TRIPOLI - A war. Tripoli expect a war. There is no other feeling to see in this city go empty, paralyzed, frozen by the mistral mad that raises dust and sand. As always, those who may try to escape: 5 pm, when we come out of Tripoli airport on the departure hall, we are left speechless. The throat is dry, the hysterical laughter that we exchanged until just before you go out.
Three thousand seven hundred people where there WOULD BE a nest shapeless spread on a sea of blankets, towels, nappies and abandoned, plastic bottles, shopping bags, vomit and urine, cuddly dog. And everywhere hundreds and hundreds of small packets of peanut Turkish Airways, emptied until the last piece of food from people fleeing hostage in here because the planes are not enough.
Men and women on the run, blocked by police terror, that beats you to keep them at bay. Among them, three angels suddenly frightened, usually dressed in fluorescent green jacket: 2 employees to the British and an Australian. Peter says that today is much better: "Today is a picnic. Yesterday and the day before yesterday you do not know what happened.
The police beat us too, even your Italian diplomats who were trying desperately like us to do your countrymen on board" . He approached a policeman, hysterical, seized a video camera at the invitation of Tg1. The English guy paralyzes us, whistling softly, "do not pull anything out, do not want pictures, do not want pictures of this mess, beware, the nerves were on edge." Peter is an experienced private "are not an employee of the embassy, I'm here to lend a hand," is around bypassing a painful mass of meat in Egypt, Tunisia, Africa, women still miraculously covered by the chador, exhausted children, without more forces deflated on the ground with tears and hunger.
We go out, stepping over a line of police and guards in a leather jacket with sticks and Kalashnikovs: the ground, sitting neatly, kept at bay by the office staff are ready at the slightest movement wrong, there will be other 6000 passengers. A nation of impoverished workers, who tries to come in the poverty of their countries to save their own skin.
The driver and two private cars that bring us to come into the city streets in a campaign painful and poignant, so similar to ours, among olive trees planted here by the Italians. The taxi driver said: "These guys are nuts who want to leave, nothing happens here." At first it seems so, traffic is slow, we enter the campaign nell'autostrada to the city and the lanes are empty.
We pass an intersection, few police, armed men in leather jackets and submachine guns. Suddenly, from nowhere, four guys at the next stop: we do not understand, shouting in Arabic, they seem crazed with fear. They took us out of two cars, while the third has already passed: 6 whites have recognized and are afraid to be spies, mercenaries or whatever.
In a moment, seize the satellite to me and to my colleague from the Corriere della Sera, Fabrizio Caccia. They ask for the passport before him, "Who are you?", "Italian" replied Fabrizio, and part of a slap. The jump glasses, I'll pick myself up and when I see him to a container: a kick and in, the bill still seize a parcel wrapped in paper.
I look down, paralyze me how to disappear for a few seconds, then look for someone who speaks English. "Only turkish, turkish only," said a police sergeant in uniform. The police are clearly at the service of the militiamen. We open our passports, visas, we see: Guido Ruotolo, the Press, shows that Libya has seen him six or seven, that we are guests of the Libyan government.
It is not clear what to say to each other Libyans, the policemen as the militia terror: suddenly it all ends with a handshake and Fabrizio way to a hotel. This explains the empty streets of Tripoli, the capital that surveyors or falling industrial experts describe as calm in Italy. "There is calm in Tripoli, because you get flustered?".
The tension is that of a city that knows that war is coming. Bab Al-Aziziya suddenly appears, the long concrete wall behind which lives Gaddafi. Inputs to the turrets and there is an army that Libya had never seen: Kevlar helmets and camouflage the same as those of U.S. Desert Storm, the checkpoint with a gun to control the cars, concrete barriers to prevent ' input.
They say that Gaddafi is not inside, it's in a bunker somewhere in the city, ready for a new discourse on TV: the number of soldiers could very well be in his home barracks bombed by the Americans in 1986. From Bab Al-Aziziya or the location of shelters, however, Gaddafi is trying to put the final orders.
Tanks were seen marching towards Misurata, Zawia has fought to say that bombs and missiles had struck the army rebels, 40 dead and destroyed a mosque. From here, the "calm" in Tripoli is difficult, impossible to verify, you know, to know the details: the hotel to confirm that the army Zawia, or they are mercenaries, they prepare to defend the road to Tripoli.
There is no way to confirm the stories of those who saw militiamen go into a hospital to kill the rioters injured and hospitalized. No confirmation nor the nationality of the mercenaries (Italian? Seems impossible). A Libyan plane coming with us, looking at the photos of the pits in which were buried some of the victims.
"It's not a common grave, is one of the cemeteries of Tripoli, near the ocean, you can also see the oldest graves in the background." But now is clear: the war against Gaddafi, there are many reports spread out of control, revived and transformed into true facts. Many of the things that are blatantly false accuse Gaddafi today.
