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Bringing Down Gaddafi
On the Ground with the Libyan Rebels
By Andrei Netto, Michael Marsden St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2014 Andrei Netto
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-137-46419-4
CHAPTER 1
THE END
Siraj was carrying an AK-47 when he grabbed hold of the Colonel. He was out of control; saturated with the violence of that morning's bloody fighting. In those few seconds he thought of his friend Mohamed Jamal, gunned down just moments before — now a shahid, a martyr — and of the many other rebel fighters he'd seen die on the battlefield. He remembered his family: one uncle dead, one injured, and one arrested since the start of the revolution. Now he could stick his weapon in the face of the "Guide," blow his head to pieces, and send him to hell. Instead of being arrested as a cold-blooded killer and facing justice, he'd be covered in glory and greeted with cries of "Allahu Akbar!" by the others in the brigade. Not only would it put an end to months of suffering, but he'd be able to beat his chest with pride and say, "I killed Muammar Gaddafi!"
But Siraj, a slender, brown-skinned young man, circumspect and determined, had received an order to take Gaddafi alive. Reason conflicted with instinct. There in front of him was the man he had learned to hate, and yet he could choose to reject the savagery the tyrant represented. With the help of his friends Mohamed Alwaib and Umran Ben Shaaban, Siraj dragged Gaddafi out from the culvert where the Colonel had been hiding and stumbled toward the other rebels who had come running in their direction and were now gathering around. Siraj handed the Colonel over to the commander, Umram Alwaib, and let others take hold of the captive.
Gaddafi was not only defeated, but also injured and in a state of shock. It was exactly 250 days since the outbreak of the first protests in Benghazi; 245 days since Siraj, a 21-year-old student, had taken to the streets of Tripoli to join other angry Libyans in Green Square, one of the places most closely associated with the regime. Since then, some 20,000 people had died — most of them young men barely out of their teens, suddenly transformed into warriors. Countless others had suffered the pains of war — the loss of friends and family members, the mutilations, the amputations, the traumas.
Filled with rage but also with a sense of duty to his commanders, Siraj didn't step away as Gaddafi was engulfed by his would-be executioners. After all, he was part of the katiba — brigade — that had captured Gaddafi; he was proud of himself and could barely contain his euphoria. Gripping his weapon, the cries of "Allahu Akbar!," or "God is great!," reverberating around him, he followed the group of rebels who were now dragging their most hated enemy away. Some, like Umram, made a vain attempt to establish a cordon around the man who had ruled Libya for 42 years, as if now he should be taken prisoner and brought to trial. But the others, thirsty for revenge, pressed in close, straining to kick, punch, or pull the hair of the executioner now surrounded by his victims. It was a scene of absolute chaos, with everyone shouting at the same time:
"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! We've captured him! Grab him and take a picture! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Muammar taghut, we've got him! We've taken him alive! Please, I want to take a picture! Allahu Akbar!"
Siraj himself was shouting as he took up position close to Gaddafi. He knew he should try to protect him but couldn't resist landing whatever blows he could. It gave him pleasure. To humiliate Gaddafi, he took off a shoe and struck him with the sole — the greatest expression of contempt in the Arab world.
One rebel, Ali Algadi, was filming on his mobile; within hours the pictures would be seen around the world, shocking the more sensitive viewers and in some quarters reinforcing the idea that Arabs are savages. Siraj can be seen in the first few seconds of the footage, wearing a camouflaged jacket and a military helmet. Gaddafi is surrounded by a forest of firearms as he slumps exhausted on the desert sand, bleeding profusely. He had lost all strength in his legs, having earlier been knifed repeatedly — and sadistically — in the anus.
While Gaddafi's life was ebbing away like that of an animal in an abattoir, Siraj again had the opportunity to finish him off. But he wasn't willing to go that far. He wanted him dead, but not quite yet. He didn't want to join the lynching that seemed about to take place. He put down his gun and moved back a little, keeping the scene fully in view. He pulled out his mobile, taking pictures and filming. The rebels around him revealed a range of feelings: disbelief, anger, the ecstasy of revenge — all expressed in excited cries that mingled with bursts of gunfire: "I want to film, please! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! We've captured him! Misrata! Allahu Akbar! Misrata! Allahu Akbar! Misrata! We've got him! Misrata! Misrata! Misrata! Misrata! Misrata! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! There is no god but Allah! Allah is great!"
