Back in 2013, my friend Susan wrote a guest post on my blog. She shared an important message about her experience with Libyan inheritance laws. The post generated a huge amount of interest so in 2014 she wrote a follow-up post. Many people, myself included, urged her to write a book about her life. I'm happy to say that she took our advice and wrote her story.
As a British woman, marrying a Libyan diplomat was the start of her adventure, little did she realize the complexity and intrigue she would live through for the next 33 years. Having lived through these times she decided to share her experiences and perspective on this period of Libyan history.
The following excerpt has been published on my blog with the permission of the author. Information about where to purchase the book is below the excerpt.
Libya. A Love Lived, A Life Betrayed
9/36
By: Susan M. Sandover
One
Ù¡
9/36
is the end of the tale but the beginning starts with so many previous events
that have had to be sealed in my memory box for safety. Many times I have
wished that I could have kept a diary of the past 35 years, but the fear of my
writings being found and incriminating the man I loved has always stopped my
ever beginning. Even today when I have nothing to lose, all of those past years
still haunt me.
When
I was asked recently in an interview what qualifications I believed that I had
for working abroad, I felt a certain amount of frustration at the woman who had
quite clearly not read my CV and was obviously just reading the next question
on her formulaic list. In a probably rather inappropriate answer I responded
that I had been bombed by the Americans, lived through two attempted coups, a
major earthquake and two typhoons, lived under a dictatorship, through a
revolution and a NATO bombing. A silence ensued for a few moments; I could see
what was going through her mind, wondering if I was some kind of Walter Mitty
character, and if what I had just said could be true? It was. What she had
failed to notice in my eyes and tone of voice was that I am a survivor despite
even 9/36 being hurled at me.
At
the tender age of four I went around the world with my parents, out via the
Suez Canal and back through the Panama Canal. Although I can remember little if
nothing of the journey it might have ignited my Christopher Columbus spirit
since travelling from then onwards was in my bones; any chance, anywhere, I was
game. But this story begins in 1980 when I was 32 and weaves between my flat in
Frognal, North London and Freetown, Sierra Leone on the West Coast of Africa.
The country was preparing to host an Organisation of African Union Summit (OAU)
new hotels had been built and it was swarming with security experts and
intelligence agents from Western, African and Arab countries. For my travelling
companion Kathy and me it was a cheap winter holiday destination and if I were
to believe in fate then certainly my destiny was decided when we set foot on
the tarmac and on to the ferry taking us to Freetown that night.
The
capital was bubbling with frantic businessmen eager to capitalize on the many
construction projects necessitated by the hosting of an international summit.
We were two not unattractive young women out for some fun in the sun with
little or no competition. Africa was a complete revelation to us with its
noises, colours and heat being so very different from the suburban London where
we had both grown up. The ubiquitous music, clubs, casinos and stunningly
beautiful beaches were all so exciting, as was the charming male company. With
numerous bottles of champagne arriving at our dinner table, we enjoyed the
attention as we danced the night away before returning to our shared hotel room
to compare stories and laugh about them. Our days were spent enjoying the sun
and the glorious unspoilt tropical, palm fringed sandy beaches. The backdrop to
our carefree fortnight throbbed with rich Africans, Lebanese and Indian brokers
and traders all vying for a share of the lucrative contracts on offer, while
the poor Sierra Leoneans were left with little or nothing to look forward to.
It
is difficult to remember every detail of that time where Kathy and I met so
many extraordinary people but we were thrust into a novel, different world. The
president’s son, the infamous Nigerian millionaire playboy Jimmy Ahmed, the
head of intelligence at the Libyan embassy Mohammed Marouf, Anwar Sadat’s Egyptian
presidential head of security and amongst others a former SAS man called Ian,
whose reason for being there we never quite discovered. A motley crew in a
tropical climate all wanting to make money and have fun. Without a doubt we
were two single females in the right place at the right time with enough
worldly experience to know how to say no when it was necessary.
So
vividly I remember when we first met Bashir wearing a yellow shirt and beige
trousers. Why I remember this detail until today I have no idea but for some
reason he caught my attention with an ever – mischievous smile that I came to
adore. At that time he was sporting his glorious long black locks and a Mexican
moustache. I am sure there was also the interest factor of being the first
Libyan I had ever met. Of course we all knew of Gaddafi and a little of how
this revolutionary colonel had turned the oil markets upside down and was now
trying to impose his own form of socialism on his oil rich country. This
however, was far away from our thoughts as Bashir came to say hello to our
table of new friends. There was an instant magnetic connection as we shook
hands, before he disappeared off to the casino. For the rest of the holiday we
were to pass each other at different times generally stopping to chat about
music. His passion for it became apparent on hearing him play the classical oud
some days later. He always sang in Arabic, seemingly channelling a faraway,
beautiful place.
Such
was the fun we had in Sierra Leone that I returned for a second time a month
later. A lucky chance meeting at a London party had secured a photo journalism
assignment to write on Sierra Leone. I met Bashir frequently. He was Charge
d’Affaires (Head of Mission) at the embassy while the ambassador was out of the
country. During this period I encountered many more interesting and intriguing
people from the world of international diplomacy. As the commencement of the
African Union summit drew closer the inevitable behind the scenes politicking
increased. Between Bashir and myself there was a strong mutual attraction in
that unknown atmosphere of frenetic international diplomacy; that unknown
then would play quite a large part in our future lives.
Arriving
back in London at the end of my second visit I commenced writing up my commissioned
articles and it is here that our story truly begins. Shortly after my return I
received a call from Bashir in Switzerland. He was undergoing medical treatment
and suggested I join him in Geneva. Kathy joked (and still does) it was not ‘a
platonic invitation’. I flew to Geneva in the summer of 1980 believing that he
was genuinely ill, and that maybe I could cheer him up, he had sounded
depressed. Needless to say a week in Geneva, beside that scenic lake, is always
a divine prospect and no other thoughts were in my mind. Bashir was waiting at
the airport looking thin and weary, yet still sparkling. The rest is history as
they say, and Bashir admitted later that he was determined to have an intimate
relationship with me. However, the reason for his being in Geneva, I was only
to learn several years later were founded on a plot to assassinate the Egyptian
President, Anwar Sadat, who was due to attend the summit in Freetown. This was
with the almost certain knowledge of the Libyan Foreign Minister Dr. Ali Treki
who was also going to be in Sierra Leone and presumably authorised by Colonel
Gaddafi himself because nothing of this nature happened without the hand of the
Colonel. Bashir knew if he remained in Freetown that he too would be implicated
and he strongly opposed any talk of assassinating a head of state or come to
that, anyone. The only solution was to plead an illness needing specialist
treatment in order to escape to Geneva where he would be far removed from the
plot.
It
was in truth a half excuse: in reality, he was sick, worried and nervous to a
point where he could hardly keep down any food. I do believe that the pressure
and stress of being a career Libyan diplomat under Gaddafi was to a large
extent the cause of poor health throughout his life. Much of our time was spent
consulting specialists in and around Geneva. Nonetheless, he seduced me and we
fell in love; he was the most amazing lover. By the time it came for him to
return to Sierra Leone the OAU had finished. The Egyptian president eventually
never attended the summit and life resumed there as normal. Bashir was back to
being a diplomat and not a political assassin. However, undercover arms were
being smuggled into the country by Mohamed, the Intelligence Officer with the
connivance of Ali, the embassy’s Financial Attaché. Gaddafi was starting his
pan – African interference and power building even as early as 1980.
