by Zahra Hankir
When friends who had set up a private TV station approached me in 2011 to ask me to join as a presenter, I was both nervous and thrilled. Before joining Alassema, I had no practical experience in journalism. But I took to being on air quickly, learning and honing my reporting skills along the way.
Earlier that year, protests had erupted against President Muammar Gaddafi, who had ruled the country with impunity for more than forty years. The protests were met with brutal force from the regime. A NATO alliance enforced a no-fly zone on the country as a violent civil war broke out, leading to the ousting and then the murder of Gaddafi. With the fall of the regime, which had suppressed free speech, journalism in Libya flourished.
After years of self- and state-imposed censorship, Libyan journalists could now report the news freely as well as express their opinions publicly. This was an unprecedented moment in Libya’s media landscape: the number of Libyan TV stations surged from two to more than twenty. Newspapers exploded by the dozens. Suddenly, Tripoli was filled with newly minted journalists. That there were so many new media outlets didn’t mean these reporters weren’t subject to abuse, particularly when covering sensitive, taboo topics and when militiamen started to take over the country.
Alassema, which was set up by some friends of mine who were opposed to the Gaddafi regime, was one of the new stations. But as I became a seasoned reporter there, something began to feel off. Some of the stories I covered were deeply unpopular, particularly those that highlighted the abuses that anti-Gaddafi “revolutionary” groups (as they were then known) were inflicting upon pro-Gaddafi loyalists whom they were keeping captive in illegal prisons. Upon taking a closer look, it became increasingly clear to me that some of these prisons’ occupants were unarmed, innocent civilians who had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, detained for merely defending their ideas.
To report on post-Gaddafi realities that depicted the revolutionary groups in a negative light, it seemed, was unacceptable to viewers, even though these stories needed to be covered. When I told the stories of these people on air, even coworkers and friends accused me of being a political pawn for the Gaddafi loyalists. In reality, I was criticizing all parties, and defending the idea that everyone should have a say in Libya’s political life. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been taken aback, considering the unforgiving and volatile situation in Tripoli, but I firmly believed that violence would only beget further violence, and that the vicious cycle needed to be stopped. The only way I felt I could uphold that view and advocate for peace as a journalist was by telling stories that were being ignored.
The situation became so toxic and polarizing that I started receiving hate mail almost daily, from both February 17 loyalists (meaning the members of the Gaddafi opposition, who declared a Day of Rage on February 17, 2011; the date also marked the beginning of the civil war) and Gaddafi supporters. Even though I tried to be as neutral as possible in my reporting, I couldn’t please both sides, nor did I feel I belonged to either; each one branded me an enemy.
After one of my reports, which exposed atrocious forms of torture at the prisons that had been mainly ignored by the local press, some of my social media followers sent me vile and threatening messages demanding that I stop chasing the story. My opponents also criticized me for appearing on TV without a hijab, demanding that I “cover up.” As most of the threats were posted online by individuals who had fake usernames, we had no concrete evidence against them and couldn’t take any action. If people recognized me on the streets—thanks to the power of makeup, they often did not—they would give me angry looks or hurl insults at me.
I tried to ignore them, but one incident in particular will forever stay with me. It was 2012, and I was at a supermarket doing some grocery shopping when a well-dressed older woman approached me. I didn’t feel threatened by her, so when she asked me if I was the “girl who appears on TV every other night,” I said yes without flinching. As soon as I confirmed my identity, the woman started verbally attacking me. She was hysterical. At some point, she began repeating that I “should be raped” so that I would know “how families and women feel when it happens to them.” Those were the words that stung the most. The insults then escalated into a full-on threat: the woman asked why I “defended” pro-Gaddafi loyalists, adding that she’d make sure “bad things” would come my way, and that I’d deserve whatever I’d get. I was so shocked by her vicious behavior that I started to feel like the entire incident was happening to someone else. People started gathering around us. Some tried to make her stop, but she persisted, so everyone watched in silence.
The feeling of being attacked was a familiar one, but when I heard the word “rape,” I froze, just like I’d frozen in the car when the thugs harassed me. I didn’t talk; I didn’t move. I wanted to walk away, but I was in so much shock that I couldn’t do anything at all. I felt powerless and confused. I didn’t understand the woman’s anger, or where it came from.
It was probably at that point that any hope I had in Libya started to fade. What kind of optimism could we have, I thought, if this respectable-looking woman, who didn’t even know me, threatened and cursed me just because she didn’t like my reporting?
Looking back on that incident years later—as horrible as it was—I understand why she behaved the way that she did. The country was imploding, and as a result, many people had been brainwashed by the media, politicians, militias, and so-called religious leaders who practically instructed Libyans to hate and attack one another. The tension was so intense and so palpable that the idea of healthy dialogue was nonexistent, despite the fact that the media had become freer since the revolution. The woman who attacked me was reacting to that toxic environment. To her, I represented the viewpoint of “the other,” and she hated me because of it. As far as she was concerned, I was her enemy. I can now reflect on that experience with a little more empathy, and I do not blame the woman for the horrible things she said to me. I blame the sorry state of the country.
