فما قراية؟ مفماش. فما ماجستير؟ مفماش. فما خدمة؟ مفماش. تي تونس جمايلية أصل!

Photo courtesy to: Les ISLT iens***طلبة المعهد العالي للغات بتونس

معهد ثانوي في أحواز القيروان، الإدارة لقات إنو عندهم سوايع مش لاقينلهم أستاذ. المنطق اش يقول؟ يعينوا أستاذ من المتخرجين البطالة إلي عندهم سنين و هوما يقرقو و جبهيو ماشين جايين على الوزارة و lلإدارة الجهوية و حتى المدارس الخاصة فماش متتحل في وجوهم ويلقاو وين يقريو. لكن لا. احنا في تونس أرقى من إنا نمشيو بالمنطق. اش تقرر المفقدة و اش تعمل الإدارة؟ تجيب أستاذ معوض يقري 6 سوايع كهو. و بقية السوايع يوزعوها على الاساذ الموجودين و الله أعلم يخلصوهم على السوايع الزايدة و إلا لا. شفتو المنطق عنا بصفة عامة محلاه؟ فاش قام نعينو أستاذ بطال ونحلوا المشكلة une fois pour toute؟ 

نسبة البطالة في تونس في عام 2013 وصلت ل-16.5%. و الحكومة فرحانة برشة قتلك تراجعت بنسبة 0.2% مقارنةً بالسنة الماضية. زغرتو يا نساوين. راو في ظرف 80 سنة باش ناقضيو على البطالة جملة وحدة. لمكنتي بش نبدو فاضحين بعضانا، شفتوهم هاك ال-50 ألف طالب إلي يتخرج كل عام؟ هوما يتخرجوا منا باش يلقاو خدمة تستنى فيهم. و نزيدكم زيادة باش يلقاو أكثر من خدمة تستنى فيهم وهما يختاروا على كيفهم. مش على خاطر ما كانش فما مواطن شغل وتوا فما. لا لا. على خاطر التعليم في تونس باش يقوى خاصةً مع هجرة الأساتذة المؤطرين.

و نسيتو نظام أمد؟ كان مجاش هو راو حالنا يندرا كيفاه. تي من القوة متع النظام هذا، الطلبة ذاقوا ال-"أ" ولاو يعتصموا و يعاركو على ال-"م". الناس ولات تقرق باش تقرا يا بو Gلب. علاش نهربو لبعيد احنا؟ هاو ناخذو كمثال، المعهد العالي للغات بتونس و المعروف ببورقيبة سكول، من أقوى معاهد اللغات في تونس. أما وليد عمي "المعهد العالي و المربط الخالي". كل ماجستير قبلو فيها لا يزيد عن 25 طالب. علاش؟ على خاطر معادش فما اساتذة باش تأطر و لا حتى باش تقري. تي فما اساتذة normalement ماخذة التقاعد عندها برشة وقعدوا يقريو و يأطروا على خاطر يعرفوا كان باش يخرجوا المعهد باش يبرك. هاذم بارك الله فيهم. و فما زادة إلي يحبوا يهاجروا و يقيرو في دول الخليج على خاطر يحب يبني دار أكبر و يشري كرهبة جديدة إلخ وميهموش مستقبل التعليم و مصلحة البلاد. ربي يهديهم أما عندهم حق بصراحة على خاطر حتى "البلاد" متهمهاش مصالحهم. الواحد ميلي يبدا يقرا لين يولي يخدم وحتى بعد ميتقاعد و هو حاير على مستقبلو.

خلي عاد من طلبة الماجستر سنة ثانية إلي حتى موقع الترسيم عن بعد مازال متحلش. تمشي للإدارة تقولك الوزارة. تجي تخمم على الوزارة علاه لتوى لحلتو مخك يفشل. العيد جا و الواحد لتوى لابدا يقرا. غمض عينيك وحلهم تلقى روحك في الإمتحانات.  تي c'est très normal مالا كيف نحتلو لمرتبة 104 من 160 دولة في تقرير الأمم المتحدة حول مؤشرات السعادة متع سنة 2013. قلك "Tunisian people are the most concerned with unhappinees." هذا لكل و تحبونا "هابي" تي الحالة متعبة أصل. 

