The Improvised State

Who's actually running things in free Libya?

Ryan Calder, a Ph.D. candidate in sociology at the University of California, Berkeley, is traveling in rebel-held eastern Libya this month, interviewing the revolution's participants and witnesses. You can read earlier installments in this series here.

BENGHAZI, Libya — If you had told Benghazi residents three months ago that within a matter of weeks they would be throwing Molotov cocktails at Qaddafi loyalist tanks, they would've looked at you like you were crazy. Even after the Egyptian revolution began on Jan. 25, Muammar al-Qaddafi's iron grip on Libyan society seemed too strong to allow an uprising of the sort that occurred in Tunis and Cairo. Ahmed, a 26-year-old medical student in Benghazi, told me about a joke that was making the rounds in recently liberated Tunisia in February: "The Tunisians," he said, "were telling Libyans to bend over so they could see the real men over in Egypt."

It's not surprising, then, that when the revolution happened, few people here had much of an idea about what to do next: how to keep a society dominated by the government sector running once that sector was gone. Just as the opposition's Transitional National Council (TNC) has faced the problem of managing its volunteer-heavy rebel army, people trying to manage quotidian aspects of life during the war have faced the problem of what to do with the thousands of volunteers who want to help but don't have anyone giving orders. This is true in medical care, aid distribution, and other state services: While the TNC has managed to restore many of the functions of government previously handled by the Qaddafi regime, volunteers continue to shoulder much of the burden.

In the revolution's early days in February, civilians took matters into their own hands. With traffic lights not working, ordinary Libyans stood at intersections and directed traffic without pay. They also formed watch groups to patrol their neighborhoods. More recently, the TNC has restored police functions in Benghazi, largely through an organ called National Security (al-Amn al-Watani). Essentially a revamped police force, it includes many of the same police officers who patrolled Benghazi's streets before the revolution -- or at least the ones who have passed a screening by the new government.

Nevertheless, some citizens still feel ill at ease on Benghazi's streets, especially as rumors of lurking Revolutionary Committee cells -- the ideologically devoted Qaddafi loyalists -- abound. "I don't feel like there's proper policing," says Farah El-Sanousi, a 20-year-old dental student. "I don't feel safe." Near Benghazi's Hawari Hospital, she explains, "the traffic lights aren't working, and ordinary people are directing traffic."

Enas Mahmoud, a 20-year-old dental student, worries about going out as well. "There's always fear -- going out of the house, going places," she says. "Especially after sunset." State and society focus on the threat to women in particular; Libya Alhurra TV, the opposition's channel, has advised that women stay home between 6 p.m. and 7 a.m.

Others see a mixed picture when it comes to public safety during the revolution. Shawg Najem, a 26-year-old anesthesiologist who is volunteering to teach first aid to adults, gets calls from her parents all the time when she's away from home -- they want to make sure she's safe. "It's because of the lijan al-thawriyah [Revolutionary Committees]," she says. "They're crazy, and you never know what they're going to do. But other than that, I feel safer now, after the revolution." She describes taking a walk with her mother in the center of town recently, without a male family member accompanying them. "Before the revolution, we couldn't do that," she said. "It wasn't so safe for women to do that by themselves anywhere other than one of [Benghazi's] shopping streets."

Nuha Naas, a 36-year-old chemist at Libyan International Medical University (LIMU), recalls the first days of the revolution in Benghazi in February, when unarmed demonstrators were storming government security buildings, taking heavy fire from Qaddafi's security forces. She called doctors she knew at the city's Jala Hospital and the Benghazi Medical Center, who asked her to come join the many volunteers already helping.

"When I got to the hospitals, everything was a mess," Naas recalls. "There was no one to tell us how to help." The volunteers did their best to figure it out on their own what help was needed. "We cleaned blood off the floor, carried food, made beds for patients, took people to get X-rays."

Chris Hondros/Getty Images

This lack of organization in a time of crisis gave Naas the idea for the first-aid course at LIMU that she now manages, which has taught basic medical response techniques to over 600 people. "I saw lots of medical students [at the hospitals] who could be more helpful, but who didn't know what to do," she says. "And I saw people on television carrying wounded patients or trying to stop bleeding," she added, "but they were doing it the wrong way."

