Fated to shift E-Book

Hamim Qasas

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 435

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Because excerps will be more explicit than a summary... "Our village has changed a lot. It was fated to shift." "These thousands of women give us an image of loyalty, sincerity, strength, bravery and patience. All of them, famous and unknown, have our eternal respect and admiration." "Like their illustrious predecessors, they were mothers, wives, sisters... They had black, gray, blond hair... They were teachers, merchants, housewives... They were present when the men were no longer able." "Only women who were already mothers were chosen. Because only a mother had in her the sense of ultimate self-sacrifice. Such were the guardians of the city." "Equality never existed. There had always been only the strong and the weak. Some by their intelligence, their work, their will, destinate to dominate. The others, by their pusillanimity, dedicated to serve. There was no third way out. At best some of the weak were called to become strong and while waiting for this evolution they had to remain humble." "We have played the electoral game, the game of your rotting democracy. You reproach us for not wanting to assimilate to your world! But what should we assimilate to? To your decadent Western civilisation? Do you want to impose on us your fashions that strip women's bodies and expose them to everyone's view like pieces of meat in a butcher's stall? - We defend progress, tolerance, benevolence." "Westerners have forgotten God. - You know on this point I share your observation. - Our civilisation has fallen into moral relativism while yours still resists. Our civilisation is slowly dying while yours still lives, wants to live and expand." "The Qur'an is the revelation intended to accompany humanity until the end of time. It is a closed world, self-sufficient, just as our universe is a closed world too. This tangle of narratives mirrors the tangle we see in nature. This is how the narrations are given in the Qur'an."

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

First part - The narrator

Narration 1 - Opening

Narration 2 - Rainy day

Narration 3 - Morning

Narration 4 - A walk

Narration 5 - Searches

Narration 6 - Night prayers

Narration 7 - Reunion

Narration 8 - Celebration day

Narration 9 - The Council

Narration 10 - Loneliness

Narration 11 - At school

Narration 12 - Evolution

Narration 13 - The delivery

Narration 14 - Encounters

Narration 15 - Explanations

Narration 16 - The market

Narration 17 - At the office

Narration 18 - An invitation

Narration 19 - A decisive discussion

Second part - The Murabitat

Narration 1 - The gate

Narration 2 - A matter of names

Narration 3 - The Murabitat

Narration 4 - My mother

Narration 5 - At Kevin's

Narration 6 - Hafidah

Narration 7 - Khalida

Narration 8 - Juliette

Narration 9 - Juweria

Narration 10 - In the street

Narration 11 - The city council

Narration 12 - Missing

Narration 13 - Two dark shapes

Narration 14 - Sequestration

Narration 15 - The day after

Narration 16 - Salat Janazah

Narration 17 - Zeyneb

Narration 18 - Relaxation

Narration 19 - Revelations

Third part - An observer

Narration 1 - Outside

Narration 2 - Inside

Fourth part - Faith

Narration 1 - Overloaded

Narration 2 - First reading

Narration 3 - At Lucy’s

Narration 4 - Corinne and Hafidah

Narration 5 - Corinne and Emile

Narration 6 - Corinne and Khalida

Narration 7 - Fitness

Narration 8 - Doubts

Narration 9 - Regrouping

Narration 10 - Evolution

Narration 11 - Inspiration

Narration 12 - Meeting

Narration 13 - Toughts

Narration 14 - Only truth does not shift

Narration 15 - Progress

Narration 16 - Conversion

Narration 17 - Confidences

Narration 18 - The incident

Narration 19 - Between Muslims

Narration 20 - At the shoe shop

Narration 21 - One day maybe

Narration 22 - Jabir

Narration 23 - Party

Fifth part - Choices

Narration 1 - Black Thursday

Narration 2 - The council

Narration 3 - A courteous visit

Narration 4 - The women's gym

Narration 5 - Muscles

Narration 6 - Cherif

Narration 7 - Hafidah and Cherif

Narration 8 - A job is a job

Narration 9 - The target

Narration 10 - A job, whatever happens

Narration 11 - Allegiance

Narration 12 - Election campaign

Narration 13 - The debate

Narration 14 - Election Day

Narration 15 - Zeyneb and Juweria

Narration 16 - An admission of impotence

Narration 17 - Jean-Claude

Narration 18 - Administrative formalities

Narration 19 - The sakinah

Narration 20 - Noor and Lucy

Narration 21 - An interview

Narration 22 - Anthony's report

Narration 23 - Huda

Narration 24 - A window on the world

Narration 25 - The Court

Narration 26 - Huda's visit

Narration 27 - Lucy's advice

Narration 28 - Khalida's favor

Narration 29 - The execution

Narration 30 - Silvere

Narration 31 - Dinner with friends

Narration 32 - The fig trees

First part - The narrator

Narration 1 - Opening

My mother was standing in doorway. I remainded speechless for a moment, stunned by her appearance. In my memories, she never had that brown complexion, even in late summer. Her hair, usually cut short, were falling in black cascades over her shoulders. As if to complete this Mediterranean look, she was dressed in a long colorful skirt and a loose tunic. Strangely, she seemed taller to me than she used to be. I glanced at her feet. She was wearing flat mules.

