In February 2011, in the early days of the revolution, Saada Al Fallah paid her a visit with four soldiers and ordered her to make a declaration on a national television station stating that she was raped by a group of rebels. One might as well have dropped a bomb. Khadija belonged to the powerful tribe of the Warfalla. Publicly revealing a rape would be such an attack on the tribe’s collective honor, would cause such a scandal that it would give rise to instant retaliations and would prevent the largest tribe of Libya from joining forces with the budding revolution.
But, above all, Khadija understood to what extent such a false confession would condemn her in everyone’s eyes. “My own family would be responsible for killing me!” She refused. She was beaten, raped, burned with cigarettes. One of the guards broke her tibia with the steel heel of his boot, requiring one of Bab al-Azizia’s doctors to come immediately. In the end she pretended to accept the order on the condition that they allow her to recuperate at her mother’s house in the Tadjoura district. One night she managed to evade the surveillance of the guards who stood watch in front of the house and escaped in her nightgown via the back, with her passport. Rebels she met in her flight helped her to cross over into Tunisia, where she would stay throughout the revolution.
LEILA
Today Leila is about forty and feels like she is a survivor. She is married to a cousin who wedded her out of love, she is raising her children, and she lives with the dread that someday someone will discover the horrible secret that disrupted her youth. She wept while she told her story, a story she had never told before.
As an adolescent Leila had a schoolmate, the niece of a friend who was the right-hand man of Colonel Gaddafi, someone who had helped him take power during the coup d’état of September 1, 1969. Together they became active in one of the revolutionary committees and when her friend took the initiative one day to organize a meeting with the Guide for a school group, Leila was enthusiastic. A minivan brought the girls to Bab al-Azizia, where they were received in a large reception room on the second floor of what was then the Guide’s residence and would be partially destroyed in the American bombing of 1986. Muammar Gaddafi was charismatic and attentive. Relaxed, he took his time to show interest in each one of the girls, asking them questions about their family background, their tribe, and their region. He laughed a lot and the girls were captivated by his charm.
Not long after this outing, a school employee came looking for Leila in her classroom and brought her to the office of the principal who, clearly very impressed, announced that a car from Bab al-Azizia was waiting in front of the school. Leila didn’t understand why the car would be there but no one had any doubt that she should go with the driver. First she was taken to a room where she had to wait a moment and then Ahmed Ramadan, Gaddafi’s personal secretary, brought her to the Guide’s office. Dressed in a long white Bedouin shirt, he came to meet her, complimented her on her beauty, and began to caress and grope her body. Bewildered, Leila froze, and when Gaddafi took her chest in his hands, she pulled back, screamed, shook him off, and ran. Ahmed Ramadan was waiting on the other side of the door. “Are you finished?” he asked in a neutral tone. Leila was in tears. “You must say goodbye to the Guide before you leave!” he insisted as he opened the door again to show the Colonel with an erection, laughing. The driver took her back to school. Principal and teachers asked no questions. She just noticed there were signs of a new respect.
That same evening Ahmed Ramadan phoned her at home. “It’s a great honor that the Guide chose you. Your tears were ridiculous. The Guide simply wanted to be nice to you.” Leila said nothing to her parents.
But a week later some members of one of the revolutionary committees ransacked the family home, supposedly looking for compromising documents. Leila’s father, a member of the nobility, said to be a religious man, was humiliated, beaten, and dragged to the ground. The family was in shock.
Ahmed Ramadan called the next morning: “I heard what happened to your family. Rest assured: since you are working for the Guide, we will protect you.” He told her he was sending a driver, whom she was to meet very close to her house. She felt trapped, invented a story to explain to her parents why she was going out, and found herself back at Bab al-Azizia in front of Gaddafi. “Did you see what happened to your family? It could turn out very badly. But it all depends on you: you can help them or you can cause them a lot of harm . . .”
“What do I have to do?”
“Well now! Be nice! I can tell that I really excite you.”
He served her fruit juice, forced her to drink it, and kissed her greedily as he pressed himself against her, then disappeared.
The car came back for her a few days later. Ahmed Ramadan took her to a small reception room, where she waited, alone, for several hours. Then he took her to a library, where Gaddafi ended up, too. “I picked this setting for you, for I like students and books.” Then he threw her down on a mattress and raped her. This was such a shock, such violence, that she thinks she lost consciousness. When she got her wits back, he was working at his desk and burst out laughing. “You’ll like it later on!”
