Gnocchi and Harissa

By Helmi Ben Meriem

I, Samah, am a Tunisian woman in her late twenties and married to a man in his early sixties. This is not the story of a desperate woman, who was forced into an arranged marriage by her family; this is rather the story of a woman who found love with a Christian man, and was caught between an intense love and a consuming illness.

My husband—Alessandro—teaches Italian literature at a university in Tunis. It was there that I met him five years ago. I was finishing my MA in English literature. One of my dearest friends was his student. It was in 15 January 2010 that I first talked to him. My Italian was never good—I struggled to say ‘Ciao’; I kept calm and silent throughout the discussion between my friend and my future husband. When they finished talking, ‘Arrivederci’ came rushing from my mouth; I did not even realize that I had said it until he looked at me. How I said that word is a puzzle, which I have never understood.

I studied Italian for only one year—I was absent most of the time. I never liked Italy; the name is reminiscent of death and sorrow. The boats, which leave our coast heading for Italy—the so-called Heaven; I came so close to losing my two brothers on three occasions. The look that takes over my parents’ faces can never be erased from my memory. I remember the time, when there was knocking on our door at 4:30 am. My father opened it only to see a man saying his eldest son has died at sea. And though this was proven to be wrong eventually, my father had a stroke that left him paralyzed on his left side for three years. I blame Italy for his condition; I blame my country as well for it. I do not blame my brothers for trying to escape the tyranny of poverty that has engulfed my country. Tunisia was once called the ‘Breadbasket of Rome’. We were the ‘matmoura’—the basket—of Rome’s food, but now the Mediterranean is where our youth meets its death before they could taste Rome’s Focaccia.

I did not talk to Alessandro again until the end of 2012; I was at a café in the center of Tunis reading a novel, by Ulfet Udlibi, that told the story of Sabriya—a Syrian lady at the turn of the century—who only escapes her repressive brothers by killing herself. It greatly saddens me how we women are treated by even our closest male relatives. I do not wish I was born a man like many other women wish; I am proud of my womanhood. I am life; I carry life inside of me for nine months. I was told by Allah that if I die while giving birth, I shall go to heaven immediately. Allah even said that heaven is under the feet of mothers, not fathers; treat your mother well and Allah is happy with you.

I am sure that most of you, who may one day happen to read this, are wondering why I am going into detail about things not directly linked to the July afternoon. Patience! One’s life is not a group of Lake-Chott-ElDjerid-like unconnected events; it is rather like Lake Victoria linked to a web of other lakes through the Nile.

I was so immersed in the novel’s captivating narrative that I did not realize Alessandro was standing by my side. ‘Ciao’. That word again came but this time from him. He said that he remembered me as the friend of his best student, Khawla; he asked if he could join me for a coffee. I agreed; I did it for one reason—my psychiatrist had urged me to go out more and to interact with people. I was diagnosed with agoraphobia a year before; I have lived with it for over twenty years, not realizing that my suffering had a cause. Every day, when I wake up, I tell myself the same thing: “Samah, you need to fight it for your own sake. Do not let it take control over your life.” Alessandro sat opposite me in his white T-shirt; little did I know then that Alessandro adores the color white—his clothes are mainly white. I thought that I would stammer and stutter as always, but to my surprise it did not happen. We sat at the café talking for over an hour; we spoke mainly in French with some Arabic from time to time. While we were talking, I remembered that I needed to go back to the university to get course notes from a friend; I told him so, and we both left Le Grand Café du Théâtre, each going in a separate direction.

That day, I learned of the death of my young cousin Amira, who was fighting cancer. At night, when I returned from my aunt’s house, I sat in my room gazing outside at the stars; I realized that I needed to be true to myself, stop being afraid of new people and new experiences, and to live not merely exist.

In the forthcoming months, I started to see Alessandro more often; he took it as his duty to help me overcome my dislike of Italy, his motherland. If I were to explain what happened in the next year, it would take me years, and I would still need more time to do it properly. Love. That enigmatic feeling summed up in four letters. We fell in love. I decided that I would not rationalize it, because love transcends the mind’s capabilities to reduce everything to something else. Falling in love was the beginning of a long journey of struggling with a society that refuses change and is inhabited by an overwhelming fear of people who are different.

On the twenty-fifth of June 2014, at the same café where we used to meet, Alessandro proposed; he asked if I would agree to be his wife. I looked into his eyes and at his white shirt; I did not see a man in front of me—I just saw a partner willing to share a life with me. I kept silent and just looked at him; he asked for my answer. I said: “Silence is the sign of approval. You have been here for a long time; you should know that my silence is synonymous for yes.”

