SURVIVING THE MISERY OF LIBYA

Beginnings:

I’ve divided this into a few parts. I don’t know where to start: from the beginning or the end. It seems that life is going at such a fast pace that thoughts are jumbled up and the writing isn’t flowing out of me as it used to back in the 90’s! I used to write long-hand, filling notebooks and scribbling my story with vividness and vitality as if I was living through my experiences for a second time. I’m so happy to have got this chance to share my experiences with the world, and hopefully pass on some semblance of a message or wisdom that they can use in their daily lives. I will plan it well and try my best to make the theme as clear as possible; that being a Muslim in the nine-eleven era is chaotic. The Muslims are divided and totally confused with their lot. Even to be a Muslim is a headache with so many sects, viewpoints, groups and ideas brought to the table. There is no real action. There is no real aim in our ideology in this day and age. We need the initiative of the Prophet, peace be upon him, when he first entered Madina in 1H. We need men of action and charisma. We need Allah’s help in these turbulent times. …

   ….

PART 1: The Early Years

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THERE WAS A TIME when I could remember everything. Now it's just snippets that seem like a figment of my imagination. Life turned out so weird. I'm starting to forget chunks of details from my early life. I don't understand why this is happening. I'm not even that old! You could say I have my whole life ahead of me at only 33, but I have pretty much experienced everything there is to experience. I have seen the rough side of life and the beautiful, peaceful side. I have lived through misery on a grand scale and the unreachable happiness that people strive for throughout their entire lives. I suppose I can sum it up in one word: Gratitude.

   My life began in 1978, when the legendary Muhammad Ali lost his heavyweight title, for the third time, to Spinks at Las Vegas. I was born in Tripoli, the Capital of Libya, third in my family of eight; two older sisters who are currently married and five younger siblings (three boys and two girls). I won't go into detail about my family because I don't need to. My father studied long and hard to become a lecturer in the Fateh University of Tripoli.

   I can't remember much of my early years in Libya. I can just remember we used to drive along the coast of Libya from Tripoli to Benghazi. It was some drive. Imagine driving over 1,000km in the summer heat of Libya. It took a whole day to drive that stretch of road to Benghazi, but it was enjoyable. The beautiful sunshine beamed through the car window. I remember the picnic at a nice beach half-way to our destination. I was only around the age of four, so I can't remember much of it. The rough sea that smashed off the rocks was quite frightening; that's how I remember the half-way picnics at the beach. I was probably asleep for most of the trips to Benghazi. We used to go regularly to visit my grandparents and relatives on mom's side.

  Let me tell you something about Benghazi: The Benghazi people were sort of rougher than the Tripoli people. They were not as snobby or stuck-up so to speak! Well that was the impression I got when we moved near my grandmother’s house on holey street as we used to call it, because it was full of big pot holes and cracked roads. Compared to Tripoli, Benghazi was like an impoverished place in another continent! It used to be much better back in the 1970s or 80s with cool hotels and parks, and beautiful beaches. But now it looks like a war-torn ‘Iraq or Afghanistan!

  Anyway, I met a lot of nice people on my Grandmother’s road; but most of the kids started taking drugs (cigarettes, hashish, which led to other stronger things). When I met my friends again last year, I heard some had died from drugs; some are like beggars living rough on the streets (in their thirties). A couple had totally lost it. This is the picture of Benghazi I've witnessed. When I actually went back to revisit the city last year, I saw the people of Benghazi I knew as a kid and almost cried at the sight: Those who smoked or took drugs were dirty, skinny beggars on the holey street of my child-hood, waiting to die (from lung cancer or some other drug-related disease or AIDS). It was a sad sight, which I noticed on most quarters of the city streets. It has been abandoned and ignored by a ruthless, angry government. You wouldn't think it was a part of Libya if you compared it with Tripoli. One wonders why the revolution of the east-side people hadn't started much earlier.

   We lived in Busleem, a rough area near Tripoli's center, filled with black families and the roughest of the rough. I can remember watching American wrestling and boxing in those early days. Everybody loved Muhammad 'Ali Clay. I was only about five when we moved to the flats of Busleem, but I can remember our flat was always full of my dad's friends that I thought they were living with us!

   I went to an old primary school in the suburbs of Busleem Estate. It was a ten-minute walk from my flat. I used to walk with my older sister to the school. I can vaguely remember those days but I met a lot funny people at that primary school; funny-looking and strange weirdos from the depths of the Libyan slums. I can't remember much else in that flat, but there was one memory that stood out. A strange incident.

   My first ever best friend, Kamal was living on the floor below us. He used to always come to my flat and I'd go to his. We used to play all the time, and get into fights with other kids in the community. My younger brother Wal used to join us; although he was four. Kamal had a talent of throwing stones so high into the air that we thought they never came back down. My brother and I would hand him stones to throw in the air, and would be fascinated by the disappearing act of the stone! We used to find old car tyres on the side of the road, and one by one we'd get into them and roll each other down a dangerous road. We would do whatever stupid thing came into our minds to pass the time; until it got dark. Then we'd split.

