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Benghazi buy hash

The general—I forget his name—smoked cigarettes in a natty holder and explained his strategy for taking the town, almost exactly halfway between Benghazi, the rebel capital, and Tripoli, the regime stronghold, on the narrow, brush-lined coastal road. Now it was where columns of rebel gun trucks beat hasty retreats once regime Grad missiles started thunking down, and the front line that had once spanned nearly to Bin Jawwad had been pushed back to somewhere around Brega. Sometimes those small cities changed hands twice in the same day. I raised my eyebrows and scratched my head. When we finally arrived in Sirte some five months later, on a circuitous and unimaginable route that began in Misrata, not Benghazi, we saw up close the failure of the blithe faith everyone had had in those early days: that once Qaddafi had been eliminated, the freedom-thirsty people of Libya would unite—into a nation, a state, a common good. We witnessed only chaos and distrust, and Jim, dedicated and clear-headed reporter of the movements once dubbed the Arab Spring, recognized it as soon as anybody did. Had he lived to continue reporting the news, he would himself likely be calling Libya a failed state. You wait here I think? Bullets popped through the air at the fighters standing guard. He had no orders that day, so he was freelancing his countersniping expertise at a new front heading west along the seawall, his target a Qaddafi sniper meters down the road. Lutfy and his partner advanced to a house on the corner and slipped to the roof, darting across exposed areas in the stairwell to elude sniper fire. Ignoring the flood and the warning, Lutfy pulled up at the blackened three-story building that served as the de facto frontline for several weeks. There he joined the haphazard crew of fighters holding the corner. Lutfy fired RPGs furiously, one after the other, and switched off to the AK and finally to the Dragunov, its scope blind in the clouds of smoke. The irregulars that day were bad shots and ill-tempered ones at that. As Lutfy tried to mediate arguments, medics dragged a casualty, downed by gunshot, to an ambulance behind him. Pausing in the truck bed to reload, Lutfy shook his head soberly. SIRTE, October —Salem Hamid Farjani, a year-old businessman from Benghazi, watched as fighters fired heavy machine guns in deafening hours-long blasts, RPG launchers splashing into the foot-deep water to fire at the snipers down the road. Farjani was skeptical of the offensive. They make it look like Misrata. While Lutfy would bawl out his own men, he was hard-pressed to tolerate a lecture from Benghazi. Its swimming pool was empty. Dark and eerie, it was next to the hospital, which meant that funeral dirges echoed in the rooms every day. The lobby was windswept; bullets had destroyed the windows. Pockmarks from mortars speckled the walkways and a layer of grime and cigarette butts coated February 17 stickers slapped on tables. The shower had no hose, just rusty water gushing from a spout. It was when Qaddafi lost Tripoli that it became clear to me: after four months, it was time to go back. It was then I discovered that publications eager to claim me as their own when I was being held hostage by the Qaddafi regime were not nearly so eager to accept my reports from liberated Tripoli. I was told that I was being selfish and reckless, that I was a security risk, that I had potential but would never get a job in the industry. It seemed that some preferred me as a captive to me as a reporter. Jim resolved to go right away. He was always the most dedicated of our number, and, for that reason, it seemed especially just that he was generally the happiest and most lighthearted as well. He, the Spanish photojournalist Manu Brabo, and I had been captured by soldiers loyal to the Qaddafi regime on the day that Anton was killed: April 5, From the beginning of our captivity in Tripoli, Jim worked to get us out, asking to speak to the director, taking notes once he had a pen, even hatching plots to escape. It was not surprising that he decided to return quickly. I spoke to Jim about all this. But I could see that it was good for him to be working. Manu, too, had gone to Honduras to shoot stories about farmers and sex workers for an NGO. Tripoli fell within a week. And, since I preferred myself as a reporter to myself as a captive, I flew back there. Once, for several surreal days, from the heights of a five-star hotel, sunset over the harbor. The most often adduced justification for Misratan punishment of one of its suburbs was rape: Misratans allege that Tawerghan men infiltrated Misrata and raped as many as women and girls there. Yet no victim appeared; hardly anyone had even viewed the cellphone videos that provided the evidence. What, you want to watch a girl getting raped in front of her father? When Misratans liberated themselves, they went straight for Tawergha. By October it was a ravaged ghost town of blackened houses, where herds of goats roamed under tattered green flags. Tawerghans agreed. It was a kind of protective custody, since most were women and children. In Tawergha we gingerly entered houses. In the courtyards, penned goats reached for pomegranates that over-ripened, frustratingly, out of reach over their heads. We grabbed the pomegranates and threw them against the walls to open the fruit. It was spooky and not a good place to be. I mumbled to Jim that maybe I was bad luck. He threw his arm around my shoulder. At the kilometer checkpoint outside of Sirte, the frenzied hum of the front line began: Chinooks, cooks, doctors, foreign aid workers, and many, many fighters with AKs slung over their shoulders. The 50 had a large field hospital, kitchens, and helipads. Refugees who were fleeing Sirte—some to Qaddafi stronghold Bani Walid, others to farms outside the town—told stories of state TV broadcasts that included videos, they said, of rebel fighters cutting off limbs from civilians and raping the women. The ones who were going in? Columns of spectacular gun trucks in formation, divided into groups according to the homemade paint jobs indicating battalions, and speeding off into the plumes of smoke. Before I could ask him if he really believed war was a video game, he darted ahead with a handful of companions toward the front. Sirte was walled and heavily guarded at its gates, and special permission had been required to enter there. One night, one of the luxury hotels had become a smoke-filled cauldron where deafening artillery fire raged. Fires and the headlights on tacticals lit the city, while tracer rounds streaked the night sky. The sharp scent of hashish floated from the windows of these trucks as they chewed paths through the sculpted terraces and exotic flora that Qaddafi had imported to adorn the hotel complex. They raced to evacuate wounded or simply to escape, the improvised holes in walls dangerous chokepoints that saw wired-together gun trucks slamming into each other indiscriminately, the odd traffic accident only the most banal of fatalities that could befall you here. One elderly man knelt in the courtyard with a mortar round and firing tube. He pitched