“Labas?1’’ “Ma3likch?2’’ “Wech rak?3’’
“Labas.”
On the stairs, at the school, at the bakery; we spend it at least a dozen times before noon. It’s Algeria’s most circulated currency. A spent currency that lost its value, yet, we keep printing it. Everyone’s fine. All is well. We’re all good. I say labas as casually as I say “Saha lik4” to a friend who got a fresh haircut; emotionlessly, absent-mindedly, like a first instinct. If I said the real thing on my mind at the queue, at the bakery, around family; heads would turn, faces would be etched with distasteful grimaces, and the bread would go cold. The one time I said “no, not really,’’ my aunt made sure I’d remember it, as I was dubbed “the ungrateful one.’’ I swallowed those words down with every spoon of Chorba. She kept feeding me those words until I agreed. “Of course I’m fine!’’
Wech ygoulou ennas?5 Hchouma6. For decades, your average Algérien and Algérienne outsourced their emotions; it’s not like we don’t feel. We wallow in self-pity under a guise. We don’t emotionally indulge. Women use funerals and cutting onions as good excuses to grieve and cry, and a man may only weep when the Fennecs are losing during penalties. God forbid if the mask slips, you can’t be less than fine or else you bring shame to yourself and your family. All those Rai songs we danced to in weddings did the weeping and grieving for us. “Of course I’m fine.’’
My diploma lives in a plastic disposable sleeve in my mother’s little cabinet, between her wedding album and the gold she is saving for my wedding. A thing of no value. Every Eid, someone has to stick their nose in as they ask the infamous question: “What are you doing these days?’’. Of course not, curiosity did not kill the cat this time. So, I simply say “Je cherche7,’’ as I have been for the last five years. They fail to see what I’m looking for, though. A reason to keep going; to keep my head above water as the quiet war wages within. “Of course I’m fine.’’
When someone decides to speak their mind at the slightest inconvenience, we reach for the magic solutions. A cup of warm Tizana8. The Raqi’s phone number. The eternal prescription of Sabr, and occasionally, a much-needed arranged marriage. Faith has always been a genuine shelter for many of us out there; no one should tear it down. A shelter has doors too. Sometimes, despair creeps in between the cracks. Then, you’re at odds with yourself. You become the enemy, as you hope for that Sabr prescription to last for the rest of the year. “No, I’m not fine.’’
Beneath the veneer of calm demeanor sit the safe-guarded words that keep us awake at night. You mutter it in between fake smiles and that hushed tone. Or you don’t, not at all. When somebody decides to take the self-directed exit and end their suffering, they frame it as “cowardice,” taking the easy way out. The family fabricates many stories just to hide the shame and avoid the unanswerable. They died in their sleep. It was an accident. They collapsed unexpectedly. We don’t know what happened. Case closed. Wash the shame before the religious verdicts come prior to those condolences. God forbid you survive that attempt. You’re accused of desperately seeking attention, the drama-monger. As if that cry for help was a crime in itself. Mother, I can’t feel your hands reaching for me. “No, I’m not fine.’’
No Algerian host lets a guest leave after one glass of tea; it is practically a shame. We swear, we pour a second glass, maybe even a third. We insist. When did we exactly forget to pour the second glass for that friend claiming that “They’re labas?’’ When was it so hard not to cling to a non-trivial question of such caliber? YOU POUR THAT SECOND GLASS, you ask “sah labas?9’’ And you inject it with as much meaning as necessary. Go for the frightening question. You never know who’s having a bad day. Who’s fighting an internal war. Who’s ready to “end things.’’ Don’t sugar-coat it or wax it poetic. Do the most un-Algerian thing that comes to mind: don’t interrupt. If the silence lingers, let it linger; embrace it like an old friend. If the torrent comes, brace yourself for the calm after; the downpour will break the drought eventually. “Maybe… I will be fine.’’
To anyone hiding behind “I’m fine,’’ you are allowed to have a different saying. Say it to a counsellor, a therapist, a doctor, a safe place. “Manich labas.10’’ It’s okay not to be okay. Take a sip from that second glass as I ask you again:
“Labas?” “Ma3likch?” “Wech rak?’’
“Labas.’’
‘’Are you sure? Labas?’’
“No, I’m not labas.’’
“Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.’’
Maybe… I will be fine.
