Thousands of young Europeans in 2011 flew to Malta with a low cost company. One was Alberto Arce, but instead of enjoying the beaches of the Mediterranean island or intimate with neighboring Swedish hostel, preferred fishing boat heading to get on Misrata and have, in the first person without any means of support comunicaicón, the heroic cities resitencia asedidada by elite troops of Gaddafi. In Misrata shared snoring, mortars and couscous com fighters who slept clutching their Kalashnikovs; took tea under the olive trees armed with general portable and printer; heard Arabic hip hop designers actualizaban Facebook and Twitter the revolutionary movement; and attended meetings of young fighters who had left their universities, workshops and factories to learn to take a hill under enemy fire. This book talks about the fighters in the front and the rear routines, but also from the difficulty to capture all the nuances of a complex reality that sometimes the only journalist has time to guess. "If this was the office of a multinational would have a sign that would read and Logistics Coordination Department & Accommodation for freelance journalists. Once we transferred the door rather with a mixture of military and Google loft room brokers in the stock market panic: Satellite transmission antennas, food boxes, crates with weapons and a huge Mac screen, all linked by a cable network spanning the aisles, packed with armed men not to move from one room to another. There is a large sleeping bags filled hall, all occupied by young people who are not separated from their weapon or their computers permanently connected to Facebook and Twitter. "" Omran joined us as a translator for a month. We lost the trail and several months later we see him on Youtube, looking confused, the weapon with which he was not comfortable firm grip on the left hand and the body of Gaddafi to his right. The Dead dictator's head by the hair and lifted, and who is there by chance, the same look in the hallway of the hospital. That the educated, smart and clueless type your way. I could not break a plate but ended up being part of one of the fiercest of the war units. "" The cries of 'Allah Akbar' have the same jaded cadence rattle of small arms, while the noise of artillery fails mimic the mysticism of religious chants. The constant religious references, seasoned by gadafista accusation that Al Qaeda and radical Islam have infiltrated or even organize the revolutionaries, is well justified for those from the wingback chair has decided to convict these guys in the sewers of history, convinced by anti-imperialism of vintage manual that falls apart as the rebellion breathe. "" Luc Delahaye, who left the Magnum Agency to pursue it and forget photojournalism is there in the middle, firm, with its strange camera large format, a body discovered with open shirt and a cigar in his mouth, taking pictures. As if it were a superhero invisible shield. Or as if all that was not really him. I never catch up to understand. Luc says that if you take these pictures of the day and hung in museums become art. I felt an immense bullshit from someone who just wants to make money until I saw him with a cigarette in his mouth, shirt moving with the wind and backlit in the middle of the shooting. If in addition, when everything just comes out whole, you ask what about the photo? and you reply with "today has it been worth it" so dry and hieratic that does not support cross-examination or hue, believe what you end up art. "" Ali is lame and does not fight with weapons. Bring a small camera and record video to her Youtube account of the February 17 movement. He always goes beyond foreign photographers and cameras. It will not do better, maybe not, but from closer. Your disregard for life is total. His smile, huge. "" Hammoudi in the Gaza blockade was the best fixer of all. He took it as a personal challenge that I never unloaded battery, charging cables and seeking generators have electricity. I was with him the night he learned that the farm of his grandmother had been attacked with white phosphorus and, instead of going there, refused to leave me alone in Beit Hanoun, because who had offered me bed I was lying, as he and needed to prove it. A Hammoudi saw him mourn for hours of anger, when their own countrymen, freedom fighters, beaten by fag, blow it up, and was expelled from Gaza forever. He taught me that in war to those who are right are bastards and liars. Hammoudi ended up living for months in my living room Raval while getting the status of political refugee. "" You have to throw in the towel with dignity. Some, few, will be lucky to see the end of this war. They understand, count and witness. I, meanwhile, mercenary, arrogant, tad exaggerated, adventurous, self-conscious, freelance, resentful, compulsive, ugly and romantic than asthmatic never ever happened, do something so tristepero food like box at the end of the day-the click, Click the accounts-, pick up our gear and go to the beach to celebrate the move, which has turned out better than I expected. Then I give all the insults included. Because principles and idealism are fair for me not smell bad nights sleep and stretch. "