One Night in Tunisia

1.0 Unexpected Encounter
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The evening traffic raced down Avenue Mohammed V, its noise drowning out calls to prayer at the minarets. Tunisian night life was rising as the days commerce subsided. The night had retained a soft balmy feel from the day’s heat.
Poseidon’s crew felt relaxed and refreshed after a splendid dinner. Now our libations were working their magic. We weren’t relaxing, we were floating.
Everyone was content in the knowledge that we had done battle with the Med and won through. As was the custom during the evening of our shore visits we had started to discuss the next stage of the voyage.
During this conversation the crew became aware of a figure staring at us from the top of the garden balcony steps at the Hotel da Lac.
Tom looked towards the steps, his natural sense of plain speaking quickly assessing the gatecrasher, ‘‘don’t look now chaps, its sales time again.’’
We had grown used to the advances of Arab salesmen during the previous six weeks, so Tom naturally assumed here was yet another merchant.
People in Tunis either dressed European, Arab/Tunisian or a combination of the two. This figure fell into the last category. He made his approach.
‘‘You are English, yes?’’
Steve, open as ever and never prone to pre-judgment looked around us and then answered, ‘‘yes.’’
‘‘My name is Saleh bin Tariq bin Khalid Al-Asfour. That’s my full family name. Allah has blessed me. I am a believer, a devout Muslim. I pray many times each day. My prayers have brought me to you.’’
Quite an opening speech, it got our attention. He continued to stare at us, unsure of his next sentence and testing our receptiveness. He was in his early twenties, just short of six feet in height, jet black with large brownie black eyes set back in a slightly impish face; probably versed in the art of concealment. However, his slim frame and narrow shoulders made him look quite vulnerable. His full dark hair had been allowed to grow into a thick morass which touched his collar. The combination of traditional Arab garb and a European jacket did not suit him. The latter looked out of place, like it was an afterthought, or a garment hurriedly put on when nothing else was available.
‘‘I have come from Nazret in Ethiopia.’’
Again, he looked for reassurances in our faces and body language. Our North African experience to date had taught us newcomers to be wary of unwelcome Arab approaches. The seniors, through their long tenure in the Med, always reminded us to be watchful and alert before we left Poseidon for any shore activities. Consequently, reserve was sustained.
Saleh continued to stare at us as we were assessing him.
‘‘I can both read and write English. I was taught by an aid agency in Nazret. I have been in Tunis for three weeks.’’
His speech was clipped like many Arabs who speak English. But this was an advantage; each syllable was clear and discernible. He expected a response but by Tunis we had learnt to apply caution to suspicious looking Arabs until they got to the point. Our vigilance continued.
‘‘I heard your voices. I knew you must be English. I want to ask you if…’’ and then the sentence trailed away to nothing.
We were beginning to feel uncomfortable, shifting in our seats and glancing around. Clearly Saleh wasn’t a merchant and he certainly did not intend to make pleasant conversation like the café waiters on the Avenue Moncef Bey. What did he want?
‘‘You were saying,’’ said Jeff, his granite like chin imposing on anything which could compromise the ship’s company and thereby Poseidon.
Saleh wrung his hands. His manner was sheepish. He looked first back at the terrace steps and when out onto the Avenue Mohammed V. We followed his eyes. He licked his lips seeking moisture and returned to look at us full on. Was he being pursued?
‘‘Well!’’ said Ed, as ever, belligerent to the unknown, a glint of steel in the tone.
Saleh refocused, ‘‘I have money.’’
He showed us a thick roll of Tunisian dinar, ‘‘you have a boat, yes?’’ expectation rising in his voice.
Ed turned to Jeff, ‘‘so much for devoutness!’’
Poseidon’s owners sensed a miscreant. It could spell trouble. Something they had dealt with many times in North Africa but given the choice, the seniors were risk averse.
Jeff leaned forward, ‘‘we are not interested in human cargos.’’
Saleh was taken aback. He had assumed we were open for business. His jaw dropped in surprise. His eyes widened.
At that point, a hotel waiter appeared.
‘‘Sir, is this man bothering you?’’
Before Jeff could answer, Bill, usually reserved and the last to offer views suddenly became part of the conversation, ‘‘can you get us a fresh round of drinks please,’’ he paused, ‘‘Saleh, you’re making me curious, would you like a drink?’’
