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    Tunisia in Transition: My Interview with a Prostitute

    By Op-ed Contributor | Feb 27 2013 Share on Linkedin Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Share on Google Share on pinterest Print

    Tags: Abdallah Guech ,brothel ,district ,main-national-featured ,Old Medina ,

    Walking through Tunis’ old Medina on Christmas eve

    SILENT NIGHT

    It’s eleven o’clock in the evening on a cold Christmas Eve in Tunis. I’m walking past the Cathedral of St. Vincent de Paul on Avenue Habib Bourguiba in the center of town. The imposing structure is a physical and spiritual non-sequitur in this 98 percent Muslim country. The scene is foreboding. It’s been nearly two years since the “14 Janvier” revolution that kicked off the so-called “Arab Spring,” but peace has yet to find its home. A riot police detail is setting up out in front of the church, adding to the permanent security presence just across the street at the French embassy. Instead of evergreen and tinsel, there are palm trees and garlands of barbed wire. Warm light beckons from a large open door at the top of the steps framed by grand columns. I’m tempted to be spontaneous and duck into the church for midnight mass, but no. I’m on a mission: I’m going to find a prostitute.

    I press on toward the old sector. I’m now walking past Bab El Bhar, a conspicuous arch of antiquity and the main gateway to the Medina. By day, with its byzantine, narrow and chockablock streets, the Medina is a cacophony of sight and sound. By night, shadows and silence engulf the squalid district, lending it a post-apocalyptic air; the transformation is dramatic. The Medina is home to hundreds of monuments of a bygone era, and it has been designated a UNESCO world heritage site. It has also been my home for the last couple of months, which is long enough for me to know that I have no business doing what I am about to do.

    INTO DARKNESS

    I step into the gloom of Rue de la Kasbah. The street is a thoroughfare to the seat of government and manifestly a post-revolution metaphor. It is considered so especially treacherous after dark that locals will approach hapless visitors and advise them to seek alternative routes. The concern is warranted: one of my roommates in the hostel has recently been robbed at knifepoint by two men, who cut him on both wrists in the tussle. And yet here I am with a backpack full of Apple products, a wad of cash, and my pepper-spray at the ready.

    A short way into the “abyss,” I turn right onto another alley, which is lined with tangles of wire and pipe. This one is better lit but soon descends again into shadows. I think I know where I’m going because I’ve been there before – twice – and yet I’m still uncertain. The streets of the souk are sinister by night and labyrinthian, and I half expect them to conspire against me. I encounter a tall and slender man wearing a green jacket and a hat. He’s carrying a flashlight; its beam is dancing about in the dark. My heart starts racing, and I fight my flight instinct. He stops me. I think he must be a guardian whom local merchants pay to watch their storefronts by night. He offers me safer directions to anywhere but there. I tell him I want to take a look at Abdallah Guech. “Faites attention,” he says with a stern and uneasy look.

    I follow the alley through its twists and turns. What little light there is seems to retreat at my approach into hushed stairwells and alcoves. I arrive at the end and turn left. There is a pile of garbage here, large even by Medina standards. It is being picked over by a clowder of sick and hungry cats. There’s something allegorical about the scene, but the profundity eludes me. On the right, just around a wall, through a neglected blue door and under a sloppy hand-painted sign, which reads “Closed on Fridays” (in Arabic), is my destination. I’ve reached Impasse Sidi Abdallah Guech, Tunis’ dead-ended red light district.

    “Closed on Fridays” reads the sign above the entrance to Tunis’ red light district

    ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE

    I step through the gate. Things are different from my last visit. Gone is the river of men in black leather jackets flowing through the center of the alleys. Gone are the unpretty women of a certain age lining the narrow streets and standing in doorways in various stages of dishabille. Here, now, are only a few stragglers and a squad of cleaning women tossing buckets of dirty water onto the cobblestones. In an effort to make myself feel less vulnerable, I am walking deliberately, as if I know where I am going; I do not. And as I pass a couple of shifty men leaning against a wall at a particularly narrow point (only two shoulder widths), I wonder what the hell I am thinking heading further into a dead end. Alone. At night. In Tunisia. On Christmas Eve. With all of my valuables on my back. Looking for a hooker.

    Most of the doors are closed now, but not all. Some pink and green fluorescent lights remain on. As I step ankle-deep into a murky puddle, a cleaning woman tells me that they’re closed and to come back tomorrow. Undaunted, I continue my search for Leila, a woman I had spoken to the last time I visited. Luckily, I find her sitting on some stairs inside an open door, smoking a cigarette. I ask if I could ask her some more questions. “C’est interdit,” she says. That’s forbidden. “Combien pour une chambre?” I ask. How much for a room? “Vingt Dinars.” 20 Tunisian Dinars, or about $13. With a flash of her eyes and nearly imperceptible tilt of her head, she signals that I should enter. I walk up a set of narrow and steep steps into my first brothel… ever. Well, that’s not entirely true. In fact, it’s plain false, but it just sounds better that way.

