3. To reinterpret and redefine a complex personality like Gaddafi's requires both logical reasoning and courage. Itagi possesses both these qualities.

Respected Itagi, You might be disappointed that I haven’t responded even after a month since I received the book, Libya Diary, which you kindly sent me. Please forgive me for this delay, as I was caught up within my own work commitments. The moment I held your book, I read it in one sitting within a few hours. Your book possesses a unique quality—it compels the reader to keep reading, refusing to allow it to be set aside. Your work and its topics have a certain determination, much like a child stubbornly insisting on getting what they want. Why am I so intrigued by your book’s protagonist, Muammar Gaddafi? It is because of his political authority, the economic policies he implemented, his grand ambition to unite the African community, his diplomatic relations with neighbouring nations, and his establishment of massive mosques in countries like Tanzania, Uganda, and Rwanda. I have seen this first hand and heard about them from the people of these countries. I have visited many countries in East Africa, particularly spending some time in Uganda and Rwanda, where I have interacted with the people and experienced their lives. What I observed was that Gaddafi viewed religion as a unifying force for his neighbouring nations. With this belief, he built mosques in these three countries, aiming to foster religious unity. These nations proudly consider these mosques as priceless gifts from him. I had the opportunity to visit all three mosques. The National Mosque in Dodoma, the capital of Tanzania, is the largest mosque in the country and the second-largest in East Africa. It can accommodate approximately 3,000 people for prayer at a time. Gaddafi gifted this mosque in 2010 as a symbol of Islamic heritage to the people of Tanzania. I have mentioned this in my travelogue on Tanzania. In the Tanzanian national language, Swahili, it is called Mskiti wa Gaddafi. This Islamic monument, adorned with white minarets, stands as a proud symbol of his contribution. Gaddafi also constructed the largest mosque in the East African country of Uganda, located atop a hill in the capital city, Kampala. The mosque’s architectural style is extraordinary and unmatched, and it stands in a prime and prestigious location in Kampala. Built in 2006, this mosque was a result of Gaddafi’s friendship with Idi Amin. It emerged as a symbol of this friendship and as a religious monument. However, Idi Amin had passed away even before the mosque was completed. This mosque is expansive and awe-inspiring. It accommodates around 13,000 people on the ground floor, 3,500 on the terrace, and approximately 1,000 in the gallery for prayers. This is another priceless gift from Gaddafi to the country of Uganda. After Gaddafi's death, the mosque’s name was changed from "Gaddafi National Mosque" to "Uganda National Mosque," just like the one in Tanzania. The countries he considered as friendly nations, for whom he built grand mosques in his name, later erased his name from their histories by renaming these monuments. The mosque built by Gaddafi in Kigali, Rwanda, has followed a similar path. However, it is undeniable that Gaddafi’s strategy of constructing mosques in numerous countries was part of a broader plan to promote Islam, unify citizens through religion, and thereby strengthen Muslim fundamentalism. When I visited Tanzania in December 2011, Gaddafi had just been assassinated. There was an unending flow of tears in the eyes of the Tanzanian people, mourning the death of a patriotic leader who had gifted their country such a prestigious mosque. Though I only had a surface-level understanding of Gaddafi’s ideals, including his ambition to transform his country into a paradise and the rapid revolution that occurred there, I did not hear a single word of criticism about him in either Uganda or Tanzania. Moreover, the people of these nations and their governments proudly shared with me a long list of Gaddafi’s contributions, expressing their love, gratitude, and admiration for him. When I learned that you had written Libya Diary, my curiosity was naturally piqued. Your book answered all my questions and justified my interest in Gaddafi’s story. Thank you for trusting me with your work. How should this book be categorized in terms of literary genre? Is it history, a biography, a travelogue, or a record of political events? Perhaps it is a work that defies easy classification, striving to represent all these genres while maintaining its unique identity. Primarily, as an anti-imperialist, Gaddafi set out to protect his small country, Libya, and strengthen it economically and socially. He fought against the colonial empires, striving to preserve his nation’s identity while facing opposition from religious fundamentalists within his country. Despite these efforts, his ambitious and heroic life ended in solitude, with none of his achievements remaining in memory. Itagi has made an effort to meticulously unravel every thread of this remarkable leader's life. The book’s main objective is to delve into the secret operations behind the assassination of such a great leader, the role of religious fundamentalists, and the eventual downfall of Gaddafi, who had become a beacon of hope in Africa. As the author notes, this was also the fall of Libya itself. The Libya that collapsed in 2011 has yet to recover. Figures like Gaddafi are portrayed differently by advanced nations, including the United States. The media, which supports these portrayals, has, according to the author, distorted history, creating fabricated narratives and interpretations. When such constructed opinions take root in the global consciousness as if they were the truth, Itagi sets out to challenge and dismantle these strong interpretations and narratives. With this aim, the author attempts to reframe the discussions around Gaddafi, presenting a counter-narrative about the leader. The book is written with an acknowledgment of Gaddafi’s administrative style, his ideologies, his economic policies, and his significant role as a leader in the Arab world. The author expresses deep admiration for Gaddafi’s economic policies and his amicable relationships with neighboring nations. However, this does not mean Gaddafi was without flaws. These shortcomings are explained with well-reasoned arguments. The chapters, such as The Mistakes of Gaddafi and Where Libya Went Wrong, exhibit an unbiased critique, free from any prejudiced undertones, providing an impartial and balanced analysis. In the section titled Gaddafi Girls, the author introduces the women associated with Gaddafi. There is no precedent in the world where women, often perceived as the "weaker sex," have been appointed as bodyguards. However, Gaddafi employed 300 women in his security force. While this might seem commendable at first glance, the fact that they were required to be beautiful, virgins, dressed in modern attire, always made-up, and close confidantes of his paints a picture of his misogynistic tendencies. The anecdotes about Ukrainian beauties being essential for his health check-ups further highlight Gaddafi's stance towards women. The author subtly suggests that Gaddafi did not view the world of women with the sanctity or respect it deserved. Similarly, the fascination surrounding the Mauritanian women reveals not just their charm but also their helplessness, which becomes a more critical aspect of the narrative. While there are strong reasons supporting the claim that women were safer under Gaddafi's regime, this truth emerges alongside a reflection of the complexities and contradictions in his approach toward women. In the Sahara Desert Poetry Gathering, the physical descriptions of an Italian poetess—such as referring to her as "bichamma" (uncovered woman), "muchamma" (covered woman), and "sexy"—evoke a sense of discomfort. Even years after the revolution, the attitudes and perceptions toward women remain evident. The lingering thought of whether local women too should have such opportunities highlights the underlying societal disparities. Instead of focusing on the significant aspects of the multilingual gathering—like which topics gained prominence in which languages—the narrative veers towards the foreign woman’s attire, her revealing clothing, her manner of crossing her legs, and her smoking. It fails to discuss the poetry she presented, the theme she chose, or her style of narration, which would have been more satisfying. Who were the other poets at the gathering? What poetic sentiments did they bring? How did the university students attending the event respond and critique the session? Perhaps if attention had been directed to these aspects, we might have gleaned valuable insights into contemporary Libyan literature and critiques. A distinct and captivating section of the book is the description of the Sahara Desert. The portrayal of natural art blossoming on the Avinat rocks, the Gebraoun Lake in Ubari, and the Akakus Mountains is deeply moving and evocative. The descriptions of the desert's beauty—the hidden springs, greenery sprouting even in arid lands, and the extreme cold during winter—are remarkable and beautifully narrated. The chapter titled "The Two Who Met in the Rain" draws a parallel to the desert’s oases. During the author’s moments of hardship, these individuals emerge and extend a helping hand. Whether it is a well-employed woman or a modestly earning cab driver, the author notes the shared humanity and empathy they exhibit. This sensitivity in recognizing such nuances reflects the author’s perceptive nature. Perhaps their demeanour has been shaped by the political ideology of their leader, Gaddafi, or it could stem from their innate humanitarian values, which Gaddafi’s political philosophy reinforced. After all, the guiding principle of Gaddafi's regime was equality—be it between men and women or across industrial, economic, and educational spheres. The author beautifully narrates this rare and touching experience from their own life, reflecting these values. Itagi worked as an English teacher in Sebha University for seven to eight years. In this context, one wonders if the relationships he built with students have continued in this era of Facebook and email. What about the education system there? What were the achievements in the academic field? Which subjects did students show the most interest in? Was the suspension of a global communication language for ten years by Gaddafi—possibly to avoid foreign influences or keep their wages from being infiltrated by outsiders—justifiable? What were the repercussions of this on the practical and educational spheres? How did it affect the youth? In Gaddafi’s nation, which boasted about gender equality, what were the conditions for women's education? What were Gaddafi’s stances on science and technology? Did he hire a team of bodyguards solely to ensure his own safety? Did he appoint nurses just to look after his health? What was the state of the country's healthcare system? What were the medical facilities available? These are some questions that could have been addressed by the author to satisfy the readers' curiosity. Moreover, when living in a foreign land for several years, there is a potential to uncover unknown facets of its people's lifestyle, cultural life, social life, food, music, dance, and markets. Through Itagi's writings, many undiscovered aspects of Libya’s culture could have come to light. hese are some of my doubts. If the author were to expand this diary, shedding light on all these aspects, it would provide a deeper understanding of Libya’s culture. Perhaps the author could bring out these lingering memories, cultural encounters, and reflections on Libya's current circumstances, its joys, and struggles in a Diary-2. Standing amidst the contradictions of controversies, the author has ventured to break the ready-made image of Gaddafi and construct a new portrayal of him as a people-oriented and loyal leader, highlighting his positive traits. This effort is commendable. To reinterpret and provide a fresh perspective on a character deeply ingrained in the public psyche for decades is a significant achievement. Itagi has succeeded in providing new definitions and interpretations of such a revolutionary leader, whose character naturally evokes extremes—people either blindly love and accept him or reject and despise him with equal intensity. To reinterpret such a complex personality requires not only logical reasoning but also courage, and Itagi seems to possess both qualities. Dr. D. Mangala Priyadarshini Renowned Critic Bangalore 15.12.2019

