Fruit and Flames, a Short Story
The old wooden cart is wheeled through the narrow, dimly lit streets, creaking as it rides the ground. The cart carries 170 Dinars worth of fruit, obtained through credit, shaking with each uneven slab of concrete and every cobblestone. Piles of flat peaches, slightly furry, are blotched with shades of unripe green. Large, fragrant oranges bounce off each other. Prickly pears are isolated in their own boxes, red and yellow, covered by barbed skin. Rows of tender figs, a deep purple, are given slightly more room. Clusters of sticky dates are piled in a corner. Green apples are speckled with white. Four large watermelons lie in the center. The fruit shakes in the old wooden cart. The night is humid but there is a faint breeze that carries an aroma, mostly of citrus, through the twisting alleyways. Nobody is outside to smell it but Bouazizi, whose hands grip the old wood firmly, his nostrils flaring occasionally as he pushes. The houses on either side of him form long, continuous rows, some are painted bleach white, while most have their red brickwork exposed. The wooden doors are painted in black and deep blues. They are patterned with iron studs, which arch along the doorframes and form images in the center. Crude outlines of fish, diamonds, crescent moons that gleam in the sunshine, but are hardly visible now in the dim light. Bouazizi does not see anyone as he passes the familiar houses. It is past midnight. He imagines friends, acquaintances, distant family sprawled on mattresses, snoring blissfully, the breeze coming in through window grates. His ankles are aching, there is a tightness in his back from bending over the cart for so long. He emerges from the knot of alleyways and crosses the road to his own street, a dead-end of cavernous houses, built low and squat. He leans the cart against the wall of the family home. In places, a thin layer of plaster covers the red brick, but the job is largely unfinished. The front door is wide and can only be opened from the inside. On one side of it is a smaller door, which grants entry with a stoop.
Once he has squeezed the cart into the hallway, Bouazizi removes his slippers, feels the cool tiles on the soles of his feet. He steps into the courtyard and from an adjacent room his mother, Manoubia, calls to him.
‘Basboosa. Inti jeet Basboosa?’ She sounds as though she has just been roused from a bad dream.
‘Ay ommi – jibt il ghala.’ He can hear Salim snoring, slow and laboured beside her.
‘Lebes?’
‘Lebes ommi, Lebes’. 1Bouazizi moves into the kitchen. A large white pillar splits the room, on one side is a small gas cooker and worktop, on the other, chairs and a plastic table covered by a laminated tablecloth. He checks the fridge. It is empty apart from several bottles of water, a jar of harissa and a small bag of capers. He looks around the worktop for some leftover bread, but finds nothing. Through the door opposite the kitchen, his younger brother and sister are sleeping – he knows he will have leave again before they wake for school in the morning. He hesitates for a moment in the courtyard. The stars shine bright above the house. Salim’s snoring is the only sound - the man his mother married shortly after his father’s death is devout, kind and well-meaning, but is not a provider, does not earn enough. Bouazizi moves back to the corridor, toward the cart. He picks a flat peach from the pile and raises it to his mouth. He can’t help but think his teeth are sinking into his own debt. Juice drips from his chin down to the tiled floor.
Dawn is grey
and cool. Bouazizi is woken by the echoed call for Fajr. 2He rubs his eyes, stretches, and slides his feet into his slippers. Magpies
chirp frantically on the flat roof above, the rest of the house is silent. In
the bathroom, he washes his face thoroughly but does not perform wudu. 3He gels his thick black hair so it sticks upward slightly. He puts on his
only pair of jeans and a plain, worn t-shirt. Of course, the fridge has not
been refilled overnight - there is no breakfast to be had. He considers taking
more fruit from the cart but quickly banishes the thought. He goes to his room
to fetch the electronic scales and a roll of plastic bags. In the hallway, the
stone from the flat peach lies on the floor, strands of orange flesh still stuck
to its surface. Ants swarm around the stone, they tug and push but do not make
any progress. Bouazizi picks it up, opens the smaller front door and flings it
into the street. He takes a breath, prepares himself. He will sell the contents
of the cart while it is fresh. He will make enough money today to pay Walid
back, and the rest will be his – his family’s. There is no reason he should be
troubled. He is an honest man carrying out an honest day’s work. He takes
another deep breath. He checks for flies in the cart, rearranges the figs and
dates so that they are not squashed, and begins to unlock the larger door.
