Notes from a Libyan Lurker VIII - Picnicking in Benghazi

Friday April 1, 2011

Benghazi, Libya—The mullah thanked Allah for the United States, France, and Turkey. He prayed for Allah’s blessing. The women knelt and prayed on their side of the square. The men repeated "Allahu Akbar" from the other side. I picked my way through the crowd under a gray sky and a light sprinkle.
 

I shot a few photos, and trickle turned to rain. A kid named Salim, a boy scout, guided me into a building. We checked a few rooms and looked for an unoccupied window from which I could shoot steadily—my wide-angle lens is tricky to use from a distance.
 

The crowd gathered for a single purpose, which humbled me. I wondered if the dealers were still working the street in Al-Majorey, if the little black girl still gripped her blanket in her green-bathed hospital room in Ajdabiya. I reminded myself that the revolution has been going strong since February 17. School has been canceled indefinitely. Work too. Libyan males from all over the world have been returning en masse to fight. Many of them have died, and many more will die. The rest are doing nothing—scared and bored.

After prayers we bought supplies for a family lunch with some Libyan friends and waited for our tire to be repaired. A Toyota Hilux—a ubiquitous vehicle here—drove by with two blindfolded black males in the back of its cab. A third man sat next to them, the stock of his AK-47 visible.

“What do you think NATO’s plan is?” a friend asked over lunch. We ate curried chickpeas, noodles, peppers stuffed with rice, couscous, potatoes stuffed with mince meat, tea, and sweets. There were lots of questions: Why is the West doing things so half-assed? Why are people continuing to die in Misrata? Does Iraq = Afghanistan = Libya? Is the debate the beauty or frustration of democracy? “This NATO protection of civilians has failed miserably,” a friend added. I didn’t argue. Benghazi is safe; screw the rest of Libya.

The Libyans and I joked about walking into the hotel: “They’re past Ajdabiya,” we would shout while everyone scattered. “April fools!”
 

More journalists have checked into the hotel. It's made the internet suck even more. A crew of TV journalists crowded me in the elevator, ignoring me and another other guy while they crushed us against the walls. They spoke loudly and held the elevator door while discussing their ever-important battery charging. I felt uncharitable. Then I realized: It was Geraldo Rivera and his crew. His hair is big like a Muppet's. Surprisingly, the last two guys out of the elevator thanked me.

The red line is Benghazi. That much is assured. I watched the BBC for updates. All of the television's context is useless. This place and conflict cries for long-form pieces. As a journalist it feels overwhelming. How does one give this place and time and people justice? The drunken hope of last week, of the rebels' push West, is gone. The near-terror of the retreat back to Benghazi is gone. The crushing wait for help—for resolution—is all that remains.

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Also by Jeremy Relph:

FAST TIMES IN BENGHAZI

A FULL RETREAT

BLOOD AND MONOTONY IN AJDABIYA

TAILGATING IN BEN JAWAD

THE PRISONERS

BENGHAZI OR BUST

THE BORDER