The Foreign Service Journal, January 2003

Y ou can learn a lot from staring at the dirt in Tunisia. The bones of empire stick out of the ground, leading you into the past. A short walk from my house lies Byrsa Hill, the heart of ancient Carthage, near modern Tunis. Standing at the top, you can take in all that once was a great capital, the only city that gave Rome a serious run for its money. Your eye is par- ticularly drawn to the Punic ports, which once held hundreds of war galleys, anxious to row to battle. Now the dark-blue waters hold nothing but rushes and the occasion- al swimming party. Having destroyed the Punic city perched on high, the ever-practical Romans soon rebuilt it on a grander scale. Contrary to popular belief, Rome did not salt the earth of Carthage after finally besting Hannibal. The Romans did cut off the top of the hill to make room for their rectangular vision of mortar and stone. The straight lines of the Roman roads ran down from the hill, heading toward Utica, Dougga, Thurbobo Majus, Oudna and other names out of history. Carthage today is home to some splendid ruins, surrounded by mod- ern villas and boutiques. They are just the latest installment in an unbroken pageant of humanity. After the Romans came a long list of invaders, each leaving their trace. It is no surprise that Tunisians cast a jaundiced eye on empire builders, having themselves been bricks in countless imperial edifices. They know the transitory nature of power, and have a patience that outlasts the great. In modern times the armies of World War II swept over Tunisia, leaving their own traces. The Germans left a rusting bunker on the heights of Sidi Bou Said, the cliff-top village better known for its famous blue-shuttered, white- washed houses, and home to the best doughnuts in the country. On the windswept heights of Gammarth, another chic beach sub- urb of the capital, one can visit the French military cemetery, with its severe lines of tombs surrounded by white gravel paths. White on white. Close to my house, nestled in a grove of trees, is the green oasis of the American military cemetery. The Wall of the Missing, carved with their names, faces rows of white marble headstones that march across an immaculate lawn. The list of the missing is longer than the number of graves, mute testimony to the chaos of war. What happened to the missing? How did their stories end? Occasionally, the earth reveals a trace. Recently a dredging boat in the salt lake of Tunis struck the remains of a World War II bomber. When it was raised, the American crew was discovered inside. In this part of the world the sounds of war are both near and far. CNN and Al-Jazeera pour the blood and thunder into our living rooms, while the ancient battles echo around us, or drift up from the dust we raise as we walk across a field. We are seized with this, our moment in the vast frieze of human history. It is easy to be overwhelmed by it all. But as I sift the dirt near my home, gaze down at ancient mosaic faces, and step over ancient columns and waterworks, I know we are but a transitory scene in this pageant. We will, as my great-grandmother used to say, “live over it,” and pass beyond. The past is a stony bed, but it gives comfort nonetheless. 72 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J A N U A R Y 2 0 0 3 Tunisians cast a jaundiced eye on empire builders, having themselves been bricks in countless imperial edifices. Foreign Service officer Philip Breeden joined the former United States Information Agency in 1986. Previous postings include Ankara, Antananarivo, Istanbul, Washington, D.C. and London. He currently serves in Tunis. The stamp is courtesy of the AAFSW Bookfair “Stamp Corner.” R EFLECTIONS Walking Through History B Y P HILIP B REEDEN