I had no idea what to expect of the conflict in Misrata. For six weeks, the city had been under siege as a rebellion inside the city largely ousted the Qaddafi forces there. Few foreign journalists had been there, and telecommunications in ...
“There is a boat leaving for Misrata this evening” I was told, just three hours before I would have to turn up at the port, if I was to take it.
Misrata. The besieged rebel-held city in “the west” of Libya. The last frontier in this war for us hacks, covering it from the east.
I had a moment of doubt. Should I go? But this soon passed, overtaken by my desire to see a new face of this revolution, far from what was becoming the mundanity of the desert front-line near Ajdabiya.
I rushed back to pack a small bag, and made arrangements. I decided to tell only two people of my plans. I didn’t want to worry anybody unnecessarily, and wanted to keep the number of people I had to keep updated on my status to a minimum. There would be no telephones, and no internet, in Misrata. Satellites only.
Arriving at the port, it was abuzz with activity. Pallets and trucks of humanitarian aid were being loaded into the Ionian Spirit, a Greek owned ferry chartered by the International Organisation for Migration (IOM) to help rescue some of the estimated eight thousand foreign migrants stranded at the port.
“I repeat, this is a one-way seat only” called out the head of IOM to us. Their mission was to save as many of the stranded as possible, and there would not be room for us on the return trip. A few uneasy glances were exchanged.
There were a few other journalists around, but I later learned that we would be very few to disembark in Misrata, to stay there.
During the night, everybody was talking about what would await us there. Only a handful of reporters had already made the voyage, and stories were few and far between. Libya’s third largest city is deep within the Qaddafi-controlled western area of Libya, and access is by sea alone. The city has been besieged for over six weeks by surrounded troops.
Through most of the following day we sailed, passing by two Nato warships as they patrolled way off the coast. As the salty sea sprayed up into my face, it was strange to think that this boat normally sails for holiday makers, navigating the Greek islands and across to Italy. Today, it was sailing amongst warships, charged with delivering a small group of people to a war-zone, and rescuing hundreds from it.
The shoreline appeared, hazy in the distance. The towers and cranes of Misrata port stood high, separated from Benghazi by the vast Gulf of Sirte, and much closer to fabled Tripoli.
A moment of uncertainty weighed heavily, as we heard reports of heavy rocket fire directed at the port throughout the day. By the time we were guided into the harbour by a small tug, flying the familiar flag of the revolution, smoke was rising from a damaged container. The last rocket had hit at 3:30pm, just an hour before.
Evidence of the attacks was reinforced as we left the port, with fresh craters littering the road.
And so here I was. Misrata.
“Why have they sent him” asked, rhetorically, a French friend of mine in Benghazi. Thousands of Libyans had assembled on the city’s corniche, a sea of red-black-green tricolours of independence waving—dotted with the French tricolore and the occasional Qatari flag—prior to Bernard-Henri Lévy’s appearance on stage.
Earlier in the day in the Ouzu hotel, which has become the media nest in Benghazi, a Libyan was asking me what phrases would be suitable for the French philosopher’s visit, pondering links between the storming of the Bastille and Libya’s own revolution.
Several hours later, amid the banners in flowing Arabic script, there were placards grateful for the foreign intervention (“Merci France / Thank you Cameron / Thank you Obama / Thank you United Nations”), and welcoming the Frenchman to Libya “en cours de libération”. Another reminded the world that “Libya is not [a] kingdom for Gaddafi’s sons [to] inherit”.
Dusk was setting-in as BHL, full of gall, took to the stage. His speech certainly rallied the spirits of the Libyans assembled before him, if not, I found, a little too self-congratulatory. Amid talk of why he would “risk his life” in Ajdabiya, France was the first country to offer their support to the Libyans, and Benghazi was now a global symbol of resistance, he said.
At a moment when people seem to be losing their morale, wondering why it is taking so long to oust Col. Gaddafi, it is this kind of boost that they need, whatever it happens to come wrapped-in.
A relatively calm day at the western gate of Ajdabiya, following the ousting of Gaddafi forces the previous day.
One kilometre from the gate a group of rebels marked the last position that we could get to. Beyond this point, they said, the road was booby-trapped. At times, vehicles sped past in the direction of Ajdabiya, talking of shelling around 30km from our position. As the sun reached its zenith, they kneeled to pray. With the sound of planes overhead, they were waving the Senussi-era flag to the skies, not taking any risks of the “friendly fire” that has tainted the reputation of the foreign intervention.
During a lull in the NATO fly-overs, Gaddafi forces took the opportunity to launch five heavy shells at a position believed to be an opposition forces ammunition dump. The rebels responded with four GRAD rockets, although seemingly firing into the unknown, with little chance of hitting their target.
This isn’t going to be over any time soon.
A return to war
I had a growing sense of attachment to the Libyan revolution. Leaving for the first time, back in March, I had felt that I was letting down those I had met there, those who were embroiled in the struggle.
I have no work lined up, but I find myself drawn back there. The end seems nowhere in sight, and a certain regularity of the conflict has caused a low in the coverage of it.
But I feel I need to be back there. I need to witness these events, and document them. I need to see friends there.
And so I return. Driving back through the desert. The crazy Libyan drivers. The excessive speeds. The vast expanses of nothingness. Back to Benghazi. Back to the revolution. Back to the conflict. Back to war.