 "The dictator's playthings")
On the sixth day Gaddafi received me with a whiskey in his hand. "It's time you started drinking, my whore!" It was Black Label, a bottle with a characteristic black mark that I would recognize anywhere. I'd always heard that the Koran forbade the drinking of alcohol and that Gaddafi was an extremely religious man. At school and on television they presented him as the finest defender of Islam, always referring to the Koran, leading prayers amid the crowds. So to see him drink whiskey like that was completely unbelievable. You have no idea what a shock it was. The man presented as the father of the Libyans, as the builder of the law, of justice, and as the guardian of absolute authority was violating all the beliefs he professed! Everything was a sham. Everything my teachers taught us, everything in which my parents believed was a lie. "If they only knew!" I said to myself. He handed me a glass. "Drink, you whore!" I wet my lips, felt something burn and despised the taste. "Come on, drink it! Like medicine!"
That same night we all left, in convoy, for Tripoli: a dozen cars or so, the huge camper van, and a pickup loaded with equipment, including a lot of large tents. All the girls were in uniform again and all of them looked thrilled to be leaving. I was in despair. Leaving Sirte meant I'd be even farther away from my parents, losing any chance to go back home. I tried to imagine a way to escape, but it was useless. Was there a single place in Libya where one could escape Gaddafi? His police, his militia, his spies were everywhere. Neighbors kept an eye on neighbors and even within some families there might be denunciations. I was his prisoner and at his mercy. The girl sitting next to me in the car noticed my tears. "Oh, little one! They told me they took you from school . . ." I didn't answer. Through the window I was watching Sirte vanish in the distance. I was unable to say a word. "Oh, it will be all right!" the girl next to the driver called out. "We're all in the same situation."
The days went by - seasons, national and religious holidays, Ramadans. I was gradually losing any sense of time. Day or night, in the basement the lighting was always the same. And my life was restricted to this narrow field, dependent on the desires and moods of the Colonel. When we'd discuss him among ourselves we gave him no name or title. "He," "Him" were more than enough. He was our center of gravity. There was no possibility of confusion.
I knew nothing about the way the country was going or of the tremors in the rest of the world. Sometimes there were rumors that there was a summit of African leaders or that an eminent head of state was visiting. Most of the meetings took place in the official tent, which "He" would travel to in a golf cart. Before interviews and important discussions, and before all public speeches, he'd smoke hash or take cocaine. He was almost always under the influence of some drug or other. Parties and cocktails were frequently organized in the reception rooms at the house, and attended by the regime's dignitaries and numerous foreign delegations.
We would spot the women right away for, naturally, that's what interested him, and it was Mabrouka's mission to lure them to his room. Students, artists, journalists, models, daughters or wives of prominent or military men, of heads of state. The more prestigious the fathers or husbands were, the more lavish the gifts had to be. A small room next to his office served as Aladdin's cave, where Mabrouka would put the gifts. There I saw Samsonite suitcases filled with wads of dollars and euros, cases with jewelry, gold jewelry sets usually given as wedding gifts, and diamond necklaces. Most of the women had to submit to a blood test, which was administered discreetly by the Ukrainian nurses in a small living room with red seats, located across from the office of the guards. I suppose the wives of state leaders were exempt from this, but I don't know for sure. It always surprised me to see the visiting women head toward his room, immaculately dressed, designer purse in hand, and then come out with their lipstick smudged and their hair undone.
Leila Trabelsi, the wife of the Tunisian dictator Ben Ali, was evidently close to him. She came many times, and Mabrouka adored her. "Oh, Leila my love!" she'd exclaim, always happy to have her on the phone or to announce her arrival. Nothing was too good for her. I specifically recall a box, like a small magic chest, covered in gold. Over time I saw countless wives of African heads of state go to the residence, though I didn't know their names. And Cecilia Sarkozy as well, the wife of the French president-pretty, arrogant-whom the other girls pointed out to me. In Sirte, I saw Tony Blair come out of the Guide's camper. "Hello, girls!" he tossed out to us with an amicable gesture and a cheerful smile.
