Translated from the Tunisian by Ahmed Amor Zaabar
It was midnight.
Two children slept peacefully in their room, their soft breaths rising and falling in quiet rhythm. In the adjoining room, their parents had switched off the light only moments earlier, surrendering to the weariness of an ordinary day.
Then came the knock.
It was no ordinary knock. It crashed against the door like thunder, shaking the walls and awakening fear before it awakened the sleepers. More blows followed, along with harsh, indistinct voices demanding that the door be opened at once.
The father sprang up in alarm. His wife followed, her heart pounding in her chest. He opened the door with frightened eyes.
Four men stood outside, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, their faces hard, their eyes seeming to kindle fire in the darkness.
“Are you Mrs. …?”
In a trembling voice, she answered, “Yes… I am.”
“You are under arrest.”
The mother screamed
At that very moment, the eldest son, twelve years old, woke up. Confused, he stepped out of his room and witnessed the entire scene: his mother’s wrists being bound before his eyes, her body pulled roughly forward, pushed into a dust-covered black-and-white van that looked as though it had spent years carrying the weight of other people’s tragedies.
The vehicle sped away, leaving behind a house stunned into silence and a child frozen where he stood.
At the detention centre, the stale smell of confinement mingled with muffled groans. The place was overcrowded, its occupants wearing faces as pale as the walls surrounding them.
The mother was devastated.
She could not understand why she was there.
She had never imagined herself capable of the offence attributed to her.
In less than twenty-four hours, her quiet life had been overturned.
From a warm home to a cold cell.
From a mother preparing breakfast for her two children to nothing more than a number in a register.
*
The following morning, she was led into a small courtroom with walls drained of colour. The air hung heavy, and a high window let in only a pale thread of daylight.
The judge leafed through the file without looking at her.
He asked her name.
Her occupation.
Her address.
She answered in a faint voice, as though afraid of saying something wrong without knowing what that wrong might be.
The charge was read aloud, and to her it felt as though it belonged to another woman altogether.
She tried to speak.
She wanted to explain.
But she no longer knew where to begin.
The words that had seemed so clear inside her mind scattered the moment they reached her lips.
A black judicial robe seemed to struggle in vain against the darkness gathering over the days awaiting her.
Silence settled briefly.
The judge lowered his eyes to the papers before him and said in an even, measured voice:
“Counsel’s submissions having been heard, the court … The Court orders that the accused be remanded in custody.”
The clerk quickly wrote something down.
The case file was closed
At the back of the courtroom, a ceiling fan turned slowly, its steady hum unchanged.
At first, she did not fully understand what the judge had said.
Her mind remained caught on the opening words.
She was escorted outside.
In the corridor, another woman waited for her turn, clutching a small handbag tightly against her chest.
At the prison gate, they took her hair clip.
Then her wedding ring.
Her name was entered into a thick ledger.
She was assigned a number.
That evening she sat on a narrow iron bed beneath a worn blanket in a cell shared with women she had never met.
One spoke quietly about her children.
Another stared at the wall, as though waiting for something invisible.
Then, all at once, she remembered that her eldest son could never sleep if the bedroom door was left open.
She rested her head against the cold wall.
She did not cry.
About the Author
Faten Guemri is a Tunisian poet and short story writer from the Kerkennah Islands, born in 1979, she is one of Tunisia’s young contemporary poets and short story writers. Through her writing, she explores the self and the world, reflecting on life and existence. Her first poetry collection (Aktubu Li Tarani / I write to be seen) was published in 2025. She has published several short stories and is currently preparing two new books: a collection of short stories and a third volume that combines narrative with poetic meditation. She practices law and resides in Tunis, where she continues to draw inspiration from her surroundings and experiences.
About the Translator
Ahmed Amor Zaabar (Tunisian, living in London) is a poet, writer, and media specialist. He is the former Chairman of the Cultural Committee of the Arab Cultural Forum in Britain, the former Chairman of the Media Committee of the Arab Club in Britain, and the Vice President of the White Ink Club in London. He has published 4 poetry volumes; is currently working on 3 additional poetry volumes. His poetry has been translated into French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian, Serbian and English.
