For many years, the Mediterranean was an abstract concept for me. As a devoted student, I was naturally able to draw in the missing parts of the map of the Mediterranean, name the countries around its perimeter, and discuss the dynamics of the various empires that had shaped its regions. I also felt somehow a part of its history, as every other summer I had flown with my parents from Paris across the ocean to visit family in Algeria. On the beaches of Zeralda, this sensation was even physical; I had swallowed enough of the ocean to be convinced of its existence. Later on, it was on a trip to Nice with my mother and brother that I continued cultivating the memory of those glorious childhood summers. And yet I had the odd feeling that the water lining the two shores was not from the same source, that we were not under a shared sky. When I gazed out on the horizon, I saw a wall; a blue wall. Like in the film Truman show, I imagined that if I ever felt like sailing out on those waters, my boat would collide with the sky painted upon the dome wall.
Perhaps that’s what adolescence is about: the discovery of limitations.
Or, to put it more prosaically, perhaps I had internalized by then that, between the civil war in Algeria and my parents’ divorce, that part was now closed off to me for geopolitical, personal and financial reasons.
In my mind, the Mediterranean Sea represented the bridge between Algeria and France; between childhood and adulthood.
When I heard that the Renaissance would never have occurred without the contribution of the Arabs—transmitters of Greek science—I naturally found the idea alluring and even comforting. What young person doesn’t benefit from knowing they are the descendents of those who fed the flame of wisdom? Yet, this exchange of knowledge and ideas seemed almost irreconcilable to me, like an alien encounter. I found it to be a small miracle, a serendipitous moment in history. And once the interlude was over, everyone could go home and lock their doors behind them.
Because until my early twenties, it was primarily borders that occupied my mind: historical borders that turn a piece of land into a country; cultural borders that make a group of individuals a nation; sociological borders that divide the poor from the wealthy; symbolic borders that, with a mere glance, determine the other.
The Wall in Our Eyes – Walid Hajar Rachedi
And then came my first trip to Latin America in 2006. Although I didn’t articulate it in this way at the time, I think by choosing to go on an exchange to Mexico rather than to a university in Europe, I was expressing an unconscious desire to step out of that space. To no longer face the blue wall.
Paradoxically, it was there, ten thousand kilometers from the aforementioned place on the map, that the Mediterranean became tangible. With roommates that had come from all various parts of the globe, it was the Italian students with whom I immediately connected. Giuseppe was my guide during my first few days in Mexico. We looked like two brothers walking the streets together, both with the same olive complexion, curly black hair, slender build and taste in striped shirts and flashy sunglasses. He spoke of his native Sicily as one might refer to heaven. He wanted me to take him to Algeria someday. In his contagious cheerfulness, there was something familiar. Something Mediterranean.
Between Giuseppe’s questionable taste in roadside taquerias and hunger for socializing, I had him to thank for several bouts of food poisoning and a few terrible hangovers from our fiesta-filled nights. More importantly though, he became the driving force for half of the trips I took around the globe in the fifteen years that followed, each one a result of his fanciful notions of places he had always dreamed of visiting and the films that had inspired them. For Giuseppe, it was incredulous to think that “Mediterraneo,” the 1992 Oscar-winning foreign film, was just pure fiction. Those Italian soldiers stranded on a Greek island who rediscover their humanity through the locals must surely have existed! I couldn’t count the hours we spent trying to locate his imaginary island on an atlas.
Sometimes, I think I wanted to live out Giuseppe’s dreams—or rather, to live within them. Yes… Giuseppe’s dream life was marvelous.
We saw each other again several times after the Mexico experience. Once, he came to visit me in Paris with some roommates from Mexico City. He also visited me when I lived in New York. But our most memorable reunion was when he invited me to his small hometown in Sicily, in the south of the island near Agrigento. By that time, he had finished his studies and passed a prestigious civil service exam, but the 2008 financial crisis had emptied the pockets of the Italian state. He had been waiting for six months to be appointed to a position (which incidentally never happened, forcing him to move to Ireland for work).
The Wall in Our Eyes – Walid Hajar Rachedi
Giuseppe was busy on the day of my arrival, so his father came to pick me up at the airport. He even managed to sneak into the boarding area to greet me. Normal rules apparently didn’t apply to him.
We didn’t speak the same language, and yet somehow got on the topic of politics on the ride home. Don’t ask me how, but I think it originated with the Frente Nacional sticker on his windshield. According to him, the party obviously had nothing to do with its French equivalent…
The first evening of my stay as we gathered around the dinner table with Giuseppe’s family, I made a diplomatic blunder: I didn’t finish everything on my plate. This resulted in Giuseppe having to make a lengthy case on my behalf, as if he were somehow personally responsible. It was both extremely embarrassing yet boldly illustrated our unmatched camaraderie. I didn’t understand what he was saying, yet inherently comprehended what had ignited the passionate debate. In Algeria or at my mother’s home, people’s reactions would have been more subdued, but the matter would have been taken just as seriously. Needless to say that for the rest of the trip, I had a strict no-eating policy between meals to avoid repeating the affront. Then, I made another rather unexpected faux pas. During a walk in the village, when a family friend asked me if I liked Sicily, I replied enthusiastically that the lush, hilly landscapes were beautiful and reminded me of North Africa (Kabylie in particular, but left that detail out, fearing it might be too specific). Giuseppe’s face fell as he translated my comment. What I intended as a compliment sounded like an insult to his ears. In so many words, a French person was saying that her home was like Africa. I couldn’t even apologize because there was nothing to apologize for and what’s more, I was laying claim to this affiliation. In this seemingly insignificant phrase, without even realizing it, I had knocked down the wall that had been standing for far too long.
I embraced both shores as one in the same.
Since then, whenever I stumble on a map of the Mediterranean Sea, even if it’s sketched without a backdrop, I feel no urge to trace its borders. Instead, I prefer to look for the island where Giuseppe’s cherished soldiers still live, blissful and forgotten.