by Tom Vitale
Fuck. I’d been counting on Misrata being a more relaxed environment so we could catch our breath. There were two important scenes scheduled for today, and I didn’t want to rush through them. I traveled to location in the truck with Hamid.
“So, what do you guys do when not helping out film crews?” I asked, making small talk.
“We hunt down former Gaddafi supporters,” Hamid said. “Torture and kill the fuckers.”
“Ohh… okay… cool,” I said. Note to self: stay on Hamid’s good side.
Misrata’s War Museum was set up to honor the revolution and those lost fighting for freedom. Out front were a collection of tanks, mortars, RPGs, makeshift slingshots, a beached yacht, as well as Gaddafi’s famous sculpture of a golden fist crushing an American fighter jet. Inside was one large room, photos of the martyrs plastered floor to ceiling, on every wall. They looked like everyday people of all ages, including children. Below each face was a name and their date of death. Several families with children wandered, looking at the exhibits and taking pictures. Hamid walked Tony around the room telling him stories of the fallen. He’d known at least a dozen of them personally. In addition to the martyrs were improvised weapons used to fight Gaddafi, like a periscope constructed from PVC tubing and a makeup compact as well as a jury-rigged rocket launcher.
“This one is a homemade rifle,” Hamid said, pointing to a handgun with a two-by-four handle on one end and a pipe mounted to the other.
“Unbelievable,” Tony said, genuinely impressed. “You gotta have a lot of courage to go out with that as a weapon.”
“We had no other solution,” Hamid said.
Among the war trophies was a collection of personal items once belonging to Gaddafi, many taken from the Bab al-Aziziya compound in Tripoli. There was Gaddafi’s silver-and-gold-plated AK-47, gold-fringed china, a golden saber, and even what looked like chairs from the Golden Girls set.
“It seems whenever they kill a despot, turns out their things are always tacky,” Tony said. “Like a pimp.”
“This was Gaddafi’s shaving kit,” Hamid said, kicking what remained of a medium-sized Louis Vuitton suitcase. “He wore hair dye and beauty masks.” Among the items was a set of gold-plated combs and brushes, various hair and grooming products, and sure enough, a Deep Cleansing Pure Clay Formula Mudd Mask.
In one corner of the museum a TV was showing unedited cell phone footage of Gaddafi, bloodied, surrounded by a wild mob of revolutionaries. The graphic video played silently on a loop.
“Gaddafi’s lucky day,” Hamid said with a chuckle.
“This is when he gets the good news,” Tony said.
“Tick, tock. Tick, tock,” Damien called over the walkie.
On our way out, Tony stopped to sign the guest book. “It’s nice once in a lifetime to see the good guys win. Respect. Anthony Bourdain,” he wrote.
“Thank you, Hamid,” I said. “That was a powerful scene. I hate to rush, but we have to be out of here before the protest.”
“What protest?” Hamid asked.
“I thought there was a big protest here this afternoon?” I said.
“You mean the funeral?” Hamid asked.
OUR CONVOY BOUNCED DOWN A dirt road kicking up a cloud of dust before finally stopping at a cinder-block structure. It was a beautiful spot perched on a small promontory overlooking the Mediterranean. “Most meals in Libya are eaten at home, but it’s not uncommon to get together with friends for a beachside barbeque on the weekend.” Or so I’d written in the treatment.
“I told you that goat was not worth two hundred dollars,” Reda said. “And it’s not even a goat, it’s a sheep.”
Reda was right, a sheep was bleating away, tied up in the back of a pickup truck. Frankly, I didn’t care what kind of animal we’d procured or what it cost, as long as it wasn’t an endangered species. I was impressed at Reda’s willingness to stand up to a well-armed militia to ensure that we weren’t taken advantage of in his country. While the crew unloaded gear from the van, I took a look around to check out the location. On the leeward side of the shack I came across Hamid and a couple of his militia buddies. He didn’t look happy.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“This is shit,” Hamid said, slapping down a newspaper on the table. On the cover I could see a group photo of the GNC, Libya’s first democratically elected government in over forty years. “All of them were in London, they only came here after we fought the revolution!” Hamid said. “These are not real Libyans…”
“Umm… While we have a minute can we go over the plan for the barbeque?” I asked, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible.
