In the Line of Fire
msgayeta
March 28 , 2011 --- about 3:00 in the morning , Sebha City , Libya .A muffled
explosion woke me up from sleep . I rushed
to the balcony of my fourth-floor apartment and ,
from out of the dark sky , made out a funnel of smoke , about six kilometers away . It was most likely another NATO airstrike intended to bring strongman Moammar Gaddafi to his knees.
Three nights before that ,
I was standing on the same balcony with a cup of coffee in my hand. I was looking
at the pitch black sky and
breathing in the uneasy calm . From out of the blue , the sky spewed out a
missile. Its lighted tail beautifully
cut through the
dark sky . I hardly blinked as my eyes followed its trail . Wow , just like in the movies .The speed , the color, the blaze. Awe . Then ,
fear . This is not a movie . This is for
real .I could die . Yes , it was a missile from a stealth ,
radar-evasive jet fighter. As the US and
NATO assured the world , the airstrike was
focused and controlled . The
missile went right to its target ---- the arsenal --- and didn't cause much stir . I heaved a sigh
of relief .
With my fears allayed by this harmless
precedent , I went back to sleep ,
only to be violently roused half an hour later . Our building , a four-story structure , jolted
three times . They were sharp ,
ominous tremors. I dressed up in a frenzy and grabbed my emergency bag where I kept my
passport , some clothes , toiletry and money. I had prepared this bag the month before and kept it at my bedside . With the highly unstable situation, I knew I had to
be ready .The building shook again . Then , a thunderous sound of an explosion. My heart pounded in my chest . My mind went
blank. My worst fear had come .The
claws of war were now rapping at my
door.
The Libyan War erupted the previous month , February
17 , to be exact . It was a spill -over
of the mass actions that gained
momentum from neighboring Tunisia. It started with a 26-year-old Mohammed Bouasisi, a fruit vendor who was too poor to pay for a business license
. The police humiliated him and confiscated his produce and weighing scale . After
repeated failed attempts to recover at
least his weighing scale , Bouasisi got
desperate . On December 17 , 2010 , in full view of the public , he doused
himself with gasoline and set himself on
fire. After being in critical condition
for two weeks, Bouasisi died on January 4, 2011. His death sparked a wave
of revolutions in Tunisia
and in other Arab countries. It
was dubbed as the Arab Spring . Authoritarian leaders , well-entrenched in the
corridors of power , fell one by one .After just a month , Libya was seething
in conflict.
view from my window : they're fighting again
Despite
bloody incidents in other Libyan cities , war-related
violence was still minimal in Sebha City
, a known Gaddafi turf in the south of the country .The fragile peace gave me
some sense of security .
But now , with ear-shattering explosions around ,
and the building shaking like there was an intense tectonic earthquake
, I felt I was in imminent
danger . What is happening outside ? No idea. How stable is this building ? Not sure . I decided it was best to get out of it . My phone rang.
It was my student advising me to evacuate .She was trying to tell me where to go
so that her family could pick me up . Too confused to understand anything
, I just assured her that I would be
fine and abruptly ended the call. I
managed to open the door after a few frantic turns of the key and almost flew down the flight of stairs
.The other tenants had already left.
I found them at the back of the building , in a small , sandy vacant lot. I hunkered
with them. We took cover next to a low sturdy concrete fence . We were about twenty. There were families with small children. Fear was clearly written on the
women’s faces . The children , though
still playful , were edgy . The three
men in our group , carrying armalites, were poised like our defenders .They scolded the women who were crying in panic. Other neighbors were boarding their cars and
trucks , obviously to flee from danger .