2. Libya Diary: An Attempt to Seek the Inner Truth

In truth, I have little personal acquaintance with Uday Itagi. My introduction to him came through his writings when he began a column on Libya in Avadhi during his time in Libya for work. I recall responding to a couple of his articles, impressed by his work. However, when his column took the shape of a book, and I was invited to speak at its launch, I must admit I was initially apprehensive. This was because I lacked significant knowledge about Libya, a place not widely covered in the mainstream. When Uday Itagi assured me, saying, "My book itself contains plenty of information. All you need to do is share your thoughts," I felt encouraged by the open-ended opportunity for feedback and accepted the invitation with enthusiasm and curiosity about the book. As I read Libya Diary, things gradually became clearer. This is because we often tend to believe in a truth that is easily accessible on the surface. Today, including Indians, much of the world views reality through America’s perspective, accepting what America portrays as the “ultimate truth” and believing only what is visible to our naked eye as “real.” But this is merely an external truth. However, every nation has its own unique truth, its inner truth. To grasp this, we need to open our "inner eyes." When writing about distant, unfamiliar countries, a writer must explore a third dimension of truth—one that lies between the external truth believed by the outside world and the inner truth of that nation. Uday Itagi attempts to unearth such a truth in his Libya Diary. Having spent around six years in Libya, witnessing both Gaddafi’s rule and the post-Gaddafi era, Uday Itagi uses this book as a platform to seek answers to questions that arose within him during this time. Without outright rejecting the external truth presented by America or fully embracing the inner truth he observed among the Libyan people, he paints an honest picture of the Libya he experienced through his own inner lens. As a result, the book avoids sensationalism, imaginary narratives, or overly emotional storytelling. Instead, Uday takes a balanced and deliberate approach, examining and reflecting on every aspect thoughtfully. This makes the book one of the rarest and most objective works in Kannada on Muammar Gaddafi, giving it a distinct authenticity. The book can broadly be divided into two parts. On one side, it presents a portrait of Gaddafi while also documenting the social lives of ordinary Libyans. The notable aspect is that Uday’s interest doesn’t stop at merely sketching Gaddafi’s persona. Biographical works often carry the risk of idealizing their subject. Sometimes, in the process of chronicling someone’s life, the writer becomes so immersed that even the flaws of the individual are portrayed as virtues. Uday Itagi, however, approaches Gaddafi’s personality with utmost caution. He breaks apart the image of Gaddafi as the world’s ultimate villain, as portrayed by America, and reconstructs it as a complex blend of contradictions and eccentricities, delving into the layers of Gaddafi’s erratic personality and unveiling his human side. However, every nation has its own unique truth, its inner truth. To grasp this, we need to open our "inner eyes." When writing about distant, unfamiliar countries, a writer must explore a third dimension of truth—one that lies between the external truth believed by the outside world and the inner truth of that nation. Uday Itagi attempts to unearth such a truth in his Libya Diary. Having spent around six years in Libya, witnessing both Gaddafi’s rule and the post-Gaddafi era, Uday Itagi uses this book as a platform to seek answers to questions that arose within him during this time. Without outright rejecting the external truth presented by America or fully embracing the inner truth he observed among the Libyan people, he paints an honest picture of the Libya he experienced through his own inner lens. As a result, the book avoids sensationalism, imaginary narratives, or overly emotional storytelling. Instead, Uday takes a balanced and deliberate approach, examining and reflecting on every aspect thoughtfully. This makes the book one of the rarest and most objective works in Kannada on Muammar Gaddafi, giving it a distinct authenticity. The book can broadly be divided into two parts. On one side, it presents a portrait of Gaddafi while also documenting the social lives of ordinary Libyans. The notable aspect is that Uday’s interest doesn’t stop at merely sketching Gaddafi’s persona. Biographical works often carry the risk of idealizing their subject. Sometimes, in the process of chronicling someone’s life, the writer becomes so immersed that even the flaws of the individual are portrayed as virtues. Uday Itagi, however, approaches Gaddafi’s personality with utmost caution. He breaks apart the image of Gaddafi as the world’s ultimate villain, as portrayed by America, and reconstructs it as a complex blend of contradictions and eccentricities, delving into the layers of Gaddafi’s erratic personality and unveiling his human side. Who is Gaddafi? When we hear the name "Gaddafi," the first thought that comes to mind is that of a controversial and ruthless dictator. But there's much more to him than that. He was a highly complex personality: a tyrant but also a people’s leader, a shrewd strategist yet naive at times, a cold pragmatist but also a deeply emotional human being. Gaddafi transformed Libya—a small, almost insignificant country on the world map—into a nation that drew global attention. However, his life ended tragically, as he was brutally killed by his own people, abandoned and helpless in the streets. This narrative holds both external truths and deeper internal realities. Understanding Gaddafi’s Contradictions How can one make sense of Gaddafi amidst all these contradictions? Was he truly a dictator, or was he also a capable leader? How did he turn Libya into a prosperous, stable nation? These questions naturally arise. To understand him, it’s essential to explore the historical background of Libya. As many might know, Libya was an Italian colony. After World War II, Italy, grappling with its own internal struggles, loosened its grip on Libya. In 1951, Libya became an independent nation under the rule of King Idris. Then, in 1969, a 27-year-old Gaddafi seized power in a coup, overthrowing King Idris. Gaddafi’s Bold Actions Although Libya was rich in natural resources and oil reserves, its people lived in extreme poverty because foreign powers, particularly the U.S. and other Western countries, controlled these resources. One of Gaddafi’s first actions was to nationalize Libya’s oil industry, wresting it from American companies. He revised oil prices and expelled U.S. military forces from Libyan soil. These actions enraged the U.S., which responded with economic sanctions, political pressure, and baseless international accusations. Despite these challenges, Gaddafi stood firm, defying the U.S. with his strategic acumen and audacity. Gaddafi’s Vision for Libya and Africa Gaddafi understood that to be a strong nation, Libya needed to be internally stable. He introduced numerous social and economic reforms, such as free education, free healthcare, financial aid for jobless youth, housing support for newlyweds, and significant rights for women. These changes uplifted Libya’s economy, making it one of the wealthiest nations in Africa, with no international debts. He also envisioned a united Africa. Gaddafi actively supported neighboring African nations during political crises, aiming to foster solidarity across the continent. He dreamed of an Africa that could stand as a single, formidable entity on the world stage. The fall of Gaddafi Despite his grand vision and reforms, Gaddafi’s downfall was inevitable. Perhaps his progressive policies clashed with Libya’s religious conservatives, or his ambitions drew the ire of international powers. His liberal ideals and bold decisions became the very reasons for his demise. Gaddafi’s rule ended in tragedy, leaving behind a shattered Libya. After his death, the country plunged into economic turmoil, struggling to regain stability. A Testament to Gaddafi’s Legacy Author Uday Itagi documents Gaddafi’s life and the post-Gaddafi Libya with great depth and detail. His book sheds light on the Libyan leader’s personality, his contributions, and the aftermath of his rule. It also reflects on the loneliness of an exile’s life, capturing Libya’s geography, history, and culture vividly. This rare and invaluable book enriches Kannada literature, offering a comprehensive narrative of Libya and its enigmatic leader. This is a precious contribution to Kannada literature, and we hope Uday Itagi continues to create more such masterpieces. Jayashree Kasaravalli A renowned author during the book launch