Before
leaving Geneva we had decided that I would return to Freetown for an extended
visit at Christmas. I was pretty foot loose and fancy free at this stage in my
life since working for agencies on an assignment basis allowed me to pick up
and leave as and when I wanted, provided that I had the money. I headed out to
Freetown and moved in with Bashir who was sharing a house with Ali, the
Financial Attaché a surly character who spoke no English. It was quite apparent
that he neither respected nor liked western women, probably thinking us
debauched.
Later
I discovered that Ali had been the instigator of the plot to assassinate Sadat.
The man was an opportunist believing that such endeavours would gain him favour
with the revolutionary committees of which he was a new member. Words to
describe him such as completely unscrupulous, corrupt and utterly contemptible
are probably inadequate. Further into the future he would become pivotal in
more dark activities at the embassy, shattering its already dubious reputation.
It was he who remained in the country and negotiated and dealt with Charles
Taylor, later to become the President of Liberia. Ali remained in West Africa
for many years, rising in power within the Revolutionary Committees. His place
today should be in The Hague for war crimes but I have no idea where he is or
whether he is alive or dead since the revolution. Sierra Leone made him a multi
– millionaire through appallingly blatant corruption and the snuffing out of so
many West African lives.
Christmas
in Freetown was buzzing with tourists as it was starting to become a winter
holiday destination. Miles, a London friend joined us and we befriended an
interesting group of people over that Christmas break. I awoke on brilliant
mornings to go water – skiing, fishing and take spectacular boat trips whilst
descending on the city for huge nights out. Poor Bashir was working of course,
though I was to discover in the years to come he was a man who could function
on a little sleep, party until the small hours yet still work effectively in
the morning and complete a full day’s work.
By
1980 Gaddafi had realised that his dream of Arab unity was just a dream where
he would not be at the helm so instead he turned to Africa as being the place
where he could build his empire. When one has unlimited wealth, one can buy and
sell people and this he was able to do with relative ease in Sierra Leone.
Gaddafi was a master strategist in dividing and conquering as he lifted
people up and then knocked them down. By 1986 he had declared his intention to
become the Emperor of Africa. Through using Libya’s vast oil wealth it allowed
him to create instability well beyond Libya’s borders. The recruitment by
Gaddafi of Foday Sankoh, who was the leader and founder of the Sierra Leone
rebel group Revolutionary United Front and Charles Taylor, later to become
Liberia’s President was to be the birth. They received much of their training
from Libyan forces and endless funding from Gaddafi’s Libya. The civil wars in
these countries in 1991, which lasted for eleven years, saw an estimated 50,000
people killed with over 500,000 displaced in neighbouring countries. It was the
start of this instability in the 1980s that began to worry the United States
about Gaddafi’s activities in Africa.
Life
in Sierra Leone in this period was pretty laid back for diplomats. It was
considered a hardship posting and once the OAU Summit was over, little if
anything happened in Freetown. Despite the intensely hot, humid, mosquito
infested climate there were the glorious sandy beaches, long, lazy langoustines
and shrimp lunches to savour in tasty dishes and romantic beach club locations.
The Italian Ambassador who used to arrive at the beach everyday particularly
amused me, putting up his chair, table and shade and relaxing. Fifteen minutes
or so later one of his attachés would arrive with the mail for the day. The
attaché would return at twelve presumably to collect the papers for the
appropriate actions to be taken. The ambassador would then have a swim
surrounded by Italian female tourists. He was not a young man and quite
obviously enjoyed female company. By twelve thirty he left the beach and the
next time we saw him would be in one of the casinos, again surrounded by
beautiful women. Not a bad life for a widower close to retirement. He was a
delightfully, charming man who was excellent company, even if only for a brief
chat. He had one of the necessary qualifications for a diplomat.
By
contrast for those in the Libyan diplomatic corps, life under Gaddafi was
becoming complicated. He wanted all embassies to be controlled by political
appointees (his cronies) but was realistic enough to know that he still needed
the backbone of career diplomats and their expertise. From 1980 onwards no new
career diplomats would be appointed until the beginning of 2000. Poor Bashir’s
timing in joining the foreign ministry in 1976 could not have been worse. He
had graduated from the Diplomatic Institute and subsequently worked in the
Department for International Co – operation. He was fortunate having a boss who
was a highly skilled diplomat with years of experience and who encouraged young
attachés. Bashir accompanied him on missions to Singapore, Malaysia and
southern European countries. By shadowing this man he began to learn his trade.
Sadly background and tribal allegiance were important requisites for
positioning in the Foreign Ministry in 1980. Unfortunately Bashir’s family
background was a hindrance to his career prospects. His father had been born in
Gargaresh, a suburb of Tripoli, but became an orphan at seven. He was adopted
by an uncle who raised him, albeit somewhat minimally. Sharia inheritance law
should have meant that in adulthood Mohamed Shkuka would inherit his father’s
considerable wealth but it was sadly sequestered by the uncle. Thus Mohamed
became a lowly janitor in a school. He was however, highly respected in the
Gargaresh community, being thought of as a man of high morals and deeply held
Muslim beliefs. He was to become known as ‘Hacouma’ – Governor in
Gargaresh. Bashir was to inherit his father’s goodness. At times I heard
him too being called ‘Hacouma’ in the Gargaresh area.
At
the end of 1979, it was Bashir’s time to go on a posting. Despite having passed
out of the Diplomatic Institute with high scores, he was given Sierra Leone as
his first posting, a country considered a backwater. He was furious not to have
been assigned to one of the key embassies such as London, Paris or Washington,
especially given his good language skills and placing in the Foreign Office
exams. However, it was his departmental boss who gave him the best advice. ‘In
a small embassy you will have responsibility but in London you will probably
not even go to the Foreign Ministry’. This reasoning proved to be very
prophetic. Within one week of being in Freetown, Bashir was meeting the
President, something that would not have happened as a lowly Third Secretary in
the Paris embassy. In Sierra Leone Bashir was able to glean experience that he
never could have imagined, experience that would serve him well in the years to
come. He always remained a career diplomat, carefully avoiding those who were
in the service only to join the gravy train of revolutionary appointed
diplomats, a requirement for any of those ever wishing to become an Ambassador.
After
the New Year Miles returned to London and I stayed on with an open agenda. I
was thrilled with my Africa adventure. Dream worlds never last long and hardly
more than a week later Bashir returned from work announcing we were moving
temporarily to share with the embassy Administrator since he was living in a
large, spacious house, his wife and family being in Libya. Although slightly
puzzled, I accepted the explanation given then that an additional Third
Secretary was joining the embassy and Ali preferred to share with another male
rather than with the two of us, which seemed quite understandable.
The
truth was quite different. When Gaddafi wrote his Green Book his main theme was
that all Libyans are equal and that there should be no owners but only
‘partners not wage workers’. Gaddafi realized that there were elements in the
foreign ministry who came from the old, rich, elite families and these people
he wished to crush. He set about renaming the embassies as People’s Bureau.
Every embassy was to be managed by a committee and these appointees could come
from all walks of life, educated or uneducated and mostly quite unsuited to
interacting with other nationalities. There would no longer be ambassadors
instead the name to be used was Secretary of The People’s Bureau.
Pivotal to their appointments was the necessity to sign up to both the
Revolutionary and their local area committees. The latter would put forward
elected candidates to join an embassy for a period of four years with
secondments from their current jobs to these new positions. The embassy in
London had already been taken over by the revolutionary committees and what had
happened there was about to happen in Freetown. This would mark the end of my
Sierra Leone adventure; the end of stage one and the start of many more such
upsets, which we had to weather and accommodate, during our 33 – year love
affair.
