Tunis, January 3, 2011
Uncle Mounir saved my life. I didn’t even know it was him at the time. The blood was pounding in my temples. I couldn’t see straight; I was about to black out. The pain in my back was unbearable. His hand gripped my arm, the same powerful arm with the long scar. He had also come out to demonstrate alongside his former trade union comrades. Luckily, he caught sight of me in the crowd and came to my rescue. I’d taken a blow to the back. Someone had shoved me; I couldn’t breathe. Uncle Mounir was only a few paces away. Was it coincidence? I had no idea. Maybe he’d been watching over me from a distance. Later he said it was pure chance; he didn’t even know I was there. Nothing was broken. It was a brutal blow combined with a panic attack. That was what the doctor said. I was a bit claustrophobic. When Aunt Neila saw me walk in the door, my face ashen, eyes haggard, and clothing dishevelled, she came close to giving her husband a tongue-lashing.
“So, you took her along with your pals, isn’t that it? You almost got her killed!”
I didn’t have the strength to interrupt. I shook my head “no” but it did no good. Aunt Neila was in attack mode.
Uncle Mounir defended himself like a little boy being scolded by an overprotective mother: “She went on her own, with her friends. I met her on Mohamed Ali Square. The police attacked. It was all downhill from there.”
Aunt Neila calmed down a bit. She turned to me: “Lila, I told you it was dangerous. I told you the police aren’t choirboys. I know what I’m talking about. I lived through those seven years when Mounir was in jail — those years were hell. Have you forgotten, Mounir, how the police treated you when they arrested you? Have you forgotten how the plainclothes police followed you everywhere after you were released, like two watchdogs who never left you in peace? What’s the matter with you? How can you pretend everything is normal? Why won’t anybody listen to me?”
I’d never heard Aunt Neila rant like that. She was normally so gentle, so motherly, so loving, but what had happened to me had transformed her into a raging storm. She had never spoken about her husband’s arrest so openly in front of me. Uncle Mounir, his face still showing the stress of the day’s events, helped me lie down on the sofa in the living room, and then went over to sit down close to Aunt Neila.
“There, there my dearest. It’s nothing. Lila is safe and sound. It could have been worse, I admit it. But thank God, nothing too serious happened. Neila, listen to me: I haven’t forgotten a thing, and you can be sure that it’s because I haven’t forgotten the way they arrested me or what the police did to me that I went out to demonstrate with my comrades.”
He got up and stepped out onto the balcony.
Aunt Neila was crying. Her eyes, accusing, sought out mine.
“I’m so sorry, Auntie Neila, I’m really sorry.” It was all I could do to whisper those few words. The blow to my back had cut off the flow of air to my lungs. For a few seconds, I thought I was going to suffocate. Life was rushing out of me. It only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity.
“I’m taking you to see Doctor Zarrouk. He’s a kind man. I can’t leave you like this.”
She got up. I wanted to say no, but I knew that this was her way of calming her anxiety and burying the guilt she felt toward Mom and me.
“Your mother would be furious with us if she ever found out what happened!”
Mom’s face appeared in front of my eyes. I wasn’t at all certain that she would be furious. Worried, yes, but not furious. Maybe she would even be proud to know that I’d joined a demonstration in Tunisia. Me, little Lila who didn’t even want to set foot in Tunis to learn a few words of Arabic, suddenly there in the public square with veteran trade unionists chanting political slogans. Who would have believed it?
My phone was vibrating in my purse. It was Donia.
“Call her later,” Aunt Neila ordered. “Right now, we’re going to see the doctor.”
Donia was near hysterical. She felt guilty for losing track of me. But it wasn’t her fault; we had been separated by force. I took a blow I hadn’t expected. Our hands had parted. The crowd was far more powerful than we were.
My visit to the doctor didn’t last long. He ordered a few days’ rest. Aunt Neila didn’t tell him the truth. She was still frightened. I was in the souk, she explained; it was crowded. From the glance the doctor threw her, I could tell he didn’t believe her story. But she was right; he was kind. He fell silent for a moment, then smiled and said: “Anything can happen in this country, rabbi yostor! Go home and get a good rest.”
When I returned to the apartment, two surprises awaited me. First, Donia was at the door; she wanted to make sure I was all right. The second surprise was even bigger. Mom had left a message on Aunt Neila’s phone: she would be arriving tomorrow afternoon on a flight from Paris.