run away from Aunt Neila’s gaze, to run away from the truth. I didn’t have the courage to look at her one more time. But she cut me off.
“I know you’re upset by what you just heard. But it’s the truth. And truth always catches up with us, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to downplay the situation. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation. I’m really sorry.”
She frowned. “Sorry? Why should you be sorry? For hearing the truth? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, I admit it. Nadia, Mounir, and I never told you about his arrest, about the seven years he spent in prison. Not because we were ashamed of the past, but because we felt you were too young, and we didn’t want to frighten you.”
Aunt Neila’s frankness swept through my body and startled me. Slowly my embarrassment melted away.
“But why prison? What did he do? What crime did he commit?”
“The crime of helping others to escape from oppression. The crime of opposing the regime and of fighting injustice.”
That did it. My curiosity was off and running now. “Was Uncle Mounir a political prisoner, like Nelson Mandela? Is that what you mean?”
Aunt Neila smiled faintly and shook her head. “Yes . . . No, not really like Mandela. No comparison with the significance of Mandela’s struggle. Let’s just say that he paid a high price for loving his country, for dreaming of a better life for the people.”
I thought back to Uncle Mounir’s strange words. The sarcastic, almost bitter way he spoke of the rich. I’d interpreted his words as jealousy or envy, but suddenly they took on a new meaning. I had unjustly accused Uncle Mounir of jealousy, judged him without really knowing him. Now all I wanted was to make amends. How they must have suffered! Years of happiness gone up in smoke!
Aunt Neila sensed how upset I was. She quickly got ahold of herself. “Don’t worry your head, my little Lila. Don’t feel guilty. It’s God’s will. There was nothing we could do.”
I couldn’t understand her reaction, her fatalism. I declared, “Excuse me, but there’s nothing wrong with opposing an authoritarian regime. God certainly did not want Uncle Mounir to go to prison. It’s pure injustice!”
Surprised by my sudden and unexpected outburst, Aunt Neila stared at me, mouth agape.
I went on: “It’s true, I don’t live here, and I only came to Tunis to improve my Arabic and get to know my roots under pressure. I’m not out to change the world, not to get involved in politics either, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept injustice. In fact, I don’t believe injustice belongs to any particular race or skin colour. As soon as you see it, you have to denounce it, and not justify it. Even if you’re a believer, you can’t accept injustice like something that’s ready to fall on our heads at any minute.”
Aunt Neila came up to me, her eyes shining. For an instant, I felt that she was about to speak, to tell me that she disagreed and explain that we had to suffer in silence. She held still, motionless in time. My hands were shaking. I wanted to stop them so they would not betray me. She kissed me gently on the cheek, and then took me in her arms. I could feel the beating of her heart like an echo in a deserted valley. Faint at first, then stronger. One, two, three seconds. Her rhythmic breathing rocked me gently.
She whispered: “You’re right, little Lila, how right you are! If only I could put the past behind me.”
NINE
Tunis, January 5, 1984
Neila wouldn’t accept it at first. She refused to believe that Mounir could be a militant, that he could have taken part in the riots of the last few days. It was hard for me to accept too, but in another way. I’d immersed myself in the innocence of the years gone by to escape the new reality of my life. But now images were whirling in my head. Najwa had gone back home. Her mother had come to pick her up. Alone in my room, I thought about the happy moments of my life. How desperately I wanted to hold on to them.
I saw myself, heart pounding with delight, eyes sparkling with excitement, as Neila and I watched the cars and taxis rush through the narrow streets. We were riding a bus, a rickety, shimmying old white-and-yellow bus that spewed out thick clouds of smoke. The worn-out seats and the trash on the floor meant nothing to us. We were intent on one thing and one thing only. To see the new French film that all our classmates were talking about: La Boum. At first, Father didn’t want me going to the movies.
“There are always a lot of hoodlums loitering in front of the movie houses,” he said, looking me in the eye.
