The first time I went to Libya, in 2010, I was arrested just two days into my trip. Filming a documentary for VICE, I was detained for shooting where the authorities thought I should n't, beginning endless rounds of questions, emphatic yelling and head-shaking incredulity at my claims of innocence -- and, of course, the requisite implications that I was a spy. When I was finally released, I swore I would never return to the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. But that promise was quickly broken, and I found myself back in the country almost exactly a year later, in the midst of a chaotic and violent revolution. My second trip to Libya consisted of traveling from the Egyptian border to Benghazi and then onto the front lines in Misurata, embedding with a few different rebel groups along the way. I was shocked by how young many of them were. Barely past puberty and fighting with whatever they could find -LRB- one guy had a spear gun -RRB-, they displayed so much heroism and courage that I would tear up while talking to them. One rebel I spoke with had left the hospital earlier that night -- despite having lost a leg -- so that he could get back to the front lines. He was offered a flight to Germany and a new prosthetic limb by an NGO, but instead snuck out of the hospital to rejoin his comrades. But the big question looming over everything was: Why are they fighting