Tunis, December 4, 2010
What a gorgeous café with a view out over the Tunis lagoon! I could hardly believe I was in the same town. I couldn’t stop looking at the lake. The dwarf palms planted randomly on the lawn made the view even more striking. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and enveloping, the people civilized, the drinks exquisite. Boys and girls were sitting together, side by side. Most were speaking French with the odd expression in Tunisian Arabic thrown in. I couldn’t hear a single discordant voice. For the first time since I’d arrived, I felt calm, relaxed, and far away from the suffocating feel of the streets of Tunis that I passed through every day on my way to my Arabic courses or to go shopping with Aunt Neila at the market. The day after the incident with Am Mokhtar I called Donia to thank her. Before she hung up, she insisted I go with her to the Mezza Luna.
“It’s a café for young people, I go there with some friends. We spend the afternoon, and later we go bowling. You’ll get to know them. You’ll like them — they’re cool, just like you!”
I wasn’t entirely certain that I wanted to go with Donia or get to know her friends. What did I possibly have to say to them? Why would I possibly like them, what could I possibly have in common with them? Sure, my mom was Tunisian, but my dad was Canadian. I’d lived my whole life in Canada. Most of my friends were Canadian. I spoke Arabic with an accent. In spite of my mom’s attempts to give me a Tunisian identity, I really couldn’t identify with the Tunisians around me.
And yet, sitting in the roomy café, I felt almost at home. The peals of laughter, the sound of coffee cups clinking against their saucers, the tinkle of ice cubes, the hiss of mint tea being poured, foaming, into handsome small tumblers decorated with arabesques. I slouched back in my armchair, at ease, feeling almost relieved, and looked around me. Donia was seated to my left. She was the leader of the group; that much was clear. Politely but firmly she held the attention of the young men who looked up to her as though she was one of them. Two boys and two girls made up the group. One of the boys, Jamel, was closest to Donia. Slender, seething with energy, words came out of his mouth easily. His glasses made him look like an intellectual; he appeared to be the smartest of the lot, the one to watch. Was he Donia’s boyfriend? Could they be lovers? I suspected it, but there was nothing to confirm it except for the odd glance that lasted a little bit longer than it should, or a word that brought a smile to both of their faces. Call it a barely concealed sign of complicity, the kind of body language only the two of them could decipher. The other boy, Sami, had a shy, reserved look about him. His fine hair framed his face, giving him the appearance of a well-behaved young girl. He smiled frequently at Donia and continually nodded his head to agree with everything she said, but he spoke very little. The two girls were called Reem and Farah. They giggled to themselves as they glanced at one another, flickering their eyelids. One had her hair done pageboy style, slicked down, and a button nose, light-coloured skin, and slightly slanted eyes that made her look like a cat about to pounce. The other was constantly adjusting her abundant chestnut hair with the back of her hand. Her black eyes accentuated the whiteness of her skin; a few reddish blotches marked her oval face. Reem and Farah looked me over carefully when they saw me come in with Donia. Even before we were introduced, I knew they wouldn’t like me. My ripped jeans, my multiple earrings worn in a line along my earlobe, the high forehead I’d inherited from my mom, and my blues eyes, just like my dad’s: everything about me told them just how foreign I was. Even my brown and hopelessly curly hair that stood out in corkscrew-like tufts from my head — another hand-me-down from Mom and a source of wonder, of compliments, and admiration during my childhood in Canada — was not enough for them to see me as a Tunisian. Me, the daughter born of the marriage of Nadia the Tunisian and Alex the Canadian. In their eyes, I was some kind of strange mix, a hybrid, a monstrosity produced by the meeting of two distinct worlds but clearly belonging to neither. For the time being I tried to forget the wrenching adolescent metaphysical dilemmas that kept me awake at night; it was enough to bathe in the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the café. Next to me, Jamel was speaking in a low voice.
