“She’s not wearing a hijab, we should call the police.”
My brief week in Libya started on par with a typical foreigner’s experience:
- Founded by a healthy sense of fear, then
- Later gently disproven by a box of imported chocolates from Mr. H., with whom I had no language in common.
Acts of service, it seems, is a way of life here.
In July 2025, British Petroleum (BP) had signed a Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) with the country to explore the exciting prospects of re-entering the oil industry, in a momentous ode to the 20th century. While the West may perceive this as a sort of Hail Mary scheme by the weaning conglomerate (effectively, their brave gamble against acquisition), Libya seems hopeful.
This country had seen an exodus of foreign businesses and contractors following the turmoils of the Arab Spring and civil war in the previous decade. Protests, riots, and violent political restructuring across North Africa and the Levant had rightfully triggered skepticism towards the safety of foreign expatriates, and a loss of confidence in investment within the region. We won’t get too deep into foreign involvement within this mess.
Consulates and embassies retreated, and then international businesses abandoned their ventures. The Tripoli coastline is littered with monuments of this political and economic disaster: untenanted high-rise structures, half-constructed hotels, and an entirely vacant foreign presence. Meanwhile, the Libyan National Oil Corporation (LNOC) have not been able to extract the full potential of their sweet, precious, liquid gold lying dormant under the desert floor. A shame, as now we can wonder exactly how this wealth will be distributed, and whether or not we will be reverting to colonial Libya, only with different paperwork.
We refuel by a run-of-the-mill petrol station on the highway, and were astounded to find that a litre of gasoline was selling for about 2.5 cents. The rumours were true: oil is indeed cheaper than water.
I’m travelling with Bob, a stranger who is trying to see as much of the world as possible before he passes from terminal cancer (his words). His opinions lack nuance, but it was interesting to see the incongruences between European and North African perspectives on the state of the world.
Back to my first day in Tripoli. I hadn’t yet met Bob. I was wary of being the only foreign woman on that flight, but no one seemed to care. I sported a poorly-installed hijab around my head, worried about getting in trouble for unruly observance of local culture (turns out, it wasn’t mandatory).
Immigration was tremendously inefficient, and for a moment, I caught a glimpse into the life of an asylum seeker. The officers rounded up all the foreigners into one corner, collected our passports, and went away to inspect them in bulk. No information was communicated to us, and we could only leave – hours later – when they were finished with everyone’s matters. Had anyone suggested a continuous system? A small family behind me had just arrived from Chad, marginally set apart from the wealthier tourists. I’d wager that they’d received far poorer treatment than those with passports deemed more valuable by the international community.
Signage was prohibited in the airport, and as such, all logistics had to be explained via conversation. Notwithstanding my obvious inability to communicate in Arabic, Mr. A., our guide and driver, materialised as if by providence. There was also Mr. H., another hired help from the travel agency, and Mr. R., the tourism police. Mr. R.’s purpose, supposedly, was to ensure and report the safety and hospitality of all foreign guests during their stay in the country.
Of course, Libya only has the most well-preserved Roman ruins in the world, with the likes of Leptis Magna, Sabratha, Cyrene, and whatnot. Information about these places is easy to find, and I won’t bother going into detail here. They’re glorious. Go now.
This has been tourism’s busiest month since 2011, and agencies have been hastily sprouting as foreign interest in the country is starting again to flourish. In 2024, Libya’s Ministry of Culture introduced a ‘groundbreaking’ eVisa system to encourage foreign interest back into the country. Prior to this, political hoops were lofty; tourists would brave immigration by posing as oil surveyors, turning a blind eye to what would have happened if they were caught in their ruse. Bob got more irritating by the day, with his opinions that lacked nuance, and I wonder if he would have done the same given the circumstances. I would suggest, however, to take a peek at the nationalities which are excluded from this tourist eVisa programme.
We visit another petrol station in the desert. This one was out of gas. No, don’t take a picture.
My last day was spent with The Owner (a well-spoken Libyan man capitalising on the burgeoning tourism industry) and The Professor (a natural rebel, who refuses to sacrifice the liberties of free speech). Unsurprisingly, a passing hijab comment from a stranger had sparked a vigorous discourse between the two. The optimist and the pessimist.
We’re heading in the right direction. The war is over, Gaddafi is done, tourists are returning. Culture is dying. The youth have lost their hunger for knowledge and passion for art. But we’re safe now, the U.N. just needs to unfreeze all of our foreign assets so we can live again. Tell them that I’m an atheist, let them arrest me again. Come on, it’s peaceful now, this is our chance to start again, and to do it right.
Amazigh is the non-derogatory term preferred by the indigenous peoples of North Africa. But call me a Berber, I am a Berber anyway. What does it matter? We’re both Berbers.
Sometimes I think they’d forgotten that I was a guest, but all for the better. I feel welcome here.
The old town has maintained some remnants of their Italian colonial past, although visual memories of Gaddafi are scarce. That day, there was a peaceful demonstration by Martyr’s Square. Some cars had driven over an Amazigh flag in the west, and it went viral on social media. There’s always a risk of being escorted back into our hotel if the mood gets tense, but Mr. R. didn’t seem too concerned. A gentle shopkeeper hands me a small Amazigh flag as a gesture of good nature. Welcome to Libya.
We meet some teenagers admiring the Arch of Marcus Aurelius. Perched right by the busiest part of town, this behemoth stands as Rome’s magnum opus in Tripoli during the glory days of Apollo and Minerva. They had built this giant with no gluing cement, modelled from cutting-edge Hellenic engineering. But Rome never got here, it was the Pheonicians. Hello kids! Can you speak English? No, we’re not built like the girls. They can speak English.
Back in the old town, I see heavy wheelbarrows of Libyan dinars hauled by black male immigrants towards a gaggle of older, Maghrebi men. We are right by some sort of financial district, and photography was not recommended. This was a foreign exchange forum, singlehandedly being carried by a group of wealthy anarchists next to the Central Bank of Libya. I fly home, taking a final glance at the soon-to-be-filled hotels and the sparkling Mediterranean Sea under my feet.
Months later, I send Mr. A a message to ask how he is faring. Yes, BP’s MoU will definitely make a positive difference to the country. Take care and hope to see you again.
Last Modified 8 January, 2026
