The Twilight of the Dictators
Arthur S. Firkins Malta 2012
Revolution was sweeping away the ancient regimes in the years of the Arab Spring, the years when the people of the Middle East discovered the power of networks, began to no longer fear their oppressors, the years that the people decided that all the dictators should retire.
It was February 2011 and it seemed to him that the people of the Middle East had become fed up with business as usual and finally started to throw off the big nasty people, all the overweight men who sat on them. Moreover , that particular year he was on his way to Casablanca and they were going to spend a week in Marrakesh, he was flying from Jeddah, trying to make the connection through Dubai and she was to catch Air France down from Paris.
Rioting was going on all over the Gulf, but in the U.A.E there was only the clamber of tourist in Dubai Duty Free, thank god, and the chaos as the usual suspects trying to cut the queue at Starbucks for a latte. He wondered whether that man who stared down the tank on that infamous day in Tienanmen Square was carrying Dubai Duty Free shopping bags. One in each hand, all alone, he brought the might of the Peoples Republic to a halt, for a moment, for a second, until the tanks found a way around him. Time stood still, for that moment, while the generals figured out what he actually had in those bags.
Across the region the people were being rallied but this time not by the quill of Marat or the voice of Robespierre or Danton, but by the key board, the touch pad, by Gates, Zuckerberg, Dorsey and Sanger, the new boys with their social media. Every SMS message brought the old, the young and the workers to the street, to the square, this time all the people together. With each text message the guillotine was put together text by text.
He grabbed a newspaper off the shelf and searched for the some coins in his pocket to pay the nice shop assistant before running to the gate “I haven’t got any Dubai money”.. “Dirum,… Durums, Dorums, um or whatever you call it” “that’s ok sir, we can take any currency you have”, “What about a card can I pay using that” “anything sir, whatever you like sir, just hurry up sir”.
The news headlines seemed to suggest that Gaddafi was still hanging on. He could imagine how Gaddafi must feel now, could imagine at which point Gaddafi had wished he had been a bit nicer to people. He wondered at which point Gaddafi had thought that he should have shared the wealth a bit, how he had wished that over the forty-seven years that he held absolute power he had done something to bring about greater freedom for the people of Libya, all the people, not just his family, not just the usual bunch.
Sadam must have thought the same as he was dragged from his rat hole. Bashar, the ayatollahs they were all feeling the heat and now according to the reporter, it seemed that Gaddafi had suddenly become a convert to constitutional monarchy it appeared that he now wanted to rule, like Queen Elizabeth, no power, a figure head. Mubarak had thought the same but now he was on his way, along with the once invincible presidents of Tunisia and Algeria , all on their way to jail. All of them had their chance, all could have been great, all could have handed power back to the people, but in the end all scurried off small men . He could picture Gaddafi’s face when it finally dawned on him that it was all over, the lion of Africa, transformed to a pussy cat.
The 21st Century seems to be no place for the tyrant, the dictator , no match for technology, light weights in comparison. Like the French revolution the risk to freedom was always from the shady figures, the ones in the background, the men and woman in the backrooms who had always been more comfortable doing deals with the dictators. It seemed fashionable for leaders now to protest power, to grudgingly accept it, and instantly forget who had given it to them. The best kind of ruler were suppose to be the reluctant types, but only a handful of them actually were that reluctant, most of them couldn’t wait to get their grubby hands on the money and when they did never wanted to go away. The good leaders were peppered through history, a light sprinkling to give a light taste, but not enough to affect the real flavor.
He finally finished the newspaper, folded it and placed it in the seat pocket just as the seat belt sign went on, the hostesses did a last cabin check and the lights dimmed as the plane made its final decent and then, the sound of the wheels lowering, then thud, “ladies and gentleman it is 2pm and welcome to Casablanca .
He unbuckled his seat belt and reached up for his backpack and hat all the time thinking about how nice Marrakesh was going to be, for a cold beer and looking forward to seeing his wife but this momentary daydream was broken, “sir, sir, don’t forget your paper “ and “sir , don’t forget your duty free , you know those bags could come in handy, they are always useful to keep”. “Thanks” he said as he made his way off the plane.
