by Monia Mazigh
An hour later, we were all crammed into Uncle Mounir’s car. I was in the middle, in the back seat, Donia on one side, Mom on the other. Uncle Mounir was behind the wheel, and Aunt Neila was in the passenger seat. We were driving through the back streets, heading for the city centre.
“We should park anywhere we can near Avenue Bourguiba,” warned Donia, as she checked her messages. “Our pals are saying that the crowd is getting bigger by the minute.”
From my place on the back seat I could see Aunt Neila’s taut features. She must have been really nervous. Mom was as happy as a little girl who’d just found a precious object she was sure she’d lost. Energy was flowing up through her roots. She looked out the car window. People were hurrying along the sidewalks. Impassive, the palm trees were barely swaying.
“I’m going to park here,” said Uncle Mounir, turning to look at us.
It was a narrow side street. The car seemed to sink, then rise again: the pavement was full of potholes. Grey-painted buildings lined the way, their shuttered French doors opened onto balconies protected by wrought iron railings. There was a grocery store at the corner. The owner was lowering the blind with a crank until the metal barrier locked into position with a clunk.
“Things don’t look good,” he said, glancing at Uncle Mounir, who locked the car and stuffed the keys into his pocket.
“Looks like there’s a big demonstration in front of the Ministry of the Interior, on Avenue Bourguiba,” the mustachioed grocer went on, muttering. “That’s all I need. I’m closing up shop and going home. I don’t like trouble, it’s no good for business.”
Uncle Mounir answered with a wave of the hand. I walked alongside Donia; Mom fell into step with Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir.
“I really wanted for Jamel to be with us,” sighed Donia. “He dreamed that the people would come out by the thousands. I hope they’re not abusing him.”
“Don’t worry Donia. I’m sure it’s all a mistake. They’ll let him out sooner or later.”
“A mistake! What are you saying? It’s a police state here. They’d even arrest a fly on the tiniest suspicion.”
Sheepishly I stopped talking. My ignorance continued to startle me. But Donia pretended to take my arguments seriously. She looked at me and smiled, as if to reassure me.
“One of his friends is in critical condition. He was shot in the chest as he was leaving his house. They say there are snipers on the rooftops and hiding behind the shutters of buildings, shooting at random to frighten people. I just now read it on Sami’s Facebook page.”
“But who does that benefit?” I asked, incredulous, looking around me at the windows of the neighbouring buildings.
“The dictator and his accomplices, that’s who! They don’t want things to change. They want people to hole up in their burrows, like rabbits, like that grocer we just passed. Did you see the fear on his face? What a wimp!”
I couldn’t help grinning. Donia was always quick-witted, even at the worst of times.
I didn’t know how, but suddenly we found ourselves on the main street of Tunis: Avenue Bourguiba. Grand as always, like a bride on her wedding day. We’d come out onto it from a side street, Rue Marseille.
Men, women, the old and the young, everyone was marching along the broad avenue between the rows of trees. Some were laughing while others, more serious, were waving homemade placards. On some was written Ben Ali dégage!
I turned toward Mom. She was walking arm in arm with Aunt Neila, two little girls who were best friends and never wanted to be separated again. Mom was reliving the couscous revolt that had slipped through her fingers without her ever really being a part of. Today, back in Tunis after more than twenty years, she’d come to do what she could not when she was my age. Uncle Mounir was taking photos with his phone. He was experiencing today’s uprising in another way. The previous time, he’d paid with his freedom. Today, he felt proud to be a part of the crowd, and of the feeling that — just maybe — this time would be it.
Donia’s eyes were glued to her phone.
“People are coming from all directions,” she said. “The end of the regime is not far away. Bouazizi’s blood won’t have been shed in vain. The blood of the martyrs of all these years won’t have been shed in vain. If we’re here today, it’s because of their sacrifice.”
I nodded, almost by reflex. The crowd was heading for the Ministry of the Interior. The immense building, which looked more like a bunker, was ringed by barbed wire. A young woman had scaled one the lampposts that lined the street. The crowd was hysterical. Crying out. And I was crying out along with it. I had no idea what I was saying, but the syllables poured joyously from my mouth to mingle with the roar that filled the entire space.
Although I knew none of the faces I encountered, I felt safe, protected. A sense of calm enveloped me. Perhaps it was the trees that lined the boulevard that formed a natural shield. Those wise old ficus trees with their dense green foliage where tiny sparrows nested protected us.