NATO ,
indeed , had again targeted the vast
military arsenal . Like the first
one , the airstrike that early morning was cautious to avoid civilian casualties . But
what was beyond NATO’s control was the chain reaction triggered by its airstrike
.The domino effect was proving to be more dangerous .The secondary explosions were more massive and more ferocious. They were now wreaking havoc on the city . Imagine a Gaddafi arsenal . Full to the brim. A stockpile of
guns , grenades and grenade launchers , ammunition , bombs and other implements of
modern warfare. Add to that military
vehicles: from jeeps to armored
personnel carriers , all filled with fuel . And then barrels and barrels of
fuel in the depot. Now , those weapons ,
vehicles and fuel were exploding either simultaneously or one after another .Sebha
City was in chaos.
From our spot , I could
see flashes of light from the burning arsenal . The red-orange flames contrasting
with the pitch black sky lent a brutal beauty to the mayhem. The fire grew higher and fiercer every time something
was ignited . Sometimes , the ball
of fire seemed big enough to engulf the whole city . The arsenal was like a
giant beast spitting fire and throwing out live grenades , bombs , gunpowder containers
, barrels of fuel --- all burning and exploding
. Each explosion sent a strong
gust of wind , shook the ground under our feet and blasted our ears. Car alarms blared . Glass windows
in nearer buildings and houses were
shattered to smithereens . The scene
was surreal to me. Is this really happening ? At times , I tried to
distract myself by toying with my phone , but I could still see the inferno from the periphery of my eyes .
Questions rose in my mind. Why did I not get out of this country
when I had the chance ? Was it plain stupidity to stay ?
As soon as the war broke
out , foreigners started evacuating from
Libya . Rich countries like the US and China , with their giant logistical
machinery, were able to pull out their people in one swoop . On the other hand , the Philippine
government , with its little resources ,
could only evacuate its people in slow,
limited steps . There were about 30,000
Filipinos in Libya that time and
it was a herculean task to evacuate all of them .The government just didn't have enough means to do it . I fully
understood that . I never complained about the government’s scanty efforts . In fact , with my decision to
work overseas came the acceptance that I
would have to rely entirely on myself when push comes to shove. That time had
come .
Hundreds of thousands of migrant workers from
different countries were headed
to the Tunisian-Libyan border .
Different organizations were there waiting to give aid but their efforts
could not match the enormity of the crisis. CNN aired harrowing stories
of evacuees. It showed footage of the chaotic
scenario at the border .Life-threatening
stampedes. Virtually non-existent sanitation .Snail-paced processing of documents.
And to
reach that border
from where I was required two days of risky land trip
that would expose us to gun fights
, robbery and other forms of assault . Another route for escape was through other
sub-Saharan countries , where perils of equal or even bigger magnitude
awaited evacuees. Common
criminals and terrorists had plotted
sinister plans and set up traps in
isolated places where they waited for their prey . Many had been waylaid . Those
who managed to evade these outlaws risked
death by starvation , dehydration
and heat stroke in the outskirts of the Sahara Desert. So ,would
I flee or would I stay ? I weighed my options .
I stayed .
A major reason for this
decision was money . My dwindling bank account in the Philippines was
far from enough for my plans. I was only on my second year in Libya . Any
Overseas Filipino worker , or OFW , knows that on the first year , most of the earnings
will go to a myriad of loans . I
was not exempted from that burden.
If I stayed up to the end
of the school year , I may
be able to bring home some more
money .Yes , “ may ”. Nothing was certain. If I stayed , I may be able to
recoup my losses .International
financial transactions had been
cut off. The US dollar and other currencies were in the hands of select
government institutions, or in the hands of greedy businessmen. The exchange rates they asked
for were morally revolting .The value of our salary was almost halved.
Honestly , I was more
afraid of going home broke than going home dead. I shared that kind of
dread with other Filipinos . Many were unwilling to leave Libya because of dim situations
back home. We stayed and gambled with the most precious thing we had : our very lives. Against all
odds , we were hoping that things would return to normal , we could go
back to work, get paid
and go home with something .
But there was another
reason for the decision to stay .Skeptics
would not believe it. It is not just the money . It is also
the love for the job and the students . We were committed to the education of Libyan youth . With many
foreign teachers gone, many classes had been left teacher-less. Libyan students were hungry for knowledge.
