Shades Of Tunisia

Ayman stood at the bottom of the staircase, staring upward. His heart raced as he hesitated. He knew he had to do this, but facing Marwa felt more daunting than any street fight or verbal spar he had ever endured. Swallowing his pride, he trudged up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

When he reached the door, Marwa was wiping the edges of a window frame, her movements brisk and sharp, betraying her simmering frustration. She noticed him but didn't acknowledge his presence, her eyes narrowing slightly before returning to her work.

"Marwa," Ayman started softly, his voice barely carrying over the morning hum of the neighborhood.

She turned, her expression unreadable. "What?"

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. "I… I came to apologize."

Her posture stiffened, but she didn't interrupt.

"I, uh… I don't even remember saying it," he admitted, his voice faltering. "I was drunk. I was stupid. And I swear, I didn't mean it. I'd never mean something like that. Never."

Marwa's gaze was steady, cool, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—hurt, perhaps? Disappointment?

Ayman took a deep breath and continued. "I'm sorry. Really. And thank you for not telling Karim. I know he'd… I know he'd kill me if he found out." He tried to smile, but it faltered under her stony expression. "I know I don't deserve it, but… I just needed to say it."

Marwa finally spoke, her tone measured but clipped. "You don't even remember what you said, and yet here you are, apologizing for it. Do you even understand how much it hurt?"

Ayman's head drooped. "I don't. I don't know why I said it. I just—" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've been an idiot. I've been… lost. I let my frustrations out the wrong way, and you didn't deserve that. None of you did."

Marwa looked away, her hands gripping the cloth she was using to clean. She let the silence hang for a moment before finally saying, "Fine. Apology accepted. But Ayman…"

Her tone softened slightly, but her eyes bore into his with unwavering intensity. "Don't let it happen again. And for your own sake, stay sober. For once."

He nodded quickly, relieved but still weighed down by shame. "I promise. I'll try."

Marwa turned back to the window, dismissing him with her silence. Taking the hint, Ayman mumbled a quiet "thank you" and stepped back.

As he reached the stairs, he heard her voice again, quieter this time.

"You're lucky I didn't tell Karim. He deserves better than this mess."

Ayman hesitated at the top of the stairs, unsure if he should leave or say something more. Marwa's dismissive tone lingered in his mind, but he couldn't let it end like this. He cleared his throat softly.

"Uh… Marwa?" he started.

She glanced back at him, one eyebrow raised. "What is it now?"

"Do you need anything? I mean, I can help if you need something… you know, anything at all," he offered awkwardly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Marwa sighed, her hand resting on her belly. For a moment, her hardened expression softened, and she shook her head. "No, Ayman. I don't need anything. All I want is for you to stop drinking, stop getting into trouble, and be better than this. That's all."

Her words cut through him like a blade, but he nodded. "I… I'll try. I promise."

Marwa sat down on the edge of her bed, resting her hands on her lap. "Do you even realize what I gave up to be here?" she said, her tone reflective.

Ayman frowned. "What do you mean?"

She looked out the window, her gaze distant. "My family, my friends, my life… I left everything behind to be here. To marry your brother. To live in this neighborhood, where people look at me with pity sometimes, or worse, with judgment. My family begged me not to marry Karim. They told me he wasn't good enough. That this place wasn't good enough. But I didn't care. I chose him over all of it."

Her voice cracked slightly, but she composed herself quickly.

"The only reason I stayed, the only reason I've been able to live here, is because of the people," she continued. "They've been respectful to me. They treat me well. They look at me like I'm some kind of hero for choosing to live here with Karim, for choosing love over pride or status."

Ayman listened intently, guilt settling deeper into his chest. "Marwa, I—"

She held up a hand, silencing him. "Let me finish," she said.

She leaned back slightly, her eyes flickering with the faintest glimmer of a smile. "You know why I fell in love with your brother? It wasn't because he was strong, or handsome, or anything superficial like that. It was because he cared. Truly cared."

Ayman tilted his head, curious.

"I'll never forget the day I met him," Marwa said, her voice soft with nostalgia. "I was in the city, rushing home after work, and someone snatched my purse. I was panicked, completely helpless, calling out for help. And then, there he was. Karim."

