by Monia Mazigh
I didn’t say a word to Neila about my encounter with him. I didn’t want to touch the open wound left by Mounir’s arrest any more than I wanted to talk to her about something I couldn’t make sense of, couldn’t define. I didn’t even know why I was attracted to this foreigner, who didn’t even speak my language. The more I thought about him, the less I understood what was going on inside me.
The calm before the couscous revolt had reasserted itself. The dust had settled. My parents had slipped back into their routine. Neila stopped talking to me about Mounir. Only her gaze told me she was thinking about him. And in an attempt to forget, I did everything I could to avoid that gaze. The first signs of spring broke through the gloom that had settled in after the bread riots. Warm sunbeams proclaimed the early arrival of summer. The prospect reminded me every day that my final exams were approaching, and my stomach would tie itself in knots at the thought. Of course I wanted to do well, but I had no idea what I would do afterwards. Before the riots, I’d been a kind of automaton. I lived to study. But since Mounir’s arrest, my world had turned upside down, and that obsession had evaporated.
I’d regained control of my life. I enjoyed reading and writing. I uncovered a real passion for English, a passion I never suspected. I read the books I borrowed from the cultural centre and went back to borrow new ones every Friday. I discovered writers like Steinbeck, Dickens, and Fitzgerald. Body and soul, I dove deep into one historical period after another: the Industrial Revolution in England and its perverse impact on the working classes; the Great Depression in the United States and the changes that followed it; the Roaring Twenties, with their taste for luxury, extravagance, and escapism that led to the dark years that came in their wake. I couldn’t understand everything I read, but I loved the stories. Dictionary close at hand, stretched out on my bed, I spent hours savouring my newfound books and the new worlds they held out to me. My reading, and my visits to the centre, functioned as an escape hatch. Which did me the greatest good? The books I read or the sight of Alex? I couldn’t say for sure.
He was immersed his work the second time I met him. When he saw me, he smiled, but unlike our first meeting, this time I managed to return his smile. He was working on the centre’s computer system, coming and going from the main reading room and another room, which I glimpsed through the open door. The reading room was full of people. University students were talking endlessly about their final exams. I kept my nose deep in my book, but raised my eyes from time to time to look around. It was at such a moment that our eyes met. I immediately lowered my gaze and pretended to continue reading. But I wasn’t concentrating on the page in front of me. What could he be thinking? Why had he come to Tunisia? Why did he leave his country and come here to work? How did people in his country live? As I was getting up and preparing to leave, Alex came over to me and pointed to something on the floor.
“I believe you’ve dropped some sheets of paper.”
What a charming accent! I thought, almost forgetting to look down to the spot he indicated.
“Ah yes, right, they’re my notes. I put them on the floor and I was going to pick them up, but I almost forgot.”
In my excitement I kept talking as I stooped down to pick up my notes.
“Look, I totally forgot my promise to show you how to find books. I’ve got a few spare minutes today. Would you like to do it now?”
Mechanically I stuffed my scattered notes back into my school bag and without a second thought answered in the affirmative. He seemed as happy as a little boy letting a friend in on a secret.
“My name is Alexander. I’m Canadian, I’ve been working here for the last few months, and next summer I’ll be going back to Ottawa, where I live.”
He spoke so confidently. What a contrast with my perpetual case of nerves. An ocean separated our two worlds, but two cultures were meeting now. Alexander gave me a detailed explanation of the codes that were used to classify books. He explained how the little file-drawers that held thousands of cards filed in alphabetical order would be replaced by a sophisticated computer system soon.
“For example, you enter the name of the author you’re looking for and in a few seconds you see all the titles that match the name. Look, I’ll give you a demonstration. Which writer would you like to read?”
“Fitz . . . Fitzgerald,” I answered, stammering.
He looked at me, wide-eyed. I was afraid I’d mispronounced the name.
“You know, the one who wrote Tender Is . . . Is the Night, if you can make out what I’m trying to say.”