For three years he continued to have her brought to him and raped her. “I am the master of Libya. Every Libyan belongs to me, including you!” And: “You are my possession. And you should know that one of the verses of the Koran recognizes the master as having right over everything.” It was three years of unremitting suffering, Leila recalls. She turned inward, missed school, let herself be punished and beaten at home for the absences she could no longer explain. Her parents thought she was living a depraved life, but the Guide kept repeating: “One single word about me and you’ll never see your father again!” One day she told him she wasn’t getting her period anymore, which didn’t stop him from going at her one more time. But shortly thereafter Ahmed Ramadan handed her an envelope with some money and advised her to go to Malta. It was a minimal sum, nothing was arranged, and Leila herself had to find a hotel and a hospital. As he did the abortion, the doctor found her to be “in a sorry state” and suggested reconstructing her hymen a few days later. She was saved. Contrary to its usual modus operandi, Bab al-Azizia would never call for her again.
HOUDA
For several years Houda, too, was one of the countless involuntary mistresses of the Colonel who, without living at Bab al-Azizia, were called in at a moment’s notice and whose lives were a living hell. In the nineties she was seventeen and preparing for her final exams with a group of classmates who often studied together, alternating homes. One day, a woman who was visiting the mother of one of the girls noticed her and bombarded her with compliments: “How beautiful you are!” Houda was extremely embarrassed and fled the woman’s unrelenting gaze, but soon she ran into her once more and the woman began to praise her all over again: “I think you’re marvelous. If you take that exam soon, I’ll have a proposition for you.” Very ill at ease, the girl assumed she was a matchmaker.
Not long thereafter Houda’s brother was arrested. He never failed to attend the mosque and was thus bound to be suspect. The scheming woman got in touch with the schoolgirl: “I know some people who can get your brother out of prison. Look here, I’ll take you to them.” She picked her up by car and brought her inside Bab al-Azizia. Clearly the woman was used to being there.
Houda was stunned. “Ah! Is this the new one?” a man in the front office exclaimed. Houda found the comment alarming but still had no clue. Ahmed Ramadan entered, saying: “Ah! Here’s the girl whose brother is in such deep trouble! Now then, follow me!” He took them into a large office, where Muammar Gaddafi suddenly appeared. “Your brother is a traitor! I hope that you are a good revolutionary and won’t turn out like him!” He came over to her, then ran his hands over her body before pressing himself against her. “However, I’ll give your brother some thought, because I really find you magnificent.” He kissed her neck, tried to reach for her breasts, and took out his pen
is. The girl fainted.
Crouching on the floor next to her, the woman tapped her on the face: “Wake up! You’re being ridiculous! He is your master. This is your chance!” Gaddafi approached, wanted to touch her again, but she screamed and fought back. So he grabbed her by the clothes and hurled her brutally into a corner of the room. Wild, he seized the woman who’d brought Houda there and quickly penetrated her. He demolished the schoolgirl with a threatening look: “Next time it’s you!”
In the car that took her home, Houda was too shocked to utter a word. But the woman explained to her: “The master has every right over us. He will make love to you, set your brother free, and you might get a scholarship for the university.” The girl said nothing to her parents about what happened; it was impossible. But when her mother hit her, furious at her for being late, she simply told her some of the story, omitting any details: “I was arrested by the police and questioned about my brother.”
Three days later, the woman phoned her: “I can’t come with you to Bab al-Azizia but a car from protocol will come to pick you up. Think about your brother.” So Houda found herself in front of Ahmed Ramadan, who interrogated her about the young man and took notes. It reassured her; perhaps her approach hadn’t been in vain. But she was told she was to see the Guide again and was taken to his office, where he said: “You think a traitor is set free that easily? You’re dreaming! It’s not quite that simple. All the more so because you are a wild one! And will scream again if I touch you . . .”
“No, I don’t want to upset you. But when can my brother leave prison?”
“You won’t scream anymore? You promise?”
With a few rough movements he took off her clothes, threw her down on a mattress on the floor alongside a bookcase, and raped her. Then he left without a word.
Nobody came to see her or showed any concern for her. She didn’t know how to get out and spent the rest of the night in his office, terrified. Ahmed Ramadan found her there the following day and took her to a room, where she had just begun to fall asleep when Gaddafi joined her, then raped her again, hitting and biting her. She was bleeding profusely and remained locked up there for two days, without food or drink. On the third day, Ahmed Ramadan sent her home, saying he’d be back in touch.
When she came home her parents were horrified by the state the girl was in and were sick with worry. She didn’t want to talk but, since they hounded her with questions, she whispered that she had been at the police station. Alarmed, the family assumed that Houda’s condition had to be connected to their son. They surrounded her, fussed over her, and insisted on taking her to the hospital.
There, a doctor examined her, and said: “You were raped.”
