Algeria calling!

This year will make my 18th in the U.K., going on 19^th and I can safely say. Thanks very much for the laughs and the good times, the humour, the extra kilos, the shit weather, the amazing experiences and the opportunities (such a twatty expression) but it's time to leave.

Though I say that, I feel like a deserter, who leaves when the going gets tough with Brexit looming and all, what can I say, I am just not a big fan of tinned food! Though the question beckons, where to now?

My whole being is screaming for Algeria but it feels like I’d be jumping from a sinking island into a sinking ship. I feel a little homeless, just when I thought myself the luckiest girl to have two countries to call my own with the choices of both cultures and weather…what have you. I find myself in limbo!
Although the economic barometer points to Asia/Pacific or the UAE, the heart longs for the sunny shores of Algeria and the wonderful beckoning Friday protests which warm the sternest of hearts, expect for Gaid salah, he doesn’t have one.


But it doesn’t have to be limbo!


I am contemplating a move back home, to join the struggle (yes it’s a struggle), I can no longer allow myself to be content with my level of participation. The involvement is there and running at over 100% capacity, however the itch to take part, to be there and feel the energy, determination and hope of this great, funny and totally bonkers nation is more than I can take.

Stay tuned…

A summer to remember

Many people don’t have a lot of memories of previous Ramadans, except for the distinct and unhappy recollection of hunger, thirst and the long hours of deprivation.  But nothing else is noteworthy, nothing else seems to happen in this month, especially when you (not me) spend it horizontally for over ten hours a day!

Last year, was a different story, last Ramadan was a memorable one (not in a good way), last Ramadan Israel was repeatedly bombing Gaza, and as the war in Syria raged on, a gunman opened fire on tourists on a beach in Tunisia (the choice of events and countries is not calculated), the whole world went through the summer in a state of shock, anger, protest and gloom.

This year a lesser disaster is looming, but a disaster nonetheless, England will most probably brexit, during Ramadan…bringing a wave of changes to the whole world and I suspect a lasting memory!

As I cast my vote today (guess which way I voted) I couldn’t help but think of all the things trivial and important that will happen, all the changes, I think of how bored Nigel Farage would be, how it’ll transpire that Boris Johnson is actually Donald Trump’s long lost sibling, probably a brother from another mother, I think about how rude the French are going to be to us when we go on holiday to France (by us I mean Brits not Algerians – they already surpassed their tolerance towards us Algerians), croissants and baguettes will be sold on the black market, Cheese smugglers will rival human smugglers and so many more...I can't bear to think about it!

But I strain to think of how this will affect Algerians and I find nothing! Nothing affects Algerians really, we will survive whatever tidal wave this Brexit will bring on, for now it’s none of our concern though, our imminent concern is the source of the next chorba* and bourek* and where we’ll spend the summer drinking and lazing in the sun after all this observance! Spain or Cuba? whichever doesn't require a visa ...

For now though, up to day 5 and on a more egocentric level...

Energy levels – stable, Sleeping patterns: all over the place, Food ingested: not enough, Water drunk: too much, Days to next period: too many

Dz-chick….for now it’s about breakfast not Brexit

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*Ramadan meal

Ramdom shite!

So much has happened since my last post, where I was still talking about me me me and boys, and the joys of being Algerian, of London and cups of tea and extra kilos that won’t go away…

Looking back, I feel silly, as I read back through my so many posts, I can’t help but shake my head and cringe and sometimes I think damn I am good! But today I have moved on, I have different dilemmas. I worry about other things now, wrinkles not being one of them, no sir, I think of our newly re-elected president, think about how Algeria has advanced so much that we now have a disabled president, I mean do you realise that after America’s Roosevelt comes Algeria!! We even rival the Vatican for the oldest leaders and if it were a contest we’d win.

I feel joy for the Algerians with disabilities and rejoice that they will finally have the support they need and would finally benefit from equal opportunities. After all, he gave his health up for Algeria, he restored peace, he built us stuff!!! Like pavements, motorways and a massive mosque, the biggest in Africa if we believe the budget allocated.  Some say it’ll come in handy, when we need it to pray so we don’t get sick, since we don’t have hospitals. Though it’s not fair, our best hospital is found in the outskirts (if bothered, check geography reference later) of Paris in Val-de-Grace.