Outside, the sunlight comes down in streaks through the clouds. The satellite dishes on the roofs cast circular shadows on the houses opposite. Bees float around the jasmine trees at the entrance of the cul-de-sac, buzzing contentedly in the morning light. Bouazizi pulls the large front door behind him and stands behind the old wooden cart. On the road ahead, car engines stutter and motorbike horns beep impatiently. He pushes the cart to the end of the street and waits for an opening. Some of the passengers in the cars stare inside the cart, perhaps admiring the colours of the fruits, perhaps hungry. Once there is a gap in the traffic, Bouazizi pushes the cart across the road, heading toward the alleyway he had emerged from the night before. Now, the streets are filled with people leaving for work, men in white robes walking back from mosques, children playing between the houses. Bouazizi walks with a confidence, a sense of optimism that has eluded him for some time. He knows the fruit is good. It will sell. Especially the flat peaches. He will sell all of the peaches today. The old cart rattles as he turns the corner leading to his Uncle’s home – a two-storey house built in the French mode, unlike the traditional Arab houses that surround it. It is insulated, carpeted, its white outer walls textured like sandpaper. Nabil works in a bank. He has helped Bouazizi’s family many times in the past but now his own livelihood is under threat. The banks are making so called ‘redundancies’ - experienced advisors and analysts replaced by young men who are straight out of college, the brothers and cousins of high-ranking managers. Although, this is not to be mentioned. Any talk of nepotism is quickly met by a cautionary letter from the Banque Centrale de Tunisie, stamped with the coat of arms - a red shield split in two, on one side the scales of justice, on the other a lion standing on its hind legs.4 Bouazizi assumes Nabil has already left for work. The bedroom windows on the second floor are closed against the sun, which will be ablaze once he returns for his lunchtime nap. The wooden cart rolls onward, and as Bouazizi is about to turn the next corner, he hears a voice behind him.
‘Ah Basboos, ya Basboos’. It’s Nabil’s 10-year-old son, Karim. He is wearing only shorts and grins widely.
‘Ah, ya kelb. Chbeek fayak?’
‘Haat kabba’. He gestures to the cart with a puny arm.
‘Aya barra alaab, barra.’
‘Inti howa il kelb!’
Bouazizi quickly turns the corner with a skilled twist of the cart and disappears from view. Karim begins to curse, but stops at the sight of an arm bent around the wall, a green apple in its hand.
‘Shid!’ The apple is thrown high into the air, just far enough to reach Nabil’s doorstep. Karim adjusts his body and manages to catch the apple two-handed.
‘Ooh, inti il maiylem,’ the little boy shouts. Bouazizi laughs over the sound of creaking wood.5
The centre of Sidi Bou Said is almost unrecognisable from the sprawling web of narrow streets that lead to it.6 The large town square is bordered by grand white buildings – government bureaus, banks, a museum. The windows grates on the buildings are painted in the same rich blue as the large doors, which bear intricate patterns in black paint. Large knockers are shaped like the hands of giants holding rocks. The governor’s office faces the middle of the square, a limp Tunisian flag raised high above its arched, marble entrance. The cobblestones of the square are flatter and more uniform than in the winding residential streets. Less dusty too. The mechanical sweepers are said to be too large to pass through the alleyways - although, they are not much wider than a cart. Olive trees, with wiry branches and scale-like leaves, are spread sporadically across the square. The trees are enclosed by raised squares of concrete, painted in red and white stripes, thin wire mesh is wrapped around the trunks. Bouazizi lays the fruit cart by one of the trees, catching his breath in the shade. He watches the people, many of them outsiders, milling around the square. The tourists are easy to find. Their eyes are concealed by sunglasses. Their skin shades of red, some have blonde hair. The women wear dresses, the men, expensive-looking polo shirts. Many of the tourists are heading toward a road off the main square which leads down toward the Souk de Sidi Bou Said. He spots Monsof the fishmonger, a weathered man twenty years his senior whose face is dominated by a large, curling grey moustache. They exchange nods from a distance. Not long after, he sees Samia, who sells spices in brown paper bags to tourists. She has always been kind to him whenever he has set his cart beside her stall.
