Before Our Dawn| ongoing

one

chapitre un
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March 20th, 1935. Isra Mansouri stared out at the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, a bright blue beneath the early morning sun, as if it shone for her, illuminating the future that lie just beyond the vibrant horizon. A gentle breeze whispered through the air, carrying the taste of salt and feeling cool on the arms left exposed from under the puff sleeves of her day dress. In the distance were the cries of seagulls, and on the shiny sheet of water, boats and ships floated, anchored to the port. And if she squinted her eyes, she could have made out the silhouette of the French coast, of Marseille, waiting for her on the other side of the sea.

Her heart trembled in her chest, pounding like it wanted to break free of its confines as she strolled down the pier and approached the ramp of the ship. Alongside her mother and father, she would be sailing on the Société Anonyme des Armaments Maritimes, one of the few ships that operated scheduled services from Algeria and West Africa to France. According to her father's itinerary, they would depart from Algiers this morning and sail for seven days to Marseille.

Isra huddled closer to her mother, who, unlike her, looked in awe of the ship, and her father, who spoke to a young porter that took their luggage and loaded them onto carts. The hulking metal frame terrified her; it was long, sleek, and narrow, seemingly stretching over miles on the water, cold and uninviting. Isra swallowed the lump forming in her throat, and it sat like a brick in her stomach. She turned away from the ship and looked behind her at the city that had welcomed her into this world and raised her for sixteen years.

As the capital of Algeria, Algiers was a colonial city, divided into two areas: the Casbah and the European Quarter. The Casbah, known as the native quarter to most, was the oldest part of the city and home to a large Arab population, including her family. She recalled the narrow streets winding through houses of white-washed stone like veins, with their flat roofs, courtyards, and intricate wooden balconies. It was a hive of activity, with vendors selling their goods in the markets, children running and playing in the streets, and the sound of music, laughter, and prayer filling the air.

The European quarter was a glaring juxtaposition to the Casbah; modern, affluent, and home to the colonial population. Opposed to the flat-roofed houses Isra spent her childhood in, the architecture of the European quarter embraced Neo-classicalism and the Beaux-Arts. Their streets were wider and straighter, lined with lovely boulevards, parks, and gardens. The French had established their government buildings, embassies, and shops there, and on the odd occasion that she found herself travelling through the European Quarter, it was akin to entering a new world, one she was completely unfamiliar with, one so beautiful yet so alien.

But she was leaving all of it behind now, both the Casbah and the European quarter, to journey to another new world. And regretfully, it would be the last time she would see Algeria again. Despite her father's insistence that they would return someday in the future, Isra knew it wasn't so, and tears pearled on her lashes as she stared out at the city so far away from her.

"We'll meet again, won't we, Isra?"

She turned around, cursing the white kitten heels her mother had recently purchased from a woman who owned a shop in the European quarter, which pinched her toes and made her miss her old sandals. The day dress, too, was uncomfortable, the fitted bodice tight and constricting, and its peachy colour unflattering against her complexion, though her mother had assured her that it complimented her tan skin. Still, these clothes felt strange, felt much too colonial for her taste. She missed her djellaba and its vibrant colours of red, yellow, or green. She wanted to exchange her wide-brimmed hat for a veil, but her mother was keen on adapting to the fashion trends of the French.