I Love I Hate I Miss My Sister (5 page)

He had prepared everything: the gasoline and the matches. You probably had no time to react as he splashed you with the liquid, then struck a match and threw it on you. Right away, you shot into flames and started to scream.
If I had come down earlier, would I have been able to save you? Was it still possible? Why did I come down?

To this day, I am unable to answer these questions.

I had just taken a break from my homework. An economics essay, I remember. I was having a hard time. Four books were spread out in front of me and I couldn’t understand any of them. It was a nice day. The sun was shining on the square, almost giving it a cheerful appearance. I don’t remember deciding to go out, and yet I put my head scarf and jacket on. When I passed the kitchen, I told Mom I was heading out and opened the door. Immediately, I heard your howls. I rushed down the stairs, knowing somehow that it was already too late. I rushed to the basement and saw the flames.

I saw your burnt body fall to the ground.

He was there—the madman. With his can of gasoline and his matches. It was an incredible sight. My eyes saw what had happened, but my mind did not believe it. It wasn’t him; it wasn’t you. You were not dead, and you had not been burnt alive in the basement of our tower. I could not go to you. You no longer existed. You were just a cremated outline. There was nothing left of what Djelila had been. No hair. No smile. No gazelle eyes. I charged at him then, hitting him with all my strength, my clenched fists landing on his face to make him disappear. Nothing of what I’d seen had happened. You, my sister, were alive. I could love you, hate you, lecture you, console you … Djelila!

I’m told I was screaming. I do not remember. I’m told
your murderer was on the ground and that I was pummeling him and shouting incoherently. My cries of pain alerted the tenants of the building that something was horribly wrong, not your cries, Djelila, not yours.

Afterward, everything is a blur.

Silence returns to the apartment. Taïeb and Idriss have left for school. Dad is at work, Mom at the supermarket. One question torments me and causes me intense anguish: how can life go on?

I stayed at the table with Uncle Ahmed and Aunt Algia. Mom made another pot of tea and Uncle Ahmed told us stories about his colleagues at work. He has a job at a car dealership where he earns a good living that pays for his yearly trips to Algeria. Aunt Algia doesn’t work. She’s expecting a baby. Uncle Ahmed’s face beams with pride. He’s always putting a proprietary hand on his wife’s round belly.

I wasn’t listening to their conversation. I was simply present, as if to compensate for my sister’s attitude and to prove that my father had not failed entirely, that at least one of his daughters wasn’t corrupted by the West.

What a joke!

I don’t believe a word of it. I’ve never agreed with Uncle Ahmed. For as long as I can remember, his arrogance has
irritated me. Because he’s the eldest, he has a way of belittling my father, of giving him unwanted advice, of underlining his mistakes, of meddling with our education. I would like to snub him as Djelila did. But it’s out of the question. I want to appear at my best. For once, Djelila isn’t the center of admiration; for once, Dad reprimanded her. I want to take advantage of the situation.

As usual, the last topic of conversation centers on Hana Leïla, my father and uncle’s mother.

Uncle Ahmed leans forward and joins his two hands. “Have you been to see Mother these last few days?” he mumbles.

“I went last week, but Saïda paid her a visit yesterday,” Dad answers, looking at my mother.

“How was she?” Uncle Ahmed asks, his eyes on Dad, clearly not interested in my mother’s opinion.

“In good shape.”

My grandmother is far better than in good shape. Hana Leïla will bury us all. But it’s not her health that Uncle Ahmed has on his mind. He finds her eccentric. How many times have I heard him advise Dad to watch over her? This amuses Hana Leïla. “My poor son is so sure a woman’s sole role is to prepare couscous and to nod when spoken to,” she says. “I don’t know who he got that from. Not me, that’s for sure! It’s obvious that he never had to take care of a large family on his own.”

Hana Leïla is funny. Djelila and I used to visit her often, before.

