very englihs bad no.1

English is everywhere here and just when you seem to need it most, it usually ends up being spelled really badly or with incorrect grammar. This are the few occasions when I happened to have my phone with me and owners of companies and stores didn't even bother to look up corrections before mass producing and printing. 

A really needy makeup counter.

At least one of the countries was spelled right.

The Scented Salamander: Who doesn't want to smell like a perfumed amphibian?

This one is hard to see, but it's an advertisement for a lasik center and the motto is: 'Your eyes secretarial between our hand.'

My favorite, the car that this sticker was on wasn't even a BMW.

a review of something i had in america that i got here and is slightly different: Starbucks

Something that I have been wanting to take a picture of recently was this Starbucks that they have here. The name sign of the coffee shop features a picture of what I assume to be the owner of the place, wearing black sunglasses and a smile so bright that it causes a clipArt star-burst to blow up from behind him. I didn't get to go inside because here in Libya they have a dumb rule that women can't go into coffee shops unless there is a designated family section, so this Starbucks is a real man's place. Just look at those yellow plastic chairs.

Gadaffi graffiti

 Just some street art of the man who started it all.

roadtrip complaints

We went on a trip to Derna, a small city about a six hour drive away from Benghazi. I was shoved into the makeshift back seat that car manufacturers add almost as an afterthought. The whole ride there was filled with the really cheasy traditional Arabic music that they play so loud that your eardrums actually hurt and the incessant clapping that everyone in the car decides to start and then stop abruptly every 52 seconds. The

songs with lyrics like 

" oh tall one, 

oh tall one, 

show me your house so that I can go to it"

(it rhymes in Arabic)

My cousin does not like the air condition because it makes him sick so we rolled the windows down which let in a hazy mist of desert topsoil along with the wind to irritate my eyes. We finally stopped, after what seemed like two hours but was actually 45 minutes, at a little park and restaurant area made of stone. It looked nice and I was looking at an area of stone when I saw something crawling out of a crack in the stone wall, followed by two more similar things crawling out. They were rats.

My dad got me bitter soda telling me that I would love it. I tasted it and it just tasted like sugar water which had a really strange aftertaste that made the back of my throat feel like it needed to be aired out. As I am quoting from the bottle, the ingredients are: 

Carbonated water, sugar, acidfying agent: citric acid, E123, and natural flavoring

really appetizing 

So we went back into the car after I reluctantly ate a hamburger that was more dry bun that it was meat and I was yet again stuck in the far most back seat sandwiched in between my two sisters.When my dad and cousin pulled out their collective twentieth cigarette into the fourth hour of our trip, the sickly sweet smell of the tobacco gave me a bad headache.Throughout the trip, my aunt constantly turned around from her spacious middle seat to ask in broken English, "You see beach?" pointing to a long coastline of water. We'd be passing the coastline for another couple of minutes when she'd repeat the same question.

"Now you see beach?"

Still hungry, we got fresh flat bread that my family spread with half liquidated laughing cow cheese triangles, and my dad telling everyone in the car that it was honestly the best meal anyone could every have, half whispering like it was a secret recipe. My dad has a history of this, trying to make out simple, cheap things to be the best when you know he'd trade it in for a porterhouse steak in a heartbeat. On this same trip, my cousin told my dad that there would be only one bed in our hotel room so my sisters and I would share the bed and that he would have to sleep on the couch. My dad then proceeded to say that the floor is better, that sleeping on the floor "is even better than sleeping on a king size bed. I swear now I sleep on my big bed at home and I find myself wishing I were sleeping on the floor."

We stopped at a few places, for a walk around the beach and for some ancient roman ruins. Each time, our phones made more sound then we did. The shutter of the camera was constantly clicking away against a backdrop of blue skies and worrying teenage girls adjusting their hijabs.

We got to some areas that were owned by Islamists and Al Qaeda leaders. The only radio station in the area hummed, "God the great, there is only one God". Those were the only words and they were constantly repeated.We passed by huge mountains that had large caves in them, probably inhabited by the same people that ran that radio station.

Once we got to the hotel, we ate reheated french fries and kebab sandwiches at the hotel restaurant. We went to sleep in the comfortable beds and the cool air condition drying up the sweat above our eyebrows and on the back of our necks.

