Hope Has Two Daughters Read online

  NINETEEN

  Tunis, March 1984

  Mounir would serve seven years in prison. Once more, we heard the news from little Mohamed. Neila no longer — almost never — mentioned his name. She wanted to forget him, she said. But I knew she was lying. Mounir was always in her thoughts. We hadn’t seen Mohamed since the day he’d told us his brother had been arrested. Neila and I thought the family had moved. But one day, on our way to school we ran into him again. He had the same childish gait but this time accompanied by the look of a man grown up too fast. He was whistling, his hands in his pockets, his school bag hanging by lengths of string.

  “Hey, Mohamed! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to school, as you can see,” he shot back in a neutral, almost indifferent tone of voice.

  “How’s Mounir?” asked Neila who, slowly recovering from her surprise, suddenly understood what had happened.

  He stopped short at the sound of his brother’s name. It was as if he’d just come from far away. He looked at us long and hard.

  Then he came closer and whispered with a grave face: “Mounir’s still in prison. I can’t go to see him. They don’t let kids in. Mother visits him every Friday. I really miss him. The last time, Father told me that Mounir would be in prison seven years . . .”

  “It’s just not true! Nothing but lies,” Neila interrupted him. “Who told you those lies?”

  I stepped forward quickly to stop her from saying anything else.

  Little Mohamed stared at Neila with startled eyes, then went on: “Me neither, I don’t believe those stories. Seven years, that’s too much. I’ll almost be finished my lycée by the time he’s released. I won’t even recognize my own brother.”

  All Neila could do was stammer:

  “C—, ca—, can we visit him? What’s the name of the prison where they’re keeping him?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my father. But I heard him mention the ‘new prison’ a couple of times.”

  Neila and I said nothing more. We knew the name of the main prison in Tunis. Everyone knew it, except children like Mohamed. Neila opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. Mohamed went off to school, with his little boy’s gait.

  “Don’t you want to visit him?” I asked Neila, as we got underway once more.

  “You can’t be serious! What do you think I should show up at the prison as? His fiancée-in-waiting? His wife-to-be? Or do you think I should tell the guards like it is, that I’m his girlfriend? You want another scandal, is that it? Him being in prison isn’t enough for you?”

  Neila’s outburst took me aback. I hadn’t expected that she would react this way.

  “Calm down, Neila, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I swear I wasn’t thinking any such thing. What an idiot I am! Such an idea never even occurred to me. It’s true, all those considerations went way over my head.”

  Neila said nothing. She seemed off balance. We’d almost reached the lycée. All of a sudden she turned to me and said: “Nadia, I don’t want to go to school any more. I feel like my head is going to explode. It’s too much for me. And it’s so unfair for Mounir.”

  Then she broke down and began to sob. I took her in my arms and tried to comfort her. Her whole body was shaking. She had never seemed so frail to me, so vulnerable. Mounir’s arrest was a tragedy of an entirely different order. A tragedy that seemingly had no beginning, nor end; one that was consuming her inside.

  As I hugged Neila, I noticed Sonia parking her BMW in the teachers’ parking lot. She could afford to ignore the regulations. Her father worked at the Ministry of the Interior. He was the police chief; maybe he had ordered Mounir’s arrest. I loathed her now even more than before. Neila remained clasped in my embrace for a few more seconds. Then, gently, she pulled free.

  “I don’t want to keep up my studies anymore,” she said, eyes red and face wracked by emotion. “Get an education, what for? To become like the others? To perpetuate injustice?”

  “How are you supposed to fight injustice, then? With ignorance, apathy, stupidity? You want to run and hide and let them get away with it? No, Neila. I don’t think Mounir went to prison so that you can stop living and turn your back on reality.”

  She wasn’t looking at me; she stared off into the distance.

  “Listen carefully, Neila. Mounir is in prison. He’ll be there for one year, two years, seven years. It’s too much, and I know it, but one day he’ll walk free. You’ve got to hang on, for his sake. He needs you.”

