Gaddafi's Harem

by Cojean, Annick

“I promise you, Master, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, slut? You have the gall to say you did nothing wrong?”

  “Nothing! What could I have done?”

  “Something you’ll not be doing again, you whore!”

  Whereupon, yanking me by the hair, he forced me down on my knees and ordered Mabrouka: “Give me a knife!” I thought he was going to kill me. His eyes were wild; I knew he was ready for anything. Mabrouka handed him a knife. He snatched it and, still holding my hair in his iron fist, cut furiously into the mass with great sharp slashes and terrifying yowling. “You thought you could play around with that, did you? Well, that’s done with!” Chunks of black hair were falling down beside me. He kept on going—cutting, slicing. Then he turned around abruptly. “Finish this!” he yelled at Mabrouka.

  I was sobbing, traumatized, incapable of keeping my body from shaking. With each slash of the knife I felt he was about to slit my throat or split my skull. I was on the ground like an animal that he might slaughter. Parts of my hair still touched my shoulders, but I could tell Gaddafi had cut others, since I couldn’t feel any hair brushing my neck anymore. It was complete butchery. “You look terrible!” Farida exclaimed when she passed me a little while later, not caring to know the reason why. I didn’t see the Guide for several days thereafter. But I did see his wife.

  The occasion was the feast of Eid, the day that Ramadan fasting officially comes to an end. Usually it is a warm family celebration, with morning prayers, a short trip to the mosque, and then a visit to family and friends. When I was a little girl I loved that day. But what was I to expect, or rather fear, from this day at Bab al-Azizia? I didn’t have a clue. In the morning Mabrouka brought us together: “Quickly, get dressed properly. And behave yourselves! The Guide’s wife is coming here.” Safia? The wife? In the past I had seen her photograph but since my abduction I had never yet run across her. I had heard them say that she had her own house somewhere within Bab al-Azizia but that Gaddafi never slept there and that they got together only very rarely, usually at public events. The Guide, the “enemy of polygamy,” was living with countless women but not with his own wife, although some people did say that he would meet his daughters every Friday in El-Morabaat, his villa on the road to the airport. Thus the announcement created a bit of a shock: Gaddafi’s sexual slaves had to be dressed up as domestic servants and maids! So when, after a multitude of other visitors, Safia entered the house with an imposing, haughty look and headed for the Guide’s bedroom, I was in the kitchen with the other girls, busily doing dishes, cleaning the stove, and scrubbing the floor. Cinderella. She had barely left when Mabrouka announced for all to hear: “Everything back to normal!”

  Indeed. The master called for me immediately. “Dance!” He summoned Adnane, a former member of the special guard, who was married (to one of Gaddafi’s quasi-official mistresses) and the father of two children. He frequently forced Adnane to have sexual relations with him. He sodomized him in front of me and screamed: “Your turn, you whore!”

  5

  HAREM

  He was flying to Chad for six days, with Mabrouka, Salma, Faiza, and a great many girls among his luggage. Perhaps this was an opportunity for me to see Mama, I said to myself. I tried my luck with Mabrouka, begging her to let me visit my mother during their absence. “Out of the question!” she answered. “You’ll stay in your room and be ready to join us at any moment in case your master asks for you. I’ll send an airplane for you.” An airplane . . .

  So I gave my body a rest. A body that was perpetually covered with bruises and bites that wouldn’t heal. A worn-out body made up of nothing but pain, a body that I didn’t like. I smoked, snacked, dozed, lay on my bed watching videos on the little television in my room. I remember not thinking about anything at all. The evening before their return, though, I had a nice surprise: one of the Bab al-Azizia drivers had been given permission to take me out for half an hour, enough time to spend the five hundred dinars we each received for Ramadan. It was unheard of. I saw again the sweetness of springtime; I was dazzled by the light, like a blind woman discovering the sun. My windowless basement was so humid that Mabrouka always burned herbs there to chase away the smell of mildew.