Check out my opinion article about the Tunisian educational system on The Tunis Times: http://www.thetunistimes.com/2013/06/the-collapse-of-tunisias-educational-system-43671/

My First Day in Tunis on my Own: بدوية في باريس

Photo Courtesy to Zied Nsir Photography. 

September has come. Time to pack my things and settle in another house that does not feel like home. Even my own home does not feel like home. I still haven't found home yet. I cannot find one as the rusty chains of patriarchy are keeping me from finding one. From finding my Utopia. From finding my home.

Is it wrong to live in my own house? Do I need to get married first in order for me to be the queen of my own house? To decide where I want to eat, where I want to put this and that, when I want to sleep and when I want to wake up? To pick up the phone and talk to my friends without having someone eavesdropping on me? To have a nice Skype call without having someone getting in and out of my room asking whether I am done yet? Is it wrong to stay up late reading a book or watching Friends? To keep the lights on and the window of my room open? Is it wrong that my daydream and number one priority in life is not getting married to a rich man? To be a woman of power? A super woman that has a super power that can kick ignorance and illiteracy out of Tunisia?!

September has come. I am packing up my things, writing down my shopping list and preparing for this year's budget. Remembering all of that, I could not overcome last year's incidents and experiences. I remember my very first days in Tunis. I was waiting for a private bus in front of my sister's apartment. I was overwhelmed with a new sort of feelings. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel: scared or inflamed? I was scared because I didn't know the place and I was afraid of getting lost or something. I was inflamed because I was finally on my way to freedom land. Of course I do not consider school freedom land. But the idea of leaving my home town and going to the capital city gives me shivers. I'm finally breaking away from the flock.

My first day ended. All what I could feel were my sore feet and a tormenting headache. I was wistful and enraged! I woke up at 6 a.m. to attend an 8:30 class. I waited more than an hour for the bus (TUS 26). I got on. It was crowded and smelling of people's feet and vomit. I could hardly breathe especially with the motion sickness condition I have. It was supposed to be a private bus. You pay a lot of money. You expect good service. But in Tunisia, it's always not the case. Once I arrived to Barcelona station, I got a ticket. I stood on the sidewalk waiting to get on tubes 3, 4 or 5. Suddenly, people were running towards me: Ali, Fahmi, Mariem, Yassin, Meherzia and even auntie Chadlia dragging her sefseri (a traditional Tunisian cloth) with a crutch in one hand and a basket in the other. I freaked out. For a moment I thought I was stuck in a zombie nightmare à-la-Tunisienne. I can't be blamed. I didn't have my coffee yet. Knowing that the tube was finally there and seeing how people were pushing each other to get on it, I figured it was the tube that they were after. I wiped the residue of drowsiness off of my face. I was waiting for the chauffeur to open the doors. I was right in front of the door. One step ahead and I'll find myself sitting on a chair and ready  to go. But no. That's how things would be in Utopia. In reality, people push you till you end up trying to squeeze yourself in a tiny space where X's armpit is right on your face and Y's hands is trying to reach your bottom. Even auntie Chadlia was pushing quite hard. "For God's sake I was going to save you a seat, woman!" I waited till another empty tube arrived. I took it. Hallelujah! The tube stopped at the "passage" station. I got off. As usual, people could not wait till we get off. They were pushing for the freaking seats. While I was waiting for the next tube to take, tube number 2 heading to Ariana, I couldn't help but notice the beggars, the crazy, the thieves and the bullies. Tube 2 is the most crowded one. I hate it. I'd rather go on foot than getting squashed like mashed potatoes on Christmas. I hate crowded places. They frustrate and stress me out. 

Let's not forget about taxis. Every time I feel too tired to wait or push for a bus, I just feel like taking a taxi. 

- Salem. Are you free?

- Were are you heading to? 

- Ben Arous. 

