I’m discovering that war journalism is a lot like surfing: 99 percent paddling out to sea, 1 percent riding a wave that could crush you at any time. The newest rumor was that Sert, Gaddafi’s hometown, had just fallen. Journalists ran out of the hotel in a herd. Anything seemed possible, which prompted me to finally borrow a flak jacket and helmet. Curiously it’s mostly the television journalists who are wearing protection. Maybe the print guys are just looking for an easy way out of their perishing industry, or perhaps TV correspondents don the gear for dramatic effect as they stand sheepishly in front of the camera. The older journalist I was with offered her set to the driver, because it’s almost always the person guiding reporters around who gets shot. 

One of my friends who had been in Benghazi for a few weeks told me that it wasn’t smooth sailing. The rebels continued to impress everyone with their enthusiasm and willingness to throw themselves at Gaddafi’s forces, but there was a perpetually lingering threat that the frontline would be overrun. It was dangerous after dark, money was running low, and the UN was dithering about air strikes. Then finally, against all hopes, they followed through. 

More Photos from Libya

More Photos from Libya

More Photos from Libya

The Friday after former Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak fled Cairo, I strolled through the postrevolution euphoria in Tahrir Square: men and women on their knees reciting thankful prayers, cheering teenagers, and giddy, hopeful children. It was a brand-new world, and the people’s revolution seemed unstoppable, which proved to be the case as insurrections and protests spread through Libya, Bahrain, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Djibouti, Syria, and God knows where else by the time you’re reading this article. 

A few days later, I left for the Libyan border…

Read the rest at Vice Magazine: THE NEW LIBYANS - Knee-deep in the Shit with Benghazi’s Unlikely Rebels - Vice Magazine