BEYOND THE SPRING Read online

  Beyond The Spring

  Mike S Martin

  COPYRIGHT 2014

  The author would like to point out that this story is pure fiction

  and any resemblance to any character or event is

  purely coincidental.

  Beyond The Spring

  By Mike S Martin.

  Chapter 1

  When one man speaks very few actually listen.

  When a nation speaks the world holds its breath.

  Tunisia, 17th December 2010.

  For twenty three year old Mohammed Bouazizi today would be a more prosperous day, he could feel it. The vegetable seller had managed to scrounge some oil from a friend to put an end to the constant squeaking his vegetable cart made as he wheeled it towards the main square in the Tunisian town of Sidi Bouzid. The town sat in moderate isolation, roughly four hours south of the capital Tunis amongst a vast and arid plain making earning a living hard for anyone let alone a vegetable seller. The cart was sometimes hard to control due to its size and as it bumped over potholes in the road, its precious load of fresh green beans, peppers, succulent oranges and fresh lemons bounced, threatening to spill at any moment. Mohammed was poor but at least he worked and had something to earn a paltry living from. A lot of his friends wanted to work but couldn’t. The only way to guarantee work was to accept bribes from employers and these people usually fed a corrupt council and ruling party. As hard as it was to earn a living in this Tunisian town, Mohammed realised although he was poor he was a lot better off than the majority who were barely surviving and desperately living on the edge of poverty and starvation. This didn’t come without trouble though. Mohammed had only recently been given his weighing scales back after they were confiscated by officials from the town council. It was their way of trying to persuade him that if he didn’t trade under their rules he wouldn’t trade at all. The tipping over of his cart was also now a regular occurrence, soiling his irreplaceable produce making it unsalable. He had done nothing wrong and always tried to keep his head down, be honest and play by the rules. For eight years he had sold vegetables from his cart in the town square having acquired it from his father who in turn acquired it from his father before him. Mohammed’s father had been forced to abandon the vegetable cart and travel north to the coast for a better chance to earn a living from the tourist industry, meaning they had not seen or heard from each other since. This also meant Mohammed had been forced to leave school early by his mother because she couldn’t afford to keep him at home. He took pride in trying to make an honest living from something that had been passed down a few generations but in recent months constantly faced an uphill battle against the oppressors who lived and thrived on corruption. When they weren’t threatening him they were threatening the small farming family who sold Mohammed his produce in the hope they would put up the price and pressure him into succumbing to the bribes and threats.

  Taking his usual place in the square, business was at the normal pace as the regular customers from the nearby shops came and brought fresh lemons for their black tea or oranges for a refreshing snack. Mohammed was quietly proud of his cart as the vibrant colours of produce stacked up on it were in stark contrast to the dusty streets and plain buildings that surrounded the square. Sitting on his crate in his well -worn denim jeans and black sweat stained Fred Perry style polo shirt he chatted to Asmir whose way of earning a living was shining shoes for some of the office staff that passed by on their way to their air conditioned buildings. Asmir earned even less than Mohammed but they both remained optimistic and never lost hope. They chatted about the young girls who were now crossing the square, some in jeans, jumpers and berka’s and some in full berka dress with no skin on show. Although hidden from sight Mohammed and Asmir knew who they were as giggles and laughs were swapped as the boys watched the girls walk flirtatiously out of sight. The conversation about the girls came to a cautious end as Mohammed noticed four recognisable figures crossing the square, slowly making their way towards him and Asmir, stopping at various other stalls and carts. Instinctively he stood so as to get a better look at what they were up to as the occasional glance in his direction told him it would be another day of defending his livelihood and his existence. One of the men approaching was dressed in a cheap grey suit and Mohammed knew him to be a councillor, having argued with him before. The other three were obviously the muscle which meant they had not come to talk but come to make a point yet again.

  “Are you ok Mohammed? Shall I go and get your uncle?” asked Asmir now sounding concerned.