So since the world of Algeria is safe again for another 5 years (thank you Cheb Khaled and co) I am going to go back to what’s really important, ME, here, because I don’t live in Algeria so according to Algerians I am not allowed to talk politics or discuss Algerian business*

So I thought I’d get busy doing something else, I’ll be involved in my looks for a while since nothing else matters apparently.

Lately, I have been doing a lot of growing-up, I see the wisdom pouring in and out of me, truly, it’s magical, I don’t say silly things like " What you gonna do for a face when the monkey wants its bum back?" anymore, I give myself a 5 second window before responding, I feel all grown up and I let go of a lot of negativity and shit, so much so that I get bored and you all know when I am bored...I produce shit like this!

When I think of all the activists and opposing movements, who spent so much time protesting (I wrote this a long time ago), I can’t help but feel sorry for them, being pushed, shoved and beaten by the police, insulted by the people for inciting unrest and threatened by the security forces or God knows who or what! Some lost their jobs, others their money, health, sanity and for what? To stop a cripple from finishing his work? Let the man finish what he started for God’s sake! There is still money to be stolen, futures to be destroyed and hopes to be crushed.

So depressing, let’s go back to talking about boys! Although that too got boring a while ago. So I am just going to be quiet.

Dz-chick

*bite me

The Cautionary Tale

 

It’s probably time I announced to you if you care, that I am planning on moving back to Algeria. Many years and a thousand reasons later I thought it’s about time I returned home.

Reasons? Besides the fact that I miss my family, besides the fact I watch as my parents get visibly older and my nieces and nephews visibly and scarily less innocent.  I find myself missing out on so many things and finding myself alone here always trying to find a justification to it all, usually it’s of the type “What? It’s my life and I decide how to live it”, but more often than not I can find no real justification (to myself) for my lingering here on this island, where I am deeply happy and unhappy at the same time, where I am crowded and alone, lonely and lively, positive yet so gloomy, Always going but inevitably always staying.

So like every couple of years, I declare to all my friends and family that this was it, I am leaving! everybody shake their heads laughing and say “ah what you like!!” and I get a bit indignant but then give up on the whole idea and resume my life of miserable commuting to a shitty job working for a knobhead of a boss and get paid some dineros, half of which is spent on the miserable commute to the shitty job working for the knobhead of a boss.  BUT not this time, not anymore. This time I mean business; and LITERRALLY...well and a bit of fun!

So my mind starts to wonder about what my life would be like in Algeria, when I know I am there for the long haul and not a fleeting week where my mum makes my favourites dishes and my dad suggests to take me out to touristic sites and thinks it’s cute when “Je fais mon anglaise”.

What will I wear? I fear a wardrobe reshuffle would be in order? What do I speak? Algerian, French of English? What will I do? Can I get a job there? Will I be able to drive on the left hand side? Can I go to the cinema when the mood strikes? ; can I go out for dinner and stay out with friends? Will I get used to the infernal traffic, the driving antics of Algerians with their 7 lane motorways (actual lanes: 3) and their “Normaaals” and whatnots! I wonder about how long my grace period will last with my dad before he starts to scrutinise my everything and make me feel like I made a massive mistake!  

I think about how loud the local mosque call to prayer is but how comforting to hear the Adhan again, not so much for its religious meaning as for being one of the only things that never fails or changes, no matter what happens, there will always be that soft magical velvet voice singing, floating on the warm air making you feel home safe .

I think about how life seems so difficult yet so simple! I Think about constant stares in the street that often make me trip, I think about all the French speaking that seems to determine social class! I think about so many things, important and trivial that my head spins and I just want to take a big nap and throw it all to the wind and decide that what you were used to before, you will get used to again.  

But I decide that nobody should force exile on themselves just because there’s a lack of cinemas, first class gyms or Costa Cafés or even freedom, democracy and justice in their country! Not because of the level of corruption or nepotism or the number of things that will rub you the wrong away on a daily basis, or the fact you will hate everyone and want to throw in the towel after about a month.

Time only will tell…

Dz-chick... Announcement one of two!

Are we there yet?

