I like the idea of being caught between things, always being a bit of an outsider, having an outside eye on things.
I looked at my husband-to-be as he sat on the chair in his mother’s bedroom, laughing and joking with his siblings. It was December, 1968, and ever since we had arrived in Algiers that afternoon, more and more Kabyle words had been slipping into his French, until now he was talking practically all the time in his mother tongue. Continue reading
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
-Ozymandias: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Many of the preconceptions that people have about life in Algeria, both past and present, have nothing to do with reality. I have already written at length about the life I led in post-independence Algeria, but the idea of an Algiers complete with its sultan’s harem and seraglio filled with eunuchs and concubines, its slave market – all cherished stereotypes – is not in fact authentically Algerian, but a result of traditions imported from Ottoman Istanbul during its three centuries of overlordship. Continue reading
“The bay is there, majestic, bathed in a dazzling light. The white City clings to the mountain slope that seems to float on a vast carpet of blue marble….”
Akram Belkaid – Return to Algeria
Algiers. Photo by Karen Rose.
Trembling, I stood there at the top of the plane stairs, shading my eyes and squinting in the bright sunshine. When the aircraft door had been opened a few moments before, the warm air had hit me like a blast from a hairdryer, blowing dust into my eyes and whipping my long hair into tangles across my face. My mouth felt dry and my stomach tight with apprehension as I followed the other passengers across the tarmac to the airport building. Continue reading