  Mohammed’s face went from concern to anger, his black neatly combed hair doing nothing to hide the veins pumping the tension around his head and now forcing their way to the surface in his forehead. He never actually answered Asmir but just stood staring at the men who were now no more than twenty feet away. Asmir walked purposefully away to get help for Mohammed as it was obvious he would need it. The guy in the cheap suit spoke first and picked up an orange and proceeded to flick it with the palm of his hand so it bounced up a few feet. To this guy it was just a piece of fruit but to Mohammed the sale of this delicate item would feed him a half decent meal so he looked on nervously as it threatened to bounce out of the hand and onto the dusty street.

  “Mohammed Bouazizi you are still trading I see. Business is good yes?”

  Mohammed tried to look the guy in the face whilst keeping his eye on the orange. Not only was the guy’s black hair greased over to one side but his thick black moustache had also been shaped so as not to move on his face which was pitted with dimples and scars. His light brown, almost hazel eyes watched Mohammed with contempt almost hoping he would try and snatch the orange from his hand, wanting an excuse to tip the cart over once again.

  “I have done nothing wrong” replied Mohammed.

  “Maybe.......Maybe not!” replied the councillor as he carefully placed the fruit back into the cart.

  There was silence as the muscle accompanying him casually strolled around the cart. They also seemed tempted to pick up various items from it but resisted, probably under orders from their master not to.

  “You see Mohammed you could end all this by just making sure some of your takings find their way to us. We are not asking a lot, it will be a sort of tax that will enable you to carry on selling your goods here in the town”

  “I’ve told you I barely make enough to eat so what you are asking of me is impossible. I cannot do it. I already pay a fee for my license”

  Other traders in the square were now casually glancing in Mohammed’s direction, whispering to each other and in turn this was starting to attract attention from other locals who were just stood chatting in the sunshine sipping mint tea and smoking.

  “Your produce is very good. Surely two Dinah’s is not too much to ask”

  “But I only earn three Dinah’s a day from this. How am I supposed to live and hopefully at some point in the future support a wife and children?”

  Locals and traders alike were now pointing at the animated discussion taking place, making the councillor in the suit slightly twitchy. The guy reading the paper on the other side of the square now closed it, folded it up and placed it under his arm. The guy who had been trying to kick a stray flee ridden dog in the hope of forcing it away from his stall of dead skinned birds had now stopped and was trying to listen to the conversation. The guy trying to light his cigarette placed it back in his shirt pocket for another time as he slowly strolled over to Mohammed’s cart.

  “Why don’t you leave him alone?” said the man gesturing for all four of them to be on their way.

  “He’s done nothing wrong…….leave him be!” said another.

  The guy in the suit and his protection had to act now if they wanted a minimum o
f fuss. The last thing they wanted was a riot so two of the protection team grabbed the cart whilst the councillor shouted out his orders so those around them could clearly hear.

  “By order of the governor of Sidi Bouzid I am withdrawing Mohammed Bouazizi’s trading license because he has not paid his license fee which means he can no longer trade in this town”

  To protect his livelihood Mohammed attempted to grab the cart back but was punched clean in the face, forcing him to reel back in pain. Those near to the attack erupted with cries of disapproval and approached the cart to assist in the injustice that was happening in front of them. Some felt so strong about what was happening they left their stalls and carts unattended to go and help. Even some of the sellers who had succumbed to paying the unjust and so called tax disapproved of what they were witnessing. The councillor and his protection had to act and swiftly before they would be the victims of a mob. His order was a nod of the head and that in turn resulted in the protection pulling out various weapons in the form of handguns and large batons and sticks. The noisy and agitated crowd threw their hands in the air in retreat but still continued to shout their anger and remonstrated with the oppressors. Any ideas the crowd had of grabbing the cart back disappeared in an instant as Mohammed watched it being pushed towards the town council building and the offices of the governor under the protection of armed thieves. No one had to guess how heartbroken and angry Mohammed was as his face and eyes told the whole story. It was only his pride that stopped the tears of anguish surfacing in front of his fellow Tunisians. Whilst being consoled by fellow traders Mohammed’s Uncle Ali appeared with Asmir. He was the only person in his life that resembled a father figure since his father had left.