We were eating our evening meal around the dinner table: vegetable soup and quiche. A few slices of onion were floating in my soup. I hated onions. With the tip of my spoon I tried to push them to the side of the bowl. But with the slightest movement of the spoon, they slid back into the broth. I had a lump in my throat. It was hard to tell whether the onions or Father’s outburst had thrown me into this state.
Finally, Mother let out a sigh, and turned to him. “What of it? There are hoodlums everywhere. Can you name one place in Tunis where there aren’t men who harass women, who stare at them and make obscene remarks?”
I blushed. Sometimes, I couldn’t really understand Mother’s outspokenness. But this time, her attitude encouraged me, and I insisted: “Papa, please, let me go. All my friends have been. Neila and I are the only ones who haven’t seen the movie.”
I was lying. I wasn’t certain that all my schoolmates had seen it, but I did know that Neila and I wanted to see it together. In the meantime, I’d forgotten about the onions; I was swallowing them without a second thought.
Papa knew he was losing the battle. With Mother and I against him there was nothing he could do.
“Alright, you can go. But on one condition. I’ll come to pick you up at the end of the film. What theatre is it playing at?”
“The Colisée!” I exclaimed, my voice filled with excitement.
I could read the satisfaction on mother’s face. Father had finished his meal; he washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then retired to the living room, where his armchair waited for him.
At top speed I finished off the rest of the quiche and washed it down with a glass of water.
Two days later we were on our way to see the film; the posters had been plastered all over town. They showed a smiling teenage girl slow-dancing with a boy, whose back was to us. The photo was located in the “O” of the word boum. I knew what boum meant. Not too long ago, Sonia had organized a dance in her parents’ garage. To our surprise, she invited us — Neila and I didn’t know why. We went. And of course, we didn’t breathe a word to our parents. Outside, boys and girls were smoking. Inside, it was dark. I couldn’t see. Kids were dancing to the driving beat of American pop songs.
Breaking away from me, Neila joined the dancers, which made me feel even more like an outsider. Neila was moving every which way; she waved for me to join her. I shook my head no. From the ceiling above the dancers hung a mirrored disco ball, flashing light across the garage walls. Now and again, I could make out familiar faces. Slowly I backed up and stepped outside. There I was, with the group of smokers. I’d extricated myself from a weird situation, and here I was in an even weirder one. In spite of myself, I smiled. That was my way of masking my embarrassment, of forgetting how ill at ease I felt, and how much I really wanted to leave. A few moments later Neila joined me. Her cheeks were flushed; she was almost panting. How ridiculous she looks, I thought to myself. Her clothes — that green blouse and the pleated skirt — were totally out of style. All the other girls were wearing the latest look: leather jackets, moccasins, Burlington socks, and miniskirts or pre-washed Levis jeans.
She wanted to stay; I wanted to leave. Her eyes avoided mine. Neila never looked me in the eye when she was upset with me.
The group of smokers who’d been standing beside us went back into the garage to dance. Loud laughter ri
pped through the silence that had fallen between Neila and me.
Neila stayed; I went home. But the next day we walked to school and all had been forgotten. Our disputes were ephemeral, like raindrops in the Sahara.
We’d almost reached the city centre. Only one stop to go. Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing the passengers forward. We slid from our seats and almost toppled over.
The driver opened his window quickly. “Stupid bastard, you almost hit us!” he yelled at the driver of a Fiat that had come to a stop alongside us.
All the passengers were on their feet. A knot of them congregated around the bus driver, praising his quick reflexes and driving skill. People were talking in loud voices, gesticulating. Eyes were shining, tongues were loose, elbows were rubbing, odours were mixing. Everyone had a suggestion to offer.
“Why not take that crazy driver to the police station,” one passenger offered.
“For two cents I’d punch him out. He needs a lesson in good driving!” shouted another.
