15 January, 2011. The morning after the night before. Almost two thousand miles north of Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, bold expressions of solidarity are being made in support of the country’s people. Yesterday, the people succeeded in bringing down a president. Today, revolutionary fervour has erupted in Brussels.
A rowdy contingent is gathered outside Bourse, an historic symbol of Belgian capitalism. The old stock exchange and speaker’s corner is the scene of many a weekend protest. No point being at the Berlaymont when the Eurocrats are away for two days, probably off in their home countries or holed up in the suburbs. Bourse, behind Grand Place and at the heart of Brussels' tourist trade, is the perfect place to draw attention to your cause. And these demonstrators are here to be heard.
“One, Two, Three / Viva La Tunisie!” they intone in full-throated chorus, over and over again, about two hundred of them in unison. Their slogan may not be catchy but it’s powerful nonetheless and everyone on the busy shopping streets surrounding the popular landmark is stopping and taking notice.
***
This isn’t, strictly speaking, a protest. It’s a party. The people are here to celebrate the people’s uprising in their homeland, which has resulted in the downfall of Tunisia’s president of twenty-three years, Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali. They used to call him “Ben A Vie” meaning president for life, an ironic soubriquet for the man who claimed to have won three successive elections, each with over eighty per cent of the vote. Now they call him “Ben A Degagé”, Ben is out and they’re elated.
“I’m here because I’m happy,” beams Mohammed, a middle-aged father of three who’s come from the other side of town to be part of the action. “In the beginning I didn’t believe it, until now. I’m Tunisian and I’ve been in Belgium for thirty years. I saw some things on television that I didn’t like and I want to be here to say that we can be happy now. I hope for good things for Tunisia and Tunisians. Fiesta! Voila!”
The North African sun has finally set on one of the region’s most repressive dictators. After days of protests, the autocrat has been pushed out of power by a surprise revolt that started almost a month ago and gradually gathered pace. It began with the deed of one man who, reduced to selling fruit on the street because there was no other job for him, set fire to himself when he was forbidden from doing even that by police. This incident ignited a series of events that led to the first successful Arab world uprising in thirty-one years. And that is why we’re here.
***
The red and white of the Tunisian standard adds colour to the austere grey of the Bourse. Young men straddle the giant lion sculptures on either side of the imposing neo-classical building, erecting flags. Rodin had a hand in this place. Now they do too.
A large crowd on the steps below excitedly pump placards high in to the air. The Tunisian flags fly alongside Algerian ones, the old enemies united in optimism, and there’s the odd Moroccan one thrown in for good measure. Banners expressing solidarity with the Ivory Coast are waved zealously beside Che Guevara motifs. The local socialists have also infiltrated the party, handing out leaflets proclaiming the imminent fall of capitalism. Revolution is in the air.
***
If this is supposed to be a party it doesn’t feel like it. Emotions are high yet, amid the jubilation, there’s a bristling tension. “Saudi government, shame on you! Fuck you and your oil. Bastards!” spits one man, aggressively jabbing his finger in the air. Along with their relief at Ben Ali’s exit, there’s resentment as to why they’ve had to endure years of despotic rule while the West stood idly by as the situation in Tunisia was allowed to deteriorate.
“L’Europe etait complice du dictateur,” reads a sign and its bearer is in no doubt as to who’s to blame for Tunisia’s agony. The man with the condemnatory placard is fulminating against the European and American governments: Ben Ali is guilty of murder, repression and corruption, he says, and the West is guilty of turning a blind eye to it. His invective is so boisterously impassioned that people begin to move away from him, creating a space for his imaginary soapbox as he expounds his theory using every part of his body. He charges the West with being complicit in the suffering of the Tunisian people for their own gain. It’s the same story, just a different state.
***
Because of Ben Ali’s support to the West as a bulwark against Islamic extremism, and his cosy relationship with various European leaders, his heavy-handed rule has long been tolerated. France, Tunisia’s former colonial power, even threatened to send troops to Tunis to help restore order. For the West, it’s been a case of better the devil you know. Not so for the Tunisian people, who’ve been sacrificed in the process, considered collateral damage in the war against terror, like the innocent Pakistanis killed while they slept in drone attacks or the Afghan civilians cut down on the street by misguided bombs.
