December 18, 2010.
Omar sat in his consulting office. A small room in Sousse. A desk. A chair. A filing cabinet. His empire had been reduced to this.
He was fifty-two years old. He had lost everything in 2008. The hotels. The restaurants. The beach clubs. The construction company. All of it — gone.
Now he advised younger businessmen. He helped them navigate the system. He helped them avoid the mistakes he had made. He helped them understand what he had learned too late: The system was rigged. The clan owned everything. If you weren’t connected, you couldn’t succeed.
The phone rang.
Omar ben Hadded Consulting, he said.
Omar.
He recognized the voice. Sami. His friend from the mosque. The man who had also lost everything in 2008.
Sami, Omar said. How are you?
Have you heard? Sami asked.
Heard what?
About Sidi Bouzid, Sami said.
Omar didn’t know what Sami was talking about. No.
There was a fruit vendor, Sami said. Mohamed Bouazizi. The police confiscated his cart. They harassed him. He couldn’t get a permit. He couldn’t feed his family.
Omar was quiet.
Yesterday, Sami said, he went to the governor’s office. He asked to see the governor. They wouldn’t let him in. He went to the street in front of the office. He poured gasoline on himself. He lit a match.
Omar felt something tighten in his chest.
He’s alive, Sami said. Barely. He’s in the hospital in Ben Arous. Burns over most of his body.
Why? Omar asked.
Because he had nothing left, Sami said. Because the system took everything. Because he couldn’t feed his family.
- The banks. The bailout. The denial. Belhassen receiving 15 million dinars while Omar lost everything.
Is anyone protesting? Omar asked.
Not yet, Sami said. But people are angry. People are talking. In Sidi Bouzid. In Kasserine. In the interior.
Will it spread? Omar asked.
I don’t know, Sami said. But something is changing. I can feel it.
Omar hung up the phone. He sat in the silence of his office.
He opened his desk drawer. He took out his party card. From 1987. The year he had joined the PSD. The year he had started building his empire.
He looked at the card. Parti Socialiste Destourien. His name. Omar ben Hadded. His membership number. 087412.
He had carried this card for twenty-three years. He had used it to get permits. He had used it to get licenses. He had used it to get access. He had used it to build his businesses.
And in 2008, when he had needed help, the card had been worthless.
He held the card between his fingers. The plastic was smooth. The photograph showed a younger Omar — twenty-nine years old, confident, successful.
Mohamed Bouazizi. The fruit vendor. The man who had burned himself on the street because he had nothing left.
Omar placed the card on his desk. He didn’t put it back in the drawer.
January 14, 2011.
Omar was fifty-three. The consulting practice barely covered his rent.
Then came the protests.
They started in December 2010. In Sidi Bouzid. A fruit vendor who set himself on fire. The protests spread to Tunis. To Sousse. To the entire country.
Omar joined them. He walked to Avenue Habib Bourguiba. He wasn’t there as a businessman. He wasn’t there as a former partner of the clan. He was there as a Tunisian.
The crowd was enormous. Thousands. Tens of thousands. They were shouting: “Ben Ali, dégage!” “Degage!” “Leave!”
Omar shouted too. His voice was lost in the chorus.
Next to him, a young woman was crying. She was twenty? Twenty-two? A student. She was holding a Tunisian flag.
She looked at Omar. Did you hear? she asked. He’s gone.
Who?
Ben Ali, she said. He left. He fled.
Omar didn’t believe it. How do you know?
My brother, she said. He’s at the airport. He saw the plane take off.
Omar was quiet.
It’s over, she said. The dictatorship. The fear. The clan.
Belhassen. The 51 percent. The deals. The compromises.
Yes, Omar said. It’s over.
We’re free, she said.
Omar didn’t say: Free to do what? Free to start over? Free to compete without connections?
He didn’t say it. The crowd roared. Strangers hugged. A student handed Omar a Tunisian flag. He held it. The fabric was rough against his fingers.
He shouted: “Degage!” His voice cracked. He shouted again. And again.
Around him, the crowd roared. Flags waved. Somewhere, a car horn blared. Somewhere, a woman was ululating.
Omar held the flag. He was fifty-three years old. His hands were shaking.
October 2011. The elections. Ennahda won a plurality. Omar watched the results on television. He waited for the banking reforms. He waited for the investment code to be rewritten. He waited for the corruption prosecutions.