“Yeah, just catch this first,” Hamid said, and threw a grenade at me. I recoiled from the explosive, which hit the ground with a thump. Over the ringing in my ears, I could hear laughter. Hamid and his friends were doubled over. “You should see the look on your face!” Hamid gasped. “Relax, man, it’s just a lighter!”
I tried to smile, but I don’t know how successful I was.
“No hard feelings, have a drink.” Hamid opened a recycled plastic cola bottle and filled a cup halfway. “This is our famous Libyan boha,” he said, handing me the drink. “It’s like homemade vodka.”
With alcohol strictly prohibited in Libya, it had been days since any of us had hit the booze, and I greedily swallowed the boha in one gulp. A warm, comforting sensation instantly radiated throughout my body. “Oh, wow, that feels good,” I said.
“That’s because you’re an alcoholic,” Damien said.
Todd and Zach started filming b-roll, the landscape glowing in the mellow late afternoon sun. A steady breeze blew off the sea, kicking up the surf along an empty beach stretching to infinity. Tony and the militia guys were drinking non-alcoholic beer when the cameras were around—and boha when they weren’t—everyone was having fun. An eight-year-old valet parked cars for late arriving guests. I made sure we got that shot. All in all, the scene was turning out quite well, considering.
Everyone gathered around to pray, which meant it was time to get the obligatory slaughter shot. I hid behind Zach so I wouldn’t have to watch as one of the militia members held down the struggling sheep and slit its throat.
“Halal style,” Damien said matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly how al-Qaeda does it.”
“That’s not funny,” I said, my voice a bit shaky.
When we’d finished filming for the day, a joint was passed around, but I declined. I watched Tony laughing with Hamid. He was really in love with the militia. He’d even nicknamed them “the Misrata Boys.”
“Okay, everyone,” I said over the walkie. “We have to get back to the hotel before sundown.”
“DID YOU HEAR ABOUT WHAT’S happening in Mali?” said a very worried looking Zach. “Damien told me jihadists could be moving this way, and they’re saying the first to burn will be Westerners!”
I looked past Zach into the hotel lobby where Damien and Josh were watching a local news channel broadcasting footage of French troops landing in Timbuktu. Josh put his head in his hands.
“Mali is thousands of miles from here,” I said, returning my attention to Zach. “Do you really think that a van of jihadists is going to make it all the way through countless checkpoints just to target us? That’s not rational. Pull your shit together!”
Zach was frightened, and I should have had more sympathy. He wasn’t crazy; it was scary being here, and “Why are we even here in the first place?” was a totally legitimate question to be asking. On top of that, Damien had been filling our heads with images of jihadists beheading journalists and suicide bombings for days now. If the threats were as grave as he was telling everyone, why hadn’t he pulled the plug? He had the power to terminate the shoot with the snap of his fingers. But if he pulled the plug and we all went home, and it turned out there was no real threat… well, that would be very bad for Damien. Instead, if I was the one that threw in the towel—either because I was frightened or I had to bow
to pressure from the crew—then no skin off Damien’s nose. It was the only logical explanation. Or was it? At this point I had no perspective. Was Damien capable of playing such intense head games? Could Damien be right? Damien’s job wasn’t to scare us. He’d never done that before. What was different this time?
“GUYS, REALLY… WHAT ARE WE DOING here?” Zach said, pacing back and forth. “This isn’t what we do. This is Vice territory.”
“Look, I get it, I get it, Libya is scary,” Tony said. “Frankly, I’m scared too. But we’re telling a story that’s really, really special. And we’re being well looked after by the Misrata Boys.”
