The Birth of Courage
by Brecht De Poortere
On 17 December 2010, a young man, doused in petrol and despair, sets himself on fire in front of the police station of Sidi Bouzid. He had been stripped of his livelihood and karama—his dignity. The authorities try to extinguish the flames with censorship. The story is a footnote in the international press. Everyone is certain it will blow over. This is Tunisia, after all: an island of stability. An economic miracle.
But courage is born out of humiliation.
The fire smoulders and protests spread. I sit at an ironing board and check the news while having supper. I have recently moved to Tunisia, so I have no furniture. My marble-floored living room is so large the echoes take a while to travel and the sounds are distorted—much like the truth in this country. Many websites are blocked. Error 404. Ammar 404. The authorities don’t want you to know what is going on.
But courage is born out of deceit.
Social media are ablaze. Hashtag Sidi Bouzid. Protests spread to Menzel Bouzaiane, Al Ragab, Meknassi. People shout “Bread and water, no to Ben Ali”. The police respond with bullets. There are casualties in Thala, Regueb, Feriana, Kasserine. A sacrifice of children to the chief deity of Carthage. But each funeral sparks new protests, resulting in more deaths, and more bodies to be buried. This is not just another “bread riot”. This is Tunisia’s Bloody Sunday.
And courage is born out of bloodshed.
I start my new job in a country full of unemployed. But focusing on work is impossible. I check the news incessantly—ctrl R over and over again. Expats are urged to leave the country. Embassies and foreign companies shut down. My employer wants me to keep calm and carry on—until tear gas shrouds the building and guns are fired in the street behind. I flag a taxi and rush home (I can’t believe taxis are still working). I try to stock up on groceries on the way (I’m surprised the shops are still open).
But courage is born out of necessity.
Fahim tukum, Ben Ali announces on television. I have understood you. He sacks people from his inner circle. Releases prisoners. Promises free press. Shortly after his speech, cars honk in the streets. There appear to be celebrations. Is the revolution over? But something’s fishy. There is meant to be a curfew. The cars honking have blue and white license plates: they are hire cars. The celebrations are fake, staged. Yes, YouTube is now uncensored—but is that what people have died for?
Courage is born out of contempt.
I sleep on a mattress on the floor and I am woken in the middle of the night by helicopters and gunshots. The presidential palace is a stone’s throw away from my house and it’s clear: there is trouble in the gardens of Hamilcar. Daughters of Dido. Sons of Hannibal. They’ve had enough. A wind of change is blowing through Carthage.
Courage is born out of legends.
January 14th. Avenue Bourguiba, the Tunisian Champs Élysées, sees the largest gathering of people it has ever seen. Rayes Lebled, Mr President, what are you scared off? The people have no weapons, but the flags they wave, the signs they brandish, and the songs they chant. Ben Ali ala barra—Ben Ali get out. The people are not scared, because they have nothing to lose. The people have nothing, but each other.
And courage is born out of unity.
That night, Ben Ali flees to Jeddah, tail between his legs. Headless, the country descends into chaos. Villas are plundered, supermarkets burnt down. I decide it’s safer to stay with friends. We make a modest meal out of our limited supplies and, from the balcony of their apartment, we watch the sun set. The sky turns the colour of harissa, the colour of the Tunisian flag, the colour of martyrs’ blood. In the street below, the neighbours build barricades to keep the looters out. Women bring meals to the men who will spend the night defending their homes.
Courage is born out of solidarity.
The next day, I head toward the airport. The roads are deserted, shops boarded up. Then a scene I will never forget. A young man in black jeans, leather jacket, trainers, places a ladder against a gigantic poster of Ben Ali. He climbs up. He looks miniscule in comparison to the head of the president. It’s David versus Goliath. Then he grabs a corner of the poster and pulls, and a huge tear appears across the smile of Ben Ali. His whitened grin ruined forever.
Courage is born out of anger.
The airport is packed and chaos reigns. Flights are delayed or cancelled. When our plane finally takes off, I am relieved that I will soon be reunited with my wife and children back in London. I watch Tunis get smaller through the porthole—the white sand of its beaches, the sky-blue water. Winter will soon turn into spring. Baʿal Qarnaim, the Lord of Two Horns, will make the jasmine bloom. A fresh breeze, nessma, will carry the seed of revolution to neighbouring lands, to Egypt and to Libya, and sow an Arab Spring.
Because courage is contagious.
“I arrived in Tunis a few weeks before what became known as the Jasmine Revolution which brought an end to president Zine El Abidine Ben Ali’s dictatorship. In this short piece, I tried to capture some of my emotions and experiences of that time but, above all, I wanted to bring an ode to the brave people who led this revolution.” —Brecht De Poortere
Brecht De Poortere was born in Belgium and grew up in Africa. He currently lives in Paris, France. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Grain, Consequence, X-R-A-Y and The Baltimore Review, amongst others, and has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best Microfiction. He is a reader for Consequence journal. You can follow him on Twitter @brecht_dp or visit his website, www.brechtdepoortere.com.