Gaddafi's Harem

by Cojean, Annick

  Nurses, teachers, pediatric nurses were equally targeted. The director of a Tripoli day care center told me how one of her pretty employees was visited one day by three Amazons who asked her to join a team of young women selected to go to the airport with flowers to welcome a delegation from South Africa. “Make sure you look beautiful!” A few days later they came by to pick her up in a minibus that suddenly veered off the airport road and headed toward Bab al-Azizia instead. The group was surprised and thrilled when the Guide received them right away and improvised a little speech. But when everyone went back to the bus, the baby nurse found herself taken to a small room with a Jacuzzi, where two nurses rapidly did a blood test on her. Then, no longer smiling, Gaddafi reappeared. His intentions were very clear. The girl panicked: “I beg you, don’t touch me. I come from the mountains. And I have a fiancé!” The Guide answered: “I’ll give you a choice. Either I kill him or I let you marry him and give you a house, and you’ll belong to both of us.”

  One of the dictator’s close collaborators, a man who worked alongside him every day but had no decision-making powers, finally agreed—with enormous reluctance—to broach the subject with me. At first he denied knowing anything at all about what he called “the brother-Guide’s private life” and refused to get mixed up in it: “I didn’t stay around at night and I swear I never set foot in the basement of his residence.” It was a nice way of stating that this place was where all danger lurked. But when I promised him that I wouldn’t mention his name, he gradually began to trust me and in the end mentioned the service of “procurers” responsible for “answering the sexual needs” of the dictator. “They were pitiful and spineless sycophants, who groveled before him and fought to anticipate his desires.” And then he summarized the situation. “Muammar Gaddafi,” he said, could be described as a sexual obsessive—“It is all he seriously thought about”—and this “pathological” addiction led him to analyze everything via the prism of sex. “He governed, humiliated, subjugated, and sanctioned through sex.”

  But he had two different kinds of prey. The run-of-the-mill women who made up his daily diet were usually young, had simple backgrounds, and were found by what was known as his “special service,” which was close to the Department of Protocol, and which during its final years was directed by the horrible Mabrouka Sherif, the Mabrouka so often mentioned in Soraya’s account. He’d take these girls, most often by force—a few of them, those who had been particularly well indoctrinated, said they were flattered to have been “opened” by the Guide—and would generously reward those who satisfied him or who agreed to come back and recruit new girls. And then there were the others. The ones he aspired to have. The ones whose conquest and domination would be a personal challenge for him. Those who would be trophies of the most extraordinary type.

  He showed great patience and strategy in wooing those women, and also expended enormous resources. There were the stars, of course—singers, dancers, actresses, and television journalists from the Near and Middle East. He sent planes across the globe to pick them up and cover them with riches and jewels even before they arrived. They satisfied his ­narcissism—the idea that he could have anyone he wanted—but that was not what interested him most. What really excited him was the idea of possessing the daughters or wives of powerful figures or of his opponents, whether it be for an hour, a night, or a few weeks. It was not so much about seducing a woman as, through her, humiliating the man who was supposed to be responsible for her—there is no greater shame in Libya—trampling him, annihilating him, or, if the secret never came out, having ascendancy over him, consuming his power and dominating him, at least psychologically.

  “That Bedouin son, born in a tent, had suffered poverty and disregard throughout his childhood, and was motivated only by the thirst for revenge,” was how his former collaborator put it to me. “He despised the rich and did his best to impoverish them. He hated aristocrats and the upper class—those individuals who naturally had what he would never have: culture, power, and good manners—and he vowed to humiliate them. By necessity that would happen via sex.” He was able to coerce certain ministers, diplomats, and high-ranking military men to have sexual relations with him. “They had no choice—refusing would mean the death sentence—and the act was so shameful that not one of them would either complain or boast about it.” Sometimes he commanded them to deliver their wives to him. If not, he’d make sure to trap the women—invite them to Bab al-Azizia when their husbands were away, or visit them himself, provoking their confusion and panic.

  “But he really outdid himself in his schemes to get their daughters,” the man went on. “It could be a long-term project, taking time to collect information and photographs of them—finding out about their tastes, their habits, their daily outings; approaching them, then encircling and getting close to them, with the help of his famous guards and their madam mother. They’d tell these daughters how much the Guide admired them. They’d flash money, a car—a BMW or a large 4x4—before their eyes, a medical degree if they were studying, or an office in town if they were dreaming of getting established. Everything was possible.” What a victory when they finally came to him! What a hold over the man who had sired them!

  5

  MASTER OF

  THE UNIVERSE

  Among the dictator’s luxurious delicacies, the “prey” he most coveted were the wives and daughters of monarchs and heads of state. For want of becoming “King of kings of Africa,” as he desired, Gaddafi could at least dream of possessing their wives, one way of superseding them all. But in that realm it was unthinkable to resort to coercion and force. It required savoir faire, diplomacy, and tact. And spending lots and lots of money. Many wives understood very quickly that they could get anything from the Guide and didn’t hesitate to ask for a meeting so that they could seek a donation from him for a hospital, a foundation, or some other project that was dear to their heart. He distributed money to all and sundry and, of course, managed to have it work to his own advantage.