Before. Before what? I do not know. Why don’t we go over anymore? How come we haven’t been since the beginning of the school year? I have to speak to Djelila about it. We have to schedule a visit. It’s not difficult: Hana Leïla lives two towers from ours.

“You should watch the company she keeps,” Uncle Ahmed warns as he puts his jacket on.

I don’t pay much attention. He may be talking about my sister as much as about Hana.

My father nods and Uncle Ahmed goes home with Aunt Algia, who, as always, did not say a word. “She’s shy,” Mom says. I believe it. Aunt Algia is probably a lot more at ease chatting in the company of women exclusively. And preferably in a kitchen.

The little ones have fallen asleep on the rug. Dad turns the TV off and carries them to bed. I start helping Mom clear the table but she shakes her head.

“Go to bed, dear,” she says, smiling. “You’re tired too.”

She has such a kind smile. I bend toward her—she is so small—and kiss her cheek.

I have only one wish: sleep.

When I enter our bedroom, Djelila isn’t undressed. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, earphones on, shaking her head slowly and mumbling the lyrics of the song she’s listening to. Probably some band in one of the posters above her desk. No comment.

I take off my sweater. Then I sit down and remove my shoes.

“You know what?” Djelila says. “I’m really fed up.”

She takes off her earphones. Her gaze is somber. Nothing velvety tonight in her gazelle eyes.

“Where did you get that iPod?” I ask her.

“A friend lent it to me.”

“A friend?”

There is skepticism in my voice. What is happening to me? Do I suddenly think I’m the Taliban police of vice and virtue? I don’t. But for a reason I can’t explain—don’t want to explain—Djelila is getting on my nerves.

I can feel the familiar jealousy bubble to the surface, but I refuse to acknowledge it. Tonight Djelila is responsible for all my anxieties, all my disappointments, all the questions I ask myself, without coming up with answers.

“Axel. Axel lent it to me.”

She doesn’t protest or tell me to mind my own business. She always answers my questions, a habit from childhood. We were inseparable then. Before. Even if I do not know before what.

“I think they’re all a bunch of morons,” Djelila says.

“Who are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, everybody. Majid and the others, Uncle Ahmed and even Aunt Algia.”

I don’t say anything. I just frown as I put on the large T-shirt I wear as a nightgown.

“They slapped my face, Sohane. Didn’t you see them slap my face?”

Yes, I saw them.

“Majid is the one who slapped you,” I point out.

“Just the same.”

You’re probably right, Djelila, it is the same.

“So what has Uncle Ahmed got to do with it?” I ask.

“Didn’t you hear him tonight? ‘They’re beautiful, your daughters. You could already get them married.’ ”

“So what?” I say with a shrug. “You know how he is. You know how he talks. Just listen. Why pay attention? Besides, I’d like to remind you that Jadi and Hana didn’t actually choose to come to France as you claim. External events had something to do with it.”

“I don’t understand how you can listen to Uncle’s macho comments without reacting to them,” Djelila says without paying attention to what I’ve said. “I thought you were a feminist.”

Fair enough. I use her ignorance to argue against her, and she reminds me of our discussions. It’s true that one of our favorite subjects was feminism. I’m the one who used that big word first.

“Not this way, Djelila. Feminism is not a fight; it’s a way of life.”

When I’m unsure of myself I wrap my arguments in beautiful sentences. Usually it works, but right now I can’t afford to give my sister time to react.

“And do you think your attitude and the way you dress help the feminist cause?” I continue.

“Why do you say that? I thought feminists fought for women’s freedom. That’s what I demand—my freedom—when I dress the way I do.”

I can’t help sniggering.

“Is looking like those ads that make men drool—ads that follow all the clichés men impose on us—your way to claim freedom?”

Djelila remains silent. Not because I’ve convinced her of anything, but because she’s surprised by my answer and its vehemence. I’ve never said anything like this to her.

