Tunis, December 28, 2010
That evening, after a long day spent with Donia and Jamel writing short pieces, posting them on Facebook, and answering questions online, I returned to an apartment seemingly locked in silence. Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir must have gone out, I thought, perhaps visiting friends on the next floor down. They’d done the same thing a few weeks ago. But after closing the door, I heard the sound of voices from the living room and noticed a dim light. There they were, seated side by side in front of the TV, watching the news in silence. As quietly as I could, I sat down beside them. I felt at home. I was part of the family now, after all, and no longer the foreign girl trying to find herself. Aunt Neila smiled at me without a word, and Uncle Mounir gestured with his head as if to tell me that he’d seen me and to greet me. I responded with a smile and a nod.
On the screen, President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali was in a hospital room surrounded by doctors and nurses. The person on the bed was wrapped from head to toe in white bandages: a living mummy. The president stood at a distance, a worried look on his face, listening to the group of physicians that accompanied him.
“What a hypocrite!” Uncle Mounir burst out. “What’s he doing at the bedside of someone the regime’s stooges drove to suicide? What a pathetic farce!”
It didn’t take me long to realize that the sick man was Mohamed Bouazizi, the same man whose story Donia, Jamel, and I were following. The man who set himself afire to preserve what was left of his dignity.
Aunt Neila was wiping her eyes as she wept silently.
“To ask the people for forgiveness, perhaps?” I suggested calmly.
Uncle Mounir smiled at me. “For sure, but this time it won’t work. It isn’t the same people as twenty-five years ago. The regime’s days are numbered. I can feel it. Some of my friends at the UGTT told me that demonstrations are being organized all over the country, that it’s just beginning.”
I saw Aunt Neila turn pale. She hadn’t yet spoken. She sighed and then spoke: “That’s what you’re hoping, but it’s not sure that people are ready to bring down the wall of fear.”
“Neila, don’t be pessimistic, I beg you. Things have changed. It’s not like in our day. Can’t you see that even Lila, who’s from Canada, is involved with what’s happening here? And her friends are, too.” Uncle Mounir’s gaze was grave, and focused directly on me.
“I don’t know what things were like in your day,” I said. “But judging by the comments we’re getting on Jamel’s blog, and if I can trust what Donia and Jamel have been telling me over the last few days, it’s clear that everybody wants a change. I don’t know if it will happen. The police are still monitoring everything. The Internet isn’t free. Jamel writes his articles using a pseudonym. They could throw him in jail at any moment.”
Aunt Neila seemed to have found her argument. “You see, Mounir, it isn’t as simple as you think. Ben Ali controls everything: the Internet, the police, the people. Watch what you’re doing, Lila. Your friends Donia and Jamel seem sincere, but if they were ever arrested and — may God protect you! — anything were to happen to you, what would we do then? Did you ever think of the consequences? And your mother, what about her? Nadia would never forgive me.”
Her mention of Mom’s name made me cringe. I hadn’t said a word to my mother about anything. The fears she expressed a few days before were turning out to be well-founded. If she knew what I was up to, she’d die of fear.
“Please, don’t say a word to her! She’d be frightened for nothing. I know my mom. She sent me to learn Arabic. For me to get involved in a mass uprising is the last thing she’d expect . . .”
Aunt Neila’s features hardened. Uncle Mounir switched off the TV and went off into the kitchen. I could hear the tinkling of glasses, and I thought he was making tea. From the kitchen he called out: “Leave her be, Neila, don’t try to frighten her. She knows her way around, plus she’s a Canadian, the cops — pigs, the whole lot of them! — can’t touch her. They’re too cowardly to touch a foreigner.”
Aunt Neila was getting more upset by the minute.
“But can’t you see that Nadia entrusted her daughter to us? We’ve got to take care of her. I don’t feel good about this situation. If things get out of hand, it’ll be too late. I’m telling you, I don’t feel good about it at all. I don’t want to have to lie to her.”
I could understand Aunt Neila. She was thinking back to Uncle Mounir’s arrest; she didn’t want the same thing to happen to her best friend’s daughter.
“Things have changed a lot. We’re very careful. We’re using the Internet to get the news out there because young people feel like there’s no place for them. We’re in touch with all the other young people in the country. I think it’s fantastic. You should be happy!”
