#07 REVISTA GRATUÏTA DE FOTOGRAFIA ... - Piel de Foto

II
We sleep at the Wahat Hotel. It is
nighttime and we see an aeroplane
getting closer to Benghazi. The antiaircraft
shoots. The aeroplane changes
direction and suddenly comes straight to our
hotel. The batteries on the roof open fire, without
time to move away, we enter the hotel and hide
behind some columns. We expect to hear the
explosions in seconds. A couple of minutes go by
but nothing at all happens.
The wait is always long. Too much. Tedious
and uncertain. Consumed in battles against
rumors and trying to verify the information
that arrives, always in small bits, usually
contradictory. We decide to spend time looking
for a place to have a coffee.
Street and people are always a better option
than a hotel room.
I go out with Manu (Brabo). We do not know
in which moment the international attack will
begin, though we will very soon. In a context of
such uncertainty we ignore what comes after each
movement. Perhaps the troops of Gaddafi will
enter the city. Perhaps the air attack is able to block
them, it is possible that they are already inside.
“First we covered a rebellion.
Afterwards, a civil war.
Now, a war with implication
of foreign armies.”
We carry with us all that we could possibly
need. Cameras, money, some clothes. The
situation can change in a matter of minutes. It is
going to be today, but we do not know in which
direction.
First the engines. The sky growls. The noise
approaches. It is not the first time, but now, yes,
the bombardment begins. It is necessary to react
immediately. Where has it been? Where is Félix
(Flores)? First, we find him. Then, to the car.
Where do you go? “As close as we can get to the
place that has been bombed”.
Along the way, we are met with obstacles that
make driving difficult. The entrance of terrestrial
troops accompanied by tanks was expected
and the city blocked itself to make it harder
for them. Each barricade closes the way in two
directions, to those who try break it and to the
ones that remain trapped after it. The obstacles
that pretended to avoid the advance of Gaddafi’s
troops prevent us now from circulating towards
the outskirts of the city. The traffic regulates
itself. Wrongly. Some of the gunmen that colonize
each corner try to put the situation under
control, but nobody has more authority that
their neighbour. Pure volunteering. Competition
for being the first to arrive prevails at full speed.
Blocked streets.
Rivers of people.
The inhabitants of Benghazi look to the sky.
They have heard the answer to their demands
by the international community. Now they try
to understand it. To know what it consists of. In
each traffic jam, behind each obstacle, with each
stop, we jump out of the car to work. Speed.
Silence. Photography. They say that the nearest
bombed place is the airport. We lose Félix, who
goes on on his own.
They do not let us in to see the airport. An
Arab friend knows how to convince the militia
who guard the access. They open up the door for
us to work, though with conditions; we can only
take pictures of what they want. A shattered civil
aeroplane. Impacts on the runway. Little more.
“Perhaps the troops of
Gaddafi will enter the city.
Perhaps the air attack is able
to block them, it is possible
that they are already inside.”
And the telephone informing, again, of a rumor.
They shot down an aeroplane. We have not seen
it. Whose plane? Gaddafi’s, NATO’s plane?
Again, the battle of the disinformation. We leave
the airport and a Libyan man offers himself to
accompany us in the search of the aeroplane. We
find it. We photograph it. It was Gaddafi’s.
Back in the hotel it is difficult to sleep. The
war in the background. Approaching and moving
away fast enough as to disturb the silence in an
arrhythmic way, preventing us from forgetting
what happens out there. I wake Félix at six in the
morning. Coinciding with this moment, I go to
the bathroom. In the end, habits prevail and the
sleep, still damaged, always wins. The shooting
sounds are close, very close. At the doors of the
building. Should we go down to the street to find
out about it, go up on the roof to escape it or
should we remain where are? They were
troops of Gaddafi.
If one looks closely, it seems that the rebels
made Gaddafi’s troops walk away. When you
close your eyes and listen to the faraway sounds,
the explosion of NATO’s bombs puts
the icing on the cake.
100 metres far from our hotel, there is another
one. We go in search of information. They have
arrested 4 North Americans from the New York
Times. The hall is full of journalists with their
bags packed. Some are leaving right now. Outside
the hotel fights follow one another. Manu and I
decide to go out again. The idea is to arrive to the
main square of Benghazi. We go out with caution,
hiding behind corners and columns. Advancing
to the main street that leads to the square while
we hear the fights. We stop a taxi. They are
celebrating because Gaddafi’s troops have been
expelled and the fight is over.
But it is not true.
Time goes by. Silence and noise again. Time,
silence, noise. What is the noise? Grenade
“Each barricade closes
the way in two directions,
to those who try break it
and to the ones that remain
trapped after it.”
launcher whistling, shots and explosions. Two
rebels hide behind a tree responding to a fire
of indeterminate origin. We do not see what is
on the other side. I decide to go to take some
pictures. I run from my corner to their position
behind the tree. But I do not arrive. Halfway I
hear an explosion. The subjective feeling is that it
all happens in slow motion, while reality is much
A CONTRA PIEL #02 | abril 2011 | 11
faster. The blast shunts me and throws me to the
ground. Manu who is still hiding at the previous
corner waiting to reach the tree after me, watches
me disappear in a ball of smoke. When it clears I
appear lying down on the ground.
Later that night, the sound begins again. Fight.
We do not know who is behind it or where it
comes from, but it happens. Even if they insist
on celebrating, this is not over. The chaining of
rumors prevents us from telling the difference,
most of the time, between the celebration of
victory from yet another battle beginning.
We leave the city. We go to the front. Félix,
Manu, Santiago. We arrive to the last road
control before the entrance of Ajdabiya. Before
we have time to get out of the car, they begin to
shoot with mortars. All vehicles undertake flight
in the most disorganized and improvised way.
No rehearsal for escaping.
Our driver changes direction and begins to
move forward, passing and avoiding other cars. I
count six mortars. One falls very close to us. On
the right. Out of speed, the accident. We stop for
a while. Maneuvering the steering wheel until we
are at a safe distance. Out of reach from the shots.
Without photos.
Last day at the front with Santiago and Manu.
From here, to home. 24 bombs fall over our heads.
“The far away war from days
ago is getting closer at a fast
pace. The frontline is at
the entrance of the city, perhaps
within the same Benghazi. The
waiting confronts the clock
with bullets.”
The last, very precise, it destroys a pick up and its
rocket launcher. It kills two soldiers and causes
injuries to a couple more.
Our taxi driver is gone. We go back to the
hotel in Benghazi, alternating uncomfortable
vans, among tins of petrol, explosives and
ammunitions. We stop at a gas station. A strong
explosion and the bathroom fills with smoke. I go
out. I expect to find a devastated gas station, but I
only see a rebel playing with his rocket launcher.
Cover photo:
Mohamed prays in the desert early in the morning before heading
to the front. The mood of the rebels were emboldened and the idea
of taking SIRTRE seems a reality. Reality truncated after a few
hours because of the advance of the Gaddafi troops. On 28 March,
Gadafistas rebels drove the Libyans nearly two hundred miles in
just 12 hours.
Back cover photo:
A wall full of photographs and names of those missing in
Benghazi. At least 400 people are missing in Benghazi and some
towns in the region since mid-March, according to a spokesman
for humanitarian organisation Human Rights Watch. The
organisation has compiled a list of names of people who are lost,
many of them captured by Gaddafi men and are believed to have
been taken to prisons in Sirte and Tripoli.