Bouazizi

Bouazizi

A Story by riskrapper
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A short story about the Arab Spring.

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Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette butt from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.


Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick a*s speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that piece of s**t.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his middle finger in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult pissed Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.


Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.


“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap b*****d.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the butt as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot caffeine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.


The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.


Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was fucked. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.


“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”


Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scattering apples into the road. The other grabbed Bouazizi by the nape of the neck and whipped him to the ground, kicking him in the kidney. Bouazizi looked up, once again peering into the beastly green eyes of the hydra before his eye was closed by a swift kick to the face.

The larger henchman grabbed the lapels of Bouazizi’s jacket and pulled him up to face Madame Hamdi. Bouazizi’s nose was bleeding, his right eye was beginning to shut. He lost another tooth and spit it out onto the street, dribbling blood onto his jacket.

Bouazizi rose his arms skyward as if to implore legions of angels to come to his aid. He shouted at Madame Hamdi sprinkling her face with droplets of blood stained spittle, “you are the violators!!! You are the pick pockets stealing food from the mouth of my family. You are the thieves robbing me of my livelihood!!! You are the criminals, you are the barbarians!“

Madame Hamdi and the henchman were startled by Bouazizi’s sudden uprising. A henchman grabbed him by the collar and whipped him into the street onto a bed of his scattered apples.
Bouazizi sat up and shouted, “I will not pay tribute to your extortion!’.

The smaller henchman walked over to Bouazizi and slyly applied his boot heel onto his injured ankle. Bouazizi let out a sharp yelp of pain. The henchman leaned down looking into Bouazizi’s face adding pressure to the ankle as his face grew closer. He was intent on delivering a final lash of pain as his yellow teeth grinned into Bouazizi’s face. “Basboosa”, he whispered, “gets slapped around by a pair of tits. You are as dumb as your father who was the town moron. His stupidity eventually killed him, buried himself in a vat of concrete in Libya. You are even more stupid. You are no man. You are just a worm crawling through your rotten life like the worms in your apples.”

The henchman pushed Bouazizi face before he stood kicking an apple into the street. A passing BMW crushed it under its tire as it passed, blowing a puff of catalytic refuse into Bouazizi’s face.


In the flash of seconds Bouazizi experienced the agony of a lifetime. The humiliation of a public beating, the injuries sustained by an unprovoked attack and the destruction and confiscation of his goods were crushing blows to the body and spirit of Bouazizi.

Bouazizi rose to his feet. His adrenaline was rushing and Bouazizi was shaking. His muscles tight, his head spinning in a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. His tender ankle swelling, his eye closing, his nose running with snot and blood. His stomach turned. He was nauseous.


Aaban and Aameen were astonished by the vicious attack on their friend. Clearly shaken, Aaban flew to help his friend. Aameen jumped to gather some apples rolling around the street. He was shouting “how can they take your scale and damage your goods? They cannot deprive a man of his livelihood!”

Aaban wiped the blood and spittle from Bouazizi’s face. He brushed off his cloths and knelt down to examine Bouazizi’s ankle.

Bouazizi was crying.

“Oh Basboosa, my poor brother. Your pain is my pain”. Aaban exclaimed to his wounded friend. He massaged Bouazizi’s ankle. Bouazizi felt a sensation of warmth from Aaban’s loving touch. It was the first sense of warmth Bouazizi felt this cold winter morning. The sharp pain subsided.

Aameen was incensed by his friends violation.

“This happens all too much. These sharks prey on the weak. They had no reason to beat you like that Basboosa You must go to the mayor. They cannot take away a man’s livelihood. The mayor is a good man. His father started as a cart man just like us. He will understand.”


Bouazizi surveyed the wreckage. His toppled cart and scattered apples getting crushed by passing cars in the street.

“Basboosa, you can make applesauce with these” Aameen joked to lighten the situation.


But Bouazizi did not hear Aameen’s joke; all he could see was the henchman's yellow teeth mocking his father, taunting his manhood, assaulting his dignity.

The agitation of the market did not subside after Madame Hamdi and her henchmen left. The upheaval grew into a viral buzz that spilled into the surrounding neighborhoods. The attack set in motion a common understanding of the urgent need for vendors to protect themselves from the violent corruption of civil authorities.