« Come in! Don’t stay there! » she said in a low voice, sketching a shy smile. I pushed my wheeled suitcase and my bags. No sooner had she closed the door than she gave me a long hug. The image reflected by the large mirror hung in the hall left no room for doubt. Her shoulders were level with mine. The gap between us was imperceptible. « Are you surprised? As I told you, many things have changed! » she exclaimed with a bright smile.

Many things had indeed changed.

Out of nostalgia, several years ago, my mother had moved to this small town in Provence where I had just found her. A small town where my parents, my sister and I used to spend our vacations when I was a child.

The original medieval village had spread over the centuries until it ran along the river on its northern flank while on its eastern flank were remaining the ruins of the castle overlooking the valley. We used to access it by a secondary road, crossing a monumental suspension bridge spanning the stream.

About ten years had passed since then. And the circumstances that brought me back were very different.

My parents divorced soon after that carefree childhood time. My father didn't seem much affected. As for my mother, a former classmate with whom she had reconnected suggested that she could join her in the south of France. My still-infant sister accompanied her while for convenience I expressed the wish to stay with my father.

I had not seen my mother for over three years. Coming into adulthood and enjoying relative independence, I had reduced my contact with my parents and sister to a few increasingly short and spaced phone calls.

After dropping out of my first year of university, I had alternated between periods of unemployment and temporary work contracts. The last one ended in a dismissal following a cascade of events for which I was partly responsible. Without being able to benefit from any help and without a job for several months, my resources were exhausted. And I plunged even more into my isolation.

Despite our rare and brief conversations, my mother had come to guess what my situation was. After extracting the account of the events from me, she offered to join her while waiting for a new job. Despite my reluctance, going to live with her was the only solution and I ended up accepting her offer.

After the sale of the furniture and objects that had accumulated in the small studio that I had to leave, all my belongings held in a suitcase and two backpacks.

My mother had given me some information about the development of the village.

During the last decade, although neglected by major communication routes, due to inexpensive real estate rates, the population has grown to reach eight thousand inhabitants. Apart from the elderly who had always lived there, it was mainly made up of families whose men, employed in the construction and public works sector, moved according to the building sites all over France.

The nearest train station to the city being about fifteen kilometers away, my mother, not having a car, had ordered a taxi waiting for me there. The driver, who was hardly talkative, as he loaded my luggage in the trunk, had confined himself to informing me that the fare had been prepaid. As we took the departmental road I immersed myself in my childhood memories. I was roused from my reverie when the taxi driver told me that I had arrived at my destination.

I had hoped to see my mother as I got out of the taxi. I had swept my gaze across the deserted street.

Judging by the appearance of the buildings, she was residing in the Old Town. Hers had been restored, however. The front door, metal and glass, was new and I had opened it by typing in an access code that she had sent me by text. I had entered a hall with light-painted walls of an unsuspected brightness from the outside and taken a stone staircase lit by a large window. Loaded with my heavy suitcase and my two backpacks, I had difficulty climbing the stairs to the second floor. It was there, on the threshold of the open door, that my mother had been waiting for me.

« I would have liked to welcome you at the station, unfortunately I couldn't get free soon enough... » she claimed with a disappointed expression. I didn't answer. « Don’t forget to take off your shoes, please… » she asked me. I left them on a mat next to a pair of ballerina flats. She had always been picky and I felt a kind of relief to still find in her that personality trait that had nevertheless caused many arguments years before.

« You must be thirsty after this long journey. » she said, inviting me to follow her into the left room. The narrow kitchen, bathed in light by a sliding picture window giving access to a balcony, was rather basicly equipped. The art of cooking had certainly never fascinated my mother. At the back, a washing machine with a porthole partially obstructed one of the doors. On the other side, despite the smallness of the room, a table and two chairs were placed against the wall and I thought that she used to eat alone while looking at the sky.

I leaned against a cupboard as she took a bottle from the fridge. « You can sit down. » she suggested, serving me a glass of sparkling water. It had always been my favorite drink. Despite the half-open bay, no sound came from outside. Both victims of a mutual embarrassment because of events of past years, we remained silent for a moment. She broke the silence and began to talk about banalities, the development of the village, vacation memories. « I am happy and fulfilled to live here. » she concluded.

As I said nothing, she continued : « I'm going to show you the rest of the apartment. »

The bay window was giving access to a terrace overlooking an interior courtyard. Noticing a lounge chair, I assumed she had taken advantage of the early sunny days of spring to get that deep tan. Blackout slats had been placed along the railing. In this way my mother was to be protected from any prying eyes.

Adjoining the kitchen, the bathroom was soberly equipped with a shower cubicle and a cabinet with two sinks, while at the back toilets were partially hidden by a partition.

Walls and joinery were a plain and immaculate white.

On the right, the hallway opened almost entirely into the living room. A beige fabric sofa encroached slightly on a closed door. Above it, Arabic calligraphy and a reproduction of Van Gogh constituted the entire decoration. On the other side was an imposing bookshelf entirely filled with thick books. On the coffee table was a laptop. There was no television. I tried in vain to read some of the titles on the edges of the books, but my mother dragged me away to continue the visit.