Reviews Received So Far for the Libya Diary

1. As I turn the pages of Libya Diary.... I have known Uday for many years. When I was the associate editor of the online magazine Avadhi, his series of articles about Libya were published regularly in Avadhi. So, when he told me that it would be turned into a book, I was very happy. For those of us who have only read opinions from sources like Reuters or Google about a country in the Third World, it’s a different kind of excitement to read a firsthand account from someone who has spent years there. But one day, when Uday called me and asked me to write the foreword for the book, I was filled with anxiety! Firstly, since I had just started a new project, my lack of time was a challenge. Secondly, I doubted whether I had the deep reading experience required to write a foreword for such a topic. But when Uday said, "Write about how you, as a woman, see this," I felt that I could do it. So, I took it up and decided to read it once more. A new city, a new language, a new job, a new home, new bonds, new relationships—everything introduces us to a new world. Sometimes, we stand at the edge of that newness and just say 'hello' from a distance, while at other times, we cross its boundaries, step inside, and let it become a part of our life. This difference is crucial when we write about a new country, state, or even town. Writing from the periphery turns into a travel narrative, while crossing that boundary, stepping in, staying there, and mingling with the locals is how a book like Libya Diary by Uday Itagi comes into being. Uday did not go there as a tourist, and neither is the country known for its tourism industry. It is Libya, Gaddafi's Libya, the Libya that challenged America and asked, "What now?" While reading Uday Itagi's book, another country came to my mind—Cuba. During a session I attended, senior media expert G. N. Mohan, who had gone to Cuba, used the country as a backdrop to highlight America's attempts to dominate all of Latin America. Uday's book helped me understand several aspects, and G. N. Mohan's The Song Within Me: Cuba was instrumental in doing so. Like Cuba, Libya is a country rich in natural resources. In Cuba, sugar flows, while in Libya, oil flows. Both countries have caught the eye of powerful nations because of their wealth. While Spain's roots are found in Cuba, Italy’s roots are in Libya. Both countries, according to their power, have often plundered these colonies. In the early 20th century, America emerged as the "controlling power" in the world, establishing shops wherever it could earn money. By then, it had the media power to influence global opinions. Therefore, it cleverly shaped the world's perspectives to suit its needs. This brings to mind a statement made by L. Basavaraju, "Whoever controls the ball, the goal is always America's." Hence, America prepares a lens to view Cuba, another for Iraq, and another for Libya. With these lenses, the truth about Cuba, which stood against America and built its country, never comes out. Libya's struggle, which attempted to live by its own rules, is overshadowed by Gaddafi's cunning indifference and his greed being exposed to the world. After the war, despite Iraq's defeat and the death of Saddam Hussein, a decade later, the "weapons of mass destruction" America claimed existed in Iraq still haven't been found. Taking all these aspects into consideration, we must read Uday Itagi's book. Uday travels to Libya to teach English at a college. He writes about the life, political, social, and economic conditions he observed there. While writing, Uday does not provide any sources or references to support his account. There are no books, articles, or speeches that he quotes. If we were to compare his writing with the available information, what we find are news reports from Western media houses. Therefore, we must view Libya through Uday's eyes. His writing can be understood from three perspectives: first, Libya itself; second, Uday's experience in Libya; and third, the most important element for Uday—Gaddafi and Gaddafi's Libya. In 1968, at the age of 27, Gaddafi took control of Libya's leadership as part of a revolution. He began ruling Libya under the grand title "Brotherly Leader and Guide of the First of September Great Revolution of the Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya" and continued for 47 years. There is a similarity between Cuba and Libya. Both countries possess immense natural wealth, and the countries that colonized them continue to profit from their resources. In Cuba, Fidel Castro and in Libya, Gaddafi opposed this exploitation. They both stood up and declared, "We decide the value of our country's wealth." Along with this, both men sought to drive out the American military presence from their lands. This is when America's cunning methods began. Through economic blockades, political pressure, international community influence, and media manipulation, America tried to shape public opinion against them. Castro and Gaddafi both stood firm in defiance. Perhaps this is where the comparison between the two ends. While Gaddafi showered his people with wealth, he failed to transform Libya into a nation like Cuba, one that made progress in fields such as community health and education, and stood firm against the giant power of America. Cuba, like a lamp flickering brightly in the dark, built its nation against all odds, while Gaddafi failed in this regard. Castro would say, "Give your commitment, a morsel of food, a day of labor, and let’s build the nation," while Gaddafi would say, "Here’s another fistful of money, stand with me." While the CIA failed to touch Castro, America had Gaddafi brutally murdered by his own country's revolutionary hands on the streets. Before and after Gaddafi's long rule, Libya was known internationally for not owing a penny, and its per capita income was at the highest level. However, corruption and the collapse of the governance system were also rampant. This "diary" helps us explore the reasons behind these changes. In his book, Uday describes how Gaddafi, through his shrewdness, trapped America. When Gaddafi came to power, the price of oil was about 40 cents per barrel, and gradually he raised it to over 40 dollars per barrel. He made Western countries depend on his oil. He ensured that his citizens received quality education. If they couldn’t find a proper job after their education, they received financial assistance for further studies. He also provided loans for married couples to build houses, for starting businesses, and even for students studying abroad to buy vehicles and receive stipends. The author praises Gaddafi’s administrative style, highlighting these developments. Another aspect he opens up is the ‘equality of life under the rule of a totalitarian state.’ He vividly describes how Libya was under Gaddafi and what happened after his reign. At times, it feels like the author is somewhat entranced by Gaddafi’s personality, as he seems to be quite close to him. Writing a biography involves maintaining a distance from the person being depicted, which is challenging but necessary. When this distance isn’t maintained, it becomes difficult to keep the narrative objective. Within this context, it becomes hard to separate Libya from Gaddafi. The book presents the contradictions and paradoxes of Gaddafi’s character, and in doing so, the author inadvertently supports Gaddafi, without realizing it. It seems that while writing the book, the author has already made a decision and is providing evidence to support that conclusion. Uday begins his writing by discussing the equality between a university dean and a staff member of the same college, thereby setting a positive tone for the book. What’s intriguing is how, when speaking to Libyans, they not only inquire about their own well-being but also ask about the welfare of their family members and even their pets. Reading this, we can’t help but smile without realizing it. These kinds of details make the book feel more personal and help connect the reader with the narrative. The book shatters many preconceived notions and opinions one might have about Libya and reveals numerous surprising aspects. For instance, Uday explains how a well can yield a spring of water just 40 feet deep in the Sahara Desert. To make agriculture feasible for the people, Gaddafi implemented one of the largest irrigation projects ever conceived, which is recognized as the largest man-made irrigation system in the world and has been described as the eighth wonder of the world. Another astonishing detail is about raising livestock in the desert's extreme climate, with its scorching heat during the day and bone-chilling cold at night. Uday also delves into the despair, loneliness, and nostalgia faced by those compelled to leave their homeland for work. He writes: "People like us working abroad often come back thinking we'll repay the debts accumulated during our labour and return to India to continue our regular lives. But over time, the need to enrol children in good schools arises, requiring another year of work. Then, we see friends and relatives buying a plot of land, and we decide to buy one too, which means staying back for another two years to pay off that commitment. After that, the thought of buying another plot for future security surfaces, extending the stay for a few more years. Once those debts are cleared, we think, 'Why not build a house of our own?' and again stay back for a couple more years. Eventually, having grown used to the high salary, the heart resists returning to India for a lower-paying job. So, we delay the return by another two years, planning to save up and live a peaceful life later. This cycle of planning to return and postponing continues endlessly. Where do human desires end? By the time we fulfil one ambition after another, we've spent eight or ten years of our lives devoid of true warmth and happiness." Reading this, the eyes get wet, and the heart sinks. The difficulty of maintaining distant relationships after leaving loved ones behind is no small feat. Such introspective reflections make the book deeply personal and engaging. The narrative continues: "But let’s not even start talking about the lives of masons, plumbers, and electricians who come here to work for as little as 30,000 rupees (with free food and shared accommodation). For them, owning a laptop or using the internet is a distant dream. Even making a phone call home is a costly affair, so they keep quiet. When they do manage to call every 10 or 15 days, they write down everything they want to say on a sheet of paper and rush through the conversation, which barely lasts five or six minutes. These individuals not only suppress their desires but also their emotions to survive." This raises a poignant question: Did they gain anything from working abroad, or did they lose something invaluable? That is not to say that everything in the book is entirely agreeable to the mind. I also noticed certain issues, which I feel compelled to mention here—not to label them as flaws in the writing but because leaving them unaddressed would render this discussion incomplete. Firstly, Itagi mentions Gaddafi’s female bodyguards, referred to as "Gaddafi’s Girls". Gaddafi had immense faith in women’s capabilities, which led Uday to boldly state that "he was the first man to appoint female bodyguards and thereby proclaim his trust in them to the world." Besides bodyguards, Gaddafi also employed Ukrainian nurses. Many photographs of these bodyguards depict them adorned in a manner rivaling that of models, which Uday justifies as an extension of Gaddafi’s appreciation for beauty. However, appointing women to such roles is not unprecedented. For example, consider the Tamil Eelam movement, where both male and female soldiers fought. The fact that some were women was merely incidental, and there was no emphasis on their femininity through adornments or attire. But Gaddafi’s bodyguard force was different—it consisted of around 300–400 young, attractive women. Having both men and women in a military force represents equality. But deliberately selecting only attractive women for such roles cannot be dismissed so casually. Furthermore, the rules he imposed on these women were downright oppressive. None of the women in his guard were allowed to marry until their retirement. Can this be seen merely as a disciplinary measure? It appears more like the indulgence of an autocrat. Moreover, for someone who was such a supposed "connoisseur of beauty," Gaddafi’s nurses were forbidden from wearing any adornments, with their sole purpose in life being service. Adding to the contradictions, reports suggest he bestowed gold watches upon his bodyguards accompanying him on foreign trips, which raises questions about his intentions. These observations suggest that Gaddafi’s practices were not solely about empowering women but also reflected his personal whims and autocratic excesses. Another concern I have is with the way Uday presents the subject of “Mauritanian beauties.” He writes about how they captivated everyone’s attention and how many desired their company. However, while he describes men seeking the company of these women, even those who were married, he portrays the women alone in a negative light, almost as if branding them as prostitutes. This one-sided portrayal feels unfair. It is not right to view their behavior through the lens of our local moralities and binaries of right and wrong. In their cultural context, forming friendships or relationships with men, or pursuing intimacy when they felt a connection, might have been entirely natural. To label them as prostitutes merely because they engaged in a relationship outside of marriage seems inappropriate. While he writes with great empathy about the loneliness of men who leave their families behind in their home countries, there is a lack of sensitivity in acknowledging that these women, too, might have been dealing with loneliness in their lives. Another issue arises when he discusses Libyan women, describing them as having dark skin and thus lacking attractiveness. Since the time Lohia wrote about Indian beauty standards and biases regarding skin color, there has been significant discourse on the subject. Over the years, these discussions have helped us shed many of our prejudices. However, writing or speaking about such biases today, as if it were a natural observation, is troubling. While I don’t deny that such biases may still persist in some minds, when a writer expresses them, they gain a sense of permanence and universality. Writers must be mindful of this responsibility. As I mentioned earlier, these are my concerns. Despite these issues, the book sheds light on several significant historical aspects, which makes it important for various reasons. After writing about Gaddafi and the changes that occurred in Libya, Uday delves into the lives of the people there. The book becomes even more touching as it portrays the love shown by strangers in an unfamiliar land, love offered without any reason or recognition. At this level, the book serves both as a historical document and as a travelogue, making Libya Diary a fitting title. Beyond this, Uday sheds light on many aspects of life in Libya, adding to the book's significance. Uday Itagi is someone with a keen interest and passion for storytelling, poetry, travel, and autobiographical narratives. Wishing that this book paves the way for many more works from him, I conclude this preface by congratulating him. Sandhyarani Renowned writer and the Former Associate Editor of Avadhi (From the Preface)

20. The markets known as "souks" that offer thrilling experiences

When I was young, the weekly markets were a source of great excitement for me. This was because my uncle, older cousin, or younger uncle would visit the nearby town's weekly market to bring back household essentials and vegetables. Since I spent my childhood in a village, people would travel to the neighboring town for the market once a week. This routine was mandatory either weekly or every fifteen days. Back then, those who left for the market in the morning or afternoon would return by the evening bus. We would eagerly wait for their return and rush to the bus stand to grab their shopping bags. There were two main reasons for this: firstly, to see if there were any snacks or treats in the bags, and secondly, to check if they had brought the items we had requested before they left. Overall, the market was a source of excitement for us. Only when it was time to buy clothes for a festival would we be taken along. We would go with great enthusiasm, buy clothes, fill shopping bags with market goods, enjoy masala dosas at a hotel, drink tea, and return to the village. The next day at school, we would proudly share our outing experiences. As we grew older and moved to towns or cities for education, our curiosity and enthusiasm for these markets faded. They seemed trivial, and as we transitioned from childhood innocence to adulthood, we acknowledged that we had become young adults.

