Tunis #2: Sexuality and music in the rain

There was a pleasant feeling of serenity in my morning-mind (uncommon when I wake up) as I opened my eyes in the darkened room to the blaring ring of a cell phone. The woman who answered, I., lay under a thick but airy comforter, beside me on the massive bed, as beautiful as iron is heavy and confident too. With the cliché sexiness of her scratchy morning voice, she responded slowly to the almost whiny-sounding American man's voice on the other end. "How aaaaaare you?" he said. "Exhausted." "Whyyyyy?" he worried back. More talk, and as her slender arms dropped the phone back beside her pillow, I pulled her in so that her head was resting in the crook of my neck, her stomach and red bellybutton ring rubbing up against my side, with one of her legs folded up over mine. Her body was firm and smooth, to a degree I almost couldn't bring myself to believe, her skin very lightly toasted in a way that made her look as though she hailed from north of the Mediterranean, not the south. She smelled like sweet and soft things, and though I knew it was the aroma of a rainbow of cremes and perfumes, I breathed it like someone drowning breathes sea air for the first time. Feeling complete (or as close as one can get to that), and fighting off darting thoughts of fear that this moment would not last, I fell back to the blackness where even insecurity cannot reach me.

How unusual this is, I think. This is not the first woman in this country with whom I've shared a bed, but this woman's comfort with herself and her surroundings was new. She didn't seem like she was trying to escape the world's troubles through sleep, as a previous partner had, nor did she seem to see in me her own gentle savior finally arrived, as another had. She was simply trying me out, but in a premeditated way, a way that had taken planning and preparation on her part. I had that to my credit. She had reached out to my roommate, Nicholas, on Facebook, the Tunisian make-friends-hook-up-find-a-spouse-seek-work-contacts all-in-one social network. Apparently it was while I had been away, in the US, and she boldly initiated with him, leading to a long back and forth Facebook chat conversation. Nick, himself no longer a bachelor, showed me their substantive conversation, including topics like photography and molecular biology, and told me I should connect with her, as it was obvious she was searching, as he put it. Not long into my flirt-filled Facebook chats with her she invited me to come see some live music and art at her university, which was supposedly related to my Master's research on local hip hop. Once I asked here where I would stay if and when I came down to visit, in the city of M., south of Tunis, and she said "Well we have our apartments ;-)" I gladly realized Nicholas had been right.

The night before had been a whirr of new. I had never visited M. before, though I had heard plenty of oft-repeated talk of its being the home of the family of a former Tunisian president. Yet, the rare rainfall over the small city, and the chipped and worn 1970's-looking campus that greeted me when I. dropped me off there, was underwhelming. A bunch of young men and women greeted me unsteadily, not sure what language to speak when I. introduced me in English but I greeted them in Tunisian Arabic. As it turned out, I had missed all the art, including a photography and graffiti expo, except for a final batch of bands. Sitting on a plastic folding table in the university's performance hall as the long equipment set-up went on, I chatted with a few young Rastafari-lookers who played in the bands, feeling thrilled by the body and calm presence of I. perched up against me on the table.

The music was good, mostly, prefaced by a one-man-show by a young guy in red face paint who imitated the Devil's voice, but who I couldn't understand at all because of the deafening chatter of the young audience. Three our four acts came to the stage, including a reggae band, some pre-teens and an old man singing "I'll Be There," and a badass rock group with a guitarist who had powerful chops on his instrument. It was all punctuated by I.'s touchiness, resting hands on my shoulder and thigh, and my wondering how to respond. The concert was drowned in covers of American--and Jamaican (Bob Marley)--songs.

When people finished dancing The Twist to Elvis Presley songs and the hall cleared out, we packed into cars and went to the city of M.'s reportedly only clean, almost-affordable, mixed-gender drinking spot. The menu was in French, they served BLTs, and the DJ played mostly really good hip hop, reggae, and local bands. Olives. Croutons. Tunisian beer in green bottles and rosé wine. I. disappeared and I remained seated next to a bunch of her rapidly chatting friends all sucking on cigarettes, me staring at bad Arab music videos on TV. Finally I found I. again at a different table and parked next to her, and her hands landed once more reassuringly on my thighs. Members of the bands--one a powerfully handsome guy with dark beard scruff and pony tail and another a fair-skinned fellow sporting a bowler cap--shot their opinions about good music at me, perforated with English phrases like "the blue note."