“Damien’s talking about a lot of scary shit, but it’s nothing different than what was going on before we arrived. I think he’s mind-fucking us,” I said. Having found myself in the truly terrifying situation of not trusting the people hired to protect us, I’d convened a private meeting in Tony’s hotel room, no security guys. I was worried about our safety, but I had to keep a level head, and according to everyone but our security team, the situation was stable.
“I’m not buying it either,” Todd said. “Something’s up. I’ve heard what Damien says and then how he changes his tone depending on who’s around.” Oh, thank God! Another voice of reason. Somewhere on the spectrum between strong-willed and stubborn, Todd was not highly susceptible to manipulation.
“Bottom line, what uncertainty exists is more than made up for by the certainty that we are getting really good footage,” Tony said. “Nobody’s seen this side of Libya before. Let’s finish what we started. Who’s with me?”
“I am,” I said.
“Me too,” Todd said.
“It’s only another couple days,” Josh said.
“Arrgh. Fuck it,” Zach said.
“Tom, hang out for a minute,” Tony said. He waited for everyone else to leave then closed the door. “Good work holding it together,” he said, clapping me on the back. “Your dedication has not gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you,” I said, genuinely flattered by the rare compliment. “You know, if two—”
“Need be we can get rid of Damien too,” Tony said. “Now that we have our own militia. I mean, it’s not like we’re in a fucking war zone with bullets flying over our heads or people throwing grenades at us.”
THE NEXT MORNING AT BREAKFAST, Damien informed us that the UK Foreign Office was issuing another statement, something regarding an imminent threat against the embassy in Tripoli, which happened to be where we were headed. Midway through loading the vans, Reda appeared.
“Can we talk?” Reda asked. “It’s important.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, happy to see him. “What’s up?”
“It’s about the mili—” Reda was cut off by my phone ringing.
“Fuck, it’s Tony,” I said. “Can we talk once we get on the way?”
The trip ended up being filled with last-minute logistical details, though, so we arrived in Tripoli without having had the chance to talk.
Once there, I sent Todd to get some time-lapse images from the hotel roof. Meanwhile Zach and I went down to the corniche to film a walking beat with Tony. The late afternoon sun reflected off the Mediterranean. We set up outside an amusement park in the shadow of large buildings that had been frozen mid-construction since the civil war broke out. The call to prayer competed with “Do You Think I’m Sexy” coming from loudspeakers in the park, and seagull calls mixed with the sound of kids laughing and screaming on the rides. I was caught off guard as, unprompted, Tony began talking to the camera.
“It’s the perfect moment, you know… smiling, happy kids, the mosque… Rod Stewart playing in the background… and a pickup truck with militia off camera. Looking at us. Smiling, but talking on their cell phones,” Tony said. “Who are the good guys? Are we the good guys? It’s a very complicated issue here, by the way. Who the good guys are… Cotton candy, anyone?”
Finally, some good luck. This was just supposed to be a walking beat, but Tony was paying out triple sevens on content. He walked over to the water’s edge and continued talking.
“Look, what do I know? I’ve been here a week. There’s a lot going on. A lot of it good, a lot of it bad… But, in spite of the fact this has been a really hard shoot, for me this is a happy show. Whatever you think about Libya—and whatever happens here—I very much feel like the good guys won. I’m not an optimistic guy, but I generally feel—and this experience reaffirms it—the world is mostly filled with pretty nice people, doing the best they can…” Tony smiled and looked off at the setting sun. “All right, back to the ranch?”
“WE NEED TO TALK,” DAMIEN said as I arrived back at the hotel.
“Okay,” I said, preparing myself for whatever mental torture he was cooking up. “What’s going on?”
“We have a little problem on our hands,” he said. I knew it. Damien was probably about to tell me that the latest intel suggested Tripoli was sitting on an active volcano. He took a sip of tea, his yellow eyes trained on me, unblinking. “Hamid has informed me Adnan, one of the production assistants, accused Reda of raping him.”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“I took the liberty of sending Adnan home,” Damien said.
