Libya's Unknown Atrocity by Felicity Prazak

Author:Felicity Prazak [Prazak, Felicity]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78099-446-8
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing
Published: 2013-04-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The weeks moved on, and soon we were into December. With still no response from the headteacher on my request for two days off, I booked a flight via Libyan Airlines for Wednesday 3rd December. I was packed and ready to leave in good time that day, but then the phone went: Carl instructed me to meet him immediately. I did so reluctantly; if I was to make the plane, I had to be ready to dash off to the waiting taxi.

‘You aren’t going anywhere today,’ he said bluntly.

‘What? But you didn’t let me know yesterday that I couldn’t go. You asked me to have cover work ready.’

He shook his head. ‘We had a meeting this morning. You’ll have to wait till Friday to go.’

‘But the next Libyan Airlines flight isn’t until Saturday, and the party’s on Friday; I’ll miss it,’ I attempted to explain.

‘Then you’ll have to fly BA. The British Airways flight is thirteen hundred dinars,’ Carl told me matter-of-factly.

I was incensed. ‘Let me understand this: you want me to pay over six hundred pounds for a ticket to London when I don’t have any money and I have a free ticket with Libyan Airways? Even Afriqiyah Airways are only 700 dinars.’

Carl was unaffected. ‘Go Afriqiyah Airways then. I’ll tell accounts to advance you the money, and get a driver to collect the ticket.’

There was no arguing. Now I would get a Friday flight, which fell during the Eid holiday, so I would not need any time off school. The flight with Afriqiyah Airways would cost me three hundred and fifty pounds, and I would not be getting my time off in lieu. I conceded that I would still make the party in the evening for my mother’s birthday; but not on my terms. Carl had won this battle, but why did it have to be a struggle at all? Seeking the truth of my husband’s death was enough of a fight for me.

Twitching nervously, I waited in Tripoli Airport for my flight home. On the drive to the airport the taxi driver, Sharif, retold his account of the crash at the airport; just what I needed before taking to the skies. On arrival Sharif had unloaded my small bag and gleamed his gold teeth at me, and I had handed him twenty dinars and waited expectantly for the five dinars change that was not forthcoming; Sharif gave a disgruntled look when he realized he would receive no tip that day.

The flight was delayed over two hours at Tripoli International Airport, and I only just made it to my mother’s party in time. The family reunion went well; it was lovely to see the children and my mother was radiantly happy, which made the struggle in getting home worthwhile. My current place of domicile was a source of fascination to my family. ‘Why would you want to go back there after what happened to you?’ a cousin asked me. It was hard to explain the pull Libya

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