  Once more she looked away. We heard the bell, a jarring sound that wrenched us from our thoughts. We had to hurry. Class would begin in a few minutes. Neila looked down and walked on beside me. Resignation had overcome her. The world of injustice had won. I spotted Sonia; she was laughing boisterously along with one of the boys in the class. I gritted my teeth, but this wasn’t the time to be thinking about Sonia. I knew I had to fend off whatever life threw my way; my friendship with Neila — and my own survival — demanded it.

  Botti was waiting for us at the main entrance, holding open one of the doors. His whistle hung from his neck as if he were a soccer referee. He fancied himself the school police and played the role to perfection. We all lived in fear of him. But the truth was, he prepared us for the outside world. He prepared us to fear the authorities, to fear daily humiliation and abuse of power. Botti did it all, all the time. And we, the students? We were a well-trained flock of sheep that followed orders without believing them. Fear held us back. Behind his back we detested him, made fun of him, and waited for him to fall so that we could trample him and break all the rules. But we still lived in constant fear. Fear of our parents. fear for our future career, fear of confronting injustice. Mounir had made up his mind to defy fear, to change the way things were. He had attempted to challenge the regime, and now he was in prison. No friends, no comrades could visit him. There, among the rats and the cockroaches, he was languishing alongside others like him, who had also dared. As for us, we were on the other side. The side of fear. Feigning ignorance or actually being ignorant of what was going on around us. Powerless. Neila and I had no idea of how to carry on with the job Mounir had started.

  “Come on, girls, get moving! I’m closing the doors. Hurry up; class is starting. What’s going on here anyway? Is everybody late today?”

  I didn’t even want to look at him. He disgusted me. The fingers that held the door open were repugnant. Other students were crushing their cigarette butts not far from the door, then pushing past us. The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with sweat was overwhelming. Botti was getting impatient.

  Neila and I hurried through the doorway. Botti pulled back his fat, cigar-shaped fingers and the door slammed behind him. We made straight for our classroom. The instructor hadn’t yet arrived; the students were waiting inside. All hell was breaking loose. Two boys had left their seats and were kicking a plastic ball back and forth at the rear of the room. Sonia, true to form, was waiting in her usual place, right in front of the instructor’s desk. She’d pulled out a mirror and was arranging her hair. I didn’t even dare to look at her. Her naked ambition and egotism were so obvious. She was responsible for all our troubles. It was true! Her happiness had robbed us of Mounir. In her face I saw all the injustice that surrounded us. Inside, I was seething. The more I looked at her, the more her indifference twisted my guts.

  As I passed her desk on my way to my usual place, I couldn’t stop myself from hissing: “Primping for Monsieur Kamel, eh? Well, you’re nothing! A big, fat stinking zero. That’s what you are!”

  Neila jabbed me with her elbow. “Shhh!”

  Sonia dropped her mirror. Her mascara-lined eyes stared at me as though I were a ghost. She got to her feet and arched her back like a cat ready to pounce.

  “Watch your mouth, you little slut! Mind your own hand-me-downs and the little char girls that follow you around. You can keep
your advice to yourself.”

  I have to admit that I’d underestimated Sonia’s ability to react. I wanted to play with the big girls, but she was more ready for a fight than me. I didn’t know how to respond. But I was proud to have knocked her off her pedestal. I was trying to think up a comeback, but Neila nudged me hard with her elbow. A deathly silence settled over the classroom. Everybody had heard the exchange; even the two boys who’d been playing ball had sat down, anxious to watch the confrontation. We had become the centre of attention.

  “The instructor’s coming, will you please shut up now,” Neila whispered in my ear.

  But there was no holding me back. I was going to go after Sonia, after the privilege that she flaunted so insolently, after her success-at-any-price behaviour, using all her charm and her father’s influence.