But the spontaneous upwelling of goodwill in the early days of the fighting was a powerful antidote to the disorganization. "Doctors and volunteers were treating the wounded, while singing to them and encouraging them at the same time -- [saying] things about Libya, about freedom, about Qaddafi leaving," Naas says. Even the wounded were upbeat: "They were being brought in, covered in blood, looking miserable, but even they were doing this," she recalls, making the opposition's V-for-victory sign with her fingers. "I never thought that I would live to see these things."

And people took renewed pride in their newly free city. Mardiya El-Fakhery, a 28-year-old anesthesiologist, recalls that before the revolution, "you'd never see Libyan boys cleaning up the street and taking ownership [of their city]. People had the attitude that [Benghazi] is already [dirty], so just let it go." But as soon as the revolution began, she saw young boys and old men taking to the streets with brooms. The opposition government has sought to build on this goodwill in the territory in its control, posting billboards throughout eastern Libya exhorting citizens to keep their cities clean. One such billboard (pictured above), featuring a giant hand holding a cartoon Qaddafi by the scruff of his neck as if he were a used tissue, reads:

Every day, all of the youth will participate in cleaning our beautiful city, starting with you yourself and your own house, with your family, as well as cleaning the street with your neighbors and cleaning the area with your brothers and friends. This is our country, and it's our responsibility.

But nowhere is the new spirit more clearly on display than in Libya's hospitals. Under Qaddafi's rule, the dilapidated medical system had become an infuriating symbol of the spotty distribution of resources in the country. Mohammed, who trades in used cars, is typical: He told me he had to pay thousands of dollars out of pocket to take his ailing mother to Tunisia, where better medical facilities are available. Noting Libya's oil wealth, he asked, "Why can't my country pay for decent hospitals? My mother should be able to get treatment here in Libya." He then took out his phone and showed me a video of his elderly mother, grimacing in pain before she went to Tunisia for treatment. She died soon thereafter.

Before the revolution, some Libyans took their frustrations out on Libya's doctors. "Just a few months ago," remembers El-Fakhery, the anesthesiologist, "people hated Libyan doctors. They'd run off to Tunisia or Egypt for something as simple as a common cold." She recalls that a surgeon at her hospital was even physically attacked after a failed surgery. "We didn't have the facilities [to provide proper care]," she says.

But with the revolution, people in Benghazi began showing an outpouring of support for their doctors. She recalls how on March 19, as Qaddafi's tanks were rolling through Benghazi's streets and Revolutionary Committee members were shooting at civilians, she and other doctors were overwhelmed by the number of wounded they had to treat -- and by the kindness that ordinary citizens were showing them. "In the hospital, men as old as my father would run around the ICU [intensive care unit] at Jala Hospital [in Benghazi], passing out milk and juice and boxes of dates to the doctors," she says. "They'd stuff them in the pockets of my lab coat and shake my hands, and they'd hug the male doctors. They'd bring pillows and blankets from home, giving everything they could to the hospital."

"It's funny," says El-Fakhery, "but he" -- Qaddafi -- "brought out the best in us."

Ryan Calder


Life Lessons

How are children in Benghazi coping with war?

Ryan Calder, a Ph.D. candidate in sociology at the University of California, Berkeley, is traveling in rebel-held eastern Libya this month, interviewing the revolution's participants and witnesses. You can read earlier installments in this series here.

BENGHAZI, Libya — "What do you do in the event of a third-degree burn?" asks Dr. Randa Abidia.

"The hospital! Straight to the hospital!" the kids respond.

I'm sitting in the third row of a classroom at the Libyan International Medical University (LIMU) in Benghazi. In the room are 10 girls and five boys, in front of whom stand Randa and her two student assistants, Maryam and Enas. They're teaching a one-week course on first aid for children ages 9 to 14, and today's two-hour session is on burns.

This could be a classroom anywhere -- most of the kids are paying attention, with one or two excitables in the front of the room raising their hands at every prompt, and one or two squirmers fidgeting and chatting in the back. But this is Benghazi and school has been closed since Feb. 16, when the revolution got under way.

Randa is dean of LIMU'S faculty of health sciences. She and other staff and students at the university are volunteering to keep these kids busy -- and to teach them first aid that could prove vital in a city that, for now, lies just beyond the reach of war.