An elderly lady in a safsari was gripping the cloth between her teeth. The rest had slipped down her shoulders, revealing an old worn dress. She couldn’t stop praising God and the skilled bus driver. “May God protect you, my lad, may God bless you for saving our lives, may God preserve you for your children . . .”
She continued to declaim her prayers while readjusting her safsari. Other voices joined in, shouting in agreement. Neila and I couldn’t figure out what had happened. A husky man emerged from the Fiat. He was fuming. The two men stared at one another, like cocks about to fight. Our bus driver got up, the passengers massed around him to form a protective shield. Neila and I were shaking. We glanced at one another, and while those fine people were spoiling for a fight we slipped out the back door that, by some miracle, had remained wide open.
Once we got off the bus we began to run, not bothering to look behind us. We had no idea whether the crowd had beaten up the driver of the Fiat. Nor did we care. We wanted to see La Boum. Luckily for us, the movie theatre wasn’t too far away. We had to make our way along a section of Avenue Bourguiba to reach the Colisée shopping centre where the theatre was located.
“What time is it?’ Neila asked me halfway there.
“Ten to three. We’ve only got ten minutes until the film starts.”
It must have been quite a sight, two teenage girls running headlong down the city’s major thoroughfare. Passersby stared at us incredulously, shaking their heads with a look of disapproval.
Finally, gasping, choking, on wobbly legs, we reached the Colisée box office. Inside, the lights had already dimmed. The commercials flashing across the screen at full volume reassured us.
“We won’t tell Papa a thing about the bus incident,” I whispered to Neila.
“Are you crazy or what? You know me — I’m not a snitch. I won’t breathe a word, I promise!’ she responded, a big smile on her face. She’d already forgotten our misadventure.
But the excitement had just begun.
Sophie Marceau, the star of the film, her friends, and her parents, transported us to another world. The film’s romantic music, and the kisses exchanged by young people from another culture, another world, swept us away. Could we feel those emotions for a boy? I felt like Sophie Marceau, a heroine longing for love and adventure.
Papa was waiting for us outside the theatre. He was wearing his brown topcoat and carrying an umbrella. His features were strained. I spotted him as soon as Neila and I came through the door and we were about to make our way down the handsome marble steps.
He waved to us without so much as a smile. His face was indifferent, closed. A group of young men came out after us. They were zoufris, hoodlums, as Papa called them. They were chewing on glibettes, salted sunflower seeds, whose black pods they cracked and spat out with a single rapid and accurate movement. Neila stared at them. I lowered my eyes to avoid my father’s, as he looked out of the corner of his eye.
“So, how was the film?” he asked in a monotone.
“Terrific!” we piped up in unison.
“We really loved it,” Neila added.
Papa said nothing more. He was still watching the group of young men as it dispersed nosily.
“Uncle Ali, you studied in Paris. Is it as beautiful as in the film?”
“Paris was magnificent in my day. Now, I don’t know. It’s probably still as beautiful!” Father fell silent.
I said nothing. Neila teased me, pointing to one of the boys in the group.
“Look at that guy over there. Don’t you think he looks like Vic’s buddy?”
I nudged her hard with my elbow. I was afraid Papa would hear.
Neila could barely hold back her laughter. Dreams are my reality . . . I hummed the chorus of the music from the film. I remembered a few words, but my singing was off-key.
“So now you’re singing in English?” asked Neila, in a derisive tone.
It was dark outside. The lights shone on Avenue Bourguiba. A few raindrops began to fall. Papa was walking beside us; he opened his umbrella. He didn’t suspect a thing. His world was in order and ours was of no concern to him. We weren’t little girls that he had to protect from the insolent eyes of the zoufris any longer. We were adolescents, bubbling over. We wanted to know everything there was to know, up to and including the zoufris.
TEN
Tunis, December 11, 2010
After I found out that Uncle Mounir had spent seven years in prison, my life in Tunisia wasn’t the same. His sad story haunted me. I couldn’t leave the city before learning more about his past, but I also wanted to discover the truth about my mother and Aunt Neila. Why did they arrest him? What had happened in prison?