While working in Libya, I was posted to a small village called Ghat. There, the weekly market, held every Monday, was referred to in Arabic as "souk." Similarly, in a place called Al Barkat, located 10 kilometers from Ghat, a market took place every Tuesday. Every Wednesday, there was a market in a village called Talat Mia Arba, on Thursdays in a place called Avinath, and on Fridays in a town called Ubari. These markets were collectively known as "souks." People from nearby towns would come there to buy goods, clothes, groceries, and vegetables. Almost everything needed for a household was available there, and most of the items were sold by Egyptians. Therefore, they were called "Masharatis," which means merchant in Arabic. As Egypt was one of the cradles of the world's earliest civilizations and the Egyptians were knowledgeable in various arts, the locals referred to them as "civilized people." Since trade was among the many arts they mastered, they had already established trade relations with Rome, Greece, Turkey, and the Middle Eastern countries. Over time, many of them took up this trade as their profession and later migrated to different Muslim countries, where they settled. From then on, traders in the Middle East, Arab countries, or African countries were called Masharati. Such Masharati can also be found in the souks of the modern world.

Many souks have been in existence for centuries and are linked to Libya's historical legacy as a trade hub between Africa and Europe. These souks are crucial to Libya's identity, as they not only define the place but also remind people of the country's long history and traditions. The souks in Libya also function as cultural and social centers. They are not just places for trade but also serve as venues where people meet, mingle, and exchange ideas, making them vital to the local community. In Libya's capital, Tripoli, there are various types of souks scattered around. Some are in open spaces, while others are in large buildings resembling malls. For example, near the main mosque in Tripoli's old city, there's an open market called Souk Al-Turk. There, you can buy textiles, traditional clothing, and embroidered garments, as well as beautifully crafted jewellery, silk fabrics, and handmade clothes, reflecting Ottoman and Arab influences. It offers a vibrant and lively market experience. This place is ideal for finding traditional Libyan attire and souvenirs. In the old city of Tripoli, there's a market called Souk Al-Jreed, renowned for leather goods, metal items, and handicrafts like belts, sandals, and bags. This market has been a hub for skilled artisans producing fine leather products for centuries. On another side of the capital is the Souk Al-Attarine market, famous for perfumes, incense, and traditional herbal medicines. The merchants here have been selling fragrances and herbs for generations. As you enter, the air is filled with the rich aroma of oils and spices.

Located in the heart of Ben Arous, Souk Libya is known for its vibrant market that embodies the passion of Tunisian culture and commerce. As soon as you step into this exciting market, you are welcomed by the sounds, sights, and scents that create a delightful atmosphere. The market is a treasure trove of local handicrafts, where artisans showcase their skills in weaving, pottery, and jewellery making. Each stall offers a glimpse into Tunisia's rich heritage, providing visitors with the perfect opportunity to purchase unique souvenirs. In addition to shopping, Souk Libya is a paradise for food lovers. It captures your attention with stalls filled with delicious street food. Traditional dishes like Brik, a spicy pastry filled with eggs and tuna, and sweet treats like Makroud, semolina cakes stuffed with dates, are also available. Don't forget to savour the local mint tea. While this describes the markets in cities, the depiction of markets in villages is not much different. As I've mentioned before, these souks occur once a week in different villages. The local people and those from other areas where the market doesn't occur go to the nearest market to buy household necessities. Usually, the head of the household comes alone, but during festivals, the whole family visits. To attract customers, merchants shout loudly about their goods for sale. After sunset, all the traders pack up and head to the next village. Overall, the markets in Libya are traditional and provide a memorable experience. -Uday Itagi Photo 1: Bamboo items for sale at the market. Photo 2: The market was held in a large field below the fort in the ghats. Photo 3: Libyan women buying traditional garments.

19. A Multilingual Poetry Session in the Sahara Desert

Last June, a multilingual poetry session was held at our college. As the name suggests, it was a multilingual poetry event. However, most of the poets present were from the Arabic language. In addition to that, poets from other African languages such as Hausa, Tigrinya, Yoruba, Igbo, and Ibibio were also present. Along with them, a poet from Italy came to represent the Italian language. She became the main attraction of the event. The reason she stood out as the main attraction was that, amidst the many black poets, she was the only white-skinned one, and she looked very attractive. What made her stand out even more was that she wore a mini skirt that barely reached her calves, sitting cross-legged and casually in front of everyone. In a sense, among all the 'covered' women, she appeared as an 'half-exposed' one. Perhaps because of this, all attention was on her. Moreover, with her slender, fair, and alluring figure, she appeared somewhat 'sexy.' Everyone couldn’t take their eyes off her. When it was her turn, she sat with her legs crossed in a casual manner and read her Italian poem in front of everyone. After finishing, she went to the side of the stage, lit a cigarette in full view of everyone, and returned to sit with her legs crossed again. Some men there, seeing her bold behavior, were surprised and thought, "What is this, an open display in an Arab country?" However, none of them had the courage to tell her anything. Ironically, those who had expressed dissatisfaction earlier were now looking at her legs, enjoying the moment as if they were experiencing pleasure with her. Some young boys even dropped their pens or mobile phones, pretending to pick them up in order to stare at her legs, whispering amongst themselves and laughing mischievously. But she remained indifferent, sitting still like an unmovable mountain. As for the other women, they seemed to think it was a crime to even imagine wearing such a dress, as if it were beyond their imagination. Some of the other women wondered if they could experience even a fraction of her freedom, imagining themselves in her place and fantasizing about it. As a rare occurrence, there was a good event at our college, and we decided to take a photo to remember it. However, when we went to grab the camera, some of the married individuals present stopped us and told us not to take any pictures. When we asked for the reason, they explained that there were eight or so Arab women sitting on the stage, and it wouldn't be appropriate to take their photos. We decided to at least take a photo of the Italian poet, so we asked for permission. They didn’t give permission for that either. The only person allowed to take photos was the cameraman arranged by the event organizers. He took full advantage of this opportunity and freedom. What happened? During our college's Open Week celebrations, when female students would sing or perform other entertainment (except for dance), we would freely take photos. No one would object. So, when we asked the organizers about this sudden opposition, they explained that the event was organized by outsiders, and our college was only providing the venue, so they didn’t have much freedom to intervene in such matters. The poetry session concluded, and after it ended, everyone was shaking hands with the poets. Among them, some men were shaking hands with the Italian poet, saying "Majbooth, Majbooth" (meaning strong), with extra enthusiasm. It was unclear whether the compliment "Majbooth" was directed at her beauty or her poetry. Most likely, it was about her beauty. The Libyans, especially those from the Ghadh region, didn't seem to know Italian, except for English, Arabic, French, Hausa, and Turkish. As the poet was about to leave the venue, some men, eager to take a photo with her, approached and asked, "Please, can we take a photo with you?" She immediately responded in English, saying, "What’s this? No one is allowed to take photos with your women, but you can take photos with other women? What kind of justice is this?" With that, she hurriedly got into her car and left. The way she spoke seemed to suggest, "You may be happy with other women, but shouldn’t others be happy with your women at home? What kind of justice is this?" By the way, the topic of the poetry session was "Freedom." Later, we learned that the event was organized in light of Libya's transition to "Free Libya." Regardless, the poets read their poems in their native languages related to freedom. I had a student sitting next to me who knew Hausa, Turkish, French, and Arabic, and I relied on their help for translation. As soon as the poets finished reading their poems, the student quickly summarized them in English and whispered in my ear. One Arabic poet asked, "Didn't we say we have gained freedom? But are we truly free?" Another poet stated, "Even though we celebrate our freedom, we must not unknowingly become slaves to others in the process." A third poet remarked, "Does true freedom even exist for a person? It’s just an illusion. Because from the moment we are born, we are free, but from that point on, we are bound in one way or another." This reminded me of the famous French political theorist Rousseau’s statement, “A man is born free. But everywhere else he is in chains.” A Turkish poet asked, "Why can't we have the same freedom as flowers and birds in nature?" A local poet who read in French questioned, "What good is external freedom when we are slaves within ourselves?" However, it was a poem in the Hausa language that truly captured the attention of everyone present. The poet said, "Today, as women, in the name of freedom, we are neglecting our families and resorting to divorce. We think freedom comes from leaving our husbands. But the truth is, it is because of our husbands that we have more freedom and respect in society. We are failing to realize this truth." In the context of rising divorces in African countries, she gave a piece of advice to the women present. It was particularly striking that, in response to this poem, the applause came mostly from the women, even more than the men. What the others said, I couldn’t understand, and neither could anyone else there. How could they understand what was being said if they didn’t know the languages? Why do they even organize such multilingual poetry sessions? If they do, they should translate the poems into English or the local language beforehand. After the poets read their poems in their original languages, it would make sense to read the translations in the local language or English. Only then would the event have some meaning and fulfill its original purpose. Otherwise, if the poems are just read in their own languages, how would others understand, and how would the purpose be achieved? By the way, why did they hold this poetry session in such a small village? Some people wondered if it would have been better held in Tripoli, Benghazi, or Sebha. Others remarked that today, if there’s any literary consciousness left, it’s only in the villages. That’s why it was good to hold it here. The irony is, most of the poets who had come were from the cities. Kannada Original: Uday Itagi English Translation: Uday Itagi