 

I have been known to moan and whinge a fair amount, I've also been known to be sarcastic, ironic and a tad bitchy and that as you all know has served me… and you by extension very well over the last few years.
Unfortunately I have grown out of it, I let go of a lot of my negativity and anger which gave way to sedation and boredom. Dull dull dull

So much to whinge about, so little will to do it, I seem to have developed this thing where I see the better side of things, good side of people, of shit, as a result I became what some would consider a wise person, I try to excuse every prick that says something stupid, I don’t slap the slapables, I smile when annoyed now, I almost made friends with a stingy busy little bee God forbid, I say things like “it’s ok they’re just kids”, or in other words I became a pushover and to overcome that problem I thought it's safer if I stopped hanging out with people who would take advantage of my Buddha-like demeanour (whaaaat?) and eventually I stopped going out altogether.

London has become a challenge to overcome, like a purgatory waiting to know where you'll end up heaven or hell, or maybe that's a bit dramatic!! Alright ....it feels like a groundhog day, repeating itself tirelessly waiting for something to change to break the cycle. Taking the same train to the same job, working with the same insane boss, doing the same workouts yet looking exactly the same even when I dye my hair orange and think I dropped a couple of kilos, walking the same streets, hearing the same natter between the same idiots who still to this day rave about the 70% Sales, about Big Brother and XFactor.

So I take a different walk, try to do something new, see if I can trip this groundhog day up, I decide to walk, I walk in the park, see so many faces and I get the feeling that they’re all new here, I keep walking until I find myself by a pond, I don’t know where I am but you always know you’re in the royal borough when they’re throwing ciabatta at the ducks, so I don't roll my eyes and I just move on, I want to be around people who aren’t fooled by status and possessions, I want my feet to take me somewhere I can meet someone interesting and fun who stands for things and doesn’t run a mile when I open my mouth, who looks beyond what is expected of us and dares to be different.

There’s no shame in saying, I always felt it was ok to talk about this as long as I was writing anonymously but pretty soon everyone else will know who I am and it’s about time I took responsibility for Dz-Chick, maybe Groundhod Day will soon be over…

Until then…still walking in the hope of stumbling on a different path or waking up on a different day!

The impossibility of being Free

Lately, I let go a little, started to wear baggy trousers (God bless that elasticated waist), let my hair run wilder and spotted a few holes in my socks, knickers and now shirts, I let go!! I think this is due to the fact I believe I am naturally beautiful so basic grooming suffices, though I noticed men only  check me out when I wear my hair conformingly straight, it’s like I fit more into their mentally-etched image of the type of women they could consider suitable, because anything curly is considered foreign, wild or difficult.

One day on a plane back (to London) from Algeria, the guy sitting next to me asked me if I was Algerian. And that got me thinking, even if I looked painstakingly English (which I don’t), the very fact I was on an airplane flying back from Algeria could considerably improve the chances I was in fact Algerian. I acquiesced to his delight that I was indeed Algerian and to continue with the charade he said well you’re a bit Shoreditch! A free spirit?  Ha ha ha I said to him ”No I am Algerian, I can’t be a free-spirit” he didn’t get it. Then I went back to my nap from which he had yanked me to question me about the freedom of my spirit and I started to think about that ….and stuff!

A bit Shoreditch?? Moi? Well I never! Anyway, a long story not so short, that got me thinking about the nationally agreed Algerian look and how wearing baggy trousers did not fit into it.  But more about the very notion of “free spirit”, how it got highjacked and “shorditified” as if all the twats prancing around Shoreditch in those uber-skinny jeans or baggy trousers (depends on the level of Artiness or Lositude…or somink), blazers and beards are free spirits or true artists. You can’t be the free spirit you’re dressed to be if in essence you are actually conforming to the Shoreditch image. Conforming being the operative word here.

As an Algerian, who considers herself a creative being I realised I could never claim to be a free-spirit simply because I know to attain the status of true free spirit I’ll have to live a life of a hermit away from all societal coercion, religion or any political distribution of power and social tourbillon of conformity somewhere I can live off the land and recycle my own pee. But perhaps I can claim the title of a rebel, who doesn’t reject all societal obstructions and rules but fights some, rejects some and accepts some.

Besides the Algerian free spirit does not exist; “they” just won’t let it happen! They’ll use the weapon of mass oppression, the rolling of the heads with the lips in a downward line, they will laugh at your strange dress sense and curly hair or semblant of afro you’ve been nursing for the last 3 years with no convincing result; They’ll say it’s just a phase, your hair will be straight again one day, and they will attribute your beard to religious beliefs to save face with the neighbours or will coerce you into shaving it, it’s inevitable. If the phase lasts too long, then it could be a case of hormonal instability or it has already been decided you’re a sore loser and all your quirkiness is nothing other than a mean to hide your loositude (new word)!  It’s just not you, so stop trying to stand out and go get married or something, your peers got married and died already and you’re still wearing baggy trousers and leather bands on your wrists! Seriously!

