by Monia Mazigh
Father had quickly slammed the brakes. Too bad he hadn’t followed up on his first impulse. In the beginning he’d spoken to me as a friend, as he would to an adult, but suddenly he flip-flopped, back to his traditional role, to his passivity, to his world. A world that little Nadia, as a child, might have been a part of, but not the young woman I’d become, the young adult searching for herself.
I went back to my room. My attempt had failed. My parents seemed more and more remote. Far from my way of thinking, far from my ideas, far from the questions I was asking myself, and far from my aspirations. A wall was going up. In fact, it had been under construction for years, but only over the last few days had I come to realize that it existed. I didn’t know whether to demolish it and let the stones fall, one after the other, or instead, to add stones to the wall each day.
I’d found refuge in my classes, and of course there was Neila. But it wasn’t the same thing. I needed my parents. Needed to talk to them about life, about politics, about my fears, the things I wanted to do. But that was asking for the impossible. We were saturated in banality, right down to the bone. It dripped from our hair, oozed from the pores of our skin and from our day-to-day routine. “Eat, sleep, and study” was my parents’ unspoken advice. I’d understood it as a little girl and never called it into question. But that day, at last, I’d managed to sweep some of the dust away. I was daring to think differently — not to memorize the notes I took in class, but to ask questions, to understand, to figure out what was really going on. To find out why Mounir had gone off with the zoufris. Was he one of them after all? Who invented those categories, anyway? Society? My parents? The government? All of us?
Those were the thoughts weighing down my mind. I shook my head from left to right, nodded vigorously up and down. I wanted to disperse the thick clouds that were gathering and blurring my vision.
I heard Mother exclaim to Najwa: “Look in your little bag. Maybe you’ll find it there. Your mother shouldn’t have to buy you another one, life is too expensive these days.”
Najwa was sniveling harder than ever and piped up in a desperate voice: “It’s not there, Auntie Fatma. I can’t find it. I’m afraid my hanky fell out of my pocket the other day at school when we were playing ‘elastic.’”
Mother let out a cry that was more like the roar of the lion I’d heard at the Belvedere Zoo when I was a little girl, and it terrified me.
“Why are you always playing ‘elastic’? When are you going to grow up and mind your manners like a big girl?”
Mother burst out of the room without so much as a glance in my direction. Najwa was holding back tears and then, as soon as she saw me, she rushed over and threw her tiny arms around my waist.
In a trembling voice she asked, “Nadia, didn’t you play ‘elastic’ when you were my age?”
I smiled at her and wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes. She sat down on the edge of my bed. Her nose was dripping. Mother was going to scold her. She was waiting for my answer, her damp little hand was stroking mine.
“I just loved ‘elastic.’ But I was no good at it. We played every day in the playground, at recess. One of the girls was the champ. I could jump as high as my waist, but no higher. But that girl, she could jump as high as her head and sometimes even higher — we called it ‘the sky.’ We stretched our arms up, and still she could jump through the elastic band. She was really super, nobody could beat her!”
Najwa’s face relaxed, her eyes were gleaming like two candles in the dark. Mother’s reproaches seemed far away. Suddenly she leaned over toward me, for fear someone might hear her, and whispered sweetly in my ear:
“Me too, I just love playing ‘elastic,’ and you know what, I’m letting you in on a secret: I can jump as high as my chest.”
I laughed a nervous laugh. Poor Najwa, I had no idea how she would ever find her way. Her father was dead. Her mother was raising the children single-handed. The country was going to the dogs. I saw myself in the playground of my elementary school. It was winter. My fingers were red and swollen with the chilblains that tormented me all winter long. A rubber band about ten feet long went around my legs, and I stood there, straight. Neila, a few yards away, was standing just as straight, the other end of the rubber band around her legs. Looking one another in the eye, we made faces and burst out laughing. The hems of our second-hand checkered skirts peeped out from under our dark blue tunics. Neila had two long braids and spindly legs that looked like crutches. The tiny hairs on her skin stood up in the cold, and her red socks came up to her ankles. My hair was done up in a ponytail that swung back and forth in the wind as if shooing invisible flies. Every now and then I’d rub my swollen fingers.