  “If you’re so sure, why don’t you tell everybody that you’re a little numbskull, and that the only way you can get a passing mark is by seducing Monsieur Kamel, that poor bugger. Come on, you big fat idiot, tell us!”

  I’d gotten my revenge. I’d shut that conceited little bitch up. I had more to say, but Neila clapped her hand over my mouth. I turned around to stop her, and it was at that moment that I saw Monsieur Kamel placing his black briefcase atop his desk. His eyes were boring into me. He’d heard it all, seen it all. My accusing words resounded in the classroom in a joyful noise. The whole class was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Neila had slumped onto the desk next to mine. Despair flooded over her face. I didn’t move.

  Sonia was weeping loudly.

  “Did you hear, sir, what that little vermin said?” asked Sonia. “I can’t imagine anyone could be so low. Oh my God, how rude is she!”

  An offended look on her face, Sonia swung her head from right to left. Then she delicately wiped the mascara that was running down her cheeks.

  “Mademoiselle Mabrouk, take your things and leave. I have no need of students like you in my class. I will prepare a report on your unseemly behaviour.”

  I picked up my schoolbag. Neila had turned pale. She stared at me with beseeching eyes. “Go say you’re sorry! Go on, do it now!” she begged.

  I made as if I’d heard nothing. For the first time in my life I felt strong and confident. I had just spoken the truth, the truth that everyone knew but pretended not to see. It was none of my business. Fine. But I wanted to hit back, for Mounir, for Neila. I was the feminine version of Étienne Lantier, after all. The blood was boiling in my veins. I was a heroine now, but I wouldn’t be much longer. I would pay dearly for my insolence. Before long I would be brought back into line. For in this country, you couldn’t live without keeping in line.

  TWENTY

  Tunis, December 28, 2010

  That evening, after a long day spent with Donia and Jamel writing short pieces, posting them on Facebook, and answering questions online, I returned to an apartment seemingly locked in silence. Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir must have gone out, I thought, perhaps visiting friends on the next floor down. They’d done the same thing a few weeks ago. But after closing the door, I heard the sound of voices from the living room and noticed a dim light. There they were, seated side by side in front of the TV, watching the news in silence. As quietly as I could, I sat down beside them. I felt at home. I was part of the family now, after all, and no longer the foreign girl trying to find herself. Aunt Neila smiled at me without a word, and Uncle Mounir gestured with his head as if to tell me that he’d seen me and to greet me. I responded with a smile and a nod.

  On the screen, President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali was in a hospital room surrounded by doctors and nurses. The person on the bed was wrapped from head to toe in white bandages: a living mummy. The president stood at a distance, a worried look on his face, listening to the group of physicians that accompanied him.

  “What a hypocrite!” Uncle Mounir burst out. “What’s he doing at the bedside of someone the regime’s stooges drove to suicide? What a pathetic farce!”

  It didn’t take me long to realize that the sick man was Mohamed Bouazizi, the same man whose story Donia, Jamel, and I were following. The man who set himself afire to preserve what was left of his dignity.

  Aunt Neila was wiping her eyes as she wept silently.

  “To ask the people for forgiveness, perhaps?” I suggested calmly.

  Uncle Mounir smiled at me. “For sure, but this time it won’t work. It isn’t the same people as twenty-five years ago. The regime’s days are numbered. I can feel it. Some of my friends at the UGTT told me that demonstrations are being organized all over the country, that it’s just beginning.”

  I saw Aunt Neila turn pale. She hadn’t yet spoken. She sighed and then spoke: “That’s what you’re hoping, but it’s not sure that people are ready to bring down the wall of fear.”

  “Neila, don’t be pessimistic, I beg you. Things have changed. It’s not like in our day. Can’t you see that even Lila, who’s from Canada, is involved with what’s happening here? And her friends are, too.” Uncle Mounir’s gaze was grave, and focused directly on me.