Bashir
seemed to feel reassured when he learned that one of the members of the new
People’s Bureau to be established in Sierra Leone was Anwar a career diplomat
who had joined the ministry the same year as Bashir. This man had however,
decided to sign up with the revolutionary committees, as a way of being fast
tracked in the Foreign Ministry. Bashir knew instantly that he did not fit in
with this group who were forever brandishing and quoting from the Green Book
and talking about how they would bring revolution to western dominated
countries. His living with an English woman was quite obviously exceedingly
inappropriate in their eyes, particularly a ‘western prostitute’ as they were
fond of branding me. Both of us realising that I could no longer remain in
Sierra Leone a flight back to London was booked. In some respects it was well
timed since my brother was about to get married and I wanted to be at the
wedding. I did not however, want our relationship to end in Freetown in this
way. Neither did Bashir.
The
Sierra Leone chapter for me was over and I was en – route back to London and my
Frognal flat. I am always overwhelmed by sadness when I see or hear any talk of
Sierra Leone. I think of how things could have evolved had it not been for the
cruel and mindless civil war using child soldiers to fight against each other.
First there were the most abject, inhumane mutilations of innocent people
followed some years later by the horrific Ebola outbreak when the country was
barely even beginning to recover. The country has quite astonishing mineral
wealth, but it is embezzled and hoarded by only a few. Sierra Leone was and is
the country of black diamonds.
On a
final personal memory, I feel I must include my being made aware of the horror
and inhumane treatment of some of Sierra Leone’s young girls. Like most people
at the time I knew nothing of female genital mutilation (FGM) before travelling
to Africa. On the first night of my third visit I was to hear, see and learn of
this inhumanity. Bashir lived in a tiny hamlet away from the centre of
Freetown. A balcony at the back of the house overlooked a pathway covered in
dense vegetation leading to a group of about five small ramshackle homes.
Darkness used to arrive at 6 pm and in this half – light I heard the sound of
drums ceaselessly pounding out a rhythm. A short while later in the half light
of dusk I saw the strangest sight, women and girls with grey painted faces and
white lines streaked on top of the grey. I remember questioning Bashir as to
what on earth was going on, not then realizing that it was just one example of
a practice that causes untold emotional trauma to millions of females worldwide
while enforcing an inherent gender inequality. The drums would continue
pounding and pounding out their sombre rhythm night after night until their
agonising wounds had healed.
One
final memory has to be of Sami, our house help. Prior to leaving our duplex he
had begged that both of us should go to London where he would work for me. I
could see in his eyes a total disbelief when I told him that I lived in a tiny
one bedroom flat and had no room for him let alone need of any help. I wonder
whether he is alive or dead as I wonder about so many of the people whom I met
during that year. It is incomprehensible even for me today to understand how
the political greed and power of so few can destroy the lives of so many. How
do these people not only get into power but also manage to stay in power, in
some cases, for decades?
I
was forced to leave Sierra Leone without the Committee knowing where I was or
what I was doing. In the final days before leaving they had put guards on the
house wanting to know where I was living and so my ignominious departure from
Sierra Leone was under a blanket in the back seat of a car. As Bashir and I sat
on the ferry taking us out to Lungi airport, the city’s lights fading in the
background, we held each other tightly with tears streaming down our faces.
That feeling of love being taken away, the ache and pain are desperate emotions
but now I realise it is a rare and wonderful blessing to have such strength of
feeling for someone else. As the British Caledonian plane took off neither
Bashir nor I realized quite how quickly we would be back in each other’s arms;
we were deeply in love and determined not to be separated.
Two
Ù¢
Our
love calls between Sierra Leone and London were made long before the existence
of the internet and Skype. There were times when it would take days and endless
waits to make contact due to the poor communication infrastructure in Freetown.
Imagine my joy when after no more than a month of separation I heard Bashir’s
voice giving me the news that he was leaving Sierra Leone and flying to London
before heading to Libya.
At
the same time alarm bells began to ring in my head but on asking him why I
received the reply I was to come to know so well in the future, that he would
explain on arrival. Once again I was to have our next meeting in an airport,
but this time I was in Gatwick, London Arrivals and Bashir was wearily pushing
his two suitcases looking stressed, sleep – deprived and pale. I had been
hoping to whisk him straight up to my flat. Of course he as ever the consummate
professional, told me his first London destination was to the Libyan embassy to
meet, as he was now called, ‘The Secretary of the Peoples Bureau.’ It was no
longer His Excellency the Libyan Ambassador to London. The country had
also been renamed and the flag replaced by an all green one. A protocol
nightmare had begun to always ensure that in case Gaddafi should visit the new
flag was to be hoisted, the new anthem was to be played and all officials would
call the country by its new name The Socialist Peoples Libyan Arab
Jamahiriya at all times. A number of diplomats had been sent home with
their careers in tatters due to mistakenly forgetting to apply these changes in
front of Gaddafi, who never had any mercy. Pre – 1969 days returned in 2011,
when again for diplomats the old flag, anthem and the country name were
resurrected.
We
took the train into central London together from Gatwick caressing each other
between passionate kisses I am sure to the embarrassment of other travellers in
the carriage. Victoria station saw Bashir into a taxi and I into a further taxi
complete with his two suitcases back to my flat in Frognal. What seemed a long,
endless wait was only in fact four hours before my buzzer rang and Bashir was
with me alone in the flat. I am an impatient person in stressful situations and
having had to leave Sierra Leone for Bashir’s safety I was anxious to know that
I had not jeopardised his position. Before he even had time to sit down I was
begging him to tell me what had happened. This however, was not the way Bashir
worked. Always taking his time and after his habitual glass of whisky and a
large steak and salad I was to learn of the demise of the Libyan embassy in
Sierra Leone.
My
observation over the years has brought me to an understanding that African
nations were much more tolerant of Gaddafi’s antics and power plays than the
West. Obviously this was at the very least in part due to the generous
sweeteners being given to the appropriate people in power together with
phenomenally expensive jewellery being handed over to their wives. By 1981 this
had worked well up to a point in Sierra Leone, but in all likelihood it was one
step too far when five revolutionary, Green Book brandishing Libyans arrived in
Sierra Leone without diplomatic passports (these had now been banned by Gaddafi
and diplomats were to be considered ordinary people travelling on ordinary passports).
Bashir continued that these men had established links with officials without
going through official protocol and were also distributing the Green Book and
the propaganda surrounding Gaddafi’s Third Universal Theory. Naturally Sierra
Leone officials became edgy and were probably also receiving prompts and
warnings from USA officials. The ambassador, Abdallah, was out of the country
so Bashir as Charge d’Affaires was called to the foreign ministry. He was told
to advise the Libyan government that Sierra Leone did not recognize the
structure of this new type of embassy. The people newly arrived from Libya were
not considered conducive to the well – being of the country and thus were no
longer recognised by the state and were persona non gratia. The embassy had 48
hours to close and all Libyans working in the embassy were to leave the
country. Bashir, not considered part of this new order, was not asked to leave
and in fact was the Sierra Leone government’s preferred candidate to stay on as
head of a Special Interests Section under the umbrella of another Embassy. To
find another country willing to take on this mantle within the timescale and
with the approval from Tripoli was totally impractical so the closing operation
was taken. Besides which Bashir was unwilling to remain in an increasingly
difficult environment without diplomatic protection of a negotiated third
country.