  “It’s ok we will sort this out. Now go to my house and wait for me” pleaded Ali.

  “Bastards!!!” shouted Mohammed as he punched and kicked the air with frustration, his body trying to release some of the seething rage inside. Ali and Asmir watched as he disappeared with a walk that told them for him this wasn’t over.

  “What will you do Ali?” asked Asmir.

  “I will speak to my friend again who is friends with a councillor, a good councillor. He must help stop this”

  Ali spoke to a few of the stall holders in a heated and loud discussion to get a picture of what happened before making his way home to comfort Mohammed and propose to him the next step they must take. It was evident Mohammed was at his wits end, who wouldn’t be. Ali needed to talk to him before he got himself into trouble but entered the one story house to silence.

  “Mohammed! Mohammed are you here?”

  There was nothing but silence as Ali brushed aside the curtains that were his doors to see nothing but empty rooms.

  “Mohammed we can sort this out. Sit with me and talk!”

  Ali listened for a reply but to no avail. Having spent a few minutes checking every room he stood with his hands on hips shaking his head trying to guess where Mohammed might be or what he might be thinking. Wondering back out onto the street Ali pondered on what to do next stroking his unshaven chin with his large hand. He pondered on the possibility that Mohammed had gone to his mother’s house on the outskirts of town but his thoughts were disturbed by the sound of vehicle horns away in the distance. This was normal in an Arab town as a horn was used for everything from warning someone to saying hello or when a driver became bored. This seemed different and it was accompanied by the distant sound of shouting and some screaming. Ali became curious and decided to head in the direction from where the noises were coming from. As Ali was searching his house Mohammed had decided to take things into this own hands. He was now stood next to a security guard outside the Governor’s and councillor’s offices shouting through the gate in the hope of enticing someone out so he could plead his case yet again. The guard watched as the whites of Mohammed’s eyes bulged and the veins in his neck filled with blood and swelled.

  “Why are you doing this? Tell me why are you doing this?”

  Some members of staff, who were walking through the lush green garden area from office to office behind the gate, glanced and frowned at the now desperate man. The guard didn’t seem that interested because Mohammed was just being noisy and not really threatening anyone in particular. This changed when a female councillor approached the gate with two fellow male councillors and ordered the guard to open it so they could speak to Mohammed. She was dressed like a western woman in a black knee length skirt and white long sleeved blouse with a scarf around her neck.

  “Can I ask what your issue is with us?” said the woman sternly.

  Feeling his throat tighten with anger and rage Mohammed expressed his cause to all three councillors who showed no pity. She checked her sheet of paper and read what it said to Mohammed.

  “It says your license has been removed because you have not paid the license fee which means you can no longer sell your goods in this town”

  “Yes but this is a mistake, I have paid here is the proof so there is no reason to take my license away, I have done nothing wrong” said Mohammed aggressively holding his license ticket above his head to show them having fetched it from Ali’s house.

  “Where is his cart?” Asked the woman who was now looking at her two associates.

  One of them leant over and whispered in her ear. As he did this the guy who had taken the cart from Mohammed in the square appeared pushing it. Mohammed could barely control his emotions as he realised all the vegetables and fruit that had been on it were nowhere to be seen. The woman nodded to the security guard who proceeded to open the gates so the now empty cart could be pushed out between the two large pillars of the entrance and out onto the street. Mohammed didn’t attempt to grab the cart but instead protested with the female councillor. He was determined to find out where his livelihood had been taken and pleaded with them to give it back to him otherwise he would go hungry until he could restock his produce.

  “Please why won’t you let me work? How am I supposed to live?”