  “I don’t know what things were like in your day,” I said. “But judging by the comments we’re getting on Jamel’s blog, and if I can trust what Donia and Jamel have been telling me over the last few days, it’s clear that everybody wants a change. I don’t know if it will happen. The police are still monitoring everything. The Internet isn’t free. Jamel writes his articles using a pseudonym. They could throw him in jail at any moment.”

  Aunt Neila seemed to have found her argument. “You see, Mounir, it isn’t as simple as you think. Ben Ali controls everything: the Internet, the police, the people. Watch what you’re doing, Lila. Your friends Donia and Jamel seem sincere, but if they were ever arrested and — may God protect you! — anything were to happen to you, what would we do then? Did you ever think of the consequences? And your mother, what about her? Nadia would never forgive me.”

  Her mention of Mom’s name made me cringe. I hadn’t said a word to my mother about anything. The fears she expressed a few days before were turning out to be well-founded. If she knew what I was up to, she’d die of fear.

  “Please, don’t say a word to her! She’d be frightened for nothing. I know my mom. She sent me to learn Arabic. For me to get involved in a mass uprising is the last thing she’d expect . . .”

  Aunt Neila’s features hardened. Uncle Mounir switched off the TV and went off into the kitchen. I could hear the tinkling of glasses, and I thought he was making tea. From the kitchen he called out: “Leave her be, Neila, don’t try to frighten her. She knows her way around, plus she’s a Canadian, the cops — pigs, the whole lot of them! — can’t touch her. They’re too cowardly to touch a foreigner.”

  Aunt Neila was getting more upset by the minute.

  “But can’t you see that Nadia entrusted her daughter to us? We’ve got to take care of her. I don’t feel good about this situation. If things get out of hand, it’ll be too late. I’m telling you, I don’t feel good about it at all. I don’t want to have to lie to her.”

  I could understand Aunt Neila. She was thinking back to Uncle Mounir’s arrest; she didn’t want the same thing to happen to her best friend’s daughter.

  “Things have changed a lot. We’re very careful. We’re using the Internet to get the news out there because young people feel like there’s no place for them. We’re in touch with all the other young people in the country. I think it’s fantastic. You should be happy!”

  Uncle Mounir came back into the living room carrying a tray with three steaming saucers filled with a greyish-green mixture. I screwed up my mouth.

  “Its drôo, what you call sorghum,” he said. “It’s like a pudding. We make it with milk, sugar, and sorghum flour. It’s a winter dish. Here, grab a spoon and take a bite. It’s delicious, you’ll see. It’ll warm you up.”

  Aunt Neila was so upset by our argument that she didn’t ev
en touch her pudding. Meanwhile, Uncle Mounir was doing everything he could to calm us down. I slid a spoonful of this curious cream into my mouth. It had an interesting taste; I took another spoonful. By then I had the feeling that I couldn’t stop. The pudding was warm, comforting.

  Aunt Neila was looking at me with a mother’s sweetness, as if she’d forgotten that only a couple of minutes before she was in complete disagreement with my idea of telling Mom nothing about my new activities with Donia and Jamel.

  “What if you sent your mother a message telling her what you’re doing, without too many details? Don’t you think it would be better for everybody? How about it, Lila? What do you think?”

  I didn’t want to answer, first because I was too caught up in eating my tasty drôo, but also because I wasn’t sure it would be the right tactic. A simple message wouldn’t be enough. Mom would want more details; she wouldn’t be satisfied with a few vague and empty sentences.

  “She’d never understand what I’m doing. A message like that would frighten her. She’d panic, I know it.”

  Uncle Mounir threw a reproachful glance at Aunt Neila.

  “Enough with the negative ideas, Neila. Everything will be fine. Like I said, Lila is a big girl now—”

  I interrupted impatiently: “After all, I’ve got less than two weeks left before I go back to Canada. I don’t think there’ll be any huge changes between now and then.”

  A look of sadness settled over her face. Already my upcoming departure had begun to affect her.

  “It’s true. You’re probably right.”