The whole playground was filled with little groups like ours. The younger girls preferred skipping rope. It was like a competition. You’d see girls leaping into the air, then landing on their two feet or — sometimes — on the ground. The games lasted until the school bell rang out and we dashed off in all directions to get in line and march back into our classrooms. With a quick twist of the wrist we slipped the elastic from around our legs, rolled it up into a ball, and hid it in our school tunics. Every day the same scene would be repeated. Sometimes, but not often, we would stroll around the playground, arm in arm, or arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. We told stories we’d overheard told at home by an loquacious aunt or a sweet old grandmother, or furtively read in books left on bookshelves by careless adults or carefully hidden under pillows. We would stroll aimlessly around the schoolyard, our worn-out shoes kicking up pieces of gravel that would skip off to one side and roll along the ground.
Quietly Najwa came over and lay down beside me. She was staring at the painting hanging from the wall of the bedroom. It was a cheap, poor copy of Renoir’s Jeunes filles au piano. I’d gotten it as a birthday present several years before.
“I really like that picture, Nadia,” Najwa whispered without looking at me. “It’s like you and me. Maybe one day I could play the piano like the little girl in the painting.”
“Play the piano or play ‘elastic,’” I said, teasing her and tickling her feet. “You’ve got to make up your mind.”
Najwa curled up in a ball, holding her feet to protect them from my harmless torments. Her face was gleaming. In spite of her laughter, she managed to say: “Both! The piano and ‘elastic.’”
Suddenly Father’s voice rang out, tearing us away from our innocent games: “There will be school tomorrow, they just announced it on the radio. Hurry up, off to sleep.”
Our faces dropped. Najwa went to put on her pajamas. Me, I had to review my notes. I hadn’t done a bit of homework for two days.
I dreaded going back to normal already.
TWELVE
Tunis, December 12, 2010
Our minds were made UP. I would be going with Donia to Ettadamoun. After our conversation, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Donia’s words had surged into my mind, turning it into a battleground. Soldier against soldier. Idea against idea. Belligerents meeting in combat, then returning each to his corner to catch his breath before beginning all over again. I stayed awake until before daybreak. From the loudspeakers of our neighbourhood mosque the call to prayer came loud and clear, and then began to fade. Allahu Akbar. La Ilaha ila’Allah. The voice evaporated into the still dark sky. I could make out each word, discern each syllable, understand each phrase. Heavy now, my eyelids closed. My eyelashes meshed. Finally my body lapsed into sleep. The battleground disappeared.
When I came back to Aunt Neila’s place after my meeting with Donia, I wanted to do only one thing: pack my bags and leave. Go home to Ottawa. Forget this complicated world. Seek refuge in the monotony of everyday life. How did it all happen? Should I continue to listen to my mother and allow her to guide my life? I should never have agreed to come here in the first place. I came upon Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir in the kitchen. He was slicing a baguette while she ladled s
oup into pretty blue bowls.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she exclaimed.
Uncle Mounir threw me a smile as he continued to draw the toothed blade of the knife through the bread. Slices were accumulating. He put them into a wicker basket. With the side of his hand he brushed the crumbs into a small cup, dumped them into his hand and sucked them into his mouth. Head thrown back, he swallowed the breadcrumbs and seemed pleased with himself.
“Come, sit down with us. We’ve got soup, tuna briks, and a salad. A Ramadan meal and we’re not even in the fasting month! That’s how it is. I don’t know what to cook these days.”
I forced myself to sit down at the table with my mother’s friends who had become my friends as well, my foster family. I was heavy hearted, my head spinning.
“What is it? You don’t look your usual self,” asked Aunt Neila, her face showing concern. “You seemed fine this morning.”
Uncle Mounir had just put the breadbasket on the table. He stretched out his arm to grab a bottle full of a yellowish-green liquid.