‘Sbarh il kheel’, she calls to him.7
Bouazizi does not plan to sell his produce in the market like the other merchants. The fruit is good, but he would face a lot of competition, may be overshadowed - outshouted. The last time he set up there, he ran into some trouble. No. He will set up in the square, by the road leading down to the market. He will sell all of the flat peaches today. The tourists will come to him first and he will sell enough to pay Walid back. He does not think about an alternative.
While the air is humid, the sun is yet to become unbearable. Bouazizi has set up his cart under another olive tree, which is near enough to the declining road to intercept the flow of people heading to the market. Business is going well. He does not have to shout – the vibrant colours of the fruit do most of the work. In just over an hour, he has sold two of the watermelons to a French man. They were sold at a very inflated price but he seemed wealthy and it is good watermelon. The guilt is momentary. A quarter of the flat peaches are also gone – he weighs them by the kilo, and ties them up in plastic bags. A blonde woman begins talking about pomegranates in a mixture of French and clunky Arabic, Bouazizi asks whether she has ever tried Tunisian figs. Yes, you can eat the skin too. He lets her try one and she takes half a dozen. The merchants at the opposite end of the road shout their prices over each other. It sounds like a long, repetitive argument. His throat feels dry. He peels one of the oranges and hangs the long, twisting skin on the handle of the cart. He stands there chewing, looking out across the square, spitting pips out on to the cobblestones. The midday sun is beginning to rid the square of potential customers. Bouazizi has sold, but not enough to pay off his debt completely. He plans to return later in the afternoon, once the sun has relented and the air is cooler. He packs away the electronic scales and as he begins to wheel the cart out from the shade of the olive tree, a shimmering flash catches his eye. At the center of the square he makes out two municipal officers in light blue uniform. A man and a woman. Their badges gleam in the sunshine. Bouazizi holds a hand over his eyes - one of them, the woman, walks in his direction. He has nothing to be afraid of, there is no problem here. He was about to leave anyway. But he pushes the cart a little more urgently, toward the nearest alleyway branching into the square. The sun is hot on his neck. The orange peel swings by his hand. He stares straight ahead and continues to push with long strides.
In the shade of the old Arab houses, Bouazizi stops to catch his breath. There is the sound of several bicycle bells. The smell of stewed meat emerges from a steaming window. Dust is kicked up and settles again. On the road directly in front, is a shoe-repair and a pizzeria, their windows shuttered. Children are called back into their homes. He will take a short nap and wake up to sell again. Selling all of the flat peaches will be enough to pay Walid back. Bouazizi hoists the cart back up and flexes his shoulders. He walks on, the wood creaks, the fruit shakes. Once he reaches the road, the ground evens out into smooth tarmac. It is a short trip and he is eager to be home. He takes a left turn, stays within the shade of the overhanging rooves. The call for Duhrh sounds in the distance.8 A few seconds later it is echoed by a nearer mosque. Before lunch comes prayer. The sun is hot. Bouazizi does not think there will be lunch at home. The mosque stands at the end of the road – from its speakers, the imploring, melodic voice grows louder, echoed by others in the distance. He can see its green roof, topped by a crescent moon.
‘Okhad il ghardi!’. Bouazizi turns around. It is the municipal officer in the light blue uniform. Her face looks sweaty. She has been running. ‘Ya kelb. Meh shoftnish? Uh?’
Her voices stalls in between breaths.
‘Laa. Wallah laa.’
‘Tigdeb.’
There is a pause. The officer has high cheekbones, thick, furrowed eyebrows – she appears to be in her thirties. Her eyes are stern and unblinking as they wait for an answer.
‘Uh? Ween il permis mtaak?’
‘Samahni Madame?’
‘Il permis mtaak, ween?’
‘M’ifhimtish…’
‘Kont debe’aa fil ghala ou m’ifhimtish?
Bouazizi turns back to the wooden cart and bends down to pick it up. The officer presses a foot into his back and kicks him off balance. He rolls to the dusty ground and the cart hits the tarmac with a crack. He can see the male municipal officer watching on from a few metres away. Bouazizi recognises him – he has asked him for bribes in the past.
