The lost generation of Libya

Not old enough to retire, not young enough to start all over.  Damn if
we do, damn if we don't; we are the bridge between the old and the new
and neither is tolerant of our tainted ways.  We continue to be the
ghosts of our forebearers and the fuel for generations to come  We are
seeing the specters of the past and the surety of our present.  We wish
to surrender but there is no victor in sight, we are dissected by our
roots in Libya and the foliage-ladden branches that have sprouted
overseas.

We were raised in a glass castle with the dying whispers of what could
have been.  We have a taste of our bitter-sweet waning dawn and the
back breaking struggle to survive and ultimatly escape our nightly cycle of
rebirth to finally find Nirvana  We are like the dafodils that endured
the harsh winter and managed to sprout just to be harvested for the
sole purpose of decoration.

We are the lost generation of Libyans who were born at the brink of
gadaffi's evil scheme, we are the ones who, in tow to their parents,
left Libya old enough to remember but not young enough to embrace the
new.  We are treated as foreigner when we go to Libya because of our
apparent bewilderment just to be called prehistorics when we make it a
point to stick to the Libyan language clear of any "yeah", "ok", and
"no"...the slang has changed and we did not get the memo.
We are treated like exotic samples by our new compatriots because of
our "gorgeous olive skin not prone to burn in the sun" and the ever
slight and misleading accent that is not quiet "Arabe", for those in
the know, not quiet "French", not quiet "Greek" but rather an amalgam
and trail of our complicated lives.  I had a friend, once, who told me
in a most sincere way and with no malignant sentiments "you immigrants
(forgetting his own roots) are becoming harder to distinguish with all
this globalization and all...".  I had to laugh and supress my hurt
feelings of having been lumped within that category, with a simple
shake of the head and a "didn't you know 'we' set the stage to
globalization...our autocrates invented diaspora and america's brain-drains
are fueling its progenitors" ... I don't think my friend got the
metaphors or my intended rebuff to his 'redneck' and egoistic self.

Such is our lives. We lived with and loved our parents who never
settled because "sayoor el ghareeb eblada" (Libyan proverb and exiles'
living motto meaning "the destiny of a stranger is his country") but
yet we grew up drinking the ethos of a host country for which we pledge
allegiance despite its unmeant but nevertheless discouraging efforts to
our assimilation...a complex oxymoron of pull and push.

