Chapter 9- optional

Hunger leads me to the store. I make my way inside Hassan and Houssein’s little business. This year it’s Hassan’s turn to run the show, while his brother takes care of their farm; his turn to stand behind the long wooden counter, surrounded by walls shelved from floor to ceiling, and vertical corner to vertical corner, to display a great inventory of merchandise, containing every imaginable item a household may possibly need; his turn to inflate the tabs, and why not, a large majority of this establishment’s clientele, mostly local, keep, stored in a drawer underneath the counter along with a couple of pencils, pens and a single calculator, and in tiny spiral-bound notebooks filled with the book-keeper’s own, conveniently, undecipherable hand-writing –as bad as that of a seasoned doctor; and his turn to work day and night at building a better and safer future for his sons, whom, he watches as they run, climb lathers, fill bags, deliver goods, and most importantly learn the ropes of a business that shall one day become theirs, and so the baton is passed from generation to generation.

As a greeting gesture, Hassan feigns a minimal smile from behind his reading glasses, before diving back into his favorite activity, checking numbers, but only after haven taken notice that his boys are coming towards me smiling and, as usually, thrilled about this short and entertaining visit of mine, ready to laugh at my peculiarities, and why not, share a few jokes before going about their business, seemingly carefree in grease and dirt covered clothes full of holes.

These kids, with very little education, the bare minimum, just enough to read, write and solve simple mathematical problems, seem to enjoy being overworked. In other countries and under different circumstances, this would certainly be considered child slavery. But here, where no option is better than another, their treatment is just an indicator for another way, another approach and philosophy. This is the way of the Berbers, descendants of this land’s true natives, a somewhat derided, and lightly trampled, ethnical group that nonetheless forms part of the national fabric.

I dare not judge, for under their seemingly miserable appearance, there is a peacefulness that can be noticed in eyes that show neither discontent nor pain, but rather life unspoiled by an epidemic and very common boredom. These boys emanate pride and contentment and remain out of greed’s and envy’s reach –Life with a purpose. Yes, These boys have a real purpose; not one of those spawned by shear human psychosis and driven by ill feelings of dissatisfaction, envy, and greed as vessels for the basest types of aspirations –such as mine.

I remember the murkiness of my own feelings surfacing at a very young age, bred by an over-protective mother suffocating her asthmatic son, in the name of motherly love, keeping him locked in an apartment, with only windows and books to gaze from, leaving him no choice but to find solace in dreams of escape and freedom, the way a caged bird would –I think.

I remember learning to be jealous of those playing outside, running and kicking balls. I began hating sickness, doctors, prescriptions, shots and medicine. I detested protection and with it affection. I dreamed of running, unbound space, faithful acolytes, dangerous games. But most of all, I dreamed of being normal. These were my first, and therefore life-shaping, aspirations. As far as I can tell, and I’d bet my wallet on the fact that it is the same for everyone else, these first aspirations, as if carved in stone with an unforgiving chisel, are the source of all evil, driving and pushing us against or away from one another.

I remember the Nasrani looking boy with long straight hair and white skin- yours himself, walking down the street with his mother. We were coming back from the marketplace. I can almost feel that gently and so well behaved boy be consumed, at once, in a split second, in less time than it takes to say, ‘Excuse me…,’ by rage and anger, causing him to unleash a flood of violence no one, not even himself, would have guessed existed inside the frailty of his asthmatic body, savagely attacking older males who had innocently mistook him for a little girl during a polite conversation with the mother, turning him to a fury, a demon out of whose tiny hands flew a storm of lethal little rocks, while he victoriously screamed in the direction of the scattering, bruised, and bleeding mob “I am a BOY. I am a BOY.” That day, I had tasted the glory of rage and the sweetness of freedom, as they carved an essay on the virtues and rewards of conflict. The same conflict, I haven’t seized seeking ever since.

Under Hassan’s scrutinizing eyes, I take my time to pick something that would satiate my hunger. Were I more adventurous, I’d try on of those -not too sanitary- sandwiches he usually takes less than a minute to slap together, wrap and bag. However, since I am a big proponent of avoiding self-inflicted food poisoning, I opt for an ‘Henry’s choco’: twelve chocolate covered French cookies in a sealed, to retain freshness, box, the same item I buy everyday, sometimes twice –I guess, we could call it another addiction.

My supplier reaches for the highest box in pyramidal arrangement, sitting in a tight stack, on the counter, behind a glass divider separating his world from mine. A boundary he rarely goes beyond, and which I had managed to cross, first as a child, whose motto per excellence was, ‘Curiosity rules,’ and then later just to push Hassan’s buttons –and should I say burst his bubble.

And while we’re on the subject of bubbles, I have to admit that to this very day, I still despise them all, be they personality, religious, ethnic, phobic, social, economic ones. Somehow, and regardless of what they stand for, they are the windmills of my insanity. Bursting them has become a subconsciously ingrained mission that pushes me to show no mercy as I advance on a quest to slay my wicked nemesis, and free every soul imprisoned within. This is my life long pursuit. This is my revolution; a bubble free revolution.