“Listen, you guys, it looks like things are getting out of hand online. I heard from a friend that a girl we know who writes a blog was arrested two days ago.”
Donia’s face went livid. I couldn’t tell which it was: the shock of the news or anger. Reem and Farah exchanged whispers as they glanced sidelong at two tall young men who had just walked into the café. The news caught Sami’s attention. His expression turned serious, his eyebrows raised; he wanted to ask a question. He opened his mouth, but remained silent. Words betrayed him. Only his glance followed. Donia asked Jamel in a low voice:
“This blogger, do you know who she is? Who told you the news? Don’t tell me its Tounsia two-twelve.”
Suddenly things turned serious. Jamel hesitated, then threw a quick glance in my direction. Donia appeared to understand his questioning look.
“Speak up already! We’re all friends here,” she ordered him, with emphasis on the “all” as she looked at me.
I sat there, motionless, barely understanding what they were talking about, but making an effort to get nearer to them, to take an interest in the discussion. Donia sensed I was ill at ease.
“Here, political dissidents are arrested and thrown in jail. It’s forbidden to talk about politics, there’s no freedom of speech. You draw a caricature of someone, and you take a big risk,” she explained, never taking her eyes off Jamel.
Her voice was wavering and she spoke softly so as not to attract attention. But no one was watching us; there was laughter all around. People had come to the café to have a good time, not to talk politics. Reem and Farah got up to go to the washroom, leaving Jamel and Sami around our table. I dared to ask, “What are they writing, these cyber-dissidents? What are they upset about?”
Jamel leaned over and whispered in my ear: “Poverty, sky-high prices, injustice, dictatorship and nepotism, no work for the young. The blogger they just arrested, she’s one of them.”
Jamel’s outburst startled me. I’d never given Tunisian politics a second thought. Why should I? True, I agreed to come here to improve my Arabic and to get to know Tunisian culture, but that was it. “Maybe a trip to Tunisia will help you get to know yourself better,” was how Mom put it. The way she described her country, it was heaven on earth, a place where living was easy, and where relationships were warm and vibrant. A place where everything was sunbeams and sweetness. Deep inside, I knew Mom was laying it on thick in an attempt to persuade me. I knew she was looking at her homeland through a romantic lens, not to mention a strong dose of nostalgia; she’d been away for so long. But if she were ever to come back, she wouldn’t know which way to turn. Still, I wanted to seize the opportunity — to believe Mom’s words and try to find answers to my questions about my roots, my life, my future. After weeks of saying no, after weeks of indecision, I made up my mind. I put off my university registration for a semester, packed my bags, and arrived in Tunis to stay with Mom’s best friends, Auntie Neila and Uncle Mounir.
What did I know about Tunisian politics, about dictatorship, injustice, oppression, or cyber-dissidents? Mom may have mentioned them, but I hadn’t been paying attention. She was always talking. Even the last few days, when she called or sent four or five text messages a day, I didn’t take her seriously. She was getting worked up for nothing. But what if she was right? What if something weird was going on in this country that looked as if it were fast asleep? Could Donia, her pals, and my mom be right?
Donia was jiggling her leg; she looked really worried. Jamel put his hand on her shoulder and said in a low voice, “Do me a favour and stop moving your leg like that, you’re making me nervous.”
Without looking at him she stopped. Sami smiled timidly; you could feel the tension growing. “Do you think this is it? That things will really change?” he finally blurted out.
Jamel and Donia looked at him. I watched in silence. Reem and Farah came back from the washroom, their hair nicely arranged and their makeup refreshed. Clearly they weren’t living on the same planet.
Donia was the first to respond: “I don’t have the remotest idea! If it turns out they’ve arrested Tounsia two-twelve, that means they’re panicking, going after the small fry. Everybody knows that what Tounsia two-twelve says on her blog is, it’s almost . . .” She paused for a moment as she searched for the missing word. Like magnets attracted by the opposite pole, we drew close to her, to hear her. Her voice was faint, barely audible. “Almost banal, that’s what I meant to say. Yes, that’s it — banal.”
