A return to Benghazi evokes memories of Libya in the 1950s

The son of a former prime minister of Libya finds evocative connections between the revolt against Qaddafi and what life was like post-Second World War

Pep Montserrat for The National

The gradual deterioration of the physical infrastructure. The need for nation-building after the destruction of all semblances of local institutions and civil society. The euphoria of getting rid of an overbearing and brutal regime. The return of Libyans from exile.
What I saw in Benghazi, during a return to Libya last month, reminded me of stories my parents told me of life in Libya in the 1950s. As they were starting out as a newly married couple, my mother was initially shocked at how poorly Benghazi compared with Jaffa or Alexandria where she grew up; she struggled with the odd Libyan accent and different vocabulary, and there was the coping with my father's embarking on his political career. In the early 1950s, the devastation wrought by the Second World War was evident throughout the country as were the remnants of the overbearing Italian colonial occupation, the war and the subsequent British military administration. There was - and now is - after years of soul-breaking, mind-wrenching oppression, the whole process of achieving independence, building a nation and accepting Libyans from exile.
Libyans have been there, they've done that and they still have the guns to prove it. When we crossed the border from the organised chaos of Egypt, we were greeted by a couple of poorly dressed revolutionaries carrying what seemed like 1950s-vintage rifles. They waved us along, no doubt thinking this rather disparate group of foreigners was yet another bunch of journalists collecting footage and stories for some western satellite TV station.
In fact I had managed to latch myself onto a European Union fact-finding mission to assess and assist in capacity building and training for civil society institutions in Benghazi.
After watching all the pictures on TV of the Libyan flag of independence, it was wonderful to see the real thing waving at the border. Varied alignments, differing crescent and star shapes, on poles, sticks, pasted on the front, back and sides of cars, vans, rusted old tanks, or tents and the ruins of buildings. A reassurance that this indeed was a new Libya. But in my mind it was tied by some imaginary umbilical cord to the old, pre-Qaddafi Libya. The one of my childhood and the one I most relate to and remember, like many here, with great affection.
A pit stop at a petrol station was an opportunity to meet people from a neighbouring village. I asked a young man how he felt about the changes and he replied with the often repeated, "Mia mia" (100 per cent). Still, I felt a sense of apprehension in most of the people we spoke to. Yes they were happy and relieved with the change, but clearly uncertain about the future.
In Benghazi, I was struck by the clear blue sea, the distinctively putrid smell of saltwater and God knows what else, and the squalor and poverty of the town. This is an oil-rich country with more than US$150 billion (Dh551bn) in reserves in banks around the world yet the sense of neglect in this once-beautiful city is obvious. Even ignoring the buildings damaged or destroyed during the revolution, this is a city that badly needs a major facelift.
The burnt-out remains in the middle of town of the headquarters of one of Qaddafi's hated brigades is now a tourist attraction. Qaddafi's guesthouse in the middle of this fortress-like compound was burnt and covered with cartoon images of the leader with plenty of rude remarks. The sight of the pillbox entrance, with massive steel doors to what appeared a basement detention centre, was enough to chill my spine.
One of the most striking impressions I felt was a sense of pride, mixed with surprise, in the people of Benghazi at what they had been able to do: in four days of violent street battles they essentially eliminated the presence of a brutal regime. There was pride in the youth for the unbelievable courage and fortitude shown and a pride in being Libyan and "grandchildren of al Mukhtar", a recurring theme in the Libyan narrative.
Omar al Mukhtar was the leader of the Libyan resistance against the Italian occupation in the early part of the last century and was eventually captured and executed by the Italians. He has now been adopted by the revolution and his photograph is prominently displayed with or on the flag of independence.
Nothing could displease the great leader, king of kings, colonel - or whatever titles he has chosen for himself over the years - more than the thought that Libyans would venerate someone else, especially someone with unimpeachable credentials as hero, leader of a revolution and martyr.
On a walk around the courthouse area the walls are covered with photos of the young men and women who died fighting the Qaddafi forces. An almost carnival-like atmosphere, with Libyan rap music, Zanga Zanga video clips, kids on quad bikes, tents for sitting, chatting and drinking the ever-present Libyan tea, cartoon images of the leader in his varied weird guises and graffiti everywhere. This is where one really gets a sense of the freedom euphoria that has engulfed this place.
A relative of mine explained to me that whenever he feels down or the news from the front line is bad, he just goes to Benghazi to feel happy again. This is where you find the drug that terrifies the regime. The drug of freedom. It is not the drug of choice of al Qa'eda or any other extremist group. This is the drug that has let people be themselves for the first time in more than 40 years.
The streets of Benghazi are full of cars in need of serious repair, though somehow they still manage to work. New police cars (courtesy of Libyan exiles) with different markings are discreetly placed at major intersections. On asking a relative why some buildings had well-known Benghazi family names painted on the exterior walls, she explained that these were properties previously confiscated by the Qaddafi regime. Now the revolutionaries are recognising the real property owners.
People go about their daily lives, shopping for food, exchanging the latest news and gossip and predicting the end of the regime. Conspiracy theories are rife. Everyone has a theory as to why Nato hasn't done this or that or why the US and the UK have yet to recognise the National Transitional Council (NTC). Questions about the situation in Tripoli, Misurata and Zintan circulate the town. Fear and hatred of the regime are palpable.
It was difficult to understand this fear until a cousin of mine explained to me how close Qaddafi's troops were to entering Benghazi on March 15 before French planes bombed his tanks on the outskirts of the city. Everyone in Benghazi knows that if those troops had entered the city there would have been a massacre and the city would have been flattened.
Benghazi is now the temporary capital of the new, free Libya and headquarters of the NTC. Although there is overwhelming support for the NTC, in true democratic form, people are also vocal in their criticism of aspects of its performance. An interesting poll was recently carried out in Benghazi that showed that 90 per cent of the people supported the TPNC, but 75 per cent were critical of its approach to the media. What an amazing change: people on the streets are actually being canvassed for their opinions about their government. Imagine the change in attitudes and expectations once people in Tripoli, Misurata and other Libyan towns have a chance to express their views freely.
A particularly interesting meeting I attended was with a group of youth. One was a 27-year-old Amazigh (the native inhabitants of North Africa) originally from the western mountains, who has set up an organisation to promote and teach democratic values. He explained how the regime had for years prevented the Amazigh minority from preserving and learning their distinctive language and culture. Another was a young lady from Benghazi who told us there are now 10 newspapers in Benghazi alone, whereas before there were just two government-controlled papers.
My most memorable conversation was with Mohammad from Derna who while studying for a medical degree was jailed at the age of 21 for eight years without trial. Upon release he suffered from severe depression for four years. He described feeling dead, but now, he says, "I am alive, it's as if I am reborn."
All that these Libyans want is what everyone in the West takes for granted: to live their lives in freedom and dignity. They are in a hurry to make up for lost time. This is their revolution. They deserve to win.
Amr Ben Halim is a businessman and philanthropist and the son of Mustafa Ben Halim, the prime minister of Libya from 1954 to 1957. He lives in Dubai.