Head out, pack seven humans into a car that's only supposed to fit five, and we glode (past tense for glide) through the depressingly empty streets of the seaside city, slick with drizzle and lit here and there by the neon glow of local banks. After a few blocks one of the band members hopped out of the car and popped open the trunk, allowing the only other woman in the car aside from I. to step out and slip smilingly into the side street where she lived. I was nervous by then, not knowing where I would be spending the night, but hoping it would be with I..

"Sharp right here. Now go slowly. Now left. Great, this is me," I. said as the car headlights fell on a naked, bone-colored building with a small gate in the front. I pushed out of the car's back right door to let I. out of the pile of bodies in the back seat. "Whatever man, just take it as it comes. Don't get too attached," I told myself, trying to keep my hopes from climbing too high. The I heard I. say, "O Sam? He's coming with me," to the crew in Tunisian dialect. Excellent.

Mounting the smooth white steps on the front of the building, following I.'s leather jacket which glistened slightly in the rainlight. Into her pale white apartment, clean as a dentist's office, and holding my breath, I readied myself to meet the roommates. As it turned out, incredibly, there were none. I. had the whole fresh-smelling dentist's office to herself. This brings me to a few important points: Tunisian women, despite some appearances to the contrary, are significantly bound by a web of constraints on their personal and sexual freedom, mostly having to do with community and family pressures around ideas of honor and dishonor, womanhood, obedience, and membership in the community (I as an American non-Muslim am not fully part of "the community," a concept we can talk about later). Most young Tunisian women are not free to choose their sexual or romantic partners at will, and many, it seems, don't try overtly to create such relationships. As far as I can see, this is usually out of fear about how their family and the community in which they live will react to premarital sexual relations, which usually involves some degree of at least covert shaming through gossip, with community members subsequently interacting differently with the woman out of a feeling that she doesn't deserve their full respect.

However, Westerners like me, especially after having lived in "more conservative" Arab Muslim countries, are often surprised to observe a greater freedom of expression of physical affection among higher-class Tunisian women (the ones who we tend to spend the most time around) towards men. Further, because of the numerous burdens on women that are lightened the world over by greater financial and material resources, there are less intense pressures on upper-class Tunisian women to submit to societal norms by which their honor tends to be judged; thus having one's own private living space, in a middle-class neighborhood less beholden to conservative gender and sexual norms, and living in a neighborhood or city far removed from one's family (I.'s family lives in Tunis) are all factors which ease the constraints on a Tunisian woman's sexual behavior (by my general and humble estimation). These circumstances set the stage for the rainy night sleepover with a woman I had only met a few hours earlier.

My right hand between her back and the pad of a couch, my left hand under her lightly-toasted neck, I. says "I shouldn't be doing this," with a groan like somebody who was just woken from deep sleep. "Why not?" I ask. "Ughghgh, 'cuz I have a… boyfriend," she said, with eyes squeezed shut as though drawing back from a blow.

Streets Urban Festival Kasserine

From: Streets Urban Festival Kasserine

Tuesday’s update from the Streets team:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdmrlweMXqA

The frigid air crystalized the anticipation in the streets of Kasserine this Tuesday morning. As motorbikes coughed by, struggling past horse-drawn carts, most Kasserinis wouldn’t have dreamed that in a few hours the avenues and back alleys of their city would be home to giant graffiti murals; courtesy of world-class artists the likes of Zepha, Shuck 2, Sim, and Tire. Nor would anyone have expected the vibrant workshops in rap, photography, and breakdancing that animated the conference rooms and courtyards of the local youth complex, seated behind a low dusty wall on Kasserine’s outskirts.