‘Permis. Towa.’
‘Alleash? Alleash hukka?’ He returns her stare, looking for any sign of compassion. The call to prayer continues to boom through the street. Some people have come to a stop around them, mainly men robed in white.
‘Bleh permis, bleh hatashay.’ She tries to walk around him toward the cart. Bouazizi blocks her from the ground. The call to prayer is now at its loudest.
‘Alleash? Shoof fearsh taamlou fiah. Toktlou fiah. Ma’amilt shay. Nheb nikhdem, nwekel il familia. Kahouw.’
She ignores his pleas, manages to step around him, moves her hand toward the cart. Bouazizi grabs a hold of her shoulder to stop her.
‘Nahee Yiddik!’, she shouts. She twists around quickly and catches him in the face with an open palm. The sun is ablaze. The men in white are watching in shock. Bouazzi holds his face, clutching at the burning imprint of shame and embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Uncle Nabil, dressed in white and motionless like the other onlookers. The officer looks down on him, the electronic scales now tucked under her armpit.
‘Yaan deen bouk. Il kelb il maeet. Ya hamil, keefou’.
9 The voice from the mosque nearby comes to a stop. In the distance, the others begin to fade. Bouazizi holds his hands to his face, he does not look up. He hears the other municipal officer telling the onlookers to move along. They were on their way to pray anyway. Seconds later, there is a loud crash followed by a faint rolling sound. Bouazizi opens his eyes slowly – the officers are walking away, their blue uniforms glowing in the sun. He turns to look behind him. The cart is on its side, the majority of the fruit has fallen out of it. Bouazizi sits there and stares, stares at all of the peaches lying in the dirt.
He wheels the wooden cart home in a blur. The fruits are mixed together in a dusty pile in the middle. Tears line his face. The heat of the sun is unbearable. People call to him, he thinks he hears Nabil’s voice but doesn’t look back. Before he knows it, he has reached the peeling blue door of his home. He leaves the wooden cart outside, bends down and enters through the smaller door at the side. His mother, Manoubia, has heard the lock click open and close. She calls to him from the kitchen, ‘Basboosa, labes? Kadesh beaat?’
‘Ya ommi, ya ommi. Bish yoktalouni,’ he shouts as he walks across the courtyard to his room.
‘Chnowa? Chbeek wildi?
10 Bouazizi shuts his bedroom door, paces the narrow room, punches the thin mattress on the floor. The slap still feels hot on his cheek. He cannot face his mother, is glad his younger siblings are at school. His breath comes in short gasps. Without the scales, he can do nothing. The fruit is ruined. Dirty and bruised. He could wash it. But without the scales he can do nothing. Bouazizi opens his door and steps back out into the bright courtyard. Without a word, he leaves the house, walks past the cart and onto the road at the end of his street.
The town square is deserted now. The cobblestones look almost white in the blazing sun. The olive trees stand isolated and still. Bouazizi paces toward the governor’s office, sweat dripping from his forehead and seeping through his clothes. He passes the momentary shade of the arched entrance, climbs the white steps toward the imposing blue door. He tries the doorknob in vain, shakes it in frustration. Beside him, the Tunisian flag droops down onto the metal pole which raises it. There is no breeze to rouse it upward. Beside the door is an intercom system with a camera and a row of buttons. He presses the one labelled ‘La réception.11’ There is a buzzing sound, a few beeps and then the sound of breathing.
‘Salam,’ says a voice amongst static.
‘Hal il baab, yilsimni n’shoof il sfara’.
‘Shnowa il mustajila? ’
‘M’atish nyjem nikhdem. Hezouli il meezaan. Yoktlou fiyah.’
There is a pause, static and breathing.
‘Khalouli aliek.’
‘Hal il baab,’ Bouazizi shouts.
‘M’famash il tkhoul.’ The voice replies sternly.
‘Hal, hal, hal. Yilsimni n’shoof il sfara’.
‘Narfek, m’afamash il tkhoul.’
‘Ceehn m’thalech toun-’
12 There is a clicking sound and the static stops. The voice is gone.
Bouazizi shakes the doorknob again. The doorframe creaks slightly. They will not let him work. Bouazizi screams at the top of his lungs until his throat is hoarse.