“Memoir a nos martyrs de la liberté”. Those who have died, like Muhammad Bouazizi, the self-immolator, and the dozens of others killed in the days of rioting, are considered freedom fighters here. Their deeds have made them martyrs. “Power to the people”. “Ben Ali doit payer pour ses crimes”. “Arretez le massacre”. “Dignité, egalitié, paix pour la Tunisie”. The demands, declarations and accusations by way of banners and placards keep on coming. They’re written in French, Dutch, Arabic and English. This is, after all, an officially bilingual, international city, the capital of Europe, and they feel - they hope - that Europe, if not the world is watching. But, whatever the language, the message is the same: We’ve suffered enough. This is our time. Carpe diem.
***
Like their compatriots in Tunis and other towns and cities around Tunisia, most of those here celebrating are young men in their twenties, some Belgian-born-and-raised, others more recent arrivals. There are also a decent number of women and older people in the throng, whole families - fathers lift small children on their shoulders so they too can bear witness - as well as non-Tunisians of various backgrounds. They’ve all come to share in the moment, to watch history in the making.
“I live here in Belgium,” says Ali, a man in his late thirties, in strained but perfect English. “Unfortunately.”
He’s holding aloft a double-sided placard which reads: I call all Arab nations to get rid of their dictators on one side and Yes We Can Too on the other. Both sides declare: I’m proud and Tunisian so that no one is in any doubt.
“Why unfortunately?” I ask.
“Because I wanted to be there,” he says. “This is my way of expressing solidarity.” And without missing a beat he insists: “And I’m ready to die for it.”
When someone looks you in the eye and tells you with complete conviction that they're ready to die for their country, you don’t flinch, so unnerved are you by their devotion. There are a million questions you want to ask but none make themselves available. You begin to see the person in a different light. All of a sudden, he becomes more real, not just another stranger but an actual human being with a past and a present. His future becomes questionable. He becomes vulnerable. So do you. You realise that he could be your brother or your cousin and you feel protective of him. You empathise with his wanting to be at home and yet having to be far from it, desperate to play a part in shaping his country's future. You feel it about Britain, in the wake of some of the severest cuts that the country has experienced in a generation, and I feel it about Ghana, always.
“I want to talk to the people of the Arab world because the Arab leaders are all stupid and dictators,” Ali says. “I want them to have a revolution and show all the leaders that we are stronger than them.”
There’s something completely sincere about Ali, and something wholly naive. He looks an anguished man. His lips speak of revolt and his eyes convey suffering. Though this is the first time I’ve met him, and it will probably be the last, he begins to mean something to me. Something in him reflects something in me. I feel I know his struggle. I identify with his frustration. Maybe it’s the Africa connection.
My mind wanders back to what it must have been like in Africa at the dawn of independence, when sweeping change was on the horizon and the anticipation was so high it was electric. There was no knowing what the future would bring but that was half the excitement, the unfolding of events. It makes you think about the cost of freedom and those willing to pay its price. Perhaps you would give your life for your family or even a good friend but for the men and women you don't know, many of whom are yet to be born? These are the revolutionaries, the sacrificial lambs. It’s in their hands that the future lies.
Most of the protestors know that, while they’ve come to the end of a long battle, they’re just at the beginning of another, one of uncertainty but not fear because this time, at least, they’re in control of their own destiny. “Ben Ali has been the “president” of Tunisia but actually he’s a dictator and he’s been oppressing people for over three decades and now finally he’s gone,” says Ben, a twenty-year-old Belgian-born Tunisian while hastily handing me a sign to wave. “But we don’t know what’s going to happen next,” he admits. “The most important thing is that he’s gone.” He pauses briefly to think about what he’s said and, with more than a hint of caution, adds on reflection, “For now.”
And that’s all they have – “for now”. How long is now only time will tell. For the moment, there’s unbridled happiness that will soon be tempered by cautious optimism. But that, like all killjoys, can wait until the morning.
