I visited Libya in September 1996 for the 27th anniversary of the

Host: The night air hung thick with the weight of history. The café was small, tucked in a side street of Tripoli, its walls faded with salt and dust. A single neon sign flickered, casting the room in uneven light — blue, then red, then dim again, like a memory trying to stay alive.

Outside, the distant hum of the sea carried whispers of both empire and ruin. Inside, two travelers sat by the window — Jack, restless, shoulders tense beneath his jacket, and Jeeny, calm but watchful, her eyes reflecting both the heat of the desert and the cold of understanding.

They had been walking through the old city all day — past bullet-scarred walls, past murals that had once praised a man who called himself a savior, but ruled like a storm that never ended.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How silence feels heavier in a place that’s seen so much noise.”

Jack: (staring out the window) “Noise is easy. It’s the silence that tells you what really happened.”

Jeeny: “Mona Eltahawy once said, ‘I visited Libya in September 1996 for the 27th anniversary of the “revolution” — a military coup that a 27-year-old Gadhafi led to topple the monarchy and since which he has ruled. Some were optimistic that Gadhafi’s “revolution” could herald a new Libya, but it didn’t take long for his brutality to stamp out any such hopes.’”

Jack: “Revolutions always sound like freedom in the beginning.”

Jeeny: “And end like fear if the wrong hands hold the power.”

(She leans forward, her tone quiet but sharp — the kind that doesn’t need volume to draw blood.)

Jeeny: “The irony is that Gadhafi began as a symbol of youth and change — twenty-seven years old, full of fire. But that fire started burning the wrong people.”

Jack: “That’s what power does. It convinces you you’re the light while everyone else is the shadow.”

Host: The fan above them creaked, stirring the humid air. A waiter passed by, setting down two glasses of mint tea. The scent was sweet but heavy, like a comfort that knows it can’t last.

Jeeny: “You know what gets me? Every revolution starts with the same words — justice, equality, freedom. Then someone decides their version of justice needs no opposition.”

Jack: “Because the first casualty of power is doubt.”

Jeeny: “And the second is mercy.”

(Jack nods slowly, tracing the rim of his glass.)

Jack: “I used to think dictators were just men who lost their way.”

Jeeny: “No. They’re men who learned that fear is faster than faith.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve seen it up close.”

Jeeny: “I have. Egypt, Tunisia, here — same song, different dictator.”

(She sips her tea, her voice low now, intimate.)

Jeeny: “You can overthrow a man, but it takes generations to overthrow fear.”

Host: Outside, the streetlights flickered, and the sound of a lone muezzin’s call drifted through the night — haunting, mournful, beautiful. The city still prayed, even when its faith in leaders had died long ago.

Jack: “What do you think drives someone like Gadhafi — ideology or ego?”

Jeeny: “Ego wearing the mask of ideology.”

Jack: “So the revolution was never for the people.”

Jeeny: “Revolutions start for the people. But people are unpredictable. Power hates unpredictability.”

Jack: “So it caged them.”

Jeeny: “And called it stability.”

(She looks toward the window, her reflection merging with the night.)

Jeeny: “He built a nation out of silence — and everyone learned to speak through whispers.”

Jack: “That’s the saddest kind of peace.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s the most dangerous kind. Because it looks calm right before it breaks.”

Host: The rain began — sudden, hard, cleansing. The water hit the tin roof above them, drumming like old soldiers returning home.

Jack: “You think Libya will ever recover?”

Jeeny: “Recovery isn’t the right word. It’ll remember first.”

Jack: “Remember what?”

Jeeny: “That freedom isn’t an inheritance — it’s maintenance. You have to tend to it daily, or someone like him takes it again.”

Jack: “That’s heavy.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually is.”

(She set her glass down, eyes narrowing slightly, thoughtful.)

Jeeny: “You know what I think’s worse than dictatorship?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The moment the people start to love it. When oppression feels safer than uncertainty.”

Jack: “You mean when survival starts to look like loyalty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lights flickered once more. The storm outside thickened. The café seemed to shrink with the sound — two voices caught between history and hindsight.

Jack: “You think people ever stop hoping?”

Jeeny: “No. Hope is stubborn. It just gets quiet when it’s tired.”

Jack: “And here?”

Jeeny: “Here, it’s not dead. It’s underground, waiting for courage to dig it up.”

(He looked at her — the way someone looks at someone who’s seen too much and still believes anyway.)

Jack: “You think courage can survive decades of fear?”

Jeeny: “It has to. That’s the only reason stories like this get told.”

(She gestures around them — the broken lamps, the cracked plaster, the city itself, still standing.)

Jeeny: “Even ruins whisper resistance.”

Host: The camera would pull back, the café window fogged by the heat inside and the rain outside. The two of them sat silhouetted — the world beyond blurred by memory and moisture.

Host: Because Mona Eltahawy was right — some revolutions begin in hope and end in control.
The faces change, the slogans evolve, but the anatomy of tyranny remains the same.
It feeds on fear, fattens on silence, and dies only when people remember how to speak without permission.

Host: The tragedy of Libya wasn’t the coup itself —
it was the promise betrayed,
the hope rebranded as hierarchy.

And yet — within every nation silenced by its saviors,
there lives the faint heartbeat of rebellion,
waiting for someone brave enough to listen.

Jeeny: “You know what I’ve learned?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Revolution isn’t an event. It’s a cycle. Every time someone refuses to stay silent — it begins again.”

Jack: “And every time someone like Gadhafi rises?”

Jeeny: “It’s because the world got tired of speaking truth.”

(The rain slowed, tapering into mist. The neon light outside glowed steady for the first time all night — red, then gold. A small victory of consistency in a place that had forgotten it.)

Host: The scene fades, the sounds of rain giving way to the hum of an uncertain dawn.
And in that fragile hour — between storm and sunrise — the world seems to whisper:

Every revolution is born from the same soil —
faith, fury, and the refusal to forget.

And no matter how long the silence lasts,
there will always be someone —
somewhere —
ready to speak again.