Outside, the sunlight comes down in streaks through the clouds. The satellite dishes on the roofs cast circular shadows on the houses opposite. Bees float around the jasmine trees at the entrance of the cul-de-sac, buzzing contentedly in the morning light. Bouazizi pulls the large front door behind him and stands behind the old wooden cart. On the road ahead, car engines stutter and motorbike horns beep impatiently. He pushes the cart to the end of the street and waits for an opening. Some of the passengers in the cars stare inside the cart, perhaps admiring the colours of the fruits, perhaps hungry. Once there is a gap in the traffic, Bouazizi pushes the cart across the road, heading toward the alleyway he had emerged from the night before. Now, the streets are filled with people leaving for work, men in white robes walking back from mosques, children playing between the houses. Bouazizi walks with a confidence, a sense of optimism that has eluded him for some time. He knows the fruit is good. It will sell. Especially the flat peaches. He will sell all of the peaches today. The old cart rattles as he turns the corner leading to his Uncle’s home – a two-storey house built in the French mode, unlike the traditional Arab houses that surround it. It is insulated, carpeted, its white outer walls textured like sandpaper. Nabil works in a bank. He has helped Bouazizi’s family many times in the past but now his own livelihood is under threat. The banks are making so called ‘redundancies’ - experienced advisors and analysts replaced by young men who are straight out of college, the brothers and cousins of high-ranking managers. Although, this is not to be mentioned. Any talk of nepotism is quickly met by a cautionary letter from the Banque Centrale de Tunisie, stamped with the coat of arms - a red shield split in two, on one side the scales of justice, on the other a lion standing on its hind legs.4 Bouazizi assumes Nabil has already left for work. The bedroom windows on the second floor are closed against the sun, which will be ablaze once he returns for his lunchtime nap. The wooden cart rolls onward, and as Bouazizi is about to turn the next corner, he hears a voice behind him.
‘Ah Basboos, ya Basboos’. It’s Nabil’s 10-year-old son, Karim. He is wearing only shorts and grins widely.
‘Ah, ya kelb. Chbeek fayak?’
‘Haat kabba’. He gestures to the cart with a puny arm.
‘Aya barra alaab, barra.’
‘Inti howa il kelb!’
Bouazizi quickly turns the corner with a skilled twist of the cart and disappears from view. Karim begins to curse, but stops at the sight of an arm bent around the wall, a green apple in its hand.
‘Shid!’ The apple is thrown high into the air, just far enough to reach Nabil’s doorstep. Karim adjusts his body and manages to catch the apple two-handed.
‘Ooh, inti il maiylem,’ the little boy shouts. Bouazizi laughs over the sound of creaking wood.5
The centre of Sidi Bou Said is almost unrecognisable from the sprawling web of narrow streets that lead to it.6 The large town square is bordered by grand white buildings – government bureaus, banks, a museum. The windows grates on the buildings are painted in the same rich blue as the large doors, which bear intricate patterns in black paint. Large knockers are shaped like the hands of giants holding rocks. The governor’s office faces the middle of the square, a limp Tunisian flag raised high above its arched, marble entrance. The cobblestones of the square are flatter and more uniform than in the winding residential streets. Less dusty too. The mechanical sweepers are said to be too large to pass through the alleyways - although, they are not much wider than a cart. Olive trees, with wiry branches and scale-like leaves, are spread sporadically across the square. The trees are enclosed by raised squares of concrete, painted in red and white stripes, thin wire mesh is wrapped around the trunks. Bouazizi lays the fruit cart by one of the trees, catching his breath in the shade. He watches the people, many of them outsiders, milling around the square. The tourists are easy to find. Their eyes are concealed by sunglasses. Their skin shades of red, some have blonde hair. The women wear dresses, the men, expensive-looking polo shirts. Many of the tourists are heading toward a road off the main square which leads down toward the Souk de Sidi Bou Said. He spots Monsof the fishmonger, a weathered man twenty years his senior whose face is dominated by a large, curling grey moustache. They exchange nods from a distance. Not long after, he sees Samia, who sells spices in brown paper bags to tourists. She has always been kind to him whenever he has set his cart beside her stall.
