by Monia Mazigh
I was shivering.
“When we found out that the government had reversed its decision on the price of bread, my comrades and I could barely contain our joy. We were shouting like madmen. But that very evening the police came to pick us up, one by one, like mice in a trap. They slapped us, they beat us, threw us in prison. That’s what happens to revolutionaries. To people who try to change the world.”
“How long were you in prison, Uncle Mounir?”
He rolled up his shirtsleeve and showed me his scar. It was like a snake eyeing me intensely. His skin had adopted a new texture. Time had done the rest.
“You see, Lila, this scar reminds me every day that you shouldn’t try to take on the big shots, that even your union will drop you if you don’t have the right connections. This scar shouts out to me that the police aren’t choirboys, and that they won’t hesitate to do what their superiors tell them, if not worse. I spent seven years in prison. It could have been ten, or twenty. What’s the difference? The years don’t mean a thing. Seven years, just think about it. My mother came to see me every Friday, a basket in hand and hurt in her eyes. Seven years for belonging to an unauthorized association and inciting the youth to violence. That’s what they accused me of — I never confessed a thing. Even when they sliced the skin on my arm with a broken bottle I didn’t talk. I let them do it, and that made them even more furious. At first, my father would come to visit me, but he died two years later. He was ashamed to work for the government that had confiscated his son. He never forgave himself. He was really hard on himself. They didn’t even give me permission to attend his funeral. They told my little brother who came asking that I was too dangerous to be let out on leave, even for a few hours.”
“And today, can you pardon them?” I asked, eyes moist, overcome by what I’d heard.
“I don’t know. I’ll leave it to God to deal with.”
He stopped as suddenly as he’d begun. I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know how. His story had given me the answers I was looking for, ever since I’d said goodbye to Donia.
What he told me set my bowels churning. It was the missing link in the chain of events that had brought me to Tunisia. Mother, fate, or God had brought me to this distant country. The idea was to learn Arabic, but there was another plan for me. A much wider plan, a more complex and subtle one. I’d met Donia. She’d asked me to help her in the struggle. And now I’d heard Uncle Mounir’s horrifying story. What should I do? Back up? Go back to where we began, or start a new adventure? Do as Uncle Mounir did? Or follow Donia, who turned her back on wealth for the sake of her ideals?
Uncle Mounir stood up.
“Uncle Mounir, I’ve got a question for you. I’m certain you’re the only one who can help me. Do you believe I should help Donia with what she’s doing?”
He looked at me long and hard. His scar was hidden by his shirtsleeve. The past had unfolded there, on his arm. Now it was gone. Obscured by pain.
“When I was your age, I followed my ideals. I didn’t hesitate for a minute. Are you ready to do the same thing? I don’t know. You have to decide.”
I could not answer. Then, abruptly, he went back into the apartment, and I was alone with my thoughts.
FIFTEEN
Tunis, late January, 1984
I was making my way toward the lycée as laboriously as if I were dragging a ball and chain. Mounir’s arrest shocked me, but not in the same way as it did Neila, who wept each time she saw me, that is to say, every day. I told her what she wanted to hear — the same words that I wanted to speak, in spite of myself. Mounir would be set free soon, I told her. He was a hero; he did what he did for the love of his country, like Étienne Lantier, Zola’s hero.
“But this isn’t France, this is Tunisia. Why would he do such a thing?” she asked every time I compared the two.
“I know, I know. Listen, Neila, France is the land of ideals, of revolution and human rights. Mounir was only defending the rights of the poor and following those great principles.”
Neila fell silent; I thought I saw a slight smile stealing across her face. It wasn’t her mouth or her eyes that smiled, but I noticed a tiny change — no one else would have seen it — and it made me feel better. It was as though her whole face had suddenly begun to glow, before everything fell back into place. Then, in a fraction of a second her expression darkened again. Like a winter day. My soul had grown darker as well. I didn’t let on to Neila, and even less to my parents.
On returning home, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone except, from time to time, to Najwa, my little neighbour, when she would come to spend a day or two at our place. Najwa was the only one with an innocent heart, the only one who didn’t ask me questions, who loved me for who I was.
The pain I felt after Mounir’s arrest also took the form of a near obsession with reading. First I read all the books on my father’s bookshelves, and then I went off in search of more. At first, I registered at the library of the French cultural centre. But it wasn’t enough. I needed a new challenge. Then — I don’t know what got into me — I made a visit to the American cultural centre. Was it the feeling of inferiority whenever I compared my country with others? Was it the attraction of an exotic language? Or was it simply curiosity that led me to the centre?
The day of my first visit, I’d gone downtown with mother. We were strolling under the handsome arcades of the Avenue de France. Mother was looking to buy fabric to make a new winter dress. She’d barely avoided a fight with Father: we couldn’t afford it, he’d insisted. Mother didn’t back down. All her old dresses were worn out, she said. There was no way she was going to her friend’s son’s circumcision party in the same old rags. Father said nothing, and that drove Mother wild. She’d managed to borrow a little money in order to buy the fabric: our neighbour Hedia loaned her ten dinars because she’d received some of her husband’s inheritance. Mother would reimburse her as soon as Father would talk to her again. I wasn’t at all certain that Father would agree to such a deal, but there was no stopping Mother: she absolutely had to have that new dress of hers.