  The driver took me to an elegant area, where I bought a jogging outfit, shoes, and a shirt. I didn’t know what to get. I’d never had any money of my own and was totally confused. Besides, why should I dress up? Between the Guide’s room and mine I basically needed almost nothing. How stupid of me, now that I think of it! I should have thought of getting a book, something that would make me dream, escape, or learn about life. Or else a notebook and a pencil, to draw or write, for I had no access to anything of the sort at Bab al-Azizia. Only Amal had a few books in her room—romance novels and a book on Marilyn Monroe I dreamed of but that she refused to lend to me. But no, I didn’t think of anything intelligent or useful like that. I just looked around greedily and confused. My blood was bubbling. I felt dizzy. I was a prisoner, let out for a few minutes in a city that knew nothing about me, where the passersby on the sidewalk couldn’t begin to guess my story, where the salesman handed me my package with a smile as if I were a normal customer, where a small group of high school girls in uniform chatted noisily next to me without thinking that I, too, should have been in school, my only preoccupations studying and having fun. For once I didn’t have Mabrouka on my back, but, although the driver was nice, I felt like I was being stalked. Fleeing was not an option. My thirty minutes of pseudo-freedom seemed like thirty seconds to me.

  The next morning the group was back. I heard a racket coming up from the basement—footsteps, doors opening and closing, loud voices. I was careful not to leave my room but Mabrouka soon appeared in the doorway and commanded “Upstairs!” with a motion of her chin. She didn’t even say “You have to go upstairs” anymore. A minimum of words. A maximum of scorn. Yes, I was treated as a slave. And that ghastly order to go to the master’s room triggered an electric wave of anxiety throughout my body.

  “Ah, my love! Come here!” he said when he saw me. Then he pounced on me, yelling “whore” and growling. I was just a puppet he could manipulate and abuse. I was no longer human to him. Fatiha interrupted him as she entered: “Master, you are needed, it’s urgent.” He pushed me away, hissing between clenched teeth “Let go!” and I went back down to my humid little room. For the first time that day I watched a porn video, wondering about sex. The little I knew about it was nothing but violence, horror, domination, cruelty, and sadism. It was a torture session, and always with the same assailant. I couldn’t even imagine it might be otherwise. But the actresses in the video weren’t playing the roles of slaves or victims. They were even developing ways to have sex they seemed to appreciate as much as their partners did. It was odd and intriguing.

  Two days later Faiza came into my room with a piece of paper. “Here is your mother’s number, you may call her from the office.” Mama immediately picked up: “Oh, Soraya! How is my little girl? Oh, my God, I’m so happy to hear your voice! Where are you? When can I see you? Are you healthy?” I was allowed only one minute. Just like all prisoners. Faiza said: “That’s enough.” And with one finger she disconnected us.

  Then one day a strange thing happened. Najah, the fearless policewoman I had met when I first arrived at Bab al-Azizia, came to spend two days there, as she did from time to time. Again she shared my room. I was always a bit wary of her confidences and her cunning, but her gumption entertained me. “I have a plan to let you get some air outside Bab al-Azizia,” she told me. “I have the feeling that it would do you good.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all. You just have to be clever. Does that appeal to you—a little excursion with me, completely free to do what you want?”

  “But they’ll never let me go!”

  “You’re so defeatist! All you have to do is pretend to be sick an
d I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “That makes no sense! If I really were sick those Ukrainian nurses would take care of me.”

  “Let me work it out. I’ll prepare everything—all you have to do is play along.”

  * * *

  She went to see Mabrouka. I don’t know what she told her but she came back saying we had the green light. It was absolutely incredible. A driver named Amar came to pick us up and drive us beyond the walls of Bab al-Azizia. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “What is it that you said to Mabrouka?”

  “Shhh! First we’re going to my place and then I’m taking you to someone else’s house.”

  “This is crazy! How did you manage that?”

  “Hey, my name isn’t Najah [success] for nothing!”

  “But I have nothing to wear.”

  “Don’t worry. You can use some of my stuff.”

