Notes From A Libyan Lurker V – Blood And Monotony In Ajdabiya

It’s easy to get burned out in a place like this. We spent at least eight hours in the car yesterday, and four more or so today. We talk to people who are “on message.” We stay at the hotels housing the other journalists. We run the same routes as the other journalists. It’s not unlike a packaged vacation. We drill our driver for answers and explanations as we try to decipher what’s really going on, what Libyans truly think. It’s like how tourists feel closer to the place in which they’re vacationing when they talk to tour guides. The difference is that, as far as I know, Club Med and Sandals don’t offer packages that include constant gunfire and burning wreckage.

Our next stop was a the hospital in Ajdabiya. A medical student who was working in what appeared to be an emergency room allowed me to take photos of blood on the floor—the aftermath of two car-accident victims. One was recovering, the other would soon be buried. The med student told us that Gaddafi loyalists had raided the hospital and shot patients. It was the same story that floated around Iraq when things were coming to a head there. Who comes up with these stories? I had no doubt the Gaddafi loyalists harassed the patients and staff at the hospital, but to what extent?

A security guard by the name of Mohammed Issa (incidentally, “Issa” is the Arabic translation of Jesus) showed us his leg, which had taken some shrapnel. It was unclear exactly when, where, and why the attack happened, or if it corroborated the med student’s story. She said that she heard shooting. Oh, really? Shooting? Right now? In Libya? You don’t say.

We were told that the hospital had been packed to the brim and chaotic over the last two weeks, but during our visit it seemed calm. I could even hear the birds chirping outside the windows. Eventually we made our way to a room where four people were recovering. The room was bathed in green light that pierced the tinted glass and curtains. It looked shrine-like and otherworldly, but somehow I was disappointed. I wanted to feel the war—to feel sick to my stomach. I didn’t come here to experience the type of war in which the bodies are carted away before I arrive on the scene. Every time I saw guys in green hustle for the stairs I went on red alert, but nothing really happened.

The kid who took shrapnel in his leg told us that he got hit when he was transporting water to some local rebels. He used to make sandwiches for them too. For the time being he will sit and stare at the wall in the room bathed in green. A little girl sat on the bed beside him, looking mournful. Her brother and cousin found a grenade that they thought was dead so they played with it. They were wrong; her brother died and she took shrapnel in her chest. Dried blood streaked her yellow shirt. She adjusted her floral hijab and looked as if she were going to cry as she slowly spoke to us. A few moments later we decided to leave.

Downstairs is where the wounded arrive, and I stood by the door as my journalist companion spoke to some men. A mentally handicapped kid appeared at my side and grabbed the bottle of water from my bag. I snatched it back impulsively but then I gave it back to him. His father attempted to take it away from him to return it to me as the boy screamed. I motioned for them to keep it. At first nearby rebels in camouflage frowned, but they nodded approvingly when my hand gestures were understood. The kid returned the bottle of water, and then I handed it to his father. Once again nods of approval bobbed all around.

“None of this makes sense,” the older journalist said.

On our way out I took a shot of a guy with a head wound as he was carted out of the emergency room. I slept the entire ride home.

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Also by Jeremy Relph:

TAILGATING IN BEN JAWAD

THE PRISONERS

BENGHAZI OR BUST

THE BORDER