Libyan Rage

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One of the great things about living in Libya was that Libyans were very laid back. Unlike in most Arab countries, it was rare to hear any very heated arguments. Whenever people got into an argument and seemed to be heading for a real confrontation, one or other of the participants would somehow defuse the situation and all would end well.

This would happen at the school where I worked. From time to time, an unhappy student would come into my office with a complaint. Perhaps he thought he should be in a higher class, for example, or maybe the teacher had said something to upset him. It was usually easy to solve the problem but very occasionally a student would reject my offered solution and would escalate matters. These cases always ended the same way. The student would threaten me with "I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" I would hit back with "Oh, no, you won't. I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" Then we would both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation, we would shake hands, and the student would leave.

In my four years in Libya, there was only one occasion when I ran into a Libyan who refused to be mollified. It happened when I was driving home after a bad day at work.

I passed a car and, distracted by work problems, I pulled back in a little too quickly. There was no danger of an accident but my action caused the car I passed to brake. This infuriated the driver. Perhaps he'd had a bad day at work, too.

Seconds later, the other car pulled up alongside me and forced me off the road. It stopped and the driver got out.

Before he could say anything, I apologized in Arabic. This didn't help. He was really angry. He told me, in English, that I had been very naughty. (All Libyans who knew any English seemed to know and use the word "naughty," usually in very inappropriate contexts.)

I apologized again but this made him even more angry. He was so angry that he called me a donkey, the ultimate insult throughout the Arab world.

I couldn't help but laugh at this. There is just something ridiculous about being called a donkey.

This totally infuriated him. He was speechless with rage and literally hopping mad. He started to approach me but then stopped. From the look on his face, I could see that he had made some kind of decision. Oh, oh. Perhaps this wasn't going to end well.

He walked back to his car, got in, and revved up the engine. He opened his window.

"Surely he doesn't have a gun," I thought to myself, getting ready to dive behind my car.

He played his ace. "I don't like your queen," he shouted. "I don't like your queen." Then, clearly fearing that he'd gone too far, he raced off down the road.

"I don't like her either," I yelled back.

I could hardly get back into my car for laughing.