Ottawa, January 20, 2011
Dear Donia,
Mother and I are back safely in Ottawa. We had a smooth trip. No surprises. No excitement. The whole way I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about Jamel, and about the future of Tunisia. That’s where I left my heart. The first thing I did when I got back was to turn on my computer and check Facebook. They released Jamel! What great news! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I read and reread the blurb a dozen times. “Jamel Zitouni has been released!” You must be very happy! I’m happy for you. Things still look fragile to me, but I’m confident that a new day will dawn soon for Tunisia.
Outside, it’s snowing and the weather is cold. A dry, cutting cold like the blade of a sword. But the cold is my childhood, my life; I can’t live without it. I see the snowflakes dancing up and down like tiny balls of cotton wool whirling in the air before falling to the ground in a rush. Their whiteness reminds me of the rooftops of Tunis, all whitewashed to reflect the burning rays of the sun. It makes me homesick. I’m going to take some time off, relax for a while, and then get back to my writing. My courses have started up again. I’m a little behind, but it was worth every minute. Imagine! For so long I refused to go to Tunisia! Everything scared me: the people, the language, the environment, the bright sun beating down on my head. So there I was, in my egotistical solitude and comfort. But that’s over and done with, Donia. I’m not the same person. Tunisia changed me. Aunt Neila, Uncle Mounir, my grandparents, you and Jamel, and even Am Mokhtar, that old fox — all those people opened my eyes to another reality, to the struggle for justice, perseverance, and dignity. Wasn’t that what the young people on Avenue Bourguiba were calling for? I heard it in their voices and I saw it in their eyes. I shouted it out along with them. It was a journey that enabled me to know others, but also to learn who I was. To learn my story. My own roots. And, of course, to learn about my mother. I would never have known a thing about any of that if I hadn’t gone back to the source. If I hadn’t taken the trouble to get my hands dirty, as the saying goes. And just look at what I came up with, Donia! Rich, black, fertile soil? I wish I knew. Only time will tell.
I’ve started studying psychology at university. I want to understand people better, to find out how they think, why they’re sometimes nice and sometimes nasty. Why they act the way they do. I want to continue the search that began in a sophisticated café in Tunis. Remember, Donia? The day I met Jamel and your group of friends. That was the day that I broke out of my little bubble and realized that there were young people who were different from me, but who dreamed of freedom and justice. Anyway, I didn’t get it right away, but today, far from all of you — thousands of miles away! — I’m sure of it. My heart is calling out loud and clear: I’ve changed, Donia, and the main reason is you!
I hear on the news that there is still violence in Tunisia. I hope your neighbourhood is spared. I still remember how frightened we were after the huge demonstration on January 14 and the declaration of a curfew. Uncle Mounir went out every night to help the men in the local committees to make sure the citizens were protected. All the men, young and old, carried sticks as thick as snake heads to defend themselves against the criminals and the bandits who took control of the streets and set up a reign of terror. All of a sudden the police, who were everywhere in the streets when I arrived in Tunis, disappeared. They were certainly worried that the people would take revenge. Why am I telling you all this? You know much better than I do what happened. Maybe it’s because I want to hold onto the memory of those instants. After nightfall, for several days in succession, Aunt Neila, Mom, and I were alone in the apartment. They told me stories about their adolescence, about their parents. I discovered a whole new world.
This summer I intend to come to see you in Tunisia. We’ll plan a program. I won’t be coming to learn Arabic. Definitely not! My ears are still ringing. And my training was more than I needed. No, I want to go to Sidi Bouzid, to Siliana, to Gafsa, to Tozeur, and to the other towns of the interior. I know it will be hot, but I’d like to visit those towns, the ones that were left behind. I’d like to do something for those people. You see, I owe them something. I owe them the peace that I’ve found at last.
Hope to see you soon,
Lila