Tunis, January 6, 2011
Talk about a crazy story! So, I leave Canada and come to Tunis against my will to learn Arabic and, a few weeks later here I am caught up in a revolution! What next? My mom, who hadn’t set foot in Tunisia for years, was about to join me. Who would have believed it? Me, least of all. My back still hurt. Luckily it was nothing serious.
We drove out to greet Mom at Tunis-Carthage Airport. Armoured vehicles lined the streets the entire way. The country was almost in a state of war. Demonstrations had broken out in the poor districts of Tunis.
I wasn’t entirely looking forward to the meeting. How would she react to my newest involvement? I had a serious case of nerves. But Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir were beside themselves with joy, Aunt Neila most of all. She couldn’t stop talking about Mom, telling me how much she’d missed her.
“You know Lila, I haven’t seen your mother since she left for Canada with your dad. At first, she told us she was busy with her studies, then with your birth, then with her work. There was always some reason or other why she couldn’t come back. I spent wonderful years with your mom. She has a special place in my heart. In fact, she’s irreplaceable.”
She turned to her husband, who was driving in silence.
“Remember, Mounir, before our wedding, how much I cried because Nadia couldn’t be with us?”
He nodded in agreement, then glanced at me in the rearview mirror: “Your mom did the right thing, leaving. Sure it was tough on us, but they’d unjustly kicked her out of the lycée. She had her future to think about. And what do you know? It looks like everything worked out for the best. The tree produced fine fruit. Nadia sent us our little Lila, a budding revolutionary.”
He winked at me. I smiled back.
“Wait a minute! I’m no revolutionary like you. Just call me a young militant.”
He smiled again. Aunt Neila was wriggling with impatience in her seat.
“Count me out of your group! I’m no revolutionary, and no militant either. I want peace. Revolutions only bring trouble.”
“So what brings freedom?” asked Uncle Mounir.
Aunt Neila said nothing and stared out the car window. I could see her jaw working back and forth nervously. At the airport, Uncle Mounir drove up and down looking for a parking spot; cars were parked every which way. Two policemen were checking a taxi driver’s papers. His cab was pulled over to the side of the road.
My heart was beating faster and faster. The inescapable moment when my eyes and Mom’s would meet, here, on Tunisian soil, was not far off.
The atmosphere in the terminal was surprisingly quiet. A few passengers were hurrying through the main hall, some arriving, others departing. The country was still unstable. The scene was totally different from all the noise and confusion I’d experienced the month before, when I arrived. Today there were no boisterous tourists, no cleaning ladies with carts, none of the people come to bid someone farewell or to welcome some dear friend or relative. The spirit of revolt had taken over, in peoples’ minds and even in public spaces. The terminal building was almost empty. From a distance I heard someone speaking with an American accent. It was a young man heading for the exit. He looked like a journalist, with his laptop in his backpack and his camera equipment in a bag slung over his shoulder. He was talking on his phone. Tunis wasn’t attracting many tourists, but it was definitely attracting reporters.
I was lost in thought when Aunt Neila tugged at my sleeve.
“Lila, there’s your mom! Oh my God, I can’t believe my eyes! Hurry up, Lila, here she comes!”
Mom was making her way toward us. Her wavy hair reached down to her shoulders, and for the first time, I spotted a few strands of grey among her abundant locks. All of a sudden, she seemed very small: about the size of a young woman with her luggage arriving for the first time in a foreign land. The urge to rush toward her, to throw my arms around her, surged over me. But I held back. Aunt Neila did it instead. I stood beside Uncle Mounir. He looked as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Nadia, my precious Nadia! How many years has it been since we saw you? You haven’t changed a bit. Same eyes, same walk. How badly we’ve missed you!”
Nadia and Neila embraced, laughing and crying all at once. I waited for a moment of calm between the two friends and came up to Mom. I kissed her on the cheeks, she took me in her arms.
“My darling Lila! I’m so proud of you!”
“Me too, I’m so happy to see you, Mom!”
At last it was Uncle Mounir’s turn. There he stood, bolt upright like a sentinel, in front of mom.
“Marhaba bik fi Tounis, ya lilla Nadia! Seems like it’s been forever. I never became a lawyer like I hoped, but as you can see, I married the lady of my life and I’m still alive, against all odds.”
Mom shook his hand and kissed him on both cheeks. Her tears were still flowing. She couldn’t utter a single word.
We made our way slowly to the car. Our return to town was a lively one: Mom, Aunt Neila, and Uncle Mounir couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t speak. All I could think of were the days to come. What would happen on the streets? I thought of Donia and Jamel; how would their struggle end?
“Someone told me you’re involved in politics. Is it true?”
No sooner did I hear Mom’s question than my cheeks began to burn.
“Politics? What politics?” I said slowly, weighing my words and trying not to show how agitated I was.
Aunt Neila stifled a nervous laugh.
“Please don’t get upset with me, Lila. I mentioned Donia and Jamel and the work you’re doing together to your mother. I couldn’t keep silent. Nadia knows me too well. I always say what’s on my mind.”
Now I understood better. Mom knew everything. She’d come to rescue me from the revolt. She’d come in response to Aunt Neila who was concerned for my safety.
“The truth is, when Neila told me what you were up to with these young people, my first reaction was to feel proud of you. Lila, my own daughter, right in the heart of Tunis, helping young people in their battle against tyranny. I couldn’t believe my ears! But then I began to be worry — about you, of course, but also that I might miss the chance to see a revolution happening with my very own eyes, and that’s why I dropped everything, jumped on the first flight, and came. Your father couldn’t believe my reaction!”
Poor Dad, all alone at home. I missed him too. I would have loved to see him, to hug him, hold his hand spend a minute of silence beside him.
I didn’t answer. What was the point? Mom knew everything. But she didn’t seem overly concerned either. But a shadow stole over her face: “There’s another reason I came back to Tunis.” She let out a long sigh, then continued: “My parents. It’s time for me to see them again.”