Last Chapter by Leila Abouzeid

Author:Leila Abouzeid [Abouzeid, Leila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781617971853
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2000-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

He came in holding a fancy envelope. A dark young man with an afro, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and Greek sandals. He handed me the envelope and I invited him to sit down. It was a letter of introduction in appalling French. Irritated, I set it aside and, forcing a smile, said, “So you know Isabelle then?”

“I met her at one of the camps in Tindouf. She works with a refugee organization. But I guess you know all that.”

“I met Isabelle in Tunisia at a conference connected with the annual women’s day celebrations, though I didn’t really see what that event had to do with refugees. She was suspicious of everything the Tunisian government has done regarding women, from the abolition of polygamy to the legalization of abortion. Isabelle considered these were merely decrees handed down from the top. But you know how it is with international organizations, they’re never satisfied, even if we break our backs to please them.

“At the end of the conference, Isabelle wouldn’t even sign the cable to the Tunisian president. She’s a bit arrogant as you probably know. She said, ‘What?! You expect me to congratulate them for their ‘achievements’? I’m supposed to express my ‘gratitude and admiration’? No! Thank you! I’m not representing some Third World government here. We’re a responsible international organization.’

“One of the Tunisians who organized the event told me how the president of the Tunisian Women’s Organization had met Isabelle at a conference in Paris and been impressed by what she had called her open-minded and liberal views. She told me, ‘I personally think her views are spiteful, racist, and colonialist.’

“The Jordanian representative there said to Isabelle in Arabic, ‘Europeans are ungrateful and disrespectful. You’ve taken Tunisian hospitality for granted. You don’t even notice the things they’ve done for you.’ Isabelle asked me to translate. I made it as inoffensive as I could.”

My guest seemed more at ease after this outburst, almost eager to confide in me.

“Our loyalties are swayed by our stomachs,” he said.

“A loaf of sugar and bottle of oil are all it takes to win votes. Democracy and hunger don’t mix,” I said.

“Now democracy and corruption, that’s another story,” he retorted.

“Well,” I said. “Nobody believes they’re buying people-tons of sugar and oil out of the kindness of their hearts. It’s an investment. The voters know what’s going on.”

“Why don’t they simply take the sugar and vote for whoever they want?”

“They tried that,” I said. “So then the candidates switched to shoes. They started giving voters one of a pair, telling them they could claim its mate after the elections, providing of course that they brought in evidence that they’d voted the right way.”

“Are you always this outspoken?” he asked.

“I believe in self-criticism, for my own good and for the good of my country. And I guess I don’t mind demonstrating that we have some freedom here to say what we think, contrary to what the Polisario’s no doubt been telling you. So, then you’re one of the

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