North to Paradise

by Ousman Umar

As we walked on the road to Tripoli, somewhere between Ghat and Alawenat, I got a terrible nosebleed. It wouldn’t stop, so we left the main road to ask for help at a military outpost we saw in the distance. “We can’t touch a Black man’s blood,” they told us when we arrived. “For us, that would be like touching a dog’s blood. We can’t help you.” Some Muslims won’t touch dogs, because they’re considered impure. Libya is in North Africa, and most people who live there aren’t Black, they’re Arab. “Here, take these rags. That’s all we can do for you.” This exchange has been permanently etched in my memory. That was the first time I understood that there is a thing called “racism.” When I was in Ghana, in Black Africa, there was no racial discrimination. As I traveled farther in the world, I began to notice it.