  We went to her house, changed clothes, and then her sister drove us to a very beautiful villa in Enzara, an area on the periphery of Tripoli. The owner seemed thrilled to receive us. “This is the Soraya I told you about,” Najah said. The man looked me over carefully and seemed to be very interested in me. “So tell me, does that beast hurt you?” I was paralyzed. Who was this guy? How much could I trust him? I had a horrible premonition and avoided his question. Then Najah’s telephone rang. It was Mabrouka. Najah rolled her eyes and put the phone back down. “You’re not answering?” She didn’t respond, and just handed her glass to the man, who filled it with whiskey. I was delirious. In this country where the religion as well as the law prohibited the consumption of alcohol, there were people who allowed themselves to drink without any shame? And who criticized Gaddafi—who himself was constantly consuming alcohol? The man handed me a glass, took offense when I refused, and insisted: “Drink! Go ahead, have a drink! You’re free here!”

  Najah and her sister didn’t have to be asked twice. They started to dance, indicating that the party had begun. They were drinking, laughing, swaying back and forth, their eyes closed. The man watched them eagerly. Another man arrived, sized me up, and smiled. I immediately sensed a trap, but Najah was of no help at all. She was determined to get drunk. I let them know I was tired. Since there was obviously no question of going back, they showed me to a bedroom. I remained on my guard. Very shortly thereafter I heard Najah go up to the adjoining room with the men. The phone kept ringing in the void.

  They left me alone, but I woke up with a stone in my stomach. I went to rouse Najah, who was in a complete fog, barely conscious, and remembered nothing of the previous night. Her telephone rang. Mabrouka was shouting: “The driver has been looking for you since yesterday. You’ll see what trouble that will get you into with your master!” Najah panicked. She had lied to me, betrayed me, dragged me into a half-baked trap to hand me over to other men like some wild game animal. I was feeling sick. Having been abducted by Gaddafi didn’t automatically make me a whore.

  Our return to Bab al-Azizia was violent. Mabrouka wasn’t there but Salma ordered us both to go upstairs to the Guide. He was foaming with rage. He gave Najah a great slap, bellowing at her: “Now leave. I never want to see you again!” Then he threw me on the bed and vented all his fury on my body. When he turned around, he muttered between clenched teeth: “All women are whores!” And he added: “Aisha, too, was a wretched whore!” I believe he was talking about his mother.

  A month went by without him touching me. Two new girls from cities in the east had just arrived: a thirteen-year-old from Bayda and a fifteen-year-old from Darnah. I saw them go upstairs to his room, looking innocent, beautiful, and naïve—the way I must have looked a year earlier. I knew exactly what was awaiting them. But I couldn’t talk to them or give them the slightest indication. “Did you see the new ones?” Amal asked me. They didn’t stay very long. He needed girls every day and usually he’d try them out and discard them or, as I was told, “recycle” them. I didn’t know what that meant yet.

  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 Cécilia 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 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 at least two of them come to the residence: Dr. Salem and Dr. Mohammed 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 meticulo
usly 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?

  6

  AFRICA

  Then Jalal, one of the guards at Bab al-Azizia, fell in love with me. Or, at least, he thought he’d fallen in love with me. He’d throw me ardent looks, smile at me as soon as he saw me near the kitchen, and compliment me often. I so much wanted to matter to someone. I didn’t know that he was thought to be gay. He let Gaddafi sodomize him, but I was so ignorant that I thought this was just a shocking but perhaps common practice among men. The Guide had very many male sexual partners, including members of the upper ranks of the army.

  I needed tenderness, and the thought that a kind, softhearted man would show me any affection filled me with a deep warmth. Then he increased the moments of contact, would brush against my hand in passing, whisper that he loved me and even that he dreamed of marrying me someday. “Didn’t you notice that I’ve been watching you since the day you arrived here?” No, I hadn’t noticed, consumed as I was by my misery and loneliness. And besides, any bonds of friendship or support were strictly forbidden in our space.

  Jalal grew bold and went to the Guide to declare that he intended to marry me. Gaddafi sent for both of us together. He sniggered, a look of derision on his face. “So you’re claiming to be in love, are you? And you have the nerve to tell me about it—me, your master! How would you even dare love someone else, you whore? And you, you pathetic creature, how dare you so much as look at her?” Jalal squirmed. We were both looking at the floor, as pitiful as eight-year-olds. The Guide threw us out. Jalal, though he was a guard, was kept away from the house for two months.