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By the end of 2012, things were becoming increasingly difficult for me at Alassema. My managers instructed me to keep my news coverage away from “the world of militias”; they wanted me to focus strictly on low-key social and political events rather than criminal activities or human rights abuses. When I criticized the aggressively anti-Islamist tone of the network in casual conversations at work, I was accused by colleagues of being “pro-mufti” (religious leader), which I frankly thought was hilarious, considering how liberal I believe myself to be. I had had hopes that I could use my role at the station to promote the idea of a peaceful transition of power that ensured that all Libyan parties, including the Islamists, had fair representation. But I can see now that I was naïve in my thinking. The network’s intention was never to respect the democratic process. As executives weighed me down with more and more restrictions and pressure, and tensions rose, I knew that it was time for me to move on. I wanted to be a real reporter, not someone who was actively avoiding sensitive subjects for fear of reprisals. I decided to resign.
I never expected to join Alnabaa, a competing network that was thought to be soft on Islamists. After its executives approached me, it quickly became clear that I was offered a job not for my journalistic skills but for what I represented: they seemingly thought that having a woman on air who did not wear the hijab would give them a better chance of appealing to the broader Libyan public. I wasn’t overly concerned, though. I took the job offer almost immediately, seizing the opportunity to gain more experience in TV production and as a journalist. It felt like the right thing to do for my career at the time. I’d just returned from a two-month trip to the U.S. and was filled with excitement and focus. I also felt somewhat removed from the toxic political situation and wanted to steer clear of reporting on it in my new position. Instead, I wanted to create a show that would make a real difference for women in Libya. This was going to be a new beginning for me, I thought.
Surprisingly, Alnabaa agreed to my proposal: I was hired as a show runner, and also took on the role of producer and presenter of Hawa (Eve), a weekly show focused on women’s issues. My sole request was the freedom to investigate and broadcast whatever subjects I thought were important. Just because the show would center on women, I said, the network shouldn’t expect me to focus on makeup and cooking tips—I had a suspicion that this is what they expected of me. The executives agreed, as long as I ran “sensitive” topics by them for approval first.
As I searched for hidden stories about women that I believed were worthy of national attention, I stumbled upon several cases of mothers who had been struggling to keep their families together because of a law that limits the right for Libyan women to pass their nationality to their children. While some progress had been made on amending the law, according to Human Rights Watch, it stopped short of giving women full rights, contained contradictory provisions, and perpetuated gender discrimination. Regulations to change the law were drafted, but had not yet been brought to the General National Congress for formal authorization. Many members of the GNC felt approving it would be too drastic of a change and that the country had far more urgent matters to focus on anyway.
My team and I worked tirelessly with the GNC’s human rights committee to delve deeper into and raise awareness on a topic that had long been buried. I sought out women who had harrowing stories to tell about what the lack of freedoms meant for them and their children. The process was eye-opening, not just journalistically, but personally. These women had endured years of hardship, and no one had taken notice—yet they never gave up, even as war raged on around them.
Barring women from giving the Libyan nationality to their children effectively treats them as lesser citizens, and ultimately lesser human beings. In practice, this misogynistic rule penalizes women for choosing to marry non-Libyans, often affecting children in concrete ways as a result. For example, the Libyan government in 2007 ruled that Libyan women who had wed non-Libyan men had to pay about $654 annually for their children’s public schooling. In some cases, non-Libyan fathers aren’t able to pass along their own nationality to the child if the child is born outside of their home country, spurring a situation in which the baby is effectively born stateless. By contrast, a Libyan man can marry whom he pleases and pass his nationality on to his child.
The women I interviewed all had similar stories: as soon as their children turned eighteen, the family would be broken apart, for they would be considered non-Libyans and were therefore subject to deportation. One woman’s two sons were sent to Lebanon when they turned eighteen because their father was Lebanese and diplomatic relations between the two countries were strained in the 1990s.
There was one case that had more impact on me than all the others combined. For years, one woman had fought for the right to give her children Libyan nationality, as she’d married a foreigner. Although she talked about the subject with me extensively off camera as I got to know her and we prepared for the show—she had bravely agreed to two appearances—I’d noticed she hadn’t mentioned her daughter once, even though I knew she had one. It wasn’t until the day of filming at the studio that she opened up completely.
During the 1990s, Gaddafi’s rule had come under threat by Islamists, and the regime responded to an assassination attempt on the president with repressive measures. Riots were crushed and security was tightened considerably. It was in this environment that the woman gave birth to a baby girl. The baby was born with severe health complications, and as a result was frequently in and out of the hospital. By the time the little girl was three, her health had deteriorated to the point that she required immediate surgery. Hospitals in Libya were overcrowded, so the mother had to make her way to Tunis with her daughter to ensure she could get surgery there instead.