To
close an embassy down under the best of situations would take time, but 48
hours to exit staff and families onto planes back to Libya, close down a
building, and shred reams of documents were among the many necessary tasks
going through Bashir’s mind at that time. Plus of course losing all the
armaments stored beneath the embassy which had been smuggled in as diplomatic
cargo, was probably the most paramount. As Bashir sat face – to – face with the
Ministry staff he felt overwhelmed by the task at hand. They finally reached
agreement that one diplomat could stay, and Ali the Financial Attaché, was
nominated. This seemed like an obvious choice in terms of the logistics, but in
the future this decision would in small part lead to the rise of Taylor and
Sankoh.
As
he recounted those last days Bashir told me of the dumping of the armaments.
Looking back on this event in years to come we laughed at the absurdity of the
situation but at the time it must have been terrifying. Mohamed, the Head of
Intelligence, was a colonel and pretty level headed when not drinking and
gambling; he rose to the task. Bashir spoke of how they waited until one in the
morning, sitting in one of the casinos drinking and playing blackjack. Perhaps
it was an unorthodox way to calm one’s nerves. By the time they were to start
the exercise they were not exactly sober and had fortunately won a bit of
money. Both of these two factors were to prove to be their saviours later in
the arms dumping exercise. They took two of the embassy cars and loaded them up
with rocket launchers, RPGs, guns, revolvers, bullets and almost every
description of weapons all in the back of the two cars covered by blankets. A
desolate part of beach with a rocky shoreline, which they knew had deep water
had been chosen as the best location to heave the weapons into the sea. Having
dumped the first two loads of this dangerous cargo there were still two more
remaining at the embassy waiting to be thrown into the waves. On returning to
the embassy they loaded up the second pile and headed back towards the secluded
spot but this time they didn’t have such a clear run. A two – car police patrol
stopped them on the return trip back to the dumping ground wanting to know why
they were driving in that remote area late at night and what was under the
blankets. Although the cars had diplomatic immunity to start arguing on the
rights and wrongs of drunkenly driving them at 2am with aggressive, late –
night policemen did not seem like a good idea. However, money did talk. Bashir
and Mohamed pretended to be considerably drunker than they were, telling the police
that they had prostitutes hidden under the blankets who could not be seen in
public with them. Thanks to the dollars won earlier in the casino that night
they were able to persuade the officers to let them on their merry way. Two
happy police cars left with the casino winnings and my darling, intrepid Bashir
and his colleague continued on theirs down toward the sea again to resume the
dumping operation. The relief at having outwitted the police made them truly
elated as they flung the next load of weapons into the sea whilst joyfully
singing Abba’s ‘Money, Money, Money’ at the tops of their voices. Thank
goodness they were in a remote spot. What a bizarre, hilarious sight; I smile
as I picture it today. I do wonder if anyone ever found this arms haul and if
they ever questioned where or whom it had come from. I am sure Bashir’s Sierra
Leone experience has not been replicated by many diplomats if any, and I rather
suspect there aren’t many who would wish to be in such a situation. These were
the building blocks for surviving as a Libyan Diplomat during the Gaddafi years
that his former boss said he would never find in the big prestigious embassies,
which proved incredibly pertinent in the years to come.
Bashir
now had to stay in London, waiting to be told which course of action he should
take and where he should go. From Sierra Leone they had had few if any
instructions from Libya as to the steps that should be taken. This was 1981, no
computer, poor telephone lines, no fax in Sierra Leone; there was still only
telex communication. The secret codes had been brought by Bashir to London and
were deposited at the embassy. He had left with just two suitcases leaving
behind furniture unsold, deposits on the house and other administrative and
financial loose ends. The Foreign Ministry was still directly in Gaddafi’s
firing line, thus for Bashir as a career diplomat there was no precedent or a
requirement to pay him any compensation for what he had left behind or lost. Of
course the members of the revolutionary committee were more than well
compensated. You either beat them or joined them, and the latter never was or
would be an option for Bashir and the former would not happen until 2011.
Nonetheless
for now we were in my beautiful, Frognal garret very much in love and thrilled
at being reunited so quickly. It was the middle of February and a typically
bleak, English winter. Bashir was dressed in a safari suit with no coat, no
warm clothing and only short – sleeved shirts. As was to become common for
future shopping exercises, he wrote a list of what he needed against the damp,
cold, London weather. I knew where clothes could be found and bought cheaply so
quickly returned with everything to protect him from the winter elements. We
were then in business and mentally blocked out what was to come. How long would
he be in London? After this how long would he be in Tripoli? Where to if
anywhere, next? Our relationship hinged on answers to these questions as at
that time there would be no chance of my being able to join him in Libya.
By
this time Bashir was known to Kathy and Miles but was yet to meet my brothers
and other friends. To anyone observing it must have seemed pretty unusual, the
number of diplomats in my extended family congregating for dinners together; we
could have held our own General Assembly. Within a week Bashir received his
orders to return to Tripoli. He hated visiting the embassy and said the
atmosphere was depressing with those against the new arrangement, namely his
colleagues and friends from the foreign ministry and university, and the
‘invaders’ as he called them from the new set up. This arrangement was to
explode in 1983 and cause our lives to be completely upended.
All
too quickly those unwelcome instructions to return to Libya and leave London saw
us on yet another train ride to Gatwick Airport, but this time in Departures.
Airport farewells were becoming a regular feature of our lives and this one was
no less tearful on my part, as we had no idea when we would be reunited. My
only consolation was the proximity of Libya to London, or to the southern
Mediterranean countries where we could possibly have an opportunity to meet in
the future. However, at this time exit and re – entry visas for Libyans were
strictly controlled by the Gaddafi regime as it was starting to go into lock
down given the opponents he was beginning to garner.
We
had expected that it would be a long separation but in less than two months
Gaddafi decided that there should be a Peoples’ Bureau in Liberia and that a
People’s Committee should be sent to Monrovia, the capital, to set up the new
embassy under its new Libyan title. Bashir was nominated to go as the only
career diplomat along with financial and administrative attaches. It must have
irked Gaddafi that by this point in time, despite all of his bullish manoeuvres
he still had to rely on diplomats to run his missions abroad.
Thankfully
as there were no direct flights from Libya to Liberia, Bashir had to fly via
London and we managed to steal a few more days and nights before his onward
flight to his second West African adventure. Life was always fun despite the
hardships and underhand political events that were affecting us at any given
time. The two of us loved people, loved to socialise and debate, all the while
enjoying good food and wine. Bashir was an absolute charmer and always
attracted interesting people. All too quickly however, we were back at Gatwick
Airport for yet another farewell. We clung onto each other right to the final
minute, a few last kisses and Bashir disappeared into the tunnel with neither
of us knowing when we would next be together.
When
Bashir flew into Liberia along with the committee, apparently the government
had not been informed they were arriving, nor did they have any idea that a
Libyan Peoples Bureau was about to be established in the country. This was
typical Gaddafi, the presumption that everyone would accommodate his every
whim; he seemed to think that his authority over the people and institutions of
Libya could be replicated wherever he turned his attention. Of course these
agreements were always greased with dollars. This was something that was
instilled in his children and cronies, and was to cause endless diplomatic
crises in the future.
The
Committee had dollars pouring out of their suitcases and set themselves up in
the best and probably the only five Star Hotel. Bashir found the country,
unlike Sierra Leone, dangerous and the people unfriendly. After just a few days
when walking back to the hotel from a Portuguese restaurant he was held up by a
gang, and had his expensive Rado watch and money stolen. This was a fast
lesson, and from then on he would go out with no more than $50 in his sock and
would make every effort not to look wealthy, walk quickly and have a car and
driver wherever possible. He felt that Liberia was the Wild West, having come
from relatively safe territories.
