The title of this post is somewhat of a misnomer. I did not develop full-blown agoraphobia in Algeria, but something approaching it. Looking back, I think it was probably linked to the panic attacks I had experienced before going out to Algeria for good. All the anxiety I had tried to suppress about moving out there had led to a spate of dizzy spells. I never actually fainted, but constantly felt on the verge of doing so.
Things improved to a certain extent once I actually set foot back in Algeria. Of course, it helped my state of mind being with T. again, but I would often tremble with apprehension when I had to go outside. The first few months had been fine, with all the bustle and excitement of our wedding and the lazy days spent afterwards on the beach in lieu of a honeymoon, but once left on my own, with T. at work and my mother and sister back in Britain, I found it more and more difficult to leave the safety of the flat.
Perhaps the fact that I had just fallen pregnant had had something to do with it. I only know that I had to force myself to take the rickety lift down to the ground floor and cross the street to the grocer’s. People, of course, would turn around to look at me in curiosity and men would mutter to each other as I passed by, drawing on their cigarettes as they eyed me up.
Even when T. was with me, he couldn’t put a reassuring arm around my waist or hold my hand. Public demonstrations of affection between couples were just not accepted in polite Algerian society. I don’t think Algerian wives expected them anyway, as most marriages were arranged and not love matches. They probably would have been embarrassed, thinking their husbands were shaming them in front of others. A woman being touched in public was considered no better than a prostitute.
So when T. and most of my neighbours were at work, I spent most of my time looking out of the living-room window of our eighth-floor flat on to the street scenes below. A bit like Rapunzel, really. There was always a lot of hustle and bustle in the street, although it was situated on the eastern outskirts of the city, quite a way from the centre. There were several small shops just across the street and facing the main road – two bakeries, a butcher’s, a chemist’s and two grocer’s shops. Everything within a stone’s throw. And yet I still found it difficult to go outside.
I watched with curiosity the wraith-like figures of women wrapped in their white haïks flitting to and fro, heavy baskets full of groceries dangling from one hand. Just one eye would be showing through the folds of cloth pulled across their faces and held tight in the other hand. Young men in jeans and t-shirts lounged around, smoking and talking. Small children played on the dusty playground in front of the block of flats on playground equipment that was shabby and broken, the swings lacking seats and the see-saw snapped in two.
The cries of street vendors drifted up to me in my ivory tower.They would be dressed, almost to a man, in the traditional male seroual (baggy trousers with the crotch at knee-level) and a length of orange or yellow brocaded cloth wound around their heads. Trundling along the cracked pavements, they would pull behind them handcarts filled with fresh green vegetables, on which the water drops glittered like crystals in the morning sunlight.
Not only were the cries of street vendors to be heard, but the incessant barking of dogs and surprisingly, cocks crowing, not just at daybreak, but at all times of the day. From time to time throughout the day, the call to prayer from a nearby mosque would float in through the window on the hot still air, marking out the passing hours. It all seemed so alien.
The people on the street seemed to have no volume control, and I could easily make out their conversations without understanding a word. Conversations were usually accompanied by expressive hand gestures and much waving of arms. I had become used to the noise generated by a group of Algerians at full throttle back in Sheffield, but this was overwhelming.
Sometimes, in the evening, sitting at the window waiting for T to come home, his arrival heralded by the white beam of the Austin’s headlights piercing the gathering shadows, I would marvel at the beautiful colours – magenta, topaz and pale pink, rimmed with gold – splashed by the dying rays of the sun on the sky behind the darker bulk of the Aïdour mountain dominating the west of the city. The only light I could make out on the mountain would be a solitary spotlight, twinkling like a star, close to the Basilica of Santa Cruz.
T. had bought me a kaftan, not the silver and black wedding one, but one to wear outside and cover my burgeoning stomach. It was easy to throw on, even over pyjamas or a nightdress. Sometimes, in the deep recesses of my baby brain, there dawned a foggy realisation that I was letting myself go, both physically and mentally. Not as much as some, however.
One morning, feeling particularly brave, I hazarded a trip to the grocer’s. The shopkeepers were always friendly and welcoming, explaining things and helping me with the strange currency. Coming out of the shop, I noticed a group of women walking up the incline towards the second block of flats. They were shepherding along another woman in their midst, forming a protective wall around her.
They looked exactly like a platoon of soldiers carrying out a military operation or sheepdogs chivvying along a particularly recalcitrant sheep. She was looking neither right nor left – just staring in front of her like a zombie. I suddenly recognised the blond hair and spectacles of one of our university friends and, with a cry of joy, rushed towards her.
On hearing me call her name, she turned her head and looked at me blankly, barely acknowledging my presence. Her head then snapped back so she was facing forward again. Her sisters-in-law, as they turned out to be, clustered around her as if to shield her from my unwelcome advances, turning a hostile glare on me. Surprised and shaken, I took a step back, and let the procession move on without another word. I suddenly realised how lucky I had been. Not only had T. not imposed a new code of conduct on me, but neither had my family-in-law. Any prison of mine was of my own making.
The situation improved dramatically once our daughter was born and we moved to our new house in the Clos. Here were surrounding to which I could relate – a low, flat-roofed white bungalow with huge French windows looking out onto a tree-lined gated compound. I felt less like a fish out of water, and gradually my strange agoraphobia wore off to some extent. I began work a few years later and to drive a car around Oran and Arzew with absolutely no problems at all. I also realised it wasn’t true agoraphobia, because, during holidays taken back in Britain, my mother was hard pressed to keep me indoors.