    At the top of the stairs, I arrive at a large reclining woman, the “patronne.” She reminds me of Jabba the Hutt, perhaps because I have just returned from visiting Luke Skywalker’s house in the south of Tunisia, the setting for Tatooine. The madame is watching TV… a news report about yet another protest, I think. She tells me that the price is 22 Dinars. I am disinclined to haggle. Consideration paid for services that have not yet nor will ever be rendered, she directs me to the end of an austere hallway. I don’t know which room I am to enter, so I ask a man in a black leather jacket, who is sitting awkwardly in a chair in the hallway outside one of the many closed doors. He doesn’t know and probably wonders why I would think he would. I take a guess and step into a room. From down the hallway, Leila tells me to close the door, which I do. And now I’m alone again.

    THE END OF INNOCENCE

    The first things I note are the Strawberry Shortcake and butterfly appliqués on the ceiling and the Mickey and Minnie Mouse stickers on the small wardrobe. They’re hugging, and there are little hearts emanating from their entwined bodies. The room is small, of course, with a sink and mirror, a bidet, and a slightly disheveled single bed. The floor is bare and on a simple nightstand draped with a variegated shawl, there is roll of paper towels sitting next to a bottle of water and an ashtray. There are also some condoms and some lubricant, the tools of her trade. This is Leila’s office and her home. To call it modest would be kind.

    Leila’s workplace and bedroom

    When she comes in, I offer her some dates that I have bought from my trip to the south. As I sit down on the bed, I watch her break open a date, remove the pit, and then discard them both into the ashtray. She contorts her hands as if she has just touched something icky. I suppress a twinge of surprised indignation. “Est-ce qu’il y a un problème avec les dattes?” I ask. Is there a problem with the dates? “Vous avez acheté les mauvaises.” You bought the wrong ones.

    I tell her a little bit about me. I’m talking too much. She probably gets that a lot. I notice how her hair is an odd mess of corn rows and short bobby tails. She looks tired. Her lips are painted bright red and she’s wearing a small t-shirt and even smaller shorts. She lights up a cigarette, and I start the interview. My French isn’t great, and brothel vocabulary was never covered in class, but we make do.

    What is there to tell you about the life of a prostitute that you haven’t already heard or read about before? You’ll never meet this girl, and she’s probably lying about at least a few things. It would be gratuitous to share some of the more salacious details, and her personal story could have been ripped from the pages of Les Miserables: married at 15, divorced, and raising a sick child alone, she turned to prostitution after exhausting other options. Her family, who lives hours away and now takes care of her two children (15 years old and five months old), thinks she works in a hotel. She’s 33 now and not particularly happy. She’s been doing this for four years and while she may quit at any time, she will likely continue until the mandatory retirement age of 50. That will make over 20 years of sex sometimes up to ten times a day, six days a week, for as little as 10 Dinars at a time, of which she sees four (about $3). So long as she does work at Abdallah Guech, she can not leave the dead end alley, except on Fridays (the Islamic holy day) or whenever she is sick or menstruating.

    LIFE GOES ON

    Downtown Tunis’ emblematic clocktower draped in national flag for the revolution’s second-year anniversary

    Like the cathedral on Bourguiba street, Leila is a non-sequitur – a woman in the legal sex trade in a Muslim culture. But this is post-revolution Tunisia, a clumsy moment rife with contradiction: divorce and abortion are legal and polygamy is banned; homosexuality is illegal and prostitutes are official employees of the Ministry of the Interior; women feel free to wear bikinis on the beach but kids are thrown in jail for kissing in the streets; alcohol is legal but not widely available and discreetly sold for fear of a fundamentalist cutting off your fingers; there is a liberal media yet one can still be locked away publishing pictures of the prophet. All the while, a Salafist minority noisily threatens to foist theocracy upon the country. Hypocrisy is also rampant … the psyche of millions torn asunder by the dissonance between the sacrosanct laws of God and the mutable laws of men and the social pressure to reconcile the two. A man that frequents the brothels would not tell me where it was located, because it is “haram” – forbidden by Allah. One young man would not speak the name of the street for fear of what others might think of him for the mere utterance; he opts to write the name on a piece of paper, and only because I am a friend.

    Leila tells me that post-revolution life in Abdallah Guech isn’t so different from before. The men are more brazen she says, because they don’t fear the police as much. It’s a tale told time and time again: the new Tunisia is more free and less safe and people are wistful about the old days. The economy is abysmal and the money isn’t quite what it used to be. Other than that, life is as it always was. Stories to the contrary are false, she says, as she blows on an open palm – an arab gesture for a ‘lie.’