At the end of the corridor, on the left, her bedroom, which also opened onto the terrace through a bay window, featured sparse furnishings. Apart from the bed, there was only a massive wardrobe that took up the entire wall next to the door. The floors were covered with dark colored parquet contrasting with the light tiling in the rest of the apartment.

On the right, my sister's bedroom looked like a symmetrical layout, although it had a desk and a bookcase.

My mother returned to the living room and opened the door next to the sofa. She looked embarrassed and said : « And this is the room I have made for you. I'm sorry, it's not that big. I had used it as a desk until now... »

It had a sofa bed and a wardrobe.

« The window faces the street like the one in your sister's bedroom, but it's very quiet, it's not a very busy street... That's all I could do...

- Thanks Mom. But I hope to find a job quickly and not stay there very long.

- As long as you want.

- I could have slept on the sofa.

- I would have refused. You need a minimum of privacy. That's all I could do...

- By the way, I haven't seen a television, neither in the living room, nor in your bedroom, nor there.

- I had one but I hardly looked at it anymore… And when it broke, I got rid of it.

- I remember you used to turn it on in the morning.

- That was before... Will you miss this?

- I'm here on a temporary basis. And then, I did without it for a long time... This wardrobe is new, isn't it?

- Anyway, you'll need to tidy up your clothes somewhere. »

When I started to unpack my things, she pouted annoyingly.

« Your clothes don't look very clean… You haven't done laundry in the last few days I suppose?

- No… Indeed.

- I'll take care of it. It should be dry tomorrow. In the meantime, you can go to the shower and I'll lend you some things.

- What?

- One of my t-shirts, boxers and sweatpants... If it doesn’t bother you.

- I don't really have a choice.

- I'm going to take them from my wardrobe and put them for you in the bathroom. »

She did it immediately.

« Your slippers are in a very poor state. They are just good to be thrown away.

- I can walk barefoot or with socks on.

- I know you don't like it… I'm going to lend you my mules. You should be able to fit into them.

- You don't like to walk barefoot either.

- I'll put something else... There are towels in the small cabinet under the sink. »

After the shower, when I put on the clothes she had lent me and her white mules, I noticed they fit perfectly.

I found her in the kitchen. Bent on her knees she was filling the washing machine.

I was shocked when she straightened up.

She was taller than me now. I glanced at her feet. She was wearing a pair of platform mules. She made no remark, however, to my half-stunned, half-bored look.

« What is your height? I asked her

- Almost like you.

- But precisely?

- 1m69.

- Truly?

- Yes! And you, 1m70, if I remember correctly.

- Yes… But before, you were smaller, right?

- I was 1m64.

- How is it possible?

- I swim, I practice yoga, I go to a gym… I don't know what else to say to you.

- I didn't know all this.

- You never asked me any question.

- Yes... I recognized embarrassed

- As I told you, after my depression my life changed.

- Anyway, it's impressive!

- By the way, my clothes look good on you.

-Uh yes, indeed… Didn't you have any other shoes than these?

- They're new. I haven't put them on to go out yet. These are the only ones with clean soles for walking indoors...

-Uh yeah...

- If you're embarrassed, we can exchange... she slipped me with a smirk

-Uh no. I'll keep the ones I have. »

Abruptly changing the subject, she asked me : « It's almost 8 pm. Do you still like pizza? » I nodded. « There is a restaurant not far from here that sells take-out. I'm gonna call to order them and I will pick them up. » she informed me.

Shortly after the meal I felt tired. When I told it to my mother, she looked disappointed. She kept urging me with questions as we ate and wished she could continue. However, she didn't insist and kissed me before I returned to my temporary room.

Narration 2 - Rainy day

A crackle came from the roof. Grayish luminous brushes pierced through the shutters. The memories of the day before slowly emerged and I thought for a moment that it had all been a dream. And yet this white ceiling, this sofa I was lying on, this blanket that enveloped me were indeed real.

The rain lashed my face as I leaned forward to open the shutters.

Some of my clothes were hanging out in the living room. They were soaked and dripping onto a mop placed underneath. I remembered my mother put them on the balcony after taking them out of the washing machine.

On the table, a little piece of paper informed me of her return at the end of the day. A quick glance at the clock made me realize that I had slept more than twelve hours. Looking for coffee I scanned the cupboards. Despite careful examination, I could not find any and contented myself with a bag of green tea. There was no coffee maker anyway.

My cell phone rang.

« Hello darling. Did you spend a good night?

- Hi Mom. Yes.

- I'll do some grocery shopping before I get home. What do you want to eat for dinner?

- I don't know... Meat.

- All right ... In the meantime, help yourself. Here is your home now.

- By the way, I couldn't find any coffee.

- I’m not used to drinking it… I forgot… I'll take it! Well, I have to leave you. See you later, darling. »

Her fridge was containing mainly vegetables and dairy products. I did not find any cold cuts there, not even a slice of ham. Out of spite, I nibbled on a few dry cookies. It seemed to me that my mother forgot to prepare for my arrival.

