
A thirty five hour journey on the deck of a Fishing boat. . .
The fishing boat, rocked gently. Slowly, very slowly creeping across the gulf of Sirte from benghazi to Misrata. I stood at the bow and enjoyed the last moments of a dizzyingly beautiful sunset. “The Captain thinks there might be some Gaddafi ships approaching” said Kev casually. He was our Security advisor and had spent years in the SAS. He isn’t perturbed at the thought of a shoot-out. I, on the other hand, am a natural born coward and I felt my stomach turn with fear.
We watched the boats gradually move closer until, reassuringly, it became clear that they were actually NATO warships. “Allah o Akbar” shouted the crew and our handful of fellow passengers. Bakr patted me on the back and gestured for me to join in. “Allah o Akbar” I said waving at the Helicopter that now passed above us fast and low.
There was little to do during the thirty five hour journey but sleep and talk. I became friendly with Bakr and his fellow fighters who were returning to Misrata to continue the fight with Gaddafi’s forces. One of them had been in Turkey receiving treatment for war wounds. Despite the language barrier I felt a strong bond with these guys and enjoyed our conversations that usually amounted to little more than them telling me “Gaddafi bad, NATO good” and “God is great.”

Enjoying the sunshine onboard ship with the Captain
Eventually we reached our destination. The City of Misrata had been besieged for over two months. Hammered relentlessly by Artillery and rocket fire, Boats were the only way in. The docks were surprisingly quiet, I had expected chaos but they were almost ghostly in their silence. We hitched a lift into town and found accommodation at a bizarre Spa and physiotherapy centre – setting up our beds on massage tables in an abandoned first floor room.
Click here to view the first of our films from Misrata
Quickly we went to Tripoli Street, the heart of the City and scene of some of the bitterest fighting. The destruction was immense, whole office buildings blackened from fire and scarred by multiple shell strikes. Bullet and shrapnel marks crisscrossing the brickwork. In the market were the shattered and smoking wrecks of three T-72 Tanks which I was told were knocked out by guys with Molotov cocktails. I imagined this was how cities looked after the fighting in World War Two.
The people of Misrata are keen to welcome foreigner journalists, they want their story to be heard. As soon as we appeared anywhere people would approach and ask if there is anything they can do to help us.
We find a group of fighters BBQ’ing in the court-yard of a near-by building. They look battle hardened, heads wrapped in Shemagh’s, AK-47′s piled against the wall. But immediately they smile and welcome us offering a slice of Camel liver which I gladly take and enjoy. It’s hard to believe that just weeks ago most of them had never even touched a weapon. They are happy, Gaddafi’s forces have been pushed out of the city and with NATO air-strikes to back them up the fighters are confident that they won’t return.

Taking a break in the ruins of Tripoli Street, Misrata. . .
At the new front lines we meet Ibrahim Al Halbous, a scrap-merchant turned Rebel Commander. He runs a tight outfit and we are told by our local Fixer that his men were some of the biggest heroes of the battle. He looks the part, stocky and handsome with a commanding voice. I’m impressed to see that he has look-outs posted all around and “Madmax” style armoured Pick-up trucks protecting his flanks – clearly a lesson learned the hard way.
Here is our film from the Frontline
Misrata is slowly now recovering, shops are opening and the electricity is now on for a few hours a day. It’s been an intense and fascinating assignment and I hope that our films have helped to show the world the strength and pride of an amazing city.

The team and I with the Rebels in Misrata








