From Colonialism to Nationhood
by
This is the story of an Italian engineer who, as a colonialist in Mussolini years, devoted his life to changing Libya from a primitive Bedouin society to a modern Italian colony. His contribution to the impressive transformation of the country is punctuated by personal tragedies, including romantic liaisons, while living through the ravages of WWII and the coup d'etat that brought Muammar Gaddafi to power. The story, written from an Italian perspective, is a faithful representation of what happened in Libya during the period going fom 1911 to 1970. All historic date, events, locations and rebel groups are true and accurate, while the main characters and their romances are strictly fictional.
He walked to the entrance hall and stopped in shock. Half of the top floor lay in debris and rubble, but the ground floor was still okay. There were blood stains everywhere, from the doorway to the stairs going up to the bedrooms. That’s where emergency personnel had to make their way to recover the bodies from under the debris piled up in the bedrooms. He climbed up the stairs two at a time. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He stood on the landing and looked around in utter astonishment. There was a bench on the landing, covered with dust. He sat on it, his head in his hands, his eyes closed and his elbows resting on his knees. He sat there and let tears flow freely for as long as there were tears to cry. Half the roof had collapsed on three of the four bedrooms, while the bathroom and a fourth bedroom were still relatively unscathed. The devastation he saw around him was hard to bear.
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Later, he managed to wipe away those tears with the back of his hand and resolved to look in every room for memorabilia, anything he could take with him and hold dear for the rest of his life. He tried to imagine what happened that tragic night, when they were all buried alive in their sleep. He could only hope that they died without suffering. Even the bed sheets were still covered with blood, a sight he could not take for long. He picked up a doll from the night table in his girl’s bedroom and kissed it, knowing it was probably in his little girl’s arms when she was struck.
He then moved to his wife’s bedroom and buried his head in the pillow she slept on. The fragrance of her perfume was still on it and made him cry again. He looked for some of her more intimate belongings. In wartime, when some people take advantage of bombing devastations, he doubted he would find any jewellery. Sure enough there was no trace of any. All those expensive rings, bracelets, watches, necklaces and pins -- they were all gone, including the jewellery box that usually sat on the makeup table. He shook his head wondering who might have profited from it all, but that was of secondary importance. The armoire was still full of her clothes; he touched and felt them in his hands, reminiscing the happy days they had together. His parents’ bedroom was the worst hit and was filled with large slabs of reinforced concrete, terracotta tiles and general debris from the roof.