Of
course Liberia is considered by many to be a United States outpost and by this
time the international community was well aware that Libya’s policies were in direct
conflict with the West. The arrival therefore of Libyan revolutionaries in
Liberia with cash to spend on people attracted to the Green Book doctrine was
not something that either the Liberian government or the US embassy welcomed. I
was absolutely delighted to receive a call from Bashir just a short while later
to say that they had once again been told to leave the country within 48 hours.
For Bashir this was by now almost becoming a routine. Thankfully on this
enforced departure there was little to pack up, and nothing to leave behind.
There was no holding him he rushed onto the London plane, in fact happy to be
leaving the country he had barely had time to get to know. I was to meet him
yet again in Gatwick Arrivals.
By
now it was a well – rehearsed routine from the airport back to the embassy in
London to report what had happened and to await further instructions. This was
becoming a well – trodden path for Bashir. Being the only diplomat and the only
one well versed enough in the procedures and protocols that had to be followed,
he was the one to negotiate and relay the information. Gaddafi, furious that
this African country was not going to accept his answer to the evil colonial
capitalist West’s domination as he saw it, now set in motion his cultivation of
Taylor and Sankoh. This was to prove the undoing of both countries. Libya still
had their man Ali in Freetown who was eager to do his great leader’s wishes and
able to do so with unlimited Libyan funds. Thus the unhappy saga of West Africa
began to unfold, in part bankrolled by Gaddafi.
It
is an uncommon experience for a diplomat to have to leave a country once due to
a breakdown in diplomatic relations, but for it to happen twice within a period
of three months was quite extraordinary. Being a Third Secretary in a backwater
was proving to be far more interesting than Bashir ever could have imagined and
he was up to the task, utilising all of his diplomatic skills, most of which
had not been taught at the diplomatic institute. This was new ground for a
Libyan diplomat. He now had no regrets about not having been posted to Paris or
London.
Bashir
had by this time developed a feel for African diplomacy and could see that this
would be an area of great interest for a Libyan diplomat, requiring demanding
skills. When Diplomats talk and discuss where they have been and where they
would like to be posted, their criteria sometimes does seem to be measured to
talk on the quality of the social life and living conditions. While Bashir
certainly enjoyed life’s comforts, he was also motivated by the interest and
importance of the work to be done and he had earmarked Kenya as being somewhere
he would like to be posted from the point of view of African interest. Also he
wished to be in the vicinity of two Nairobi based United Nations’ headquarters
one being the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) and the other United
NationsHuman Settlements Programme (HABITAT). By choosing an African country
there would not be much competition from his colleagues who viewed any posting
to Africa as being a failure. Furthermore, he wanted to work with a UN agency
as a way of working for the Libyan good within Libya rather than as an opponent
abroad. Therefore when he returned to Libya he lobbied everyone he knew to be
posted to Nairobi.
As
luck would have it there was a vacancy in the embassy and so almost immediately
he received his posting papers for Kenya; he was moving from West to East
Africa. He had been in Liberia on an ordinary passport but now needed to be
reissued with a diplomatic passport, as Kenya had not been asked to recognize a
Peoples’ Bureau and the Libyan Embassy was still an embassy with an ambassador.
I seemed to be spending more and more time waiting in Arrivals and Departure
halls for Bashir. Once more I made my way down to Gatwick to be reunited before
his departure for Kenya. We were to have a little precious time together, or so
I hoped, before he left for Nairobi.
London,
September 1981; it was Bashir’s 31st birthday and we went to the Palm Beach
nightclub in the Berkley Hotel to celebrate. It was a great evening as we both
loved dancing. I could never match Bashir’s wonderful moves but had a great
time nonetheless. He was never one to hold back or be embarrassed, always
wanting everyone to join in whether they were able or otherwise. For him it was
the most blissful release from all the pressure that work was beginning to lay
at his door.
It
was around this time that I received the first copies of the books that I had
contributed chapters and photographs to on Sierra Leone. It was a truly
exciting new career that I was deeply motivated by. Bashir was enthusiastic
about the contents of the books as there were detailed sections on Kenya.
Thinking that I would just buy further copies, I gave him mine and that was the
last that I ever saw of them.
Protocol
can be an exceedingly good way of delaying something one country does not want
to happen without causing a diplomatic incident. So it was when Bashir arrived
in Nairobi airport that the Kenyan Foreign Ministry’s Protocol Department very
politely advised him that they had received no information on his appointment
to the Libyan embassy and therefore they would be unable to approve his
appointment. Whether this was due to their having got wind of Gaddafi sending
revolutionaries to all the African embassies or a genuine error in
communications was unclear. Bashir was refused entry into the country despite
having a visa issued in London. Tarah, the Libyan ambassador was a career
diplomat with whom Bashir had worked in the International Cooperation
department. He was keen for Bashir to join the embassy and suggested waiting in
nearby Seychelles rather than returning to Libya. The problem would be quickly
solved and in the meantime the Seychelles embassy would take care of his needs.
Those were the days when certain embassies were flush with money and one of
those, for some reason, was the Seychelles. Bashir flew to the Seychelles
capital, Mahe where he was about to enter Paradise. He believed he was flying
with two suitcases, one of which contained my two books.
On
arrival at the small airport in Mahe, Bashir was greeted with the traditional
highly fragrant jasmine necklace delivered by one of their stunning female
airport staff. A welcome indeed, but where were the suitcases? Eventually one
was tracked down. It had never left Nairobi, but the other with my books was
never recovered. Until today I feel sorry that I did not go out and buy my own
copies but they were expensive and I had limited funds.
Not
only had my books been lost forever, but Bashir now had only the shoes he was
wearing, the others being in the lost suitcase. In those days, 1981 Seychelles
was still a relatively unknown tourist destination apart from the holidaying
super rich who had no need to buy clothes or shoes when they came to the
islands. It was a beautifully relaxed, casual place with a tropical climate so
flip – flops were the standard footwear. There were no shoes to be found in
Bashir’s size in the country, so the pair he was wearing would be all that he
was to have for his stay. He was a stylish man but throughout his life he hated
shopping, and now another shopping expedition was needed with no simple way to
get anything into the country. I hinted that perhaps a London shopping trip and
a visit to Seychelles bringing shoes could be a solution? I think the idea
began to be considered as the beauty of the Seychelles became all too apparent.
Notwithstanding
the shoe problem, for Bashir, who loved the sea having grown up in a house on
the shores of the Mediterranean, it was a home from home. His entire childhood
had been spent swimming and enjoying Gargaresh beach, so the Seychelles was the
last word in a perfect, tropical Eden. Even better the Secretary of the Peoples
Bureau, Habib was a career diplomat who had worked with Bashir in the
International Cooperation Department. Habib had a massive budget and looked
after Bashir royally, putting him into one of the very few five star hotels on
the island at that time.
Obviously,
Bashir’s intention was to be issued with his Kenyan visa and return to Nairobi
quickly. An African – wide mistrust of Libya was beginning to ferment. Daniel
Arap Moi, the Kenyan President was also the current President of the OAU and
wary of Gaddafi and the Libyans he was stationing across Africa. Hence by the
end of two weeks there was no update on the visa situation. Bashir was besotted
with the Seychelles and called to say that I had to drop everything and come to
Mahe to see this country, which was like no other he had ever visited; the
marine life was beyond belief. It was impossible to resist the call and of
course I brought the shoes. For once, it was a change Bashir meeting me at the
airport looking totally relaxed from Seychelles life. I promptly discovered
that the perfume of the frangipani, the lush landscape and the brilliant blue
of the sea were exactly as he had described. In fact it was cheaper for me to
be in the Seychelles than to part with the money we had been spending on those
long, longing phone calls.
