Category: writing

This website highlights one of my less well-known campus activities. Back in 2004 I started contributing to the University Honors College student magazine, The Chronicle. In 2005 I was asked to come on board as the editor-in-training. Last year found me taking the helm as the editor-in-chief.

After a good couple of years at the helm, my tenure is drawing to a close. Like with many of my undergraduate activities, this too must be handed over to the next generation.

Check out some of the back issues for my past stories and all of the other wonderful honors college content!

I’m submitting this to the University Honors College Chronicle. I expect to see it in the winter 06 edition.

I arrived at the main bus and louage (shared long distance taxi) depot in Kasserine at dusk. All of the louages had already left for the night. The nearest hotel, the prison-like youth hostel, was over three kilometers away and the local taxis looked hungry. I asked a man at the station if there were any more busses that night. In fact, there was one bus that would depart in two or three hours, and for, of all places, Tunis! I decided to take this bus.

I settled down for a several hour wait outside the bus station in Kasserine. Over the course of those few hours the stars came out, some soldiers came to wait for the bus, and the little cafe run by a man and his Downs-Syndrome plagued assistant closed down for the night.

At about 10pm one of the men sitting next to me asked for the time in Tunisian Arabic. I was wearing my little black skull cap that I bought in Tunis to keep my ears warm. We soon struck up a conversation that carried on for a good 30 minutes until the bus showed up. As we were getting ready to get on the bus he said (in Arabic) “So… You aren’t from Tunisia, are you? I know! You’re Algerian!” and I said, much to his utter astonishment “No, I’m not Algerian.” He then said “I know! You must be Libyan!” to which I responded “No, I’m not Libyan.” Quite confused, he asked, “So if you aren’t Algerian and you aren’t Libyan, what are you? You speak Tunisian Arabic with an accent so you can’t be from Tunisia.” I replied, “I’m American.” He looked at me, blinked, and didn’t say another word. His brain couldn’t process what I had just told him. I was an American, I spoke Arabic, and I was boarding a night bus from the Algerian frontier to the capital of Tunisia. He sat in the front of the bus and I never saw him again. I sat in the back of the bus with the soldiers on their way to Tunis. I paid my fare, settled into my seat, pulled my cap down over my eyes, and drifted off to sleep to the reassuring roar of the diesel bus engine.

Around 1 AM I briefly regained consciousness to realize that we were entering Le Kef. I didn’t realize that the bus ran through Le Kef. Instead of making the straight shot to Tunis, we got the scenic night tour of the Algerian frontier. I drifted back to sleep.

Something was jabbing my face. What was all that noise? Light suddenly flooded into my vision as my cap was pulled up above my eyes. I couldn’t make anything out. Someone was shouting at me. There was a cold piece of round grey metal poking my forehead. My eyes began to focus. I could see a muzzle. I could hear Arabic. I could make out a large clip, a finger, and a trigger. There was a man shouting at me. He sounded very cross. The world finally came back into focus. An overzealous National Guard officer had a fully loaded AK-47 pointed squarely between my eyes, his finger was on the trigger, and was shouting at me in Arabic something along the lines of “Okay you Algerian scum! Show us your papers or your head will go missing!”

I fished a photocopy of my passport out of my left pocket and handed it to the officer. He stormed off the bus after collecting a few other passengers’ identifications. Several minutes later he came back on and asked very politely, in French, for my original passport. I handed him my passport upside down, obscuring my nationality a few seconds longer. He grabbed the passport and stormed off the bus.

After about ten minutes a different and more senior officer came onto the bus and started handing back identification papers. Mine was the last. He said to me in broken French “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. There’s been a mistake. We thought you were someone else. Please enjoy your stay in Tunisia.” I put my passport away, pulled my skull cap down over my eyes and went back to sleep as the bus pulled away from the roadblock.

Something was jabbing my face. It was cold and felt like steel. What was all that noise? More light. Oh no. Not again. As I feared, I was once again staring down the barrel of a fully loaded AK-47 being pointed at my temple by yet another fine officer of the Tunisian National Guard. Again, he yelled at me in Arabic. This time it was something like “Give me your papers you son of an Algerian whore! Wake up or die!” I handed him my passport straight off this time, not wanting to delay the bus any more than necessary. He snatched my passport and tromped off the bus.

Ten minutes later he came back on the bus and handed me back my passport. He said to me in French, “I’m so sorry for the confusion. We mistook you for someone else. Please have a nice time in Tunisia.” I looked out the window as we pulled away. Across the road a small 1970’s era Renault R4 pickup was pulled over to the side with three people standing outside in the glare of the headlights of a large National Guard land cruiser. A guardsman had a rifle trained on the little group while another radioed back to headquarters with a whole stack of papers spread out on top of the hood of the land cruiser. In the back of the pickup several dozen sheep waited quietly. It seems I wasn’t the only one getting the full treatment that night. I drifted back to sleep.

I woke up with a start when the bus engine died. I pulled my cap up and peaked outside the window. A few small streaks of orange blazed across the sky. It was about 4:30 AM. I had no clue where we were. I asked one of the military men sitting near me for our location in Arabic. This was the first time I had spoken since I got on the bus. Never during the two incidents had I uttered a word. The man stared back at me, not comprehending his own mother tongue. I asked again. He continued to stare. I asked in French if he spoke Arabic. I asked in French again. He suddenly realized that, in fact, I spoke Arabic and that I was speaking to him. A broad grin broke out across his face as he told me “We’re in Tunis at the Bab Saadoun bus terminal.” I said thanks and told him good morning. I got off the bus and walked the four kilometers to my house as dawn broke over Tunis. It had been an eventful night.