‘‘Yes, what would you like,’’ asked David, also curious.
Bill and David erred towards broad mindedness. The unknown was a challenge to be faced. Back in Blighty, overcoming obstacles had its own rewards but this was North Africa; a radically different regime. The same rules did not apply.
‘‘Just some orange juice, thank you.’’
The waiter scurried off. Jeff had lowered his eyes at Bill and David. They suddenly sensed a can of worms had been opened, consequence fast appearing on the back of curiosity.
Jeff stood up and walked forward a few steps, ‘‘okay Saleh, what exactly do you want from us?’’
Saleh sat on a low garden wall opposite our gathering and explained himself. He was deserted by his mother, age three and taken in by Western missionaries in Dire Dawa on the leeward side of the Ahmar Mountains. He never knew his father but considered himself a member of the Amhara ethnic group who had inhabited the central highlands of Ethiopia for thousands of years. His native language was Amharic. The Amhara are predominantly Christians attending the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church but Saleh had converted to Islam in his teens under the tutelage of a local mullah. Later he had moved to Nazret seeking work.
He was twenty three years old and had joined a fundamentalist Muslim group which rebelled against the secular doctrine of the Ethiopian military government. He was a wanted man with intensions of claiming political asylum. He had approached the Tunisian authorities but they like the Ethiopian Government resisted Muslim fundamentalism. Saleh confessed that most Ethiopians were similarly disposed. Often fundamentalists who had committed atrocities were turned in to the authorities. The Tunisians were intent on sending him back to Ethiopia. He had managed to evade their weak security and had sought refuge with a small band of Muslim fundamentalists in Tunis. Now he wanted to get to Europe, or rather, he wanted England.
‘‘Why don’t you stay with the Muslim fundamentalists in Tunis?’’ asked David.
Saleh lowered his head, ‘‘it’s difficult to say.’’
Jeff was still standing, ‘‘you mean they don’t want you?’’
‘‘No, it’s not that. No it’s…’’
The sentence trailed away into Arabic mutterings.
Steve had been listening intently without comment since the stranger arrived. He was open to suggestion but he was no mug.
He gave Saleh a curious knowing look and said, ‘‘is there really any truth in your story whatsoever?’’ the silkiness in the question tone searching for fact.
‘‘Yes, I was thinking that’’, said Tom and Colin, virtually in unison.
Tom was an imposing figure, well versed in character assessment, Colin; a methodologist, constantly applying the litmus test. Both narrowed their eyes at Saleh.
Jeff sat back down; now confident his crew was beginning to doubt our dubious guest. Ed nodded approval. Something told me this was déjà vu for them.
‘‘You have to believe…please!’’
Earlier, a sense of fair play had made me empathetic to Saleh. Now I realized I should have sensed something doubtful. I’d been thinking about my ex-wife, Carolyn and a time when we, like Saleh, should have made the ‘great move’. With my thoughts drifting into the past I had failed to see the warning signs. Now a more dispassionate appraisal was assumed.
‘‘Saleh,’’ he turned to face me, ‘‘you seem very nervous. That usually means someone is not telling the truth… are you being truthful?’’
Anguish spread across his face. He quickly rose to his full height, glanced around yet again in a jerking motion, his mettle blunted, escape still an option.
He steadied, ‘‘Ahhh, I’m… I am really desperate. If the Tunisian police don’t get me, the Muslim fundamentalists will. You have to believe me, if I don’t get out of Tunis, I will be killed!’’
Once again Jeff played inquisitor, ‘‘you still haven’t answered the question. What do you want?’’
Saleh regained control and blurted out, ‘‘I want you to take me to Sicily. I have money. I can pay. They are after me. They will kill me. You have to take me.’’
He showed us his thick wad of readies again and began hopping from foot to foot with nervous tension.
‘‘Why?’’ asked Tom, he looked around us for support, ‘‘we don’t think you are telling us the truth. Who is after you and why?’’ he paused and then emphasized the word again, ‘‘why?’’
Saleh stopped hopping, now frozen and holding his breath. His eyes were set out on stalks. He was visibly perspiring.