  Some daughters of African heads of state, whose morals were more liberated than those of Libyan women and who were used to living it up, made sure he would invite them to Tripoli, not hesitating to ask “Papa Muammar” to finance their vacation, study, or business enterprise. The Guide’s office and then his bedroom were open to them. The daughter of a former president of Niger was one of these women, and she entered his private life for quite a long time, accompanying him on many official visits. But the Colonel also liked to take risks and seduce wives right under their husbands’ noses. The great international summits offered him the opportunity to display all his talents.

  One woman in her forties, who worked in the Department of Protocol for several years, made an appointment with me in a tea salon in an elegant section of Tripoli. A friend had told her about my investigation and she agreed to participate, something totally unexpected after all the refusals I had systematically received. Short and slender, very vivacious, she wore no veil and looked me straight in the eye, both friendly and assertive. “I feel it is my duty to speak with you,” she said. “I wasn’t able to take part in the revolution or take up arms against Gaddafi. I swear to you that I would have liked to do so. Meeting with you, contributing anything that will help the truth come out about what the regime really was, that’s one way of adding my bit to the revolution.”

  She admitted how disillusioned she’d been since she’d enlisted in the Department of Protocol. How she, too, had lost any illusions about the Guide and the mechanisms that made him tick. She had thought she was working for Libya, serving a grand design led by a visionary with integrity. Instead, she found herself running headlong into a system of payoffs, sycophants, and sexual corruption that obliterated all her convictions.

  She had tried to hold her own, to be irreproachable in her own work. But it didn’t take her long to discover that Gaddafi’s obsession with sex impaired the managing of the whole regime and could sha
tter the entire meticulous organization of summits and visits by state leaders of which her department was in charge. She was appalled. “He was playing with fire. We were constantly brushing up against a diplomatic incident. Every rule was disregarded. The wife of one head of state was said to have a strong interest in schools. It was our task to arrange a schedule for her that would meet her expectations, including meetings with educational professionals and visits to various institutions. Yet on D-day the carefully planned schedule exploded: a car from Bab al-Azizia came to pick up the lady in question for a ‘private interview’ with the Guide. An interview! Of course, that made no sense whatsoever. But I soon understood. Better to forget the school. The next day, the woman received a suitcase containing five hundred thousand dollars in banknotes and a gold or diamond necklace, I forget which.”

  In November 2010, the third summit of the African-­European Union was organized in Tripoli. The Department of Protocol thus had the responsibility of arranging the welcome of the wives of the heads of state, as well as organizing the various activities that might please them. A small file was prepared on each one of them, containing her photograph and a CV. A female companion was assigned to them as they toured around. The day of their arrival Mabrouka Sherif appeared in the office of the airport director, where the files were stored. She scrutinized the photograph of each First Lady, and stopped at one of them, a particularly magnificent woman who sported an awe-inspiring mane of hair. “Make me a photocopy of her record. It’s for the Guide.”

  The first day all went as planned, with each delegation going to its respective lodgings at night. The following day, Mabrouka called the Department of Protocol: “Come with me to deliver the gifts.” Accordingly, a car made a tour of the hotels and luxurious residences where the different delegations were staying. And a protocol employee discovered the expensive nature of the presents with the same astonishment as did some of the wives. “I really thought I’d seen it all, but this . . . I couldn’t get over it! Incredible, dazzling necklaces, and other things besides! When you see what we bought for the woman in the photograph . . .” Indeed, when Mabrouka presented her jewelry box to this particular lady, a wife of an African head of state famous for her love of luxury and her flamboyant flirtatiousness, everyone’s eyes opened wide: the diamond necklace was enough to take your breath away. “I didn’t think anything like that existed. It was like a necklace out of science fiction.” Mabrouka whispered: “The Guide would like to see you.” And the lady complied.

  That evening there was a grand dinner at the Rixos Hotel, the five-star palace of Tripoli. Gaddafi was holding court in the center of a U-shaped arrangement of tables, surrounded by the heads of state. The women were seated at three round tables. As if by accident, Mabrouka had taken a seat near the splendid wife. At the end of the dinner, as everyone was getting up from the table, she took the woman by the hand and worked it so they would cross the path of the Guide, who stopped her, of course, and greeted her with a thousand compliments. At two in the morning, Mabrouka called the protocol employee: “What time does this woman’s plane leave?”

  “At ten in the morning.”

  “I will send you a car. Make sure she is at Bab al-Azizia at nine.”

  “Out of the question. Tomorrow morning I have to oversee the departures of all the delegations, and I’ll really be too busy with other things.”

  “Fine, I’ll take care of it myself. But be sure her plane is delayed.”

  At ten that morning the husband was waiting for his wife in one of the airport halls. At eleven she still hadn’t arrived. Nor at noon. The employees of protocol and of the delegation were obviously highly embarrassed. Unconcerned and smiling, the wife arrived at one-thirty, the zipper on the side of her sheath suit ripped.

