A Season in Tunis
Abstract
A lyrical journey through Tunis, Carthage and the northern hills, where the city’s beauty carries the memory of history and departure.
Poetry, memory and travel · Full reading edition
Morning rises
Morning rises; a morning yellow as pure gold crushed upon the whitewash of the walls. The lazy wind rushes through the alleyways, lifting dust and making memories dance in the windows of the souks.
I walk on, a stranger half-lost in this city that has no need of me. Beneath my feet, the paving stones tell of nameless elephants, Roman legions and queens with red tears who defied the gods before opening their own flesh.
Carthage has not vanished
Beneath the mask, Carthage prowls—defiant in the curve of the arches, the anger of the waves and the scent of jasmine that refuses to fade. The sea, immense with memory, carries the remains of Dido, Hannibal’s hollow promises, the ships of shadow-merchants and cries swallowed by storms.
It knows that Tunis is a mask, a setting of glazed tiles laid over a thousand years of fury. Near the shining dome of Al-Zaytuna, a man raises his arms and prays that the day will hold, that the city will not betray him, that his shadow will not disappear into history’s hungry belly.
Evening over the Medina
The city sheds its skin. Shadows lengthen over the walls. Mosques breathe out their last sigh and cats prowl. Like a thief of stars, I wander between the warm walls, breathing the fragrance of a past that refuses silence.
On Avenue Bourguiba, men speak loudly to drown the murmurs of the absent. They speak of memories as one treads upon a dead fire, as though the Revolution were already a faded tale, as though the jasmine had finally fallen asleep. Yet, in a café, someone is still writing, still dreaming, still refusing the great sleep of oblivion.
The northern hills
I took the northern road towards hills where the wind sings like a solitary shepherd. Fields stretch out, indifferent to the world’s uproar, watching over olive trees twisted like old sages.
In a stone house, a woman kneads bread as she kneads time. She knows nothing of stock exchanges, speeches or short-lived revolutions. She knows only that the earth turns slowly, that oil flows from a patient hand, and that here the seasons are never betrayed.
One last glass of mint tea
Blue and white embrace one last time before night pulls them apart. I drink a final tea tasting of mint and salt. Boats sleep in the Punic harbour; gulls draw farewells no one watches.
I shall leave tomorrow. Tunis will let me go without a word, without a glance, like a proud lover who refuses to reveal her sorrow.
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