‘‘You stole the money from the fundamentalists, didn’t you?’’ offered Ed.
Saleh hesitated and then, ‘‘yes.’’
‘‘And the jacket?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Saleh looked sullen and lost, initial confidence and composure seeping away. He had exposed his situation in the hope it would be received with compassion but a touch of solemnity would not have gone amiss with the Poseidon crew.
‘‘Why do you want to go to Sicily…why not go back to Ethiopia?’’ asked Colin.
Of course by then, we inwardly suspected the reason. His end objective seeped out like an advance warning. He wanted us to see it, make it easy for him. His hope that we would make the invitation, offer the gold plated parachute. The remainder of the encounter would be a confirmation of suspicion.
Saleh’s face began to scrunch up. His incessant hopping began again. He looked like the swinging pendulum on an out of control grandfather clock. Again he scoped the hotel grounds, this time with a meticulous concentration. Horn squawks from irate motorists on Avenue Mohammed V focused his attention. He was nervous, as if expecting imminent and unwelcome company.
‘‘You have to help me. I haven’t much time. I have to get out of here. You can have all this money.’’
He thrust the dinar forward.
‘‘Why Sicily?’’ asked Bill.
The hopping action increased.
‘‘I’m being pursued by the fundamentalists and the authorities. If I am caught they will torture me, then kill me, I have to get…’’, again the sentence trailed away into Arabic mutterings.
He looked lost and was panting, not knowing his fate, desperately trying to think up the next play.
We broke into a hushed conversation between ourselves trying to decide what to do. The tone was not particularly hopeful as far as the stranger was concerned. There wasn’t the mark of the manacles on the Ethiopian or any indication of persecution, yet he claimed our sanctuary. After initially being unreadable, his true character was starting to emerge.
I looked him over again as we were making consideration. He had that elegant wasted look combined with truculent enigma, but there was something else, and bipolar in its effect. Fragility was plain to see, but was this just a front hiding a very different beast? Perhaps his outer layer was the softer regime. Further back in his lair, there may be another side capable of the atrocities which he alluded to earlier. Given the opportunity and the motivation, could he be a future bomber with appetites turned testy in pursuit of carnage. His wide eyed glare appeared just the tonic to mask off morality in favour of terrorism. No doubt he would condemn Anglo-American interventionism in the Middle East as indefensible, but would see no contradiction of the ethics code when it came to applauding Muslims executing kidnapped Westerners live on the internet. Hypocrisy was definitely within his palate.
‘‘Okay, okay,’’ Saleh licked his lips trying to find moisture.
Our consideration stopped abruptly. He breathed out making a hissing noise before taking a large gulp of the orange juice. He balanced himself, stopped panting and then let fly with aggression.
‘‘You owe black people. I am a devout Black Muslim. Your crusaders have done great wrongs to us. We want revenge on the infidel. It is my time to get justice from you. I want to live in England. You used to be great but now we know your politically correct politicians have made you weak and ripe for exploitation. It is the duty of all true believers to wreak havoc on the West, exploit your weak human rights laws, destroy your civilisation and make you our slaves.’’
We sat back aghast at Saleh’s rapacious outpouring. He stood tall and proud of his diatribe, hands on hips, head thrust forward and challenging us to respond with his body language.
Throughout our unexpected encounter with Saleh he emphasized his devoutness and dedication to faith. The early dialogue revealed he was an unquestioning believer who had taken on board the Koran’s teachings and practiced its doctrine without question. Now it was clear that the fundamentalist creed had been superimposed on the baseline belief.
This made Saleh a potentially dangerous and deranged being, if not a walking time bomb, ready to explode on command. However, if faith was his master as he professed, he had a propensity to drift in and out, using it to maximise effect, if and when the occasion demanded. His reference to crusaders shone a thousand grudges and complaints.
Saleh was awaiting our reaction to his inflammatory outburst.
‘‘So everything you said earlier really was a lie, huh?’’ exclaimed Colin.
He didn’t answer. He just sustained his impudent look.
‘‘Why are you referring to crusaders? Do you mean the crusades?’’ asked Tom.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘So are you saying that all Muslim atrocities which we have seen in recent years like 9/11 and 7/7 are because of what happened a thousand years ago?’’