December 2011. The new government announced economic reforms. Omar read the newspaper. He looked for changes to the banking system. He looked for reforms to the investment code. He looked for anti-corruption measures. He found none.
The same banking laws. The same investment incentives. The same regulatory capture. The only difference was the faces.
Omar closed the newspaper. He folded it. He placed it on the table. He looked out the window. The same street. The same buildings. The same closed shops.
The revolution had succeeded. The President had fled. The regime had fallen.
And now Tunisia was building something new.
A new Constitution. A new democracy. A new beginning.
Omar walked to Avenue Habib Bourguiba. The flags still waved from January. The crowds had dispersed, but the energy remained.
He joined a business association. Entrepreneurs gathering to rebuild Tunisia. A Tunisia based on merit. On competition. On fairness.
He attended meetings. He spoke to other businessmen. He shared his experience. He shared his mistakes.
We need to change the system, he said. We need to break the monopolies. We need to end the corruption. We need to create a fair economy.
The other businessmen nodded. They agreed. They wanted the same thing.
We need to reform the Investment Incentives Code, one said. End the special treatment. Open the economy to everyone.
We need to reform the banking system, another said. Make credit available to everyone, not just the connected.
We need to break the barriers to entry, a third said. Allow real competition. Allow real entrepreneurship.
Omar looked around the room. Twenty men. Twenty believers. For the first time in thirty years, he allowed himself to imagine: a Tunisia without masters. A Tunisia without servitude. A Tunisia where a man could build something without asking permission.
He started a new business. A consulting practice. Advising foreign investors. Helping them navigate the Tunisian market.
He was starting over. At fifty-four. He was starting over.
He didn’t mind. He was starting over in a free Tunisia. In a democratic Tunisia. In a fair Tunisia.
He believed.
February 6, 2013.
Omar heard the news on the radio. Opposition leader Chokri Belaïd has been assassinated. Shot outside his home in Tunis.
Omar stopped shaving. He stood in his bathroom. The razor was in his hand. His face was half-shaved.
He didn’t know Belaïd personally. But he knew who he was. A lawyer. A leftist. A critic of the Islamists. A critic of the old regime. A critic of everyone who held power.
Omar turned off the radio. He finished shaving. He dressed. He went to work.
The city was quiet. The streets were empty. The shops were closed. A general strike, the unions had announced. A day of mourning.
Omar walked to his office. He didn’t open it. He couldn’t work. Not today.
He walked to the city center. He saw the protesters gathering. Thousands of people. They were shouting: “The people want the fall of the regime!”
The words were the same ones he had shouted two years earlier on this avenue. The revolution had succeeded. Ben Ali had fled. The elections had been held. The Constitution was being written.
But now a prominent opposition leader had been assassinated. And people were shouting for the regime to fall.
Again.
Omar closed his notebook. He looked at his hands — the same hands that had signed the deal in 1992, the same hands that had shaken Belhassen’s hand. He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. The skin was dry. The joints were stiff.
He walked home. The streets were still quiet. The city was still mourning.
He turned on the television. The news was covering the assassination. Experts were analyzing. Pundits were speculating. Politicians were condemning.
Omar turned off the television.
He sat in his living room. He was alone. His wife Leila had died in 2005 — a Tuesday in November, the children at school, the apartment silent by noon. He had been too busy most of their marriage. His children were grown. His businesses were gone.
He was fifty-five years old.
The slogan: “The people want the fall of the regime!”
-
The people had shouted this. The regime had fallen.
-
The same words. But which regime? The Islamist government? The old elites? Something older?
Omar rubbed his eyes. The skin beneath his fingers was dry. He pressed his palms against his eyelids.
Something was there. A pattern. Not in this government or that one — older. Deeper. But it slipped away each time he tried to hold it.
He stood up. He walked to the window. The street was empty. The city was quiet. The sun was setting. The sky was orange.
Omar pressed his forehead against the glass. It was cool.
- Tunisia adopted a new Constitution. It was a remarkable document. It guaranteed rights. It guaranteed freedoms. It guaranteed democracy. It guaranteed equality.
Omar watched the debates on television. He watched the voting in the Constituent Assembly. He watched the signing ceremony. He did not move from his chair.
Political progress, the commentators said. A remarkable achievement.