It
could not have been more wonderful. The next weeks were utterly free of all
cares. We swam snorkelled and saw every imaginable type of sea life. The
Seychelles in 1981 was blissfully empty, tranquil and peaceful during the day.
At night there were countless evenings in the hotel bar and the Segar dance
competition which Bashir had predictably won the previous two weeks. On my
arrival he had been banned from re – entering to give others a chance. Not many
people could afford to stay in such a hotel for an extended period and Bashir’s
stay was to last for 45 days until his visa finally came through.
One
highlight of our stay was a flight on a six – seater plane which took us to
Praslin Island; our heaven. We were the only people staying in a small complex
of wooden huts on the beach. I can visualize that beach to this day with the
two of us walking, swimming, lying, kissing and laughing in that remote idyllic
place. Perhaps one of the best gifts Bashir gave me is the unique and
wonderfully happy memories and his spirit of carpe diem. He was insistent not
to leave anything until tomorrow, always do it today. We had so much of what we
built together taken away in later years, but nobody could ever tarnish my
vivid reminiscence of those magical tender loving days.
The
Secretary of the People’s Bureau, Habib and his wife offered us the hand of
friendship by inviting us to their glorious residence and introducing me to my
first taste of the spices and flavours of Libyan cuisine. We were to meet again
in Manila as colleagues. By contrast there was Abdu, the youngest member of the
committee who seemed to be chiefly concerned with drinking and womanising, much
to Habib’s annoyance. Abdu was from Sirte, the birthplace of Gaddafi, hence his
luck at being sent to the Seychelles to earn a handsome salary and have fun. I
think he looked at me as being Bashir’s European catch and was not interested
in much more about us.
It
was the other member of the committee, whose name I fail to remember, who was
obviously put out by Bashir having an English girlfriend. Probably it is
selective memory loss. Year after year I was to encounter his type, every night
hanging out in bars drinking alcohol, picking up different women and then
returning home to their unsuspecting wives. It was the hypocrisy of these men
that was so repugnant, rather than their activities. Bashir warned me to steer
clear of this man as he had labelled me a prostitute and a non – Muslim and
therefore believed I would lead Bashir into evil ways.
At
this time the People’s Bureaus were newly formed and included the new elite
revolutionaries as members of the committees. No one knew quite what power they
had, but it was obvious that they were Gaddafi men and he was building his
power base in the foreign ministry and in all parts of Libya. Bashir was
concerned at the influence that these people seemed to have given his
experience in Sierra Leone and Liberia. This might be a good place to look back
to pre – 1969 Libya under King Idris and at what was to come as well as where
Bashir stood at the beginning of the revolution. This history would impact and
colour his life in the future and our lives together.
Three
Ù£
Bashir
was born in 1950 when Libya was a desert backwater having suffered from the
ravages of occupation by the Italians, Germans and the Allies during World War
II. He remembered vividly United Nations food parcels arriving at the house and
of there being vitamin tablets which were forced down his throat by his mother
saying ‘they will do you good’. Food was scarce and there were no mains
electricity or water. Life was tough for the majority.
The
country became independent in 1951 with King Idris being crowned the country’s
monarch. The new King was from the large and powerful infamous eastern tribe of
Senussi which had been politically active during World War ll giving vital
support to the British 8th army in North Africa against the
Italians and Germans. As head of the tribe and grandson of the Grand Senussi,
Sayyid Mohamed Ibn Ali Senussi, King Idris was a popular choice both with the
allies and the Libyan elite from eastern Libya. ‘Elite’ accurately
describes the situation in Libya by 1969. Oil wealth was flowing into the
country and the profits left over after foreign oil companies had taken their
large slice were then generously distributed to members of the old clans and
the King’s family.
Libya
was divided into three fiercely autonomous regional areas. Gaddafi by
overthrowing the monarchy and later declaring the Jamahiriya (a
republic of the masses in which political power is passed to the people)
made Libya into a one nation state. This fragile unity was maintained with an
iron fist during his 42 years in power a fact frequently overlooked when
assessing the pros and cons of NATO intervention and post – revolutionary
Libya.
Events
can impact our lives dramatically and for Bashir growing up during this period
they were to heavily colour his view. Although I am not trying to write a
history of Libya since the Second World War it is important to be aware that
there are dramatically differing points of view on the reign of King Idris,
both positive and negative. Also, at the start of the 1969 revolution, Bashir
was nineteen and of a generation that is steadily disappearing, being the last
to be able to accurately describe how the landscape was at that time. Gaddafi
ensured that nothing positive could really be written about Libya under King
Idris. The history was to be lost, buried, and forgotten. By September 1969
there were two groups: the old elite and tribal elders and the marginalized.
Members of the latter group were initially to become Gaddafi supporters on the
night of the 31st August and the following morning, as the news of the coup
trickled through.
Bashir
would be the first to say that under the Kingdom he received a first rate
primary and secondary education given that Libya was a developing country
coming out from the ravages of World War ll. Teachers were qualified, many
coming from Iraq, Egypt and Sudan and the professors in the universities were
from the USA and UK. Up to date textbooks were supplied to every child free,
and there was a desk for each one of them in clean, airy classrooms. Bashir
started to learn English at his state secondary school an institution in stark
contrast to the fee – paying elite Tripoli College where only English was used
as the language of instruction. When he reached university his best friend was
the late Bashir Bishti (the son of a former foreign minister and to whom from
now on I shall refer simply as Bishti) who had attended Tripoli College and
whose, Arabic as a result was poor. The joke was that Bishti helped with the
English assignments while Bashir did the Arabic. Bishti had little or no idea
of how to write literate Arabic but had a wonderful grasp of English and the
two of them made good companions.
On
the medical side the hospitals were well maintained and staffed by qualified
expatriate doctors and nurses with all treatment being free. There was also a
private hospital, and those patients needing treatment unavailable in Libya
would be sent for private treatment in London, paid for by the government. When
Bashir’s cousin needed a kidney transplant (which sadly was unsuccessful) he
was sent to Hammersmith Hospital in London.
There
was little if any crime; gold shops packed with expensive wedding jewellery
would be closed at prayer time with two broomsticks across the door. A
population of approximately three million lived more or less harmoniously.
However, the distribution of the oil wealth, property and the allocation of the
choicest jobs were not based on merit but rather through nepotism, cronyism and
tribal influence, overseen by the royal family. The most coveted jobs were in
oil and the military as for both there were opportunities for training abroad,
huge salaries and the chance to skim large helpings of cream from multiple
deals. Where there is inequality, there is fertile ground for dissent and
uprising.
I
have talked to numerous expatriates who were in Libya before and after the
revolution and without exception they will all say that living and working in
Libya was pleasurable before 1969. Huge salaries, luxurious housing, wonderful
beach clubs just for expatriates and a few elite Libyans, casinos, restaurants,
excellent shopping coupled with a very pleasant Mediterranean climate made for
an extremely easy lifestyle and an opportunity to build quite a nest egg.
Throughout
Libya’s post world war history the expatriates have been beneficiaries whereas
the majority of Libyans have been the losers. For the Shkuka family Bashir’s
brother Ismael had recently spent six months in prison for joining a rally
expressing dissatisfaction at the inequalities within the society. The majority
of Libyans, certainly outside of Tripoli and Benghazi, tolerated appalling
infrastructure and lacked any of the benefits such as mains water and
electricity that I in London had taken for granted as a child growing up at the
same time. Even in 1969 it is hard to imagine studying by candlelight and a
kerosene lamp and getting news through a makeshift radio, yet this was how
Bashir studied as a child and in his first year at university. For a society
with new found oil wealth it was becoming apparent that despite improved
aspects in the area of health and education there were a few who lived lavishly
with the majority eking out a living.