‘‘Yes…we have to have revenge on and defeat the descendents of the crusaders. We have to…’’
Before he could go any further, Ed interrupted, ‘‘you mean to tell us that Muslims still harbour a grudge for something which happened way back in the mists of time?’’
Saleh remained silent, his body language sustaining his nerve. He emanated an obvious disgust of non Muslims.
‘‘Good god man, the English have suffered multiple defeats over more than 2,000 years. Worse still we have lost tens of millions in two world wars which happened in cosmic terms just yesterday. The Muslims were the aggressors when they invaded the Holy Land and just because they got a massive spanking from the Crusaders, you think that gives Muslins the right to wage jihad against the West in the 21st century?’’ he looked at Saleh with incredulity, ‘‘using your rationale, the English should be waging war on the Pope for what the Romans did to our ancestors but that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?’’
Ed was on his feet and learning over Saleh who was cowering away with abject guilt.
‘‘There comes a time when all reasonable people put wars behind them and try to repair the damage caused. Using your doctrine, we English should be killing Germans and Japs for the atrocities they inflicted on our people during World War 2… and that, as I say, was just yesterday. But we don’t. We try to forgive and forget. But maybe that’s the difference between Western Christianity and Islam. Because we can forgive, we expect other people who want to enter our realm to behave the same way, but you Muslims are beyond that… aren’t you?’’
Saleh hunched himself up with self loathing. Ed deceased and returned to his seat.
The more we questioned Saleh, the more he began to fit the bogus asylum seeker profile. Finally he admitted he was not an orphan and that his parents and many brothers and sisters were back in Nazret. In point of fact, he was acting as the advanced guard, with the sole objective to get asylum in England. There, he would tell the authorities his family were being persecuted by the Ethiopian government, which of course they weren’t, and they must be allowed to migrate to England!
All the familiar hallmarks of something we were used to reading in the Daily Mail and the Daily Express were present, only this was real. He wasn’t a member of a fundamentalist Muslim group nor was the Ethiopian Government after him. But the Tunis Muslim fundamentalists wanted him for theft and he was an illegal. The Tunisian authorities had him on their radar.
I asked Saleh why he and his fellow countrymen didn’t try to make a better life in Ethiopia instead of trying to free load of other people.
In fact I tried for reason, ‘‘Saleh I can see your plight, even empathize with your situation but in place of exploiting England, why don’t you work to improve the economics of your own country?’’ I lowered the timbre of my voice, ‘‘the world does not owe blacks a living. You already get huge amounts of money from the West, England in particular… but we know it mostly ends up in the pockets of corrupt officials or funding executive jets for tin pot dictators,’’ I could see the crew nodding in agreement, ‘‘you have to strive for self sufficiency, economic independence. Surely you can see that the whole World could be bankrupted bailing out blacks and nothing would change in Ethiopia or any other black African country, would it?’’
Saleh nodded in a sanguine manner, his head tilted down navel gazing.
I also reminded him that it was only over the past twenty to thirty years; well after the end of WW2, that relative prosperity had been accomplished by ordinary English people through hard work, dedication to task and self reliance. Wind back the clock to a period as near as the 1930’s and English people, like most Western Europeans and Americans were out of work, homeless and starving in the Great Depression. They could not or did not claim bogus economic asylum status with more prosperous countries. They had to work their way out of it, fight the Nazi’s, win the war and then start on a programme of social and economic prosperity in the 1950’s and 1960’s. This resulted in the baby boomer generation becoming better off than their forefathers.
The sacrifices made by their parents and their grand parents were not done so that bogus asylum seekers and opportunist economic migrants could milk the welfare system they had worked so hard to create. Neither was it done to change the ethnicity shape of England so her indigenous people felt under great threat. Go back to the 19th century and further back and life expectancy for most English people was very short, with life extremely hard and harsh!
Bill took up the theme, ‘‘yet the Third World seems to think that England has streets paved with gold and every Englishman lives in the lap of luxury since time immemorial. Right now, England like much of Western Europe and North America is heading for severe economic recession.’’
