Tunis, January 11, 2011
I met my grandparents for the first time the day that unrest peaked in the poor districts of Tunis. Ettadamoun Township was aflame; blood was flowing in the streets.
Mom, who never talked about her parents except to say that they were old and that they lived outside of Tunis, surprised me when she announced that we were going to visit them. Should I have attributed the silence to my indifference or to the scant enthusiasm she always showed toward her father and mother? Both, perhaps?
“Where do they live?” I asked with curiosity.
“Tebourba. A charming little town with an ancient history. There’s good agricultural land and the people are kind and simple,” she replied, her eyes damp.
We were in downtown Tunis, in Barcelona Square. There were police at every corner. As our taxi carried us toward the Central Station, where we’d catch a bus, I caught sight of an army tank stationed in front of a tall building. We waited for the bus, which gave no sign of appearing. Mom avoided my gaze. Her tired eyes sought out the blue bus that Uncle Mounir had strongly advised us to take, and which was now late.
“My parents settled in Tebourba after . . . after I went to Canada. My father renovated his parents’ old home and they moved there,” she finally explained. The words came out with difficulty.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me anything? Why didn’t you ever tell me about your parents? You only talked about Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir. Why did you want me to learn Arabic in Tunisia when you, who grew up there, didn’t even stay in touch with your roots?”
Without noticing, I’d raised my voice. The odd passerby turned to stare at us. The suffocating smell from the exhaust fumes of the buses entering and leaving the station filled the air. I felt dizzy. My lungs were calling for help.
“It wasn’t my choice. My parents never accepted that I was going to marry your father. They didn’t want to see me again. It broke my heart, but there was nothing left for me but to leave. Thankfully Neila would give me their news. I didn’t want to say anything to you. I didn’t want you to hold it against them for rejecting your dad. Today, I think the time has come to see them. I’m taking you with me. Maybe they’ll forgive me.”
Forgive her for choosing her husband? I wanted to ask another question. Too late. A crowd had converged in front of the blue bus that had just pulled up in front of us. Mom pushed me gently forward; we had to move quickly to get a seat. Luckily we found two places. Seated side by side, we waited in silence for the bus to move.
I watched the landscape rush by, like so many photographs from a magazine. A tree bent over the highway. A donkey cart. A decrepit factory. Two men slogging along the roadside, as though in a dream, staring off into the distance, nothing connecting them, one following the other.
“Is it far to Tebourba?” I asked, to break the silence.
“About twenty miles. You’ll see. It’s a lovely place. Tebourba is an ancient Roman city — Thuburdo Minus, that was its Roman name. There were even Christian martyrs there, during the early years of Christianity in Africa. Then came the Moors from Andalusia fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. They settled there and built the city that we see today. You’ll see. It’s a magnificent place.”
It was the same enthusiasm I’d gotten used to when she would praise her country to the skies back in Canada. An enthusiasm that replaced the fatigue of jet lag I could still see on her face. She’d never told me the story. That dark part of her life that she’d kept so well hidden in our calm and humdrum Canadian daily routine.
“Did you ever visit Tebourba?” I asked her, at last.
“A few times, when I was a little girl. But when my grandparents died, may God bless their souls, my father closed the house . . . until I left for Canada, that is.”
She stopped, pulled out a hanky, and wiped her eyes. I looked out the window. Now the road ran parallel to a river.
Mom put away her hanky, and exclaimed, pointing to the riverbanks: “Look! It’s the Medjerda, the Tunisian Saint Lawrence!”
I smiled. Mom too. We had the same references. Canada had separated Mom from the land of her birth, and suddenly it popped back up, bringing us together in a blue bus as we went searching for our roots.
“Thanks to the waters of this river, this region one of the most fertile in the country.” Mom went on.
She didn’t have time to finish her sentence. We had already arrived. From far off I could see a monument surrounded by a small garden bordered by a black-painted fence.
At the bus station, Mom seemed a bit lost. Police cars were everywhere. The revolution was alive among the people. I shivered. The place was teeming with ambulant vendors: men hawking bread, vegetables, and cigarettes. People milled around. Motorcycles were heading in all directions. I observed the human scene with curious eyes. Discreetly, Mom approached an elderly gentleman sitting beside a table, a glass of tea in his hand. The frail-looking man, wearing a chéchia to cover his sparse white hair, pointed out a street to her.
“Lila,” exclaimed Mom, taking me by the hand, “it’s this way. I can’t recognize a thing. Everything has changed. Luckily the man knew where our house is.”
We walked down a street that ended in an alleyway. We had to step over a garbage bag torn open by some animal. Ahead of us, a skinny cat skittered across the road. At the end of the alley stood a tiny mosque with a green dome. And there, to our left, a house. We came to a stop in front of a red-painted door with a sky-blue frame. Two crumbling stone columns framed the doorway, which was decorated with two brass knockers. My Mom grasped one of them.
We waited a moment. An eternity. An elderly gentleman opened the door. He could only be my grandfather. He had Mom’s forehead, a forehead just like mine. He stared at us for a few seconds, squinting in an effort to figure out what was happening.
“Papa, it’s me, Nadia, your daughter.”
Without waiting for the elderly gentleman’s reaction, she threw herself into his arms. I stood there, off to one side, not knowing what to do with my hands or my emotions.
The elderly gentleman — my grandfather — turned toward me. Smiled at me. There were gaps in his teeth. He leaned in my direction and then, in shaky French, as he beckoned to me, he said: “Come closer, my little one. You must be Lila. Oh my God! How long I’ve waited for this moment!”
He embraced me. I kissed him clumsily on the cheek. A broad smile lit up his wrinkled face.
An elderly lady, her hair carefully arranged, came to the door. My Mom hastily threw her arms around her. It was my grandmother. She looked startled. There was confusion in her eyes. She could not understand the strange scene that was unfolding on her doorstep.
“Fatma, come over here! It’s Nadia and her daughter, Lila. Didn’t I tell you time and again that she would come back? I knew it — my heart would never betray me, I knew she would come back one day. Today is that day. Glory to God!”