Ahmed’s Algeria.
I return to Algiers after ten years. The decaying capital of French Maghreb, Algiers, as well as Ghardaïa, I had already left populated by the first Italian and Japanese tourists.
The visit to Algiers and Ghardaïa with Ahmed had been a stroll among groups of visitors and locals who had sensed the new business opportunity. Ahmed was eleven at the time and had a particular fondness for foreigners, especially for me. He would showcase me to his friends like a trophy, to be observed and admired from afar. He acted as my guide for a few days, and I captured a photo of him in front of the new monument to the unknown soldier. It was a massive stylized palm tree made of concrete with a torch at its center, watched over by the most beautiful guards in the country. That photo would make the rounds at the boy’s school, provoking general envy.
Ahmed is the youngest of five brothers.
I met Ahmed’s older brother while studying architecture in Florence. He was quite the ladies’ man, fond of champagne and the good life. A sincere friend, but also somewhat self-interested. Our paths diverged a year after my graduation; he took a bit longer to finish. When I returned home, I went to visit him and met the family, including young Ahmed.
Today, after ten years, I once again face the journey, not without some trepidation.
As the Air Algerie DC-9 prepares to land, I reflect with some regret that a chapter in my new book isn’t worth a life, but it’s done now. I’ve landed. I’m the only European on board, and the same goes at passport control. Everyone looks at me with barely concealed curiosity. The tourist visa surprises the official, but no questions are asked. I retrieve my luggage and step outside. A security cordon of about fifty meters separates the building from waiting taxi drivers and families. There’s no crowd; after all, few flights still land, and even fewer passengers arrive.
I search for Ahmed, navigating through a clamor of taxi drivers.
I received a recent photo of him, but taken from a distance, it doesn’t help much. At one point, a couple of young men walk briskly toward me. One of them is definitely him. He looks older than his twenty-one years, his face etched from years of karate training—of which he is passionate—and from the anxiety of being accepted as an adult rather than just the baby of the family, marked also by a complex and lived faith.
He has a lean physique, but not excessively built from too much gym time.
And that gaze. It’s the same as the boy I once knew. Those big black eyes scrutinize you as if trying to see beyond your words. Searching, restless eyes. A look from someone trying to find his place among adults while still retaining a certain innocence. Now just a few steps from me, he smiles, revealing a gap where a canine tooth is missing—a casualty from a karate match that went wrong.
We embrace three times in the Arab fashion.
His body is rigid, strong, and lean. He doesn’t betray emotion; he doesn’t seem like the same tearful boy I left behind. He is accompanied by a friend, courteous and efficient, especially when it comes to finding the Air Algerie office to purchase tickets to Gardaïa. In the chaotic atmosphere (there’s a pilot strike), I manage to pay with my American Express. Ahmed had once amazed me as a child because he couldn’t memorize certain phrases in Italian. Usually, kids are the quickest to learn languages. Not him; it took him hours to remember “arrivederci.” After a bit of time with him, I realize he hasn’t grown much. He still struggles to focus on the subject, still has difficulties with logical reasoning. Between Algeri and Gardaïa, everything is “inshalla,” “God willing,” forgetting that God gave us intelligence to use it. I tell him this, but he pretends not to hear. Fortunately, his friend is his opposite—simple, straightforward, direct, and efficient.
The city appears calm, with heavy traffic, many people on foot, and cafes and shops open and busy.
It’s a deceptive calm. To get to the Aurassi, the “best” hotel open and the only one of international standard (besides the much smaller Sofitel), I have to pass through two checkpoints and endure more checks, and then we have to carry our luggage for about fifty meters. When I ask a taxi driver to take me to the kasbah, he looks puzzled and shakes his head. A younger colleague intervenes but remains doubtful, so he declines too. In both Algeri and Gardaïa, customers are few; the need to work is evident, but the fear is great, and life is certainly not worth a ride for a few dinars.
The next day, we have our flight from Algeri to Gardaïa.
It is delayed hour by hour, and from the official 10 AM departure time, we finally take off at 3 PM. Ahmed, exhausted, falls asleep right away. It’s his first flight, the first time he’s leaving the ground. And he sleeps. I can hardly believe it; I can’t help but think of my first flight on an Alitalia Pisa-Paris trip. An emotion I still remember today, after perhaps a thousand flights and a pilot’s license behind me. In Gardaïa, at baggage claim, the few passengers disperse in the blink of an eye.
A middle-aged man approaches us and talks with Ahmed.
I think he’s a taxi driver, but he’s actually a policeman. He tries to convince my friend that we need an escort. I decline the offer; during that period, Europeans and policemen were the preferred targets of terrorists. No way, and after a nerve-wracking negotiation, we set off with sirens blaring and lights flashing in a blue police SUV. Just in case my presence had escaped someone’s attention, we had taken precautions.
Despite this, I managed to complete the assignment in Algeri and Gardaïa.
The book is out, and Ahmed now works in Italy. Invited by me. We don’t see each other often, especially since he insists on explaining that pigs are dirty animals, dirtier than others, the dirtiest of all. He tells this to me, who was born and raised on a farm. The child who couldn’t learn “arrivederci” hasn’t changed. Now he speaks Italian beautifully, he’s a dear boy but still as closed off as before. Impervious to any reasoning that might challenge his Islamic faith. Perhaps he was more fun as a child.