Bill took a long pull on his drink and finished by saying, ‘‘England is already the most densely packed country in the developed World. For social and economic reasons, we simply can’t take anymore economic migrants or asylum seekers. The populace would not stand for it. If not stopped and reversed, the country could be driven into Bosnia style civil war through the sheer desperation of its indigenous people!’’
Saleh looked really ashamed. This was not new to him. He had been well educated and had access to the internet back in Nazret. He knew the score. He knew that if his own country had wealth resultant from hard work and European economic migrants flooded Ethiopia, his people would be outraged and throw out the interlopers by force; just like Idi Amin had done in mid 1970’s Uganda.
He was crushed. His ploy had failed to gain sympathy let alone passage to Sicily. Stiff resolute defiance was replaced by contrition. He was down hearted, his ulterior motive having been exposed. Poseidon’s crew began to sympathize with him.
He took a seat between Steve and myself and began to talk some more about his life. Even, the hard faced, world weary and implacable Ed began to soften.
He told us about his family, more about Nazret and yes it was true that missionaries and disaster agencies had provided his education. He had worked with one of the Western independent charities as a translator and also performed some admin duties. It seemed that life for Saleh was good compared to most Ethiopians. But no, he was not wanted in Ethiopia for being a Muslim terrorist. The truth was he was a bogus asylum seeker who had curried favour with the Tunisian Muslim fundamentalists, gained their patronage and then stolen money, the jacket and other items to fund his intended escape to England.
His monologue continued to its conclusion and then Tom asked, ‘‘how did you get to Tunis from Ethiopia,’’ he paused to seek reaction from Saleh, ‘‘it must have been a torturous journey across Sudan, Egypt and Libya?’’
Saleh’s confidence returned, ‘‘oh, I actually came by plane from Adis Ababa.’’
‘‘What!’’ we all exclaimed in unison.
Saleh’s masquerade had foundered again. He realised he had made a massive faux par. Now he was stage struck, in vino veritas enacted by, in orange juice veritas. Our collective hardness returned.
‘‘You mean to tell us that you had enough money to travel by plane and yet your intension is to claim you are a persecuted asylum seeker,’’ said Jeff.
He was standing up again as was Ed, Steve and David. Saleh remained silent as if stupefied by a cobra.
‘‘You have the temerity to sit there trying to lay a guilt trip on us, when clearly you are not destitute!?’’ Bill virtually spat out the words.
Saleh began to look grey. We thought he was going to flee but his nerve held and he began to question our moral rights to judge him. Attack became his defence. It began to get predatory and dirty. His vicious tongue once more delivered a scathing assault.
‘‘You criticise me, when your country supports the fascist regime in Israel which is murdering my Palestinian brothers and you support the anti-Muslim aggressor which is the United States!’’
Now the boldness returned, ‘‘my reason to milk the English welfare state and abuse your civil rights laws is part of my revenge for all Muslims.’’
He looked on with complete distain, ‘‘I hate the West… I want it destroyed. I want the world to be ruled by Muslim fundamentalists who will subject everybody to Sharia Law. I want to see England, America and all the other anti-Muslim states wiped off the face of the Earth. The Holocaust was a lie put about by Zionists to promote sympathy for the Jews.’’
For sure he wasn’t going anywhere. If he was being tracked, the pursuers had disappeared from his mind. He wanted to fight, more so than just blowing off steam and vitriol. He clenched his fists. If he had a sword, he would have used it. He was getting charged up for the physical, glorious martyr hood within touching distance. Ed would certainly have obliged him.
We expressed our disgust at his ranting but he was oblivious to our disliking his self righteous indignation and hypocrisy.
The Holocaust remark brought Steve to the plate for batting action. He walked up and down in front of Saleh, holding his chin with his left hand, Saleh still in full rant mode. Then with his right hand, he pointed at the Ethiopian. Saleh stopped gushing anger.
‘‘You know; you are absolutely right about the Jews.’’
The crew looked astonished but I’d known Steve a long time and knew what was coming. He was merely fishing, tempting Saleh to rise.
Steve went on, ‘‘it’s just like slavery was a myth in the Americas brought about by failed black asylum seekers and economic migrants who were sent back from the plantations to Africa for being jumped up, duplicitous trouble makers. Wouldn’t you agree?’’
This enraged Saleh.