“It’s extra-virgin olive oil, natural, freshly pressed. A friend gave it to me this morning. It’s from his olive press. The place is more than one hundred years old. I can take you there one of these days if you like. You’ll see the millstones they use to crush the olives. The pressing mats, like round doormats with a hole in the middle. They’ve been doing it that way for thousands of years. I’m sure you’d really like it. In your country, in North America or even in Europe, they call it ‘organic.’ And they sell it dear. But a friend gave me some as a gift. Here, taste some on a lump of bread. You’ll see, it’s delicious.”
I didn’t know what to say, how to respond to this unexpected deluge of information. Aunt Neila piped up: “Leave her be! Save your history lessons for some other time.”
I sighed. “No, no, I like to learn things. Except that I don’t know what I should learn first. I feel like everybody is pulling and pushing me to learn more than I can handle about this country.”
Uncle Mounir opened the bottle and poured a bit into a saucer. You’d have thought he was handling the most precious substance in the world. He dipped a morsel of bread into the green-gold oil. He handed the oil-soaked bread to me.
“Here, tell me what you think.”
Aunt Neila seemed upset, but Uncle Mounir pretended not to notice.
“Is there a problem with your friend Donia? You told me you were going to see her. You weren’t quite sure, isn’t that so?”
I wasn’t sure whether to pop the morsel of oil-soaked bread in my mouth or answer Aunt Neila. For an instant I looked at them, then decided to try the bread. It had a strong taste. An intriguing combination of fruitiness and acidity—a bit like Aunt Neila’s kindness and Uncle Mounir’s cavalier attitude. How was I supposed to react to the combination?
“Well, what do you think? It’s miraculous, isn’t it?”
I kept on chewing slowly. The opposing flavors dissolved one by one, like my ideas, which kept melting away, one after another.
“I don’t know. Yes, it’s good, but it has an aftertaste. Something strong and a little bitter left in my mouth.”
For the first time, Uncle Mounir seemed disappointed. I regretted my response already. I caught myself quickly. “It’s good, really good, but there’s that taste . . .”
“That’s the secret! The flavor of good olive oil is in that bitter taste. The authentic taste that people have been trying for centuries to get. Purity.”
Fed up, Aunt Neila commanded: “The soup is getting cold. Now it’s time to eat!”
After the bread and olive oil, I couldn’t swallow a single bite. It was as if my throat was tied in a knot. There was a long moment of silence. I didn’t dare look at my friends.
Then, slowly, Aunt Neila repeated her question: “What is it, sweetie? Are you homesick? Missing your parents? Don’t you like your new Tunisian friends? Is Donia bothering you, or what?”
“I don’t know anymore. I feel like I’m being pulled from all sides. I’d like to go back home to Ottawa. But I’ve started to like life here. Donia is really nice, but she’s asking me to help her, and I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Help her?” they said, startled, putting their spoons on the table at the same time.
I saw the faint traces of soup at the corners of their mouths. Strangely, I saw Uncle Mounir’s hand begin to shake. Did I just make the worst mistake of my life? I couldn’t tell. But the family Mom had entrusted me to had every right to know. Especially if things began to get complicated.
“Help her in the fight against injustice, against the dictatorship. With her blog, and in her work with the poor young people in Ettadamoun.”
My hosts’ faces froze. Uncle Mounir got up from his seat. Aunt Neila said nothing, and shut her eyes.
“Lila, would you come out to the balcony for a minute?” he asked.
I tried to make sense of their reaction. Did it mean that they were terrified of the regime?
“Okay, I’m coming.”
I could still taste the olive oil in my mouth. Aunt Neila didn’t move. She seemed far away. Her eyes were closed. It was as though she was meditating on the meaning of life.
With deliberate steps, I followed Uncle Mounir to the balcony. He slid the glass door open with a grating sound. Like a curious cat I placed one foot outside, then the other. A damp wind struck my face. I shuddered. It was funny; I felt reinvigorated. The cold refreshed me. The cold brought me back to Canada; I felt at home. Two wrought iron chairs and a table stood in a corner. There was an old metal tomato can filled with cigarette butts on top of it. Uncle Mounir always stepped out here to smoke after meals, and sometimes he would spend hours reading. I could see him from my window, which opened onto the balcony.
“Sit down,” he told me. It sounded like an order.