The rain did not stop. If the weather had been better, and if my clothes had been dry, I would have gone for a walk in the village. Otherwise, I began to visit my mother's apartment again.

I went to her room.

I slid the door of her large wardrobe to the left. Everything was perfectly organized there, which did not surprise me. Each shelf corresponded to a category of clothing. Sweatpants, sweaters and blouses were neatly folded and stacked. Below, in large drawers were stored her underwear. Some were particularly alluring, including a garnet-colored ensemble and a black lace nightie.

The second half of her wardrobe, on the other hand, did not show the same rigor. On that side, there was no room. It was a thick forest of long dresses hanging. I felt the fabrics, some silky and shimmering, others coarse and dull. On the top shelf were piled up scarves of all colors.

In a space between the wardrobe and the wall, a dozen shoe boxes were stacked. The top one was empty and I guessed it matched the wedge mules. The others contained several models of sandals, two pairs of sports shoes, black leather pumps with high heels.

I walked over to the bay window and saw two objects at the foot of her bed that I hadn't noticed the day before. Their unsuitable location puzzled me for a moment before deducing that my mother was sleeping and getting up on her right side. And due to the configuration of the room, any other arrangement of the bed was not possible. The first object was a purple velvet carpet adorned with gold embroidery in a sort of floral arabesque. The second, a strangely shaped lantern. When I turned it on, it projected various geometric figures on the walls which took on orange hues.

Something I hadn't paid attention to the day before when I got out of the shower came back to me. Around the sinks were only the bare essentials: toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, small mirror. Of her countless lipsticks, nail polishes, perfumes, only a single small bottle of ocher-colored varnish remained.

My sister's wardrobe looked the same tidy aspect as Mom's, though less full. She must have taken some of her things to her dorm room. I realized that I couldn't remember what she was studying even though my mother had told me about it the day before. The few books on the shelves gave me no clue. They were mainly novels by Balzac and Flaubert, George Eliot or Jane Austen. From their yellowish covers, I assumed she had bought them second-hand.

I inspected the living room bookshelf again.

This must have contained several hundred books. Most of the authors, including those with French names, were unknown to me. A certain Rene Guenon associated with cryptic titles such as « The Crisis of the Modern World », « General Introduction to the Study of Hindu Doctrines », « East and West », « The Esotericism of Dante », « The Reign of Quantity and the Signs of the Times »... was taking a large section on the top shelf. Another named Louis Massignon followed him. On the one below, many books were from an obviously Arab author named Al-Ghazali. The latter competed with Rene Guenon both in terms of quantity, taking as a criterion the width of the shelving occupied, and in terms of abstrusity, by considering the choice of titles : « The Revival of Religious Sciences », « The Incoherence of Philosophers », « The Alchimy of Happiness »... Most of the books however were in English and according to the words spanning their edges, these dealt with philosophy, meditation, yoga, spirituality, personal development...

At the bottom of the cabinet, locked drawers kept their mystery.

I did not linger there and opened several of the books. I discovered, slipped between their pages, little sheets covered with handwritten notes from my mother. Their content - numbers and letter strings - were enigmatic.

Suddenly I heard the key turn in the lock.

I hastily replaced the book I was browsing. But one of my mother's notes escaped and spun onto the floor.

She was standing in the doorway to the living room. « Have you found a book that interests you? » she asked me. As I didn't answer, she walked over to me and picked up the paper, then put it back in the one I had put down a moment earlier. She gave me a hug and waved me over to sit with her on the sofa.

« What were you doing? Have you found a book that interests you?

- Not really, no… By the way, where have you been all day long?

- At my job, of course.

-Uh!

- Didn't you remember that?

- Uh, yes... You were babysitting...

- I am a primary school teacher.

- Oh really? »

I felt disappointment in her eyes. I felt guilty and no word came to me. She resumed the conversation.

« After the divorce with your father, I had to find a job. Thanks to a friend, I was able to get hired as a nursery school assistant. And then I learned that it was possible to sit for the school teacher exam without having a bachelor's degree.

- I did not know that. And you passed this exam.

- Yes. I was sure I told you about it then... and mentioned it yesterday.

- Probably I haven’t paid attention to it… I remembered you working in a school.

- Well, it's time for me to prepare the meal. You will have your meat!

- Thank you. In the meantime, I'm going to take my shower.

- I'm going to drop off some things for you. »

I joined her in the kitchen after leaving the bathroom.

« What is that outfit? I asked her

- It's an indoor dress.

- It looks like something Arab.

- It's a djellaba. It’s practical as a garment, I had it...

- And that? What is that?

- What? »

I pointed to a piece of wrapping paper on the table that read « Al Maidah Butchery - Halal Certified ».

« That! Have you started living like an Arab?

- It was the only butcher's shop still open on the way.

- And calligraphies in the living room. And the oddly titled books in the library.

- What are you talking about?

- « The revival of religious sciences », « The West and the East », and so on! Arab books, like Al-Ghazali, Jalal ad-Din Rumi, Ibn Qayyim...