‘Sbarh il kheel’, she calls to him.7
Bouazizi does not plan to sell his produce in the market like the other merchants. The fruit is good, but he would face a lot of competition, may be overshadowed - outshouted. The last time he set up there, he ran into some trouble. No. He will set up in the square, by the road leading down to the market. He will sell all of the flat peaches today. The tourists will come to him first and he will sell enough to pay Walid back. He does not think about an alternative.
While the air is humid, the sun is yet to become unbearable. Bouazizi has set up his cart under another olive tree, which is near enough to the declining road to intercept the flow of people heading to the market. Business is going well. He does not have to shout – the vibrant colours of the fruit do most of the work. In just over an hour, he has sold two of the watermelons to a French man. They were sold at a very inflated price but he seemed wealthy and it is good watermelon. The guilt is momentary. A quarter of the flat peaches are also gone – he weighs them by the kilo, and ties them up in plastic bags. A blonde woman begins talking about pomegranates in a mixture of French and clunky Arabic, Bouazizi asks whether she has ever tried Tunisian figs. Yes, you can eat the skin too. He lets her try one and she takes half a dozen. The merchants at the opposite end of the road shout their prices over each other. It sounds like a long, repetitive argument. His throat feels dry. He peels one of the oranges and hangs the long, twisting skin on the handle of the cart. He stands there chewing, looking out across the square, spitting pips out on to the cobblestones. The midday sun is beginning to rid the square of potential customers. Bouazizi has sold, but not enough to pay off his debt completely. He plans to return later in the afternoon, once the sun has relented and the air is cooler. He packs away the electronic scales and as he begins to wheel the cart out from the shade of the olive tree, a shimmering flash catches his eye. At the center of the square he makes out two municipal officers in light blue uniform. A man and a woman. Their badges gleam in the sunshine. Bouazizi holds a hand over his eyes - one of them, the woman, walks in his direction. He has nothing to be afraid of, there is no problem here. He was about to leave anyway. But he pushes the cart a little more urgently, toward the nearest alleyway branching into the square. The sun is hot on his neck. The orange peel swings by his hand. He stares straight ahead and continues to push with long strides.
In the shade of the old Arab houses, Bouazizi stops to catch his breath. There is the sound of several bicycle bells. The smell of stewed meat emerges from a steaming window. Dust is kicked up and settles again. On the road directly in front, is a shoe-repair and a pizzeria, their windows shuttered. Children are called back into their homes. He will take a short nap and wake up to sell again. Selling all of the flat peaches will be enough to pay Walid back. Bouazizi hoists the cart back up and flexes his shoulders. He walks on, the wood creaks, the fruit shakes. Once he reaches the road, the ground evens out into smooth tarmac. It is a short trip and he is eager to be home. He takes a left turn, stays within the shade of the overhanging rooves. The call for Duhrh sounds in the distance.8 A few seconds later it is echoed by a nearer mosque. Before lunch comes prayer. The sun is hot. Bouazizi does not think there will be lunch at home. The mosque stands at the end of the road – from its speakers, the imploring, melodic voice grows louder, echoed by others in the distance. He can see its green roof, topped by a crescent moon.
‘Okhad il ghardi!’. Bouazizi turns around. It is the municipal officer in the light blue uniform. Her face looks sweaty. She has been running. ‘Ya kelb. Meh shoftnish? Uh?’
Her voices stalls in between breaths.
‘Laa. Wallah laa.’
‘Tigdeb.’
There is a pause. The officer has high cheekbones, thick, furrowed eyebrows – she appears to be in her thirties. Her eyes are stern and unblinking as they wait for an answer.
‘Uh? Ween il permis mtaak?’
‘Samahni Madame?’
‘Il permis mtaak, ween?’
‘M’ifhimtish…’
‘Kont debe’aa fil ghala ou m’ifhimtish?
Bouazizi turns back to the wooden cart and bends down to pick it up. The officer presses a foot into his back and kicks him off balance. He rolls to the dusty ground and the cart hits the tarmac with a crack. He can see the male municipal officer watching on from a few metres away. Bouazizi recognises him – he has asked him for bribes in the past.
