BENGHAZI, Libya — As the U.N. Security Council voted the evening of March 17 to impose a no-fly zone over Libya, the international media broadcast the joyous reaction from the streets of Benghazi, the de facto capital of the Libyan opposition. Thousands of Libyans celebrated in the streets, waving the old Libyan flag that has become the revolution's standard and firing guns happily into the air. A spokeswoman for the Libyan opposition said that the revolutionaries were "embracing each other" over the U.N. decision.
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But until recently, Benghazi's attitude toward outside intervention was different. The rebels' attitude toward the role of the international community evolved as Col. Muammar al-Qaddafi's forces advanced aggressively over the past week, threatening to use their superior firepower to quash the poorly armed rebellion.
Only two weeks ago, professionally designed posters were plastered on billboards around Benghazi's elegant palm tree-lined streets reading: "No foreign intervention. Libyan people can do it alone." Men and women in the city reacted defiantly to suggestions they needed outside support. Qaddafi had already tried to pin the uprising on al Qaeda -- they wanted change to come exclusively from a homegrown movement free from allegations of outside influence.
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Views quickly changed as Qaddafi's military continued to advance across the country's east. Even as the Security Council met to announce its decision, Qaddafi's forces were shelling Ajdabiya, the last town on their march toward Benghazi. In a radio address, Qaddafi -- perhaps in a show of propaganda -- vowed that his forces would reach Benghazi that night, and that they would "show no mercy and no pity" to the rebels.
By Thursday, March 10, anxiety had already risen in the area outside the courthouse where Benghazi's citizens have kept up a raucous presence. A French flag was unfurled over the building after French President Nicolas Sarkozy recognized the rebel government, and calls for outside help only grew stronger over the next week.
"Tell them to put in a no-fly zone," screamed one woman, grabbing on to my arm in front of the courthouse. A British mother of two married to a Libyan, she said she feared for her children. "I have two sons, they have barely lived, if Qaddafi arrives here he will kill them," she said. "Where is the U.S.? Where is the UK?" asked another.
The carnival atmosphere on Benghazi's seafront grew tense. Even in Tobruk, a safer city further east, talk of the need for weapons grew. Those who had been reveling in freedom of expression and openly talking to the press started to fear a coming backlash. "Please don't photograph me," said one woman -- a striking contrast with the protesters' general enthusiasm at the sight of cameras only recently. Rebels started to restrict access to their training facilities and front line, fearing media would give away their locations.
"We don't want troops, but we want some protection to make a fair balance," said Abdel Hakim Ali, a smartly dressed 47-year-old schoolteacher turned rebel in Tobruk. "It is not a fair game between us and Qaddafi's forces. We need arming and a no-fly zone."
For all their calls for limited foreign military help, the revolutionaries have already made huge strides on their own. In the month since Benghazi's residents battled to take control, a nascent democratic culture has flourished across eastern Libya.
The rebels have been forced to build a new society largely from scratch. "In Egypt and Tunisia, the leader left but there was still a system in place," said Mustafa Gheriani, a spokesperson for the rebels in Benghazi. "Here that wasn't the case: Qaddafi was a one-man show. That left a big challenge for us."
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