Urban Tripoli - a set on Flickr

April 2009 to March 2010

Urban Tripoli - a set on Flickr

Zintan Mountains - Libya - a set on Flickr

January 2010

Zintan Mountains - Libya - a set on Flickr

The Caves, Poets and Muted Rebels of Zintan

I read with interest recently that Muammar Gaddafi was to evoke the spirit of Omar Mukhtar to crush the rebels in the face of Libya’s uprising. 

Take refuge

I say interested because anyone who knows the story of the tribal leader who led the resistance against the Italian colonization of Libya would probably see Omar Mukhtar as better suited to represent the other side. I refer to the university graduates and the young unemployed fighting for an opportunity against a family who not only cream the top off oil earnings but drink the whole barrel.  In short, Omar Mukhtar, a teacher by profession, was a rebel.


When I was in Benghazi last year I spoke at length with a family who were proud to be considered rebels, talking animatedly about there disdain for how their country was run and with an impressive level of English, explained how rebels were once able to hide successfully in the nearby Green Mountains away from a vengeful Gaddafi back in the day were relations were stretched between the two biggest cities in Libya.


Fast forward to March 2011 and the people of Zintan have recently returned to their small mountainous town after retreating to nearby caves whilst Gaddafi’s men shelled the area.  Zintan sits on a mountain range at about 1200 metres, dry, windy but not unprotected.  The locals are said to have a way with words, quick witted and talented poets but unlike their countrymen 1000 kilometres away in Benghazi they are much tighter lipped when quizzed on leadership opinions.

The Mountainous Dwellings of Zintan

Early last year I was invited to this infamous town, about a two hour drive south of Tripoli.  Libyan’s quite often carry the nickname of the town they're from, in this case the invite was from Mohammed Zintani, a student who lived up to the reputation of providing amusement in quick delivery.  


The drive south to the mountains was an edgy one, our mutual friend and designated driver, Mohammed Zigzag, was not to be denied in the 'living up to ones name' stakes, slaloming between huge rumbling vehicles and using lanes not entirely clear to the untrained eye.  Judging by the catatonic front seat passenger I wasn't alone in thinking we were all going to die... someone then let out a yelp from my left, the disembodied voice was that of Nathan, a teaching college experiencing his first Libyan excursion from behind a pillow.  We at least had an Omar Mukhtar bumper sticker protecting the rear.

Mohammed, Zigzag by name, Zigzag by nature

On arriving we were shown our eating, living and bathing quarters, a drafty room, lined with Arabic sofas and a pile of blankets, for bathing a buried memory.  Life in the mountains of Zintan could fairly be described as rustic.

That said, the hospitality was second to none.

A huge serving of food quickly arrived, as per the local tradition, served by the doleful youngest brother, via the kitchen of the unseen mother.  We sat around a sizable terracotta bowl filled with couscous and lamb, the Mohammeds keen to show off their English skills with a fresh audience.  The crowning glory of the meal wasn't the casual nod and flick of the last piece of lamb over to my side of the bowl from host to guest but it was being asked if the meal had been 'top notch'.  It's a proud moment to have a throw away comment in class scribbled down and used against you at a later date.

Revenge came in the form of Arabic lessons, from all quarters, everyone had their opinion but few had the concept of turn taking.  A guttural volley of slang words left me with at least 10 variants on how to describe a complete mess, whether applied to the cross-pollinated socialist / nationalist political philosophy employed by the leader or a lack of classroom manners by rotund jolly-faced police officers.  When you see the state of the roads you realise you do indeed need all 10 of them.

The Caves of Zintan

We headed out to the caves, the very caves recently occupied by local people in fear of their lives, not in the face of reckless driving but military attacks by their own government.  Many of the caves are set high up beside the winding mountain roads, from here Libyans ambushed passing Italian forces during occupation, it was an Omar Mukhtar inspired move, teacher first, desert warfare strategist second.  The vantage point that was once used for attack temporarily became a place to seek refuge.

My reasons for being there were, thankfully, very different.  The Mohammeds provided entertainment in the form of a Bob Marley duet, 'Buffalo Soldier' as I'd never quite heard it before, a brief lesson in Zintan poetry and an extensive tour of the caves.  

Mohammed and I

Now the situation, much like the traffic between Tripoli and Zintan, seems to be rumbling on, 'Western' interference is some what of an ersatz controversy in the eyes of the rebels, outsiders are more suspicious.

Where is the line between defending innocent people to fully assisting a rebellion?  To offer an opinion either way would be to draw a very long bow.

