Ottawa, July 2, 1984
Dear Neila,
Who would ever have believed that one day I’d be writing you a letter from Canada? I’m living in Ottawa, the capital of this huge country that still scares me. Me, Nadia, the naive little girl who thought Canada only existed in adventure movies. But look! It’s all true. I’m writing you from that very same country. Perhaps you’re still angry with me, because I let you down. Look, I didn’t have any choice. It was Tunisia that let me down. No, not Tunisia; the Tunisians let me down. Monsieur Kamel, Sonia, my own mother, the lycée, the regime, the police . . . They did everything they could to shove me aside, to put me down. I didn’t have any other choice. I had to leave. I left my country with a heavy heart, a heart as big as a watermelon. Remember those long green watermelons like sagging breasts we used to see laid out for sale along the country roads, or piled high in Peugeot 404 pickup trucks? The ones we’d eat on the hottest days and the gritty pink juice would dribble down our chins? We laughed and wiped our mouths with our hands. Then we went after the black seeds; we chewed through the shells with our teeth and sucked the white seeds hiding inside. And spend the whole day telling stupid stories. How carefree we were! No more, Neila. We’ve become cynical and bitter. We’ve become adults.
I crept out like a thief leaving a store he’s robbed. I left the country I love and the people I love to live with the man I love. It was hard, Neila. Maybe you’ll never forgive me; it’s true, I left in secret. I went with Alex. But he never touched me before we were married. I committed no sin, I swear on my father’s head. “Ib!” was what mother always said about the things she disapproved of. I guess I committed plenty of ibs in her eyes. On the other hand, Alex became a Muslim. He took the Shahada in front of an imam. And don’t be suspicious! He doesn’t drink wine and eat pork like that guy Hedi Bouraoui, your mother’s cousin’s husband. The same imam who witnessed his conversion married us. Am Salam, that was his name. A poor imam we met in the Tunis souk. We searched for hours looking for someone who would listen to us and believe us. A Tunisian girl and a Canadian man.
We registered our marriage at Tunis City Hall. The registrar gave me an accusatory look. “Ya binti, why are you marrying this Christian? There are still plenty of good Muslim boys in this town. Why are you doing this? He only converted to marry you. He’s not doing it for God, but for you. That’s no good.” He whispered those words to me, and then handed me the papers as he waited for my answer. But I said nothing. Alex wanted to know what the man had said. “Nothing. He was wishing us good luck.” Alex smiled weakly; he was nobody’s fool.
You know how our compatriots are, Neila. They stick their noses into everything. The clerk at city hall was no exception. When I went walking with Alex along the street I could hear the men whispering: “Look at the little whore! That’s the way our girls end up. Selling themselves to some gaouri!”
I cried at night when I remembered those words. And you know something, Neila, I wasn’t strong enough to answer back. Fear has tied our tongues. The same fear that Botti made us suck like a bitter candy. With all the power of a glance, and the violence of a word. And along with fear, comes shame. The feeling of shame follows me wherever I go, right down to the depths of my being.
It took a few weeks before I could get a visa. Alex arranged everything: our airplane tickets, our documents, everything! A remarkable guy! I’m sure Mounir will make you happy, just as Alex is making me happy.
There was no embroidered gown at my wedding. No henna on my hands. No deafening band. No bottles of soda pop served on trays tilted to one side from the weight. Nothing. Not even a goodbye from my parents. It broke my heart. I ask you to give them my greetings. I’ll come to see them when things get better.
Yesterday was Canada’s national holiday. The day Canada became a real country. A bit like Independence Day back home, except in Tunisia everybody stays home. There’s nothing to celebrate. Everybody was happy because it was the beginning of spring vacation. Then we’d watch the news on TV with their boring military parades and the dignitaries shaking hands. Here, it’s not like that at all. Alex and I went to the Canadian parliament. It’s a handsome building, the equivalent of our own Bardo. Except that when it comes to size, there’s no comparison. It’s got a tall tower with a clock at the top and a green copper roof. A joyful crowd came to celebrate the birth of their country. Alex is so considerate. We’re living in an apartment close to the University of Ottawa. Alex works in a computer store. He found a job right away. No need for relations. No need for connections. It’s totally different from back home. He just sent in his CV, and they called him for an interview.
I miss you, Neila. I miss life in Tunisia. The monotony of everyday life. Our little squabbles and our fits of laughter. My folks too. Mother says she doesn’t have a daughter any more. Papa says nothing. Instead of words, now, there’s silence. Do you ever see my parents? What do they say? One day, if I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her Lila. Your favourite colour. Remember how you used to dance to Gérard Lenorman’s song “Lila”? We must have been twelve years old. You whirled like a spinning top until you flopped down on the bed, dizzy. I couldn’t stop you. Do you still remember all that silliness, Neila? I remember everything! When Alex is at work and I’m feeling sad, I close my eyes and remember all that. And my sadness dissolves like salt in water. I cry, too, but I don’t say a word to Alex. I don’t want him to see me unhappy, but deep down, I think he knows. He doesn’t say a word. He kisses me on the mouth and I feel like staying in his arms forever.
It’s funny for me to be telling you all this, the girl who taught me all there was to know about boys. Me, who thought you’d get married before me for sure! Me, who was a little jealous to see you so happy with Mounir! Do you have any news from him? When will they release him? Do you ever see his little brother Mohamed? Just between us, I told Alex the whole story. He told me we could do something about it from here. There’s an Amnesty International office in Ottawa. It’s a human rights organization. They help imprisoned people everywhere in the world. They fight against torture. I’ll go see them and talk to them about the repression in Tunisia. I’ll tell them about Mounir, his political activities, and his unjust arrest. Who knows? Maybe they can do something about it. Maybe he’ll be set free.
Ah, I almost forgot the good news! I’m sure you’ll be happy for me! I’m going back to school, at a lycée. A real one, Neila. Here they call it a “collegiate institute.” Mine is called Lisgar. I’d never heard of it before. For sure, they have some weird names here. Yes, I’m going back to school, but all in English. It will be hard, but I think I can do it. One day, those nobodies who kicked me out of the lycée in Tunis will be sorry. I’ll show them what I can do! I can hear you laughing. Are you making fun of me? You think I’m silly, don’t you? Don’t worry about it; I love it when you laugh. It makes me want to dream, it keeps me alive. In fact, I only live to dream.
Love and kisses,
Your dear friend Nadia