the tube against some stakes and loaded the round. Putting his hands over his ears, he was nonplussed to see the round fail to fire. He peered down the tube, dumped the round out and reloaded. But the men were dulled to fatality anyway. One hot afternoon at the gates of Ouagadougou Palace, Jim and I were crouched behind the engine block of a Land Cruiser when we saw a man not three meters from us slump forward a moment after a crack whistled through the sky. He was eating, or talking, then suddenly … men hastened to carry him off to the ambulance, pausing not to weep but to eyeball the length of the run. SIRTE, October —At a crossroads on the eastern side of town, a string of cock-eyed tents lined the far side of the wall against a row of trucks from eastern Libya. Sirte saw the western units primarily from Misrata, Zintan, and Tripoli bump up against those from the east. Adel, a dark-skinned Libyan from Benghazi, wore socks but no shoes as he crouched in the sand giggling with a friend. Stuffing hash and tobacco into an emptied cigarette tube, he seemed, unlike his comrades, unperturbed by bullets whizzing intermittently through the air. A year-old fighter showed his scars from four months in prison in Sirte. When the shooting started, he argued with someone, while others looked confused and turned uneasily. Sometimes I rode with VanDyke, who was bearded and wiry and dressed in combat fatigues, perched in a Jeep at the Dushka turret. Even so, he wanted to go back, just to check. Flush with drink and victory when the battle for Sirte ended, he said something that made sense to me one night in a hotel room in Benghazi, where he visited Jim and me. The conversation concerned the possible rise of Islamists in elections. Jim was asleep that time, and probably would have remained indifferent to the comparison. Mohammed is an artist and revolutionary and a revolutionary artist: he invented a method of textureless painting which has the curious quality of being waterproof, and he was picked up by the secret services on February 15, two days before the uprising started. Glossy prints of sensuous, colorful figures lined the walls of his workspace, on a side street in downtown Misrata. A tiger kitten tussled over territory on the couch before settling down to a deep purr. Behind him, fighters rigged a nylon rope tow package for a lime-green Jeep. Two men were still alive, but barely. Footage of a captured Qaddafi, bloodied but still alive, swept through the cell phones. Those who fought alongside the dead man fared no better. A line of sapped and filthy prisoners sat, backs to the wall, not far down the road from where Qaddafi had been captured. A fighter confided that there were 63 of them, and they were last seen loaded on a flatbed truck, hands zip-tied, on the road to Misrata. Car horns and the ululations of women and girls reverberated on Tripoli Street. Headlights from hundreds of cars streaked the city as they raced, feeding off bits of information from thousands of mobile phone calls, to see the body. We got there the same way, but a burly fighter tried to stop us from entering the private home where Qaddafi had been taken. Fabio, my Italian photographer friend, tugged my arm and we sidled off under the palms out of sight and made it into the house. That may have been an exaggeration. I was wondering what, if anything, he had had in mind with Animal Farm , and how it came to be that my life could be intertwined, even in such a small way, with 42 years of history. They were about to move him, and they asked me to leave. Outside I rejoined the crowd and felt the night breeze on my face. SIRTE, October 24, —The glassy stillness of the water doubled the scene: gap-toothed buildings, dented and twisted electrical poles that hung spindly like birds with broken wings. The stench of death wafted through the air, betokening what lay beyond creaking gates. A lone gun truck from Misrata sped around the corner, spinning on rubble and spent shells. Fatima Zidane opened the door cautiously. Our house is destroyed. Everything is gone, the televisions, the blankets, jewelry, mobile phones, all the electronics. She and her sisters had fled the home to a nearby farm months ago. This was the first time they had returned since. He played with a toy snake among the rubble of their belongings. Death comes from God. He had been shot and killed in the ambush and, as far as anyone knew, left in the desert. But Jim was determined to get somewhere with the whole thing. Exhausted after months on the front lines in western Libya, he returned east with a quiet dedication to what he saw as the most important task at hand: we were eyewitnesses, and we could investigate. Brows furrowed in frustration, we paced the site, making our way through trees and piles of trash and prickly vegetation, the desert wind blowing sand in our faces. Of course, it had been five months ago, and the memories were sustained under traumatic circumstances, shot through with fear, adrenaline, and 7. This was the site of our capture and the last place we saw Anton, our fourth companion on April 5, At a particular spot in the road a few kilometers east of the university, a copse of trees sits at the base of a hill ridged with trees on the right-hand side when you look up. We had looked up from our slight cover on that day and seen Qaddafi regime soldiers firing at us as they sped down the hill in Land Cruisers. I was looking, absurdly, for a hat that I had lost in the capture. Fixated on a detail that would prove we had been there, I was not mindful of how desert sands shift in the wind, burying and revealing their secrets. All I found was a feeling. I wondered if the earth held onto feelings. I kept looking for my hat. Jim walked further ahead to film and double back to check the perspective. When two men in a passing truck stopped to warn us about land mines, we knew it was time to leave. Back in Misrata, I fell into inertia and exhaustion. There I rented a room in a house with another friend in postwar drift. We wanted to buy hash. I give you anything. You want a piece for 20 dinars, for 50, however much you want. I finally made it out in November with Lutfy and three of his fellow fighters, who were headed to Morocco to celebrate the end of the war; I stayed in Tunis. Before leaving, Lutfy went on the Free Libya television channel to implore his fellow fighters to give up their weapons. Sometime in the summer of , news organizations and international bodies regularly began referring to Libya as a failed state. August 19, —The Islamic State released a video from their self-fashioned capital in Raqqa, Syria, announcing the execution of James Wright Foley, 40, an American freelance journalist. Clare Morgana Gillis received her Ph. In , she served as a researcher for the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, where she helped produce a report on Syrian refugee women. She is based in Cairo. Web Essays. A journalist remembers her days in Libya with James Foley. By Clare Morgana Gillis September 30, It was here in Sirte. The next day, we continued to pace the site. Permission required for reprinting, reproducing, or other uses. Enter your email address to subscribe.

