Tattooed

It was Saturday night almost a year ago. My friend Dana needed someone for moral support. I walked in with her and started looking at designs: A dragon wrapped around a black sword with two drops of blood; the Chinese symbol for hope; a rose like the one my sister has on her right hip…It was the garbled announcement that woke me up. For a split second, I couldn’t figure out where I was. I pushed back the curtains. A little cloud of dust floated in the air. Looking out, I caught a glimpse of the souk. The vegetable one: green and yellow and red. I knew it by heart: the tomatoes were shaped like small pears, the cucumbers were wrinkly and dry. My grandmother cut them in small squares and mixed them with green apples, olive oil and lemon juice. It was the most popular salad among tourists here. A few seconds after, I spotted the public garden. Old men sitting on the benches, talking, one leg crossed over the other; couples walking. Then I saw it: Beb-el-Diwan: Entrance to my grandmother’s “castle”. She lived in the Medina, the old city of Sfax, 4 hours away from Tunis, 6 for us: we took the train; it had stopped to let a cattle eat some grass in the middle of the tracks. My sister Myriam and I had met up in Paris for a two-hour flight and a crazy cab ride through Tunis to make it to the train station.Beb-el-Diwan opens to a city surrounded by a fort. Inside, a labyrinth of narrow streets. No hot water. You have to boil it and splash yourself with it. It’s the Tunisian shower. Not for tourists!Dana sat in one of those Chinese massage chairs, with a hole in the middle for you to rest your head; Her mother walked in and held her hand…I started scribbling on a piece of paper…. My sister and I grabbed our bags and cross the road carefully. “Roudbellic bil Karba” said my grandmother, extending one arm in front of my chest whenever we ventured in the city. Too many had died on that road: Kadour, my father’s childhood friend, his 23-year-old son Karim, crashed and burned to death. Dad went to claim the bodies- spare the grieving wife-. They had died a day after Valentine’s Day, the day the world demonstrated for peace. - Almost half a million people in New York City they say.My suitcase was heavy with candies and chocolates I had bought for my cousins, those I knew and the new ones I had never met. It had been 3 years since my last visit. I could already see my cousin Souleima running on the sidewalk, waving her hands. We were easy to spot, the two Abiad girls – especially me. My sister had been blessed with darker skin and curly black hair. Everyone knew who we were: Gharbis –He who comes from the west- My Grandfather had migrated from Morocco to Tunisia –on the ”top 25” list of INS. Please get fingerprinted- The kids in school had nicknamed us “Gharbi the garbage”. But I didn’t look like an Arab girl. No one knew unless I told them. Sometimes I didn’t. I was ashamed. And then, I’d be ashamed for being ashamed.“Sofe?” Dana got up and made me take a look at the lotus flower on her lower back… “It looks good”….“Show me”, said Tom, looking at the paper in my hand My parents had named me Sophie. No A at the end. But every one called me Sofe. Except my dad. He still said “Popy”. When he was a baby, my brother couldn’t pronounce the “s” or the “ph” so he called me popy. My brother was the only one with an Arabic name. Ismael. But it’s also biblical said my mother. On the steps of our church, the whispers behind her back, short blond hair, fair skin and bright blue eyes. “ She married that Arab man. I’d invite them for dinner but I am afraid he will eat with his hands and burp at the table”. My sister and I never mentioned this to anyone.Tom carefully poured some black ink in a tiny plastic tube, changed the needle and dabbed alcohol on my skin.Souleima managed to carry the suitcase up the stairs, all the way to the top. I followed. There was the oddly familiar smell of urine, the broken 10th step, and the sun glare when you get to the top… My feet were already gray from the sand. I should have known better than to wear flip-flops. Before I leave, I’ll give them to Souleima. She’ll walk around her school: “They’re from my cousin who lives in America”. The other girls will be envious. You can’t find those there. Old Navy, $2.50. To my left, Jamel the butcher was leaning against the door, sweat on his forehead. He gave me a kiss that scratched. His stomach had gotten bigger. He comes by our house