I wish love were just about two people sharing their lives; it is, to some extent, a struggle against others’ unwillingness to see two individuals happy. No one will accept that a Muslim woman might marry a non-Muslim. Not only am I a Muslim, but a veiled Muslim woman, who is both proud of her individuality and religiosity. I know many of my fellow Muslims would not accept the marriage of a Muslim woman to a non-Muslim man; they at times do not accept a marriage between even the two main sects of Islam. While I was considering all of that, Alessandro put his right hand on my right hand and said, “I will take off the cross. Do not worry!”

I was rather surprised by what he said. I did not want him to convert just to marry me. At times, I wished I could have a one-to-one discussion with Allah; I have many questions for Him. Why is a Muslim woman not allowed to marry a non-Muslim man, when a Muslim man can do it? I want to tell Allah this: “They say that it is because women are easily tempted into doing things including converting. Well I think it is nonsense. Man is lured into many abominations by the mere look or touch of a woman’s breast; they are the ones who should be forbidden to marry non-Muslim women—if prohibition is ever to exist. Wo(e) man, I am a woman and I can think for myself.”

After that day, the wedding was organized within two months. My family gladly accepted Alessandro—when he converted to Islam. My father and my two brothers took him to a clinic—where he was circumcised. My religion interferes with everything in the life of its adherents. May we never hear that an uncut penis entered the ‘holy’ vagina of a Muslim woman! A woman’s vagina has become the focus of the whole religion.

The wedding took place in the Ettadhamen neighborhood in front of our house like many Tunisian families. My neighborhood, one of the capital Tunis’ most populated areas, is a middle lower-class quarter. How much I hate using these terms! I was told that the women at the ceremony kept asking the same variations of two questions: ‘Why is she marrying a man the age of her father if not more?’ and ‘Is she doing it for money in order to help her family?’ I did not answer those question then; I am not going to do it now either. Why should I satisfy the thirst and hunger for gossip?  If I were to satisfy their desire for gossip, I might just tell them about my first night with Alessandro. Spice it up for them. Give them something to fill their empty and miserable existence for months. The night of the wedding went smoothly after Alessandro and I went to our home in Le Kram on the eastern side of the capital near the ancient city of Carthage. We spent two hours watching The Simpsons on the internet laughing our hearts out. Then we went to bed. It felt like a father tucking his daughter in for the night.

The next morning, my mother came over, bringing with her plenty of pastries. She asked ‘the’ question. I took one baklava and said faking a blush “Mother. . . I am shy. Y-yes, it happened.” She hugged and kissed me as if I had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. She then said: “Soon you will get pregnant; you might even crave harissa like I did.”

Some days after the wedding, I asked Alessandro to reject Islam and embrace the religion of his parents. He said he would and asked me not to open the question of religion again. My days with him were practically alike. I rarely left the house; I felt like a burden that Alessandro had to carry. Before our first Ramadan together, he told me that he would not eat during the day out of respect.

It was the second of July, towards the end of Ramadan. That day I prepared gnocchi, vegetable soup, and some briks. The main meal was served around 7:30 pm. I came to know and love gnocchi when I married Alessandro. He was still out when I heard the Sunset Prayer announcing the end of day’s fast. When he came back, he only said this: “Samah, I need you to be more engaged with the world. I am tired. I want to rest. I need to rest. Help me, please, help me!” Before I could say anything, he left the kitchen and went to the bathroom. In ten minutes, I followed him to the bedroom only to find him standing in front of a prayer rug saying in his ‘baby Arabic’: “Allah hears those who praise Him. O our Lord, and all praise is to You.”

He did not go back to Christianity. He did it for me, for us. At that moment, I realized that I too needed to change and fight harder. End this ongoing war with my fear of the outside world. Not only for my sake, but for Alessandro’s sake too. We need each other. Suddenly, I wanted to eat harissa right from the jar. My soul was heaving with the warmth of hot peppers. I ran towards Alessandro and embraced him warmly and tenderly. Only then it hit me: I need to do this for our coming child.

 

Helmi Ben Meriem is a researcher of Somali literature at the University of Sousse, Tunisia, where he is finishing his PhD dissertation under the direction of American fiction writer and professor of Anglophone studies, Edward Sklepowich. He has an unpublished novel entitled “Good Night Letters: An Epistolary Novel” and is currently working on a new novel by the title “Ibrahim’s Corner”.