On
the evening of the 31st August 1969 Bashir and his brother – in – law to be,
Shaban, were enjoying the twilight on Gargaresh beach. They could see the
sports cars being driven into the New Florida and Polyranna casinos. The
floodlights were shining on Underwater and Rimmal, the two exclusive sports and
social clubs for expatriates and a few select Libyans, occupying the best
positions on Gargaresh beach. Of course these two young Gargaresh lads could in
no way ever dream of joining these famously exclusive playgrounds. They sat on
the beach discussing their lack of opportunities and marginalization within the
society. Late in the evening as frantic sports cars began screeching out of the
clubs, Bashir and Shaban had their first inkling of the peaceful coup that had
taken place in Benghazi. Gargaresh beach and Libya would never be the same
again.
Initially
there was euphoria on the Libyan streets and it was rumoured that in the Libyan
embassy in London some were seen jumping on the tables to celebrate the
overthrow of the monarch. King Idris was in Turkey at the time: he never
returned to Libya but instead went into exile in Egypt. The monarchy was
abolished and a new state formed with the ideals of ‘freedom, socialism and
unity’. The charismatic and exceedingly handsome Gaddafi had taken power along
with his compatriots and formed the new governing revolutionary council. Bashir
recounted how it took him along with others, less than a year to realise that
they had replaced inequality with a monster.
Alas,
as I try to review the historical facts I continually find differences in the
sequence of events and how they are recounted. Gaddafi rewrote his history and
his sycophantic followers assisted him in recording their own versions of the
pre and post 42 years of Gaddafi rule. I do so wish that Bashir had lived to
write this story rather than myself, his wife. He always promised that either
when he retired and was living in England or when Gaddafi was gone that he
would write his memoirs. I have had to keep all my memories in my head.
However, whenever Bashir spoke of the political events which occurred prior to
our meeting, he always described them as being as clear in his mind as they
were when they occurred.
My
recollections are those of a foreigner living in my adopted country of Libya
but also through the eyes of my Libyan husband. Right up to the beginning of
the revolution in 2011 nobody talked about Libya before Gaddafi apart from
perhaps in very tight family groups. It is suspected, and I believe it to be
well grounded, that Gaddafi recruited one third of the country’s adults into
the intelligence service in various capacities to act as ‘antenna’ or
listeners/reporters as Bashir liked to call them. In this way Gaddafi was able
to write history through his own eyes. Fairly accurate smuggled stories were
occasionally reported in the western press, but more often news of life under
the Gaddafi regime was based on hearsay and assumptions. People lived in very
real fear of being caught speaking against the leader or his family, so silence
was the rule for all but the bravest.
Gaddafi
was a disciple of President Jamal Abdul Nasser who had led the Egyptian
revolution against the monarchy in 1952. Nasser introduced far – reaching land
reforms and cracked down on the Muslim Brotherhood. He was to become an iconic
figure in the Arab world due to his anti – imperialist stance especially in his
successful nationalization of the Suez Canal out of the grips of the French and
British. He was equally admired and lauded for his efforts for Arab unity and
his moves towards social justice for Egypt.
Emulating
his role model Gaddafi immediately promoted himself to the same military rank
of Colonel. He then set about tackling the unfair legacy of foreign domination
of the Libyan oil industry. He demanded the renegotiation of oil contracts and
threatened to shut off oil production if the oil companies refused. He
memorably told oil executives ‘people who have lived without oil for 5000 years
can live without it for a few years in order to attain their legitimate
rights’. The gamble paid off and Libya became the first developing country to
secure a majority share of the revenues of its own oil production. Production
levels, matched those of the Gulf States with Libya having one of the smallest
populations in Africa of (less than 3 million at that time). It was at this
early point, that Gaddafi enjoyed the support of most, including Bashir. There
should have been more than enough for one and all.
However,
it was perhaps the in – flow of wealth that became Libya’s ‘curse’ as Bashir
called this black gold. It is easy to say ‘what if’ but I do wonder whether a
Gaddafi, without billions of dollars to hand might have been a very different
Gaddafi. Perhaps the Libyan people might have enjoyed a different kind of
prosperity and freedom? Gaddafi may have secured vast wealth for Libya but
shortly after renegotiating all the contracts the ten members of the revolutionary
council awarded themselves 10 million dollars each for leading the revolution,
with no such largesse for the rest of the population. In later years Gaddafi
was to claim the oil wealth was for himself and his family, the rest of what
little remained being for the Libyans. This greed has never been admitted or
even acknowledged by any of the Gaddafi clan.
There
were two individuals who received very different treatment at this time. The
first was Ali Mdorid, a high ranking military officer and the second was Ahmed
Bishti, a former Libyan foreign minister and father of Bashir’s university
friend, Bashir Bishti. The purge between 1971/72 saw seven former prime
ministers, numerous government officials, as well as King Idris in absentia,
brought to trial on charges of treason and corruption in the Libyan People’s
Court. A good number of these men were subsequently acquitted which was also
the fate for both Ali Mdorid and Ahmed Bishti but in different ways. Ali had
taught Gaddafi at the military college and had gone with the young Gaddafi to
England for training at Sandhurst. For some reason or other the Colonel (as
Gaddafi began to become known by Libyans) never forgot how Ali had taught him
so on learning that he had been arrested, ordered his immediate release. It was
at this point that Ali resigned his commission and joined the Foreign Ministry.
Ahmed Bishti on the other hand was imprisoned but later acquitted. When these
former senior officials and ministers were arrested the majority of people were
terrified at what was occuring and wanted more than anything that this new
legal authority would see no connection with themselves and those arrested or
their families for fear of being found guilty by association. Nonetheless,
Bashir and Bishti went to the prison to discover the circumstances of Ahmed’s
incarceration. They were horrified to find the old man sitting on a concrete
floor with no bedding and a bucket in the corner that had not been emptied and
stank of excrement. He was restricted to a daily ration of a loaf of bread and
a cup of milk or water. Perhaps the only piece of good luck was that he had a
cell to himself. Despite these circumstances Ahmed Bishti was dignified and
stoical; he was a deeply religious man who still somehow believed that justice
would result in him being released. The two young men visited him daily for a
period of around three weeks. His family and relatives stayed away as did his
so – called friends. This shunning of those in political trouble seems to be a
characteristic of many Libyans and was certainly the case when it came to
Bashir being on the Gaddafi blacklist for eight years. No one was willing to
help, even his own family. The experience of Ahmed Bishti’s imprisonment was
one of the events that had a profound effect on Bashir in turning him from
being a Gaddafi supporter to becoming one of the many silent opponents.
Bashir
had had no contact with the pre – revolutionary elite and his view of them was
that they lived an opulent lifestyle with no regard for the majority of
Libyans. Ahmed Bishti though, he saw as a devout man wishing to promote Libyan
interests. Bashir, like the majority of Libyans, had genuinely believed that
summary arrests, torture and disappearances were to be a thing of the past but
seeing Ahmed Bishti in prison was a clear illustration that things had not
changed and were in fact changing for the worse. When Ahmed Bishti was released
he retired to his farm in Zawiya where he lived quietly until his death. His
wife was still alive in 2002, aged 91 when we left Libya for Manila. I wish I
could have interviewed her but Gaddafi was still very much at the helm and no
one spoke or asked, ever.