So to recapitulate; if you have: A pair of baggy trousers or über skinny jeans, some kind of rainbow old t-shirt, quirky jewellery and rubber bands, curly natural hair and no make-up, wash your hair less than once a week, don’t own a deodorant, own a rusty old vintage bike, by vintage I mean stolen and have a jumper with a hole in it, have enough creativity to border on neurotic, the unexplainable desire to break rules and just the right amount of weird! Then you could qualify as a conforming free-spirit! But you’ll never reach full potential or what Nietzsche calls “The Free spirit by excellence”

What is striking here is that even the rebels, free-spirits, artists and anarchists who boast individuality and rebellion find themselves following a certain look, a certain lifestyle, they are manipulated and affected by the same ideas and images and flux into the same urban worm-holes and nukes and crannies of the city (any city) to live amongst other similar-minded people, to escape the more rigid, superficial and shallow sides of the city (again any city) only to find themselves delving into a not so different social tourbillon of conformity and end up pigeonholed like I was on that plane and put in the Shoreditch box.

Conformity and rebellion are part of or two side of the same syndrome, because both are reactions to the same pressure source, though there are those who secretly question society and conformity and there are those who secretly conform like the Shoreditch crowd and whatnots. So you conform secretly, when you straighten your hair until its burnt smell is recognised before you come into view, or when you iron your trousers (focusing on that line that parts your thigh in two -yeah you know who you are), you conform when you think being a free spirit is a way of attracting attention and is often a call for help! You also conform when you become the source of pressure!

Isn't it scary (and a bit boring frankly) to live your life exactly how someone else's or because someone else decided on the status quo and you are just living it within a line drawn by a parent, a teacher or an authority figure or entity?  And every time you try to peer outside of that marked line, you’ll be called a rebel.  It almost feels as though the “free spirit” label was invented to fool people into thinking they attained and are in fact allowed to attain a certain level of free thinking and being without any barriers.

So my point is (finally got there), you can be free to dress the part, but your spirit is far from being free as long as you are shackled by temporary possession and pleasures and can’t resist the tug of conformity and the imposing dams of society, you will spend your whole life a laver never turning into the butterfly.

Dz-chick….a conformist in denial…I think!

Wantotrism dissected

Refusing to get into the grind of the World cup plethora, I shied away from facebook (the source of everything), from all the pictures and videos of Algerian supporters in Brazil and their antics between matches, but it proved an arduous task and an impossibility to anyone with any remote access to any kid of media, to avoid Algerian supporters or the ever catchy Wan To Tré Viva l’Algiré

My first thought was that Algerians needed an excuse to celebrate in unison, as though they’re starved for unity, to be all as one rooting for the same goal, pun intended, then I thought there’s more to it than that, at the sight of the several videos circulating online of our hilariously creative and other narcissistic supporters (Yes you!), brandishing their flags, passports and chemma* to proclaim their right to be THERE amongst these strong nations of football.

Amongst so many things I read about THAT, was this brilliant piece by Dadathwen Eldhoudhi called “Le Wantotrisme pour les nuls” and was absolutely gutted I hadn’t thought of it first, but it turns out there is a whole and actual bibliography written on the topic for over 40 years now. Do your research!

I guess Dadathwen said it all for me but not quite, so I am presenting my first amendment – My vision is somewhat different…

The Wantorism is often synonyms with Watanism, it involves a state of unconscious and often indoctrinated patriotism that often centres around sporting events, mostly international ones, where the perpetrators get to dive head first into a much craved National Unity, where only three colours are brandished, Green, White and Red and only three numbers are chanted One, Two, Three in a slogan complied of Three languages “One, two and Three.  Viva l’Algerie”.  It’s the trinity of Unity.

This induced sense of unity; much like the false sense of romance, music envelopes you in when watching a Hollywood flick and it jerks a tear out of your tired, emotional and ready to cry soul, wantotrism brings back thoughts of struggle, of the martyrs of the war of independence, a sense of overdue recognition and merit.

