Ottawa, April 4, 1992
Dear Neila,
Thanks for your last letter. Nothing but good news all around! I’m so happy to learn that they finally released Mounir. Unbelievable! Held for more than seven years for daring to say no to injustice. I cried when I saw your wedding photo. You can’t imagine how happy I am for both of you. At last the dream of a lifetime is coming true. You’re just wonderful in the photo. Exactly like a movie star. Your hair so elegant, your cheeks all powdered, and your eyes made up. I swear, you look just like Claudia Cardinale when she was young. And Mounir, he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still just as serious as I remember him when I saw him at the entrance to the shopping centre searching customers’ bags. Ah, my dearest Neila, the years are passing like the waves of the sea, but suffering sinks to the bottom.
You wrote that my parents attended your marriage, and I could feel my heart leap. You know well that you were always like a second daughter to them. Your wedding was the one I could never give them. Papa answered two or three of my letters. Mother doesn’t even want to talk to me on the phone. I wrote to Papa in my letters that I wanted to speak to her. I gave him my number here in Ottawa, but heard nothing; she’s still turning her back on me. Even when I graduated from university, with my degree in English literature, she didn’t budge an inch. Papa only tells me the barest minimum — a few words and the letter is over. I read it and reread it to give myself the impression that he’s still talking to me. The only time I detected a note of pride was when I announced that I’d gotten my university degree. It was like a faint ray of light over a dark and stormy sea. Only a single sentence that said: “I always knew you were a good student.” Maybe mother will speak to me one day. When she learns I’ll soon be a mother, maybe she’ll change her mind. I keep on hoping.
It’s true. I didn’t tell you right away: I can feel the baby moving around in my tummy. This is a kind of happiness I’ve never experienced before, a feeling that life is taking shape inside me, helping me to forget the pain of being parted from my parents. Alex is beside himself with joy. He’ll soon be a father. Always the same old guy: sweet tempered and lovable. Ah, if only my parents would accept him! Actually, it’s not so much him as it is the rebellious girl I became after the couscous revolt. They could never come to terms with the new Nadia. The ghost of the old Nadia still hovers over their life. Docile Nadia, the little girl who didn’t ask too many questions, the little girl who was ready to be just like everybody else, the little girl who would pass the baccalaureate exams with honors and become the pride of the neighbourhood.
Just look at me! Stirring up bitter memories! I try to forget, to move on, but you know just how hard that can be.
I didn’t tell you that we’ve just bought a house. A house like the ones we used to see in the movies. A red brick house with a pitched roof. You won’t find anything like it in Tunis. There’s a wood floor, a fireplace in the living room, and no French doors at all. The windows let in the dazzling Canadian winter light that fills our lives with warmth and hope. I hope you’ll come here to Ottawa for a visit. I miss you. All those lost years. Pray for me and for my little Lila who keeps on kicking me in the side.
With all my love,
Nadia