‘‘No, no, it’s just not true. Black slavery did happen. It did happen.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’
‘‘Because… because everybody knows, I’ve read about it, its fact.’’
Steve continued, ‘‘could just be lies propagated by black political opportunists to hold the West to guilt ransom. Anyway our people were enslaved by the Romans but you don’t see us banging on the Pope’s front door and bleating, hey buddy, you owe us for what your Roman ancestors did to my people…unlike you blacks constantly do! We have more pride, whereas the only weapon in your arsenal is to try and lay guilt. Won’t work, it is blacks who us. If Hitler had prevailed, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’’ Steve had moved forward. He was only inches away from Saleh’s face, ‘‘Hitler would have wiped you lot out. So it is you Saleh, who should get down on your knees and be thanking us for holding out against Hitler and finally defeating him.’’
Saleh recoiled, totally dejected. He sat back down; open mouthed and perspiring profusely. He knew what Steve said to be true, time to grasp at straws.
‘‘Black slavery did happen… it did happen,’’ he said in a much more measured voice.
His face was contorted, his words formed full by a mouth misshapen by smouldering fury. He was becoming apoplectic, burgeoning rage welling up inside him.
Steve finally released the tension, ‘‘yes, Saleh, you are quite right. It did happen. Just like the Holocaust happened. The evidence is overwhelming. Only you are highly selective in your acceptance of truth. You dismiss the Holocaust but you buy into black slavery in the America’s because it suits your political agenda,’’ he turned away from Saleh, ‘‘hardly an objective position is it. Oh and by the way, if you want to milk somebody, go to Kuwait where the streets are paved with Petrodollars and every Kuwaiti gets an annual income from the government equivalent to £30,000, if they work or not.’’
Ed continued the assertion, ‘‘yes, why don’t you go to Kuwait Saleh? Or do you think they wouldn’t want you there either? Damn right. Get real; the Kuwaiti’s despise bogus asylum seekers as much as any other country.’’
Saleh stared back with a blank expression, his face dripping perspiration beads. He moved about his seat awkwardly in an angular frenzy as if partially constrained by a straight jacket. His demeanour became volcanic. Suddenly, he got to his feet again.
‘‘You are all devils… you are all white bastards. When we rise, you will all pay for your crimes against black Muslims. I will personally kill every one of you, gouge your blue eyes out and hack you to pieces when we…’’
The rant went on but we sat cross armed, oblivious to his condemnation of anything not Muslim. The real Saleh bin Tariq bin Khalid Al-Asfour had been smoked out.
Jeff turned to Ed, ‘‘I just can’t hear this guy anymore.’’
‘‘Can I shoot him?’’
‘‘Best not to, it will only upset the locals,’’ Jeff replied, sticking his tongue almost through his cheek.
The humour caught on. Colin played an imaginary violin. Tom began humming Chopin’s Piano Sonata No 2 in B-flat minor.
Saleh was oblivious to us no longer taking him seriously. He continued decimating all things Western, all things Christian, immune to our obvious disrespectful Mickey take. We could evaporate away and he would have been blind to our departure. He was on rant automatic but remained unconvincing.
Steve nodded in disbelief, ‘‘he couldn’t sell food to the staving Biafra’s, could he?’’
‘‘Never seen anyone less convincing,’’ added Bill, ‘‘he couldn’t sell himself out of a wet paper bag.’’
Tom joined in, ‘‘his ability to be convincing is about as likely as Heskey scoring a goal.’’
‘‘Yes, he couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat,’’ I agreed.
Ed started laughing. Soon we all were. The sight of Saleh in full diatribe fashion, arms flailing to emphasize his stream of hate, but without any sense that he had lost us, was comic. In the short time we had known the Ethiopian; he had become a parody of himself. Colin waved his hands in front of his chest in an attempt to tell Saleh we were no longer receiving. Saleh saw nothing. He was gone.
As his voice was reaching a high pitched crescendo, we heard our drinks waiter chime out, ‘‘there he is. That’s the man.’’
Saleh stopped abruptly. Our laughing ceased. We turned around. Tunisian Police were standing next to the waiter. Saleh froze but before the police had even started down the balcony steps and into the terrace garden, he had fled. The police followed in hot pursuit. We sat dumbfounded awaiting the next act.