But as locals and artists alike finished lunch and walked out of the dining hall at the youth complex, they were greeted by local youth contorting themselves in the middle of a circle

in an old-skool B-boy battle; onlookers cheering loudly at their best moves. Despite the chill, the battle was hot, and dancers pulled off their shirts before plunging back onto the mat while classic breaks played from the DJ booth behind them. The competition was fierce, but the B-boys kept the battle peaceful, throwing fake blows at each other and dodging them with laughs and backflips.

Just steps down the road from the youth center, graffeurs Tire and Shuck 2, both from the cités of Paris were putting their mark on a wall facing a municipal building. Both characters are as colourful as the calligraffiti murals they were creating. Tire, originally from France, has been living in Montréal for the last three years. He’s a former streetball player, and after leaving Tunisia will be moving to Yemen with his wife and children. Shuck 2 began his graffiti career in the late 1980s with his gang in the Parisian suburbs, and was one of the first to practice graffiti using Arabic script.

Even farther down the road, French street artist Zepha balances precariously on a motorized lift, dragging his spray can over the top edges of an apartment building with broad strokes, assembling a twisted formation of Arabic letters with shapes of natural objects. On a crumbing wall below him, Tunisian graffeur Slim fills in the outlines of his work in progress with bright pink paint. Local boys, who were practicing parkour nearby, or Free Running, stand at the street’s edge in rapt attention.

Haron Hesi, 16 years old, said, “The graffiti here encourages us to be creative. If someone has creativity, he can imagine, he can become someone else. Creativity gives us hope.”

Written by Sam Kimball. You can also follow Sam on Twitter @SamOnTheRoad

Wednesday’s update from the Streets team:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzpoQcYH7SI

As the chill of the morning wore off on Wednesday, young men from Kasserine warmed up on yellow and blue mats in the open Air beside the local youth center. The smallest children imitated the bigger kids on another mat just meters away. As time went on, renowned break dancer Selim, the founder of French dance crew Pokémon, began his workshop with the youth. With simple electro beats lording over the crowd, they youth all moved in unison following Selim’s lead. Still later, the rows of dancers turned into a circle with one-on-one battles exploding within, Selim serving as judge.

Walid Kafi, a filmmaker from Montréal, had his lens focused on the dancers before turning it to Seifeddine, a twenty year-old from Kasserine who is the focus of a documentary film about the Streets Festival. Kafi shot a scene with Seifeddine and American journalist Sam Kimball as they walked slowly along a path beside the youth center, as they spoke about Seif’s interest in graffiti and acting as forms of expression, and his hopes for the festival.

Later in the afternoon, up the hill from the municipal youth center at a private arts center called Al Rawabi (The Hills), children sat in rows before a local teacher of the oud, a traditional Arab stringed instrument. Following his notes in unison, their voices climbed climbed through traditional songs. But minutes later, as Canadian-Iraqi rapper The Narcicyst and French rapper Medine entered the courtyard of the center, the children poured from their classrooms and stood quietly before Medine as he spoke to them about the importance of positive creative outlets. Then with beats from producer Sandhill pounding, Narcicyst and Medine took turns freestyle wrapping in Arabic, French and English. In an interview outside the center, Medine said, “Our professors educate us. Our parents educate us too. But I think at this festival, the artists have educated us.”

When night fell and the deep cold returned, the local basketball stadium packed with the bodies of contorting their bodies before a stage where a local DJ spun old breaks. The final B-boy battle had begun. In round after round, dancers went in round after round, first one-on-one, then two-on-two, then crew versus crew. There was even a special round for children, 8 and 9 year-olds. After hours of round after round, Selim made his decision and one of the crews won the battle. The prize for the winners is an international show with Selim’s celebrated Pokémon dance crew.

Written by Sam Kimball. You can also follow Sam on Twitter @SamOnTheRoad

Thursday’s update from the Streets team:

For Kasserinis tuning into the radio this Thursday morning, they heard the program host introducing Montréal-based rapper The Narcicyst, and announcing his upcoming performance scheduled for that night. Next they heard The Narcicyst’s song Batal (Hero) produced by fellow visiting artist Sandhill. Following, festival founder Karim Jabbari jumped on the microphone and updated Kasserine on the festival’s progress.

