About to graduate from Sarah Lawrence College, I was determined to become a documentary filmmaker. Albert and David Maysles — the legends of New York cinema vérité — juried my thesis, and to my amazement, offered me a job as a film editor in their company. At the same time, I’d been accepted into the Peace Corps and assigned to Tunisia, where the government was starting a television station. I stood at a crossroads: join the Maysles Brothers in New York, or head to North Africa with a dream of making documentary films.
I turned for advice to Academy Award–winning cinematographer Erica Anderson. She didn’t hesitate. She told me: “Find your own voice. Follow your passion. Join the Peace Corps and make your own films.” I listened.
At MIT, Stanley completed his architectural thesis on housing in developing countries. His classmate, Roger Lewis, convinced him to forgo the Italian Thesis Prize in Rome and join him in Peace Corps Tunisia, where Stanley could put his ideas to work.
I headed for Peace Corps training at Princeton University and learned that my assignment would be teaching English as a Second Language at the Bourguiba School in Tunis, not a developing TV station. I must admit, I enjoyed teaching. My students were wonderful, but secretly I was frustrated. This was a far cry from my dream of making films. Meanwhile, an equally frustrated Stanley was designing hotels for tourists at the Tunisian Bureau of Tourism. The money generated from hotels and tourism, they assured him, could then build low-cost housing.
Two frustrated Peace Corps Volunteers met in this exotic country. I really had no desire to meet the love of my life during my two years in the Peace Corps. I planned to avoid any love entanglement but along came Stanley. What can I say? He was different and slowly we became very attached.
Stanley knew I longed to make films and suggested, “Why don’t we make a documentary on the Berbers (Amazigh) in Southern Tunisia where they carve houses into mountainsides or dig underground homes in the valleys? You can direct and run sound while I study their architecture and be your cameraman.” I liked both Stanley and his idea.
I brought the idea of this summer project to our Peace Corps director, Richard Graham, an amazing man, a diplomat and dream-enabler. He knew my passion for filmmaking and did something extraordinary. He not only agreed to supply the 16-mm film, but he also advanced part of my end-of-service going-home allowance to send Stanley to Switzerland to pick up the latest Bolex camera with a zoom lens and tape recorder.
Filming requires permission, and we needed someone the Berbers trusted. That person was Père André Louis, a priest (Père Blanc), anthropologist, and professor at the Sorbonne who had studied the Berber culture for years and hosted a weekly radio program about traditional village life. When we met him deep in the Tunis medina at L’Institut des Belles Lettres Arabes, he listened carefully, then smiled and said: “I will help, but only if I can come with you.”
Our small crew grew to include a Catholic priest, my Peace Corps roommate, Suzanne Meagher (Owen), and her Tunisian boyfriend, Moncef Meddeb. With Père Louis as our guide, we set out across the desert and into the mountains.
The Berbers — Amazigh — welcomed us warmly. They trusted Père Louis. He’d spent years learning their language, sleeping in their homes, and honoring their customs. They were honored and flattered by our interest in their culture and way of life. Père Louis introduced us to a young woman in traditional Berber dress leaving a deep troglodyte cave. She was one of his graduate students, home for the summer. Thanks to President Bourguiba, education was open to all women even those in mountain villages.
Villagers and nomads living in tents felt at ease with Suzanne and me. They had never been up close to Western women. Examining our Western outfits with delight, they dressed us in their embroidered clothes and silver jewelry. Père Louis was finally able to take pictures of us in the Berber clothes, safely avoiding any offense. I purchased a lovely headscarf and a beautiful embroidered traditional jebba, a robe worn by judges in Southern Tunisia.
Stanley and Père Louis spent hours discussing why these mountain dwellers had moved from their mountaintop fortresses to underground homes. They concluded that once the ancient conflicts between Arabs and Berbers ended, the Berbers felt safe enough to descend into the valleys below. Literally, peace had brought them down to earth.
Our filming days were long and hot, but problem after problem was solved. The desert light dazzled, the hospitality was humbling. Finally, our first batch of film was shipped to the United States for processing. Months later, we learned that the reels had been sent by mistake to Indonesia — and lost forever. We were heartbroken. I was very upset when I told Richard Graham, but he smiled and immediately stood up and hugged me. “Look at all the friends you’ve made,” he said. “Now go back and shoot it again.” And we did.
Those days among the Berbers shaped how Stanley and I would see the world—and each other.