    I ask Leila if I can take pictures of her room. She is wary, and reluctantly agrees so long as she isn’t seen. “J’ai une famille,” she says. I have a family. A cleaning woman knocks on the door. It is time to go. Leila is nervous and tells me not to let the patronne see my iPad. Things now feel rushed. I start preparing to leave but I can’t get my backpack to zip up. The harder I try, the worse it gets and I’m getting flustered. Finally, I succeed. As I leave the room, Leila tells me to come visit her again sometime. I walk quickly down the hallway, past doors both open and closed, past the patronne, down the steps, down the alley and back into darkness. It’s over. And I’m alone. Again.

    As I exit the gate, I notice that the cats are still picking over the garbage in the shadows.

    This article was written by Aaron Freed, a digital marketing consultant who is hitchhiking his way around the world by sailboat. This post reflects the opinions of the author and not those of Tunisia Live as a publication.

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    Comments

      Marwa /

      i don’th think he brought up something new, a prostitute married young, divorved and raises her kids from what she makes at the brothel.
      and i don’t see how this article would add something to what tunisia is now, after the revolution. now im wondering about this “business” in a higher class, how is it, how do things go, and where are those ppl in tunis.

    1. Saaida /

      Good insights for those who are unfamiliar with this hidden side of Tunisia and a well written article.

      As with Marawa, I would also be curious to know more of the wealthier side of this business in other places in Tunisia. How is this market effecting the higher class? Additionally, are there any other contrasting stories in light of the revolution? Most people are familiar with young, divorced, abandoned lady who turns to prositution but what about the young girls who come from wealthier families who are turning to this business and how do they function in society. I am still baffled with the thought that in a predominately Islamic culture, legal prositution exists.

      • mark /

        Where ever there are men there will be prostitutes. married men, single men, men who should be giving money to their families, men who dont wear condoms and take sickness home to their families on and on it goes. The sad thing is that some men have the audacity to then look down on these women who would not exist if it were not for them…The wives of these men probably look down on these women who are servicing their husbands on a regular basis while they are being told there is no money for things in the home. Its another dirty little secret in a Muslim country that wants to pretend it is Islamic. Same as the practice of not giving babies born to single mothers birth certificates so that they can pretend single mothers don’t exist.

        Recently Wahhabi Mufti in Saudi said working women who work with men should feed the male colleagues from their breasts so men become like their some and then they can stay together in the working place. Another example of the strange way these people view sex.

        Disgusting practices prevail when ever men decide to take what they want. The will make reasons and excuses galore so they can do what they want to who they want

    2. nonsense /

      What is this story about ????? the oldest job in the world ??? so what ??
      what does the author ( if we may call him that way !) want to show us ???
      (of course he says he paid but did nothing !)”an angel” he is !
      There are really more important subjects to write about, it is a pity Tunisia Live does print such a poor article, really.

    3. WoW /

      I struggled to find a point to this story aside from a voice of privilege going on what he ascertained as a trip into scandal or taboo. With a voice firmly atop the moral high-ground, this author “braved” the dangers like a proper colonial exploring the untouched secret of what? Human struggle that exists in all its ugly forms across the globe? What was uncovered here? That a society like Tunis contains moral or social ambiguity? Mr. Freed’s story unfortunately tells us more about his own inability to process this ambiguity, his linguistic failings and his regional ignorance than anything substantive about Tunis today. Indeed, this kind of writing is precisely that which implicitly furthers the Orientalist model of social taxonomies, deterritorialization and the ironic implementation of hypocritical mores. Change the skin of this story to any low-income area in the US, to an Appalachian hollow or to a Mexican day-laborer camp. Would this be so fascinating or exciting for the author if he could actually speak to and understand the subjects with whom he dealt? Tunis-live should be concentrating on stories that bring Tunis—the breadth of its perspectives from Salafis, moderates or liberals—to the West. Not, as one sees instead, tales based on the lowest hanging fruit. But then again, even as our intrepid explored admitted, his French was never that good anyway. Bravo.

    4. Jack Sparrow /

      I stopped counting at 53 uses of the first person. I could have missed a few, and I was a little more than half way through your piece. “Look at me! Look at how naughty I am! I’m going to see a prostitute! In Tunis! On Christmas!” Her lack of options and her suffering are but a backdrop for your breathless and naughty act of derring-do. Did you contribute any solution to the problem? Or did you just insert yourself (no pun intended) into it in the only way that you could? Perhaps if you remove your veil of narcissism and egotism you could use your considerable storytelling talents to make a difference for someone else instead of boasting about your bravery–or stupidity

    5. Tatiho /

      I think this article should be named “I take care of my Ipod even with my life” Nothing new, just shows how hipocryt can be a culture which calls itself muslim and allows things like this happen, I do not refer to the prostitute but about women who need to abandon their sons to face the evilness of life and the explitation some are willing to make against another human being!

    6. mhady /

      Nice writting. From what i can tell, this author doesn’t know shit about the country. Nothing has changed, since the revolution, in terms of prostitution. Tunisians feel free to be racist towards non tunisians, especially non arabs and the African community. This country, although Ben Ali had to be ousted, is worse then it was three years ago. Prostitution is not any different then it was during Ben Ali, or than it is in most part of the globe.

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