Notes From A Libyan Lurker VII – Fast Times In Benghazi

Benghazi buy hash

I slept in and when I finally got out of bed some new contacts I had just met took me for a haircut. Afterward we tooled around Benghazi in an Audi 4 and ate fish for lunch—plates of fresh fish picked in the room next door and caught that morning. We also had calamari, crab, shark, and other delectable sea creatures. I was in heaven. The restaurant staff was eager to please. I wondered if they felt like they should be fighting on the frontlines instead of feeding journalists seafood. Toward the end of our meal they asked about my interests and hobbies. This led to a discussion about cars. Apparently kids still host street races in Benghazi. Then they took me downtown to a place where drugs are procured. Three cars were waiting in line. We edged up to the dealers—two kids, one sitting in a white lawn chair wearing a red sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, and another, heavier kid who was working on the cars. One of our Libyan companions told us that he had moved back home from Paris to participate in the revolution. The other had been abroad as well. And why should they? Another Libyan kid with a Liverpudlian accent gave us a ride back from Ajdabiya yesterday and relayed many of the same sentiments. We stopped at a demonstration on the way home. Demonstrations bore me. After taking a few shots I was ready to leave. An AK sat on a nearby couch, and the guy next to it was wearing a Megadeath shirt and smoking shisha. Of course, Al Jazeera was on. More people joined us, including three kids who just dropped out of school in Canada to come back and fight. Two of them had the luxury of training for a day, and it sounded like what would have amounted to a suicide mission to Misrata was wisely abandoned. They were frustrated and ready for action. The kid in the Megadeath shirt prepared a few sticks of hash for a joint while two kids prayed in the corner. They finished their prayers and smoked the joint while listening to my stupid war stories. They thought I was crazy. Listening to myself, I wanted to shut the hell up and head to the frontlines immediately. Then, for whatever reason, we pass around a French multipurpose machine gun. Another guy played with his knife, flicking it out and folding it back in repeatedly. See more at jeremyrelph. By Jackson Garrett. By Simon Doherty. Share: X Facebook Share Copied to clipboard. Videos by VICE. Tagged: Vice Blog.

Benghazi buy hash