Her smile grew slightly as she spoke.

"He was still a police officer back then, remember? He saw what happened, and he didn't just stand by. He ran after the thief, chased him through the streets, and brought my purse back to me. But it wasn't just that," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "It was how he treated me afterward. He didn't just hand me the purse and leave. He asked if I was okay, made sure I got home safely, and even called me the next day to check on me."

She looked down, her hands resting protectively on her belly. "That's who your brother is, Ayman. He's not just a good man; he's a rare one. He didn't just help me that day—he made me feel seen, cared for. He made me believe in people again. That's why I fell in love with him."

Ayman swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "Yeah," he said quietly, his voice shaky. "That sounds like him. He's… he's always been like that. Always helping people, always doing the right thing."

Marwa nodded. "And that's why I stayed. Because I love him. And I love this baby we're having. But, Ayman…" She looked up at him, her eyes piercing. "If you keep going down this path, you're going to break his heart. He looks up to you in ways you don't even realize. He'd never say it, but you mean a lot to him. So don't let him down. Don't let me down. Don't let yourself down."

Ayman's eyes burned with unshed tears. He nodded, wiping his face quickly so she wouldn't see. "I won't," he said, his voice firm despite the emotions threatening to spill over. "I'll… I'll do better. I promise."

Marwa studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Good," she said simply. "That's all I want."

Ayman lingered for a moment, then turned to leave. As he reached the door, Marwa called out, her voice softer now.

"And Ayman?"

He stopped and glanced back.

"Thank you. For apologizing."

He gave her a small, earnest smile. "You deserve better than that. I'll prove it."

With that, he left, his heart heavy but his resolve stronger than it had been in a long time.

Ayman walked down the cracked, uneven pavement of the neighborhood, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The cool breeze brushed against his face, but his thoughts were much heavier than the air around him. Marwa's words echoed in his mind, each one hitting him like a hammer.

Be sober. Be better. Don't let him down.

He felt a pang of something deep inside—hurt, guilt, and maybe even jealousy. She wanted him to be better, but not for himself. She wanted him to be like Karim, the hero, the provider, the man who always did the right thing. Ayman's jaw tightened at the thought. How could he live up to someone like that?

She's right, though, he admitted to himself. He glanced up at the rows of small, weathered houses lining the street. A couple of old men sat on a stoop nearby, chatting about the latest football match, their laughter carrying through the air. A little farther ahead, a woman was sweeping her doorstep, pausing every so often to wave at the children playing soccer in the dusty alley.

The ball rolled toward Ayman's feet, and he stopped it instinctively with the tip of his shoe. One of the kids—a boy no older than ten—ran up to him, his face bright with a mix of sweat and joy.

"Thanks, Ayman!" the boy said, taking the ball and running back to his friends.

Ayman watched him go, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. These streets, this neighborhood—it wasn't perfect, but it had life. It had people who cared for each other, who looked out for one another.

He kept walking, his thoughts circling back to what Marwa had said. Her child—Karim's child—would grow up here. And that child deserved more than a reckless uncle who couldn't keep his life together.

She's going to be a mother, he thought, his heart sinking a little. And I'm supposed to be part of this family. I should've never called her that. Never.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered under his breath. He hated how much her words hurt, but he hated even more that they were true.

The sounds of the neighborhood filled his ears—the laughter of children, the distant clatter of pots and pans, the faint hum of a radio playing an old Tunisian tune. It all brought a strange warmth to his chest, a reminder of the simple beauty of life here.

As he walked past the corner shop, the owner, an older man with a kind face, waved at him. "Ayman! How's your mother?"

"She's good, Si Abdelkader," Ayman replied, forcing a small smile.

"Tell her to let me know if she needs anything!" The man called back.

"I will," Ayman said, continuing down the street.

He felt a strange mix of emotions—a heaviness from Marwa's words, but also a flicker of hope. This neighborhood, these people—they weren't rich, but they had something money couldn't buy. They had each other. And Marwa was right. If he wanted to be part of that, part of this family, he needed to be better.

He stopped at the edge of the neighborhood, where the houses gave way to a sprawling view of the city below. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over the rooftops. Ayman took a deep breath, letting the moment sink in.

