Witnessing Libyas Revolution

I was well aware of the first signs of the uprising Middle East. I was there when protests erupted in Tunisia and Egypt, when placards and chants turned into bloody baths, but ended beautifully and according to plan. Then the rumours started. Rumours about Libyans plotting their own revolution. While people at my school said it was never going to happen (all in favour of cold-blooded Gaddafi), I, more of a liberal, was secretly praying it would. And my wishes came true. I was born during the Gaddafi regime. Freedom of speech was always something I wanted Libya to get. We werent imprisoned, but our voices were. And if we dare speak up, we were thrown in jail. Gaddafi wanted to cleanse Libya of free expression that he considers is rebellion against his squeaky-clean dictatorship. After 42 years, we demanded the rights he owed us. I was there when the first protests happened, on February 17th. I live in Tripoli, the capital. I was proud to hear the strong male voices chant their love for Libya, but scared when I heard guns being fired. My parents could not take their eyes off of the TV. Their faces were expressionless, but I knew they were happy. Gaddafi was still in power, meaning his external eyes and ears were doubled. We didnt leave the house for weeks now. School closed early and never re-opened. My sisters and I entertained ourselves by playing piano, watching TV or going on the internet. These were our only activities, and as much as I enjoy widening my film repertoire, it was getting pretty boring. One day though, I left with my mom to go grocery shopping. She got frustrated because many roads (mostly shortcuts) were blocked with boulders. When we got there, the place was packed. People, mainly women, were running around trying to stock up on food and all had a look of panic on their faces. Thank God we took precautions before it all started. Days were passed by, and getting out was becoming a death wish. My sister and I stayed up until the sunny morning hours, passing out on the couches after watching movies and eating yesterdays dinner. One morning, though, my mother woke us up, hauling suitcases in and telling us were both leaving for Canada. After a long night of watching the Oscars Live, we didnt believe her and tried to go back to sleep. We parked far away from the airport, as Gaddafiss brigades would not allow cars into the parking lot. Two of my sisters, my grandmother, uncle, aunt and cousin were supposed to leave. Before we were allowed in the parking lot that led to the terminal building, an official checked our passports and asked my uncle if we were pro Gaddafi. My uncle smiled uncomfortably as a response.

When we walked in, my heart broke. I never really witnessed Libyas poverty. A few beggars here and there, but not entire families. They were all camped in the parking lot. Selling chocolate and water to passers-by, sleeping under the hot sun or under a thin tent or just sitting there and talking amongst themselves, stopping to stare. Some were immigrants, some Libyans. You cannot fathom the immense quantity of trash on the ground. When we werent walking ankle-deep in ordure, it was old clothes. There were piles of dirty tee-shirts on the drop off road. The airport was no better. In front of the covered entrance, a whole bunch of immigrants (enough to fit a small stadium) were yelling at the officials, who silenced them with shouts and batons. The policemen led us through them. Their looks were heavy on us, and I felt their hatred for those who could leave this erupting place. I was ashamed of my privileges. When we got in, the place was unbelievably crowded. People were sitting on the seats and the floor. We waited a long time for our passports to get authenticated. Long enough for a man in rags next to me to get some kind of inner pain, a doctor to come and gave him an injection. The poor man, probably Egyptian, whimpered while I watched. We ended up not going. The officials took so long to check our papers, we missed our flight. I was excited to go to Canada, so I was pretty disappointed. Next morning, we tried again. No luggage was allowed, so we stuffed backpacks with clothes and other things. This time we made it to the departure area, but it wasnt any less heart-wrecking than the foyer. Immigrants were literally kicked off the seats by officials to let us sit. I felt like a thief. Hundreds of them were sitting on the floor. They werent allowed to stand up or talk and were treated like animals by the officials. I covered my smaller sisters eyes as a policeman beat a man with his baton just for asking a question. Another slapped a man in the face for standing up. It was disgusting. And Gaddafi was obviously allowing human beings to be treated like scum. I wasnt surprised when he orders to shoot to kill during the battle for freedom. We finally left. It took three flights to get to Canada. After two weeks, my mother, a lawyer and writer, came with my baby sister. By then, we had already started a new school. She chose an appropriate moment to leave, because she was blacklisted by the regime for indirectly but clearly speaking up against Gaddafi. She continued writing stories articles in favour of the revolution and was much praised for them. My father, a doctor, stayed behind in Libya. When the protests came to Tripoli, he set up a hospital in our home for the injured. My sister and I are hooked on TV and the internet, looking for any important updates and spreading the word on all social network we log in to. The situation is a little critical at the moment, but were getting there. Our people are brave and their motivation is the thought of a dictator-free Libya and belief in God. They love their country with every

fibre of their being. Early drafts of a new Constitution have appeared, showing that these Freedom Fighters the West calls rebels are actually wise beyond their actions. I condemn the people who claim that Libya will turn into an Iraq of North African. That is a really ludicrous thought and a terrible way of thinking. Receiving help from an international organization (not just the US) does not mean an invasion is taking place. I thank NATO and the UN for their aid. Without them, a good portion of the revolution wouldnt have happened. Most work has been done by the Freedom Fighters, but it was some of NATOs actions that helped them enter previously inaccessible places. That we cant deny. They will leave after their job is done. Libyans arent that vulnerable. If they took down a whole system, they can end the involvement of an organization. Libya will be free. And the gap between the old and the new country will soon be evident, thanks to the Libyans swift thinking and ever-growing ideas. I can say that I am proud to be Libyan, and that six months ago I never would have that thought my country would forward thinking. Libyas liberation and independency from this dictatorship will come to pass, whether you certain people like it or not. -Danya Hajjaji, 16 years old.