I obeyed. Now I was getting really worried. I had no idea what he was going to say. I wanted to call out to Aunt Neila. but I knew she would not come to my rescue.
He pulled up a chair and sat down, put a cigarette between his lips, and lit it.
Hands folded in my lap, I awaited the verdict.
THIRTEEN
Tunis, January 10, 1984
Mounir had been arrested. His younger brother, Mohamed, gave Neila and me the news. Neila and I were walking toward the lycée and we ran into him, school bag on his back, held in place by two strips of cloth like suspenders, his hands thrust into his pockets. His trousers, with large patches on each knee, barely came to his ankles. He wore a wool cap with a pompom. We knew Mohamed well. We often saw him sitting, legs swinging back and forth, on the back of his father’s wagon, the one drawn by a donkey. His father went from one house to another to sell black earth or sheep manure for the neighbourhood’s gardens. Once we saw him with Mounir. They were on their way to meet the principal of Mohamed’s school, who was insisting that he take private lessons. Mohamed was always smiling — mouth half open, displaying his tiny, yellow teeth. But that day he was walking like an adult, head lowered, a look of shock on his face. His innocence had vanished. He had become like everyone else: resigned.
“How’s it going, Mohamed?” Neila asked him. Her voice was unsteady; she hadn’t heard from Mounir.
Mohamed came up to us. His eyes were downcast, as though he was looking for something on the ground.
“Really bad,” he answered. “Really bad,” he repeated, shaking his head, not even daring to look us in the eye.
We halted. Neila put her hand to her heart. She had turned pale.
“Why? What’s happened?” she asked, grasping Mohamed to keep him from taking another step.
Finally I could see his eyes. They were red. His nose, too. He’d been crying. We should have guessed. Mohamed was babbling incomprehensibly. I thought I caught the word “police.”
Neila was holding Mohamed’s hand and lo
oking at him with searching eyes. I’d never seen her like this before, not even when she talked about her father and the violent blows he inflicted on her.
“Mounir?” she asked in a low voice. “What’s happened to him?”
“The police came last night. Late. I was sleeping with my brothers and sisters. Mounir was in the same room as us. He kissed me before I fell asleep. He even said: ‘Don’t give up your studies, no matter what happens.’ I smiled at him and kissed him back. Then, all of a sudden, in the middle of the night, I heard loud knocking at the door, and mother began to cry out. I woke up. Everybody else had gotten up. Mounir was standing beside Daddy. Mommy was crying. I was shaking with fear. Then I saw a dozen policemen standing there, right in front of me. I don’t know how they got in or where they came from. They had our house surrounded. One of the police, the biggest one — he must have been the chief, I think — went up to Mounir . . .”
Mohamed stopped short.
Neila, her face distraught, eyes brimming with tears, begged him: “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. What did they do to him?”
Mohamed turned his head away in a movement of despair. He didn’t want to look us in the eye. His mouth was twisted.
“The big cop grabbed Mounir by the neck. Then, right in front of everybody, he sla . . . he slapped him on the face. Daddy was begging them. There must be some mistake, he said. Mounir was not some petty crook, some hoodlum. He’s a student, Daddy said. He’s studying to become a lawyer. Mommy was crying, wailing in a loud voice. We were crying too, but quietly. One of the cops, a young one who must have been Mounir’s age came up to Daddy. Like a dog he barked at him: ‘You, old man, shut your mouth or we’ll shut it for you!’ And Daddy stopped talking, and Mommy too. I was so scared I peed in my pants.”
“And Mounir, what did they do to him?” Neila asked, her words stumbling over each other.
“They took him away in the baga. When we went outside to see what the cops were going to do with Mounir, I saw three police wagons in front of our house. The neighbours were standing on the street too. Our next-door neighbour, Am Omar, came over to comfort Daddy. The cop who was holding Mounir just kept on insulting him: ‘You no-good punk! You think you’re a grown-up, a man? I’ll give you a taste of how you become a man. You’ll see.’ Then the police went back into the house and swept up all the books that Mounir kept on his table, threw them into a sack and left. They were beating him, right there in the street. Mommy fainted. Lucky for her she didn’t hear them cursing and insulting him.”
