I find myself in an odd place. I know I’m not alone, but I still want to share this strange experience with you. Maybe I can make some sense of things if I do.
Forty two years ago I was an exchange student. I was seventeen years old, completely and unbelievably naive. I was sent to Tunisia, to live with an Islamic family. I had a fantastic time! I’ve written about my experience before, thinking about how comforting it was to find a family across the world that was so very much like my own.
But in the past three days, I’ve been really looking back, and thinking about my time in Tunisia.
I remember that my family had an Uncle, a jovial man of middle age, who was a retired general in the Tunisian military. He had a lovely little house just outside of Tunis. I remember going there for dinner. I remember that he hunted for little birds, which he brought back to the house in the afternoon. They were dressed and cooked and served over couscous. I remember that he was so proud of himself, and I remember that the dinner was delicious.
I remember, too, that the same smiling, stocky Uncle took me and my Tunisian sisters to the famous Bardo Museum. I don’t remember many details, but I do recall that the grounds were absolutely lovely, that the exhibits were amazing and inspiring. I remember a mosaic stone floor in the courtyard, and I remember that we were given a special tour because the Uncle was a member of the military.
I watch the news now, as we talk about “Islamists” and “terrorists” and I am struck by how we use the terms interchangeably. I think about the fact that most American parents now would never send their innocent daughter to live in Tunisia.
And then I close my eyes, and I remember what happened to me when I had to travel across the country by myself, on a bus, to a city I’d never seen. I remember that I got onto the bus in tears: I knew that I was saying goodbye to a family I’d grown to love very much. And I knew that I would most likely never see them again.
It was the last week of my journey, and I was leaving my host city of Kairouan to join up with the rest of the exchange students in the coastal city of Sfax. My Tunisian family said goodbye to me at the bus station, and I boarded a big old bus to head southeast. I was sobbing as the bus pulled out, so I barely noticed the old woman with the chickens in the seat behind me, or the man with the two small goats who sat in front of me. I wasn’t really aware of the handsome man and his wide eyed son who sat in the seat across the aisle. At least, I wasn’t aware of them until the man reached across the aisle and patted my shoulder. He murmured gently in Arabic: I didn’t understand him, but his face showed sympathy and caring. It made me cry a little harder. The man and his son moved across the aisle to sit with me, and he kept talking and patting my back. Little by little, we found a way to communicate. He introduced me to his son, I told him about my Tunisian family. We gestured, we nodded, we gazed out the window at the passing desert together.
I remember that we came to a stopping place, where small boys sold water from huge clay jars. I remember the man buying me a water, which I sipped gratefully from a shared cup.
And I remember arriving in Sfax, and getting off the bus. The man and his son embraced me, and he handed me a gift. It was a beautiful handmade clay ashtray, shaped carefully from the red soil of the country. I remember him pressing it into my hands, his long white robe touching his shoes as he leaned down toward me. “Pour toi” he said, and I thanked him.
I don’t know his name, and I can’t recall his face. But his kindness to a weeping young stranger has always stayed with me.
And I remember what happened after I got to Sfax and the bus pulled out. I sat in the bus station, as I’d been told by our group leader to do. I’d been told that I should stay in place and wait until he and the other students arrived. So I waited. And I waited.
The day went by, and sun began to set. I was the only foreigner sitting in the tiny, dusty bus depot. I began to notice a group of older men, middle aged, in traditional robes. They stood around, speaking softly to each other, but eyeing me as I sat alone on my bench. I tried to look confident, to ignore them, but I was starting to worry.
Now this was well before the time of cell phones, and there was no way for me to reach my friends or my group leader. All I knew was that I was supposed to wait, and that the sun was beginning to set. I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, I remember, one older man, sporting a full gray beard and bushy eyebrows, came to where I sat. He began to ask me questions in Arabic, which I barely spoke. I managed to finally understand him, and to explain that I was waiting for others. He looked upset and began to speak urgently to me. Finally, through a combination of Arabic and broken French, I came to understand that no more busses would be arriving that day, and that the man and his friends were worried about leaving me alone on that little bench. They asked where I was headed, but I only knew that last name of my group leader, whose family home was my destination.
I remember that the group of men argued and waved their arms and shook their heads as they shot me worried glances. I can only imagine their thoughts. “What is wrong with those crazy Americans!? They send a little girl halfway across the world and leave her on her own in a strange city?” They didn’t know what to do with me!