Jamel took up where she’d left off: “But that’s what the regime hates most of all. They want everybody to believe that everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.”
Sami smiled and blinked. “Yes, that’s it, a world of hypocrites.”
His comment, sharp and to the point, made us all smile at once. But it also broke the ice, and the tension that had been building for the last few minutes melted away. Donia peeked at her phone.
Then she slowly turned her head toward Jamel, pointing a threatening finger at him. “Hey you! Watch yourself. Call me whenever you like, but no funny stuff.”
Jamel said nothing, but his face was relaxed. He threw her a knowing glance. Sami got to his feet.
“Guys, I’ve got to go, my father made a scene the last time I got in late.”
It was all Reem and Farah could do to stifle a sly smile as they chattered in low voices while looking at Sami. We all stood up. Donia paid for her mint tea and for mine as well. I didn’t even have time to object. Sami had already left. Reem and Farah spotted another group of young people they seemed to recognize and excused themselves and went off to join them. Donia pretended not to have noticed the whole thing. Outside, the sun was about to set. I noticed a European-looking gentleman jogging along the embankment overlooking the lake. It was as if I were back in Ottawa, near the Byward Market. The cafés, the restaurants, the people going by on bikes, the outdoor shows. A vision flashed through my mind and then vanished like the sun whose last rays I saw reflected on the buildings and cars. Jamel was speaking to Donia in a low voice. I couldn’t understand everything, but I picked up the words “demonstration” and “revolt.”
Donia came over to me and exclaimed, “What a beautiful view! If you don’t mind, it’s time to go home. We can go bowling some other time.”
I nodded without paying her too much attention. I was thinking about Jamel and Donia’s words. I wanted to know more. Donia drove her own car. Everyone was silent on the trip home. Jamel was sitting in the back seat; I sat in the passenger seat. Tunis was preparing for night. The streetlamps were coming on and the white glare illuminated the gathering dusk. Battered old yellow buses were carrying people back home from work. Donia dropped Jamel off at a station. He waved to us before disappearing into the crowd. Le passage, read the sign above the station entrance.
“Does he live far from here?”
“He lives in Ettadamoun Township. He gets there by light rail,” Donia answered.
“That’s a funny name! Doesn’t it mean ‘solidarity’? I think I came across the word in my Arabic class. Why should there be a township called ‘solidarity’?”
“I don’t know. It’s a populous area, pretty poor actually. Maybe we need more solidarity with those people.” Then she added, “So, did you like my friends?” asking with her usual frankness, which I was coming to appreciate more and more.
“Yes! The whole evening was surprising and exciting. I learned a lot about Tunisia, about politics. It was nothing like my Arabic courses, where you die of boredom,” I answered, letting down my guard for the first time since I got to Tunisia.
Donia’s face lit up; she liked what I said.
“Well, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. I’m sure there’ll be more in the next few days.”
She was referring to things I knew nothing about. I didn’t want to put her on the spot, so I pretended not to understand exactly what she meant. She turned on the radio and a song in Arabic came on. I’d never heard the rhythms before. “It’s my favourite,” she said with a wink and a grin. Surprised, I found myself moving to the beat and humming the chorus. Clearly, Donia had more surprises for me. When her car stopped in front of Aunt Neila’s place, the song had ended. Donia put her arms around me and gave me a gentle hug.
“My heart is never wrong. Something tells me we’re going to be good friends, I know it.”
I didn’t reply, but I did return her hug. Then she got back into her car and drove off. The sound of the motor disappeared in the night. I pushed open the heavy door to the building. OUT OF ERDOR was written in large, jagged letters on a piece of brown cardboard stuck to the elevator door. I smiled at the misspelling. But I wasn’t looking forward to climbing eight flights of stairs. With a grimace, I put my foot on the first step.