18 Lion of the Deserti

It seems like it was in 2008. After finishing my summer vacation, I returned to Tripoli from India, and before heading to my work location in Ghat, I stayed at my friend Surendra's house for a couple of days at his insistence. One day, while casually changing TV channels, I came across the Star Movies channel, and on the screen, I saw the words “Lion of the Desert.” I thought to myself, "What is this? Who is the Lion of the Desert? What desert? Which lion? What?" My curiosity was piqued. I decided to watch it and sat in front of the TV to watch the entire movie. I soon realized that the film was based on the life story of a bold fighter from the Libyan desert. This "Lion of the Desert" was none other than Omar Mukhtar, the man who led the revolution against the Italians and ignited the fire of independence among the Libyans. He fought the Italians for nearly twenty years, becoming a symbol of resistance and heroism. Until I saw this film, I had no idea who Omar Mukhtar was or what his significance was in Libya. Omar Mukhtar was born on August 20, 1858, in the village of Zanzur in the Sarnika province. He completed his primary education at a mosque in his village and later studied for eight years at the Senussi University, where he became a teacher and taught the Holy Quran. However, he was not just a teacher; he was also well-versed in military strategies for desert warfare. Additionally, he knew the hidden routes and paths within the Sahara Desert, which helped him fight the Italian military forces who had invaded Libya. At the beginning of the 20th century, many nations around the world were struggling for various reasons. During this time, many countries were looking for ways to extend their political and economic power and influence. Italy, after recapturing the city of Rome, set its sights on Libya, a neighbouring country. In 1911, the Italians arrived at the shores of Tripoli with their warships, firing their guns and taking control of the city. They also captured Benghazi, Misrata, and Derna. However, the people in these cities did not easily surrender, and the Italians faced significant resistance. To suppress the Libyan resistance, the Italians were forced to wage several wars. Despite numerous battles, the Italian forces were unable to fully subjugate the entire country because many rebels fled their homes to take refuge in the desert's rugged mountainous regions. There, under the leadership of Omar Mukhtar, they formed a strategy to fight the Italians. Some of the other key fighters in this movement were Ramadan al-Swahili, Muhammad Farhat, al-Fadil Bo-Omar, Suleiman al-Barauni, and others. Together, they fought back against the Italians using guerrilla tactics and strategies. Over the course of these twenty years, they won many battles, killing countless soldiers, tormenting the Italian forces, and making their presence a nightmare for them. The Italian forces could not defeat them and were haunted by their relentless resistance.

During this period, the Italian army constructed concentration camps and forcibly transported those who opposed them, including the wives, children, siblings, parents, and relatives of the fighters, to these camps. Between May 1930 and September 1930, around 80,000 Libyans were taken to concentration camps under the supervision of Italian soldiers, as reported by the locals. The conditions in the camps were dire. Many Libyans died from hunger and disease. According to Libyan historian Muhammad Ali Atayeb, by November 1930, as many as seventeen funeral rites were being conducted each day. However, some major newspapers worldwide reported on the inhumane acts, drawing the attention of human rights committees. This led the Italian army to ease the harsh conditions slightly, providing each Libyan with 22 kilograms of barley per month. Despite this, many Libyans continued to die in the camps due to starvation. Meanwhile, in the mountainous regions, Omar Mukhtar and his companions continued their struggle against the Italian invasion. By 1931, however, the fighters were severely lacking in food and weapons. At that time, Omar Mukhtar was 83 years old. Many of his friends advised him to retire from the struggle and leave the country, but Omar Mukhtar rejected their advice and continued his fight as usual. One day, during his ongoing battle against the Italians, he was severely wounded and captured, marking the end of his twenty-year struggle. Even in prison, his hands and feet were shackled because the Italian army feared he might escape at any time. On September 16, 1931, Omar Mukhtar was publicly hanged in front of his companions and the public. Thus, his twenty years of resistance came to an end. Before being hanged, he quoted famous verses from the Holy Quran: "I came from Allah, and I return to Allah." Following Omar Mukhtar's death, the Italians breathed a sigh of relief and were able to easily bring all of Libya under their control. Libya remained under Italian rule until 1943. However, after Italy's defeat in World War II, Libya came under the control of the United Nations. Later, on December 24, 1951, Libya gained independence and declared itself a sovereign state. From then on, Idris, a Libyan citizen, became the first king of Libya by taking control of the country. In 1969, while Idris went to Turkey for medical treatment, Muammar Gaddafi and his junior officers seized power and ruled Libya effectively until 2011. In 2011, some rebels succeeded in overthrowing Gaddafi. In June 2012, elections were held, and a democratic government was established, rewriting Libya's history. Omar Mukhtar is held in immense respect and admiration by the people here. His courage and sacrifices are deeply remembered by the locals. The Gaddafi government had honoured him by printing his portrait on the 10 dinar note. The current government has continued this tradition, displaying his portrait in all government offices and streets across Libya. His name has been given to numerous streets, and his legacy extends to other Arabic countries as well. Many fighters in Libya consider him a source of inspiration, and they assert that he was the driving force behind the Libyan revolution. Photo: Omar Mukhtar Kannada Original: Uday Itagi English Translation: Uday Itagi

17. The Mauritanian beauties that often spoil our minds…

Whatever you say there’s no match for the virtues of Indian women anywhere in the world. I felt the same when one of my colleagues spoke highly of women here. However, my perception changed after seeing Jordanian, Mauritanian, Syrian, and Tunisian women. It’s not an exaggeration to say they are just as beautiful as Indian women. Yet, the women here, in the region I reside in, are only average in appearance. This doesn’t apply to all Libyan women but specifically to those from the southern region where I live. The majority of the people in this region are Black, as most belong to the Black race, making up 95% of the population. I am not implying that all Black people are unattractive, but for some reason, these "Black beauties" don’t align with our conventional notions of beauty. In contrast, in the northern and eastern regions—places like Tripoli, Benghazi, Misrata, Zawiya, Sabratha, Zuwara, and Al Khums—most women are fair-skinned and appear attractive. The men in these regions are also fair and good-looking. It’s predominantly a White race there, and you wouldn’t see a single Black person in those areas. Here in the south, however, Black people are predominant, with very few Whites. Whites often look down on Blacks, showing disdain whenever possible. For example, during a bus journey from Sabha to Tripoli, there were a few Black Libyans traveling with us. At the checkpoints, the White police officers deliberately harassed them, asking for unnecessary documents and creating obstacles. I observed this firsthand. Such incidents lead to frequent clashes between the two groups. During Gaddafi’s rule, such conflicts were kept under control, but they have escalated since his demise. In the town of Ghat, where I live, such discrimination is minimal because the majority of the population here is Black. However, in Sabha, which is 650 km away, the population is a mix of Whites and Blacks, leading to frequent skirmishes that sometimes escalate into major conflicts. Yet, in my six years here, I’ve never seen Blacks feel inferior about their skin color. On the contrary, they take pride in it. Back in India, we often assume that all Africans are Black, and I had the same assumption when I arrived here. But my belief was shattered upon seeing so many fair-skinned people in Africa. Many countries in Africa, such as Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Tunisia, Mali, Mauritania, and Morocco, have predominantly fair-skinned populations. These people often resemble Europeans in appearance. This is probably why they possess a superiority complex and look down on Black people. While they may appear outwardly polite toward Blacks, they rarely harbor genuine affection for them. Is there any part of the world where this kind of racial discrimination doesn’t exist? Regardless of the laws we create, the disdain for Black people, ingrained over centuries, doesn’t seem to vanish easily.

Mauritanian women are originally from Mauritania and migrate to Libya either in search of work or for business purposes. Looking at it, Libya is half-filled with foreigners. The locals here are so dependent on foreigners that without them, no work would get done. There is a reason for this. When Gaddafi was in power, he provided foreign workers with loans, meals, accommodation, education, water, electricity, and other necessities, so the locals never had to struggle or work hard. Those who didn't know how to work naturally became dependent on others. As a result, many people from Egypt (Masharatis), the Philippines, Jordan, Sudan, Iraq, Pakistan, Palestine, India, Ghana, Gambia, Niger, and Nigeria come here in search of work. Among them, Indians, Jordanians, Sudanese, Filipinos, and Iraqis are mostly employed as lecturers, doctors, engineers, or nurses. Egyptians are primarily involved in trade, and they dominate the local market here. Pakistanis work as either shopkeepers or photographers. Meanwhile, people from poorer countries like Ghana, Gambia, Niger, and Nigeria mostly take up menial jobs. Many of them work as sweepers, plumbers, painters, or cable workers. However, in the larger cities like Tripoli, Benghazi, and Misrata, there are Libyans who work hard. The cost of living in these cities is high, so many people take up multiple jobs to improve their standard of living. During my time in Tripoli, I met many taxi drivers who worked as lecturers, teachers, or lawyers in the morning. In this sense, even though people here hold high positions, there is no pride or sense of "Dignity of Labor" when it comes to doing lower-level jobs. I was talking about Mauritanian beauties earlier. Like other foreigners, Mauritanian women also come to Libya in search of opportunities. They work hard here for a few years and then return to their country. Some of them settle here. Among those who come looking for work, some work as waitresses in local hotels. Others, who are financially stable, start their own hotels. They begin small and gradually expand their businesses. Some even take contracts for meals, snacks, tea, and coffee from large established hotels owned by locals. In fact, in these Mauritanian hotels, most of the workers are women. From hotel owners to cooks, laundry workers, cleaners, and waitresses, they handle all the tasks. From a business perspective, this helps attract male customers, as these women are often attractive and resemble Europeans, making them even more appealing. They maintain cleanliness and are always well-groomed. Once, my Libyan friend laughed and said, "These women are ready to sell their bodies if the opportunity arises, along with their waiter work." Because of this, their hotels are often crowded with men. However, it doesn’t mean that they openly engage in prostitution at their hotels. Prostitution is illegal in Libya, and those caught face severe punishment. Therefore, they do not directly engage in such activities themselves. Instead, men who frequent these hotels must establish a connection over time before anything happens. They have to attract the women slowly through conversation, and if the women are interested, they may agree to meet at a secret location to finalize things. While dealing with these men, the women must be very cautious. It's not just these Mauritanian women who are involved in prostitution. Women from neighboring poor countries like Niger, Nigeria, and Ghana also come here and engage in prostitution to make a living. Libyans say that under Gaddafi's rule, prostitution was not as prevalent as it is now. They mention that many Libyans used to visit Tunisia, close to Tripoli, to experience the services of white prostitutes there.

