Alex Thomson jumps the wall into Libya and surveys the exodus of Libya’s forgotten Ghanaian expats as they traverse the sands, en masse, towards home, and without help.
The Tunisian border guards were nervous and said the things that soldiers across the world say: “You can not go across. It’s too dangerous. We cannot guarantee your security.” So we didnt go across into Libya. Or at least not there. But follow the border wall until the razor wire gives out and you’re up and over the eight foot concrete wall in seconds. One thud in the sand and there you are – you’ve landed in Libya.
This is not a place to hang around. You see your mates over the wall and then run for it. You run for the crowd. For there is safety in numbers.
And the crowd has gathered around three Libyan police cars, curiously American in style, right down to the sirens and lights which seem straight off the streets of Manhattan. But there are a couple of flat-bed trucks, with groups of pro-Gadaffi officials, supporters, and general hangers-on.
Boy, can these guys chant? Green flags, green scarves, and yes, they haven’t forgotten their picture of The Colonel. It gets passed from hand to hand, brandished and kissed. They’re here to hand out food and drink. And they’re here to send a message: that The Colonel remains firmly in control of his western frontier with Tunisia and not only that, the world must know that The Colonel cares for his people and even wishes to see that those who flee what is now much more civil war than revolt, are fed and watered – oh, and also filmed.
Then suddenly its all over. A scream and wail of sirens and they’ve left back into Libya, where thousands more evacuees wait to come over. It is organised by nationality. So yesterday a huge crowd of about 10,000 Egyptians rammed against the border fence. But today, Bangladeshis and Ghanaians. And it is not a good time to be a black man in Libya. Sam, one such Ghanaian, quietly explains how he personally saw the bodies of four Ghanaian workers who had been shot.
He didn’t know why. he didn’t know by whom. But he did know this: it is time to leave. A dangerous, unpredictable voyage from town to town, checkpoint to checkpoint, and at the frontier, as ever, he says Libyan border guards stole his money, phone and all electronic goods:
“But what is that?” Sam shrugs, “these things are nothing becuase I have my life. I am alive.” It could take some days yet to get home to Ghana. For even Egypt is proving hard. As Mr Cameron talks of British planes flying Egytians home, the Egyptian naval auxiliary ship, Halageb, lies waiting at the keyside in the deep water port of Zarzis. Flags, bunting, drapes, the gang plank; for Egypt wants this seen. They say she can take 1,200 passengers, though it is hard to see where, and the promise of a tour and interview with the captain remains unfulfilled.
Not least because we had to leave, for an appointment with that whitewashed wall and what proved to be a soft landing in Gaddafi-held Libya.