“That’s F. Scott Fitzgerald alright — a great American writer. I really like him myself.”
He sat down and typed on the keyboard, and then showed me the list of Fitzgerald titles.
“See, it’s like magic. Here are Fitzgerald’s other books: This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby. Just before each title there’s a code you can jot down and then find on the shelves.”
I listened attentively. The way he pronounced the original English titles left me open mouthed with admiration. Not to mention his eagerness to explain things to me. Why was he so happy to show me his work, explain how to locate a title?
“Thank you so much for your kindness. You explained everything so well. Luckily for me you work here and could make it all clear for me.” I could barely get the words out.
He interrupted me.
“But this system isn’t available to the public yet. It will take a few more months before it’s in service. I’m working on it with my colleagues, but it’ll happen!”
“Don’t give up! You can do it!”
“Thanks,” he answered with a fresh smile. “You never told me your name.”
“Nadia. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
I could feel that it was time to leave. I no longer knew what I was doing or what I was saying. I kept on saying “thank you,” over and over, but that didn’t seem to bother Alex.
“You’re welcome, Nadia!”
“What a funny expression,” I thought as I repeated those last words. Then he waved. I left the centre, not knowing what to think of our meeting, and headed for the bus station. Alex’s smile stayed with me. The next day, on the way to school with Neila, I couldn’t help telling her about him. I was expecting her to tease me, or make fun of me. She turned pale instead.
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with a gaouri, Nadia! A foreigner, someone who’s not one of us? Don’t you understand? Your parents will kill you if they ever find out.”
Her reaction surprised me. I hadn’t even thought about my parents; I couldn’t believe that a young man could so constantly occupy my thoughts.
“Why are you insinuating things, Neila? Who says I’m in love with him? Who told you I’m going to tell my parents about him?
She threw me a strange look. “So why are you talking about him if you’re not in love with him?”
She was right. Why would I even mention him to my best friend if I weren’t attracted to him?
“Let’s say that I’m thinking about him, and I feel like his face is following me in my thoughts,” I corrected myself.
Neila tossed her head in exasperation.
“Look, we’re not talking philosophy here. By the look on your face it’s clear that you’re in love with him. If you’re talking about him, it’s because there’s something in your heart.”
Neila always won. I was angry with myself for having mentioned him in the first place.
“Why did you stop talking?” she snapped after a few steps in silence.
I was sulking now and didn’t want to answer.
“Do you know his name?”
“Alexander.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Iskander! That’s it. Call him Iskander and he’ll be a Tunisian, at least in name.”
I burst out laughing, and she broke into
a smile at her own joke. We’d almost reached the wall and were just about to climb over it before heading to our class. From a distance we spotted Botti making his rounds. His unbuttoned jacket displayed his potbelly. Seeing him there took the wind out of our sails; we dropped the idea and made our way around the fence to enter through the main door.
Suddenly Neila said: “Looks like we’re unlucky in love, you and me. I love a boy who’s in prison, and you love an American, what zhar!”
We both laughed boisterously. Neila was my best friend, I was more certain of it with every passing day. She was absolutely right; we had no luck at all.
EIGHTTEEN
Tunis, December 18, 2010
By now I’d come to know Ettadamoun Township. I’d first gone there with Donia. The streets were full of potholes and the mud stuck to our shoes, making them heavy and cumbersome. We did our best to jump over the puddles that had formed after a downpour that was like buckets of water being dumped on our heads — a frigid, stinging shower that lasted only a few minutes. This was rain and wind like I’d never seen before in Tunis. You couldn’t make out a thing. I’d been helping Donia with her activities for the last several days. Our agreement was working perfectly. I was convinced I’d made the right decision, that I was getting involved in the right cause.
