Searching for Neïla

Hammamet, Thursday, June 25, 2015 (evening)

Quae desiit amicitia, ne coepit quidem
(A friendship that ends never even began)
Publilius Syrus, Sententiae, v. 691

I woke up enveloped by perfect silence. No traffic, no sirens, no helicopters. For someone who has lived for over 20 years in U.S. cities, the quietness felt surreal.

I soon found out that the night watchman had shared my return story with the receptionist who told the waiter who told the kitchen staff. By the time I sat down for breakfast, I think everyone at the Majesty Golf Hotel knew my story. But there were still questions. Surely, your father was Tunisian. No. So, your mother? No. How come you lived in Nabeul but speak like a Sahliyya (a woman from Sousse and surroundings)? Because we lived there before moving to Nabeul. The question I had a hard time answering was what took me so long to return. Yes, my studies in Germany, my moving to the U.S., the job offer from the University of Hawai‘i. All plausible reasons but none sounded right.

I finally got ready to ride the bus from Hammamet to Nabeul around noon. Over my excitement to find my childhood friend, I ended up waiting on the wrong side of the street. After I missed my bus, a merchant invited me into his shop to enjoy the shade. He was from Jendouba in north-western Tunisia and only in Hammamet during the touristic season. I asked him how the business was. He complained that the shooting at the Bardo Museum on March 18 had scared off many visitors. But he was confident that tourists would eventually return. As I was getting ready to leave, he said ‘Please, tell everyone, we Tunisians are a friendly people.’

The conductor smiled when I asked for a ticket to Nabeul. It cost DT 1350, the equivalent of $.70. I got myself a window seat so that I could see the plantations on the way. But what I saw were not only lots of new buildings but entire new neighborhoods. Most of the olive and orange plantations had disappeared. I should have known. The only buildings I recognized were Hammamet’s Borj (fortress) and “Dar Sebastian” (House of Sebastian), once owned by Rumanian born millionaire George Sebastian and converted into a cultural center in the 60s. It was once occupied by General Rommel, and Churchill is said to have written parts of his memoirs there. I wished I had had the time to visit. But that day was reserved for a mission that took decades in the making.

My friend Neïla’s picture has sat on my desk for the last 20 years. It shows her at the age of 14. Does she still live in her native town? What if she had moved away? What if something had happened to her? I had googled her name hundreds of times over the years, without ever finding a single trace. She could have found me within seconds. Did she ever attempt to contact me? Just as I tried to picture for the hundredth time the way to get to her family home, some shouting shook the back of the bus. The conductor was arguing with a young fellow who had tried to get a free ride. He was dressed the way young Tunisians imagine American youths. A grey cap turned backward, a sleeveless shirt, black jeans, and a heavy iron belt. The conductor asked the driver to stop the bus. He designated a passenger to watch the cash register, grabbed the youth by his neck, and walked him straight to the next Police Station. No one on the bus seemed to mind. I asked the passenger seated next to me about it. He said Tunisians were tired to witness the decline of law and order since the ousting of President Ben Ali in 2011. It was time to get the country back in shape. I listened in silence. It seems every transition from dictatorship to democracy comes at the price of instability – whether in the Islamic world or in post-communist countries.

When the bus arrived in Nabeul, I thought of first walking to my old high school, since it was from there that Neïla and I used to get to her family home. But straight ahead was the souk (open-air market), and from there I knew it would be shorter to the small town of Dar Cha‘bane, where I hoped to find my childhood friend. I passed by the shrine of Sidi Ma‘awiyya, a Sufi saint who is said to have journeyed from Morocco centuries ago. His zawiyya (pilgrimage site) was reduced to the mere domed shrine that was now squeezed between two street lanes. I looked at the blackened niches in the front and the back of the shrine. People were still lighting their candles there. (The picture on this website shows the shrine on the left and the street leading to the souk on the far right. In the middle is a gigantic fruit platter symbolizing the importance of pottery and oranges for Nabeul.)

The souk looked rather deserted even for Ramadan (Islamic month of obligatory fasting), when less people venture out in the streets. I noticed that the quality of the merchandise available was nothing compared to what it used to be. What happened to the sophistication and imaginative designs of typical Nabeulian pottery and tiles? I asked one of the merchants if his ceramic ware was imported. He threw his arms in the air complaining that the youth didn’t want to learn the traditional crafts. Young people may just realize that Tunisians are too impoverished to buy high end ceramics and that even tourists who could afford quality pottery have become scarce.

I finally left the souk behind me and approached Dar Cha‘bane. The longer I walked the less familiar everything looked to me. How was I to find Neïla’s home with no markers on the way?  As I walked into Dar Cha‘bane’s main square, I had a sense of déjà vu. But something looked different. Then I realized it was the mosque. It looked quite shiny; it must have been renovated recently. Come to think of it, all mosques I had seen on the way had a rather radiant appearance. In a corner of the square I spotted a group of retired men. You could tell from their body language how well acquainted they were with each other. They looked at me with discreet curiosity as I approached them. I told them that I was trying to find my best friend after 33 years of absence. Her name was Neïla, she had a younger sister, their father had been a painter… Also, that her husband’s name may be Hafed. Just as I run out of possible clues, one of the gents jumped up and said ‘I know her, I know her!’ He then turned to his buddies and said 'Her parent’s home is at the end of that street.' He pointed at a street behind him. I almost shivered when I understood how close I was. He turned to me and said ‘But she doesn’t live there anymore.’ He must have sensed my disappointment because he added quickly ‘Hafed’s brother lives at the other end of the square.’ We walked over to the home of Hafed’s brother. He met us in front of his door and called Neïla on his cell. I couldn’t believe it. In one moment I thought I may never see her again and in the next I was going to talk to her.

I’m not sure I would have recognized Neïla’s voice if it had been a random call. But as I was clinging to the phone, I did think that there was a timbre that rang familiar although Neïla didn’t say much. Nor did I, for that matter. I think we were both in awe. Finally, I heard her say ‘Don’t move. Hafed will come and pick you up.’ I waited with the whole group of retired gents. They were almost as tense as I. Nobody said a single word. When a car showed up and Hafed emerged, I finally relaxed. I couldn’t believe it. Hafed and Neïla had been high school sweethearts, and I used to be their chaperone. And here decades later, he was taking me to the home they had built for themselves.

When I entered their new home and hugged Neïla, I knew I could finally let go of my quest. This is what ancient travelers must have felt when they reached their destinations after years on the road. Neïla and I spent hours and hours talking. I don’t know of any other person in whose presence I may be just myself. We talked about our husbands, children, childhood dreams, the prayers that we used to perform together, and the future of Tunisia. I showed her a picture of us on my 13th birthday, the last one I celebrated in Tunisia. We looked at our former likenesses and at each other, and laughed and laughed. Where has all that time gone? Marcel Proust once wrote his famous À la recherche du temps perdu (lit. Searching for Time Lost). Neïla and I celebrated our temps retrouvé, time recovered.