Aameen implored Bouazazi to go to the mayor to state his case. Bouazizi could speak for many others victimized by corrupt officials, Aameen counseled. A man offered Bouazizi a cigarette. He placed it into Bouazizi’s lips and lit it.

Aaban handed Bouazizi a bottle of water. Bouazizi drank hard, sucking down the bottles entire contents into the rumpled vacuum of collapsing plastic. He threw the crumpled bottle onto the street.

Bouazizi lifted the handlebars of his cart and started off to the mayor’s office. He began slowly and as he trudged toward the mayor’s office his tentativeness dissolved, his limp disappeared. Bouazizi spat out a hock of blood and mucus, it filled his lungs with a second wind. The blue fatigue that shadowed Bouazizi all morning dissipated like a vanishing ghost.

A group of children approached Bouazizi. They smiled at him as if Bouazizi where their champion, put on this earth to battle the forces that threatened them. Bouazizi gave them apples.

A woman wiped Bouazizi’s face with a warm dampened towel. It refreshed Bouazizi. She cleaned a cut Bouazizi suffered behind his ear. The warm towel felt good on his eye. The swelling had stopped. The towel salved and cleaned a hidden wound underneath Bouazizi’s eyebrow. She anointed Bouazizi’s wound with a healing balm. Bouazizi’s vision was clear, his heart refreshed.


A man offered Bouazizi a bottle of water. Bouazizi sipped from it. “Here Basboosa, let me push your cart.” The man took the handlebars. Bouazizi posture straightened. He strode with purpose and renewed strength to his destination.

As Bouazizi walked the face of his father captured his mind. Bouazizi recalled an old photograph of his father standing with a group of workers at a construction site in Libya. He remembered his father as the tallest man in the group. He stood proudly in the middle, upright and smiling. “His arms were strong and his spine was firm”, his uncle would say. “He was a good provider. He always sent money home to his family”; Bouazizi’s uncle would say with loving pride. Bouazizi now supports his father’s brother and his children. Bouazizi’s uncle constantly expresses respect and gratitude to Bouazizi for his support. He lovingly reminds Bouazizi that his father would be very proud of him for the man that he has become.

Bouazizi walked up to the door of the mayor’s office like a general standing on the shoulders of legions of great warriors. Bouazizi came to collect a debt, demanding that respect be paid to compensate and honor and legacy of all generations who were abused and dishonored by the fiat of power. Bouazizi now stands to avenge that dishonor by claiming the respect of his birthright. He banged the door’s iron knocker like he was slamming nails into the coffins of a defeated evil doer; the sound echoed deep into the halls of the building.

The door swung open. The big henchman with hairy arms opened the door.

“Here to pay your fine Basboosa?” the henchman asked sardonically.

“I demand to see the mayor” Bouazizi answered with forceful contempt.

“Do you think an important man like the mayor has time to hear a trifling matter from the likes of you?” the henchmen asked.

“He is my mayor also. He should know that criminals like you are robbing the livelihood of the citizens.” Bouazizi answered contemptuously.

“Ha Basboosa”. The henchman laughed as he came through the doorway forcing Bouazizi to step backward. “Come back three Thursdays from tomorrow. I think that is when he listens to problems concerning industry and commerce.” he chuckled.

“I’ll need my scale”, Bouazizi protested.

“You can pay your fine and perhaps we can return it to you.”

“”I cannot make a living without my scale. You cannot hold my scale hostage to your warped notion of justice and expect me to recognize the corruption of your authority.”

“Come back three Thursdays from tomorrow Basboosa. Perhaps you’ll have the mayor's ear then.”

“I will no longer suffer the brutality of your corruption, the deafness of your exploitation.” Bouazizi shot back.

“Perhaps you want another taste of our boots, ah Basboosa?” the henchman threatened as he pushed Bouazizi further away from the door. “Don’t make a spectacle here Basboosa. It won’t turn out good for you.”

“By the living justice of Allah’s ear, I swear he’ll burn down the unholy office of your rule.” Bouazizi shouted.

People were gathering. The stirred voices, the curling smoke, the horns of cars, the sirens of an ambulance, the gunning engines of trucks, Muezzin’s calls rising to the clouds, the thumps of monster speakers thumping thundering bass blasts from a parked car was a swirling cacophony of sound filling Bouazizi’s soul with the zeitgeist of the roiling square.