Traveling as a foreigner was a complicated, protracted process. Given that the girl was not Libyan, each time she crossed the border, she and her mother had to go through a lengthy security-clearance procedure. There was also a risk that the family would be barred from returning to Libya. This time around, that lengthy process proved fatal: the girl died in her mother’s arms, at the airport.
Following that tragic loss, the woman decided to dedicate her life to raising awareness on issues pertaining to the law to prevent a similar situation from occurring to another family. It was only many years after her daughter’s passing that she was finally able to speak about it publicly. As she recounted the tragic events, I could see her choke up, tears in her eyes and sadness in her voice. For a brief moment, the image of a powerful, confident woman who was willing to speak up against injustice faded, and all I could see was a broken parent, filled with sorrow and regret.
This fearless woman, and many more like her whom I was fortunate enough to meet and learn from, helped me come to the realization that I was finally doing something of meaning and value. As Libya was enduring a major conflict, women’s rights weren’t at the top of the political leadership’s list of priorities. By bringing them to the fore, I was making a difference, however small. For weeks, my team and I were given the space to produce powerful episodes simply because the management needed to fill an empty slot on a Saturday evening. The show was initially deemed “soft” and palatable to the network’s executives since it didn’t tackle political issues pertaining to the war, so we managed to fly under the radar for a long while. We were proud of what we’d created.
Unfortunately, our freedom was short-lived. The more shows I produced, the more confident I became. I wanted to push the envelope, and I was galvanized by the strong women I’d hosted on the show. Slowly, the show gained traction, and its viewership numbers spiked. The popularity shocked the network’s executives, who’d expected us to focus on their definition of women’s issues, which they considered to be nonpolitical—matters of clothing, makeup, or how to be a good mother or housewife. That flawed definition of women’s issues, of course, diminishes the importance of women’s rights, the struggle for which is very much political. They also hadn’t anticipated that women’s issues unrelated to those “trivial” matters would pose any sort of threat to their editorial agenda, or garner so much interest from viewers, as Libyans at the time were focused primarily on matters pertaining to the war. But as people had started taking the show seriously, the management began censoring our work; show by show, story ideas that were deemed “unfit” for the channel were killed.
I continued pushing stories on women’s empowerment despite those restrictions, knowing, perhaps, that my employment at the network would reach a breaking point. I pitched a series of episodes on rape, hoping that any discussion surrounding the issue would instigate much-needed dialogue, and help change the outdated way many Libyans looked at and treated victims of sexual assault. The idea was shot down as it didn’t fit the network’s editorial policies. After that particular decision, my team and I started to feel cornered. We couldn’t move forward with our vision, and despite the battles we’d fought and won, it became clear to us that it was time to leave. I resigned, yet again.
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Alassema had given me the freedom to tell the stories I wanted to tell, as long as they didn’t paint Islamists or Islamism in a positive light. Alnabaa, too, had claimed to give me the freedom to report on the topics that mattered to me, with the caveat that I leave my so-called liberal views at home. Ultimately, both channels were two sides of the same coin, turning Libyans against one another by fueling polarization in a country that had descended into sheer chaos. I didn’t want to play a part in that polarization, even though I still wanted to be a journalist.
I joined Reuters in 2014. Reporting for an international media organization allowed me to grow as a journalist and producer without having to worry about bias. As if by design, however, shortly after I started at the newswire, the security situation in Libya deteriorated even further. I had also recently given birth to my
first child. Though Tripoli had become a war zone, I tried to trick myself into believing that Libya was a country in which I could be both a mother and a journalist. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to cross militiamen yet again, this time without a favorable outcome. When the Libya Dawn party took over the capital in the summer of that year, it was the last straw. I found myself in yet another precarious position in which I was forced to make a difficult choice. This time I had to think of my six-month-old daughter, Sama, not just me, my husband, and my career.
Our only choice as a family, we decided, was to flee Libya. It was time to leave behind all of the risks that had consumed our lives during my short-lived career as a journalist in my home country. Reuters moved me to Tunis to cover both the Tunisian capital and Libya remotely for four months, but the pressures continued to manifest themselves, even from afar. In hindsight, I can see now that becoming a mother was my most significant achievement and my greatest fear: I knew that there would come a time, if I did have children, when I would have to choose between my family and being a conflict reporter. A choice as dramatic as this one—leaving one’s life and career behind for the safety of one’s children—isn’t difficult to comprehend if you’ve worked in a war zone like Libya. That said, it was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever had to do.
I’m writing this today from Malta, where I work as a media consultant and have lived with my family for three years. Even though we are safe from the instability that continues to engulf Libya, it’s difficult to live in peace when you’re worried about friends and family who are in perpetual danger. But we are trying to make the most of what we have. When I reflect on the work that I did back home in Libya, and how much I miss being a journalist, I can’t help but contemplate my shortcomings. I was young, and I didn’t have a background in the industry. Maybe I would have handled things differently had I known then what I know now—had I seen that the networks’ editorial agendas eclipsed objective reporting. But I know that I worked hard and listened harder to all points of view, even inconvenient ones. And for that, I have no regrets.