From Sirte we'd sometimes go to the desert. Gaddafi liked to pitch his tent there, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by herds of dromedaries. He'd settle down to have tea, talk for hours on end with the elders of his tribe, read, and take naps. He never spent the night; he preferred the comfort of his camper, which is where he'd call for us to join him. In the morning we had to accompany him on the hunt, all of us in uniform. The charade that we were bodyguards was maintained and a woman named Zorah, a true soldier, made sure that I behaved like a professional. One day she was actually given the responsibility of teaching me how to handle a Kalashnikov: take it apart, load it, set it, clean it. "Fire!" she yelled at me when I held the weapon against my shoulder. I refused. I never fired a single shot.
I also discovered the Guide's [Gaddafi's] reliance on black magic, which was Mabrouka's influence. That is how she had a hold over him, they said. She'd consult marabouts and sorcerers all over Africa, and occasionally brought them to the Guide. I saw Al-Hachemi. He didn't wear any talisman but he put mysterious, always oily ointments on his body, recited incomprehensible formulas, and kept his little red towel close at hand.
Wherever he went, the little crew of Ukrainian nurses - Galina, Elena, Claudia - was always with him. Dressed meticulously in white and blue uniforms, without makeup, they usually worked in the small hospital at Bab al-Azizia but, at his command, could appear at his side in less than five minutes. Not only were they assigned to perform the obligatory blood tests before the Guide's sexual encounters, but they also took care of his personal medical needs and supervised his health and diet. When I expressed worry about getting pregnant I was told that Galina gave the Guide injections that made him infertile. I don't know much about that, but I wasn't confronted with the question of abortion, as were others before me. They all called him Papa, even if he had sexual relations with them; Galina complained about it in front of me. But was there ever a single woman whom he didn't want to possess at least once?
Extracted from Gaddafi's Harem by Annick Cojean published by Grove Press, Rs 799
THE TRUTH BEHIND GADDAFI'S 'AMAZONS'
Colonel Gaddafi's female bodyguards - those whom the international press nicknamed "Amazons" - contributed a great deal to his legend and his media success. Undoubtedly, they left as much of an imprint on the minds of others as did his ever more eccentric attire, his rock star sunglasses, his tousled mop of hair,and his perpetually made-up, Botox-treated, cocaine-addicted face. They followed him everywhere, poured into the most varied uniforms, some of them armed, others not; their hair down to their shoulders or neatly tucked inside a beret, cap, or turban; often wearing makeup and earrings and pendants bearing the image of the Guide, their feet tucked in heavy-duty boots, high-heeled ankle boots, and, occasionally, pumps.
They served as his standard-bearers, a foil for him, attracting photographers and fascinating heads of state and ministers, who came to welcome him at the airport as he arrived or were received at Bab al-Azizia for an audience in the tent. Thus the former French minister of foreign affairs Roland Dumas was delighted to be escorted by some "very pretty armed young girls," and Silvio Berlusconi's lecherous smiles spoke volumes about his satisfaction on visits to Libya. But the message Gaddafi conveyed was extremely ambiguous.
Sure, it confirmed his singular eccentricity on the world stage. A megalomaniac and provocateur, the Colonel attached a great deal of importance to his image and to the staging of his appearances and speeches. On the one hand, he wanted to be known as unique, tolerated no competition or comparison, all but prohibited any name other than his own to emerge from his country (no Libyan writer, musician, athlete, merchant, economist, or politician could ever be recognized during his reign; soccer players could be identified only by the number on their jersey). So the idea of intriguing the entire world by presenting himself as the only head of state who had a completely female guard fulfilled this ambition.
It also seemed to put into practice his view of himself as the great liberator of women. How many conferences and rants must he have delivered on this theme? How many lessons must he have given to the West and the whole Arab world? A truth to be acknowledged by all: Colonel Gaddafi was "the friend of women." There was not a single trip into the regions of Libya, not a single tour abroad where this message was not hammered out at a meeting with some women's association. He had already laid out a certain attitude toward women in the third volume of his famous Green Book (equality between the sexes, freedom from discrimination, the right to work for everyone on the condition that women's "femininity" be respected), but his intention was rapidly radicalized, leading in 1979 to the creation of a Military Academy for Women and, two years later, to a fiery and triumphant speech when the first to receive their degrees were presented before the country. This school, unique in the world, would be an enormous source of pride for Libya, he proclaimed. How daring the multitudes of young Libyan women who registered were, embodying the shining proof of how mentalities had changed. They had to continue!...