Early in the morning, we went down to the buffet and ate omelettes that resembled pancakes and crepes that were drenched in the chocolate sauce that is always available on top of ice cream sundaes that you get at elementary school birthday parties. After swims in the beach, we took showers that rid our skin of the braised salt and the clumps of sand in our tangled hair. On our way back, I got to switch cars. My cousin was learning how to drive so we had to be quiet. There was no loud music, plenty of foot room, and air condition. It wasn't horrible.

Just on the way, a lot of nothingness

"the most green I've seen since the revolution!" (sorry)

more nothingness

After Eid-Adha, the skins that were on the sheep after butchering them are strewn in front of a mosque to make into coats or rugs, the smell is coming out of this photo for me

my cousins mid-clap

the stone restaurant/park thing

up in the mountains

Cyrene, the ancient ruins

half of the roadtrip clan

taking a panorama of my sister taking a panorama

the view from a little hill

that little house up there is supposedly where Gadaffi's wife used to live

the view of the beach

you see beach?

I like my tissues like I like my women, virginal and full of pulp (sorry again)

Al Qaeda flag 

view from the hotel balcony

Strange

At around noon, I was called from an unknown number so I answered it reluctantly. However, it was my youngest sister who was calling to tell me that she was not feeling well and that I had to pick her up from school. Everything went as normal, I pulled over at a grocery store, bought some clear soda for my sister’s stomach and drove her home. She was feeling tired so I turned out the lights and eventually fell asleep with her. My mom soon barged in and turned on the lights and opened the blinds to windows.

“You are going to need to get up. You will not believe what I just heard about you,” my mother says to my sister. After the words got out, she clamped her mouth shut so that her top and bottom molars glued together, to formulate the next accusatory statement. Her chin always did this thing where small pockets of fat would gather in certain places, giving it a texture that reminded me of close ups of the moon.

She grabbed the blanket that my sister was sleeping on and broke the news. Her voice started out surprisingly calm only to gradually get louder and louder as her blood rushed quicker.

As my sister has thrown up this morning and left the school for the rest of the day, a certain teacher took this opportunity of my youngest sister’s absence to inform my middle sister how my youngest sister was behaving in class.

It seemed like it was normal. Teachers are often concerned for their student’s welfare, making sure they are on the right track is nothing revolutionary or radical.

Instead, I found out that this teacher basically gossiped like a middle school Queen B about one of my own family to another one of my family.

Teachers are at schools to teach material; to guide students to see the fruits of education or whatever other shit they have on Schoolbox posters. They inspire, they discuss, they lead. Sure they can be annoying and aggravating and way too overzealous about a subject that 95% of the population could live without, but they try.

This teacher however, decided to inform us that my youngest sister once asked another student what exactly the word ‘sai’aa’ means (slut). Why the teacher was listening was never stated. She was not included in the conversation. The teacher expressed her concern of a girl saying the word ‘slut’! Young women should be brought up better than to ask questions about words. She eavesdropped on a twelve year old’s innocent conversation. My sister had heard the word before and being weak in Arabic, she wanted to know the definition.

Oh, I am so, so, so sorry, I forgot to state that my sister was asking a person of the opposite gender what that word meant which leads me to the next thing this teacher decided to say. My sister was speaking to boys too much. In an International School that prides itself on a Western model of intersex mingling, my sister was speaking to boys too much. While the rest of the country is so scared at the thought of having to sit next to the opposite sex in a dental waiting room and taking this idiotic fear as a chance to form separate male and female waiting rooms (of which the female waiting rooms lack magazines, or entertainment of any kind while the men get a plasma flat screen television with the latest international news because men obviously need to constantly stay informed so that their big brains stay equally as impressive as their brawns), my sister is talking to boys too much. She has too many friends that are boys. She is twelve years old so you guys obviously know where her intentions lie. Having conversation with boys in school when they are sitting next to you in class is one thing, but becoming their friends? That is worth a note home. So she asked a boy what ‘slut’ meant, and then she is becoming friends with boys.

While this seems archaic enough, this teacher went ahead to even inform us that my sister does not sit properly! She does not cross her legs like a lady ought to, and leave her feet on the ground. She changes it up. My sister wears pants, but she still has to remember to make sure she is not putting ideas into the heads of the little boys that just can’t help themselves. She needs to make sure that anything south of her stomach is not only covered by fabric in 100 degree weather, but also properly displayed. Legs apart are an absolute no-no and God forbid she slides off her shoes a bit to let her feet breathe. True ladies have a reputation to keep up with at all times. Even after a day at school for more than eight hours at a time, feeling relaxed and comfortable is not the number one priority for my twelve year old sister in this teacher’s eyes. No, it is her reputation.