Algerians are very much like that; soft-hearted and hot-headed. Willing to stand against any transgression, ready to defend Algeria, Arabism, Palestine, Islam, Africanism (depending on the adversary), Syrians, Afghani and Iraqis but not Berbers, Mzab or Twareg, but their music is cool, so the colours will be brandished and unity will be celebrated despite the unexplainable chasm secretly felt but often ignored, maybe it’s imaginary or induced a la Hollywood! You know who's to blame!

The Wantotrisme is the Un-Researched and unfounded sense of ownership and achievement, of overzealous pride of all things “originating” from Algeria, Zlabia, Schumacher, Andalusi music, Islam (The religion not the player), Idir, Tinariwen, Gnawa music, Cheb Khaled, not so much Cheb Mami, any kind of Tagine and Deglet Nour. All chant the co-dependant national anthem and glee.

Wantotrism came about and became a culture, an integral part of the Algerian identity, part hooliganism, part nationalism, funny but irritating, proud yet shameful but above all loyal to itself and to its team, winning or losing (unlike the English fans).  It’s a gene, a mutation, every Algerian has it, the syndrome manifesting itself in some not others.

Some known albeit not very effective antidotes is taking oneself too seriously or being a Judas, at ones own peril. You have been warned.

 Dz-chick….A Prouder Algerian!
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* a sort of disgusting sniffing tobacco

A not-so-stiff upper lip!

Was thinking the other day about how British one can become after a few years living here and realised it could really go either way, one can easily withdraw into oneself and refuse all signs of “Britishness” as a repudiation of the former self, some panic when they realise that they started thinking in English so they grow a beard and start wearing boxers, others refuse to speak English to their compatriots but mostly they grow more neurosis and despite their long London tenure they refuse to be labelled a Londoner for fear of what that might represent. Poor lambs!

Meanwhile in a parallel world not too far away, others who have passed the seven year mark have acquired a look, a special kind of look, an annoying mixture of arrogance, jadedness, know-it-all attitude and a hint (or two) of neurosis with a questionable and supposedly dry sense of humour.

These self-proclaimed veterans are also discernible through their slightly larger heads, dress sense and a politeness that is mixed between being a Brit and being wlid/bent Familia , you might not recognise yourself here or realise you’re IT; the following ought to make it easier;

when out of your own accord you’d get in line, any line and start queuing up for pure conformity, or when you say sorry more than 50 times a day, even when the man clearly jammed you with his shopping trolley in the supermarket, when you tut at people then become mortified they actually heard you or when you avoid confrontation at all costs even if it means giving up the last sandwich on the shelf or the last seat on the train! Doesn’t ring a bell? Ok how about this?

-          When you catch yourself trying to sound posh! Might be a good start to try to sound English first then upgrade.

-          When you think it’s cool to speak in a Cockney accent and evidently, you can’t hear yourself

-          When you have a specific and proven method to describe the geographical situation of Algeria using minimal words, you’ve done it so many times…

-          When you always roll your eyes and know when it’s coming “I have been to Tunisia and Morocco but never Algeria”

-          When you alternate between socialising with the Algerian and English crowds and using one as an antidote to the other

-          When someone says your name wrong and you can’t bring yourself to correct them, so forevermore you will be known as Rhonda!

-          When you always pronounce Algeria with a very deliberate A, to avoid the puzzled question “you’re from NIGERIA???”

-          When you are so tired of answering the same questions about your religion, country, race and weather, so instead you send links you have saved in your favourites

-          When you make every effort not to look Algerian (yeah you know who you are)

-          When somebody says you look Italian and you say “Ohh thank you”

-          When someone else says “oh but you don’t look Algerian” and you thank them with a beaming smile (yeah you know who you are too)

-          When you start matching your umbrella to your outfit, because you’re adaptable

-          When you work really hard at avoiding the Algerian stereotypes but people will still find you abrupt, direct, honest, and strong and other synonymous words they invented for rude.  

-          When you dread the Monday water fountain convo of “how was your weekend?” but go through it with a smile and a faint interest

-          When you feel inadequate because you only speak 3 languages

-          When you are tired of explaining such words as Darja, berber, Na3dine and why you speak french

-          When you feel pressured by the international social convention to do something on Saturday night or bare the guilt and shame.

