Che-yeah Part II

Hello and welcome to another and actually the final installment of Che-yeah, the one and only source for all of your Che-Guevara-in-Libya needs. Since I am back in America, I can't do this series anymore, so I leave you with four pictures of the man himself plastered onto the back of dirty vans, the cover of a book, the back of a clean van, and graffiti-ed onto the side of a cigarette stand. 

Another Photo Diary

These pictures don't have any specific theme or anything. I just took some random pictures that don't really fit in with anything else so we'll just call this a photo diary. 

An All Grown Up Arabic notebook with the new Libyan flag on it as well as a very elegantly drawn black bald eagle.

This is a fruit stand that is near our house. That's my mom picking fruit. My mom actually hates this store because it has a little room you have to go inside to pay for your stuff. The room is insanely small and dark and stuffy and she is always afraid that the owner will close the door and lock her in. We call it 'the witch store'.

During Gadaffi's time in power, he made an effort to put public housing projects right in the middle of the high-class neighborhoods. These apartments were provided by the government. These are some of those apartment buildings on what is considered to be the highest-class street in Benghazi, Dubai Street. It's also in front of this great bakery so while my mom was getting bread I took this picture. 

My aunt gave me this perfume for my birthday. It's 'Miss Dolly Cherry' and it's obviously a really bad knockoff of 'Miss Dior Cherie.' I like how everything is just a little bit off in the name to let you know what it's supposed to be without giving you the illusion that it's the real thing. It reminds me of that episode of 30 Rock where Liz gets sick after eating too much chuckle burger in Stone Mountain, Georgia so Jack goes out and brings her 'Peppy Bismilk' for her stomach.

After about 4 months of no rain, it has been raining nonstop here. The roads flood. This is not bad at all compared to some of the places I've been. The weird things is, I don't ever remember taking this picture. Also, this makes it look like we drive on the right side of the road and we don't, although there are really no rules when it comes to the way Libyans drive. If traffic is really bad, people start driving on the sidewalk.

Thus begins the pictures of things I found at the mall. This is a man modeling a satin pajama set. He looks so relaxed and ready for his spotlight.

When I was in middle school, I bet you my mom would have totally done this to a pair of my jeans. When I bought shoes that my mom didn't think were good because of their color, I would come home from school to find my shoes spray painted. I still have a bunch of shirts with random button assortments on them to hide a stain or a mark that wouldn't go away.

At least she would never make this.

Driving by a protest calling for stability.

The same witch store, but this time you can see more of Libya.

A little cafe stand made to look like a Nutella jar. It's a secretly unwritten rule that it's for men only though. 

Yeah so I bet this is what you all thought living in Libya would look like. I couldn't believe it when I saw it because this is the first time, but here is dry desert land with a herd of camels eating. 

okay

I guess there comes a time in every foreign-kid-growing-up-in-America’s life when they are forced to confront their identity. I was and constantly still am always reminded of the fact that I am not and will never be, an American. I only lived there, grew up there, made friends and went to school there. I only spoke the language and I only for the most part, adopted the mindset. But I was not American, I was Libyan. With these constant reminders, I spent the entirety of my life accepting that fact. There was no use hiding it, I was who I was. My parents didn't belong to America and neither did I. If America wanted, they could have kicked us out at any moment, but Libya, Libya was where I belonged, where I would always be welcome.

From my short three month visits when I was younger, I never saw Libya as much. It was just a place where I reconnected with my family and when I say ‘reconnect’, I actually mean sit around a table with my family while my sisters and I exchanged awkward glances. Then the revolution happened and I was suddenly welcome to live in Libya more than ever. I was supposed to find it to be my home, as cheesy as that sounds. I had a citizenship and centuries of ancestors that could prove my background to be identical to those around me.

Once I got here, I was more confused than ever. Sure I got better at speaking the language and I slowly began to talk to my cousins instead of clinging to my sisters and whispering jokes in English. I even began to dress like them and caring about things that I never cared about before. I brought out tea and cookies on a silver tray with napkins folded just right to old women who were always somehow related to me. I practiced the customs and I did what I supposed to do in a sense, but after a while I just got so tired. Whenever people talk, I always find something to disagree with. I pretend like I actually did say something in response and make up the whole argument in my head, and by the time that I am done getting my fake last word in, my time to talk has passed. I don’t like a lot of the principles and the traditions that everyone here bases their entire lives upon. I don’t feel Libyan. I know I should and I know that being Libyan isn't’ all about the way that the few people I talk to live their lives. It isn't about a group of people’s disgust at something that I believe in. But for the most part, I can’t really identify myself as Libyan here.