- Am I not allowed to be interested in these subjects?

- Anyway, I will not eat that meat.

- You asked me for it.

- Not that one.

- You still have a head full of racist ideas.

- So what?

- It's a pity... she sighed

- What?

- So you don't find yourself skinny enough? You were floating in your clothes. It hurt me... It can't go on like this...

- And you, if you continue like this, you will eventually convert to Islam.

- Would you really mind?

- You’re taking that path. »

My mother did not reply. Her eyes raised to the ceiling, she seemed to be thinking.

« Have you ever thought about converting? I insisted

- I don't want to shock you...

- So the answer is yes.

- I have already converted. »

She had hesitated before answering me. I had confusedly expected this confession, yet the shock wave hit me right in the chest and my heart heaved. Outside the rain continued to fall, beating the panes of the bay window. My mother was staring at me with her wet eyes.

« Since when?

- I had just found this job at school when I started...

- Are you serious?

- I didn't mean to shock you.

- Were you already converted when you came to Roger's funeral?

- No, I converted soon after.

- You didn't tell me.

- You never asked me what I was doing... When we were talking, I understood that you had extremist ideas. You weren't like that before...

- You neither.

- I would like you to...

- And what does my sister think about that?

- She was understanding and...

- Anyway, she doesn’t live with you during the week.

- Today Islam is the rhythm of my life. I hadn't figured out how to tell you about it. But I couldn't have kept it from you for long. I perform the ritual prayers by locking myself in my room. I fast...

- What?

- It's Ramadan...

- It’s nonsense.

- I am really fullfilled as a Muslim. I've been through things you can't understand.

- You've been manipulated. This religion is false! It’s a tissue of absurdities.

- I thought so, before. I would like to explain...

- Leave me alone with your shitty religion! »

I thought about the carpet in her bedroom. I imagined her bowing down on it. And the scarves on the shelf. And long dresses. Unpleasant images followed one another in my mind. I hadn't understood anything then. Any attempt to convince her of the dangerousness or backwardness of the Islamic religion seemed to me doomed at that moment. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to turn back the clock. Her mind had become completely imbued with the nonsense distilled by these zealous proselytes over thousands of pages.

I decided to leave the place. I left the kitchen and went to collect my things. My mother followed me.

« What are you doing?

- I’m leaving. I can't live with you.

- Stay, please… »

She burst into tears. It was raining heavily outside. I picked up my wallet. It was empty and I was brought back to bitter reality. Leave to go where?

I slammed the door to her old office in her face and locked myself. She called me from the living room for a moment, begging me to come out, then calmed down.

A ballet of nightmarish visions haunted my skull long into the night.

Narration 3 - Morning

I stayed laying down long after waking up, thinking about my mother’s revelations. The nightmare was very real.

She seemed like a stranger to me. I no longer recognized her. But, basically had I already known her? I realized that I had learned a lot more about her yesterday than in all the past years. Apart from the leather-bound books with the titles written in letters of gold amassed in her bookshelf, what luxury did she allow herself? Did this form of asceticism which she seemed to be bound correspond to her inner personality? What had she found in this crude cult born in a barren desert? Was the simplicity of this uncompromising monotheism a kind of echo of her aspirations?

Paradoxically, her dynamism had baffled me. She had mentioned swimming sessions, weight lifting. I didn’t remember that she had practiced any sporting activity while she was with my father. And besides, she must have shown some courage to try this exam. She did not live as a hermit.

Judging by the contents of the bathroom cabinet, she had certainly gotten rid of most of her makeup, but according to her wardrobe, she had not given up on all feminine coquetry. In some ways, she had adopted some of the codes of feminist liberation movements. On the other hand, she had chosen to submit to a religion that advocated a most backward patriarchy.

A jar of soluble coffee sat prominently on the kitchen table. Underneath was a sheet of paper folded in four. Next to it, a key that must have been the one for the front door. I tried it with success.

It was early enough to think about what I was going to do. The mirror threw my reflection back at me wearing her clothes. My shoes were still on the carpet next to his wedge-soled shoes. I slipped the key into my pocket.

My mother wrote me a kind of letter. As the water heated in the kettle, I read it. Not wanting to undergo a new abandonment, she begged me again to stay with her. She told me about her pain when I wished to stay with my father. She suffered that our relationship was reduced to a few short phone calls. Nonetheless, she was optimistic and saw my coming as an opportunity for improvement. She said she was ready to make efforts in this direction.

Suddenly the key turned in the lock. I didn't expect her return home in the middle of the day. I thought about going back to shut myself up in her former office, but the idea immediately struck me as childish. She joined me in the kitchen and hugged me, whispering : « All morning long I've been afraid of you leaving. »

I freed myself from her embrace and to hide my confusion I pretended to look in the cupboards for what to prepare a meal.

« Are you still planning to leave? she insisted

- You got home early.

- It's Wednesday today, I finished at noon… There is some turkey left. I can make it minced...

- You do it on purpose? No way I touch your halal filth!

- Never mind! I will finish it this evening.

- It's past noon. You do not eat?

- I'm fasting...

- This damn Ramadan.