-          When it takes you a few years to adapt to cooking a meal in less than 10 minutes, after you’ve watched your mother do in no less than 3 hours.

-          When you pride yourself in how few Algerian friends you have

-          When you are disgraced by people who pour hot water over couscous to cook it

-          When you think shop assistants are scary snobby little shits but like the rest of Britain and despite your alleged abruptness you’re too scared to say anything

-          When you hold back the tears after your haircut, but smile and say you love it

-          When you lower your voice on the phone when you see or hear another Algerian on the bus

-          When out of the whole empty train carriage, someone would sit next to you, out of indignation; you’d turn to the window and stare at it with loath shaking your head ever-so-slightly so that they don’t notice

-          When you insist on giving directions to anyone who asked rather than admit you just don’t know

-          When your sense of humour becomes a beautiful mix of random, dry with a hint of cynical

All this to drive the point home; you can take the person out of Algeria, but you can’t take Algeria out of the person.

Dz-chick…Dz-Brit with a proven track record ;)

A Socratic Love Logic

Film still from Adam and Eve by Liliana Basarab and Costel Chirila

As I ponder the many possibilities of love, I can’t help but wonder if it’ll ever happen to me, then I swiftly discount the thought as a mere weakness, an expression for the needy and the romantics. I think about how I love chocolate, my family and Algeria, how I love England and taking long walks by the river, how I love the ice cold wind as it hits me on the face and I believe it’s making me younger, how I love many things and many people and think so what’s so bad about love anyway?

Why does it scare some people so much, to the point of rejecting it from any source and in any format. But I know better, I grew up in Algeria….or in your case… (insert Arab country here….).

Where love is synonymous with mother or motherland, country, weakness and other futile and bad things, where it is secretly practiced never uttered, where only the love of the mother is implied never expressed.

Where there’ll be no holding of the hands, or touching of the hair, no fornication (in public), no adultery (in public), no homosexuality allowed (in public or otherwise), in fact no mention of love, where porn is 5% sex, 95% guilt, no fun or display of, not even liking, for God’s sake, just no affection related sentiments or acts!

Where the very concept of it is too much to bear, where love should only be for God and the prophet (pbuh), sometimes the other prophets too, but preferably only for Mohamed (pbuh).

Where the very thought of love should be banished and reduced to a feeling of guilt and shame, how can a man love a woman, surely only his mother can love her and therefore deem her a suitable mate, her father owns a business too so that’s always a positive, and so she was deemed a suitable mate by all (not you, your opinion doesn’t count).

Where love should not be fostered or encouraged. Heresy I say! A great source of debauchery and evil, reducing great men to their baser instincts and bringing out their soft side, which if not controlled, will make them disciples of the devil and the West.

Where a suicide bridge is preferred to the bridge of love, where sexual Jihad is encouraged and innocent love is condemned, where the word itself is so taboo it’s haram. It’s evil, it’s damned, it’s so small it’s big.

Where obscurantism is common practice, hatred is fostered and love is silenced, segregation is actively encouraged and sexual frustrations cultivated, where a man knows so little about a woman, he fears and loathes her, imprisons and mutilates her, violates her, hides her, degrades her and obsesses about her. He, who gave her a rib, then threw in the cage for good measure.

Her forms, her soft yet strong being, her frail yet robust body, her fierce beauty and satanic mystifying bosoms. He hates how he loves her, how he needs her, how he wants and desires her, how weak he is in her presence and at her hands, he almighty bearded man who knows all, realised she’s the source of Love, she is the embodiment of Love and therefore evil and he never forgave her for bringing him down to this wretched earth.

Dz-chick… women are Love. Love is evil: women are evil 

Bent Familia Syndrome!

The other day, some guy for reasons unbeknownst to me, referred to me as “bent familia”*! I didn’t know what to do or say, my reaction astonished even me as I recoiled in disgust, I think it was the first time anybody called me that,to my face at least , I had never questioned if I would ever qualify as a bent familia or not but I always had a secret suspicion that I didn’t quite fit into that category.

I feel the prejudiced judgment this expression carries is too huge to consider it a compliment, so in response worthy of a 5 year old, I said “YOU’re bent familia”.
 

This way of complimenting a woman on conforming, on her ability to be a doormat, on her passiveness, it is the positive affirmation for adult woman, like saying to a dog or a toddler “good booooy” In an attempt to reinforce 'good' behaviour.
 