‘Permis. Towa.’
‘Alleash? Alleash hukka?’ He returns her stare, looking for any sign of compassion. The call to prayer continues to boom through the street. Some people have come to a stop around them, mainly men robed in white.
‘Bleh permis, bleh hatashay.’ She tries to walk around him toward the cart. Bouazizi blocks her from the ground. The call to prayer is now at its loudest.
‘Alleash? Shoof fearsh taamlou fiah. Toktlou fiah. Ma’amilt shay. Nheb nikhdem, nwekel il familia. Kahouw.’
She ignores his pleas, manages to step around him, moves her hand toward the cart. Bouazizi grabs a hold of her shoulder to stop her.
‘Nahee Yiddik!’, she shouts. She twists around quickly and catches him in the face with an open palm. The sun is ablaze. The men in white are watching in shock. Bouazzi holds his face, clutching at the burning imprint of shame and embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Uncle Nabil, dressed in white and motionless like the other onlookers. The officer looks down on him, the electronic scales now tucked under her armpit.
‘Yaan deen bouk. Il kelb il maeet. Ya hamil, keefou’.
9 The voice from the mosque nearby comes to a stop. In the distance, the others begin to fade. Bouazizi holds his hands to his face, he does not look up. He hears the other municipal officer telling the onlookers to move along. They were on their way to pray anyway. Seconds later, there is a loud crash followed by a faint rolling sound. Bouazizi opens his eyes slowly – the officers are walking away, their blue uniforms glowing in the sun. He turns to look behind him. The cart is on its side, the majority of the fruit has fallen out of it. Bouazizi sits there and stares, stares at all of the peaches lying in the dirt.
He wheels the wooden cart home in a blur. The fruits are mixed together in a dusty pile in the middle. Tears line his face. The heat of the sun is unbearable. People call to him, he thinks he hears Nabil’s voice but doesn’t look back. Before he knows it, he has reached the peeling blue door of his home. He leaves the wooden cart outside, bends down and enters through the smaller door at the side. His mother, Manoubia, has heard the lock click open and close. She calls to him from the kitchen, ‘Basboosa, labes? Kadesh beaat?’
‘Ya ommi, ya ommi. Bish yoktalouni,’ he shouts as he walks across the courtyard to his room.
‘Chnowa? Chbeek wildi?
10 Bouazizi shuts his bedroom door, paces the narrow room, punches the thin mattress on the floor. The slap still feels hot on his cheek. He cannot face his mother, is glad his younger siblings are at school. His breath comes in short gasps. Without the scales, he can do nothing. The fruit is ruined. Dirty and bruised. He could wash it. But without the scales he can do nothing. Bouazizi opens his door and steps back out into the bright courtyard. Without a word, he leaves the house, walks past the cart and onto the road at the end of his street.
The town square is deserted now. The cobblestones look almost white in the blazing sun. The olive trees stand isolated and still. Bouazizi paces toward the governor’s office, sweat dripping from his forehead and seeping through his clothes. He passes the momentary shade of the arched entrance, climbs the white steps toward the imposing blue door. He tries the doorknob in vain, shakes it in frustration. Beside him, the Tunisian flag droops down onto the metal pole which raises it. There is no breeze to rouse it upward. Beside the door is an intercom system with a camera and a row of buttons. He presses the one labelled ‘La réception.11’ There is a buzzing sound, a few beeps and then the sound of breathing.
‘Salam,’ says a voice amongst static.
‘Hal il baab, yilsimni n’shoof il sfara’.
‘Shnowa il mustajila? ’
‘M’atish nyjem nikhdem. Hezouli il meezaan. Yoktlou fiyah.’
There is a pause, static and breathing.
‘Khalouli aliek.’
‘Hal il baab,’ Bouazizi shouts.
‘M’famash il tkhoul.’ The voice replies sternly.
‘Hal, hal, hal. Yilsimni n’shoof il sfara’.
‘Narfek, m’afamash il tkhoul.’
‘Ceehn m’thalech toun-’
12 There is a clicking sound and the static stops. The voice is gone.
Bouazizi shakes the doorknob again. The doorframe creaks slightly. They will not let him work. Bouazizi screams at the top of his lungs until his throat is hoarse.