With the eastern front in Libya's conflict hovering around Ajdabiya, 100 miles southwest of Benghazi and the last city protecting it from Muammar al-Qaddafi's militias, renewed shelling and street fighting are a real possibility here. A city of 800,000 -- Libya's second largest after Tripoli -- and the temporary capital of the country's opposition, Benghazi has already seen fighting twice: Once in mid-February, when the revolution began, and again in mid-March, when Qaddafi's tanks were on its outskirts and hard-core Qaddafi supporters emerged from within the city, strafing civilians with Kalashnikovs. Coalition airstrikes saved Benghazi in mid-March, forcing Qaddafi's militias to retreat. Now, the city is at peace and firmly in opposition hands, though the mood remains tense and families keep a close watch on their children.

Randa divides the class into groups of three, pulls out a red pen, and draws a small circle on the hand of one member of each group. "You've just gotten a second-degree burn," she explains. "Go treat it!"

The room becomes a beehive of activity. The kids shuffle off, rinsing the "wound" under cold water, packing it with gauze, and pretending to take their charges to the hospital.

The kids are having a great time. They seem cheerful. After class, some of them stick around to talk.

"What's it like at home now that there's no school?" I ask.

"Boring," says Ahmad, a chubby-cheeked 11-year-old. He's sporting a red jacket bearing the logo of Al Ahli, Benghazi's most popular soccer team.

"Yeah, boring," agrees Maryam, a 10-year-old girl.

"Boring," echoes Walid, 13. "I don't see my friends anymore," he says. Concerned about safety on the streets, parents are keeping their kids at home. "I have a lot of free time. But I'd rather be in school -- I like learning."

Boredom isn't the worst of what war has brought these kids. One of the girls in this week's group of students just lost a cousin to fighting in Brega -- she was too sad to come to class today. "In the group of kids I taught two weeks ago," Randa explains, "one had a brother who was missing, another lost a cousin, and another had a relative who died in Qaddafi's shelling." The mother of the child who lost a cousin called Randa and asked her to give the kids time in class to talk and write about their lost loved ones, which they did.

Randa's first-aid course for kids also includes a session on weapons -- specifically, how to identify and stay away from them. But Randa's husband, dentistry professor Ahmed El-Hejazi, notes that after less than two months of war, the children have already learned to identify weapons by sound. "They hear a tuk-tuk-tuk and they say, 'That's a Kalashnikov,' or 'That's a fourteen-point-five meem taa'" [a reference to a 14.5-mm anti-aircraft heavy machine gun -- meem taa is the Arabic acronym for "anti-aircraft"]. "They hear an explosion and say, 'That's a hand grenade' or 'that's a missile.'"

"Especially the boys," Randa adds.

This week's group of first-aid students may not have lost immediate family members, but it's clear that the war has not been easy for them. "My aunt, uncle, and cousin are in Tripoli," Amina, a 10-year-old girl with short hair, told me. "I'm worried about them. Especially my cousin -- I really like him."

"When I was at the Katiba [the military base in Benghazi that rebels stormed on Feb. 20, liberating the city], I saw blood," says Nadia, a 14-year-old girl with braces. "It was scary."

"I get scared when I hear bullets," says Lina, an 11-year-old girl with big eyes and a white headscarf with flowers embroidered on it. "My parents don't tell me what's going on. I keep asking them, but they don't want to tell me because they don't want me to worry. It makes me even more scared."

Randa has seen a change in attitude between the group of kids she taught two weeks ago and this week's group. "The first group were more optimistic," she notes. In late March, the war was going well for the opposition, thanks to aggressive coalition airstrikes on the eastern front that allowed opposition forces to advance rapidly toward the strategically vital city of Sirte, Qaddafi's hometown. The kids, like their parents, sensed that an end to the war might be near.

But this group, Randa explains, realize that the war may drag on. They're less upbeat and more nervous. "I worry that I'm going to have to repeat fifth grade," says Amina.

"Do you watch the news on TV?" I ask the kids.

"Yeah, I have to," says Mona, 12. "It's boring -- there's no Internet. And when I come home, my parents are always watching the news."

Lina agrees. "People are always watching the news at home. It's painful to watch people who have been burned and wounded."

"What did you watch before the war?" I ask her.

"Cartoons," Lina replies softly, her voice breaking. "But now, it's always Al Jazeera and Al Arabiya. All the time."

She looks past me and stares out the window. Her eyes tear up. Until now, the kids had been bouncy and energetic. Now Lina buries her head in her arms on her desk. The girl next to her leans over and comforts her.

Ryan Calder