...Having an escort of Amazons flattered the Colonel's idea of himself as a seducer, feeding people's fantasies and suspicions. The cliche of the oriental harem was never far away - in sharp contrast to his feminist rhetoric - and was reinforced by the absence on the public stage of his legal wife, Safia Farkash, the official mother of seven of his children, whom he had married in 1971 (after a lightning-quick divorce from his previous wife). All these young women at his service, devoted to him, and ready to give up their lives for him . . . The message was, shall we say, blurred.
- Annick Cojean
That same night we all left, in convoy, for Tripoli: a dozen cars or so, the huge camper van, and a pickup loaded with equipment, including a lot of large tents. All the girls were in uniform again and all of them looked thrilled to be leaving. I was in despair. Leaving Sirte meant I'd be even farther away from my parents, losing any chance to go back home. I tried to imagine a way to escape, but it was useless. Was there a single place in Libya where one could escape Gaddafi? His police, his militia, his spies were everywhere. Neighbors kept an eye on neighbors and even within some families there might be denunciations. I was his prisoner and at his mercy. The girl sitting next to me in the car noticed my tears. "Oh, little one! They told me they took you from school . . ." I didn't answer. Through the window I was watching Sirte vanish in the distance. I was unable to say a word. "Oh, it will be all right!" the girl next to the driver called out. "We're all in the same situation."
* * *
The days went by - seasons, national and religious holidays, Ramadans. I was gradually losing any sense of time. Day or night, in the basement the lighting was always the same. And my life was restricted to this narrow field, dependent on the desires and moods of the Colonel. When we'd discuss him among ourselves we gave him no name or title. "He," "Him" were more than enough. He was our center of gravity. There was no possibility of confusion.
I knew nothing about the way the country was going or of the tremors in the rest of the world. Sometimes there were rumors that there was a summit of African leaders or that an eminent head of state was visiting. Most of the meetings took place in the official tent, which "He" would travel to in a golf cart. Before interviews and important discussions, and before all public speeches, he'd smoke hash or take cocaine. He was almost always under the influence of some drug or other. Parties and cocktails were frequently organized in the reception rooms at the house, and attended by the regime's dignitaries and numerous foreign delegations.
We would spot the women right away for, naturally, that's what interested him, and it was Mabrouka's mission to lure them to his room. Students, artists, journalists, models, daughters or wives of prominent or military men, of heads of state. The more prestigious the fathers or husbands were, the more lavish the gifts had to be. A small room next to his office served as Aladdin's cave, where Mabrouka would put the gifts. There I saw Samsonite suitcases filled with wads of dollars and euros, cases with jewelry, gold jewelry sets usually given as wedding gifts, and diamond necklaces. Most of the women had to submit to a blood test, which was administered discreetly by the Ukrainian nurses in a small living room with red seats, located across from the office of the guards. I suppose the wives of state leaders were exempt from this, but I don't know for sure. It always surprised me to see the visiting women head toward his room, immaculately dressed, designer purse in hand, and then come out with their lipstick smudged and their hair undone.
Leila Trabelsi, the wife of the Tunisian dictator Ben Ali, was evidently close to him. She came many times, and Mabrouka adored her. "Oh, Leila my love!" she'd exclaim, always happy to have her on the phone or to announce her arrival. Nothing was too good for her. I specifically recall a box, like a small magic chest, covered in gold. Over time I saw countless wives of African heads of state go to the residence, though I didn't know their names. And Cecilia Sarkozy as well, the wife of the French president-pretty, arrogant-whom the other girls pointed out to me. In Sirte, I saw Tony Blair come out of the Guide's camper. "Hello, girls!" he tossed out to us with an amicable gesture and a cheerful smile.
From Sirte we'd sometimes go to the desert. Gaddafi liked to pitch his tent there, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by herds of dromedaries. He'd settle down to have tea, talk for hours on end with the elders of his tribe, read, and take naps. He never spent the night; he preferred the comfort of his camper, which is where he'd call for us to join him. In the morning we had to accompany him on the hunt, all of us in uniform. The charade that we were bodyguards was maintained and a woman named Zorah, a true soldier, made sure that I behaved like a professional. One day she was actually given the responsibility of teaching me how to handle a Kalashnikov: take it apart, load it, set it, clean it. "Fire!" she yelled at me when I held the weapon against my shoulder. I refused. I never fired a single shot.