Anyway, for various reasons, many foreigners who have left their families in their home countries and settled here are often drawn to the Mauritanian beauties. Even though they realize that attracting them is not that easy, they continue to cultivate desires for them in secret. Many times, these men, driven by their unchecked desires, think of taking the women to enjoy the pleasures of their body and satisfy their physical cravings. However, they fail to attract them as easily as they thought, and return disappointed, without finding satisfaction. Moreover, they become frightened of the local customs and fall silent, accepting their defeat. That's why I refer to these Mauritanian beauties as nothing but women who only lead one’s mind astray. Photos: Photo 1: A young man from Niger cleaning the street. Photo 2: Young men from Niger, Nigeria, Gambia, and Ghana waiting for work with their tools by the roadside. Kannada Original: Uday Itagi English Translation: Uday Itagi

16. They met in the rain…

This was during the Badoons (sandstorm) season, which marks the transition from winter to summer. During this period, as winter ends and summer begins, these sandstorms arrive unexpectedly, often terrifying us. Sometimes, they are so intense that they obscure visibility with dense clouds of dust, making it impossible to see even the person standing right next to us. The dust also fills our noses, causing difficulty in breathing. During such storms, we quickly retreat indoors, switch on the fan, and sit still. These unpredictable Badoons cover everything—houses and people—in layers of dust. Occasionally, even the large satellite dishes mounted on rooftops are uprooted by the winds and flung far away. At such times, the dunes of the Sahara Desert, which stand in various shapes and forms, are also reshaped by the wind, moving elsewhere and forming new shapes and figures. I often think there isn’t much difference between these sand dunes and humans. Just like the dunes, humans too are battered by the blows of life, changing their positions and forms, adapting to whatever circumstances come their way. Following these sandstorms, the rainy season begins here. But rain here is not like the torrential downpours we experience back home, where water gushes down the streets. Here, it’s only a brief shower—five minutes of heavy rain or a couple of minutes of light drizzle. Since this southern part of Libya is mostly desert, rain is rare. However, in the northern regions of Libya, such as Tripoli, Benghazi, Misrata, and Sabratha, there is occasional and moderate rainfall. The other day, there was a heavy rain here in Ghat. When I say heavy rain, it was heavier than usual, making it appear as a downpour to us. After all, heavy rains are rare here! In my eight years in Ghat, I have seen such heavy rain perhaps only twice or thrice. Otherwise, it’s just light drizzle, lasting five or six minutes. This rarity perhaps explains why the locals here don’t share the deep connection with rain that we do. They don’t seem to have sweet memories associated with rain or the warm dreams it inspires. But for us, rain means so much! Rain is a rejuvenating elixir that stirs a weary soul. It’s a time to reminisce about sweet love, a moment to long for the company of a loved one, and so much more. When it rains, I often step outside to savor it, to breathe in the earthy aroma that rises with the first drops. Standing there, memories of rain fill my mind, each drizzle carrying its tune, each downpour a symphony. The other day, as I stood in the rain, relishing its beauty, I suddenly remembered those two people. They were the ones who, during a similar rain in Tripoli, reached out to help me when I stood helpless. Their humanity touched my heart deeply. This time, I feel compelled to tell you about them. It must have been the last week of June in 2010. That year, my wife and daughter arrived in Libya for the second time. Their visas had been delayed significantly that year, and with my wife's college starting on July 1, she insisted on being there on time. Since I still had a month left before my leave started, I couldn’t accompany them. Hence, I decided to send them alone. I took both of them to Tripoli, ensured they boarded the flight safely, and then returned, assuming everything had gone smoothly.

Let me tell you, if you need to travel anywhere in Libya, it’s mandatory to carry your passport and a health card (a card issued after testing for HIV and hepatitis). This rule applies not just to foreigners but also to Libyans. Wherever they go, Libyans must carry their Pataka (identity card) and health card. Failing to do so can result in hefty fines or even imprisonment. Foreigners face even steeper fines and harsher punishments. This is because there’s a checkpoint every 100 kilometers in Libya, where travelers are subjected to thorough inspections. The reason for this is simple. The Sahara Desert near Ghat provides numerous illegal routes for foreigners from countries like Niger, Nigeria, Ghana, and Gambia to enter Libya. These individuals often sneak in through these routes without obtaining an Iqama (residence visa) and start working illegally to make ends meet. Some of them even make their way to Tripoli and, using their passports, attempt to travel by sea to Italy, Rome, or France in search of work. Such illegal migrants are closely monitored as they are considered potential threats to the social order. To counter this, stringent rules are in place, which, according to locals, aim to curb these activities and maintain security. In southern Libya, it was not mandatory for us, as Indians, to have a passport. Showing an identity card provided by our workplace was sufficient to gain entry at check posts and hotels. Moreover, once they realized we were Indians, we were spared from additional scrutiny due to the trust and respect they had for Indians. However, the situation was different in the northern region, where carrying a passport and health card was a strict requirement. Even there, upon knowing we were Indians, they would merely check our documents and let us go without further questioning. As I mentioned earlier, I was traveling from Ghat to Tripoli by plane to send my wife and daughter to India. The flight from Ghat to Tripoli took only one and a half hours, and the chances of facing rigorous checks were minimal. However, traveling by road would have taken approximately 18 hours, with numerous checks along the way. While departing, I didn’t carry my passport because, within the next 20 days, all of us lecturers were set to travel to our respective countries during the summer break, and the university had collected our passports to process exit and re-entry visas. I had only taken an ID card with me, along with a letter from my college stating that my passport was with the university for visa processing. But I hadn’t carried even that letter, relying solely on my ID card. I was confident that my name mentioned on my wife and daughter’s passports, along with my ID card, would suffice. We landed in Tripoli at 6 PM. Since my wife and daughter’s flight was scheduled for 3 PM the next day, we had no option but to stay at a hotel in Tripoli for the night. Though my friend Surendra’s house in Sabratha was just 80 km away, going there and returning in a hurry the next day didn’t seem convenient. So, we decided to stay in a hotel. I didn’t even call my friend to avoid his insistence on us staying at his place. We reached the hotel near the Tripoli harbor, where I usually stayed, by taxi. However, the hotel owner refused to provide a room because I didn’t have my passport. Despite showing my ID card and my name on my wife and daughter’s passports, and even offering extra money, the owner remained firm. He cited Libyan rules and declined to bend them, suggesting we try elsewhere.

By then, it had started raining heavily. I pleaded with him again, explaining that we had no place to go in the pouring rain. Still, he didn’t relent. My wife, distressed by the situation, began crying, but even that didn’t soften his stance. At that moment, a middle-aged woman staying at the hotel approached the reception. Seeing my wife in tears, she asked the receptionist in Arabic what had happened. After hearing the details, she turned to us and asked in English, "Hello, excuse me. How can I help you?" I narrated everything to her. She tried convincing the receptionist, but to no avail. She then suggested, "Don’t worry. I’ll take you to some other hotels. Let’s try your luck. But they may be a bit costlier than this hotel. Is that okay with you?" I assured her that money wasn’t an issue and that securing a room was our priority. She took charge, even arranging a taxi for us despite the rain. At the next hotel, she asked the receptionist about the possibility of a room, but they too required a passport. We faced similar refusals at every hotel. Meanwhile, I kept trying to call my friend Surendra, but he didn’t answer. Seeing my wife break down again, the woman reassured us, saying, “Please don’t cry. I’ll ensure you have a place to stay. Be positive.” Finally, after consulting with our taxi driver in Arabic, she suggested, “Would you be comfortable staying at the driver’s house? He has offered a room, and you don’t have any other option.” The taxi driver also assured us, saying, “You can stay at my house. I have two rooms; you can use one. I’ll drop you at the airport in the morning. Don’t worry.” His generosity overwhelmed us. In a city like Tripoli, encountering someone willing to host strangers was extraordinary. The woman encouraged us further, saying, “Don’t hesitate. He’s a good person, and you have no other choice.” We had no other option. Even after he gave us so much assurance, there was no point in sitting and worrying about how he might turn out to be. Moreover, we had no alternative but to rely on him. Whatever had to happen, going with him seemed to be the best decision, so we resolved to go along with him. By then, it was past 8 PM. Just then, a call came from our friend Surendra. He said he hadn’t picked up his phone because he had left it at home before going out. Hearing that he wasn’t unreachable anymore made us happy. We explained our situation to him, and he told us to leave immediately and come over. It felt as though the breath we had lost had returned to us. We had to go to the taxi stand and from there travel to Sabratha. She offered to drop us at the taxi stand and took us there in the same taxi we had arrived in. By then, the rain had stopped. My daughter said she was hungry. As soon as we reached the taxi stand, she got out first, bought some apples, bananas, cake, a bottle of water, and chocolates, and handed them to us, saying, "The child is hungry. Feed her first." It was impossible for our hearts not to be moved by her kindness. We were both silently awestruck by the affection and generosity of these strangers. Unsure of how to repay her, I tried offering money for the fruits she had purchased, but she firmly refused. When I attempted to pay the fare for the time spent driving us around in the taxi, she refused to take that as well. However, I managed to slip a ten-dinar note into the driver’s hand. She then arranged for a taxi to take us to Sabratha and wished us well. Before leaving, she gave me her mobile number and said with a warm smile, "Call me once you reach Sabratha. All the best." Even the driver said, "If your friend isn’t there, come to my house. There’s no problem," and gave us his address and phone number. Filled with gratitude for their kindness, we set off toward Sabratha. Throughout the journey, their care and the way they responded so warmly to strangers like us deeply moved us. I don’t clearly remember their names now, but their faces and the humanity they exhibited are etched in my heart forever. In the long journey of life, so many people help us, become our unexpected companions, and extend a helping hand. The least we can do is remember them for a lifetime, share their kindness with the world, and remind ourselves and others that humanity still exists in this mechanical world. Photos: Photo 1: Tripoli Port Photo 2: Green Park, Tripoli Kannada Original: Uday Itagi English Translation: Uday Itagi