By
1973 Gaddafi had handed over the day – to – day running of the country to Major
Jaloud while he started writing his infamous Green book. The model that was
created was an ultra – hierarchical pyramid with the Gaddafi family and close
allies at the top wielding power unchecked, protected by a brutal security
apparatus. Tales abounded of torture and lengthy jail terms without trial,
executions and disappearances. This saw the beginning of many of Libya’s
educated and qualified citizens choosing exile rather than paying lip service
to Gaddafi and his Green Book supporters. The majority of those able to go into
exile were the wealthy elite who had the financial means to enable them to
escape. Gaddafi also began his reward system for allegiance at this time with
scholarships to study abroad. Many who took advantage of this benefit would
never return to Libya, choosing to settle primarily in the UK, USA and Italy as
the Gaddafi regime became ever more robust and fearsome. Bashir wished to do a
MA abroad but was only offered a Canadian scholarship to study Library Science,
a subject in which he had no interest, so chose not to take up the offer.
There
was one more episode of friendship and another of terror that confirmed
Bashir’s belief that Gaddafi was a colossal error. He had been at school with
Milad Awassa who of the two was slightly older. Milad was not a particularly spectacular
student, and was held back several times. His family was from a wealthy clan in
Aziziyah, twenty kilometres out of Tripoli. Their income derived from farming
and owning extensive property in Hay Andulus an upmarket Tripoli suburb, which
was primarily rented out to expatriate oil workers for high rents. Bashir and
Milad become inseparable friends and on one occasion he remembered going with
Milad and his father to collect the rent money. To a young and impressionable
poor Gargaresh lad this must have seemed like wealth beyond belief.
Nevertheless it did not impact on their friendship. Happy times were spent
together down on the beach and Bashir grew to know and like the whole family.
Based on Milad’s family background it was therefore in many ways strange that
he became one of Gaddafi’s last bullets (a Libyan/Arabic expression for
a close confident and the final protector). He joined the Libyan forces
fighting in the Yom Kippur war against Israel and through this came to the
notice of Gaddafi on his return to Libya. There was no harm to their friendship
at this stage but while Milad had been away, Bashir had made new friends at the
university with different ideologies to those of Gaddafi’s. He had completely
lost faith in Gaddafi as a leader, and was about to devastatingly lose faith in
his friend Milad.
The
events leading to this chasm began to become apparent in 1973 when Gaddafi gave
a speech in Zawarah, a city 102 kilometres west of Tripoli in which he
initiated a five – point plan that included the removal of all opponents of the
revolution and all traces of bureaucracy and the bourgeoisie; to ‘expunge Libya
of all foreign influences’. Storm clouds were appearing on the horizon. In 1974
a legal reliance on sharia law was introduced with adultery and homosexual
activity to be punishable by flogging (although I have to say that I heard no
account of flogging ever being used as a punishment). Alcohol at the beginning
of the revolution immediately became illegal and this led to some enterprising
expatriates, unscrupulous foreign diplomats and the Gargaresh mafia setting up
illicit stills and becoming millionaires through the sale of illegal alcohol.
Also
it was around this time that conscription for all 18 year olds was enforced. No
longer could the sons of the elite be exempt, and those at university would be
targets for over enthusiastic revolutionary officers. It was a truly miserable
time for those undergoing training. There were many stories of young men having
to crawl on bare knees across the yard for two hours and then having to stand
for hours in the hot Libyan sun without hats or water; Bashir was one of these
young men. This was revenge for the newly appointed revolutionary army officers
and it was payback time for those who had marginalized them. It must have been
incredibly hard for ordinary Libyans to know where to position themselves.
These
radical reforms combined with the abolition of a parliament being replaced by
The People’s Committees led to widespread discontent, especially when it became
known that the Revolutionary Council Committee (RCC) had decided to spend money
on foreign causes. By 1975 as well, members of the original RCC were beginning
to recognize that Gaddafi was moving the revolution in the wrong direction.
Bashir Saghir al Hawaasi and Omar Mfeheshi then launched a failed coup leaving
just five members of the original ten – member council.
The
red line had been crossed with this seeming blanket imposition of new laws.
Bashir remembered going to the University in April 1975 and joining his friends
to demonstrate against these laws and enactments brought in at the maniacal
whim of Gaddafi and his followers. They were also joined by conservative Muslim
brotherhood followers who had been outlawed as being anti – revolutionary. What
they failed to know was that the police and the newly formed and very well
armed revolutionary brigade had been called in to put down the demonstration.
Bashir recounted there were pools of blood spilling everywhere, students and
demonstrators screaming, shouting and yelling all desperately trying to escape
the bullets and the brutality of the police clubbing, hitting and kicking them.
Imagine his horror when along with Major Jalloud he saw his best friend of old
Milad brandishing a Kalashnikov as he stood on a roof top mowing down the
students. Bashir swore never to have any personal contact with Milad again; the
friendship of so many years was cut, over, irreconcilable. At one point much
later when we were homeless, people suggested that Bashir should ask Milad for
help as he was powerful and could undoubtedly have found a solution. Bashir
never went back on his word. Their lives had gone in dramatically different
directions. Milad became one of Gaddafi’s last bullets; his reward was complete
control of meat importation to the entire fiefdom, a highly lucrative contract.
He committed suicide during the revolution when his Gargaresh house was
surrounded by the revolutionaries. It was after long drawn out fierce fighting
that he jumped from the roof in a hail of bullets. He and Bashir had made their
choices long ago. When Bashir heard this news despite everything I saw a tinge
of sadness in his eyes, he made no comment and I did not ask.
Bashir
and his friends were lucky on that day and escaped to their homes unhurt but
were aware that there had been countless injuries and deaths. Could it be
possible that Libyans had harmed each other in such a brutal fashion? They were
having difficulty believing what they had witnessed, the sheer carnage of what
they had just seen and experienced. Gaddafi did not want it known that there
was any dissent; nothing was reported in the press. It is believed at least
thirty students were killed on that terrible day.
Bashir
and Bishti, the two Bashirs, were to discover in the evening, that one
of their friends, whom they called Sheikh because of his deeply held religious
beliefs, had been arrested. Once again it was down to the two of them to locate
their friend and to see how they could help. As was beginning to be the
pattern, other so called friends faded into the woodwork. Thankfully Sheikh was
released after two days and allowed to return to a small flat where he was
living, not wishing to bring attention and danger to his own family. He had
begun writing against the regime and this in all probability was the reason for
his imprisonment. Bashir recalled it was a desperately sad meeting as Sheikh
begged the two not to return and visit him again as he knew that he was going
to be rearrested and that they should not put themselves and their families in
danger, this being especially true for Bishti. These events left such a deep
impression on Bashir and cemented his belief that Gaddafi had to go, but the
question was how? The terrifying reign of terror was to continue through
to 2011 when the bubble burst. Bashir lost so many of his friends; Bishti went
into exile in the USA and died there, Sheikh was arrested and rearrested,
spending long periods in prison, and Milad was a dead name. The friendships of
Bashir’s youth were shattered. Gaddafi had fractured the foundation of Libyan
society and in so doing was able to control it. Fast – forward to the present
and perhaps it can be better understood why the revolution has failed. These
people had been cooped – up in this desolate desert setting and pitched against
itself for decades, Gaddafi’s handiwork is still endemic in every level of
Libyan life today.
If you would like to read the book in it's entirety, it is available on:
Title: Libya, A Love Lived, A Life Betrayed - 9/36
Author: Susan M. Sandover
Published: 28/11/2016
ISBN: 9781785899393
eISBN: 9781785896934
Format: Paperback/eBook
Publisher: Matador
Seller: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Language: English