Things weren’t always easy to understand. I was caught somewhere between black and white, between Tunisian and Canadian. I was a hostage in a barely recognizable place I couldn’t tear myself away from. Peace and chaos existed all at once; so did past and present. Perhaps that’s why I’d found a place for myself here and slipped into this extremely narrow, almost invisible space.
Donia picked me up for a visit to Jamel’s. “Something terrible has happened,” she said, wide-eyed and tight lipped. I made no attempt to learn more; I knew she would tell me everything soon. Visibility was almost zero. Several times along the way, I was sure we would hit the vehicles ahead of us. But Donia kept calm: she bent forward, looking straight ahead, her clenched jaw moving continually back and forth. The windshield wipers swept back and forth in a syncopated rhythm.
By the time we reached the township, the rain had ended as abruptly as it began. The wind dropped and everything returned to normal. Donia parked the car next to a vacant lot. We could make out the metro rails as they emerged from the soil on the curve. Plastic bags were everywhere, and the piles of trash had been beaten down by the rain.
“We’re going to see Jamel. He lives one street over.”
Donia pointed to a row of houses in the distance. I wasn’t paying close attention to what she was saying. All the dwellings looked the same: saturated with poverty and grime, crowded close together. Sheet-metal doors were painted green, black, or blue. A few inhabitants were out front of their houses, backs bent, clearing water from their front stoops with outsize scrapers.
“What’s going on? What are those people doing?” I asked with surprise.
“They’re sweeping the water out of their houses. Thank God the rain stopped, otherwise there would have been flooding.”
Everything in Ettadamoun Township told of poverty. I could see it on the tiny houses hunched up against one another. At the grocery store, Supermarquet le Bonheur, the bottled gas locked in a cage made the decor even sadder. A few children gathered in front of the grocery were sharing a small bottle of yogurt, passing it around. Nearby was an automotive repair shop with tires heaped outside, waiting patiently for the moment when they would be called into service to replace a blow-out. And there were rundown dwellings with peeling paint, cracks in the walls like giant scars on a face. You couldn’t tell where the sidewalk began and the street ended. I hardly knew where to walk. I followed Donia in silence. We finally came to a small house all but hidden by a tall fence. A shrub that looked more like a miniature rubber tree spread its wide leaves just in front of us. My shoes were soaked, and I could feel the cold creeping through my body.
Jamel opened the gate. His face was half hidden, so I couldn’t interpret his expression. Donia and I hurried inside. We crossed a small veranda where a lone tree stood upright in a patch of earth ringed with broken floor tiles and stones. Rivulets of water poured down from the gutters like tiny waterfalls. Donia seemed quite at home. The house was dark; no doors were visible, not even a hallway. I found myself in a room with two beds, each one pushed up against the wall. A few plastic chairs were scattered about, with a glowing computer on a table in the centre. Donia sat down on the edge of one of the beds. I followed suit.
Jamel spoke slowly. There were dark circles around his eyes and his hair was mussed, like a boy who’d just been awakened.
“Things are happening fast. A young man set fire to himself in Sidi Bouzid yesterday. He wanted to call attention to his situation after a policewoman slapped him and stopped him from parking his pushcart in the street.”
I noticed Donia digging her fingers into the mattress. “Is he dead?”
“He’s seriously burned, no one knows what will become of him,” Jamel answered, dazed at the news.
“What are we going to do?” asked Donia, trying to get comfortable on the edge of the bed.
“We’ve got to do something.”
She looked at me with questioning eyes, as though I had the answer.
“Maybe start a petition, or hold a demonstration? I remember when a property developer wanted to put up a tall building on our street, my mother and the neighbours fought back. Mom asked me and my classmates to collect signatures. I refused. At first, I thought her demands were ridiculous, and I didn’t want my friends to take me for a nutcase. Those were adult matters, I thought. I finally gave in, we gathered hundreds of signatures and stopped the project. But I’m not sure the same tactic would work here. People are talking about injustice, about lives lost, about police terrorizing people.”
