Six o'clock in the Tunisian capital and the half-light is beginning to spread across Tunis. The sun drops rapidly here; you keep expecting the sun to set and then, quite suddenly, it's gone.
And now the people arrive, like the night, suddenly. I look and see two or three walking past; I look again, there are 10, and behind them more. They are talking, urgently, as if this meeting was long planned and needs to be rapidly conducted. By the time I reach them to hear what they are saying, several other groups have sprung up, and there are easily 50 people.
This scene is repeated daily on Habib Bourghiba Avenue, the main thoroughfare in Tunis, that runs down to the medina's entrance. Ever since president Zine al Abidine Ben Ali fled the country and the regime of fear he created evaporated, Tunisians have been gathering in the evenings to talk and debate with complete strangers.
It is a scene impossible to understand without witnessing it. The urgency in the groups is overwhelming. For brief periods, people cluster around a main speaker, who, moments earlier, had been talking to just one or two people. Now 30 or 40 are pushing close to hear his words and debate. Another man starts talking, then a third asks a question, then a fourth offers an opinion. Soon the crowd has moved, regrouping around the fourth man, with the first speaker left on the edges. This process repeats itself endlessly.
The topics are complex, the debate surprisingly informed. In one group I hear a discussion about whether the former president should be brought to trial from Saudi Arabia. "Leave him there," interjects one man. "We have just got rid of him; you want him back already?"
"He has to go in front of a court. We need to know where the money is."
"He's right, he's right," says a third. "His money is the people's money."
"With his money, he will buy his way back to power," murmurs another. People nod and the debate takes off.
Is this what political freedom is like up close? This hunger, this desire for debate, this outpouring of words and words. I am absolutely astonished by the depth of the debate and wonder what future will be constructed from it.
Because after the talking comes the voting. Tunisians go to the polls on July 24 to choose an assembly to rewrite the country's constitution. For the first time in decades the outcome of a vote is unknown.
July's vote is just the beginning of the story, with presidential elections to follow swiftly. There are dozens of political parties - 44 at the last count - which will be seeking influence in the coming months and no one knows conclusively which individual party or, more likely, grouping, will emerge with popular support.
The old behemoth that was the Constitutional Democratic Rally (RCD), the ruling party of Ben Ali, has now been dissolved. Its towering headquarters just off Habib Bourghiba is empty and has been ransacked. Soldiers and barbed wire guard it. "Death to the RCD," someone has scrawled on its walls in French.
The elephant in the room is An Nahda, the Islamist opposition party that was ruthlessly suppressed and crushed under Ben Ali's rule. Rachid Ghannouchi, the movement's leader, returned in January from a 20-year exile and the party is now legal. Its newspaper, Al Fajr, has been reopened.
An Nahda's spokespersons claim a majority of the country would vote for them, but also maintain they have no wish to change the constitution or force their views on the population.
But it is clear they see a change coming, one they feel is more in tune with the mood of the country. Mr Ghannouchi told me he understood the fear of change that some secularists had: "They used to live without Islam, without Islamism for more than 20 years. So when they see that Islam comes back to its country, they get afraid because they are a minority.
"When they see our meetings are the largest meetings and our newspaper has the largest audience, they fear the country can move from the secular to another culture, an Arab or Muslim culture."
The party maintains this change will be gradual and made without coercion. But few secularists believe the party or are willing to take the chance. Women especially are concerned that their freedoms will be revoked in this most liberal of Arab countries. "If they force me to wear the headscarf, I will leave the country," says one fashion designer. "Do you think they can take my freedom, change my life and still keep me here?"
The bitterness of feeling towards An Nahda is palpable, but it is imprecise; the party has no plans to impose a dress code on women and says its opposition to the ban on headscarves is based on giving women freedom of choice.
The price Tunisians paid to be free to talk has not been cheap - many died in the uprisings and during the long years of repressive rule. But the consequences of voting will be unpredictable. The transition to democracy will probably be messy, especially early on, as parties find their feet.
The question is less whether the parties can find ways to work together than whether the people can co-exist. The coming elections may bring shocking results for this small, independent-minded Arab country. A big victory for the Islamists might change the dynamic of the country's politics and even the internal dynamics of An Nahda, empowering wings of the group to push for more reforms more quickly. Equally, a poor performance might empower hardliners. A strong showing by either side might polarise the electorate of this young democracy, with unpredictable consequences.
Unpredictable, but not unprecedented. For there is one other fear Tunisians have: becoming Algeria. In 1992, in their next-door neighbour, a military coup halted what looked likely to be the electoral victory of Islamists, a spark that ignited a civil war that lasted until 2002. Tough debate and polarised positions can slip into something darker surprisingly swiftly.
Back on Habib Bourghiba Avenue, the open air salons are still in progress. There are easily 150 people on the street. Some move among the groups, listening for topics they care about. An older lady is crossing the avenue with her shopping when she hears something that moves her. "No, no, no!" she says, wagging her finger and wading into the crowd, pulling her bags with her as she berates the speaker. The crowd parts, giving her the space to talk until, her point made, she adjusts her jacket, grips her bags, and heads off into the city darkness.
The crowd takes her verdict with equanimity. But with so many opinions suddenly unleashed, fighting to be heard, whether Tunisians will take the verdict of the ballot box in the same spirit remains to be seen.
falyafai@thenational.ae