The melting pot of oil and water

"Black, White, Yellow, and Red" this was my answer when the Anthropology professor asked the freshmen class to name the human races. 
The class did not laugh but my anthropology professor laughed so hard that his tears were creating rivers on his face amidst our drowned looks . 
"Wrong" he yelled, "African American, White, Asian, and American Indian is the correct answer".
I had the good sense not to correct the subject expert but my humble mind labored over my public humiliation for over two decades and I can yet to differentiate our answers although my maturity and seasoned American way has shed some light on the absurdity of the moment.
Maybe, my politically correct professor was not laughing at my answer but rather at my uncensored and honest reply uninhibited by the affirmative action folks who will eventually get under my skin as well. 
I was a freshly arrived foreign student and this affinity to submit to the order of the day was yet to be instilled.
In the Muslim world, where I come from, we say that "we are all the slaves of God" and yet in our colloquial language we refer to dark skinned individuals by the word "slaves" even though we are not much lighter than them and we share many of their features...hypocrisy at its best or is it human nature and the desire to be correct, under threat? 
Think about it. I have and I am tempted to blame our human nature and our willingness to conform.  Isn't that what the German people did under Hitler?  Isn't that what Obama, our black president, raised by a white woman, did when he lost his negro to be elected? Does that make it correct? Are we losing our humanity in an effort to gloss the obvious and benefit from our membership?
My overly friendly neighbors are welcoming to us and yet their truck is adorned with the confederate flag.  Our black friends are friendly to us and yet we don't get invited to their summer camps because "it is a Christian gathering".  We train our teachers about diversity and yet the superintended of our school explains "the relationship between a Muslim and Islam" like being "an American and a Christian". 
The examples abound and the solution is obvious but people will continue dancing to the beat of the moment and to the unfulfilled rewards of the equality mirage which we wholeheartedly contradict.
It is a sad day when I hear of more labels popping out and people being divided by this invisible line that is supposedly meant to bring them together.  I asked a friend of mine if a mutual friend of ours was Christian; she said "No, she is Catholic".  I was surprised at her answer but I am glad I did not brag about my religion because, only yesterday, the Shia and Sunni factions of Islam are dividing Syria and both sides are killing their fellow Muslims.  A close look at any religion will prove futile to any warring factions because all religions subscribe to peace and yet the young desperate men continue to bend under the will of powerful leaders and to find release for their suppressed testosterone...
People are turning against each other and they are hard pressed to offer forgiveness for the price of war, instead, someone out there, usually a third party, is getting rich and their goals are being served. 
In this country, it is not yet a raging war and the devil is busy with easier and more lucrative markets overseas but I sense it and it is coming in my children's life time when they will take refuge from their neighbors or even be moved to concentration camps for their likes because they don't really belong; they really aren't Black, White, Yellow, or Red, and they might still profess to the Islamic religion.  The federal ethnicity categories are expanding but they are yet to comprise all the races as I see it and "other" is usually my choice unless I am made to abide to my Federal classification of White.  I may be White on paper but we do not fit the White classification of the general public nor ours and yet we submit, or should we rather be grateful, to Uncle Sam's blindness.  Why do we even need this classification other then to further bleed and enlarge the schism.
I say an African American man is a black man if his skin is as rich as mahogany and he is proud of his fore-bearers.  I say an American Indian is red if his skin is the color of the red dirt that was soaked in his ancestors' blood.  I say an Asian American is Yellow if his eyes are slanted like a beautiful crescent shining over us.  I say a White is White if the fruits of his labor propelled us into the industrial revolution.  I say we are all Americans if our combined contributions are greater than our individual offerings and if we pledge allegiance to this country above any other while being human, sincere, raw and yet gentle like we were meant by the creator.
I say enough bigotry and politics because it is not bringing us together but rather splitting us like running a finger through a spider web.  The spider and our humanity will keep mending the fence but sooner or later the spider will run out of thread and unless the pointing finger is severed, humanity will be lost.

Streams of memories

I was asked this last Friday to talk about my memories in Libya, I was asked to open the pandora box.  I was not prepared for this simple and yet obvious question and my answers are eating at me, my love for Libya is chiding me.  My internal shame was amplified by the supernatural desire that brought out all the bad memories and not enough of the good ones.  I am wondering why, why was I so weak to bend my desire to frame Libya in the best of light and make for a joyful interview?  Why did I whimper and let the dark side take over!  WHY?!?!?!?!!! I have many memories and now that I have regained my composure, I see them exiting in an orderly file, the good and the bad, with no feeling of hate towards a regime that abruptly came to an end but is yet dominating the Libyan ethos.

1970s
I remember running through the shallow Mediterranean waters. I remember teasing the gentle waves and eluding them under their weight. I remember basking in the evening sun and running barefoot, on scalding hot sand, to reach the refuge of the mesmerizing water.  I remember laughing with not a care in the world.  I remember building sand castles for hours on end and then sit and watch them gracefully disappear like the sun in the horizon.  I remember playing hide and seek with my 24 carat gold jewelry in the sand and I remember being very generous.

I remember being dropped off by the driver with my teenage cousins, at Benghazi's sailing club.  I remember the abundance of food sent with us; enough to feed my brothers' basketball team.  I remember the watermelon bobbing in the water, within the protection of our sand castle, and the chicken drumsticks and potato stews always made better by the ever present sand.  I remember forgetting to bring a knife for the watermelon, a usual occurrence that brought delight to our hearts.  I remember the fruit's loud crack on a favorite rock and I remember being among the elite group of youngsters who were allowed to dig-in a few minutes before the onslaught of the other spoons, driven by excited hands, in the red sweet flesh of our maimed watermelon.  I remember having those daydreams as I was reading "The lord of the Flies"; I was always Simon and never the wicked Ralph.  I remember being rinsed in the garden, under the canopy of jasmine, with the garden hose; I remember the deluge of sand streaming out of my hair and I remember the taste of that well-water of which I couldn't get enough. I remember marvelling at how brown my skin had gotten.