I don’t remember how it happened, or how I managed to understand it all, but I remember that I was placed carefully in the back of a cab, and that the name of my host was given to the driver. I remember that we drove all around the city, and that the young cabbie stopped over and over again to ask if anyone knew where my group leader’s family lived.
At last, after dark, I was brought to the house where I would spend the night. I don’t have any idea who paid the kind cabbie for his long trip, but I know that it wasn’t me.
I look back now, and I am so touched and so astonished at the gentle, unselfish kindness that was heaped on me that one day in Tunisia.
And I think of the word “Islamist”. I think of those thoughtful, gentle, fatherly Islamic men who took such care of me that day, with no possibility of reward.
I don’t understand how the Islam that I learned to love could have been twisted into the horror of what happened at my beautiful Bardo Museum.
I don’t understand it.
I find myself in a strange and sad place.
You see, for me the world “Islamist” brings to mind gentle, funny, generous men who go out of their way to take care of strangers.
14 thoughts on “Islamists?”
I hate the term “Islamist” as well.
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It sort of makes me want to go back to “good guy” “bad guy”, you know?
Trying to lump all people who practice Islam into one category/term, then equating that term with terrorism. Not cool.
What is an Islamist? Is that supposed to mean Muslim? Or someone who appreciates the world of Islam? Because I never heard that expression before, so I don’t know what it means. I know Islamic, Islam, Muslim. But you got me on this one.
Its what I keep hearing on the news, Marilyn. “Islamists” seems to mean, “Islamic Terrorists” but I’m not sure how people hear it, you know?
This made me cry! I get very defensive when people make generalizations about Muslims. Many of the people making generalizations have never met or known a Muslim. My Tunisian grandmother used to bring her prayer mat and pray on the balcony of my family’s home. She was the only one in my family who didn’t speak French and yet I felt closer to her than anyone else in my family. She used to have me practice my Arabic with her and she would have me stretch out with my head in her lap and she would talk to me and stroke my face and hair. It was so comforting even though I had no idea what she was speaking about. She used to make us all mint tea over a little charcoal fire. When the end of the summer came, my Tunisian father had a fit that he had to let me go a week early for the orientation. Unbeknownst to me, he called our group leader in Tunis and told him that I was ill and the doctor said I was too ill to travel. I remember coming in from a morning at the beach and the telephone rang and my mother said it was for me. I couldn’t imagine anyone calling me so I gingerly picked up the phone and it was our group leader, Ahmed, asking me if I was feeling any better! I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about! When Ahmed told me what my father had done, I realized how much they loved me and wanted me to stay with them for every minute I was in Tunisia. I will never forget how they took me into their home and made me part of their family.
Oh, I love this story! I never knew that one! So sweet! I keep thinking of our summer, and how much I want, one day, to go back.
I think we have President G.W. Bush, Dick Chaney and their “Christianist” regime to thank for doing their worst to turn 1.8 billion people into perceived and inhuman enemies for their political and monetary gain and our very great misfortune.
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Islamist means “Muslim extremist”. Around the seventies, and especially in towns like Kairouan, people were very conservative but nothing to do with actual ” Islamists”. It is around the mid nineties with the occurrence of the satellites TVs that the doctrine of the Muslim brotherhood spread in Tunisia and erased the culture of the country.
I understand that we now use “Islamist” to mean “one who wants Islam to trump all other ideas no matter what it takes”, but it literally means, “One who supports Islam” (if we just think about the word itself). And I only spend a short time in Tunisia, but found the people to be open, interesting and thoughtful. And less conservative than many Americans I knew. While I agree that it was in the 90’s when the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood changed the thinking of a lot of people, I certainly wouldn’t say that it “erased the culture of the country”.
And I hope that never changes…
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What a poignant story — and I’m so glad you told it.
We really just have to stop generalizing about people — all muslims are not terrorists. All terrorists are not muslims. People of every race, creed and color are individuals — we are not the fucking Borg from Star Trek.
But more than that we have to stop being so damn afraid of the groups of people who collectively hate. Because when we do they win. When we cower, when we don’t travel (when we put asinine restrictions on travel), the bad guys (good term you picked!) win. Why the hell do we let them?
I don’t know…..all I know is that before too much longer, I need to go back to beautiful Tunisia, for the food and the sun and the history and the art and the warm, lovely people.
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I agree with you about the terms “islamist” and “terrorist” being interchangeable. It is truly sad. I have always said people are just people no matter what color, religion, etc. there are good and bad in every culture.
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