I was a little ashamed of my egotism and the superficial life I’d been leading for the past two weeks. I’d been looking down on the people around me. What could I really learn from these people, from this country? Learning Arabic was the main reason for my being here, but I didn’t feel like I was making any real progress. My instructor at the Institute for Living Languages was the most boring and the most tedious I’d ever encountered. He would pronounce a word, then smile. Kitab. Smile. Tawila. Smile. And so it went, until the end of the lesson. By the time the class was over, I’d so had it with those smiles that I felt like sitting down and crying for the rest of the day. When we broke up into smaller groups to practise the words we’d learned, I’d end up with other girls, mostly from Germany. They’d come to Tunisia for thrills, for a good time with strong vigorous young men. And a lot of cheap sex. Kill two birds with one stone was their strategy: learn a language and have fun. As for fun, they got all they could handle. That’s what we talked about during class. They regaled me with their countless affairs. We talked in English. Monsieur Latif’s knowledge of English was rudimentary, certainly not good enough to understand what we were talking about. When he came over to check on our group, we pretended to be practicing the words we’d just learned: “Ana uhibu al lughat al Arabiya,” parroted Wenda, one of the girls in my group.
“That’s it; very good.” I said to myself. “Our little Wenda just loves Arabic.” Most of all she loved the trash talk and the swear words her Tunisian boyfriend taught her, the ones she repeated, laughing, whenever we worked as a group. Monsieur Latif was still smiling. He was proud of Wenda’s efforts!
I didn’t breathe a word to Mom or Aunt Neila. Instead, I would tell them everything was fine, that I was enjoying my courses and making good progress. Truthfully, I was learning more about the German girls’ sex lives than about literary Arabic. But there was no solution. How could I drop out of the institute? What would I tell Mom? She’d be so upset and disappointed. So, every morning I went off and pretended to learn.
Meeting Donia, Jamel, and their friends changed my outlook and gave me a good excuse to do something else. In a few days with them, I’d learned more words and local expressions t
han in the weeks with Monsieur Latif. True enough, I wasn’t learning the rules of grammar, but at least I was speaking only in Arabic. When I didn’t catch an expression, Donia also proved to be an excellent interpreter, just like at our first meeting in the café by the lagoon. I was surprised. Today, she invited me to her place. But I was a little leery in spite of my enthusiasm.
“What do you think Aunt Neila? Should I go to Donia’s place?”
That was only a few days after the telephone incident, when I’d learned a little about Uncle Mounir’s past. The wound was still raw. Aunt Neila was getting ready to go shopping, standing in front of the door to the apartment, a basket in her hand and a shopping bag slung over her shoulder. She was wearing an olive-green raincoat. I noticed a broad streak of white in her black hair. Funny, I’d never noticed her white hair before she’d told me about Uncle Mounir’s imprisonment, about injustice and about politics. Time slipped by stealthily. Tunis had taught me that much. Aunt Neila had applied kohl to her eyelids. The black only brought out the sadness in her gaze. I could see it flickering in her eyes.
“Why not? What are you worried about?” she answered with her customary simplicity, as if nothing had happened.
“I’m not afraid of going to her house, I just don’t want to make a mistake,” I stammered.
She raised her eyebrows, startled by my answer. “You are going to make mistakes. Me, I’ve been making mistakes all my life. Your mom too. Don’t be afraid, Lila. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”
Then she smiled at me, opened the door, and hurried off. I stood there, shaken by what she’d said. This wasn’t the same Aunt Neila, the one who always cautioned me to avoid people in the street. No, this was a woman who was encouraging me to break out of my shell and step into the real world.
When I reached Donia’s, the gatekeeper opened the front entrance. He was a much older man, dark skinned, with a burnouse thrown over his shoulders. His was a face caressed by the sun and the rain — a furrowed brow, furrowed cheeks, furrowed hands.