"She's right," he said softly to himself. "I can do better. I have to do better."

For the first time in a long while, Ayman felt a sense of clarity. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but maybe—just maybe—he could walk it. For his brother, for Marwa, for the baby. For himself.

The neighborhood's usual buzz of chatter and laughter was pierced by the shrill cries of children. Ayman's steps faltered as he turned toward the source of the commotion. His eyes narrowed at the sight unfolding before him. A man—a drunkard by the unsteady sway of his movements—was kicking a woman sprawled on the dusty street. Her thin cries for mercy cut through the air, each one met with the sickening thud of his boot.

Two small children stood a few feet away, tears streaming down their faces as they screamed, "Stop! Baba, stop! Please, stop!" But their father's rage only deepened, his curses louder, his blows harder.

Ayman froze, his stomach twisting in knots. "What the hell is going on?" he muttered, his voice trembling with anger.

He spotted an older man nearby, one of the neighbors watching silently, arms crossed as though this was just another day in the neighborhood. Ayman marched up to him. "Si Tahar, what the hell is this? Why isn't anyone stopping him?"

The older man shrugged, his face passive. "That's Rachid. He came home drunk again. His wife asked him to bring groceries, and instead, he brought back a bottle. She told him to stop drinking, and, well, you see how he reacted."

"This is how he reacted?" Ayman's voice rose, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Why isn't anyone doing anything? Look at his kids! Look at her!"

Si Tahar sighed, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. "It's not the first time. He does this when he's drunk. He'll sober up and calm down."

"Calm down?" Ayman's voice cracked with disbelief. "You think this is normal? She's bleeding, for God's sake! The kids—"

"Lower your voice," Si Tahar interrupted, glancing nervously around. "It's not our place to interfere. They'll sort it out. Besides, you don't know what kind of trouble you'll invite if you get involved."

Rachid drags his wife by her hair outside and kicks her, even as his own kids try to stop him. "You whore! I should kill you if you ask me that again..." Screams loudly as he continues to drag her out to the middle of the street while everyone is watching and kindly requesting him to stop.

Ayman stared at him, his chest heaving. "This isn't sorting it out! This is wrong! I should call my brother. He can send some cops to handle this bastard."

"No, no," Si Tahar said quickly, gripping Ayman's arm. "Don't bring the police here. It'll only make things worse. You know how these things go. Let it be. Just keep walking, Ayman. Don't make trouble for yourself."

Ayman yanked his arm away, his head spinning with rage and disgust. He looked back at the scene—the woman on the ground, her trembling hands shielding her face; the children wailing helplessly; the man who seemed more monster than human in that moment.

The world around him blurred as he turned and started walking again, his pace quick and unsteady. Each step felt heavier, as though the weight of what he had seen was dragging him down. His fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms, the pain a poor distraction from the fury burning inside him.

"I should've done something," he thought, his mind racing. "I should've stepped in, punched that bastard, and dragged him off her. I should've called Karim. I should've called the cops. I should've done anything."

But he hadn't. He had walked away, just like everyone else.

His thoughts spiraled, dark and unrelenting. "If I had power… If I had the means… I'd kill that son of a bitch myself. I'd make him pay for what he's done, for what he's doing to her, to those kids."

The image of the woman on the ground haunted him with every step—the pleading in her voice, the hopelessness in her eyes. And the kids… God, the kids.

His stomach churned as he remembered their cries. "Stop, Baba. Please." Their voices kept ringing in his mind, each word carving a deeper wound into his conscience.

The world around him felt suffocating, the air too thick to breathe. He glanced at the familiar streets, the crumbling walls, the children playing just blocks away, blissfully unaware of the horrors their peers were witnessing. This was his neighborhood—a place where people like Rachid could beat their wives in broad daylight, and everyone would turn a blind eye.

Ayman's jaw tightened. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to do anything to rid himself of the helplessness clawing at his chest. But all he could do was keep walking, his thoughts a storm of anger and guilt.

The thought lingered in his mind again and again: If I had power… if I had the means… things would be different.

For the first time, the idea didn't seem so impossible.