In and out we went, from one store to another. Mother badgered the salesmen on the price of fabric, where it was made, the quality of the thread. I couldn’t have cared less about the conversation. The window of one shop opened onto the corridor below the arches of the arcade. I watched people hurrying by. It was cold, and they were wearing woollen coats, hats, and scarves.
“This one here is Dormeuil, made from wool imported direct from England,” boasted the salesman as he proudly unrolled the bottle-green fabric in front of her.
Mother’s eyes were focused on the fabric. She caressed the cloth with her plump hands and rubbed it in a slow, circular movement between her fingers.
“But it’s too expensive. Make me a good price and I’ll take two yards.” She was almost imploring him, all the while attempting not to let on that she was dying to have that particular fabric.
The salesman, a portly fellow who made his way about the shop with some difficulty, pencil behind his ear, measuring tape around his neck, crooked spectacles at the tip of his nose to check the prices, seemed insensible to mother’s supplications.
Distractedly I kept looking through the window. How badly I wanted Mother to buy the fabric and to deliver me from this suffocating situation. Mother pretended she was about to leave; she picked up her handbag and headed for the door. It was at that moment that the fat man said, with a look of resignation: “Alright, agreed. I’ll give you a ten percent discount.”
Mother turned and almost ran to the cash, a ten-dinar bill in hand. She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out another bill. I had no idea where it came from, but that was Mother: she had a solution for everything. The deal was done. The circus was over. Soon she would have her new bottle-green dress. I waited right outside the door of the shop for the salesman to wrap the fine fabric in coated paper and then s
lip it into a plastic bag. It was at that moment that I saw a group of young people a little older than me, maybe Mounir’s age, entering one of the nearby doorways. I followed them with my eyes. It was the American cultural centre. Mother joined me, her face still flushed with excitement.
“Mommy, can I go and see what they have at the American cultural centre?”
She stared at me wide-eyed. Was I joking or was I serious?
I insisted, “I always wanted to go there and see what kind of services they offer.”
Mother, overjoyed that she would be able to make the dress she’d dreamed about, granted my request. The truth was, she didn’t really understand why I was so enthusiastic about the idea of visiting the centre, or exactly what I was hoping to do there.
“Fine, go. I’ll be waiting for you in the patisserie next door. I’m starving. I’ll get a quick bite, but don’t be too long!”
I don’t know what had come over me. Why, all of a sudden, the excitement? Why would I want to sign up at the American cultural centre? I hurried inside and began to look around. A woman in her fifties, her grey hair in a pageboy cut, with smiling eyes, interrupted my perusal of the premises.
“Are you looking for something?” she asked in perfect French.
Without a moment’s hesitation I heard myself answering: “I would like to enrol at the centre to improve my English and learn to communicate in that language. I need to practise.”
The woman smiled. Her welcoming attitude put me even more at ease. Slowly, I began to relax. She looked for a few seconds through one of the drawers of her desk, and then handed me a typed sheet of paper.
“Fill out this application form with all the required information. The registration fee is five dinars, and that’s all there is to it. Then you can use our library and our language lab, where you can listen to talking books and practise your conversation.”
She pointed behind and above her, to a kind of mezzanine. I thought I could make out the head of one of the young people I’d seen go by a few minutes earlier.
I rummaged through my handbag. I opened my leather wallet, which had a picture of a desert camel on it, a gift from Father. I plucked out all the coins, one by one. It was all I possessed. The woman kept smiling at me, showing no sign of impatience.
“Here you are, exactly five dinars,” I said, handing her the coins. She took them without counting.
“On your next visit, bring two ID photos, one for our files and the other for your library card, so you can borrow books and use our language lab.”
I was quivering with joy. I don’t know how long I might have stayed there; I’d all but forgotten Mother. Maybe she would make a scene if she knew I’d just spent five dinars in order to borrow books. But I’d made up my mind not to tell her anything. I thanked the lady profusely and promised to bring her the photos.
“What year are you in?” she asked me, unexpectedly.
I was taken aback. Why would a woman working here possibly be interested in me?
“I’ll be graduating from the lycée in a few months. This is my last year.” It was all I could do to get the words out. The woman smiled again.
“Good luck then.”
How was I supposed to answer? Then, our English instructor’s words came back to me.
“Thank you,” I said, haltingly, and almost mechanically, added, “very much.”
The woman waved her hand. Still surprised at what I’d done, I went outside to join my mother. It was the first time I’d spoken to a foreigner, an American, someone who wasn’t my mother, my instructor, or one of my friends. “An outsider,” as we called them in Tunisia. I was floating on a puffy cloud. My English was about to get better, fast, and I knew it. I’ll change my life, I thought. I’ll become an expert in English.