for L’aid-El-Kebir, after Ramadan and l’Aid-El-Serir (eat modestly at the end of the fast) to kill the lamb. Always put enough meat aside. Grandma will walk around the village later in the day and give it to the poor. The first time, I threw up. I had gotten attached to the lamb we had in the house for a week. Dad said that you get used to it.The day after we usually went on my aunt’s grave. Malika used to pinch my cheek. With her thumb and middle finger. Leaving white prints in the middle of a red patch. I hated her so much for it. She died at 25 of a brain tumor. I hated God for it. I don’t think I ever told her I loved her.Grandma washed the grave with water. It made an orange paste because of the sand. She’d rub it with her hands until it was white again. We took a bus back home and she stayed silent the whole way. I didn’t know how to tell her. So I sat next to her while she knitted and read my book. Un sac de billes. The story of Joseph and his brother during world war two. Joseph exchanged the yellow star for a bag of marbles. True story. He never saw his father again. Further down, 2 roads crossed. To the left, the one that used to take me to grandpa’s shop. He sold cigarettes, stamps, cookies and gum. I ran and hid besides him after I spit at Grandma’s feet, my thigh still burning from the spanking. She punished me for something my brother, the only son of the only son, had done. Grandpa taught me Arab, Italian and Spanish numbers. Sometimes, he let me play cashier with the register. I took the money. Counted to three: ‘wahad, essnain, thalatha”. Gave the pack of cigarettes.I laid down on my side, one leg extended. Tom grabbed my foot and held it tight. “ Will it hurt?” “No, not really”… The three of us made a right turn. In the middle of the street (If you are tall, you can stand on one leg on our doorstep, and stretched the other on the house across) some of my cousins – I have more than 20 of them-were playing, some were sitting on the stoop. Ahmed ran in the house: “They’re here, they’re here”.We entered through the big wooden door, the only blue one of the street. On a nail on the wall, grandma’s Sifsari. A big white satin sheet she wraps around her body and head, like a Sari, when she goes out. I loved covering myself in it. No one could see how straight my hair was, how white my skin was. My father would not get upset at how short or tight my clothes seemed to be. I became invisible on my way to the bakery. The fabric helped me carry the burning round bread.Rakia, the last daughter, waits, sitting on the stairs and starts: My butt is too small, my legs too skinny- “ I hate my body, I am too fat, my stomach too flabby”, I used to complain-curtusy of a 4 year eating disorder spend hating a body that didn’t look French- She’ll take me to her store and have me choose a skirt from there. Next to her, my aunt Najet; She bought me my first pair of heel; They were red, and pointy and I wore them to her wedding. My sister and I had matching white dresses. My Aunts Majida would only visit once. Her husband did not get along with the rest of the family. Wassila and Hedia will come after work, for dinner, with an armful of babiesfor me to be introduced to.My grandmother waits, a scarf with red and green flowers on her head: she didn’t have time to put henna in it and doesn’t want anyone to see she has some gray hair. She is already crying. She will cry even more when we leave. She wipes the tears with her handkerchief and puts it back in her bra. The usual spot. She smelled like the spices she used in the couscous we’d eat for dinner. A mixture of paprika and red pepper. I won’t eat the darker sauce. It’s the one with Harrissa. Ten times hotter than Tabasco. I called my sister a bitch when I was 5. My dad placed the red paste on my toothbrush and dared me to say it again. You should never drink water after eating something too spicy.My grandma made a separate sauce for us. We will all sit on a rug or pillow; eat on the small metallic table out of one big bowl. Each one of us a spoon. Next to it, a big yellow plastic carafe. I always tried to find a dry spot on the rim to drink out of. I didn’t like to put my lips where someone else had just put theirs. The water tasted funny.My grandmother gestures and smiles at the hand of Fatima I have around my neck. She had first pinned a similar one on my clothes when I was a baby, five fingers to stop the evil eye. It is also Jewish. It hangs today around my neck. On a chain, next to my cross. “I baptize you in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit. Amen.” My father didn’t speak to me for 3 weeks. An Arab boyfriend once told me my father had committed the ultimate sin by raising us non-Muslims. In the Parisian subway, a group of French-Arab boys, they were maybe 15 had spat on my back. “How dare you disrespect your Arab roots by bearing a cross?”