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See in our store. We were driving through La Marsa, an upscale suburb north of Tunis, when we passed a bombed-out mansion on the crest of a hill. The two-story cement structure with a flat roof had once been a multi-bedroom luxury home decorated with Arabesque window frames and ornaments. Now it was a gutted, chalk-white, graffiti-covered shell. La Marsa was an interesting place. Ben Ali had maintained three gargantuan palaces there, and the neighborhood was home to other members of his family. Remarkably, admirably, they kept their destruction focused on the Ben Ali and Trabelsi family properties, and left the other residents of La Marsa, including prominent RCD officials, in peace. The former hilltop mansion was a boxy, two-story cement structure with a chimney and a front door. Another artist had painted a finely detailed silhouette of a football player finishing off a bicycle kick. It was a fun image, the kind Banksy might have made, and I wondered if the British street artist had in fact come to Tunis to leave his mark in the birthplace of the Arab Spring. I walked through the space where the gate in the perimeter wall had been, and entered the grounds. There was broken glass and debris strewn everywhere. Every step I took made a crunching sound. Everything inside the house was gone—the furniture, the light fixtures, whatever had once covered the walls. There was graffiti everywhere. Through a rectangular cut-out in the front wall, where a window used to be, KASSERINE , the name of one of the interior towns where the revolution began, was painted on the inside of the perimeter wall in simple, blood-red letters, like a one-word anthem. I climbed the stairs and walked onto what had been the deck. Now it was just a flat surface in the open air. Its only remaining attribute was its commanding view of the Mediterranean. Down on the street, two men in orange vests were parking a backhoe. I suddenly felt exposed standing there, enjoying the commanding view, so obviously trespassing on what might be state property. When one of the workers caught my eye, I offered a feeble wave and wondered if I was about to get in trouble. But the worker in the orange vest smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and went back to attending to the backhoe. A moment later Zied joined me. We stood on the deck for a few minutes, taking in the view. The burned out hulk of an SUV sat on a small concrete pad in the back yard, every inch of its metal skeleton blackened and rusted by fire. What had been the back yard swimming pool was now a cement basin filled with more debris. Standing there on the former deck, it felt as if the mansion had been destroyed not just by a roaming mob, but also by some larger, ineffable force, and that the presence of that force lingered in the air. I felt awed by its power, and bothered by the faint voice in my head telling me that, having been here once, that force could always come back. We drove to another destroyed Ben Ali family mansion, this one further inland and out of view of the water. It was partially hidden behind a higher wall, still had at least one window, and had not been graffitied. Zied explained that, in true eccentric gangster fashion, Imed kept a pet White Tiger on the premises. When the mobs came to destroy the house, they killed the tiger, roasted it over an open fire, and ate it out of spite for the Trabelsi family. Perhaps the story is too fantastic to be true. There was a lot to love about the Tunisian revolution. It had been swift, peaceful, and poetic in surprising ways. So it was hard to know what to make of the bombed-out mansions of La Marsa. They were symbols of a controlled, understandable, and well-directed revolutionary vengeance, but they had also been the scenes of violence. We drove to a bombed-out nightclub on the water. Its glass front wall, that had once offered a spectacular waterfront view, had been blown out, as if by a bomb. The inside of the club was a stripped-down, empty mess. There had been a roof deck, Zied explained, where a DJ spun records as guests partied and danced. They all left the same impression—that history had come calling, putting an end to an obscene reverie and leaving these scenes of destruction in its wake. You also felt that whatever force had wreaked such havoc could easily come again. I had the same sense, at other times, that the forces that had transformed Tunisia were not yet finished with the country. People talked about the revolution in the braided language of hope for the future and worry that the revolution was being blown off-course, that the ghost of the former ruling party might somehow reappear. The police patrolled Avenue Borguiba in riot gear. We saw two fist fights on the Avenue, both of them over parking spaces. The tension in the air was invisible, but you could feel it. Zied and I watched the second of the two fistfights from the balcony of Capitole, the restaurant that had become our usual stop for lunch. When the police had broken up the fight, drawing its spectacle to a close, I asked Zied if the constituent assembly elections schedule for late October might be a catalyst for more protests, more clashes, and perhaps more violence. The elections would gather an assembly to draft a new constitution, but it had occurred to me that they could go wrong in a hundred ways, and in a country already on edge might become the source of greater instability. In such moments you wanted to pray for Tunisia as it traveled from its former criminal dictatorship toward its uncertain future. I wanted to do something useful, or at least find a way to articulate what that useful thing might be. But it was hard to find the answers. The revolution had been a peaceful, even noble, affair, and yet more than martyrs had lost their lives. It occurred to me that in October, during or after the constituent assembly elections, the revolution might return, with all of the beautiful, inspiring, and hopeful power of its change, wrapped, as it had always been, around the danger of potential violence. Either that or my notes are wrong. Celebrate 15 years of Decorative Gourd Season with a limited edition beanie , a new subscription deal , and all the mugs you can stuff down your gullet. Happy fall. There was a woman waiting on the corner for the bus. I said bonjour. She pointed to the house. The words were rendered in giant puffy letters of bright orange, purple, green and blue, and looked like they had been squeezed from tubes of paint. Still, after a few more minutes, we both agreed that we should go. Essay Tunisia Arab Spring. Please help support our writers and keep our site ad-free by becoming a patron. Become a patron. 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