Actually, I’ve never said this out loud before. Last time, in French class, when Ms. Lombard made us read the article about Afghanistan, the discussion immediately switched to the right to wear the Islamic veil in France. That was the teacher’s intent. She hadn’t chosen the article by chance. The law had already been voted on, but that didn’t stop the questions. Should it or should it not have been tolerated, that was the discussion. What did it mean? Who was forcing young Islamic girls to cover their hair? The girls argued that they weren’t being forced. So then why would a woman agree to it? Because, of course, the veil can only be a way to undermine the freedom of women, a sign of humiliation.

We had a discussion, not a debate, since everybody agreed. They only repeated what we hear on the radio and TV. That’s why I kept quiet. Listening to everyone, I quickly understood that I would not be able to declare, as had the others, that I was shocked by the Taliban’s actions in Afghanistan. Not while also affirming that forbidding the veil—or the head scarf—seemed to me an infringement on liberty. Besides, with the teacher and the class in consensus, how was I supposed to make myself heard? My arguments were too scattered, too personal.

I’ve turned these ideas over and over in my mind for a good while, though. Who am I, exactly? Are my goals contradictory? Is it possible to be a woman and Muslim at the same time? What image of myself do I project to those around me? I’m getting tired of my partitioned life: school, the projects, home. I don’t feel like myself anywhere anymore. I have friends at school, but we talk about everything and nothing. We aren’t really close. I never confide in them, and they don’t ask me to. I never see them outside of school. I’m known as a hardworking girl, which I am. A nice girl, no doubt, but I’ve declined so many invitations to parties that people have stopped asking. I’ve never spoken to Charlene or Sofia about what is important to me. Nobody knows, for instance, that I am Muslim. Nobody asks. When I refuse a cigarette, nobody cares why. I could explain that my religion prohibits smoking, but who would be interested? It is important. But who can I talk to? My own sister doesn’t want to understand me anymore.

I wish the whole world could know what I am. Who I am.

Most journalists talk about what they do not know, about matters they don’t take the trouble to understand. They adopt the clichés that suit them—take one aspect of an issue until it becomes a caricature. For them, being a Muslim man means wanting to enslave women, to deny them any rights, any life. I can’t say that this isn’t a reality. But it’s only one reality among many—the one that is best known since it’s the one that gets the most media coverage.
All
I
need is to be in sync with my beliefs and religion, even if that seems ridiculous to other girls my age. It’s true that I’ve never gone out with a boy. So what? I have lots of other things to think about for now. Besides, love seems too important to last only three days or even two months. Or does being a teenager mean you have to be frivolous? Should your main interest be the color of your eye shadow, or the clothes you wear? Should whether my thong shows above my jeans be my sole concern? What a fascinating debate, right? Am I strange because all this leaves me indifferent? Actually, I am not indifferent! I am raging mad. I’d like to be able to confide all of my feelings to my sister. To my Djelila. I wish she could understand me. Approve of me. Be like me.

“I’ve decided to wear a head scarf, Djelila,” I tell her.

Djelila’s mouth goes slack. Her eyes search mine, trying to decipher whether I’m provoking her, joking, or serious.

“I’m going to wear a head scarf,” I repeat.

“What?”

It’s almost as if I just announced I’m on drugs!

“I don’t understand,” Djelila goes on stubbornly.

“I need to feel like myself,” I explain. “I need to be respected. I want my beliefs and my choices to be respected. I’m an Arab, Djelila. Arab and Muslim. That is our parents’ and our grandparents’ religion.…”

“True,” Djelila says. “But Hana Leïla is Muslim and she doesn’t wear a veil. Neither does Mom.”

Djelila speaks softly. I hear disbelief in her voice. She is
giving up, as if she’s suddenly realized to what extent we have become different.

I take her hand. I don’t want her to forget we are sisters.

“We already talked about this, Djelila. You know how I hate seeing girls exposing themselves on billboards and in magazines. I don’t want to be like them. That’s not what it means to be a woman. I need to be respected.”