An acid taste of freedom

Algiers, Algeria: an acid taste of freedom

Chapter 1:

The daughter of an expatriate, I'd been living in Algeria for six years when I reached fifteen. There, my best friend Malika and I liked to come up with overly complicated plans to evade our families' protective surveillance. This was more difficult for Malika, who had to worry about her brothers' strict watch as well as her parents'. She was regularly slapped around by her father for trivial mischief and occasionally received more serious blows, but she howled with laughter at my suggestion to make a formal complaint to a European human rights organisation of some sort. Malika thought that no one would ever bother helping a girl like her, or they'd have to take on half the local population. Beatings were part of children's education there. Same as in Europe not so long ago! Malika pointed out. The logic made sense.

We sometimes skived off school to go to the beach, or met friends at the town's central cinema for the compulsory Kung-fu film despite the unromantic and tilted slippery plastic seats screwed directly onto the sloping floor. We also went to secret house parties and danced to anything from Anthrax to Madonna, hung out on the crowded main boulevard, or hid in derelict buildings to smoke cigarettes. Nothing unusual, though this was within a politically tense environment which added an element of risk.

When we were together in the street, we were often insulted by masses of bored, unemployed and frustrated men, no matter how much we covered up to prevent their attention. Being female was a real stigma. Jibes were common because of my different origin associated with loose morals, and Malika was labelled a whore by association. In the end, we decided to wear long black veils called hijabs to be able to shop in the local Souk without too much hassle, making us look like walking black pyramids. To us, it was just fancy dress. We had fierce tempers, attitude and rehearsed put downs that we delivered sharply, then cracked up laughing once safe round the corner. We thought ourselves strong, in control and independent, even of each other. Malika didn't use to tell me her whereabouts all the time.

Because of this, I wasn't worried when she failed to turn up one Saturday morning for school, or when I was called out of class to answer the principal's questions about whether we had met up in the last few days. The weekend in Muslim countries is on Thursday and Friday, so I assumed Malika had pulled some sort of scam to get out of her house. I tried to provide cover by making out that my friend had vaguely mentioned visiting her aunt over the weekend and must have been held up, but the principal punched his desk hard, making me jump out of my skin.

'Lea, I warn you, you'd better think hard about what you say,' he threatened, as he gave me a stern look, 'because your friend's father is outside, he's worried, and it seems to me that he's running out of patience.'

My mind raced fast. Malika's dad? Why the hell should HE be involved? As far as I knew, the only relationship he had with his daughter was through his backhand. Trying to think of whatever Malika had actually told me, I realised I had no idea at all where she'd gone.

I was about to tell the truth when the phone rang. The principal picked it up after rolling his eyes at me one more time for good measure.

I could just about hear the frenzied tone of a woman speaking. The principal was listening silently, his face distinctively losing its colour as the one-sided conversation went on.

Finally, he managed to say, 'I'm terribly sorry... He's here with me, would you please hang on just a minute?' and then, covering the handset, 'Lea, go outside fetch Mr Hocine, his wife's on the phone. NOW! And wait outside my office.'

I became very concerned at this point. Soon after closing the door on Malika's father, I heard a muffled moan, followed by shouts and short exchanges. My eyes welled up and hands started shaking, sure now that something very bad had happened.