But in 40 years of his reign, thousands of rebels in mass graves are finished for real: someone may soon go to dig the real ones. A rummage past of arrangements tonight in Tripoli now seems futureless. 
Three thousand seven hundred people where there WOULD BE a nest shapeless spread on a sea of blankets, towels, nappies and abandoned, plastic bottles, shopping bags, vomit and urine, cuddly dog. And everywhere hundreds and hundreds of small packets of peanut Turkish Airways, emptied until the last piece of food from people fleeing hostage in here because the planes are not enough.
Men and women on the run, blocked by police terror, that beats you to keep them at bay. Among them, three angels suddenly frightened, usually dressed in fluorescent green jacket: 2 employees to the British and an Australian. Peter says that today is much better: "Today is a picnic. Yesterday and the day before yesterday you do not know what happened.
The police beat us too, even your Italian diplomats who were trying desperately like us to do your countrymen on board" . He approached a policeman, hysterical, seized a video camera at the invitation of Tg1. The English guy paralyzes us, whistling softly, "do not pull anything out, do not want pictures, do not want pictures of this mess, beware, the nerves were on edge." Peter is an experienced private "are not an employee of the embassy, I'm here to lend a hand," is around bypassing a painful mass of meat in Egypt, Tunisia, Africa, women still miraculously covered by the chador, exhausted children, without more forces deflated on the ground with tears and hunger.
We go out, stepping over a line of police and guards in a leather jacket with sticks and Kalashnikovs: the ground, sitting neatly, kept at bay by the office staff are ready at the slightest movement wrong, there will be other 6000 passengers. A nation of impoverished workers, who tries to come in the poverty of their countries to save their own skin.
The driver and two private cars that bring us to come into the city streets in a campaign painful and poignant, so similar to ours, among olive trees planted here by the Italians. The taxi driver said: "These guys are nuts who want to leave, nothing happens here." At first it seems so, traffic is slow, we enter the campaign nell'autostrada to the city and the lanes are empty.
We pass an intersection, few police, armed men in leather jackets and submachine guns. Suddenly, from nowhere, four guys at the next stop: we do not understand, shouting in Arabic, they seem crazed with fear. They took us out of two cars, while the third has already passed: 6 whites have recognized and are afraid to be spies, mercenaries or whatever.
In a moment, seize the satellite to me and to my colleague from the Corriere della Sera, Fabrizio Caccia. They ask for the passport before him, "Who are you?", "Italian" replied Fabrizio, and part of a slap. The jump glasses, I'll pick myself up and when I see him to a container: a kick and in, the bill still seize a parcel wrapped in paper.
I look down, paralyze me how to disappear for a few seconds, then look for someone who speaks English. "Only turkish, turkish only," said a police sergeant in uniform. The police are clearly at the service of the militiamen. We open our passports, visas, we see: Guido Ruotolo, the Press, shows that Libya has seen him six or seven, that we are guests of the Libyan government.
It is not clear what to say to each other Libyans, the policemen as the militia terror: suddenly it all ends with a handshake and Fabrizio way to a hotel. This explains the empty streets of Tripoli, the capital that surveyors or falling industrial experts describe as calm in Italy. "There is calm in Tripoli, because you get flustered?".
The tension is that of a city that knows that war is coming. Bab Al-Aziziya suddenly appears, the long concrete wall behind which lives Gaddafi. Inputs to the turrets and there is an army that Libya had never seen: Kevlar helmets and camouflage the same as those of U.S. Desert Storm, the checkpoint with a gun to control the cars, concrete barriers to prevent ' input.
They say that Gaddafi is not inside, it's in a bunker somewhere in the city, ready for a new discourse on TV: the number of soldiers could very well be in his home barracks bombed by the Americans in 1986. From Bab Al-Aziziya or the location of shelters, however, Gaddafi is trying to put the final orders.
Tanks were seen marching towards Misurata, Zawia has fought to say that bombs and missiles had struck the army rebels, 40 dead and destroyed a mosque. From here, the "calm" in Tripoli is difficult, impossible to verify, you know, to know the details: the hotel to confirm that the army Zawia, or they are mercenaries, they prepare to defend the road to Tripoli.
There is no way to confirm the stories of those who saw militiamen go into a hospital to kill the rioters injured and hospitalized. No confirmation nor the nationality of the mercenaries (Italian? Seems impossible). A Libyan plane coming with us, looking at the photos of the pits in which were buried some of the victims.
"It's not a common grave, is one of the cemeteries of Tripoli, near the ocean, you can also see the oldest graves in the background." But now is clear: the war against Gaddafi, there are many reports spread out of control, revived and transformed into true facts. Many of the things that are blatantly false accuse Gaddafi today.
But in 40 years of his reign, thousands of rebels in mass graves are finished for real: someone may soon go to dig the real ones. A rummage past of arrangements tonight in Tripoli now seems futureless.
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