Congratulating her on the way she wears the jebba** and the way she tucks it into the sides of her knickers when she does the cleaning! Sexy! On the way she cooks her mother meals and in anticipation has learnt her future mother-in-law’s too, on the way she matches all her outfits and wears them all below the knee, on her miraculous and science-defying ability to remain a virgin, on the permanent smile she wears on her face, on the way she mimics old people and fits right in with them, on her robotic capabilities to sustain misogynistic male treatment and interpret it as Love.

Her favourite pastime, cardio and therapy are cooking and cleaning, her social exercise is gossip.

She is a Stepford wife in preparation.
 

The status of Bent Familia is elevated to the highest ranks of society ladders, high on a pedestal (with drawers for the detergents and the aprons). Something every girl aspires to be.
To be labelled a bent familia is considered the compliment, a high place of virtue every girl should aspire to reach, somewhere I don’t want to be, the girls up there are a tough crowd, I don’t fit in with them, they look at me with the same look I used to get from their parents as a child, like the bad influence friend, I want to jump out of this pedestal and look up their skirts, point and scream HA HA!

Ben Familia, is the good girl who played that role for so long, she forgot to stop acting, she can be a hypocritical pseudo-religious puppet who lives up to every silly expectation; she gets married between the ages of 23 - 28 and stays married, she doesn’t laugh like a hyena, she smiles but never shows teeth or makes noise over a 0.2 decibel, her hair is always smooth, tamed and in a the same colour (whereas you probably look like an electrocuted tabby); she matches her bag to her shoes to her bra and knickers (you don’t even match your bikini), she’s considered a safe asset, an innocuous choice (you’re a liability at best of times), she can make a 3 course meal out of an onion and an egg, she is extraordinary in the ordinary, her beauty is subtle, in her shyness and vulnerability; she talks softly never raising her voice (...I GOT nothing), there’s a term for it…Settouta!, she’s as graceful as a mermaid (half tuna, half human), she has a roomful of wedding/marriage (trousseau) items she collects since she was 12, she can pull off any djebba or kaftan, with a full cleavage and love handles that magically appear (you barely look like an adult), she is a virgin, she never had sex, her name is Monica Lewinski, her cousin and her neighbour Omar are her best friends, she never goes out when it’s dark, she wouldn’t upset her dad and brothers.
 

Oppressed by the patriarchy, It's the only way she will ever leave her parents’ home and the only way she'll keep a roof over her married head.  She has to put up and shut up.
 

She makes you look bad, you want to hate her but you can’t, she does no wrong, she’s the good girl and you are no match for her.
 

Dz-chick…bent A familia just not that one!

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*Literally it means “daughter of family” but figuratively “the good girl”

**A house dress (long, and preferably sleeveless to allow you to do the house work)

Day 4: Nostalgia is a woman!

Was browsing through facebook...stalking really, what else is there to do on a Saturday in Ramadan! what did I do before? I can't remember!

I stumbled upon a friend's Nostalgic comment, and reading the replies from her male friends left me puzzeled, they cited "Tagine at the kiosk at la Grande Poste", "Sandwich Garantita a 2am by les 3 horloges in Bab el oued", "Sardines beddersa a Telemly" and many more little rituals and habits, that I don't recognise, I don't know of, it's different to telling the stories of what goes on at the ladies local hair salon and compare and laugh with its counterpart the Gents barber, but this is Nostalgia, although the souvenirs could be personal to each of us, the general landscape of it should be shared, agreed on, like sunny blue skies and white buildings, days at the beach, Lemon sorbet (kreponi if that's how it's spelt) and friendly albeit curious people, it shouldn't be gender specific.

Wondered why it is that girls and boys in Algeria hold different souvenirs of home, like we didn't live the same lives (yes same - socialism remember!), as if we didn't go to the same schools and beaches and went through the same war, or maybe our souvenirs are similar but not the same;
Then it hit me, girls and boys do live the same events, it's just the view or perhaps more appropriately, the viewing platform is what differs, boys whiteness it from the street, up and close whilst the girls view it perched up on the balconies and windows! sequestrated behind shutters, "sheltered" behind doors and veils.