- But I can prepare something for you if you want.

- Is there a fast food restaurant nearby? I would happily eat a burger.

- No there is not. We would have to go... Well, it's about twenty kilometers...

- I didn't remember it was so a backwater here.

- It is a small city.

- You could have done some shopping before I got there.

- I made some. Are the cupboards and the fridge empty?

- There is nothing very appetizing.

- I'll give you some money and you will go to the supermarket.

- I'll manage. »

She said nothing and left the kitchen.

I was draining a pot of pasta when she came back with a basket in hand. I sat down at the table as she filled the washing machine.

« Ta-dah! The rest of your clothes will be clean soon! she said to me

- I found some spaghetti and a can of tomato puree.

- You see that the cupboards are not empty!

- There wasn't even any bolognese sauce.

- I don't buy those kinds of preparations anymore.

- Can I get my clothes off the dryer

- Yes if you want ... But I'm going to iron at least on the shirts.

- These spaghetti are very good. It's a shame you don't taste them. »

She sat down across from me.

« So much the better! It's your favorite brand of pasta.

- I'm gonna get you a fork and a plate, I suggested.

- I didn't intend to eat.

- So why did you sit down?

- I can enjoy your presence a little, after three years, right?

- Certainly. »

I saw one of my pants spinning through the washing machine door.

« You’re trying to test me with your ostentatious ways. It won't work.

- I'm not going to deprive myself of meals because you deprive yourself because of your stupid religion.

- Did I stop you from eating?

- Dare, just to see it!

- You think you are doing me harm but on the contrary you are doing me good.

- What?

- It's a blessing. Through your behavior, the Lord is testing my resistance.

- Don't give me your Islamic spiel.

- I have no doubt these spaghetti are very good, but you see I didn’t even think of tasting them.

- Truly?

- Truly.

- You are not hungry?

- Of course yes. But fasting is not just about starving during the day to fill up at night. It is a spiritual exercise.

- You are subject to this religion. So you are not free.

- You are subject to your desires, your instincts ... While my mind dominates my body, my instincts, my passions. This is real freedom. And it can only be acquired by submitting to a higher order. One day, God willing, you will understand it. »

She got up and left the kitchen. She had kept her calm throughout our conversation.

Narration 4 - A walk

I was still in the kitchen when my mother reappeared. She had changed and was wearing a blue djellaba.

« Such a beautiful weather today. How about we go for a walk? It will make you rediscover the village, what do you think?

- Both?

- Yes.

- You are not tired?

- Don’t worry about me! So, how do you like a walk? We will take the opportunity to buy a pair of slippers.

- Well... why not?

- On my bed you will find your ironed clothes.

- When did you iron them?

- This morning, before I left for school, I had an hour... Anyway, I'm going to hang out the ones that have just come out of the washing machine on the dryer. »

My mother was waiting for me near the door. She had covered her hair with a veil that matched her djellaba. I refrained from making the slightest comment, however my air must have betrayed me as she said : « You know I'm a Muslim. » I had always hated her ability to guess my thoughts. I hesitated before putting on my shoes.

« I would be happy if you came with me. » she told me softly.

Among the feelings that tangled within me, the arousal of curiosity dominated the embarrassment of the situation.

The alley where she lived led to one of the main shopping streets we used to go on our summer vacation. At the corner, the Bakery of the Rise was still here ten years later. Memories of the various shops came back to my mind.

We walked at a leisurely pace and I looked at the signs. I read « Nour hairdressing salon for ladies », « Al khamsa Nails », « Hardware Store Ahmed »… The butcher's shop was still there but « Al Maidah, certified halal » was displayed in red characters on the window instead of « Vasseur, since 1905 » and the drawing of a pink pig with its corkscrew tail that used to make me laugh when I was a child had disappeared. The florist had certainly retired, but her shop was still open and the name « Az-Zahra » was painted in its storefront. Everything had changed a lot since my childhood.

To note that islamisation had touched even this small village in deep France shocked me. I preferred to avoid any remark, however. My mother seemed comfortable in this environment, and in fact her demeanor was in no way different from that of other women.

So far, none have been bareheaded. Most of North African origin, some Black, others probably Turkish, dressed in djellabas, colorful gowns or other Islamic outfits. We must have been the only French people, I thought. This considering that my mother still was. I did not dare walk next to her, following her a few steps behind.

On the Frederic Mistral Avenue, the few shops in front of the Town Hall also bore foreign names. My mother, who I was still following two or three steps back, stopped abruptly and turned to me. She must have guessed my feelings because she slipped me : « You who used to say racist remarks, maybe you will change your mind now that you live here! And why do you stay behind me? People notice you and take you for a depraved guy who follows women. » I didn't answer her. I stayed next to her for a few yards but as soon as we turned I got behind her.

The streets got crowded.

Young dark-skinned men leaning against a wall gave me aggressive looks as I walked past them. I pretended I haven't seen them. I felt less and less safe.

My mother stopped in front of a shoe store window. There were only pairs for women and clearly wedges was trendy again.

« Wait for me there, I'll go in and have a look.

- Maybe there are slippers.