They were very eager to learn . I, with some other teachers , stayed to salvage whatever could be salvaged
in the semester . We went to school and taught whenever we thought it was safe
to do so. Connected to our students by mobile phones , we alerted each other whenever there was a
gunfight or a bombing . When the fighting subsided , teachers would go back to the college and teach whoever was there .We wanted to lend even an iota of normalcy to the students’
lives.
As a
university teacher, I was in
direct contact with the Libyan youth. I knew their sentiments . I could feel
the simmering tension. Classes were polarized by opposing political beliefs. Friendships had been
severed . Cordial relationships had
turned sour . Teachers were aware of the raw nerves and cooled down arguments
right away before they turned nasty. Or deadly . In a place where guns are as
ubiquitous as the sand , the last thing
we wanted were heated, emotional debates .
at the university
I made sure that my neutrality was clear to my
students .I didn't want to hurt or offend any of them . When asked whether I
was pro-Gaddafi or pro-revolution , I
would say : Pro-Libyan . But most of the
time , I kept mum. It was the best thing
to do.
War
drastically changed my students’
lives . I had witnessed how carefree teenagers changed into socially- aware citizens.
I had seen how weak girls turned into
tough orphans . Before my eyes , timid boys transformed into fearless warriors ,
brandishing armalites and guns. It broke my heart whenever a boy bid me goodbye to join the war . Empty classroom seats , which I previously dismissed as bouts of illness or laziness , now worried me no end
. Has
Khalid gone to the battlefield
? Or has
Mariam been caught in the cross-fire ? These young men and women were a part of my decision to stay. I cared and still care
for those kids. I realized from my
experience that a teacher can not NOT
LOVE her students. Even if they are not related by race and religion . Even if they are sometimes rude and annoying .The moment she finds out
that they are in harm’s way--- she forgives them instantly and starts
worrying about them as if they are her own children. And even now , as I have moved on in my career, my heart still
aches for my boys who went to war
and never came back.
There was another reason
to stay .Was it the challenge? Maybe
. The Arab Spring was a momentous part of history and it was unfolding right before my eyes. I was in it. While international journalists
were scrambling to gain access to Libya , I was already there . Right in the middle of the action . If I couldn't get out of it , I might as well
benefit from it .War is a great teacher . I would learn from it, no matter how hard
and painful the lessons may be .Is there a classroom better than a warzone? Is there a test tougher than
this ? If I survived here , I would survive anywhere .
A barrage of gunfire .
I peeked
from over the fence beside which we were crouching. Pro-Gaddafi
forces were streaming to the streets , all armed to the teeth. They
were in military vehicles, armored
personnel carriers and pick-up trucks
. Snipers stationed themselves on roof tops.
Many of them thought that anti-Gaddafi
rebels were already on the ground and were ready to fight them to the death. Anti-aircraft machines
shot up blue and red light into the sky. Soldiers and
civilians alike fired their powerful guns up in the air , in a desperate attempt to kill an invisible intruder. Some of them
were just panic-shooting and that
doubled the danger for us . The
early morning mist reeked of gun
powder.
We had been hunkering for about an hour and
a half now . Suddenly , a cylinder of
metal , probably two feet long , appeared from the sky .It looked like a part of military machine or maybe a bomb in itself. We didn't know exactly what it was. It was
burning on one end , flying towards our direction. The tremendous impact
of the explosion must have hurled it far into the sky. When we spotted it , it
was just about twenty feet above
us . On the first two or three seconds
upon seeing the menacing chunk, we were all
petrified . Nobody could move . “ This would be a nasty death .” I muttered to
myself as I froze . Then , the adrenalin
rush. We scampered , then ,
hurled ourselves to the ground. The chunk landed
about three feet from
where we were initially huddling. Many of us could have been hit , had we not moved in the nick of time. Fortunately , it did not explode . Had it exploded , the
ten-foot distance we managed to
cover would not have been enough to save us . This close call totally convinced me that I would die that day. I tried to calm my
nerves.