Then no answer. This happened to me almost each and every time. Did I ask them to take me to cursed land or something? I said Ben Arous, brother! They just shake their heads, and I walk away cursing them and the people who granted them the taxi driving licenses. But once you get to grab a cab, act like you know the way to your destination so that the taxi driver will take the shortcut. Otherwise, they'll take advantage of your ignorance and take the long way, charging you more money.  I once paid 10 TND for a 10-minute ride. But that was in Nabeul, during a two- week internship in the English Language Village of Nabeul. Not all taxi drivers are natural born thieves like this guy. Let's say, according to my humble experiences, 60% of them are good guys. I'm happy that the current Tunisian Minister of Transportation is confiscating all of the illegal taxi driving licenses that had been granted during the past five years. It was about time. 

Don't get me wrong, there are some things that I've enjoyed during my stay in Tunis. I enjoy window shopping almost everyday. I enjoy coffee breaks and lunch with friends. I enjoy walking down the Habib Bourguiba street at 7 AM. Sometimes it feels like walking down the Champs Elysées street, Paris. Although I don't know how that feels like, I can imagine. I enjoy assisting or walking by protests and think "So this is how protests feel like, ha?!" I enjoy the quality time I spend sipping my morning coffee at the Café du Grand Théatre, whenever I get the chance. I enjoy going to bookstores and go through books without buying any. They are way too damn expensive that a student like me can't afford. I prefer downloading and reading them on my computer. But I do buy some whenever they make a discount, which is something rare. Classical books are kind of cheap too. You can also get good deals on used books from thrift shops. 

Tunis can be such an inspiring place especially when meeting people from all walks of life, from the most famous Tunisian actors and journalists to the barefoot poor children. You see people, you observe them and the next thing you find yourself creating a whole story about them right in your mind. If only I had enough time to write down and share every single one of them with you... 

How I Wish- (This is not poetry)

How I wish to hold you close in my arms
To put my head on your naked chest
To spread my hair between the folds of your hands.

How I wish to let you play the sweetest melodies of infatuation
On the drums of my heart 
To let you listen to the lyrics of my breath as they carve themselves on your sweat 
Pouring down the plains of your neck.

How I wish to hear you whisper in my ears 
As your mystic breath paves the way for those three words
نحبك، نعشقك، نموت عليك 
I love you, I adore you, I cannot live without you

How I wish to let the tip of your numb fingers lay a thousand kisses 
On my parched skin 
To rip the desert dress off of my body
And wash it with the spirit of the Virgin Mary.