“Careful what you say Basboosa. We’ll whip you with fire hoses then watch you dangle from one tied around your neck.” He slammed the door shut.

A composed Bouazizi possessed the sober presence and clarity of a city alderman. He knew what he had to do.

With a confident resolve Bouazizi strode to a gas station at the corner of the square. He asked the attendant for a canister of gasoline and with canister in hand walked the short distance back to the steps of the mayor’s office.

In front of the mayor’s office Bouazizi stood erect like a bold colossus. His feet firmly planted, his head unbowed, a risen Bouazizi transformed himself. He was an upright man, standing strong, ready to confront the powerful by mocking their corruption with the truth of steadfast integrity.

Bouazizi unscrewed the canister and held it high over his head. Some say he became the image of a thundering Musa, hurling stone tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments onto the heads of the recalcitrant Tribes of Israel from the jagged ledge of Mt. Sinai.

The cold gas dashed onto Bouazizi’s head, soothing the final flames of fear that still beat in his heart. His hair dripping, the gasoline burned his eyes and soaked his jacket. The liquid streamed down his legs soaking his pants and sneakers. A puddle grew at his feet. Bouazizi flung the empty canister at the door of the mayor’s office.

The fumes rose into Bouazizi’s nostrils, filling the hollows of his lungs with the sweet toxicity of gasoline. Bouazizi was intoxicated with power. He was a stick of dynamite waiting to explode at the command of a spark struck with his own hand. For the first time in his life, Bouazizi was in total control of his life.

Bouazizi withdrew the lighter and final Kent from his now empty cigarette pack. He crushed the pack and let it drop to the ground. He placed the Kent into his mouth and brought the lighter to the tip of the cigarette. He flicked the lighter sparking a swooshing blue flash. The flame burned away every scar, every welt, every shame, every insult, every resent ever etched onto the body and mind of Bouazizi; turning them into feckless ashes that now gathered at his feet.

Eyewitnesses to Bouazizi’s final act say he remained upright to the end. They say that as he burned his arched back resembled a flaming red sword. Some swore that the smoke rising from his burning body bespoke the aroma of sweet jasmine.

The mist rising from the flaming Bouazizi wafted ever upward, riling the nostrils of the entire Arab world. The smoldering ashes that gathered at Bouazizi’s feet ignited a firestorm that swept across the burning sands of the Sahara like a roiling sirocco screaming justice for all the world’s dispossessed.

If prayer be
an action,
a manifestation
of intention,
a personal
affirmation,
a cleansing
catharsis,
a transcendent
connection,
Bouazizi’s self
immolation
is a burnt
offering
by one of
of Father
Ibrahim’s
sacrificial
sons.

His friends and
family knew him
as Basboosa.
All of Tunisia
now knows him
as The Martyr
of the Revolution.

Allah welcomes
him home as one
of his beloved
children.

Mohamed Bouazizi
(29 March 1984 " 4 January 2011)

May Peace Be Upon Him
Music Selection: Dizzy Gillespie, A Night in Tunisia

Oakland
3/8/12

jbm

© 2012 riskrapper


Author's Note

riskrapper
A prose chapter from a book of poems on the Arab Spring, entitled "Call Me Ishmael."

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Reviews

You made this man come alive for us, you see a story like this, a true story and so very few could bring it to life like this, his hunger, his humiliation, his need to be a fair vendor not only in his business but with himself, with his family and friends, his honest heart is abundantly clear in this wonderful, shocking story.
Once in a while you come across real literature such as this and sit in awe of the way you brought him, and his life, his gnawing hunger for a better existence, one that is fair, when other take away our scales they take away our freedoms too, our ability to provide for our family, our livelihood, really just phenomenal work on this story.

Posted 9 Years Ago


"The pall of a blue fatigue" is a foreshadowing to the blue mist that awaits all of us "wrestled the beast of deprivation" is what the best of us hope to be able to do in word and action "blessed wages of subsistence." are the energies that chose to try to drain us from the ether of our enlightened truths "image of a thundering Musa" are the consequences that befall those that attempt to dissuade the fortuitous. this, as all the work i've seen of this muse, is little short of divinity in flight. thank you, sir.

Posted 12 Years Ago



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Added on April 14, 2012
Last Updated on April 14, 2012
Tags: Bouazizi, Tunisia, Arab Spring