Again , I started musing .Funny how one can
become nostalgic in the face of death . But why not ? Except for my emergency
bag , memories were all I had. I traced my journey to this north African country.
I first
arrived in Libya on October 18 , 2009
to teach English in a state university
.I was assigned in Sebha City , about
640 kilometers from the capital Tripoli .Security concerns about Libya have always been legitimate
but the job opportunity knocked at
the right time . “Right time ” means that my finances had hit rock bottom . Ignoring risks to my life and limb,I packed my
suitcase and kissed my family good- bye.
My
first year in Libya was actually better than I expected . Libyans are wonderful people. Friendly , hospitable ,
passionate . They are loyal friends but terrible foes. The locals made my life in their country as comfortable as it could be . As I started
to feel at ease with the people and the beige-toned Arab
terrain, I laid out my plans . Pay loans, save money for
the kids’ education , put up a business, save for old age , travel . But the war derailed those plans. Those things seemed so far beyond my reach now. In the flames of
the bombed arsenal , I saw my dreams
going up in smoke. I wasn’t even sure
whether I could get back home in one piece, literally.
Another
blast brought my mind back . Then, a lull.
I decided to make a phone
call to the Philippines. The voice of a loved one would still my troubled heart . I remember my impatient excitement
as the phone on the other end started to ring . “ Somebody please , pick
up the phone before I get hit by a bomb ! ”. Somebody answered. It was my
ten-year-old son , my only son. He was home alone. I said
the usual “ How are you doing ? ” , “
How’s school ? ”, “ Don’t bike too fast ”.
I tried to imagine his face : white cheeks , chinky eyes , curly hair , pug nose . I may not be able to
see that face again. And the face of my daughter , my husband and
my other loved ones. My chest
tightened . I did not tell my son the
predicament I was in. He didn't deserve to be tormented that way. Having
been comforted by my son’s voice ,
I said good-bye.
Now , a different but pleasant sound .
It was the
solemn call for the morning
Islamic prayer . There were two mosques
nearby . The calls , I noticed ,
were more eloquent than ever. They were
a welcome respite from the crashing thunder of the bombs .The Libyans
knelt prostrate on the ground and prayed . I found it highly admirable . With
the world crashing down around them , they managed to keep still and pray .
Irreligious even as a Catholic Christian , I ironically found
the strange prayer soothing
and calming .I said my prayers too , in English . God understands all
languages anyway.
Daylight was breaking . The Libyans who were with me started going off somewhere else . A neighbor approached me and invited me to his
house . His wife and children were gathered in a room. They graciously
offered me a pillow and a blanket . Tea
and bread were immediately served . With
their broken English and my broken Arabic , we managed to exchange a few
stories . Our conversation , of course , was regularly interrupted by tremors
and roars of detonating bombs.
At about 10:00 in the morning , the explosions
and the indiscriminate shooting had
subsided . The arsenal was
finally running out of combustible supply. The beast had almost
spent out its hellish breath . I bid
good-bye to the Libyan family and thanked them profusely for the shelter and comfort.
I traced my steps back to our building. As I dragged my feet up to the
fourth floor, I surveyed the building for any sign of damage. Fortunately , it
endured the bombing. I surely underestimated its strength . I would learn later that day that several
buildings collapsed and dozens of people
were injured. Some pregnant women miscarried their babies .
I meticulously examined my apartment . I
groped the walls and windows . No cracks . Then , I ran my eyes
on the beams and ceilings. Still solid . I checked the fragile things. My TV , laptop, oven , plates , glasses and mirrors. I was pleasantly surprised .
Everything was in its proper place. Everything
was intact .
Nothing
was in disarray . Except
for my mind. Nothing was
broken . Except for my spirit . I
lay on my bed and wept .
