Libya: a reader

A collection of the best writing and reporting on Libya.

Sholto Byrnes examines the life of Colonel Gaddafi and his curious relationship with the west in this profile, published last year in the New Statesman.

Gaddafi is the last of that generation, and while others who cloaked themselves in the rhetoric of Nasser have fallen, failed or died, it is the young man once praised by the Egyptian president who now appears to be becoming the kind of Arab leader with whom we can, and with whom we wish, to do business.

Throughout the Nineties and Noughties, Gaddafi transformed from a tyrant to a laughable autocrat in the eyes of the west. He was a bit weird, but he was a man we could do business with, seemed to be the gist of it. And the west did a lot of business with him, something that could prove the final straw for the struggling Silvio Berlusconi, according to James Ridgeway at Mother Jones.

The press struggled to see past the female bodyguards, which was part of Gaddafi's plan, according to Ben Macintyre in the Times (£).

Gaddafi's female bodyguards have kept the tabloids salivating for years, but they too are part of the act. Unlikely tales of repeated assassination attempts foiled by the "killer virgins" help to maintain the illusion of permanent danger, of a nation under threat. From time to time the "Guide of the Revolution" has announced that he is standing down, his mission completed, only to be called back to power by staged rallies of adoring Libyans.

As Gaddafi strutted across the international stage, life in Libya remained a struggle. The New Yorker contains this rather eloquent description of it.

Here's a story they tell in Libya. Three contestants are in a race to run five hundred metres carrying a bag of rats. The first sets off at a good pace, but after a hundred metres the rats have chewed through the bag and spill on to the course. The second contestant gets to a hundred and fifty metres, and the same thing happens. The third contestant shakes the bag so vigorously as he runs that the rats are constantly tumbling and cannot chew on anything, and he takes the prize. That third contestant is Libya's leader, Colonel Muammar Qaddafi, the permanent revolutionary.

Hopes for reform lay briefly on the shoulders of Gaddafi's son Saif. His PhD expounded on the role of civil society in democratisation (you can read it, here). Unfortunately, these words did not translate into action, according to Andrew Solomon of the New Yorker, who argues in this blog post that the protests stem from a lack of reform, endemic poverty and – that worldwide phenomenon – discontented youth.

If the causes of the unrest are unclear, however, the actual events are even murkier. With few mainstream media outlets in Libya, reports are based around grimy, unclear clips, often taken on mobile phones.

The following video appears to show government troops opening fire on protesters. [Warning: extremely graphic images]

 

After reports – spread by, of all people, William Hague – circulated that Gaddafi had fled to Venezuela, the Libyan leader appeared on state television last night and, in a bizarre public address, said:

I am satisfied, because I was speaking in front of the youth in the Green Square tonight, but the rain came, praise to God, it is a good omen.

I want to clarify for them that I am in Tripoli not in Venezuela. Do not believe these channels – they are dogs. Goodbye.

Throw in the apparent defection of two Libyan pilots and the situation becomes even more of a confusing morass. To try to keep abrest of the events in Libya, follow this Twitter list.

Getty
Show Hide image

Wrists, knees, terrible rages – I felt overwhelmed when Barry came to see me

I teach my registrars to be aware how a consultation is making them feel: that can give valuable clues to the patient’s own emotional state.

To begin with, it seemed that Barry’s wrists were the problem. He told me about the pain he was experiencing, the pins and needles that came and went in his hands. I started to examine him. His palms were calloused, his fingers thick and stubby, veterans of the heavy work he’d undertaken throughout his 57 years. Even as I assessed this first problem, he mentioned his knees. I moved on to look at those. Then it was his back. I couldn’t get to grips with one thing before he veered to the next.

I teach my registrars to be aware how a consultation is making them feel: that can give valuable clues to the patient’s own emotional state. Barry was making me feel overwhelmed, the more so as I learned that he’d been experiencing all these problems for years.

“Why are you coming to see me about them now,” I asked, “rather than six months ago – or in six months’ time?”

“I need some time off, doc.”

There was something about the way he wouldn’t meet my gaze. And again, that feeling of being overwhelmed.

“What’s going on at work?” I asked him.

His tone hardened as he told me how he’d lost his temper a couple of days earlier. How one of the others had been winding him up, and something inside him had snapped, and he’d taken a swing at his workmate and landed a punch.

Barry had walked out and hadn’t been back. I tried to find out if he’d heard from his boss about the incident, if he knew what was likely to happen next.

He told me he didn’t care.

We talked some more. I learned that he’d been uncharacteristically short-tempered for months; his partner was fed up with being shouted at. Sleep had gone to pot, and Barry had taken to drinking heavily to knock himself out at night. He was smoking twice his usual amount. Men like Barry often don’t experience depression as classic low mood and tearfulness; they become filled with rage and turn in on themselves, repelling those closest to them in the process.

Depression is a complex condition, with roots that can frequently be traced right back to childhood experiences, but bouts are often precipitated by problems with relationships, work, money, or health. In Barry’s case, the main factor turned out to be his job. He’d been an HGV driver but at the start of the year his company had lost its operator’s licence. To keep the business afloat, his boss had diversified. Barry hated what he now had to do. He was now a “catcher”.

I didn’t know what that meant. Getting up at the crack of dawn, he told me, driving to some factory farm somewhere, entering huge sheds and spending hours catching chickens, thousands upon thousands of them, shoving them into crates, stashing the crates on a lorry, working under relentless pressure to get the sheds cleared and the birds off to the next stage of the food production chain.

“It’s a young man’s game,” he told me. “It’s crippling me, all that bending and catching.”

It wasn’t really his joints, though. Men like Barry can find it hard to talk about difficult emotion, but it was there in his eyes. I had a sudden understanding: Barry, capturing bird after panicking bird, stuffing them into the transport containers, the air full of alarmed clucking and dislodged feathers. Hour after hour of it. It was traumatising him, but he couldn’t admit anything so poncey.

“I just want to get back to driving.”

That would mean landing a new job, and he doubted he would be able to do so, not at his age. He couldn’t take just any old work, either: he had to earn a decent wage to keep up with a still sizeable mortgage.

We talked about how antidepressants might improve his symptoms, and made a plan to tackle the alcohol. I signed him off to give him some respite and a chance to look for new work – the one thing that was going to resolve his depression. But in the meantime, he felt as trapped as the chickens that he cornered, day after soul-destroying day.

Phil Whitaker’s novel “Sister Sebastian’s Library” will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt