The revolution has arrived in Libya. Hundreds of dead in just one weekend. On Monday afternoon Samira comes with eyes swollen from crying in the prayer room at the university. She is born in the UK and grew up, but her family comes from Libya. on Al-Jazeera it means the army to shoot demonstrators. Especially bad it was in the city of Benghazi, that's where her family. At home, the mood was very bad, she says. She had seen her father cry only twice in their lives. Today was the third time.
We comfort them, ask them if they have contact with her family and say, well, that is, already, but are determined to be at home in safety. "At home?" Said Samira , "Rubbish! The fight, we want to get rid of it, Qadhafi, these criminals," and she breaks into tears again. With each phone call, she says, she has again this fear that the news of the death of a her uncles or cousins is who the warring connected.
One of the girls from Lebanon, laughs, shrugs his shoulders and says, "Well, what can I say, we're used to it." She looks at her friend, who comes from Egypt, says: "But with her you can catch your advice, she has the grade behind him." Samira nods says, "We were never what," and then breaks into tears yet again. I take her in his arms. As it is, the Revolution. In Libya, but also long since been in London.
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