   There was a kid I'd see every now and again on the bottom floor of our flats. He was always clean-looking and immaculately dressed. I really wanted to do something bad to him. Call it the first tinge on jealousy or envy, but I honestly felt like killing him. Every time I see him, he'd be playing with his friends or showing off his new clothes. He was younger than me, and I didn't know what to do about these bad feelings I had towards him.

   One day, as the sun was coming down, myself and Kamal had gone up to our flats, but I decided to wait a bit. When the coast was clear I paced down the stairs quietly, to see if I would meet the wonder-kid! I didn't find anybody so I left it to another day.

   That day came on the last week of our stay in Busleem. It was a cool summer's day, and I had just had breakfast. Mother was cleaning the carpets and flat as usual. I walked downstairs feeling sublime, and came face to face with wonder kid by chance. We stared at each other for a bit, and then  when nobody was looking I pushed him with all of the force of my body, and just turned and ran. I didn't see what had happened; all I heard was a loud tud hit the concrete floor. He might have smashed his head off it for all I knew or cared. Funnily, I can't even recall what happened after that day for some reason. I never saw that kid again. I didn't feel anything (good or bad).

***

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I MUST JUMP FORWARD roughly thirty years to give you a glimpse of the difference between Busleem then and Busleem during the Revolution of 2011: people are running in all directions on the dirty streets. Some hide behind walls. Some take quick snaps with their latest smartphone. Shots are fired randomly. One hits a wall above Munir’s head. Munir is reporting this story to me in a cool cafe on the busy Ad-Dhahra area in Central Tripoli.

   I met Munir in the Four Points Hotel, teaching English to the workers there in May of 2012. He speaks with enthusiasm and a strange happiness. Although life is still chaotic and unpredictable, he is still happy to be free from the shackles of a vicious dictator. He talks fast. He explains how the remaining Busleem prisoners were finally freed from the notorious prison:

   “A group of us would run down a street with bullets whizzing over our heads, as if we were enacting a scene from ‘Blood Diamond’ or a James Bond movie! It was surreal. The hysteria of the moment makes you forget a lot of details. All you can really remember is snippets of information, five-minute memory snaps like a dream. It’s hard to explain.

   “Six or seven of us rush into the alley-way. Black. bumping into each other. Looking for another way out. Black. We don’t know how many people are still in the prison, oblivious of what’s going on around them on the outside. Shots fired. Everyone who’s out on the streets is running around hysterically. Mainly youths. Rebels. You can pick up a weapon easily on the streets, especially at the beginning of the revolution. We run into the main prison. Smell of burning, bullets, death. Black. So many noises all at once. You can’t even think straight. Death is literally around the next corner. If you weren’t shot, then a pick-up truck or a Black Maria disguised as an ambulance, would block the road and grab as many youngsters as possible. I’ve seen all of this with my own eyes.

   “The prisoners didn’t know that there was a revolution happening outside of the prison walls. They were living in a tiny, dark cell, left to rot. The guards ran for cover. Rebels were disorganized but they outnumbered the cowards of Gaddafi’s men now. Snipers were causing the worst damage to the rebels. We were just normal guys. Inexperienced in warfare. Most had never even held a gun in their lives before. Now we were holding AK47s, machine guns, shotguns, and even handling RPGs! If the scene wasn’t so depressing and miserable it would’ve been comical. Typical of Libya.”

   There’s something about the Libyan people: They are jinxed. Pure unlucky souls. They can’t do anything right for some reason. It was easy for Gaddafi to control such a naive and simple bunch of people. Ignorance is the order of the day. Disorganization runs in every institution of the country. They just can’t get it right for some reason. And even now after the Revolution, Anarchy reigns. The weapons aren’t an issue. It’s just we can’t seem to agree on something and get organized to achieve some sort of a unified goal. We know what we want. But we just keep bumping into each other and get ourselves into an untangled mess! Libya needs serious time. At least twenty years.

“As the Prisoners pour out of their holes, chants of ‘Allahu Akbar’ can be heard everywhere. Shots are fired into the air. Euphoria takes hold, if even for a short while, as the prisoners, rebels and locals forget their past misery and get a taste and smell of a temporary victory and the prospect of real freedom.

   “The streets are suddenly empty of pro-Gaddafi men.”

***

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WE MOVED FROM THE north of Tripoli to the north of Dublin in 1985. Raheeny. I was six years old.

Still Writing ….

To be continued.......................

PART 2: Unrequited Love

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LOVE IS A DELUSION. Infatuation is as fleeting as a dream. Why do we fall into the same trap every time, since time immemorial...

Will write fully soon....

PART 3: Gaddafi’s Demise

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I NEVER THOUGHT OR even dreamt of seeing Gaddafi’s demise. Not many Libyans did. Most of us inside of Libya were brainwashed to believe that the man was immortal! He sold his soul to the devil and played with magic. So many stories and jokes circulated around camp-fires and canteens. It was considered dangerous to even talk about the tyrant and his family members.

   I went back to Libya in 2010 after being made redundant in IBM Ireland. I had landed a job in LG Electronics by the summer of that same year. I worked in the new B2B Marketing Department with a nice group of guys. Getting the job was a nightmare as bloody usual in Libya. …

Work still in progress...