The last
time I felt so serene and peaceful I was around thirteen years old. The narrow
streets that zigzagged through the centre of Old Damascus were where I felt
completely and totally calm. There was intermittent noise, but it always
emanated from humans. The most
advanced piece of machinery in sight was a coffee machine that cost 10 Syrian
Liras to use, and the only time I ever used it, I was with Mohamed Homeidan, my friend and pubescent confidant. We’d
decided we were going to do what cool grown-ups did and buy non-traditional
instant coffee from the shops opposite al-Asiyya, the famous Christian school
close to our own school, right in the middle of the Old Damascus, arguably the
oldest inhabited city on this peculiar planet. As Homeidan placed his plastic
cup where the thirty-something year-old shopkeeper had instructed him, horror
covered his face as the steaming hot chocolate poured in front of his widened
eyes next to the cup, not in it, as we had both hoped. The shopkeeper shrugged
and said he wasn’t responsible for my friend’s casual approach to delicate
technology. His precious cash trickled down the small machine’s mesh-covered
drain, and with it, our sense of how old we were instantly shrivelled to its
natural, naive scope: thirteen, clumsy and hard to embarrass.
Incidents
like this were the thread that bound me to Damascus, especially the sections of
the city whose walls seemed to contain within them the dreams and tragedies of
an infinite number of people who’ve all left behind indelible marks on the
city’s spiritual landscape.. invisible cloaks unknowingly worn by Damascus’s
proceeding inhabitants. Sadly, once I became aware of my deep affinity to
“Dimashq”, my family and I had packed our suitcases and returned from a seven-year
jaunt, to our old home in London, England.
For years afterwards, the
sense of tranquility brought on by Damascus’s visibly-ancient buildings
remained elusive, and I often spoke silkily of it – Its enveloping serenity was
never replicated until I set foot in Zaytouna Street in Tunis.
In late
January, I had to make two brief trips to Tunisia to cover the third anniversary
of the revolt that toppled President Bin Ali and sparked ongoing confrontations
between angry, disillusioned Arabs and the state apparatus. The sentiment that
roused such rage was similar across the region. The people want to overthrow
the president/government/king/system. What was different in each case was, in
my humble and uninformed opinion, the level of outside influence and the extent
to which people -particularly the political elite- were willing to compromise on their long-silenced demands.
Maybe the coming months will allow me to travel to other revolutionary
hotspots, but for the time being, Tunis was the only place I could think of. It was to be the first
time I set foot on African soil - sorry, Mr Ali Farka Toure, my infantile dreams of
unceremoniously landing in Bamako will have to be postponed till
time/money/energy/fate dictates otherwise.
The idea
of a "business trip" made my heart sink with dread. Much as I enjoyed work, I
couldn’t stomach the idea of holding our team meetings in hotel lobbies. Luckily, and typically, my fears were exaggerated as I had plenty of time to spend on my own, aimlessly walking
through Tunis’s backstreets and crowded traditional markets. Some of my
colleagues didn’t seem to thrive in the environment as much as I did, and
weren’t so comfortable with the idea of eating in restaurants whose shaky
tables roofed stray cats that were occasionally given slithers of kind punters’
food. I, on the other hand, relished the opportunity of being there. I wasn’t
worried about catching a tropical bug (“It is Africa, afterall!”), nor was I
concerned about having a meal without being given a conventional receipt to
claim back from my company’s finance department.
The
instant we walked out of the arrivals’ gate, I turned to my colleague and said
with a joyous but muffled tone:
“I feel
like I’m going home.”
Knowing
I had never visited Tunisia nor had any relatives there, he smiled back with
a mix of sympathy and confusion.
As we
reached the hotel, and over the remainder of our short visit, not once did I feel
like a stranger, tourist or a visitor. I was amongst people I was
comfortable speaking to. They all exuded an incredible feeling of familiarity
and friendliness that you rarely found in London.
Most of the trip was spent organising
the two television programmes we were set record to examine the impact of the
Tunisian revolution on people’s lives, how they feel about the past three
years, and whether they’re hopeful of a less rocky road ahead now that a
new constitution has been drafted, albeit after months of political gridlock and the assassination
of two of the country’s leading figures of the Left, Chokri Belaid and Mohamed
Brahmi – real and bloody turning points in the post-January 14 Tunisia. A new constitution
was being hailed as a huge stride in the country’s stuttering march towards the
democratic, citizen-respecting state so much had been sacrificed for. Not to forget the newly-chosen Prime Minster who just so happened to share my name.
All the Tunisians I spoke to were
upbeat about their country’s prospects. Though their views on Mohamed
al-Boazizi differed, they were in near-unanimous agreement that the future
is theirs to shape, if only foreign meddling ceased. Financial backing is
important, many said, but it must not be at the expense of national stability
and the secular identity Tunis prides itself in.
There was overwhelming
positivity that people maintained despite the testing times they lived in.
What, record unemployment, a gaping chasm between rich and poor, several
incidents of industrial action (on our first visit, the city was dotted with
heaps of rubbish, and some of it was burnt in a big square next to our hotel
sending fumes of thick and throat-tickling smoke all around the city centre.)
and the spectre of civil and political disintegration à la Damascus looming large –
drafting a new constitution was an important sign that things were on the up,
unlike fellow Arab Springers such as Libya, Egypt and, most prominently,
Syria. Such optimism was infectious and I’m certain I came back to London
feeling slightly less gloomy about everyone and everything than when I left a
week or two ago.
A crucial asset that Tunis, and
other countries in the region, must utilise if they are to lift themselves out of the
political, social and economic quagmire they're languishing in – is the youth
population. On account of what I saw, Tunisians have already made the important
steps. All that remains is to keep up the fervour and zeal to rebuild their
country; the young people I was so privileged to meet were nothing short of
inspirational. Whether driving cool hatchbacks whilst listening to the likes of
Jimi Hendrix and Flume, or sipping warm tea on a cafe’s rooftop that overlooks
large parts of the old city and its cement-roofed souk - everyone I met was
brimming with energy, excitement and confidence for what the future held for
them.
After a few days amongst the
generous, warm and inviting people of Tunis, it was with great sadness that I
watched Carthage Airport get smaller and smaller as the Tunis Air flight made
its bumpy way to London.
Nonetheless, I feel blessed
to have finally found a place I can call, with some confidence, my home away
from home.
P
Photos courtesy of John Prendergast.