In this teacher’s eyes, she is doing my sister a favor by telling our family. It is not too late to stop this from going towards a downward spiral. We can act now before it is too late, before my sister decides to start bending over for the water fountain!

Is this what the revolution was for? Honestly, I mean over two years ago, people were tired of this ignorance and this oppression. I did not think that after the high of having successfully overthrown one of the world’s worst and cruel dictators the world had ever seen, the people in it would simply stay the same. Gadaffi would encourage students at universities and people of the streets to tattle on anyone who was suspected of having anti-Gadaffi sentiments. People would be afraid to talk candidly. They could not express their feelings about the way the world around them was forming. When the country was freed in February of 2011, people screamed for joy. The civilians of this country felt full. They put streamers and the new flags of the country everywhere. People talked openly. Free speech is always the first step to any democratic process. When people have the power to talk about their government without restrictions, they can effect change. It was my mistake however, to believe that free speech was going to come easily to a twelve year old girl at an Oxford-based GEMS International School. Now my sister can effectively go to school, fearing that what she says to her friends will come back to her at home. Now my sister will look around the room for an adult’s open ears before she asks a simple question about Arabic word translations. Now she can live in a constant hesitation before she changes positions of her legs underneath her desk while her teacher is lecturing for over thirty minutes. It’s a good thing though. Ladies should always think before they act. 

a review of something i had in america that i got here and is slightly different: bread

Something that is oh so much by a significant margin by a lot better here is the bread. In America, I was used to weekly grocery supplied Sarah Lee toast, except in actuality we never bought the brand names, just the ninety-nine cent generic Wal-Mart version which is just simply labelled as "WHITE BREAD" on the wrapping. I think the back of the bag also said something along the lines of, "made in a factory that produces food." Anyways, it was basic toast, nothing revolutionary. Every now and then, we were treated to the Publix baguette, but the toast was more practical.

Nothing says practicality like a white loaf of toast.

Ever since I got here, I cannot stand toast. I am getting so used to the bread.
The whole city is strewn with bakeries serving baskets of fresh bread. Every morning, most bakeries start up their ovens and begin baking the dough by six o'clock in the morning, cranking out loafs by the hundreds. The alpha-male wakes up early to get about ten loaves of bread for his family to eat breakfast. Since lunch is the biggest meal here, the father also always brings about tens of loaves home on his way home from work. I found that my sisters and I can barely finish two loaves by ourselves, so I have no idea how they are finishing that much bread but they do.
I have noticed that Libyans do not like to eat the insides of the bread. They take out the excess white fluff on the inside. They do not throw it away though. Every family keeps a clear white plastic bag aside in the kitchen for the innards of the bread. At the end of the week, the clean bag is tied neatly and put anywhere in plain sight on street corners. Then, a sort-of garbage man comes around the city looking for these bags. He takes them and uses these bread pieces to feed livestock. It is pretty efficient.

Oh and the most important part of the bread is that it is dirt cheap. You can buy about  five loaves of perfectly steaming hot bread for about fifty cents here. Since flour is subsidized, bread has an insanely low cost, which is good for half of the country that is living below the poverty line.
This bread is good with everything. We eat it mainly with tuna and harissa (hot sauce) sandwiches. I know it is weird, but the main sandwich is Libya is canned tuna (in olive oil, not water!!!) with hot sauce and it is insanely good. I have no idea if I like it because I was raised on it or if I actually find it good, but I eat it anyways. If we are getting sick of eating that sandwich for five days straight for dinner(happened last week) then you could always broaden your horizons to jam, butter, nutella, cream cheese, peanut butter, or whatever topping you want.

I wish I could take a picture of the bread. It is perfectly crusty on the outside and when your fingers start to add a little more pressure to the bread, you hear a slight breaking of the grain that is so satisfying. Then when you tear a piece off, you feel the warmth of the soft insides radiate against your hands. I am so passionate about bread you guys.

