Mujahida Al-Layl

A/N: This is a story that hits pretty close to home. It came to me as my family and I were discussing the current situation in Libya. I decided to mix together two of my passions, Libya and comic books/ reading, to develop this story. This is simply a prologue to give background of the situation. Enjoy and I love feedback! Please be free to give me constructive criticism! 

Prologue

“The city of Benghazi has been liberated from Gaddafi’s iron grip!”

“Tripoli Street of Misrata has been destroyed by Gaddafi military in an attempt to stop the uprising against the murderous regime”

“Thousands have been killed since the revolution began on February 17th. What more can the country take?”

“Interpol issues arrest warrants for Muammar Gaddafi.”

“The King of Africa is dead!”

Amal methodically fingered through the articles from the American and British newspapers her Uncle Uthman collected for her during his recent business travels. Although she learned English in school, she still could not read the articles without her Uncle’s help.

“Amal, you must sound out each letter as you read,” Uncle Uthman instructed her with nearly perfect English.

“But Uncle, it is too difficult.” She complained in Arabic.

“But you will not learn anything if you do not try. Inshallah[i], now that Gaddafi is dead, the education in this country will be much better.” He switched to Arabic. She understood simple English but anything more than a sentence was too strenuous for her to fully comprehend.

“Inshallah,” She replied half-heartedly.

The country was a mess. Before, it had been ran by a single gang headed by Colonel Muammar Gaddafi; but now, it was being run by several gangs each trying to claim the country as their own.  The days of happiness and joy that lighted the victory of Gaddafi’s capture and questionable death were short-lived as men with weapons and the overwhelming liberation of a new Libya formed gangs. Each day more people were dying and gunfire could be heard through out the days and nights. There was no law, either. There was no official police force for the new government, firearms used during the revolution roamed the streets and the government itself was not powerful enough to calm the freedom-hungry people.

“Amal!” Her mother called, “You are going to be late for school! Yalla[ii]! Imshee[iii]!”

“Yes, mama.” Amal looked to her Uncle, “Thank you, Uncle Uthman, for the articles. I will keep them in my room.” She began putting the articles away in a binder, “Will you be joining us for lunch?” She asked him anxiously.

“No, I apologize. Your Uncle Moad is taking me to the airport in a bit. I have a meeting in Abu Dhabi. I hope to bring great technology to the new Libya.” He announced hopefully.

Amal nodded her head in understanding and hugged her Uncle, “ Safe travels, Inshallah.” She prayed.

“Inshallah,” He replied, “Yalla! Zeyad is waiting for you in the car!” He gently pushed her towards the door.

“Asalam Alaikum[iv], Uncle Uthman!” She wrapped her hijab over her head and waved to him, smiling, as she left the house.

“Wa Alaikum Asalam!” He replied.

Amal got into her brother’s car and they drove off into downtown Tripoli. The air conditioning in their old, 1994 Toyota Camry was on full power as they drove through the hot Saharan heat. Windows stayed shut unless Zeyad was prompted to open them to yell at another, terrible driver or a pedestrian that did not check both ways before crossing. There was burnt out cigarette buds, crushed pop cans and used up bullets covering the city ground. No one has cleaned it up. The foreign street cleaners --that worked before the revolution-- fled the country once they could and no one had taken the initiative to clean up and the government had no idea where to start. As they passed bullet-torn buildings, Amal noticed something on her brother’s arm.

“Zeyad, what happened?” She asked him curiously.

“What are you talking about?” He took his eyes off the road for a second and shot her a look of confusion.

“Your arm. There is a large cut right above your elbow,” She pointed out.

“That is nothing,” He denounced. “Ibrahim accidentally kicked me with his cleats when we were playing soccer.” He explained.

“Are you sure? That looks more like a –“ She traced it with her forefinger.

“Khalas![v]” He waved her hand away, “Ibrahim kicked me with his cleats.” He repeated defensively.

“Fine,” Amal raised her hands in defeat.

The car stopped in front of the University of Tripoli, formally known as Al- Fateh Univeristy, “Jiddy and Hinay are coming for lunch so do not be late.[vi] One thirty, exactly, I will pick you up.” He reminded her.

“Yes, yes,” She waved him off and quickly fixed her hijab and exited the car.

“Amal!” Esra yelled from across the yard, “I have exciting news!”

Amal walked towards Esra, “Tell me!” She said anxiously.

“Ahmed spoke to my father,” She said happily.

Amal’s eyes opened wide with excitement for her best friend, “Did your father say ‘yes’?” She asked.

Esra laughed, “Yes! However, I told Ahmed that I finish university in three years and I do not want to get married until I am done.” She attested, “He is proud with that decision.”

Amal hugged her friend and kissed her cheeks, “I am so happy for you, Esra! You both are perfect for each other!”

They linked arms and walked to class. As they followed their routine path beneath the palm trees towards their morning class, they heard shouting coming from the nearby parking lot. Amal moved towards the noise to see what was happening.

“Let this be a lesson!” One student’s shout overwhelmed the other voices; “Anyone who was once with the Gaddafi regime or still has a love for the rat, Gaddafi, will be punished!” He roared pointing at a young man curled up on the ground covering his head with his arms.

“Let’s go, Amal.” Esra tugged at her navy blue tunic. Amal looked at her best friend and saw fear in her eyes, “My brother said to stay away from Assem and his friends.” She pleaded.

Amal’s brown eyes fixated on the man on the ground. His legs folded into his chest and she could see the blood flowing down his tanned skin, onto the simmering pavement. He was still breathing but the country’s hospitals were worse than they had ever been and there was no way he’d be taken care of. Amal stared at the blood quickly covering the parking lot. Too much blood, the country has lost too much. Everyone is supposed to be happy now. Libyans can start anew, no more violence or fear or poverty filling their lives. Amal’s forehead crinkled as she held in her tears. Too many have died for people like Assem to throw it all away. Too much blood from young brothers and wise fathers has been lost for Libya’s victory to go down the drain. The freedom fighters’ deaths, including Amal’s father, should not be in vain and dishonoured by cowards like Assem.

Dam Kateer[vii] she whispered to herself.

Her concentration was broken by Esra’s tugs. Amal quickly blinked to hide her tears and looked up at her friends, “Let’s see what professor Akram has in store for us today!” She giggled and charged towards her classroom as her friends followed close behind. As she walked away she felt her eyes unconsciously look back at the man bleeding on the ground.

[i] If God wills.

[ii] Hurry!

[iii] Go!

[iv] Peace be with you. Common way to say “farewell.”

[v] Enough!

[vi] Jiddy means Grandfather and Hinay means Grandmother.

[vii] Too much blood.