  On another occasion, Safia gave a grand dinner for First Ladies at a luxurious revolving restaurant on the twenty-sixth floor of the Tripoli Tower. Around midnight, when the banquet was over, a stream of cars left the complex, which was located on the capital city’s seafront, to take each one of the ladies back to her hotel. But one of the cars separated from the convoy. The driver had been ordered to split off as discreetly as possible toward Bab al-Azizia. Only one problem: no one at her hotel had been forewarned, and the delegation in charge of accompanying her was in an uproar, its chief of protocol almost apoplectic. “This is a disgrace!” he shouted at the Libyan organizers. “Where is Madame la Présidente? How could you lose the wife of a state leader in the middle of the night?” They tried to reassure him: security in Tripoli was omnipresent; this was merely a small glitch. Telephone in hand, he was panic-stricken, didn’t know whom to alert, and was worried stiff. Having nothing to offer as an argument, the Libyan Department of Protocol thought it better to disappear. Faced with this situation they were confused but, at least, they didn’t worry about her location. She returned at three-thirty in the morning.

  I was told in great detail many more stories concerning the companions of state leaders, but also referring to female ministers from foreign countries, ambassadors, and heads of delegations. And even one story about a daughter of King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia. Gaddafi was ready to do anything to have this young woman; it would be an act of revenge, as he had had a serious conflict with her father who, at the time, was the only heir to the throne. A Lebanese go-between was given carte blanche to bring the young woman to him. But having failed to get to her, the wily go-between managed to convince a Moroccan woman who had lived in Saudi Arabia to pass for the princess, for just one single encounter and supported by a considerable sum of money. Betrayed by his arrogance and pride, the Colonel was fooled.

  In the searching look of my interviewees I would, at times, sense the same concern I’d initially come across in Soraya: Will she believe me? Can she believe me? All of this is so larger-than-life! I would take notes without any comment, asking for details, for dates. She gave those to me, begging me not to reveal any names. Most of her stories were later confirmed to me by two other individuals, interpreters who worked in the same department and who were members of the group currently in power.

  Finally, there was other prey, who were taboo and therefore all the more desirable for a man who took everything by right: the lovers and wives of his sons and cousins. There were innumerable rumors on this point. One rebel leader told me that his daughter-in-law, now living abroad, had personally confessed to him she was “repelled” by the mores of this “degenerate” family, and admitted that she had been forced to give in to the Guide’s urgent advances a dozen times. I didn’t dwell on this very much, as I saw it as yet another disgrace for a family about whom no one had any further illusions. But on February 28, 2012, the front page of the newspaper Libya Al Jadida announced an interview with Sayed Kadhaf Eddam, one of Gaddafi’s closest cousins, which attracted my attention. In a country where the press had always been gagged and where the subject of sex continued to be taboo, the article was astounding.

  Interviewed in prison and extremely bitter, Sayed Kadhaf Eddam condemned the brutal rape of his wife by his cousin Gaddafi. A rape, he said, that was premeditated, by a man who feared neither man nor God, and who when he desired a woman—or wanted to use her to “crush” her husband—“only had to make connections that united him with a clan, a tribe, or a family.” Gaddafi raped his cousin’s wife several times, he said, while he had been away from home on military missions, leading the woman, his “great love,” to reject any link with the Gaddafi clan, quickly request a divorce, and hurriedly accept a position abroad. To save herself. And to protect their daughter, for she didn’t want her family to “be struck by the same fate twice.” The vocabulary was emotional and the tone surprisingly maudlin for a man known for escapades of all kinds and his closeness to the Guide. “He consumed her like a hot meal, until she reached the point of hating the fact that she was a woman.”

  So I made my way to the Al-Huda Prison in Misrata. The accusation was extremely serious, an
d as far as I know it was the first time that a man “of the family,” whose ex-wife later pursued a diplomatic career at the United Nations by revealing herself to be a fierce defender of the Colonel, was risking himself in such a minefield. A few years earlier, the rage—for similar reasons—of another cousin of the Gaddafi tribe had ended with his terrifying public lynching.

  The guards let me into Gaddafi’s cousin’s room in the prison’s infirmary, a shambles of suitcases, cardboard boxes, books and medications, and a wheelchair. Enveloped in a brown djellaba, Eddam was receiving from his bed, lying on his side, one chubby hand supporting his head, wrapped in a turban with blue pompons, the other digging into a plate of dates and other dried fruit. Ill-shaven, a cunning expression on his face, and with a bulging belly, he reminded me of a weary, decadent pasha in an orientalist painting. Born in 1948, he looked ten years older than he was, and suffered from a partial paralysis. But he didn’t look unhappy with his lot, insisting on being treated with respect and delighted that his incarceration had given him time to write his third novel. So I launched into the conversation by citing the interview in the Libyan newspaper, openly delighted that a man of the innermost circle, like himself, would contribute to having the truth emerge about the dictator’s sexual crimes. Discomfort . . . He cleared his throat, shook his head to move a mischievous pompon that had escaped from the turban, and tried a solemn look. “That’s a misunderstanding.”