Ghosts of the Past: Longing for a Forgotten Libya

When I first left Libya, where I was born and raised, in 2013, my intention was always to return in the near future. I had imagined that upon completion of my education abroad, I would return to fulfill the diaspora dream of rebuilding my hometown. 

Moving abroad was not without its challenges. I found it extremely difficult to get used to the feeling of being an outsider, of not belonging, of constantly being asked to explain and justify your identity. Memories of my childhood and the most mundane and trivial details of my daily life in Libya constantly nagged at me. The longing and reminiscence didn’t decrease with time, instead, it seemed to grow every day, to awaken even clearer memories of the minor details of home. 

Shortly after moving to Europe, I decided to go skiing. I had just gotten on the ski chair lift and as I was looking down at the cold alabaster snow, I realized how foreign and uncomfortable everything felt. A memory of Friday mornings in my grandpa’s house eating scrambled eggs with harissa and drinking tea in the dry scorching heat brought with it a sudden stab of homesickness, so sharp and so abrupt that it filled my eyes with tears.

It was moments like these, when I was going about my day, running errands, or perhaps sitting in a cafe, when it seemed like the air carried the most poignant memories. I remembered beach trips and picnics with cousins that filled every crevice of our bodies with salt and sand and seaweed as we rushed home and fought over who would shower first. I remembered breezy summer nights spent complaining about mosquito bites in our living room and how the windows would fling open to desperately let in the cool air that brought with it the toxic smell of the nearby sewer-infested beach. Each unannounced memory of family, friends, and bliss brought with it a sense of unassailable loss and longing, but also a sense of comfort, safety, hope for a homecoming. Maybe it was nostalgia that made things seem a lot more appealing than they really were, but eventually, even nostalgia ceased to mask the dark realities of life in Libya. 

A Graveyard of Dreams

As I grew older, I watched my dream of returning home to rebuild my country slowly deteriorate. After completing an internship at a local law firm, I realized that any prospect of building my legal career in Libya was shattered. Speaking to the lawyers that worked in such a volatile and unstable environment showed me the unbelievable risks that they take every day in trying to enforce an outdated legal regime in a lawless land. From being stopped at checkpoints and having to explain their clients’ confidential information, to resorting to militias as a form of law enforcement; I realized that the forces that I would be fighting against were too strong. Moving back to Libya would not allow me to contribute to my country’s development and growth; instead, it would stifle my own ambition and motivation as it has done to so many talented Libyans.

I was surrounded by stories of inspiring and innovative individuals exploring various endeavors including art, technology, and entrepreneurship but who had to halt their aspirations due to the threats that they faced in such an unstable and unsafe environment. Not only do they face security issues, but they also have to deal with the lack of support and encouragement that our ‘governments’ and society offers them, as well as the logistical challenges that are involved in working in a country experiencing civil war. 

Any individual that experiences the taste of success in Libya will soon also experience the taste of hindrance and defeat. It was heartbreaking to hear about stories of activists being kidnapped or murdered, art galleries being attacked by militias and forced to shut down, and brilliant innovators and entrepreneurs giving up because of the lack of governmental financial support, private investment, or even physical spaces in which to collaborate and nurture their ideas.

This is a drop in the ocean of the oppression and injustice that the civil war has inflicted on civilians. Over 105,000 Libyans, including my own family and friends, were internally displaced in Tripoli and had their houses destroyed, planted with landmines, burnt, robbed, or outright seized by militias from both sides that used them as bases for warfare. This, coupled with the shortages of petrol, electricity, water, and liquidity that a country as rich as Libya is experiencing, made me lose the optimism and hope that I had following the 2011 revolution and when I first left Libya. At that time, I would have not thought twice about investing all my time, energy, and future in building my homeland. But after 9 years, I have finally realized that so much more is needed to change a country ridden with such tyranny, corruption, injustice, and oppression. Unfortunately, it seems that I will not be the one to change and develop Libya; if anything, moving back would change and subdue me and my personal progress. 

A Distant and Unrequited Love

Visiting Libya now makes me feel drained. I feel this way because when I think of the wasted potential of my land, when I think of what could have been, I am overcome by a sense of pain and defeat that consolidates my decision to not return any time soon. What I used to see as streets and buildings that occupied my joyful memories became painful recollections of tragedy, loss, and menace. It was no longer the alabaster snow that felt foreign and uncomfortable, it was my own country. I no longer looked at my grandfather’s house as my safe haven, the place that was always buzzing with movement and laughter. When I visit now, I search for remnants of my childhood and innocence and I find none. 

Instead, I am reminded of the change that the building has witnessed, having lost all of its life and inhabitants to the failures of the Libyan state. I am reminded of my uncle who was murdered by militiamen in their efforts to steal his car. I am reminded of my aunt and cousins who have all fled the country to seek a safe, comfortable future. I am reminded of my grandfather, whose deteriorating health was worsened by the lack of a functioning Libyan health sector which ultimately led to his death in a foreign country. And I am reminded of myself, and my longing for a place that no longer exists, a place that is now crowded with only ghosts of the past. 

My hopes for homecoming, and my dream of returning to rebuild the only place that triggers a sense of belonging in me, remains. I hope that one day, my optimism and passion will return and I will experience a version of Libya that does not evoke feelings of sadness, trauma, and loss in me. I hope that I will return and create an abundance of new memories of triumph and joy that overshadow and replace the calamity and darkness that I now see. Until then, my unrequited and distant love for Tripoli, the city I will forever carry in my heart regardless of where my body finds itself, will remain.