Suddenly I heard someone cry out: “Dégage!” At first it was like a distant murmur, then it became a deep growl. Rolling thunder drawing gradually closer. Euphoria swept over the crowd. I felt as though my lungs would burst. People lifted their arms high in a rapid movement that called upon an invisible interlocutor to clear out. Now the crowd was infuriated. Our hands touched. The people had had enough of the dictatorship. Mom, Aunt Neila, Uncle Mounir, Donia — we were all together, hands raised high above our heads, staring down the looming hulk of the Ministry of the Interior. Our voices merged. The dictator no longer had a choice. He had to abandon power.
That night, back in Aunt Neila’s living room, all eyes glued to the television, we learned that the crowd so terrified Ben Ali that he’d fled. I couldn’t believe it. It all happened so fast. Maybe he would try to make a comeback. No one knew. Was it at last the end of a long ordeal for the Tunisian people? I had no idea. My friends’ struggle had borne fruit. How happy I was that I had added my voice to that of the oppressed. It wasn’t much; but doing nothing was not an option.
THIRTY-THREE
Ottawa, January 20, 2011
Dear Donia,
Mother and I are back safely in Ottawa. We had a smooth trip. No surprises. No excitement. The whole way I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about Jamel, and about the future of Tunisia. That’s where I left my heart. The first thing I did when I got back was to turn on my computer and check Facebook. They released Jamel! What great news! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I read and reread the blurb a dozen times. “Jamel Zitouni has been released!” You must be very happy! I’m happy for you. Things still look fragile to me, but I’m confident that a new day will dawn soon for Tunisia.
Outside, it’s snowing and the weather is cold. A dry, cutting cold like the blade of a sword. But the cold is my childhood, my life; I can’t live without it. I see the snowflakes dancing up and down like tiny balls of cotton wool whirling in the air before falling to the ground in a rush. Their whiteness reminds me of the rooftops of Tunis, all whitewashed to reflect the burning rays of the sun. It makes me homesick. I’m going to take some time off, relax for a while, and then get back to my writing. My courses have started up again. I’m a little behind, but it was worth every minute. Imagine! For so long I refused to go to Tunisia! Everything scared me: the people, the language, the environment, the bright sun beating down on my head. So there I was, in my egotistical solitude and comfort. But that’s over and done with, Donia. I’m not the same person. Tunisia changed me. Aunt Neila, Uncle Mounir, my grandparents, you and Jamel, and even Am Mokhtar, that old fox — all those people opened my eyes to another reality, to the struggle for justice, perseverance, and dignity. Wasn’t that what the young people on Avenue Bourguiba were calling for? I heard it in their voices and I saw it in their eyes. I shouted it out along with them. It was a journey that enabled me to know others, but also to learn who I was. To learn
my story. My own roots. And, of course, to learn about my mother. I would never have known a thing about any of that if I hadn’t gone back to the source. If I hadn’t taken the trouble to get my hands dirty, as the saying goes. And just look at what I came up with, Donia! Rich, black, fertile soil? I wish I knew. Only time will tell.
I’ve started studying psychology at university. I want to understand people better, to find out how they think, why they’re sometimes nice and sometimes nasty. Why they act the way they do. I want to continue the search that began in a sophisticated café in Tunis. Remember, Donia? The day I met Jamel and your group of friends. That was the day that I broke out of my little bubble and realized that there were young people who were different from me, but who dreamed of freedom and justice. Anyway, I didn’t get it right away, but today, far from all of you — thousands of miles away! — I’m sure of it. My heart is calling out loud and clear: I’ve changed, Donia, and the main reason is you!
I hear on the news that there is still violence in Tunisia. I hope your neighbourhood is spared. I still remember how frightened we were after the huge demonstration on January 14 and the declaration of a curfew. Uncle Mounir went out every night to help the men in the local committees to make sure the citizens were protected. All the men, young and old, carried sticks as thick as snake heads to defend themselves against the criminals and the bandits who took control of the streets and set up a reign of terror. All of a sudden the police, who were everywhere in the streets when I arrived in Tunis, disappeared. They were certainly worried that the people would take revenge. Why am I telling you all this? You know much better than I do what happened. Maybe it’s because I want to hold onto the memory of those instants. After nightfall, for several days in succession, Aunt Neila, Mom, and I were alone in the apartment. They told me stories about their adolescence, about their parents. I discovered a whole new world.
This summer I intend to come to see you in Tunisia. We’ll plan a program. I won’t be coming to learn Arabic. Definitely not! My ears are still ringing. And my training was more than I needed. No, I want to go to Sidi Bouzid, to Siliana, to Gafsa, to Tozeur, and to the other towns of the interior. I know it will be hot, but I’d like to visit those towns, the ones that were left behind. I’d like to do something for those people. You see, I owe them something. I owe them the peace that I’ve found at last.