A friend of mine in Algeria, used and still gets revolted by the fact she couldn't leave the house after a certain time of the evening, if she craved a Coke, she'll have no way of getting it, she'll have to lump it and swallow it, but she remarked that had her brother craved a Coke, he'd up and go an any time and get himself one! Who said girls can't go out after dark? who started this unwritten LAW! This very same law that makes my nostalgia diffident from my brothers'.

To be continued....I am hungry now!

Dz-chick...Ramadan and nostalgia don't mix well!*

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*but I am fine, honest, I am fiiiiine

Chasing the Velvet

The sun was warm and gentle like a tender caress on my skin, the air was breezy, the sky azure, it felt as though I was floating through velvet, far from being poetic, this is exactly what I felt one summer day in Algiers. I played footy with my little nephew, well I passed the ball and he ran for it mostly screaming for it to stop.

Then we walked up the stairs to the Monument’s esplanade where a Book festival was taking place, there were a lot of people, but not too many that I’d feel crowded, just enough not to feel deserted.  A big gaming castle was erected for children on the side and parents were busy queuing, filming and encouraging their little ones. I hung out, people watching, waiting for the festival to start. I felt good, so good, too good, I couldn’t explain it, was it the velvet concoction of wind and sun on my skin or was it something else…

I walked around the book fair, prospected the tents, each one representing a publishing house, mental notes made about which ones to contact for my book (I had a dream etc), purchased a novel and sat down on the reading area set-up, soaking up the soft rays of sunshine, reading a little, then getting distracted by this soft velvet atmosphere I feel but cannot explain, I tilt my head back and soak up more sun and breeze, this recipe that I feel I was the only one privy to, I look around to see if people feel it too, people seem to be happy, even I AM relaxed and my London pace has slowed down to a mere shuffle as if I am worried I’d finish too quickly and lose the thread of velvet.

I stayed idle a while, leafing through my book, my nephew at a table nearby going frantically with a red crayon over his colouring book with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth.

My sister joins us, she looks stressed, Samia lives in Algiers, she’s always stressed and uses this word often, it seems Algerians finally matched the word to the feeling, she drags her daughter by the hand, she was at her ballet lesson, she walks over looking her usual flustered self, the security lady chasing her, demanding to search her bag before she could enter the book festival.

Samia joins me, breathing frantically, looking everywhere as she talks, trying to locate her son, I point at him, his head down on his book, colouring with a blue crayon now. Her shoulders slump immediately and she seems to feel what I am radiating, she tilts her head sideways as if trying to work something out, then she shakes her head as if to dismiss the feeling and picks a chair, dispatches her daughter to join her brother and sits facing me, she looks at me as if waiting for instructions, so I instruct her to relax, she fidgets a little, rummages through her bag for something she can’t find, she calls out at the kids and gives instructions to do this and not do that. She just can’t relax. I take her by the shoulders and shake her gently with a smirk, she fixes me for a few seconds then laughs, then as if making a decision, she rests her back on the chair, tilts her head back and lets her arms dangle on either side of her chair and stops moving. I say the word “velvet” because I keep feeling it and Samia says “il fait beaauuuuu”. Finally she feels it.

Back at the house, the smell of freshly brewed coffee was intoxicating, Mum made my favourite cake and set the table, we all gathered around and chatted about nothing I can remember, observations about the kids, something my mum wanted my dad to fix or buy, I find myself worried the time will ran out and I will find myself alone again, so I cling onto every moment of coffee or lunch where we’re together, I offer to wash up and to help out with lunch but I am not allowed near the stove, my culinary talents are little to be desired.

Sometimes, as discreetly as they can, my parents always with a smile, ask if I thought about coming back home, then I don’t know or remember what happens next, my mind flies back to London, to my life here, my friends and my things, so many things I attach myself to, shackle myself with to validate the decision to stay here and be alone.

Time to say goodbye, yet again, I don’t remember going to the airport, my mind was going through mental lists, lists of reasons why I would remain in London, why life would be better in London, but I am not convinced, justifying my choices through self-delusions and a false sense of achievement.

In London I don’t feel the velvet, the coffee doesn’t smell the same, the sun doesn’t feel the same, the street noise isn’t the same, and I am not the same. Living shackled by material processions, fears of missing out on something and constant worries of time elapsing, chasing the sun, the air and the velvet where it cannot be, making a lifestyle out of Nostalgia and homesickness like an orphaned child who lost his home, living in the myth of no return.

Dz-chick….nostalgeric!