“Our revolution is your revolution!” I shout this into the camera. “We must all come home to this!”
Behind me, my flatmates and their new girlfriends cheer for me each time I raise my voice, even when they do not know what I am saying. Will it never stop, this absurd trust in me?
“Look behind me at all of these people,” I tell the camera. “They have all made the decision to die in these streets with their friends and countrymen before they spend one more night in houses, alone and scared.”
The light is too bright. I cannot see who is behind the camera filming me. An English journalist was asking me questions before, but I think he has gone. Or maybe he is letting me talk without interruption. Foolish of him, if so.
“Do you understand what started all of this?” I ask the invisible reporter. “Do you understand what happened in Sidi Bouzid? A young man named Mohamed was selling fruit he had procured on credit. He had a wife and children, and only a simple fruit cart to support them.
“A policewoman. She confiscated his cart on a false charge, and with this one act of corruption made Mohamed and his family destitute. But she did not stop with this. When he pleaded for his cart, she slapped his face and spat upon him. There was no purpose in this, no profit but to see him humiliated. Only to show him that she and President Ben Ali were strong and that he was poor, frail, and weak.
“What was this man, Mohamed, to do? Go home? Accept shame and poverty? Watch his children grow painfully hungry? Was he to strike this policewoman with all his rage and have some measure of violent revenge before they took him to a dungeon without trial? If he had done any of these things, the common people you see here would never have heard of him. They would never have come to this square to stake their lives on this revolution.
“No. He did something far more brave. He fought back not with his strength, but with his frailty. He went to the police station, doused himself in paint thinner, and set his flesh ablaze. He burned himself, right before the policewoman’s eyes, to show her just how frail he was.
“And he survived for a time in hospital. The wounds did not take Mohamed until this morning, and in a great mercy from God, he lived long enough to see his countrymen filling these streets because of what he did. Not because we admire his strength, but because we share his weakness and his frailty. We are united by it.”
I stop speaking to catch my breath. I feel my friends pressing against my back, cheering even louder than before.
“And I made this decision, too,” I continue. “To die in these streets if necessary, though I am not Tunisian. Did I tell you that? Also, I am not Syrian, though my passport says that I am. And I am not Iraqi . . .”
I stop and take a final, deep breath before finishing this thought.
“I am weak. And that is all. But I am not without a home. To be weak? To be scared and frail? This is to have a home. These people behind me are all very weak and all very scared. We are so easy to kill. President Ben Ali has made certain that we are all reminded of this. But to die here? Outside where it is cold? This would be to die at home. And few people are so lucky as to die at home.”
Finally, after a long time, I stop talking.
The English journalist, hidden behind his bright lights, speaks. “President Ben Ali claims he will send the army into Tunisia’s cities tomorrow if the crowds have not dispersed. Will you stay here even if the army comes?”
“Of course.” I laugh. “Where else would I go?”
The crowd shifts again, running from some danger. The cameras disappear from me. There is something more interesting to film now. Perhaps some violence. I see the camera light pushing through the protest camp before I am pulled away by my flatmates. They drag me into a side alley and push me down behind a Dumpster.
We hide through the night, taking turns with the watching and sleeping, wondering if we will all die before we see the sun again.
I fall asleep sometime before the dawn and am awakened by a satellite phone being shoved into my hand.
“Now is the time,” a flatmate tells me. “The Army did not come. They refused their orders. Ben Ali is finished. Call your American friend. Read him the letter.”
The number has been dialed into the phone for days, waiting for me to gather enough courage. My friends are right. This is the time. I must call.
I press a finger into one ear to muffle the noise of celebration and wait for an answer.
A confused, familiar voice speaks to me. “Hello?”
I swallow my fear. “Lester?”
“No, you’ve reached Pete. I think you must have the wrong . . . wait. Who is this?”
“This is Kateb. I am calling for the Doc. Can you get him?”
There is a long silence.
“I can barely hear you. Say again? Who is this?”
Then I recognize the voice. “Mulasim.”
“Dodge?” he says into the dirty connection. “Wait. Who is this, really? This isn’t someone messing with me, right?”
“Please, Mulasim. Please hurry to get a pen and paper. I have something to read. You must write this down.”
I pull a wadded page from the front pocket of my jeans, ready to begin.