. I barely felt a thing. It sounded a bit like the drill of a dentist. There was something soothing about the way Tom worked. Softly, reassuring .I then walked to my grandfather’s room and kissed his cheek. His skin was smooth. Not a single wrinkle. His hands were rough and they shook as he moved the beads of his Sheba. His prayer mat was now next to the bed. It used to be under the stairs near the front door. We’d try to avoid walking in between him and the Mecca. When he was praying. He always waved at us. Sometimes, I’d settle myself next to him. A scarf around my head. I imitated his moves. Lift your palms up to the sky. “Allah wakbar”. Then kneel on the floor and kiss the ground. I copied him: “our father in Heaven”. After, we’d sit, butt resting on the heels, and he’d split a cookie with me… Now there’s only dirty laundry under the stairs.I brought my suitcase to our bedroom, across from his. Separated by the living room. An open square in the middle of the house. It’s supposed to have roman origins. If it rains, we have to hurry and put everything away, inside the bedrooms. There’s no roof and you can see the stars in the summer. When it was really hot, we’d all sleep on mattresses and blankets, pretend we were camping. I always woke up itching. Grandma would rub alcohol on the mosquito bites so I wouldn’t scratch them to blood. If I ate too much fruit (I always did; we had a watermelon seeds spitting contest going on) she dabbed a bit of mint oil on my tummy. My brother, my sister and I will take turns sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I never liked to. I always thought a roach was waiting for me to close my eyes to climb on top of my legs. Once, I had a dream about an albinos one. I never found out: is there such a thing as an albino roach?Later that night, my sister and I will wake each other up. We went to the bathroom together at night: We’ll walk pass the cat Mahmoud (never the same cat, always the same name. My mother said “Mamouuuud”. She never could pronounce the Arabic H. Like a ”kh”. From the back of your throat.) Reaching the bathroom, I will turn the lights on and we’ll count to 10. It should give enough time to the roaches and spiders to hide. We took turn watching out for bugs. After dinner that night, we’d settle ourselves on mats and pillows and blankets. My grandmother would make mint tea with grilled pine nuts on top, we’d eat Baklava Rakia got from the expensive bakery and watch an Egyptian soap. They were always the same: a rich person falls in love with a poor one and has to fight for their love. I ‘d sit and wait for the moment the characters would break into a song, or for my grandma’s “aaaaah’s” and “ooooooh’s” when there was a kiss or if someone turned evil! Later that night, lying bed, I would hear the breathing of my brother, my grandma snore, my cousin cough, the cat run around. I’d whisper to Myriam: Are you sleeping. She’d say: Yes… And I’d know exactly what happiness felt like.. “We’re at war, Sophie”. The words of my roommates. At Charles de Gaulle airport, my passport, taken away – Where is that stamp from? Why is it written in Arabic? Where’s your last name from? - It didn’t matter that it read: Union Europeenne, Republique Francaise.“Are you sure?” had asked Dana.“All done” had said Tom, 15 minutes later, dabbing some ointment on my ankle and putting a big bandage on it. I need to take it off when I get home in a few hours. Wash it with antibacterial soap. No soaking for 2 weeks.“ The only good thing about this war is that it will wipe out the earth of all those savages, those Arabs. Rid us from that religion” Said that stranger, looking at the tattoo on my ankle.“Well, the culture is barbaric, sort of” said a Friend…A few months after my last visit to Tunisia, on my 27th birthday, I signed my name at the bottom of myself. Proudly.An artist, a writer and an actor; I work with body and words; words on body. My name. Tattooed. On the inside of my right ankle.Sofia.In big, black, bold Arabic letters.It means wisdom.