It was so easy to say it in America. The second that someone made their two eyebrows one by furrowing them and asking, “so what are you?” the answer would already have already glided out of my mouth. When I’m here, the people notice that I don’t speak with the accent and they ask the exact same question, but this time, the answer doesn't come out so easily.

I don’t feel Libyan in the same sense that I never felt American. All I know is that I am still learning, but for now I will take comfort in the fact that the house that my mom grew up in is ten minutes away and the grave where my dad buried his own father is within walking distance. The fish market where my dad played soccer at age ten and the college where my mom studied are all here. I still don’t know what I am, but I’m doing okay. 

One of the teachers that my sisters were very close to, and one that I had the privilege of meeting a few times, had been shot and killed.
He was an American. He was shot for being American.

Living Conditions for Foreigners

Whenever I used to visit, I would always be surprised by how many foreigners I saw. I would see people with different skin than me or different hair color or eye shape. Even though this is totally normal in America, in Libya it is normally rare. Libyans are not the most hospitable to foreigners. When I told my mother that I befriended a Palestinian girl at my job, my mom’s nose literally went up in the air. While all Muslims will tell you to love your brethren, when the time comes, Libyans will always prefer their own kind. Except for when it comes to the people that they employ. Almost all of the jobs that do not have any pre-requisites, like a grocery store bagger or a fruit seller, are taken by foreigners. I would say about ninety percent of those workers are from Bangladesh or Egypt. I have noticed that Libyans, while they may seem like simple desert nomads, are extremely proud to the point of not wanting to take any job that is considered 'low-class' (direct quote from a relative). When Libyans do not take these jobs, people from other countries come in and take them. Also employers would rather pay an Egyptian three dinars an hour rather than a Libyan five for doing the same job. The problem with this is not only does the Egyptian get a much lower salary; their living conditions are so poor.

It is so terrible; I don't even know where to begin. You will often see a small house without a door that is supposed to be used as a shack or a storage room, but inside of it will be 3 to 6 mattresses laid on the floor for migrant workers to sleep on. They share a small bathroom with an inconsistent water supply and the house has no electricity. On top of this, the areas they live in are incredibly unsafe. Not only are there rabid dogs on every corner, there are people who like to take advantage of these workers. When my dad hired some workers to get our stuff from storage into our house, the workers did their work and then my dad drove them back to where he found them. Then, there was a group of suspicious looking men lurking around the area, so the workers all began to beg my dad to drive them up a little more up the road. They said that those groups of men constantly harass them, stealing the money that they made from the entire day. These workers are obviously undocumented, so they have no consistent salary and there is no one to ensure their pay. If they make one hundred dollars for a whole day's work, it can be stolen within a two minute uncomfortable exchange at a shady street corner.

We also had a maid for a short while work at the house to help my mom clean up some things. When she was waiting for her driver to take her home, the driver pulled up to the front of our house and asked for 'the dark-skinned one'. My uncle was confused so then the driver clarified, "the slave". I should also mention that this maid was Libyan. However, she was from southern Libya and had dark skin. So there is a conflict not only with Libyans and foreigners, but also Libyans from metropolitan areas (as metropolitan as a city in sub-Saharan Africa can get) with Libyans from less developed areas.

This complete lack of respect is everywhere. At the school where I work, everyone uses the phrase "Banlga" or "Bangladeshi" to refer to the janitors. They reduce an entire nationality and country's whole culture to a cleaning job. There is nothing wrong with a cleaning job, but there is something wrong with Libyans associating people from Bangladesh as nothing more than just someone who cleans up after them. I was having lunch with a friend one day at work. When I was throwing my trash away, my friend stops me and says, “Just leave it on the table, the Bangla will get it,” as if they had nothing better to do than to throw away my trash. Not would I be making him do more work, but I would also be acting as if it was a huge inconvenience for me to throw away a wrapper and a paper plate and that this act would be better suited for someone of Bangladeshi descent.

These photos of people in the back of cars started out as a joke. My sisters and I laughed at how many parents actually let their infant children stand in the back of pickup trucks on the freeway. Then, I eventually noticed that most of the people in the back of trucks were the workers. They are just thrown into the back like sheep, as if they don't even deserve to sit in the front. I'm not sure if the employers had a bunch of stuff in the actual sitting area of the car, but I'm pretty sure they could have squeezed if they wanted.

People in Libya have a problem with recognizing other people. They see race, color, nationality, and sex before they actually see a person with a personality, opinions, and ideas. Hopefully once the country starts become more stable, foreigners and migrant workers will finally be able to sit in the front with their employer. Hell, maybe they'll even be the ones driving. 

These are a bunch of children just enjoying the view.

Censoring

Note: This is an old post from November 2013 that I forgot to publish.

