PA-21537229.jpg Empty chair where the deputy of the National Constituent Assembly will sign a copy of the constitution during a ceremonial closing session of the parliament in Tunis, Tunisia, on November 20, 2014. Picture by Bresillon Thierry/ABACA/PA Images. All rights reserved.
A cold night. The streets were empty and a large military car on patrol was slowly advancing towards us. The vehicle stopped and a young soldier shouted: ‘There is a sniper around your neighborhood’. He asked for a cigarette, and before leaving advised me and my two other friends to vehemently protect our district, to avoid open spaces, to stick to the walls, to run when crossing the streets, and to go to the military barrack if one of us gets shot. It was the night of Monday, January 17th 2011, three days after Ben Ali, the Tunisian despot, left his country, following a month of popular protests.
The state and its structures could not handle the sudden departure of their abductor. Governmental offices closed, police stations were left empty and the army imposed a 12 hours curfew. Only certain groups of men were allowed by the military to protect their neighborhoods at night. In this heavy atmosphere of uncertainty, on the Friday prayer of the same week, and for the first religious sermon that was not dictated by the state, the imam of our local mosque started by thanking God for this moment of ‘glory’ and then delicately avoided uttering a single word about the collapsing state. Instead, he offered a long, energetic and unexpected speech on the signs of the end of times.
The question here is not ‘how’ did they join ISIS but 'why'?