The Last Word Written – Short Story

Photo courtesy of Daniel Brenton 

“You are a girl. You cannot do this. You cannot do that.” Every time Hayet hears her parents say those words, she gives them a mysterious look and walks to her bedroom, swearing. She lies on her bed with her diary on her chest. Her eyes are closed, but she’s awake; daydreaming. Although marriage is probably her only ticket to finding a way out of misery, she does not dream of her prince charming the way her cousins do. She does not picture her future house, and doesn’t care whether she will have children.
Girls her age usually decorate their rooms with posters of popular musicians. Hayet has pictures of feminist writers such as Maya Angelou, Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen. Girls her age usually have make up, perfume, and feminine accessories on their dressing table. Yes, books. The room smells of old books. Books are everywhere: on her dressing table, desk and even on her bed. She is not studious but is obsessed with reading. She uses books to build different worlds and lead different lives in an attempt to make a heaven out of hell. She escapes to her room every time she feels that she is treated like an ordinary woman. Her room is utopia.
***
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving but this…”
Hayet reads these lines with a low voice, her hands shaking and a red face followed by a deep sigh. Her bookworm friend Warda asks her what’s wrong. She replies;
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is right. Everything is perfect. I think I’m aroused.”
Warda’s jaw drops. She replies in a sarcastic tone;
“What? Are you insane? Girl, you need to wake up right now and stop reading these worthless books full of mumbo jumbo about love or whatever it is called before your mom co….”
“Shush shush shush! You’re ruining the moment for me! Would you stop nagging, go to your corner, enjoy your scientific magazines and leave me in peace! I have enough nagging from my parents!”
Warda stares at Hayet for a couple of seconds and then takes her magazine and sits on the couch. Hayet stares back at her blankly. Then continues reading;
“ ..in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
A couple of hours later, Warda leaves. Hayet is in her room when her mother decides to pay her a visit to discuss something.
“Tomorrow someone is going to propose to you. He’s a sophisticated man with a six figure paycheck and good blood. He wants to see you before he proceeds to the engagement. He wants a small party, a simple dress and calm music. If he likes you, the wedding will be this summer. He said he’ll take you to any place you pick. Uh. I think you should wear the peach dress along with the pearl necklace I bought you last year. Try not to ruin it like you did with the last guy. God knows what you did to make him break the engagement. Now I’ll leave you to your silly books.”
Hayet remains silent as blood rushes to the capillaries of her face. She is only eighteen years old and her parents want to find her a husband. She doesn’t know how to deal with her mother’s wicked treatment. Every time an argument takes place, the same scenario occurs. And each and every time, Hayet keeps her silence because everything that she says will be used against her if her mother informs her father.
Her mother’s priority is finding a good enough husband for her daughter; one she can brag about when mentioning him to her sisters and relatives. He has to be wealthy and handsome. His family must be from an urban city, and must have a decent job. It doesn’t matter whether he is educated or whether he loves her daughter, or has good morals. It doesn’t matter to her whether he’s the kind of man who would beat his wife. It doesn’t matter to her whether he’s the type who would debauch all night long coming back late, smelling of alcohol and cheap perfume. As long as she gets to brag in front of her sisters and relatives, all those things do not matter.
Hayet is different from her mother. Although she wants a handsome man in a romantic way, she refuses to consider a man for his family or money. She wants a man who will appreciate, love and cherish her. She wants a man with morals who will never lie to or cheat on her. She wants a man who respects all women and who doesn’t feel intimidated by successful ones. The last thing a girl like Hayet needs is a misogynist.
***
She cries silently as she walks down the aisle. She is compelled to take a road she did not choose. She is going to spend the rest of her life with a man she considers a complete stranger.
***
The wedding ceremony is over. They are heading to their hotel room to spend the night before starting their honeymoon trip to Hawaii. She feels agitated and confused. She does not know what things will be like. She can hardly breathe. All she can think about is running away and how amazing her life would be if only she could live it her way and not her parents’ way. Her husband however feels extremely happy. He is married to the most beautiful girl in town, which is one more thing to brag about in front of his friends. The “ever after” trip has started and she does not know the destination.
***
Two years later…

“Dear Hayet,

I feel blessed for being your husband. I know that we have had our ups and downs and I am sorry for all the pain I caused you. I did not mean to hurt you. You see, I was not used to being with girls like you as I thought you were one of those shallow types who cared about nothing but my money. You came into my life and you turned it upside down in the most startling way ever. Everybody sees me as my father’s son. They do not know that I have changed. You do. I am sure you do. You are the only person who understands me. That is why I am sorry for every time I beat you, swore at you and cheated on you. I am sorry for the time I pushed you down the stairs and killed our unborn baby. I did not mean to do that. I was drunk. I was angry. I could not control my temper. That is not an excuse for what I have done. I know. If I could take back what I did, I would. But I can’t. That is why I am leaving. How different our lives could have been if we had had our child. I remember when we sat on the porch and started picking names. I am leaving you. It is not you. It is me. I want to set you free. And this is the only way to do it. I have left you some money. Do not worry. It is not my father’s. I know that you have always wanted me to depend on myself. And that’s what I have been doing for the last three months. I worked hard to make that money. I am trying to repay you. I know that money means nothing to you. However, maybe this way you can open the bookstore you always wished to have. I admit that I am a coward. I cannot even face you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I love you.

Yours for life, Houssain”

Published on the English Language Village of Nabeul Gazette 2013.

Published on Morocco World News: http://www.moroccoworldnews.com/2013/08/102771/the-last-word-written-short-story/