15. The Fleeting Desires of Love and Lust amidst the Sahara's Winter

Here in Libya, the conflict between the two governments continues unabated. Despite peace talks facilitated by the United Nations, no resolution has been reached yet. Both parties are consumed by their thirst for power, unwilling to let go. What the future holds remains to be seen. Meanwhile, sporadic clashes and riots between various groups continue to erupt, leading to numerous casualties. Somehow, it feels like Africa as a whole lost its grip after Gaddafi's death. Nevertheless, let that be. Speaking of the present, winter has just ended, and summer has begun. We've put away the heaters and switched on the air conditioners. As usual, with the change of seasons, a couple of sandstorms have made their way here this year as well. Although this time they weren’t as intense, they still carried the Sahara’s fine grains of sand into our homes. We cursed the sandstorms while lamenting our situation, covering our noses, and cleaning up the sand from our homes. These storms, which mark the transition from winter to summer, occasionally arrive unexpectedly, threatening to take our breath away. They can be so severe at times that they obscure even the person standing right next to us in a thick veil of dust, causing discomfort and making it hard to breathe. In such moments, we quickly retreat indoors, switch on the fan, and sit there, waiting for the storm to pass. Why does summer come? It only brings with it sandstorms! Along with that, the scorching heat! Which people on earth actually like summer, except for the English? For them, it’s cold all year round! Amidst falling snow, they wear thick woollen sweaters and hats, shivering in the cold while running around – that seems to be an endless nuisance for them! Meanwhile, nature is covered with snow, and the whole atmosphere looks melancholic. Therefore, they eagerly await the arrival of summer. They long for it! When the heat of summer melts the snow, everything turns green, and life returns to the once-dead nature. The entire environment becomes lively and joyful. During this time, people lose themselves in dancing. Everywhere, there are songs, dances, cakes, and celebrations. Everything seems pleasant to the eye. Perhaps, except for this one summer, there is nothing more beautiful to see. This is probably why Shakespeare compared his beloved friend Southampton to a day in summer. Perhaps, he couldn’t find any better comparisons! A few people across the world, including the English, like summer. They long for it. But the rest of us curse it! For Indians, summer is nothing more than an allergy! The scorching sun, the oppressive heat, and the lifeless trees – who could possibly like that? Hence, poets in our land only celebrated the beginning of summer as beautiful poetry. No one bothered to write about the later part of it. If they did, it would be described as the time of sweat, mosquitoes, and unbearable heat! Let that all be. This desert has only two seasons: one is winter, and the other is summer. Both are extreme! And what about the rains in the desert? By the way, the people here accept both winter and summer equally well. Unlike us, when winter arrives, we complain about the cold, and when summer comes, we curse the heat—these people never do that. They have learned to accept whatever comes without fear. During winter, they enjoy hot green tea, join in friendly gatherings, light fires, or play chess or snooker, living in their own world of contentment. Similarly, in summer, they sip cool drinks and sit in parks or public spaces chatting until late at night. But for us, the bitter cold is more preferable than the scorching heat of the desert! If we have our families with us, we feel complete. Every year, one child follows another in the same manner, and occasionally, we have fun with them. Once, one of our Sudani colleagues, after the winter passed and the next winter approached, ended up with triplets all at once, unable to handle them and crying, while all of us were laughing uncontrollably. He’s not the only one! The other Arabs here (Jordanians, Iraqis, Egyptians) are content with their families. Every time we look at them, a small pang of jealousy rises within us. How fortunate they are! How effortlessly they carry their families wherever they go! These Arabs don't have lofty dreams or goals for their children. They don’t insist on sending them to "English-medium" schools either. As long as they know Arabic, they will educate their children wherever they are. Moreover, they don’t think as deeply about their children’s future as we do. Thus, they naturally carry their families with them wherever they go. Even in the biting cold, they remain warm and cozy with their wives. But not us. Before our children are born, we decide exactly how they should be, what school they should go to, and what they should achieve, making all the necessary preparations for it. After all, aren’t we Indians? We endure hardships for the sake of our children's happiness! In such a situation, how can we send our children to schools that either don’t have English-medium education or have poor quality standards? Thus, we forcefully suppress our desires, and in the midst of our own discomfort, we sit in front of heaters, finding solace in keeping warm. Trapped in a mindset that doesn't fit either here or there, we struggle inwardly, experiencing loneliness, and trying to make a life for ourselves while reflecting on our home. Meanwhile, our wives are dreaming of bright futures for our children, managing the household in our absence, waiting for our return, and sighing with hope. In a way, we are like Lakshmana, and they are like Urmila! Both of us experience the pain of separation, wasting some years of our lives in exile. We have no curiosity or frustration about this passing time! The struggle to make a living and show success to the world is our pursuit. And in this pursuit, we inevitably accept this kind of life.

As I mentioned before, the cold in Libya is unbearable! For this cold, wearing thermal wear inside, a thick sweater on top, gloves on the hands, and sitting in front of a heater, sipping hot tea feels like a slice of heaven! And if she were here... oh, the joy would be beyond words! My mind keeps racing with the thought of her, repeatedly longing for her presence. At the same time, our worker is showing interest in "Moroccan" girls. Just hearing their name ignites a desire deep within me, spreading all over my body. These girls work as waitresses in many hotels in Libya. Their job title may be waitress, but if given the chance, they are ready to sell their bodies. They look like attractive Europeans, with full figures that are captivating. Always clean and tidy! The fragrance of their bodies fills the air, and their presence is irresistible. Let's forget all else, let go of desires, and indulge in the blissful satisfaction of the moment. But suddenly, the guilt of possibly betraying our wives creeps in (this means we truly love our wives). Moreover, what are the cultural norms in a foreign land? What if something goes wrong? The body yearns for it, but the mind says no. Besides, as our worker says, they aren't easily available! Very clever women! They are neither simple nor naive. They don’t come running when called. First, the men must attract them. They need to send signals of desire with their eyes, speak romantically, get close, flirt a bit, and create a fake love. They must deal with them carefully, and only then can things progress, and only if they like those men in return. We first yearn for an opportunity. Once it comes our way, we retreat with a sense of guilt. In the end, we convince ourselves that we don’t need any of it. By evening, in that chilly weather, we gather around makeshift stoves as if preparing to set out for the Sahara Desert. There, we search for some dry twigs, pile them up, light a fire, and sit by it while boiling tea to warm ourselves. Those who smoke light up cigarettes. Others crack silly jokes. Some discuss politics, while others gossip about what happened at college today, what transpired in the meeting, who is hanging out with whom, what hot movies aired on the Hot Bird channel last night, and how much of an increment might come next year. Eventually, our conversation drifts to her — Reem, my student. She studies in our department. She’s stunningly beautiful, the kind of beauty that makes you want to keep looking at her. Her English is flawless, articulate, and uninterrupted, spoken with a British accent! She’s also incredibly intelligent, never ceding the top position in academics to anyone. For these reasons, she’s become the target of everyone’s envy. Some call her the "Queen Cleopatra of Ghat College," while others refer to her as "an apple of everyone’s eye." The boys, of course, are always looking for excuses to talk to her.

