By Khadija Ali

I started to write during the Al Qathafi era; it was an attempt to achieve one goal, to bring enlightenment to my people. The few years I had spent in Libya had made me desperate to show that there was hope, that there was light at the end of the tunnel. It was my feeble way of fighting the brutal dictatorship of Muammar Al Qathafi in a time when most had given up on Libya.

I had a million things I wanted to write about, to explain and to take apart; I barely got to write any of it. I'd sit down and start brainstorming ideas; taking out the oppression, we were on under, by stabbing a blank piece of paper with words. There were so many concerning issues I wanted to go through not for the sake of complaining but for the sake of making people see they could make a difference.

It was only on lucky days I could actually start writing on a topic and only on rare days did I ever finish writing it. My brainstorming would prove to me I wouldn't be able to write without holding someone accountable for the atrocities happening in the country, from the broken education system to pollution, and that in short would be Al Qathafi.

Of course I didn't ever consider writing anything political, that would be suicidal. I was embarrassed that what I wrote was packaged in a newspaper (not The Tripoli Post) that often had Al Qathafi on its cover, yet it was the perfect metaphor for the current state in the country. Al Qathafi may have put us all in his tent but nevertheless there were ordinary people hidden inside trying their best, no matter how little they were able to do they still tried.

In search of a way to enlighten people and show them they could take charge and make a difference I wrote about my neighbour. An elderly man, always dressed in traditional Libyan clothes, with a small piece of land across the street from the mosque.

This man is the most hardworking, most extraordinary person I came across during the Al Qathafi era. From dawn until dusk he works on this piece of land never leaving a piece of litter to fall upon it. I called the piece, "Your Local Role Model" and in it suggested putting this man as Minister of Environment. Of course the article was never published and I assume it's because the "Brother Leader" was supposed to be the "ideal citizen".

One of the most prominent memories of writing under oppression was the editing. I never sent a piece unless it was proof-read by my father to not only spell-check but to make sure there wasn't anything that would "cross the line".

There was one time I wanted to cross the line more than ever and was willing to risk everything to do it. I wanted to write about what happens the week preceding January 14 and how the regime had already set itself up for demise. That's the week the Al Qathafi regime was trying it's best to distract Libyans away from Tunisia by releasing a story in his media propaganda machine that this man had killed his daughter.

Through its propaganda machine the regime also tried to get people distracted on Friday January 14 by telling them 'if you enter a house and live in it it's yours'. The regime proved that they were done for, that they were afraid. I wanted to yell it to the world but when I mentioned it to my father he gave me a grave look and told me to not to even dare.

Although I did dare to write about the Egyptian revolution and it was never published. It is the Egyptian revolution that encouraged me to go into a different type of journalism. Away from papers and magazines, citizen journalism is something I am very passionate about. I set myself up during the Egyptian revolution so I would be able to report as soon as our revolution began.

I did get one article I was very passionate about published during the Al Qathafi era and it's probably the most I'm proud of, it's titled "The New Generation". I wrote it before Bouzizi set himself on fire and looking back now it seemed almost prophetic.

It's the only article I pushed so hard to get published, refusing to write until it got into the paper. Ironically everyone shook their heads at it and said it was hopeless, except the young people who read it. I was warned to not use a scanned picture of this article as my profile picture on twitter and Facebook prior to the the February 17 revolution, I was told it would give me unwanted attention.

The piece was published in December, the same month when a few female Libyan journalists working under Seif were arrested by Al Qathafi. I heard the news in passing then, but it didn't get my full attention until Libyan journalist Suleiman Dogha mentioned it on Al Jazeera after the revolution had ignited. That's when the danger of being a journalist in Libya hit me.

When the revolution started I was ready for it and started reporting to various news outlets and journalists around the world. Not only did the revolution give us Libyans a voice but it also amplified our voice as all eyes turned to Libya. Sure, Tripoli was under siege but there was no going back, we all knew that.

The unprecedented freedom of speech was ... something words cannot describe; I sat for hours on end skyping and typing out reports not bothering to even eat, getting up only for prayers.

I felt so much lighter, I felt the feeling of having wings spread out of my shoulders for the first time. Fellow journalists all over the world would ask me what it was like to be free and I would go into a long rant in the end concluding the same way, "don't ask what it's like to be free, freedom is natural. Ask what it was like to be oppressed."

The new found freedom of the revolution finally allowed for real criticism and real discussion. I finally stepped out of the eluded environment I had created for myself to protect myself from cracking under oppression.

All I can say in conclusion is, martyrs of the February17 revolution may you rest in peace, Mohamed Nabous I hope that as you look down at us from heaven you know that your blood was not shed in vain.