- Not here, it's a ladies’ store. »

As I was waiting, a group of teenagers strolling eyed me insistently. They were of North African origin and among their chatter I made out the word kuffar.

When my mother finally left the store, she showed me her feet, in a new pair of mules, with even higher soles. She was clearly taller than me. She leaned towards me, her tanned face surrounded by her hijab lit by a smile, and asked : « So, how do you find them? ». I didn't answer her. She resumed her walk and I stayed a few meters behind her again.

A little further on, a veiled woman with a wrinkled face walking in the opposite direction stared at me in a conspicuously threatening manner. When she met my mother, she paused and said a few words to her. My mother came up to me and whispered : « Stay close to me… People think that we are not relatives and that you follow me! »

I remained motionless.

« Come on, hurry up!

- I want to go home.

- What about your slippers? What about your underwear?

- Never mind. We will buy some next time.

- You can go home and I'll buy some for you.

- No, let's go home.

- Okay. »

As soon as we got back to the apartment, she pressed me with embarrassing questions.

« What happened?

- Nothing... I got sick of it.

- I thought you would be happy to see the boulevard, the main square, the mossy fountain again...

- It's not that.

- Families have settled in the last ten years. And yes, they are mainly of Algerian, Turkish or Malian origin. Without them, with the exodus of young people, the village would have continued to become depopulated and would have ended up dying. Today it lives, and moreover it is developing...

- Or rather it is underdeveloping.

- Tss.

- It quickly became Islamized.

- You were scared, weren't you?

- Yes that's scary.

- I wasn't talking about that. I felt you fearful.

- ...

- Nothing is going to happen to you... It was just your attitude that seemed suspicious. A man following a woman ends up noticing. I warned you but you didn't listen to me… You will know for the next time! »

Narration 5 - Searches

I hadn't been outside since Wednesday and the walk.

When I got up, I found my mother in the living room ironing. Like every day for over three weeks, she had woken up at dawn to have breakfast which was her only meal until evening.

However, ever since she had confessed to me her conversion to Islam, I had wanted to check whether she was really fasting. As the month of Ramadan drew to a close, the spring school holidays had just started. So, when she informed me that she hadn't planned to go out today, I decided to take the opportunity to observe her. After drinking my coffee, instead of locking myself in my temporary bedroom, I moved into the lounge and borrowed her laptop again.

As every morning since Thursday, I browsed the websites dedicated to job offers, hoping to discover new ones or others that I might have missed. On that of the National Employment Agency, I was asked to update my situation and had to give my mother's address.

My research has so far been unsuccessful. Despite this, I was not discouraged. The region was not very dynamic economically and far from any metropolis. Within a radius of thirty kilometers, there were few available positions for which my profile was likely to match. And the situation was not better in our home region.

Having lived in a metropolis until now, I had not felt the need to get a driver's license. I regretted it now. However, that was only part of the problem. My mother did not have a vehicle, considering that she did not need one. And when I scolded her for it, she shrugged and explained that I had to run for offers first and we would find a solution if needed.

It was obvious to me that any cohabitation with my mother would be impossible for me over a long period of time. I had to cut it short. Moreover, in this village which was no longer the one I had known.

Since Wednesday, anguished by the idea of being sentenced to stay here longer than I expected, I have been unable to focus my attention anywhere other than browsing the websites. I hadn't even considered any other activity and when my mother offered to go out I invariably refused.

It was after 7 pm when she finally drank a glass of water and nibbled on some dried fruit. She hadn't gone to the kitchen all afternoon except to empty the washing machine. While I had served myself sparkling water and cakes several times, no sign of annoyance was noticeable on her face. On two occasions she had retired to her room and I assumed she was praying prostrate on her carpet.

In a way, and as her success in the public service competitive examination, I admitted to being impressed by her tenacity.

Like every evening, during the meal, she inquired about my research and tried to reassure me, telling me that I could stay here as long as I wanted. She seemed to underestimate my desire to regain my independence and I did not undeceive her.

Narration 6 - Night prayers

As I finished my dessert, the teaspoon slipped from my fingers.

She had left the kitchen and reappeared a few minutes later, wearing a long, loose black dress, her hair covered in a veil of the same color and fabric.

« What is that? You look like a bat.

- Thanks for the compliment! It's a jilbab. It's the…

- And what are you doing with that?

- I'm going out.

- Now?

- Yes.

- Where are you going?

- I'm joining some friends and we'll go to the mosque to...

- On top of that there is a mosque?

- Yes. We walked past Wednesday.

- What are you going to do there?

- Every night during Ramadan, the tradition is to pray while reciting part of the Quran so as to have completed the complete recitation of the Holy Book at the end of this month. These prayers are called the « tarawih ». They are particularly important and meritorious.

- Yet you haven't been since I've been here.

- It is possible to pray at home. I did it in my bedroom.

- You are completely obsessed with this religion.

- I'll explain when I get back if you wish… I have to go.

- No, and don't insist. »

Through the living room window, I saw two shadows standing out against the twilight. Two women dressed strictly identically to my mother. She joined them as she left the building and they palpated for a moment. Two men dressed in light djellabas walked past them, seeming not to have seen them. Then the three women started to walk and I watched them thoughtfully until they disappeared around the corner.

