A Night in Tunisia
By KAMEL RIAHI
NYT
Tunis
IT is Friday, Jan. 14, in downtown Tunis. In the streets, we shout “No!” — a million tongues together against the dictatorial, 23-year-long government of President Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali. Tear gas, bullets and death fly above us. We are ambushed at the Barcelona metro station, one of the city’s main transit hubs, and attacked with tear gas. I cover myself with a black scarf as I run toward Bourguiba Avenue, which tourists call the Tunisian Champs-Élysées. There, we are met with sticks and rifles.
Counting our every breath, we dodge bullets for many more blocks until we run into a wall of police officers in civilian clothing. They order us brusquely into a nearby metro station, pile us into trains and take up positions at each end.
An old man near me who had left his home to buy bread and got caught up in the demonstration is gasping. I tear my scarf in two and give him half. I would love to ask him what he thinks of the protests against the government, but everyone is struggling against the tear gas.
•
That night, the militias come out. In my apartment building, we hear bullets ringing overhead. My wife is shaking. Word of raids and rapes has begun to be broadcast on the radio and on the streets. She asks me, as she looks at our 18-month-old son, Haroun, playing and laughing to himself: “What will we do if they attack us? Please don’t defend me; take care of Haroun.”
(More here.)
NYT
Tunis
IT is Friday, Jan. 14, in downtown Tunis. In the streets, we shout “No!” — a million tongues together against the dictatorial, 23-year-long government of President Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali. Tear gas, bullets and death fly above us. We are ambushed at the Barcelona metro station, one of the city’s main transit hubs, and attacked with tear gas. I cover myself with a black scarf as I run toward Bourguiba Avenue, which tourists call the Tunisian Champs-Élysées. There, we are met with sticks and rifles.
Counting our every breath, we dodge bullets for many more blocks until we run into a wall of police officers in civilian clothing. They order us brusquely into a nearby metro station, pile us into trains and take up positions at each end.
An old man near me who had left his home to buy bread and got caught up in the demonstration is gasping. I tear my scarf in two and give him half. I would love to ask him what he thinks of the protests against the government, but everyone is struggling against the tear gas.
•
That night, the militias come out. In my apartment building, we hear bullets ringing overhead. My wife is shaking. Word of raids and rapes has begun to be broadcast on the radio and on the streets. She asks me, as she looks at our 18-month-old son, Haroun, playing and laughing to himself: “What will we do if they attack us? Please don’t defend me; take care of Haroun.”
(More here.)
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