He runs back
through the narrow street which led him to the town square. He is drenched in
sweat now, but is hardly aware of the heat. The street is empty and most
businesses are shut. He knows of one that isn’t. His slippers slap the soles of
his feet as he sprints across the uneven ground. In a matter of minutes, he is
outside the mechanics. Its shutters are only halfway down. He ducks into the
relative cool of the wide workspace. The owner Mehdi, lies on a mattress in the
corner, napping. A packet of cigarettes and a lighter are on the floor beside
him. Bouazizi looks around, his hands on his knees, panting. He grabs a red
container of gasoline from under a table. Mehdi turns to his side and mumbles
incoherently. Bouazizi takes the lighter from next to him and ducks back under
the metal shutters. He runs in the direction he came from. ‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ he shouts repeatedly.13
His frenzied voice fills the street. He reaches the town square again – directs
his question to the emptiness. He walks to the middle until he is facing the
tall, white governor’s office. By now, his shouting has alerted some of the
napping workers, the families eating lunch. Heads emerge from doorways, bodies
step out into the bright sunlight.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ He has not sold enough peaches, he cannot pay Walid back. He cannot feed himself or his family. He cannot work. He cannot live.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ A small crowd has formed. He is no longer alone in the square. Bouazizi unscrews the lid of the red container.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ The crowd is growing larger.
He raises the container above his head, lets the gasoline fall over his face and down onto his body.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’, he shouts through the fuel in his mouth. Some of the onlookers are rushing forward. Bouazizi takes the lighter from his pocket.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ he asks the crowd, as he brings the flame toward his dripping clothes. They have no answer to his question, they do not know.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ He has not sold enough peaches, he cannot pay Walid back. He cannot feed himself or his family. He cannot work. He cannot live.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ A small crowd has formed. He is no longer alone in the square. Bouazizi unscrews the lid of the red container.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ The crowd is growing larger.
He raises the container above his head, lets the gasoline fall over his face and down onto his body.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’, he shouts through the fuel in his mouth. Some of the onlookers are rushing forward. Bouazizi takes the lighter from his pocket.
‘Keefesh n’aeesh?’ he asks the crowd, as he brings the flame toward his dripping clothes. They have no answer to his question, they do not know.
1 ‘Basboosa. Have you come home Basboosa?’
‘Yes mother. I’ve brought the fruit’
‘Alright?’
‘Alright mother, alright.’
↩
2 Dawn Prayer.↩
3 A ritual of purification carried out before prayer.↩
4 The Central Bank of Tunisia.↩
5 ‘Ah, Basboos, hey Basboos.’
‘Ah, you dog. Why are you awake?
‘Give us one.’
‘Come on, go and play, go.’
‘You are the dog!’
‘Catch.’
‘Ooh, you are a master.’
↩
6 A large, renowned marketplace in Tunis.↩
7 ‘Good morning.’↩
8 Midday prayer.↩
9 ‘Stay there! Pause. You dog. Didn’t you see me? Uh?’
‘No. I swear to god no.’
‘You’re lying.’ Pause. ‘Where is your permit?’
‘Sorry Madam?’
‘Your permit, where is it?’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘You were just selling fruit and you don’t understand?’ Pause. ‘Permit. Now.’
‘Why? Why all of this?’
‘No permit, no anything.’
‘Why? Look what you’re doing to me. You’re killing me. I have done nothing. I want to work, feed my family. That’s all.’
‘Remove your hand!’ Pause. ‘Curse your father’s god. The dead dog. You’re a bastard, just like he was’.
↩
10 ‘Basboosa, alright? How much did you sell?’
‘Mother, mother. They’re going to kill me.’
‘What? What’s wrong son?’
↩
11The reception. ↩
12‘Hello’
‘Open the door, I need to see the governor.’
‘What’s the emergency?’
‘I can no longer work. They took my scales. They’re killing me.’
Pause.
‘They told me about you.’
‘Open the door.’
‘There is no entry.’
‘Open, open, open. I need to see the governor.’
‘I know all about you, there is no entry.’
‘If you don’t open the door -
↩
13 ‘How do I live?’↩
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