“Wait, wait, wait. What the fuck happened?”
“While you were out filming, I interviewed Adnan independently. His story seems credible. Hamid, along with the rest of the militia, are extremely upset. They wanted to arrest Reda immediately. I was able to convince them to wait twenty-four hours until we can all be on a flight out of the country.”
I slumped down into the couch, head spinning. Was this what Reda had wanted to talk to me about? I didn’t want to believe Reda had done what he was being accused of. I also didn’t want to discount Adnan’s accusation out of hand, but certain words kept repeating in my head. Like “militia extremely upset” and “arrest Reda.” I knew what that meant. Homosexuality was a criminal offense in Libya but, in this case anyway, I was worried it would be dealt with by vigilante justice. “Oh, my fucking god.” I stammered, “We-we have to warn Reda!”
“I understand you’re upset, but our objective is to protect you all who have hired us to do so,” Damien said.
I searched Damien’s face, desperate to discover that this was just some awful and inappropriate joke. Other than the twitch in his left eyelid, he seemed as calm as ever. “I’m sorry, but this is Reda’s country, and as much as our more delicate Western sensibilities may be offended by such practices, this is how justice is delivered in Libya.”
“But they might kill him!” I said, trying to control my voice.
“They very well might, they also might not,” Damien said. “Militias are the authority here; police, judge, and jury. It’s far from our place to interfere with how they do their business. We have no choice but to let nature take its course. Ultimately, this is not our concern.”
“This is insane!” I said, losing control of myself. Since this was Libya, clearly I wasn’t going to make a public protest, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to stand by and let an injustice like this occur. “Even if Reda is guilty, he doesn’t deserve to be tortured or killed. And on top of that, if we weren’t here, he never would’ve met the militia, and none of this would be happening. So, I do think it’s our fucking concern!”
“I believe you’re failing to grasp the gravity of the situation,” Damien said. He was right. I was having trouble grasping what was happening. It sounded like we were talking about a National Geographic lion-hunts-the-zebra scenario. I’d held it together so far, but I’d reached my breaking point. The shoot was definitely over.
“We at least have to have a meeting,” I insisted. “Like we’ve been doing, let the rest of the crew weigh in. I know they would agree with me, we have to give Reda a heads-up!”
“You need to do what’s best, not what’s right,” Damien said. “Getting involved in any way would present an extreme danger to yourself, as well as the rest of the crew. Even telling them abou
t the situation will put everyone in a state of jeopardy. You must say nothing. Go pack.”
It sounded like a tea kettle was boiling next to my ears, and I was getting that funny metallic taste in my mouth. Something didn’t add up. But at the same time, things in this world rarely did. And the risk of a misstep, given the circumstances, could be catastrophic. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, maybe Damien was right. I went to my room to call Sandy, and explained the whole situation as far as I understood it.
“I think you’re absolutely right,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if Reda did what he’s being accused of or not. The punishment is so far outsized compared to the crime. And we are involved. I know Damien has everyone’s best interest in mind, but I think having a meeting and letting everyone decide for themselves is the right thing to do.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” I said, starting to regain my composure. If nothing else, I’d always seen Sandy as having a sober hand on the tiller, so her reassurance meant a lot. I was the only gay crew member, and everyone knew, but it almost never came up. I’d never taken a stand, but it was time. I called a meeting, and thirty minutes later, everyone but Todd and Damien were impatiently waiting to hear what I had to say.
“How much longer are we gonna wait?” Tony asked. “Let’s just get this over with. Josh can share the minutes with everyone who isn’t here.”
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” I said.
Not long after, there was a knock at the door. Through the peephole I could see Damien and Todd, and they seemed to be chuckling about something, which I took as a good sign. On his way in, Todd greeted me with a jovial, “Good evening, Tommy.”
Damien paused and said, “Mind if we have a brief word in the john?” He closed the bathroom door after me and stated more than asked, “I presume you’ve taken what I’ve said to heart and we will not be discussing anything related to Reda.”