Uncle Mounir came back into the living room carrying a tray with three steaming saucers filled with a greyish-green mixture. I screwed up my mouth.
“Its drôo, what you call sorghum,” he said. “It’s like a pudding. We make it with milk, sugar, and sorghum flour. It’s a winter dish. Here, grab a spoon and take a bite. It’s delicious, you’ll see. It’ll warm you up.”
Aunt Neila was so upset by our argument that she didn’t even touch her pudding. Meanwhile, Uncle Mounir was doing everything he could to calm us down. I slid a spoonful of this curious cream into my mouth. It had an interesting taste; I took another spoonful. By then I had the feeling that I couldn’t stop. The pudding was warm, comforting.
Aunt Neila was looking at me with a mother’s sweetness, as if she’d forgotten that only a couple of minutes before she was in complete disagreement with my idea of telling Mom nothing about my new activities with Donia and Jamel.
“What if you sent your mother a message telling her what you’re doing, without too many details? Don’t you think it would be better for everybody? How about it, Lila? What do you think?”
I didn’t want to answer, first because I was too caught up in eating my tasty drôo, but also because I wasn’t sure it would be the right tactic. A simple message wouldn’t be enough. Mom would want more details; she wouldn’t be satisfied with a few vague and empty sentences.
“She’d never understand what I’m doing. A message like that would frighten her. She’d panic, I know it.”
Uncle Mounir threw a reproachful glance at Aunt Neila.
“Enough with the negative ideas, Neila. Everything will be fine. Like I said, Lila is a big girl now—”
I interrupted impatiently: “After all, I’ve got less than two weeks left before I go back to Canada. I don’t think there’ll be any huge changes between now and then.”
A look of sadness settled over her face. Already my upcoming departure had begun to affect her.
“It’s true. You’re probably right.”
She didn’t seem all that convinced, but she didn’t say anything else. She leaned over the tray and handed me a second saucer.
“Have another. Looks like you’re taking to drôo. I’ll make you some every day if you like.”
I took the saucer and began eating eagerly. Mouth full and tongue burning, I asked her: “Don’t you like it? It’s really delicious. I never tasted anything like it before, like toasted almonds.”
Once more, a shadow passed over her face, then she smiled a sad smile.
“I had too much when I was a little girl. Mother, may God bless her soul, prepared it for me on winter mornings. My father . . .” She fell silent, then resumed: “He made us eat it all winter long. But I couldn’t stand the taste — it made me sick to my stomach. I’d fill my mouth with drôo, then leave the table and go spit it out in the toilet.”
She shivered, and I decided it would be best not to ask her any more questions.
Uncle Mounir smiled.
“Look how delicate your Aunt Neila is, Lila. She eats only the finest foods: Swiss chocolate, buttery croissants, candied orange peel, and such. At our place, we ate everything, even mouldy bread. Same as we fed the animals. No difference. We didn’t have a choice — we had to live.”
I realized from Uncle Mounir’s sarcastic tone that he wanted to tease his wife. And now, she was smiling.
“Yes, that’s it, you play the victim, as though my parents were rich people.”
“Compared to mine, they certainly were!”
“Fine, I’ll grant you that, but I’m not quite as delicate as you claim. I’m no princess. The taste of drôo brings back bad memories, why don’t we leave it at that?”
Then she turned to me.
“One day, when you ask your mother to tell you about me, you’ll learn the truth. Uncle Mounir’s got it in for me this evening. I’m not going to say anything more . . .”
I finished my second saucer.
“For sure, I’ll ask her to tell me everything.”
Uncle Mounir picked up the tray and went off to the kitchen. The evening was ending. The atmosphere had turned melancholy. I said goodnight and retired to my room.
Donia sent me an SMS: Come by tomorrow at 10, the party’s starting!
What did she mean by “the party’s starting?” What if Aunt Neila was right; what if I should talk it over with Mom? I wasn’t sure about anything. No sooner had I put on my pajamas than I fell into a troubled sleep. A sleep populated with men in face masks, and police chasing them. I found myself swimming in a pool filled with drôo. The viscous liquid was dragging me under; I had to thrash around in order to keep afloat, while Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir looked on silently from a distance.