Even the lecturers aren’t immune. They too seek her out under various pretexts just to engage in conversation or find ways to do her a favor. But she interacts well only with me and our HOD; her interaction with others is limited. As a result, my colleagues often tease me by mentioning her name, which secretly pleases me. It stirs up unspoken desires within me. One day, during a conversation with her, I asked, "Reem, what does your name mean in Arabic?" She smiled brightly, raised her eyebrows, and replied, "Deer." She added, "Isn’t the meaning of my name lovely?" with a sense of pride. Indeed, she does resemble a deer — always restless, unable to stay still, darting around like mercury. Her mischievous eyes, her melodious voice like a murmuring brook, and her gentle laughter — they could make anyone lose their mind. Once, one of my Indian colleagues, for no reason other than sheer infatuation, developed a deep admiration for her. He became so smitten that he was ready to leave his wife back in India just to win her affection. However, Reem gracefully rejected his advances, driving him further into madness. What if she had said “yes”? He would have married her, and she would have become his Maidam (in Arabic, Maidam means wife). After that, he would have received a green card and citizenship here. Not only that, he might have received a government scholarship to pursue higher studies in America or Britain. Once all this was completed, he could have quickly secured a prestigious position here. All of this would have been possible for him just by marrying one girl. However, he would have had to convert to Islam, stay away from India for at least two years, and gradually sever his ties with his homeland. Slowly, he would have had to plant new roots here, building a new life and creating new memories. If he ever returned to India, would his family, who depended on him, wholeheartedly accept him knowing all of this? In a way, it was good that she rejected him. Otherwise, what would have happened to the lives of the people in his village who relied on him? That said, there are a few Indians here who have severed their ties with India, married local girls, and are living comfortably. They neither feel guilty nor acknowledge any wrongdoing. When asked, they simply attribute it to the will of Allah. One must not fall in love with the girls here unless one is ready to stay committed to that love. Otherwise, will the Arabs simply let it go? In the past, there was an uproar when a college girl here began visiting the home of an Egyptian Christian doctor every afternoon. This scandal led to intense pressure on him to either convert to Islam and marry her or leave the country. He quietly left the country. In another incident, a foreign doctor was accused of inappropriately touching a female student of mine under the pretext of an examination. The accusations of sexual misconduct resulted in him being deported. These two incidents have served as a warning to others, ensuring they tread carefully. These are two stories of lust, but numerous stories related to love are born and die from time to time. Around four or five years ago, a doctor from Odisha fell into the love trap of a Korean nurse. Their love reached such an extent that this noble soul was ready to leave his doctor wife, whom he had already married, and his two grown-up sons. To top it off, during the time they were in love, when he visited India, his lover had asked him to bring back spring water from there. For this, he paid thousands in excess baggage fees at check-in. She, on the other hand, drank all of it in one gulp and delightedly praised him. He, much like the protagonist in Somerset Maugham’s The Luncheon, felt deeply satisfied simply by spending all his money on this girl he had met. Just as they were about to get married, some of his colleagues advised him and somehow managed to stop the wedding. Not long after, the nurse returned to her country. The doctor, who for a while lived like Devdas, eventually returned to his normal self. Leaving behind friends, family, and households, people like us, who come here in search of work, live a kind of lifeless existence. Sure, we may hold high positions and draw handsome salaries. We have access to laptops and the internet, both for ourselves and for our families. This allows us to call our loved ones whenever we wish, lightening our hearts a little. Likewise, we can connect with relatives who lack internet access via phone calls and find joy in doing so. But it's better not to even talk about the stories of laborers like masons, plumbers, and electricians who come here to work for just thirty thousand rupees (with free food and shared accommodation). Laptops and the internet are dreams for them. Even to make a phone call, they have to spend a hefty sum, so they often remain silent. If they do make a call, it’s once every ten or fifteen days. They jot down everything they want to say on a piece of paper and quickly rattle it off in just five or six minutes. These people not only suppress their desires but also their emotions to survive. However, with smartphones now being available at affordable prices and the internet becoming cheaper, they are able to stay emotionally closer to their families through these means. For this, we can never thank advancing technology enough. We visit our hometown twice a year. In between, our wives and children come here during their vacation and stay for about two months. However, these workers can only visit their hometowns once in two or three years, and that too only if their contractor provides flight tickets. If they decide to stay back in India and work, the salary they earn there is barely sufficient to make ends meet. On top of that, having gotten used to earning a higher salary here, they find it hard to adjust to a lower income back home. Perhaps, only after all their commitments are fulfilled, a house is built, and they have some savings in the bank, they might consider settling down there. For these reasons, as always, we leave our memories behind, fly back here, and sit down to weave new dreams, immersing ourselves in work once again. Famous English writer Shobha De says, “Money is sexier than sex.” Isn’t this true? What do you think? Photos: Photo 1: Libyans smoking hookah Photo 2: Libyans playing snooker Kannada Original: Uday Itagi English Translation: Uday Itagi

14. Is there a Place without Love?

In 2007, when I was selected as an English lecturer at Sebha University in Libya, I prepared to leave India for Libya. Before departing, a hundred people had a hundred things to say. As I’ve mentioned before, more people tried to discourage me than encourage me. Despite their words, I didn’t pay much attention and set out for Libya. While I had remained calm when my friends shared various opinions about Africa, a small sense of anxiety began to build in me as the day of departure approached. A new country, unfamiliar people, an unheard language—how would it all be? What if everything they said turned out to be true? If it were America, London, or Germany, I might have managed somehow. But here? Would the people be rough or gentle? Someone had mentioned that since this was an African country, the students might be very dull. Was that true? These questions started to haunt me. To find answers to these doubts, the first thing I did was gather some information about Libya on the internet. Though the information I found was reassuring, my mind remained unsettled. What if something unexpected happened in this unfamiliar place? These fears and anxieties lingered as I arrived at Sebha, where I had been posted, on October 27, 2007. Since Sebha is the fifth-largest city in Libya, urbanization was evident everywhere. Huge shopping malls, large parks, and hotels gave me the impression that I had been given a good posting. I was happy. However, my excitement was short-lived when I learned the next day that I would be transferred to Ghat Arts & Science College, 650 km away from Sebha and affiliated with Sebha University. The next morning, a taxi driver came to pick me up from my hotel. At 11:30 AM, I left Sebha and headed towards Ghat. Throughout the journey, the vast Sahara Desert, the largest desert in the world, stretched endlessly. Sand, sand, and more sand as far as the eye could see! The entire route was surrounded by barren desert. I couldn’t help but wonder, “How do people even live in such a place? Will I have to stay here all alone?”

As I approached Ghat and saw the town, I was overtaken by a wave of gloom. However, seeing Indian faces who had already been living there for five or sixteen years brought me some comfort. Ghat was nothing like Sebha. It was a small village. Initially, being in a new place, I spent my time enthusiastically. But as days passed, I started feeling discontented with the place. Even though the job and the salary it brought me were satisfying, I couldn’t bring myself to feel at home in Ghat. Having spent eight years in Bangalore, a bustling metropolis, my ability to adapt to village life had waned. Compared to Bangalore, Ghat’s limitations became glaringly obvious. Where was Bangalore, and where was Ghat? The words of my Bangalore friends, who had cautioned me before coming here, began to ring true. “Why did I even come here?” I thought. There wasn’t a single proper cinema theater here, no posh area for evening strolls, no parks, and no favorite snacks to indulge in. No shopping malls, no clubs. Shopping at the few available stores was a struggle since I couldn’t speak Arabic and had to go through the hassle of making myself understood. On top of all this, the biting cold made things worse. Every little thing began to annoy me. Even the joy of enjoying a bit of greenery in nature wasn’t possible here. Everywhere I looked, there were only dull, lifeless sand dunes. Gradually, the environment began to push me into a kind of depression. “Why did I even come here? Life would have been so much better if I had stayed in Bangalore!” I lamented countless times—only God knows how often. Despite being born and raised in a village, I couldn’t take a liking to this one. The struggle I went through to adapt to Ghat is something only I can understand.

Like every discomfort and rejection has an end, so too did my frustrations and discontent come to an end. As days passed, I grew accustomed to living with these limitations. I realized the truth that when we come to such a place, the environment and system won’t change for us—we have to adapt to them. With this understanding, I first changed myself. Once I did, I began to notice many realities about life here. I stopped comparing everything to Bangalore and started accepting this place for what it was. Over time, I became a part of this environment. It pleased me to see that every village here had a bank, a hospital, and a post office. In contrast, many villages in India still lack such facilities. Moreover, life here wasn’t expensive, which meant we could save a significant portion of what we earned. Gradually, I learned to mingle with my colleagues from Egypt, Iraq, Sudan, and Jordan. Their conversations, camaraderie, and friendships started to feel comforting. They pulled me out of my shell and offered a sense of solace. Slowly, I developed a routine of going out and exploring with them, which began to ease my loneliness. Initially, I had a preconceived notion that the students here would be dull, but I came across a few exceptionally bright ones. Guiding and supporting them in their studies brought me joy. The absence of Bangalore’s fast-paced life and chaotic traffic made life here feel more tolerable. The clean air of this place started bringing peace to my body and mind. I even began learning a bit of Arabic to manage my interactions with the locals. Eventually, I got comfortable engaging with shopkeepers and vegetable vendors. As I grew more familiar with these aspects of life, I began to develop a genuine fondness for living here.

In the beginning, I used to curse the desert, thinking there was nothing here. Gradually, I started noticing the many wonders it held. During summer, nightfall doesn’t begin until nine o’clock, which initially felt strange. But I started looking forward to those late sunsets because, as the darkness crept in, the sky presented an extraordinary view. The sun, resembling a glowing white halogen bulb, cast a surreal light, offering a soothing sight to the eyes and soul. Stars, vivid and colorful, which I never saw in Bangalore, appeared abundantly here. On full moon nights, the moon peeking playfully from behind the ’Akakus’ mountains evoked a deep sense of wonder. The same desert I once viewed with disdain began to fascinate me with its unique sand formations. Amidst this expanse, the occasional green shrubs stood as nature’s testament to balance. The sunsets behind the dunes, as the sun bathed the horizon in its fiery orange glow, were a breathtaking experience, offering a perspective I had never encountered before. Unlike in Bangalore, where time always seemed scarce, here, time was abundant. I decided to make the most of it. Having dabbled in writing before, I thought, why not continue it now? I started a blog and, through it, gained new friends. Back in Bangalore, I often dreamed of escaping the chaos and settling in a quiet village to live peacefully. Now that life had brought me to such a place, why should I feel disheartened? Why not embrace this calm and live contentedly? With this thought, I developed a fondness for my life here. Slowly, I began enjoying the way of life, the conversations, and the traditions of the people around me. I learned to root myself here and thrive. And so, I have lived here for seven years. A human being can live anywhere, provided they know the art of living. One must learn how to gradually take root and bloom, no matter where life places them. When that happens, what place could they possibly dislike? Photos: Photo 1: A sunrise Photo 2: Sahara Desert Photo 3: A full moon between minarets Kannada Original: Uday Itagi English Translation: Uday Itagi