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 . 

                                that's  my bed : the silent witness to my fears and  tears