Where the shade falls
A meditation on Libyan space and distance
Don’t live in absolutes, you told me.
But there is no solace in the shade, so how can I not? In Libya, everybody seems to know something I don’t. The day folds itself differently here. Streets empty and refill whilst I sit there, stuck in my sickly pool of sweat, and plastic chairs migrate across courtyards in pursuit of a shadow that is always moving, always withdrawing.
There is a large expanse of land, always shaded and hanging in shadow despite being beaten dry by the relentless sun. Worn brown faces smile wide brown smiles, gaps opening towards me, and in a sort of hallucinatory rawness they pull me in, hugging me and braiding my hair. Their good nature is matched by a severity that leaves me sore and out of place.
I try to talk to everyone in a language cut to their own understanding, but retreat, failing to find the right words.
The serious conversations wait until evening to begin. In the meantime, only small talk is made, and my skin crawls. I watch people disappear from the city and reappear hours later, carrying on as though nothing has happened. As though the day itself has not been split open.
Nobody calls it knowledge, nor do they share the burning desire to keep their Apple Calendar so tightly filled that there is barely a break between those little blocks of colour dictating my own life, barely a sliver of a gap to breathe, look down at my hands, and realise that time winds and unwinds.
Being so far for so long only teaches you to mistake distance for love. Or maybe love for distance. I am not quite sure. The heat makes it difficult to be sure of anything. Where is the line between the place your family left and the place waiting for you when you return?
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