I remember walking hand in hand with my dad through the Greek ruins of Cyrenaica captivated by his description of the Greek Gods and their glory.  I remember seeing the ocean in the distance and feeling the sand, riding the seabreeze, caressing my ankles.  I remember walking into Zeus' temple and being surrounded by enormous pillars, while twirling, with my arms outstretched, on mosaic floors thousands of years old.  I remember diverting my vision from the pale blue skies to be met by a row of headless stone nymphs, comforted only by the trickle of water still murmuring their songs, in centuries old aqueducts.

I remember being at the sailing club, in the shower areas, on my knees, listening to soothing words from an adult male; I don't remember his face, he did not touch me, I was off limit, but I was fascinated and not afraid.

I remember the throbbing pulses under my firm grip; I remember the final bleating and the knife being drawn in one swift and agile movement.  I remember the warm blood gushing on my fingers like a spring stream kicking into action for the last time.  I remember jolting back to reality when the pulse is no more and the blood is pooling by my feet. I remember the lamb's glossy eyes looking into nothing; I remember licking my dish clean from the BBQ sauce.

1978
I remember driving with my sister and seeing the bodies, still jerking, hanging from the ropes; they
were Benghazi's boys, they were brave and they were caught but not my teenage brothers.  I remember my mom pacing in our vast back yard, listening for running footsteps and weighing in her options.  I remember her furtively leading them to my uncle's basement, a rarity then, as they increased in numbers in our sanctuary.  I remember the sirens and the loud knocking on our door, I remember my mom taking her time and composing herself, and I remember hiding behind this incredibly strong woman and amazing actress while she blatantly lied to the security forces about the rogue youth "destroying our revolutionary dawn".  I remember my brothers and their friends, barely men, huddled in the dark basement.  I remember being but an invisible shadow to my mom, too afraid to leave her and she all too conscience of my presence. 

I remember the sea of boxes littering our veranda after they had 'cleaned up', as in nationalized, my dad's empire.  I remember our Egyptian help, men and women, crying in the far fetches of our home.  I remember seeing my dad, in his real form, for the last time, and my mom's fierce eyes too proud to show grief. (see 'The shattering of dreams' for full story)

I remember Naima on her wedding night; I remember her jolly face and misunderstood beatification.  I remember the last drawn blood of the evening to great fanfare and personal heartbreak.  I remember her tears drawing a line in my conscience and the jasmine's tiny white flowers contrasting with a bleak scene.  I remember the grasping for air as if I was next, I remember the chorus of ululations fueling my fears. (see 'The breaking of glass' for full story)

1979
I remember sitting in a miniscule apartment, in Greece, fighting to take it all in, claustrophobic, and watching my dad's marbled face as he was serenaded by Pavarotti’s strong voice in 'La Boheme'.  I remember getting sick flying economy class for the first time; I remember the kindness of strangers.  I remember the strange world we had landed in, I remember the confusion of a young mind, I remember missing my family now taking refuge in other countries.

1984
I remember getting on the private medical airplane, leaving my 18 year old brother Oussama in Greece, alone to battle his monsters while in the safe confines of our dreary apartment, away from gadafi's reaches.  I remember them resuscitating my dad so that he may take his last breath in Benghazi.  I remember my dad passing away a week later and Oussama calling to check on 'daddy' just to be told, by a stranger, that his dad had lost his battle with cancer.  I remember my dad's last words "Hala and Oussama" and the doors they opened for me.  I remember my mom using those same words when pressured to stay back in Libya and raise the girl there.  I remember her finishing up her mandatory 40 days of grieving in Greece alone and happy to send me off to school every day.  I remember the phone calls from a then married brother, in the States, shaming my mom for her sacrifice while disregarding a dead man's wish.

I remember my mom teaching herself how to read and write, in that same apartment, away from her busy and worthy life in Benghazi.  I remember waking up at night and finding her writing the Arabic alphabet and sounding it out; I was often lulled back to sleep on the sound of the pencil grinding under her firm hand threatening to succumb under the pressure.

1989
I remember getting the long awaited phone call from the US embassy informing me that my student visa was ready.  I remember my mom, feeling vindicated for her 'sins', standing with Oussama, looking at me with a pride she had not felt since 1978.  I remember Oussama congratulating me on what he had failed to achieve.

I remember being sent to that same stranger of a brother to pursue my education in the US, I remember the struggle to adjust to having a brother after 19 years of loneliness.  I remember my being beat for having boys as my friends. I remember missing my mom and suppressing my yearning for the lost freedom and independence that came with trust.  I remember leaving, without farewells, to go live with another brother with whom I became more humble to avoid my disastrous stay with the elder.