Driven by curiosity, I browsed the internet.

I learned the jilbab was a large and loose feminine garment intended to conceal the forms of the woman. Composed of one piece, this long dress extended by a sort of hood covered the head and the whole body except the feet, hands and face. Originally worn by women in the Middle East, it had spread to the countries of the Maghreb and among the Muslim populations living in Europe.

As for the tarawih prayers, the information I found matched that given succinctly by my mother. I understood, however, that there was a dispute over the length and number of Quranic verses to be recited. Despite centuries of theological debate, the « scholars » seemed to disagree on this point. All this supported my idea that this religion, like all the others, was nothing but a tissue of absurdity and obscuritism.

She was back shortly after midnight. So, for more than three hours, she and her co-religionists had indulged in this ridiculous gymnastics of squats and prostrations, their minds numbed by the bleating of the Imam.

Not wanting to meet her, I had retired to my small room and she thought I was asleep as she hardly made any noise.

Narration 7 - Reunion

« Your sister is arrived! » my mother announced happily, knocking on my bedroom door.

I was locked in there early in the afternoon and was watching videos on my cell phone screen.

I hadn't seen my sister in even longer than my mother. The last time was on a vacation we spent with our father. She was then 14 years old while I was doing my last year of high school. Unlike most siblings, and despite a gap of only three years between us, we had never been very close and to this was added the geographic distance following the separation of our parents. For the past few years, I had only heard from her through mom. I knew she was pursuing studies to do bioassays in a lab. I couldn't remember the exact title of her course.

When I walked out of my bedroom and saw my sister standing at the entrance to the living room, I experienced the same embarrassment as when I was reunited with my mother. Words passed through my head but held back by a sort of modesty none reached my lips. She seemed as embarrassed as I was.

« Aren't you kissing your sister? » mom intervened, breaking the silence. « Yes, yes. » I replied, walking over to her. « Mum told me you would be there but I'm still surprised! » my sister exclaimed, placing a kiss on my cheek. « It has been so long. I'm so happy that the three of us are together. » my mother said in a moved voice.

While our mother was taking her shower, a conversation started between my sister and me.

« How's dad? she asked me

- I haven't heard from him since February.

- Did he call you on your birthday?

- Yes.

- I thought between you and dad things were okay. I told myself that you had chosen your side. You wanted to stay with him. You actually wanted to stay with your friends. Where are they now?

- It's true... And you, do you have any news from him?

- No, not for months. He calls me when it's my birthday and sends me money on Christmas. That's all.

- Okay…

- I was really surprised when mom told me you were going to come and live here.

- I did not have the choice. And I don't plan to stay long.

- You could have gone to dad's.

- I didn't want to ask him.

- Why?

- I can't stand his new girlfriend.

- Me neither! She's a bitch. She is stupid and superficial. He fell under her yoke. It’s a shame for him.

- I agree with you.

- One day he will regret leaving mom.

- They never really got along. They were just arguing.

- It's true.

- He's always been messy.

- Quite the opposite of mom!

- Not to defend his bitch, but with her, he's got peace.

- I wonder how she does the chores with her fake nails! »

My sister and I laughed as we pictured the scene.

« Mom and dad weren't meant to be together, I said.

- Yes, sure.

- Mom got pregnant with me and so they got married…

- They were young and carefree… Anyway, that's all in the past… Going over it won't change a thing.

- You are right. »

My sister put her arm around my shoulders.

« I felt sorry for you when mom told me about your situation. Even though sometimes I resented you, you are my brother... I wanted to ask you why you did not consider going back to school. Mom must have suggested it to you, right? You know, where I am, there are several students who are 27 or 28 years old or even older. You wouldn't be the oldest, far from it.

- Your course to do analyzes?

- Yes, inter alia… I am preparing the diploma to be a laboratory technician. But without specifically talking about that, there are plenty of other courses.

- I prefer to try to find a job as quickly as possible. I don't see myself in training for two years. I don’t plan to stay here.

- Why?

- You don't know why?

- No. What's the problem?

- Don’t you know about mom's conversion to Islam?

- Sure. What a silly question!

- She has changed.

- She's happy, she's found her way, that's all that matters.

- She eats halal, she wears the veil and yesterday she spent the evening at the mosque...

- So what? How does that bother you?

- I don't recognize her anymore… Here, she doesn't even have a television, she doesn't wear make-up anymore… and have you seen her bookshelf?

- She hasn't really changed. For me, she broke free and what she deeply is was able to come to light.

- You really believe it?

- Yes! She told me you had racist ideas. I can see that is the case.

- This religion, these people are worrying. There are good reasons for this.

- Let’s not start a political debate that will be sterile anyway. Today is the opportunity to strengthen our ties. Don't waste it.

- I don't want to waste anything!

- You have always lived withdrawn into your world, as if you were not paying attention to others...

- Maybe…

- There are a lot of things mom didn't dare talk to you about for fear of your reactions.

- Like what? »