On the journey home, Mohammed Zigzag treated us to a final finale, accelerating between two cars before slamming on the breaks as the traffic lights turned red.  That was the last time I ever got in a car with him, he was certainly a rebel... but Omar Mukhtar would never have approved.

The multi-purpose terrain of Zintan

Speaking frankly... Colonel Gaddafi

The omnipresent leader... 

'Bashir, where are you from?'  'Zawiyah teacher… rubbish teacher rubbish' he exclaimed whilst bobbing up and down excitedly.

Bashir Bashir was so good they named him twice, he was one of many students who drove daily into Tripoli from Zawiyah for a three hour English lesson, which was, evidence of progress permitting, paid for by Gaddafi’s government.

When I say government I of course refer to the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, obfuscation in its purist form.

In Bashir’s reference to Zawiyah being rubbish he was in fact alluding to the gigantic scrapyard of Zawiyah which seemed to have adopted, rather aptly, the English word ‘rubbish’.  ‘Can you find anything you want there teacher’ was a hackneyed phrase that took repetitive correction to achieve the grammatically correct question form.

I was teaching Bashir at (the) Al-Amana Institute for government employees, ranging from forensic scientists to out of work pilots.  Sent out on an initial 12 week contract I ended up staying for a year, finishing with the title 'lead co-ordinator', clearly in keeping with the superfluous titles dished out in Africa's 4th largest country.

Now, Zawiyah, the town ironically nicknamed 'rubbish' in class, has been reduced to a town of rubble, a week ago troops from the Khamis Brigade led by one of Gaddafi's sons attacked the town from the west with suspected rebels being rounded up in house to house searches.

It's a year to the day since I left Tripoli and I have to admit, I never saw this coming.

'My name's Mohammed'

There was muted dissent but criticism of Muammar Gaddafi was usually confined to cars with windows tightly wound up, in fact his name was pretty much off limits, we referred to him as 'The Leader'.

I recall asking a small group of trusted students in class what was regarded as a taboo subject in Libya, 'speaking frankly... Colonel Gaddafi' was the first reply offered, the eerie silence while his named echoed around the room has left an indelible mark.

Others were a little less discreet in their disdain for the leader, one fellow in particular telling me how he believed Gaddafi to be crazy, pointing to the fact that the Colonel drank milk directly from the teat of a camel as evidence for the nervously delivered accusation.

It wasn't all one way traffic, I remember one student confessing he felt life was better under the embargo, other students sported Gaddafi wrist-watches, with his hair depicted as a bouncy bouffant covering numbers 10 to 2 rather than the greasy mop he wears in reality.

However, the general feeling was one of opposition.  There was a 'silent divide' but it was tangibly apparent with some students appearing to be rather more affluent than others.  The others being young single men, frustrated by the lack of opportunity, living at home, unmarried and without money.  Whilst the English classes were clearly appreciated there was a palpable fear of what was going to become of them once courses were completed.  A contained fear nonetheless, concerns were aired with wild operatic gestures but the blame was never laid at the doorstep of anyone in particular.  Hope, however, seemed to be preserved for the elite.

Al-Amana Institute

The Libyans were rightly proud of their reputation for friendless and hospitality.  Was it some sort of accolade to befriend the teacher, a possibility to practice their English?  A chance to convert an infidel to Islam?  Shades of truth in the first two perhaps, Islam is pivotal in their lives but they, for the most part, were careful not to impose.  In short they, students and teachers alike were as you found them, decent and genuine.


You know, lifting a quotation from a philosopher or someone of that stature would be the ‘clever’ way to neatly tie this off but it’s a line from Elbow’s ‘Leaders of the Free World’ that springs to mind: -

'The leaders of the free world are just little boys throwing stones
and it’s easy to ignore til’ they’re knocking on the door of your homes'

 I’ve been guilty of flicking through news channels watching disasters and dictators with fleeting interest, so with a fear of hypocrisy in mind I’ll taper outlandish comments… but watching the scenes in Libya unfold in the media, I can’t help thinking of all the fantastic students I taught and my Libyan colleagues who treated me so well… some of them now fighting, some of them quite possibly dead and for that reason alone I’ll celebrate the day when the green flag is replaced with the pre-Gaddafi offering.

On leaving, Mohammed Zintani, dedicated student and one of many willing Arabic teachers, beckoned me to one side and presented me with the trade mark Libyan souvenir, a plate depicting the old town, Medina Khardeema, with ‘don’t forget us brother’ inscribed on the back.  

It's difficult not to be haunted by that...

Little did I know...