Mother was exactly where I expected to find her: in the pastry shop in the Rue Charles de Gaulle. She was standing at the counter, a plate of half-eaten pastry in her hand. Eyebrows knit, a severe look on her face, she spoke to me as if I were a child. Mouth full, she launched her attack: “You were there forever! What were you doing, anyway? I thought you’d gotten lost!”
But I didn’t want to spoil my delight. I pretended not to notice a thing and answered her indifferently: “I signed up at the American cultural centre. From now on I can borrow books and read them in English, from cover to cover.”
But even my attempt to control my enthusiasm displeased Mother. She made a grimace of disgust and shot back: “What are you going to do with English? Take a trip to the moon? Find a husband? Aren’t Arabic and French enough for you?” She handed me a small package in white paper wrapping. “Here, a tuna pastry.”
Mother could spoil anything if she put her mind to it. But I didn’t even want to contemplate that. I took a big bite out of the pastry and swallowed my disappointment. The flaky pastry broke up into thousands of tiny pieces that came fluttering to rest on my blue coat. I flicked the crumbs away with my free hand and kept on eating the insipid pastry stuffed with a few chunks of boiled potato and a barely detectable amount of tuna.
“Finish your pastry! We’re in a rush, time to go home.”
With religious fervor, Mother was gripping her plastic bag in her hand. I didn’t want to ask her where that other ten-dinar bill she pulled out of her purse at the last minute in the fabric store had come from. What difference did it make? Father would never know exactly how much she really paid for her new bottle-green dress. A quiet voice whispered to me that Mother had taken the money from the meagre budget Father gave her to buy our month’s end provisions. Before long, we’d be eating only vegetable couscous and lablabi made out of stale bread and chickpeas. Thanks, Bourguiba. You knew what you were talking about. With one wave of your magic wand, you brought the price of bread and couscous back to where we began. Now, Mother could buy her fabric and show off her new dress to her friends. Thanks, Mommy, for your helpful hints and tricks for saving money for the things that really matter. So Mounir was rotting in prison for playing the hero — too bad for him. People were shot down as they fought for dignity and freedom? Too bad for them, too. Life had to go on.
I watched people entering and exiting the pastry shop, indifferent expressions on their faces. Everyone was thinking about his or her little life. As soon as they’d eaten their sandwich, their slice of cake or pastry, some of them wiped their fingers on the little scraps of greyish paper that passed for napkins and then crumpled them up in one hand and tossed them into one of the wastebaskets that stood at each end of the main counter, where most of the customers were standing. More than a few of those balls of paper missed the target, and ended their haphazard flight among the customers’ feet.
The more impatient Mother became, the slower I ate. She made her way toward the exit, the plastic bag all but glued to her hand. With the scrap of paper that did double duty as napkin and plate, I took aim at the wastebasket. And like most of the other customers, I missed. Sheepishly, I pretended as if nothing had happened and followed Mother unquestioningly out the door.
For me, only one thing counted: being able to borrow books from the American cultural centre and immersing myself in another world to forget the one I lived in.
SIXTEEN
Tunis, December 13, 2010
Two events had thrown my Tunisian stay into turmoil: my budding friendship with Donia and the story of Uncle Mounir’s shocking involvement in the 1984 bread riots and his years in prison. More and more, I felt that I couldn’t go on as before. I wasn’t the same Lila, indifferent and detached, looking on from a distance and observing in silence. “The outsider,” as they called me here, who could care less about her mother’s home country and who was visiting out of politeness, to make Mom happy. Uncle Mounir’s suffering and courage had struck me right to the heart. Aunt Neila’s patience and her almost limitless love for her husband had stunned me. And then there was Donia, her desire to change her country
was crying out to me. She had money and power. She had a car, a house, servants who addressed her as Madame, and friends who looked up to her, and yet she had chosen another path. Her mind was made up: she would become a dissident, help the poor, the people who had no voice, the disinherited. Why? Uncle Mounir and Donia had become two great examples for me.
It’s funny. Less than a week ago, I had been counting the days until my return to Ottawa. And now, here I was in Tunis, thinking about what I could do to help the people around me. Would Mom understand my sudden metamorphosis? Would she see a new Lila who was beginning to emerge from a cocoon? This was not a Lila who was doing better in Arabic, as Mom had so ardently wished, but instead a Lila who wasn’t obsessed with her little problems. This other Lila had seen the pain of others, and it had opened her eyes to a wider world. Maybe she would understand me, maybe she would back me up; maybe she’d already taken that same path?
I made my first decision, a calm, cool, and collected decision, not for the sake of Donia or Uncle Mounir, but to help me find out who I really was. Today, I was convinced that in the few days I had left in Tunis, I would get to know myself a lot better and answer the questions that have been weighing on my mind. Who was I? What did I want to do with my life? Where did I want to go? I would never have believed that by coming to this strange, foreign, and sometimes bizarre place, I would be able not only to confront my longstanding fears, but also to overcome them.
