Papa Ali is still the adorable, old but wise, man that I remember from my last trip. Though a man of modest means and no formal education, through hard work, honesty and faith in God he has managed to provide for his large family and has raised each of his children well. All of his sons, daughters and grandchildren are respectable, down-to-earth, and intelligent people who exude a lot of confidence and optimism despite struggling with poverty and little employment opportunities in a country where the average daily wage is around US$5.
Moreover, everyone helps each other out unconditionally, with a bond so enduing that many of us in the developed world would envy. Perhaps in spite, or because of, the lack of material wealth, the family provides the glue that help carry people through hard times.
I spend the next two days with the Znaitis while waiting for Said to come home. At night, I would sleep along with Hedi, Hamadi, Selam (27) and Habib (25) on the flat rooftop as cool breezes lightly brushed the skin, and the full moon and bright stars twinkled in the limitless expanse of darkness that has inspired many a philosopher, artist and scientist.
Before going to sleep, Hedi would pray to God in the typical Muslim ritual composed of Koranic recitations, hands raising to the ears, palms touching the chest, and kneeling on all fours--repeated several cycles. He would also sit beside me on the rooftop, inquiring about me and my family in French mixed with Arabic words, while Hamadi looks at me curiously with his innocent, shy smile. Sometimes we cannot understand each other; the small Egyptian Arabic phrasebook that I brought with me helps to bridge some of the gap, though only imperfectly (Note: Colloquial Egyptian Arabic is distinct from Tunisian Arabic, so much so that speakers of the dialects cannot understand each other without a third mediating language. An Algerian Arab once told me that he would have to switch to French or English in order to converse with a Lebanese). Regardless of the language barriers, Hedi's gestures of affection touched me deeply, giving me a sense of belongingness at a time when I haven't seen my parents for over a year.
The North African sun comes into full swing at 8 a.m., its brilliant rays waking the foreign guest at last. The Znaitis have long been awake, with the exception of Selam and Habib who are young men and naturally sleep late. The women have already fed the mama and baby goats in the small chamber round the corner of the house; fetched water from a nearby source; folded bedsheets and blankets; and swept and mopped the open courtyard where the family's daily activities would take place.
Mama Aida is now seated on the ground making na'na chai (mint tea) using a small kettle heated by a miniature "stove"; she would fan the charcoal from time to time to stop it from burning and keep the distinct mint flavour brewing. Meanwhile, Mabrouka (29) takes an iron plate with tasty brik (pastries filled with meat, vegie and eggs), cheese, milk and coffee--quite a divine, hearty breakfast she has cooked especially for me! All of us then sit in the courtyard sipping Mama Aida's specialty hot green tea, seasoned with handfuls of mint and sugar. It is certainly delicious, but what particularly touch me are the lengths to which the family have sought to make me feel at home.
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