The most democratic Constitution in the Arab world, the analysts said.
A model for the region, the experts said.
Omar sat in his chair long after the broadcast ended.
Omar was sixty years old. His consulting business was struggling. Foreign investors were cautious. The political situation was unstable. The security situation was uncertain.
He attended a business conference in Tunis. A conference about investment. A conference about the future.
He met a European investor. A man from France. A man representing a French company. A man looking for opportunities.
So, the European investor said. Tell me about Tunisia. Tell me about the opportunities.
Omar spoke about the democracy. About the Constitution. About the reforms.
The political situation has improved, Omar said. We have a new Constitution. We have a democratic system. We have free elections.
That’s good, the European investor said. But what about the economy?
The economy is also improving, Omar said. We have a young workforce. We have a strategic location. We have access to the European market.
But, the European investor said. What has changed? Since 2010? What has changed in the business environment?
Omar was confused. Everything has changed. The regime has fallen. The President has fled. The Constitution has been adopted.
But the system, the European investor said. Has the system changed?
What do you mean?
The barriers to entry, the European investor said. The regulations. The restrictions. The monopolies. Have they been reformed?
Omar was silent. The barriers to entry. The licensing restrictions. The monopolies still intact.
Some, Omar said weakly.
How much? the European investor asked.
Not enough, Omar said.
What about the banking system? the European investor asked. Has it been reformed?
Some, Omar said.
But the state-owned banks, the European investor said. They still control 40 percent of the sector. They’re still inefficient. They still don’t lend to ordinary businesses.
Omar was silent.
What about the cronies? the European investor asked. The Ben Ali clan? Have their assets been seized? Have their monopolies been broken?
Belhassen Trabelsi. The bailout. The 15 million dinars.
Some assets have been frozen, Omar said. But most… most remain.
So, the European investor said. The economic system which existed under Ben Ali has not changed significantly.
Omar’s hand tightened on the edge of the table.
He had heard these words before. Where?
From the World Bank report. The report published in 2014. The report that said:
“In the three years since the revolution, Tunisia has achieved significant progress on the political front, culminating in the consensual adoption of a new Constitution. However, the economic system which existed under Ben Ali has not changed significantly—and the demands of Tunisians for access to economic opportunity have not yet been realized.”
Omar had read the report. He had remembered the political progress sentence. The rest — he had turned the page.
The European investor was waiting for an answer.
Omar couldn’t think of an answer.
The World Bank report he had found in the archives. A report from 1973, not 2014. A report from McNamara’s visit to Tunis.
Tunisia’s income distribution has deteriorated over the past decade, the 1973 report had said. Recent economic improvement has mainly benefitted the higher income groups.
The need for taking early measures to stave off further deterioration could be underlined.
Fifty years later, the deterioration had continued. The early measures had never been taken. The inequality had worsened.
Nothing has changed, Omar said. The system that existed under Ben Ali — that system was designed in the 1960s and 1970s. The patterns were set before Ben Ali took power.
Then why should I invest? the European investor asked.
Because… Omar began. He stopped. He couldn’t think of a reason.
Exactly, the European investor said. Thank you for your time.
The European investor stood up. He walked away. He left Omar sitting alone at the table.
Omar looked at the conference program. The title: “Tunisia 2018 - Open for Business.”
He stared at the words. Open for Business.
Omar stood up. His chair scraped the conference floor. He left without shaking anyone’s hand.
He walked out of the conference hall. He walked to his car.
He sat in the driver’s seat. He didn’t start the engine.
The European investor’s question: “What has changed since 2010?”
The faces were different. The names were different. The system was the same.
He remembered Sami in the café. The cold tea. The abandoned construction site. We built it, Sami had said. They took the profits. We kept the risk.
He was sixty. He was alone. He was starting over.
He reached into his pocket. He took out a business card. The European investor’s business card.
He turned it over. On the back, there was a slogan:
“Tunisia 2018 - Open for Business”
Omar looked at the slogan. He wanted to tear the card. He wanted to burn it. He wanted to scream.
Instead, he put the card in his pocket. He started the car. He drove home.
As he passed the highway interchange, a single silver-leafed branch was visible above a wall — an olive tree at the edge of an abandoned lot, still standing in the exhaust of the passing cars.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.
End of Chapter 8