“Tunisians can speak any language, and can be friends with anyone from anywhere,” said Mariam, a friend of mine fluent in Tunisian, French, standard Arabic, and English.
She’s now mastering Japanese, I learned as we sat in the French supermarket complex Shampions, eating ice cream and reading children’s stories she had brought me.
Juha is a beloved Southern and Eastern Mediterranean character claimed by Persians, Tunisians, and Iraqis, according to Tahir Shah’s In Arabian Nights. Juha’s stories are humorous and present classical morals, and, perfectly for me, teach a basic form of Fus’ha, or Modern Standard Arabic. They are written for six year olds, but I’m still working on my first full story. In Juha and the Chicken, Juha saves chicken from the grill and his owner Rajul Badiin, the fat man.
Mariam’s words are true. I have not met a single monolingual person here (who isn’t American). At least French and Arabic, but beyond this, the next languages run the gamut. Friends of mine are studying or know Spanish, Japanese, Russian, German, Mandarin, English and Turkish. This pan-fluency resulted from Tunisia’s budgetary choices in the 1980s: education over guns. According to David Lamb’s The Arabs, President Ben Ali’s decision didn’t inspire respect amongst its neighbors. But now, to this son of America, it’s amazing, inspiring, and envious. We need a sea change in the American system, because if we had this ability, who knows.
When I went to a rooftop party last week, my roots showed. Past two English-quipping bouncers, I rose up white tiled stairs, towards a swirl of languages and techno music. A spotlight on the floor cast dancing shadows of the Mediterranean revelers onto pale concrete. The moon rose as the bottles emptied. Smoke from a grill wafted around groups of people speaking in a myriad of tongues. I walked up to my friend Wael to thank him for the party, rooftop and his booze was in my stomach.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he said. Wael speaks damn near perfect English, can sing Stevie Ray Vaughn and Neil Young flawlessly, and knows everyone in Tunis. He can because of his linguistic abilities, not to mention his charisma. Just like me, his facial hair is red and his younger brother looms over him. Wael then told me about another, invitation-only, party.
“This only happens once a year,” he said, eyes aflame. “It is really something special.”
The next weekend I met him in Jamaica, a bar on top of The International Hotel in downtown Tunis. It’s a haven of sorts, a place I have come to cherish for it’s spectacular panorama and guests. Wael, our friend Husam and I picked our way through a pile of olives and kaki (similar to croutons, which Husam calls “monkey food”) and Tunisian beers as we waited for more friends to arrive. The sun fell, setting the sky on fire, as our group walked out of the immaculate lobby and sped in cars north, out of the metropolis.
Our cars passed farmland as the buildings thinned out and the stars became brighter. Arriving at the house, we were flagged down and corralled next to a horse stable. High heels, short dresses and coifed hair formed a trail across the road to party’s gates. A half-Tunisian blonde checked our names off a list, and we began walking in the dark down an old farm road towards pulsating lights and noise. We turned a corner and hit the edge of a seething party. The dress code was “Peace, Love and Sexy,” roughly meaning to dress like a hippy with sparse use of cloth.
“Are we in Tunisia?” said a Tunisian-Swiss friend of mine, slightly shaking his head under his pilot’s cap.
Beer, wine, and liquor flowed, men and women danced close, and everyone looked like an extra from a Woodstock film. Palm trees and an orchard formed a semicircle around the party. The lawn was dotted with small tables holding hor devours and candles. People were sprawled on blankets, sipping and talking. Above them on a hill was a large white house with a stone deck covered with gyrating partyers. Naughty By Nature, House of Pain, and Notorious BIG blasted from the speakers, the mid-90s rappers’ words sung loudly by many North Africans. Not in Tunisia, maybe Hollywood?
“This is Tunisian bourgeois,” said another friend, a critic and a fan.
The party was organized by a group of half-Tunisians. If we can use the word “western,” then apply it to them, understanding they another foot in an authoritarian, Islamic culture with history older than Rome. They are a direct product of the pan-fluency: when you can talk, you can fall in love. Predominantly, the fathers are Tunisians, the mothers from abroad. I am frequently jealous of their ability to bridge languages and cultures, but then grateful for my solid, sweet roots.
The hedonism stretched into the night, and around two hundred people stayed for the sunrise. The sky became lighter and lighter as the dancers and drinkers became easier to see. Everyone looked haggard under the soft, blue dawn, with precious exceptions. Condoms were passed out as people walked back up the farm road, gurgling goodbyes and boarding expensive cars. My friends Dura and Hejer drove me home under the golden morning sky, smiling, happy and excited for the beach.
Hejer dropped me off in Hai A’Zaiyatiin, next to a pile of garbage. This is my neighborhood’s defining characteristic after the small vegetable souk. It is frequently set aflame and is never, ever thoroughly cleaned. I trudged home through a parallel Tunisia then, feeling very foreign. Men, up early instead of out late, were sitting in coffee houses, stray animals picked through street trash, people waited for the bus. As I unlocked the big blue door to my home, I couldn’t configure the party with the neighborhood. Is Tunisia the swirl of nations dancing under the stars and palm trees to global, modern music? Or was it the stoic life of café noir, prayer and poverty?
Where is Tunisia?