I also discovered the Guide's [Gaddafi's] reliance on black magic, which was Mabrouka's influence. That is how she had a hold over him, they said. She'd consult marabouts and sorcerers all over Africa, and occasionally brought them to the Guide. I saw Al-Hachemi. He didn't wear any talisman but he put mysterious, always oily ointments on his body, recited incomprehensible formulas, and kept his little red towel close at hand.
Wherever he went, the little crew of Ukrainian nurses - Galina, Elena, Claudia - was always with him. Dressed meticulously in white and blue uniforms, without makeup, they usually worked in the small hospital at Bab al-Azizia but, at his command, could appear at his side in less than five minutes. Not only were they assigned to perform the obligatory blood tests before the Guide's sexual encounters, but they also took care of his personal medical needs and supervised his health and diet. When I expressed worry about getting pregnant I was told that Galina gave the Guide injections that made him infertile. I don't know much about that, but I wasn't confronted with the question of abortion, as were others before me. They all called him Papa, even if he had sexual relations with them; Galina complained about it in front of me. But was there ever a single woman whom he didn't want to possess at least once?
Extracted from Gaddafi's Harem by Annick Cojean published by Grove Press, Rs 799
THE TRUTH BEHIND GADDAFI'S 'AMAZONS'
Colonel Gaddafi's female bodyguards - those whom the international press nicknamed "Amazons" - contributed a great deal to his legend and his media success. Undoubtedly, they left as much of an imprint on the minds of others as did his ever more eccentric attire, his rock star sunglasses, his tousled mop of hair,and his perpetually made-up, Botox-treated, cocaine-addicted face. They followed him everywhere, poured into the most varied uniforms, some of them armed, others not; their hair down to their shoulders or neatly tucked inside a beret, cap, or turban; often wearing makeup and earrings and pendants bearing the image of the Guide, their feet tucked in heavy-duty boots, high-heeled ankle boots, and, occasionally, pumps.
They served as his standard-bearers, a foil for him, attracting photographers and fascinating heads of state and ministers, who came to welcome him at the airport as he arrived or were received at Bab al-Azizia for an audience in the tent. Thus the former French minister of foreign affairs Roland Dumas was delighted to be escorted by some "very pretty armed young girls," and Silvio Berlusconi's lecherous smiles spoke volumes about his satisfaction on visits to Libya. But the message Gaddafi conveyed was extremely ambiguous.
Sure, it confirmed his singular eccentricity on the world stage. A megalomaniac and provocateur, the Colonel attached a great deal of importance to his image and to the staging of his appearances and speeches. On the one hand, he wanted to be known as unique, tolerated no competition or comparison, all but prohibited any name other than his own to emerge from his country (no Libyan writer, musician, athlete, merchant, economist, or politician could ever be recognized during his reign; soccer players could be identified only by the number on their jersey). So the idea of intriguing the entire world by presenting himself as the only head of state who had a completely female guard fulfilled this ambition.
It also seemed to put into practice his view of himself as the great liberator of women. How many conferences and rants must he have delivered on this theme? How many lessons must he have given to the West and the whole Arab world? A truth to be acknowledged by all: Colonel Gaddafi was "the friend of women." There was not a single trip into the regions of Libya, not a single tour abroad where this message was not hammered out at a meeting with some women's association. He had already laid out a certain attitude toward women in the third volume of his famous Green Book (equality between the sexes, freedom from discrimination, the right to work for everyone on the condition that women's "femininity" be respected), but his intention was rapidly radicalized, leading in 1979 to the creation of a Military Academy for Women and, two years later, to a fiery and triumphant speech when the first to receive their degrees were presented before the country. This school, unique in the world, would be an enormous source of pride for Libya, he proclaimed. How daring the multitudes of young Libyan women who registered were, embodying the shining proof of how mentalities had changed. They had to continue!...
...Having an escort of Amazons flattered the Colonel's idea of himself as a seducer, feeding people's fantasies and suspicions. The cliche of the oriental harem was never far away - in sharp contrast to his feminist rhetoric - and was reinforced by the absence on the public stage of his legal wife, Safia Farkash, the official mother of seven of his children, whom he had married in 1971 (after a lightning-quick divorce from his previous wife). All these young women at his service, devoted to him, and ready to give up their lives for him . . . The message was, shall we say, blurred.
- Annick Cojean