prickly pears, but also for its pickpockets. That’s right, its infamous pickpockets who are scattered throughout the country, especially in the capital and the large coastal cities that attract a lot of foreign tourists. They are considered specialists in matters of petty crime within the security apparatus and many others say they have a soft touch that is unparalleled by the pickpockets from any other region. Sons inherit this skill from their fathers. I knew some of them when I was a little girl, and there were even more of them around back then because the poverty was so much worse than it is today. I remember one of them was called Ammar “the Blind.” He wasn’t literally blind but suffered from some sort of an eye condition. This malady worked to his advantage, though, because everyone would assume he was incapable of discerning what was hidden in their pockets or what they were holding in their hands and, therefore, they would more easily fall into his trap. Ammar the Blind used to wear a long gray shirt that reached all the way down to his ankles, no matter what season it was, and would place on his egg-shaped head a skullcap that had lost all its color from being worn so much. He wouldn’t keep whatever he had done to his victims to himself, transforming it all instead into entertaining and stirring stories that could make those who listened to them laugh so hard their stomachs would ache. As for him, he never laughed; he would only go so far as to let a sly smile be drawn across his lips. One story he used to tell has remained in my memory until this very moment, about how he once trailed after a dim-witted peasant of the Ouled Ayyar from the market in our village all the way to Siliana in order to snatch the wad of cash he had concealed in his inner coat pocket. Ammar the Blind would narrate the details in his languid voice: “It was a bitter cold winter’s day, so cold that the people were shivering despite the qashabiyas and the heavy, hooded cloaks they had wrapped around themselves, when I noticed this short man with a big head and puffy cheeks stuffing a wad of cash into his inner coat pocket. The job seemed too tough for me at first because of the thick qashabiya he was wearing, but the stupidity and idiocy in his eyes encouraged me to go for it, in spite of the dangers and the difficulties. After devouring a hot fatira with two eggs on top the man hopped aboard the bus heading for Maktar, and I did the same but couldn’t find a seat right next to him. When we arrived in Maktar he ducked into a crowded restaurant and ordered two kilos of grilled meat and a serving of liver, polishing it all off in short order even as my stomach growled. The extreme cold was making my already bad mood even worse and I considered just leaving the man in peace and heading back. But just then I told myself, Have patience, Ammar the Blind, and you’ll get what you deserve in the end, for God is always with those who are patient. After licking his lips for a long time, savoring the fat that was left all over them, he paid his bill and headed back to the station and jumped on a bus bound for Siliana. This time, luck was on my side and I found a seat beside him. I was so close that my right knee grazed his left. En route I lied to him, of course, telling him I was a lamb merchant from Sidi Bouzid and that I was on my way to Siliana for the first time in my life to visit a relative who worked there as a police officer. Then I started telling him funny stories that lightened up his dreariness that seemed to be inborn. When we pulled into Siliana, the chaotic crowdedness helped me to snatch the wad of cash from the depths of his coat pocket just as we stepped off the bus, while he stared dumbfounded at all the people’s faces, as if he had just clambered out of a shadowy cave. In order to avoid suspicion and any checkpoints, I returned to the village on foot, following the riverbeds and the craggiest roads. I spent half of that wad of cash on a cow for my mother—may God grant her long life—and some other things she needed; with the other half, I bought myself a better winter than I think I’ll ever have for the rest of my life!” And when the people asked him, “But Ammar, how did you manage to get your hand inside the inner coat pocket of the Ayyari if he was wrapped up in a heavy qashabiya?” Ammar the Blind would calmly reply, “That’s a secret trick of the trade. Then again, maybe my sweet voice had him convinced I was a guardian angel who would never bring him any harm!”
I can also remember how my mother—may God have mercy upon her—used to love the stories and adventures of Ammar the Blind. She would invite him over to our house whenever she had the chance. We spent happy times with him because he could always transform everything connected to the world of pickpocketing and thievery into delightful stories that were good for the soul. Until one time, Ammar the Blind himself walked into a trap. That was in Kairouan, in front of the Great Mosque. His mark this time was an elderly German tourist who started screaming and hollering as soon as she felt his hand slip inside her handbag. People immediately rushed to her aid. And that’s how Ammar the Blind got carted off to jail with blood gushing from his mouth, as curses rained down upon him from every direction: “Shame on you! Shame on you! You’ve disgraced us in front of foreigners!” As the people angrily denounced him, he hung his head in shame. After he got out of jail, his hair quickly turned white, his teeth fell out one after another, his eyes became narrow slits, his gait got all confused, he lost so much weight that he appeared to be nothing but skin and bones, he quit telling his stories and tall tales, and he stopped leaving his house except when it was absolutely necessary. He remained like that until he was found dead in his bed. That was almost a year before I left the village.
THE SON
When the judge handed down his guilty verdict after long and difficult deliberations, I breathed a sigh of relief because that was just what I had been hoping for with all my heart. There was nothing left in the world that could attract me or delight my soul. I whispered to myself, “Welcome, O beautiful death!”
All eyes were fixed on me, the eyes of those who had decided my fate and those who happened to be present in the courtroom. Many people had come for one obvious reason, as my lawyer informed me, namely, that my case had riveted people all over the country. From the rich who live in fancy villas to the poor who are unable to put dinner on the table two nights in a row; from the educated women who make speeches in Parliament and who teach at universities to those who are illiterate and who stammer when reciting the Fatiha. The lawyer would bring me magazines and newspapers and I’d follow the details of my case as if it were the issue of Palestine or Iraq.
Some even chose my story as a headline for their front page. Headline! That was a new vocabulary word for me, but that affable lawyer with cheeks as rosy red as a young lady who is thrilled to be single was constantly repeating it. Over time I came to understand what it meant thanks to my own personal effort, without having to ask him or anyone else for help. I say “anyone else” because in prison there are always other lawyers just like him who I could ask, as well as professors, doctors, engineers, CEOs, and former political notables. Obviously they had all broken the law and committed crimes; perhaps they’d even committed murder or embezzled from the state coffers or the institutions where they worked; perhaps they’d done other embarrassing things. They wouldn’t have been in prison along with me and thousands of others otherwise. Still, they all seemed nice enough, well behaved and well mannered. Perhaps even those who were always glowering, frowning, or who rarely spoke also deserved such complimentary descriptions. None of them ever scowled directly in my face or insulted me personally with an unkind word or looked at me spitefully even though I knew for certain that they were completely familiar with my case because they were all addicted to reading newspapers and magazines. Some of those noteworthy prisoners would occasionally utter pearls of wisdom, telling me, for example, how all mothers give birth to free men who therefore must live as free men. I wouldn’t comment, but just nod my head in agreement lest I get mixed up in a conversation that would reveal my ignorance about matters of wisdom. There was a skinny young man who was about thirty years old, with a small head and whose bones just about poked through his skin. Whenever I went to clean his cell he would try and talk to me about injustices that took place all over the country, about this and about that. But he stopped doing that in the end, possibly because he became convinced there was no point in carrying on a conversation about such things with a young man like me, who had severed all his connections with the real world and who was no longer concerned with whatever good or evil it contained. By doing so he brought some relief to both of us. There was another man of about fifty who kept his beard carefully trimmed at all times, as if it were his own private garden that was hidden from sight, and who insisted on wearing long white robes even on the coldest days of winter. On one occasion he whispered to me, “Heaven is beneath the feet of mothers!” Of course, I knew that this was a barb directed straight at me, but I didn’t respond to him in the slightest.