Yes, I love and seek conflict. I push buttons, hit sensitive spots, squeeze Achilles tendons. If I were to be pretentious I’d boast that I find it my duty to actually bring these folks, who unbeknownst to themselves are lost in some redundant chapter from the play of their lives, back on the right track. Or that I give them a boost of awakening energy to see the error of their ways. But preferring honesty, I’ll just admit that I see myself as a parasite living of what I presume is their rebirth; their grasping for a first breath and ray of light.


As I search my pockets for change, little happy laborers rush to welcome the new customer. They greet her with broken French, never missing a chance to practice foreign languages. Sister Marie-francoise, a new member of the convent located not too far from here. I’ve come to know her through my religiously confused mother, who while claiming to be Muslim, pays periodical visits to the massive ‘Eglise de Notre Dame,’ at the end of Avenue Mers-Sultan, where she has made it a habit of hers to lights a few candles under the forgiving and watchful eye of ‘Virgin’ Marie’s statue.

For a second, a mental window opens just a crack inside my head, and calls for my attention. But realizing what big questions lie hidden behind, I fake disinterest, and after all, in this country of contradictions, nothing surprises me anymore; especially not this French nun, one of the latest occupier’s representatives, having a conversation with children who, in their very blood, carry their ancestors’ torch, representing a lineage that has stood the test of time and history with all its invasions and intruders, and is still fighting for the prevalence of its language, culture, and heritage. Actually, if one was to think about it in contrast with the fact that this land is a place of infinite possibilities, the interaction that is taking place before my eyes is not worth much analyzing.

Yet I cannot resist analyzing the scene as it unfolds, with me as an biased witness, who is all too aware that this country which long before the colonial division, before Islam, saw its children, the Berbers, the mountain dwellers, rule North Africa from the Atlantic Western shore all the way to what is now Libya; stand against all those who came, claimed, and conquered; and survive them the whole lot (Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Spaniards, Germans and French), by always adapting to the chaos they’d all bring and leave behind.

This is a land built on defiance and struggle which persist even today through the ‘Baraberah’ who continue to adapt and fight, having shifted their resistance toward a post-colonial nationalist fervor, which they see as sustained by bogus lines; imaginary borders drown on paper by creative, foreign business leaders, hunger-stricken-men-with-means inspired by a common policy of divide and conquer; lines on papers that translate to brick walls, barbed wires, guns aimed at the neighbors, specifically tailored customs, national hymns, slogans, xenophobia, unease, and hatred; lines breeding monarchies and military governments with highly ineffective bureaucracies, redundant reforms, corruption, and highly repressive tendencies.

This is a land of forgetfulness, where a nun, whose ancestors added confusion to confusion by strengthening feelings of loss and alienation (present in the eyes of all those belonging to the family of Franco-post-colonial countries), stands and mingles with the victims of her pretentiously invasive nation, a living symbol that represents times that ought to be erased from the national psyche, shameful times replete with weakness, greed, and evil, a time that cannot be denied, as much as, Sister Marie-Francoise, in all her youth and innocence cannot be rendered invisible. Like it or not, she is a vestige from that undeniable past, along with the architecture, the churches, the convents, the administrative language, the educational curriculum, the dishes, the pastries, the nostalgia, the lies, the anger …and myself, with my Francophone cultural inclinations.

Yet, we are allowed to fit and exist, side by side, because this country is held together by faith and mysticism, next to the pious, the sinner, the atheist, the Sunni, the Shia, the Jew, the Copt, the Ismaily, the Hindu, the gay, the adulterer, the neutral, the biased, the swayed, the moderate and the fundamentalist, all together under the same roof, each free to a certain degree, and as long as we don’t get too excited about imposing our views on others, to be whatever we choose to be. We are permitted to meet brandishing the colors of our truths, our differences and also affinities, as we both seek the Heavens while madly claiming to be the Divine’s messenger, with my way that of pseudo-clarity and detachment, and hers of compassion and faith. In her eyes, I am the lost lamb she wishes to save. In mine, she hides behind a shell of made-up beliefs, through which I see the Woman; the one that had to die, sacrificed, in the name of a higher compassion, and who now, remains buried under self-imposed Holly laws, guilt, myth turned to truism, and pain disguised as piety.

This is a land of conflict, and it is in the spirit of conflict, unbeknownst to this nun, that I imagine us facing each other to do battle in the name of the highest absolutes, she holding a cross to slay an ocean, and I riding a wave to drown the Holly Trinity. Through that shell of hers, she stares at me and find nothing but a reflection of herself. There are no emotions here. Inspired by Freud’s claim that one cannot love when in pain, I embrace the semi-vegetative state of mind I’ve been in since the seed, planted by my mystic grand-mother, watered by the Atlantic’s waves, germinated into a longing for the Beloved that, in a single sweep, conquered both conscious and subconscious. Detached, aloof, I accept the world with all its imperfections. I am a mirror, a reflection of the Universal whole. I am a pearl in Indra’s net. Take that! Then we greet each other, in the most inoffensive of tones. Hassan coughs and nods when I look his way. “Put it on the tab.” “One box of Henry-Chocos.” “Thank you.” In Hassan’s kingdom there shall be no battles of faith, no theological disputes, no warm attempts at proselytizing, and absolutely no monkeying around, only business, and business only, and I know better.