  As the last words of Mohammed’s comment left his mouth, the sound of his face being slapped hard echoed around the gated courtyard. Even the security guard flinched with slight sympathy for the vegetable seller at the sight of the female councillor swinging her arm and striking Mohammed. In an Arab country and in public this was the ultimate insult and Mohammed now stood, a forlorn figure totally humiliated. He found it impossible to respond verbally and just by looking at him it was obvious if he had found any words the tears would have stifled them. Taking the cart from the councillors Mohammed crossed the road and it seemed he was heading back towards the square in a defiant attempt to earn an honest living no matter what the consequences might be. Maybe a few weeks ago this is what he would have done but today Mohammed had been pushed over the edge. Too many times he had fought this battle and too many times he had been made to feel a criminal. Every day he would witness the wrongs being done to his fellow countrymen by oppressors who had not been voted into power by the everyday people who struggled to feed their families. Many times he had been made to beg like an animal for what was rightly his. Anyone who knew Mohammed well would have seen that the small amount of time it had took him to push his cart into the middle of the road to be greeted by the sound of horns from oncoming traffic, he had quickly been consumed by a look that was not familiar to his character. Determined, almost focused beyond recognition was Mohammed as he blocked the road then proceeded to rummage around in his pockets. A few passers-by shouted their disapproval and a few drivers of vehicles questioned his logic at blocking the traffic in the two way street. No one could have guessed what Mohammed was going to do next but he did. He knew it was the only way to make his point.

  For Mohammed the shouting and the questioning from passers-by faded into the distance as he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small bottle of water. With no hesitation he unscrewed the top and proceeded to pour the contents over himself. There was nobody near enough to him to smell the contents which would ha
ve immediately alerted them as to what it was. Throwing the bottle onto the floor Mohammed then pulled out a lighter and held it up. Saying nothing and looking at no one in particular he looked at the small flame as he placed it onto his black polo shirt. In the blink of an eye Mohammed was completely alight with the flames spreading quickly as he stood with his arms in the crucifix position. One can only assume it was disbelief as one driver of a car slowly swerved around him and just stared as the flames grew larger as at first Mohammed’s clothes quickly burned away then his skin and body fat fed the flames. People had now started to scream at the sight and smell of another human being burning alive in an act of self- immolation.

  One man approached clutching his jacket in the hope of smothering Mohammed but the flames were too strong to get near. The councillors looked on in disbelief, the female one placing her hands to her mouth in utter horror. The remains of Mohammed’s clothes could now be seen melting onto his flesh as the exposed parts of his body were now turning black like an overcooked piece of meat. The fat and muscles on his body were now dripping onto the road and the bony parts of him like his wrists and face were now charred under a veil of fire. As Mohammed dropped to the ground still making no sound he began to crawl, leaving melted pieces of fat and skin on the road that remained alight such was the ferocity of the fire. Another man joined the attempt in trying to help the guy with the jacket put the flames out. This one was armed with a large sheet type piece of material and threw it over the burning man.

  “Mohammed! No! No!” screamed Mohammed’s Uncle Ali, who had appeared from around the corner and instinctively knew who it was.

  Where Mohammed had been standing next to his cart it had now caught fire as a few more people struggled to dowse the flames now taking hold. Ali’s screams were deafening as he assisted the other two guys in trying to roll the body across the road to extinguish the fire. When they thought the flames were out they removed the sheet to cries of horror and anguish from the crowd that had now gathered. Mohammed’s body was charred and stiff but he seemed to be still breathing through melted holes on his face that used to be his nose and mouth, but only just. His eyelids had totally melted away and it looked like his eyes were no longer there. The bones on display were black and charred and Mohammed’s blackened skull was now visible. The smell in the air almost overcame Ali forcing him to wretch at the effects of a human body having burned alive. As an ambulance approached through the heavy traffic down the now gridlocked road the crowd’s mood was starting to change. The morbid fascination of a burning body was now being replaced with anger, especially by those who had witnessed the whole event including the slap in the face and the taking of the cart only moments earlier. Mohammed was loaded into the ambulance and Ali climbed in to accompany him to the hospital. It was as Ali looked out of the rear window through the crowds that he sensed a great deal of anger and hatred towards the perpetrators, who were now locked behind the gates of the governors building, nowhere to be seen behind numerous armed security staff who were now increasing in numbers. Before the ambulance turned the corner and out of sight Ali witnessed the shouting and the raising of the arms in protest at what had just happened and it seemed the now large mob of people were remonstrating and trying to climb the gates. Most recognised and were friends with Mohammed and particular Ali and they were not happy at what they had just witnessed.