As the sun began to lift into the midday sky, the day’s activities opened once-again at Dar Esh Shabab (Youth Center) on the edges of Kasserine. Imen, a young woman from Kasserine recently graduated from a fashion and design program at the local university, was demonstrating to children seated around a table how to make simple sculptures from various types of pasta. The children used fingers and rollers to shape dough into faces and stars. Girls, who hitherto hadn’t had a strong presence in many of the workshops, made up nearly half the group. Nadir Soultani, 15, who participated in the workshop, said, “Workshops like this are important because they allow us to be creative, they give knowledge to the local kids, and provide a model for how we can be.”

On the other side of the courtyard, producer and beatmaker Sandhill was assembling drums and guitar samples on a mixing console, while heads of curious local youth nodded with the rhythm. Sandhill encouraged some of the rappers in the crowd to pick up a microphone, and within minutes a crowd had formed, with a freestyle rap battle in full swing. The Narcicyst, who had seen the battle and come running, spit a few bars between some of the local talents.

And just as the sun fell that night, The Narcicyst appeared on stage at Kasserine’s indoor sports complex in a woolen bournous (cloak) and Tunisian skullcap with mic in hand and Sandhill at the sound booth behind him. While videos for Narcy’s various songs flitted across a projector screen beside him, the eager youth piled up in front of the stage rocked their fists in the air to the beat. After Narcy finished his mixed English/Arabic set and the audience settled down, Tunisia’s own MC Killa and the group Debo came to the stage for a freestyle battle, Kasserini youth filling the sports complex further in support of local talent.

Written by Sam Kimball. You can also follow Sam on Twitter @SamOnTheRoad

Friday’s update from the Streets team:

On the final day, the atmosphere was light. With a bright sun shining, the air of Kasserine’s dusty streets was warm. Renowned Chilean graffiti muralist Saile One was raised three stories above Kasserine’s downtown on a hydraulic lift. The mural, a collection of different collaged faces, began on Tuesday and is still in progress. Saile says he’ll stay in Kasserine as long as it takes to finish.

Filmmaker Walid Kafi continued filming his documentary on the festival, taking up-close footage of artists Tire and Shuck 2. Both had completed their expansive graffiti pieces on the wall facing a mosque and a municipal building, Tire’s composed of elaborate but bare Arabic letters, Shuck 2’s old-skool latin script with Kasserine written in neon green Arabic splashed in the middle. By today they had moved on to another wall closer to the center of town, Shuck 2’s rapidly assembled and simple Arabic mural covering a huge swath of the wall, while Tire’s giant tag was made up of a few latin letters adorned with crowns and paint drips. Kafi’s camera hovered below spray cans and behind ladders, capturing every movement.

Later on, Kafi, along with The Narcycist, Tamara Abdul Hadi, Sandhill, graffers Vajo and Kim, and Seifeddine, around whom Kafi’s documentary is oriented, all went to a Roman amphitheater just outside Kasserine. The Narcicyst gave an interview on his experience at Thursday evening’s concert and spoke about his hopes for the festival, but also about his understanding that it will not immediately change the economic and social situation most Kasserinis live in. Photographer Tamara Abdulhadi explained the techniques she used in her photography workshop, particularly allowing students to take their own photographs as a means of allowing them to choose how they are represented.

Kafi then turned his lens back on Seifeddine. In front of one if his Graffiti murals, Seif explained to journalist Sam Kimball the meaning behind his writing “My Country is My Responsibility.’” He painted this during a graffiti competition shortly after military operations against extremists, which left many locals angry and fearful. The piece was Seif’s attempt to give Kasserinis hope and strength in a period of uncertainty.

Streets Festival wrapped up with a three-on-three freestyle basketball competition, with local youth up against a French freestyle basketball team, along with Tire.

The local youth tried as best they could to catch up with the French team’s Harlem Globe Trotters-like moves. The Kasserini youth didn’t come out on top for this one, but the game ended with high-fives and pats on the back; a warm end to the festival as cold night fell once again.

Written by Sam Kimball. You can also follow Sam on Twitter @SamOnTheRoad