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In Benghazi, we women cannot walk the city freely. We park the car directly in front of our destination, and if we have to walk, we are accompanied by a heavy feeling of anxiety. Our presence inside the car in the city is not a safe place either, but it gives us enough security to exist.
How did we start being confined to this narrowness? When did it become that any attempt to share the public space with the other is met with direct violence? Where are the women in the photo archive of the city?
As far as we can hear, our ears catch the wailing of the tramps of hyenas as they wander among their prey. We avert our eyes in our attempts to escape.
Still we walk the Corniche and imagine an escape to the sea, are still for a moment in front of the captivating blue horizon.
I am the daughter of this earth, from its folds.
"أنا بنت هذي الأرض، من طياتها"
I hardly recognize it now, I did not choose it, and it is not the city I aspired to live in, it was imposed on me by chance.
بالكاد أتعرف عليها الآن، لم أخترها، وليست هي المدينة التي طمحت أن أعيش فيها، لقد فرضتها علي الصدفة.
I never wanted to get close to her, I don't want to challenge her or be a good daughter to her, but we seem to belong to the things that break us most, the things that always leave us defeated.
لم أرغب يوما من الاقتراب منها، لا أريد أن اتحداها ولا أن أكون ابنة بارة لها، لكن يبدو أننا ننتمي للأشياء الأكثر تحطيما لنا، الأشياء التي تتركنا دائما مهزومين.
We call the city “Rabbayet aldayeh”, or kind of “Mother of a wanderer”.
In Arabic, the city of Benghazi is referred to as a mother - female - and she raised - adopted - the “dayeh” - the stranger - and is referred to as the masculine. I know that we form language and it shapes us in return, but it seems that the effect of this nomination is far from being an exaggerated expression of collective emotion, I think now that it is the most accurate description of it.
She raised the stranger and in return denied her daughters.
نُسمّي المدينة "رباية الذايح"
وفي العربية يشار إلى بنغازي المدينة كأم -أنثى- وانها ربت -تبنّت- الذائح -الغريب- ويشار إليه بالمذكر، أعرف اننا نشكل اللغة وهي تشكلنا في المقابل، لكن يبدو ان وقع هذه التسمية أبعد من كونها تعبير مبالغ عن عاطفة جماعية، أعتقد الآن انها أدق وصف لها.
ربّت الذائح وفي المقابل نفت بناتها.
Life Could End.
يمكن للحياة أن تنتهي.
When I'm in the city, I feel like my soul is on its toes, as if I'm waiting for something bad to happen.
أشعر وأنا في المدينة بأن روحي تقف على أصابع أقدامها، كأنني أنتظر شيئًا سيئًا أن يحدث.
When I began to realize my city's rejection of me, I thought that the problem was that I had short hair and was not veiled, but the more I knew and delved into its history, I found that it rejected all women over the past decades.
حين بدأت في ادراك رفض مدينتي لي، اعتقدت ان المشكلة انني بشعر قصير، وغير محجبة، لكن كلما عرفتُ أكثر وتعمّقتُ في تاريخها، أجد انها رفضت كل النساء على مر العقود الأخيرة
Aya Al-Barghathi is a documentary photographer, visual poet and Libyan researcher based in Benghazi. Her work is currently focused on looking critically at the identity crisis and the Italian-Libyan archiving during the colonial years.
Aya Al-Barghathi is a documentary photographer, visual poet and Libyan researcher based in Benghazi. Her work is currently focused on looking critically at the identity crisis and the Italian-Libyan archiving during the colonial years.
