Are you happy, mum?
One of my New Year’s resolutions for 2026 (yes, I still make a list of resolutions every year, with the faint hope that seeing them written down will somehow make me more motivated to achieve them) was to read at least five books. Such a small number, and for many people an easy goal to reach. But not for me, or at least not for the person I am now.
When I was younger, I used to read all the time. During the summer, I would get through ten to fifteen books. I especially loved fantasy. I remember devouring all seven Harry Potter books in a week and a half. I was insatiable, almost ruthless in the way I read.
Over time, though, that passion faded dramatically and, for a few years, disappeared altogether. I still read, but mostly academic or professional material, and almost never simply for pleasure or entertainment.
So this year, when I sat down with my list of goals, I added reading to it too, because I still remember how happy and fulfilled it used to make me feel. Few things in my life have ever felt quite as satisfying as finishing a really good book. I chose five because I wanted to be realistic, considering that I work and have plenty of other projects I want to pursue.
And now, in September, I have started many books. Finished? Just one, three weeks ago. And that is exactly the book I want to write about today.
I bought it in May, if I remember correctly, at Mondadori. I chose it almost by chance, though not without doing a little research. I found myself standing in front of a table of discounted books and, wanting to take advantage of the good prices, quickly went online to check their reviews. About half an hour later, I was at the checkout with Le ragazze di Tunisi by Luca Bianchini in my hands and a lot of curiosity about what I was about to read.
I like thinking about the way we choose books. I find it fascinating, especially because so many of the books I have loved most came into my life almost by accident: a gift, an inviting cover, a quote I happened to come across. I can hardly remember ever walking into a bookshop already knowing exactly what I wanted to buy.
Le ragazze di Tunisi is about migration, multiculturalism, and the search for belonging. It is about women, secrets, and traditions. Bianchini makes us feel the lively atmosphere of Tunis through its smells, colors, and gossip. It is a Tunis undergoing an important transformation between 1959 and 1961, as the country moves away from French rule and reclaims an Arab identity. Yet the perspective belongs fully to neither side. Instead, we experience this transition through an Italian family, one of the many who migrated from Sicily, watching the changes unfold in their neighborhood, and through Anna, a young girl trying to understand who she is, where she comes from, and where she is going.
Without giving too much of the plot away, there are several themes in this book that stayed with me and made me reflect.
“Respect for other cultures requires greater restraint.”
When Christmas arrives in Tunis, the Brancata family celebrates quietly. Partly because money is tight, but also because Christmas is not a celebration for everyone around them. And so there is a need for mutual respect. To recognize that my faith, my beliefs, my celebrations are not necessarily those of my neighbor or my classmate. Nor do they have to be.
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The book brings to life a beautiful yet difficult story of coexistence, one that, on a human level, never turns into imposition or a sense of colonial superiority. There is suspicion and fear of the other, of the foreigner, of someone different from oneself, but not the need to assert oneself as better.
It is a story in which understanding and acceptance are not always reached, as we see in Fatima’s marriage, but even misunderstanding is marked by a certain restraint, especially among the children, perhaps less so among the adults. They are not afraid to ask “why?” and, when there is no answer, to simply admit, “I don’t know.”
I really like the word “restraint.” To me, it is connected to humility and simplicity. Values that I sometimes feel are disappearing today, replaced by presumption, arrogance, and constant self-display. Almost a performance of the self that everyone else is expected to watch and eventually conform to.
“Are you happy, Mom?”
At the heart of Bianchini’s story is one of the most frequently told and emotionally powerful human relationships: that between a mother and her daughter, now on the verge of becoming a woman. Anna and Maria are both dreamers, deeply emotional and full of hope. Their relationship is made up of small arguments and secrets, but also a kind of quiet complicity.
Maria is a strong woman raising three daughters while her husband is away working. Anna is a young girl balancing her studies with her first experiences of love, who soon finds herself facing questions much bigger than she is and trying to find answers on her own.
One of the most beautiful moments they share, for me, is a conversation in which Anna asks her mother whether she is happy with her life. I found it deeply moving and precious because, in that moment, Anna, still only a girl, suddenly realizes that the person in front of her is not simply her mother, but an individual in her own right, with dreams, desires, and responsibilities of her own.
The moment becomes even more meaningful when we consider the way Maria’s story develops, all the secrets she carries and the feelings she leaves unspoken. Maria cannot answer the question.
“You look different somehow. Maybe you’re growing up.”
There is also a darker presence in the story, an intermittent figure: Anna’s father, Nannuccio. He is rarely home, always away working. He comes back for holidays and special occasions and appears as a strict figure whom the three girls are somewhat afraid of. On the rare occasions when he returns unexpectedly, he brings with him a sadness, a heaviness that seems to dim the Brancata household. Almost as though, even when he is home, he does not truly belong there.
And yet he is not an entirely negative character. He evolves quietly throughout the story, and beneath his sternness, a strong sense of fairness begins to emerge. One of the clearest examples comes when he looks at Anna and notices that something about her has changed.
That exchange of looks, rather than words, is powerful. It reveals a relationship built on everything left unsaid and on a quiet, unconditional affection.
In the end, Bianchini’s story has a lot to teach us, both historically and on a human level. It is a simple story, not because it lacks twists or surprises, but because the people who inhabit it are ordinary people. And that is exactly what makes it so easy to see parts of ourselves in them.
It is a portrait of a difficult historical moment seen through perhaps the most sincere eyes of all: those of a dreamer who, at last, begins to step into reality.
