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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-Elysees. 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.” I go out to see if our neighbours and I can take shifts
standing guard outside our building. I take a small kitchen knife and a
metal rod. I ring my neighbours’ bell. No answer; either they’re not at
home or they are panicked. I shout from the bottom of the building’s
staircase, “Neighbours, get down and let us prepare ourselves!” No
answer.

I return to our
apartment. My wife says, “No one’s there, of course.” I try to calm her
down, but Haroun is a rambunctious child and we can’t explain a state
of emergency to him. My brother, who is in the Tunisian Army, phones
and asks me how we are doing, telling me that his wife is also besieged
in the area where he is posted. My brother fails to reassure us.

Tunisian television
is making me nervous. Another politician is announcing, slowly, that he
is taking power, and he interrupts himself, saying: “By God Almighty,
protect yourselves.” A civilized nation is announcing its independence
from keeping the peace.

I can’t stay here
and keep looking my wife in the eye; I’m panicking too. So I grab an
ax, and kiss my wife on her forehead. I take my place on the building’s
steps, intoning, “either kill or be killed.” The night plods along,
heavy, murderous.

I hear that the
militias are driving around in requisitioned ambulances. They are
transforming the vehicles from carriers of mercy to carriers of death.
The country has suddenly become the setting for a Hollywood gangster
movie, its peaceful, enlightened people the extras.

Shots ring out, and
I hide behind a wall. The sounds of an army helicopter come from far
away. I slip back into my apartment to see my wife’s petrified,
questioning face. Haroun is dancing joyfully.

I try to reassure her, telling her that I am all right and that the army is protecting us with its helicopters.

I go back out to my
sentry post and decide to take refuge in the Quran. But I forget the
opening section, the Fatiha, with its prayers for God’s guidance; I
stumble over the lines, jumbling their order. I think of writing, and
feel for my pencil in my coat pocket.

Suddenly, bullets
ricochet all around me. I flatten myself on the ground. I wait to hear
the helicopter again before I return inside to reassure my family and
recharge my energy with Haroun’s enthusiasm.

On Saturday morning
we venture into the street to find our neighbourhood filled with
unfamiliar faces. The shopping centre near my home has been looted. I
go with my wife and son to a relative’s house to coordinate our
neighbourhood security.

With sticks and
stones, we take control of the neighbourhood. We spend that night
shooing away strangers and strange cars. In the morning we roam the
city looking for bread and milk for our children. There is no milk to
be found. Gradually, city residents become used to the state of
emergency and the curfew, and begin to enjoy the free time they now
have, especially since they are able to speak freely, able to openly
curse and ridicule Ben Ali and his corrupt family.

On Monday we are
told that a new “unity” government has formed. When Tunisians see that
some members of the old regime have been named to cabinet posts, there
is a new wave of disturbances, and people start saying that the
revolution has been stolen from them.

On Tuesday, young
people again take to the streets, demanding the dissolution of Ben
Ali’s party, the Democratic Constitutional Rally party, which has ruled
Tunisia since independence in 1956. Others argue that this risks being
a repeat of the purges of members of Saddam Hussein’s Baath party in
Iraq, which contributed to the insurgency there. While I agree that it
may be impossible to dissolve the party without sending the country
into chaos, I think we have no choice but to try.

There are also
demonstrations at the offices of the largest opposition group over its
complicity with the old regime in the new government. By the end of the
day at least five ministers have stepped down, and nobody knows what
will come next.

As for myself, I
feel an overwhelming happiness that I will now be able to write freely.
A year and a half ago, one of my novels, which describes life under
oppression, was performed as a play at a cultural centre here. The
police monitored those of us involved constantly; none of the
journalists in attendance wrote reviews.

That is why I
support the revolution and, like so many of the young people, worry
that it will be stolen from us by the traitors, thieves and killers who
have ruled us for far too long.

Kamel Riahi is a novelist.

© 2011 The New York Times