Hope to see you soon,
Lila
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I thank my translator, Fred A. Reed, and my friend Caroline Lavoie for her critical reading. Her advice, corrections, and suggestions both assisted and inspired me. Thanks as well to my parents. Without their love and their confidence, I would not be what I am today. And last but not least, I thank my husband and my children for their patience.
GLOSSARY
al-Maududi and Sayed Qutb: respectively sub-continental and Egyptian Muslim scholars of the mid-twentieth century, often considered ideologists of Salafism
Allahu Akbar. La Ilaha ila’Allah: “God the Almighty! There is no God but God!” the final words of the athan, the Muslim call to prayer
Ana uhibu al lughat al Arabiya: “I just love the Arabic language!”
Aunt and Uncle: in North Africa “aunt” and “uncle”, in addition to their common meaning, are used to describe parents’ friends, with no other connotation than affection or respect
binti: literally “my daughter”, used by older men when addressing a young girl
botti: fatso, in Tunisian dialect
briks: a savory dish made from fine round sheets of pastry dough containing tuna, grated cheese, capers and a raw egg; the pastry is folded over and fried in hot oil
chéchia: a typically Tunisian men’s knit cap; smaller than the fez, and less prestigious socially
Destourian Party: founded by Tunisia’s first president Habib Bourguiba; the Party held a perpetual majority
fouta: a length of fabric that men wrap around their waists, covering the body from navel to knee; here, an apron
gazuz: soda pop in Tunisian dialect
ghula: feminine form of ghul, Arabic for monster
gourbi: a shack or slum dwelling
hallouf: “pig” in North African dialect
harissa: a spicy red-pepper condiment widely used in Tunisian cooking
“Horyaa, karama, watanyaa . . .”: “Liberty, dignity, love of country . . .”
ib: indecent gesture or sinful act, depending on context
“Ihda chaabou wayman arada el hayyat, fala bouda an yastajiba al qadar.”: from the celebrated verses of the Tunisian national poet, Abou El Kacem Chebbi, that make up the Tunisian national anthem: “If the people one day will to live / Destiny must then respond”
Khaldun, Ibn: born in 1332 in Tunis, Ibn Khaldun was a historian, philosopher, diplomat, and political figure; he is considered the father of modern sociology.
khobzistes: literally “breadwinners” — humble people who earn their livelihood simply and don’t get involved in politics
kitab: book
kuffar: nonbelievers
“Marhaba bik fi Tounis, ya lilla Nadia!”: “Welcome to Tunis, Madame Nadia”
Rabbi yostor: God help us!
Réussite, La: French for “success”
safsari: a long length of silk or polyester fabric, depending on social class, that Tunisian women customarily use when they leave the house. The safsari covers the hair and the body, leaving only the face exposed.
Shahada: testimony of faith uttered by converts to Islam, and by Muslims in each of their five daily prayers.
shnua: Tunisian dialect expression meaning “what’s up?” or “what is it,” most often to indicate surprise or displeasure.
tawila: table
“Tounous horra horra . . . wanidham ala barra.”: Tunisia will always be free; the regime will soon be gone”
UGTT: Union générale tunisienne du travail: Tunisian General Labour Union
“Yasqot hazb el destour, yasqot jallad ech’ab!”: “Down with the Destourian Party; down with the hangman of the people!”
zézoua: small pot with a long handle used for brewing Turkish coffee
zhar: Tunisian dialect term for luck
zoufris: originally “workers” in Tunisian dialect, now used to describe punks or rowdy young people
MONIA MAZIGH was born and raised in Tunisia and immigrated to Canada in 1991. She was catapulted onto the public stage in 2002 when her husband, Maher Arar, was deported to Syria where he was tortured and held without charge. She campaigned tirelessly for his release. Mazigh holds a PhD in finance from McGill University. She has published a memoir, Hope and Despair, and her novel, Mirrors and Mirages, was a finalist for the Trillium Book Award, in the original French.
International journalist and award-winning literary translator FRED A. REED is also a respected specialist on politics and religion in the Middle East. He has reported extensively on Middle Eastern affairs for La Presse, CBC Radio-Canada, and Le Devoir. A three-time winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award for Translation, Reed has translated many works, including Monia Mazigh’s debut novel, Mirrors and Mirages. He lives in Montreal.
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kenned
y, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”