Whenever I get bored and I've already been on the internet for a good three straight hours or when I've already taken my second nap of the day, I'll turn on the TV and more often than not, I'll end up watching something I've already seen before, but without all the scenes that the television companies think are inappropriate. I'm always surprised to see what they do end up skipping. Here's a list of the things I've noticed that are censored:

-obviously sex scenes, it skips from a couple about to kiss, to the next day when someone is getting out of bed with wild hair

-whenever anything to do with body parts is mentioned in a sexual way

-the words 'gay' or 'homosexual' or 'lesbian'

-the word 'shrine'

-'Jewish', 'Jew', or 'Judaism'

-'pork'

-you know that part in movies where a normal looking woman is eventually convinced to try something on from her best friend's closet even though, no way! she'd never wear a dress that short? well they cut that out.

Keep in mind that the words, 'fuck', 'shit', 'damn', and 'ass' are rarely ever cut out. Neither are violence scenes. With this rationale, mentioning a Jewish person is worse than saying 'fuck'. Showing a gay couple on the screen is worse than a man attempting to saw his own leg off. It's weird to see what the television companies choose to make exist, or rather, not exist to the Arabic speaking people. I was the most shocked by the fact that anything to do with homosexuals or Jewish people were not even allowed to be mentioned, almost as if these people do not exist in the world. The movies and television shows are censored to protect the minds of the supposedly innocent Muslim community, to the point of enabling an enormous amount of ignorance.
I've always noticed this thing with people here. They put up this intensely holy front all the time. Even mentioning, "Oh golly gee, Leonardo DiCaprio sure did look good then," will get a response like, "yeah but we should stop talking about this, it is forbidden in the eyes of God." I am not even allowed to express my shameless attraction for Titanic-era Leonardo without my cousin quoting a Qur'an verse. It's a whole new level of prudence.

libyan characteristics

As my time here has almost reached a whole six months, I noticed that there were several things that Libyans tend to do that I never realized before I came here. Besides the whole different culture, the Libyan people have strange little habits that I guess the obnoxious kids at my work would post to twitter followed by hashtags like #libyanprobz #libyanlyf #youknowyourlibyanif #saharansunset #couscouscrystalz.

The first one is the way that they tell time. I have never once ever heard anyone here say the exact time. In America, you ask the time and they will look at their watch. They'll answer with like 6:23 or 9:49. Here, you just automatically round up to the nearest fourth. I have tried many times before to tell people the exact time down to the minute, and they would just get a confused look on their face. Quickly changing my mistake, I would round 3:21 to half past three. It's really not that important, but I just found it weird. I mean, in a way, it tells you about the way they spend their time here. Time is not really all that valuable. If anyone here tells you they will be back in fifteen minutes with your order, you should just leave and order pizza or take-out. If you receive an invitation for a wedding that starts at seven, never show up at seven because you will be the only one there. Everyone shows up an hour to two hours late. If you are expecting your co-worker to bring you copies of work within five minutes, you can bet that that co-worker will surely bring back your copies. However, it will not be without stopping along the way, catching up with a few friends, asking about their family trees, and how their mom is doing, eventually leaving the entire time to add up to fifteen minutes. You should just get the copies yourself. And God forbid you actually want to know when your semester starts for college. It seems like it would be a reasonable question, but people never know. They just reply with Inshallah ( God willing) or Allah Ghalab (God is the winner, only he know the answers). Those replies will really help you know when to get your school supplies ready. In the end, the minutes don't count. People are usually just so surprised that anything ever gets done, forget about being on time.

The second one is the fact that stores are only open at two sets of times during the day. Six days of the week, if you need anything, whether it be clothes or groceries or medicine, the shops will only be open from eleven to two in the afternoon. Then, at two, the shopkeepers will close, and go home. They will have a big lunch since that is the most important meal here, and they will take a long nap. They will then go back to their stores at six in the evening and stay open until around nine. The exception is on Friday which is the Islamic holy day. Rarely anything is open on Friday and if it is, they will only open in the evening.

The last one is the way that they tell ages. If you ask anyone how old they are, you should know that they are adding an extra year. For Libyans, the second that January first comes around, everyone suddenly ages by a year. Instead of actually using their real birth date, Libyans use the new year as the way to tell their age. It's as if everyone was already born one year old. So if you come to Libya (I wouldn't advise it.) , just add an extra year to however old you are. If you want me to psychoanalyze this one (Yes Seema! Please, please, we love it!!), I would say that since over half of the Libyan population is under the age of 30, everyone here is so quick to age. They see their age as the key to freedom. Enjoying your youth is hard here. Everything is so restricted and everything you do is constantly being judged. Your age is directly correlated with your eligibility to get married which is the ticket to leaving your parents which is considered freedom.

And now for an abrupt stop because my brain juices aren't from concentrate after grading a kid's paper who just spelled the word 'go' as 'gow'.