“Yes, but I beg you, please don’t say anything to my parents.”
“You have to bring charges.”
“No, impossible.”
“Sexual relations outside of marriage is against the law, which forces me to report your case to the police.”
“Do you really have a death wish?”
Gaddafi wouldn’t leave Houda alone. For many long years, she had to submit to his demands, his madness, his brutalities, his fantasies. She could make no plans, living like a hermit, in perpetual fear that the scandal would be discovered. Her parents finally began to be suspicious, for the official cars were less and less discreet and Gaddafi demanded that she be present at his many speeches and lectures. That was when she discovered the horde of other women who were in the same position as she. They looked at each other but didn’t talk. How to bring up the subject? Whom could they trust? One day he asked her to run up to him and kiss him in front of the cameras during a public event. He phoned her at night, threatened her, insisted she wear a specific outfit, kept her permanently available. She became depressed, suicidal, was disgusted with herself. But after several years, a suitor presented himself and she fell in love. Gaddafi was enraged, but she got married. And from then on she refused to go to Bab al-Azizia, despite the orders and her fear about what might happen to her. She was lucky. Many young husbands who hadn’t been picked by the master would not survive their marriage to one of his favorites.
THE GENERAL’S WIFE
AND DAUGHTER
A general’s daughter spoke out in the weekly newspaper Libya Al Jadida. Her testimony was confirmed by the editor in chief, Mahmoud Al Misrati. Colonel Gaddafi, who always inquired about the family situation of his subordinates and the appearances of their wives, found out one day that the wife of a general in his army was extremely beautiful. Did he give the orders himself? Or was it Mabrouka’s idea? However it happened, three of his guards presented themselves one afternoon at the general’s house to hand his wife an invitation to a women’s reception organized by Safia Gaddafi for that very night.
The general was wary. He hadn’t heard any mention of such an event and didn’t at all like the thought of his wife going alone to Bab al-Azizia. Then one of the guards dialed a number and handed him his cell phone. Mabrouka was on the line. “It is a magnificent honor the Guide is doing you! It proves he knows you are close to him and considers you a true revolutionary. It will be a very fine party, strictly for wives.” Reassured, the general let his wife go. When she returned a few hours later, she was strange and evasive. “Something in my mother seemed broken,” her daughter says.
Other invitations followed, especially when the general was absent. After several months, the wife came home one day with the keys to a fine apartment. “A gift” from Safia Gaddafi, she said, announcing that they’d become great friends. The family moved, their lifestyle visibly improved; it was good to be in Gaddafi’s good graces. But then one evening Mabrouka and two other women presented themselves at the door of the general’s house, this time with an invitation for his daughter from Gaddafi’s oldest daughter, Aisha. Her mother’s face fell. Horrified, she held her hand over her mouth. Her daughter, on the other hand, was thrilled. “This evening? I’d be delighted! The only problem is that I have no evening gown.”
“Don’t worry, I came prepared!” Mabrouka said with a smile, then turned around and pointed to a suitcase. “Inside is everything you’ll need to look beautiful tonight!”
The girl quickly put on the dress, applied makeup, and followed Mabrouka, not understanding why her mother had tears in her eyes when they parted. The general himself seemed taken aback. He would be even more shocked when, weeping, his wife admitted that Safia’s invitations were cover-ups for her being summoned by the Guide and that the money, the gifts, the apartment were merely remunerations for a forced sexual relationship. The general blew up, bellowed, and decided to go immediately to Bab al-Azizia. But at that moment he collapsed and was taken to the hospital. He had suffered a stroke.
At the same time the general’s daughter was surprised to see Gaddafi enter the room where she had been made to wait. “Where is Aisha?” she asked with a smile.
“I am Aisha,” the Guide answered coldly. He didn’t try to seduce her, or to be tactful, but instead raped, beat, and humiliated her as much and as often as he could. She didn’t get out of Bab al-Azizia till a week later, when she went to the hospital to see her father, who was dying. His death would only make things easier for the Guide. When Mabrouka called to set up regular appearances for the daughter, she asked the mother to get her ready according to the Guide’s taste—“You know what needs to be done”—and to cover her arms and legs with henna.
The stories are many and, in the West, it’s hard to imagine what it costs these women to speak. Not only in terms of the trauma, which is the same everywhere, but in terms of the risks for them and their families. The chaos in which Libya finds itself—it’s filled with weapons—combined with the yoke of religion for the time being excludes any objective debate on the issue. It explains why, despite basic rules of journalism that require the identification of one’s sources, I agreed to accept the requests of the majority of the women
quoted in this book to preserve their anonymity.
3
THE 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.
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