I remember not knowing how to tie my shoes at the age of 19; my mom had assumed the role of maid.  I remember my American sister-in-law, kindly showing me how to "loop the laces, hold them tight, and pull".  I remember my accomplices and my heartbreaking 'crimes'.

1993
I remember graduating with honors in record time and wishing for a mother's embrace.  I remember allowing myself to truly fall in love because he was Libyan.  I remember the closing of a chapter and a wedding void of my mom.  I remember my first paycheck at $4 an hour and I remember the NSF notices from the bank.  I remember the half-emptied bottle and my saving grace; the crystal clear image of my mom waving in my stupor.  I remember the sighting of a light at the end of my tunnel...

1998
I remember no more because I now live the moment and challenge it to last; it is balsam to my wounds and I am tired of licking them.

The shattering of dreams

I had lived in a glass castle for the first 8 years of my life but that too was shattered on an unforgettable night in Paris.  It was August 1978, the sly gaddafi had been leading Libya for 8 years consolidating his powers, silencing his rivals, infiltrating the Libyan society with his minions and thugs, and waiting to seize the moment.  We were in route back to Benghazi, Libya, from the States.  We had stopped in Paris, to wrap up our vacation with a few well placed purchases from the Champ Elysee.  I was nestled between my parents in an upscale restaurant when my dad had gotten the notice.  My usually undenied requests to stay longer were brushed aside and we were homeward bound the next day.  Gaddafi had nationalized my Dad's company and, overnight, my Dad had lost an empire built over thirty long years and two bankruptcies.  I don't remember the trip back to our house, I am sure it was quick, silent, and nerve racking to my Father.    Benghazi had just gotten a visit from the southern winds laden with the Sahara's finest brown sand.  The winds were still rumbling and teasing the already brown and dried out leaves on the huge eucalyptus trees lining up our street.  We drove into our neighborhood of grandiose homes still defiantly standing, although beaten, by the sand storm and its menacing grinding sand.
I remember pulling up to a cordoned street, our street.  It was eerily quiet and dark, the orchestra of wild birds that greeted people to our home was silent.  The sand storm had painted everything brown; the army trucks, their camouflaged canopy, and the green clad soldiers stood out as the only colorful objects in a brown painting.  Our street was unusually deserted, not a neighbor in sight, not a single servant welcoming us home, not a stray dog barking wildly, no feral cats begging for food.  I stepped out of the car and my black shiny shoes sank in a layer of dust licking at my already brown ruffled pants.  I remember sneezing and inhaling a lungful of air tainted with the desert sand still freshly laid on everything in sight.  The commotion of the soldiers was whipping out its own mini sand storm; my eyes were stinging but the tear drop I felt was no mine; it was my dad's.  He was towering over me with a forced smile telling me to walk straight on to my room and not to linger.  My Mom was standing next to me transfixed by the real meaning of the moment; her grasp on my hand was tight and cold defying the warm evening temperature of a late summer day.  My dad had disappeared and I proceeded by walking up the stairs to our vast veranda littered with boxes upon boxes of papers freshly unloaded from the trucks.  Some loose leaf papers were still fluttering, like injured birds, before being smothered to death by the soldiers' uncaring footsteps.  Our compound felt like a military base, it was buzzing with young revolutionaries clad to "wipe our likes from the face of this earth".  They were in frenzy under the spell of the loud speakers jutting from one of the trucks; Gaddafi's scathing voice was reverberating against the marble surfaces amplified by the eerie silence of nature.  The soldiers were in a frenzy of allegiance and their mocking eyes and insults were the final blow to my glass castle and my parents' dreams.  I was returning to a hostile takeover and the beginning of a nightmare that will last 40 years.  My dad was powerless, I was still clueless, my mom was defiant.  The next few days our house was filled with a stream of people, who had worked for my dad; some were crying, others left shaking their heads, and a few continued to make the pilgrimage over the next forty years, and even after my dad had passed away, to pay their respect to a truly amazing man, my dad; "he was a kind, just, and generous man" I was told.  I wanted to scream back that my dad is gone, he was only a shell of his former self but, as expected of me, I continued to smile while they etched these painful words in my subconscious.