Oh and I will add a insightful quote by a noteworthy scholar on the subject of bread:
"Hey you guys, how come when people make bread, they don't go like 'Here comes the bread, Here comes the bread' to the tune of 'Here comes the bride'?"
So from now on, when you are getting bread, whether it be dry toast or french baguettes, sing that song while walking your bread down the aisle.

psycho killer

Well it has been a while since I have updated, but let me assure you that I have good reason. I do not have a camera anymore for the time being, seeing that I had to send my iPhone back to America (it didn't work here and Sprint was mad that my dad wasn'tpaying anymore even though he signed a contract) and I left my shoddy Co0lP!x (UghI am sorry but it is horrible quality, no matter how many times they feature Ashton Kutcher in the commercials) camera in America and it may or may not have been on purpose.Anyways, I decided I was going to let everyone know about a ritual that I have been going through with,
every.
single.
day.
that I have been here and it will likely be continued on for the years to come.
I kill flies.

I tried to find a picture of the least offensive fly. Although, I am having problems with even this one.

There are so many here, I do not think I could begin to explain just how many there are in a numerical value. In the really nice parts of town, there are basically not all that existent, but my parents have unfortunately chosen YET ANOTHER rural neighborhood to keep me left with nothing to stare at other than unpaved roads and the remains plastic bags. The other day I honestly caught myself staring in awe at a telephone pole.
We live in an area that is known for its farming, and where there are farms, there are also livestock. These livestock attract the flies, leaving our neighborhood to be overpopulated with them.When we were painting the rooms of our house, we had to leave the windows open. The windows had the wonderful screens on them. But then, with my mom being my mom, she insisted on opening the doors as well, which did not have screens. They came in flocks and they made themselves right at home. Within one hour, I swear all you could hear was a constant
Bzzzzzzzzzzzz
BZzzzzzzzzzzzzz
BzZZZZZZZZZZ
It was nonstop. I tried lying down to take a little nap, but it was completely impossible.You know that feeling whenever all you want to do is get a really really good nap in to just relax and unwind. So you settle down into bed and get comfortable and for the first time in days, your pillow feels just right and your sheets are semi-cool and you breathe easily and calmly. And then, just as you are finally getting to the magic, you hear a faint high-pitched ring.

And suddenly you try to take a deep breath and just calm yourself down and say, it's just a simple little fly/mosquito/ devil spawn, but it never works. Because somehow, some weird twisted way, the insect knows what it does to you. It loves to have that power over you in the only way that it can. With you being 9000x bigger than its size, the fly makes up for its size in its disgusting noises.
Whenever this happens, my priority list quickly changes. Sleep was at the top of the list, but killing the damn fly becomes my number one. I see it as my only obstacle between me and my dream sleep. It is unfortunate that the small, tiny, miniature (insert another synonym for small) insect was able to make me have weird tunnel vision, but I had to do it. So you know when people chuckle and they insultingly say to you "Haha, you couldn't even kill a fly" as if it the simplest thing in the world. It really isn't.

Flies are so freaking quick and they have wings which we as a human race have not figured out how to build yet. When you see it land on a spot and watch its disgusting little hands rub together and then spit/throw up on them again and then continue to rub, you take it as your opportunity to find a shoe and slam it against the fly.But its bloody remains are no where to be found and sure enough, I swear, within a minute, that high-pitched ring will be back again. A large shoe backed by your hundred pounds of force should have been enough to kill it, but the fly is swift. With my expertise, I have devised a short yet helpful guide to killing them.

1) Have the perfect shoe ready.
It should be medium sized and very flexible. I am not sure if this is self explanatory or not, but don't try a high heeled shoe. It needs to be flat and flexible, like shower slippers. If it bends, then it works.
2) Wait for the fly to land on a flat surface.
It is so much harder to get it on a bed or a curtain. When it lands on the wall, that is a blessing from God. Walls are the best because you are able to see it clearly and the power that you place on the flexible shoe will be much more efficient when you do it vertically.
3) Place the power of the shoe, on the heel/ sole of the shoe, not on the top.
I used to think it was better to place all my weight on the top, but I quickly learned that when you put the weight on the sole, the top of the shoe springs forward much quicker.
4) Kill it. You'll feel better.

Also in place of shoes, I also really like WET dish towels. The moisture helps it become heavier and when you slam it down, its speed increases like crazy. Science science momentum physics jargon.
Well I hope that this has helped. I mean, now you all either know how to kill a fly my way or you think that I am going crazy here since I just spent an entire 30 minutes writing about how to kill a fly.
Either way, I hope it was entertaining.