Jamel and Donia stared at me as if I’d set off a bomb.
“Lila, you can’t be serious! That’s not how things work here!” Donia shot back with a frown. “Nobody would ever sign a petition. People are scared.”
Sheepishly I stopped, but Jamel exclaimed: “Why not, Donia? We could do something like that, but be careful to conceal our real names. Send out a communiqué on Facebook to all our friends to let them know what’s happened, and ask them to share it with their friends. Wouldn’t that be great, girls?”
“Absolutely! Let’s do it!”
I was startled to find myself talking again. Jamel’s words gave me confidence.
“I could translate it into English. That way people in other countries would have an idea of what’s going on here.”
Jamel’s face darkened once again.
“Fine, but we’ve got to be careful. We could get arrested at any time. Sami told me yesterday that all Facebook accounts and blogs were under constant surveillance by the presidential palace in Carthage. They’re ready to arrest everybody. They’ve totally lost their bearings.”
Uncle Mounir’s face suddenly appeared in front of me. His face, hardened by years of injustice, was smiling. Had he been afraid of acting when he visited construction sites and spoke to the young apprentice bricklayers to mobilize them and inform them of their rights? Had he been paralyzed with fear? Of course not. He believed in what he was doing. Unfortunately, he paid a high price for his freedom. I was about ready to tell Donia and Jamel about Uncle Mounir’s experience when Jamel cut me off.
“But there’s already one man who’s paid a high price, and he’s hovering between life and death. I don’t want my children to judge me for not having acted. Would you like to know what I think of fear? I hate everything about it. I’ve had enough of being haunted by fear, fear that’s paralyzed us for years. Never again. From this day on, I’m looking you in the eyes and telling you I’m a free man!”
I broke out in goosebumps. There was no need for me to tell Uncle Mounir’s story. Jamel’s was enough. It was all Donia could d
o to hold back her tears. Now she was sitting cross-legged on the mattress. I agreed with Jamel. I dared to hope that we were on the verge of a great disturbance, only this time it would be a disturbance with a happy outcome. All of a sudden Donia broke her silence.
“But Jamel, if they find you and arrest you, we’ll be behind you, we’ll do everything to see you again.”
Donia glanced at me and, for the first time that afternoon, I saw her smile. Jamel sat down in front of his computer. We stood up from the bed and drew two chairs over next to him.
Jamel and Donia began to draft an open letter about the young street vendor who set himself on fire and about the abject response of the authorities.
“I set up a new Facebook page named Free Tunisia. This letter will be my first post. I’ll begin by providing information. But tomorrow, I’ll ask people to start taking action —”
Donia interrupted him: “Such as coming out into the streets, shouting slogans, putting an end to police brutality. What do you think?”
“Now you’re the one who’s pushing Jamel to take the lead?” I asked her sarcastically.
“It’s called solidarity! I feel like I’m sprouting wings.”
Despite the tension, Jamel and I laughed out loud. Donia’s enthusiasm had restored her upbeat mood. Now it was her turn to smile.
“You know something, Lila? I don’t regret a thing. I’m so happy I met you. There’s something about you, something I can’t put my finger on. Innocence, bravado, something magical.”
I blushed. No one had ever talked to me that way before.
“Thanks Donia, but let me assure you: there’s nothing magical about me. We have to thank my Uncle Mounir; he’s the one who inspired me. It was his courage that led me to you. I can feel his presence here among us, I swear it!”
Donia and Jamel had no idea what I was talking about. They thought I was getting carried away. The three of us were sitting there in this dark room, in a poor district of Tunis — one of the worst I’d ever seen, and far, far from whatever I’d experienced in Canada. Who would ever have thought I’d be doing what I was doing today with my new friends? Mom’s hair would be standing straight up on her head. Funny — never had I felt so at ease as in that darkened room, in that impoverished house, in that township called Solidarity, one of the poorest in Tunis, thousands of miles away from Ottawa.