At that moment there was still fighting going on around the electricity substation. But among the rebels who knew of Gaddafi's capture, it seemed no one was paying any attention to the exchanges of gunfire. In their delirium some of the rebels hadn't noticed that some other high-ranking officials had also been captured: Abu Bakr Yunis Jaber, the defense minister; Mansour Dhao, Gaddafi's personal security chief; Ahmed Ibrahim, a cousin of the dictator and, as head of the Revolutionary Committees Movement, a kind of unofficial prime minister; and also Mutassim Gaddafi — one of the Colonel's sons.
Swarming around Gaddafi, the rebels dragged him from the bottom of a dry canal up a short, dusty incline to the road, where a pickup truck had come to a halt. Siraj didn't know what the plan was, but the continuing screams of "Misrata! Misrata!" suggested the destination would be the city from which the majority of rebels had arrived to join the siege of Sirte. And in Misrata they didn't just hate Gaddafi: they wanted him dead.
Increasingly bloodied and disorientated, the Colonel stumbled forward, pushed by the crowd. Then, suddenly, he fell again. He was exhausted, humiliated, and now prostrate. Maybe he'd already been shot; Siraj wasn't sure. He knew that when he'd taken Gaddafi out from the culvert, he didn't have any bullet wounds. In the ensuing tumult, however, a major injury had been inflicted; his condition was deteriorating quickly. Now, with rebels crowding in front of him, he was being pushed backward toward the hood of the truck.
Still filming, Siraj captured the moment when Gaddafi was lifted into the back of the pickup. At no point did he show any sign of resistance; he merely wiped his bloodied face and eyes, as if trying to see more clearly. His face was etched with profound pain — an expression that, in these final moments at least, lent some humanity to a tyrant known for his cruelty. The rebels, meanwhile, were about to lose a certain amount of their legitimacy — but in such circumstances, what rational argument could possibly have prevented what was about to happen?
Siraj looked closely at Gaddafi and realized he was indeed severely injured. It was a little more than fifteen minutes since he had been snatched from the sewer pipe. His shirt had been ripped off and he was begging for help in a weakening voice. An ambulance had arrived from the Sirte battlefront to take him to Misrata, and he was dragged toward it. Trousers pulled down below his knees, he was bundled into the vehicle. Siraj also fought his way into the ambulance and saw seven of his fellow rebels inside — four he recognized from Misrata, and three from Tripoli. Now that he had another close-up view of Gaddafi, Siraj suddenly saw he had a bullet wound to his left temple and another to his abdomen, slightly above the navel. Taken aback, Siraj shouted: "Somebody shot him! Somebody shot him!"
Immediately he felt anxious about having failed to protect Gaddafi from the crowd, as he'd been ordered to do by the brigade commander. Having so often seen death up close during the months of fighting, Siraj knew the shot to the head would prove fatal. Seeing the Colonel slip into unconsciousness inside the stationary ambulance, surrounded by rebels who continued to shout and fire shots into the air, Siraj addressed the doctor who was now trying to provide first aid: "Does he still have a pulse, doctor?"
He did, but blood was pouring from different parts of his broken body: the head, the abdomen, between the legs. Only seconds passed before Siraj asked again, "Doctor, does he still have a pulse?" He got the same answer. The doctor was trying to stem the flow of blood, asking for help from the other thowars — revolutionaries — in the vehicle. Siraj was anxious to help and also intensely curious. Before the ambulance moved off he repeated the question: "Has Gaddafi still got a pulse, doctor?"
"No, he doesn't have a pulse anymore," the doctor replied.
Although his orders were to get Gaddafi to the hospital, at that moment Siraj was overcome by a surge of emotion. His first thought was Libya can be proud that Gaddafi is dead.
The fact that Gaddafi's heart had stopped only made the situation more urgent, but because of the crowds around the ambulance it was impossible to drive off quickly. Siraj was aware that the vehicle was moving, however, and as it gradually gathered speed the shouting began to fade away. He was sitting right next to Gaddafi, his attention focused on the doctor's efforts to resuscitate him. Suddenly there was a sharp jolt, a crash, and Siraj was thrown forward — the driver had run into another vehicle. None of the passengers were injured, so they carried Gaddafi's body as quickly as they could to another ambulance that was part of the convoy. Not long afterward, however, on the edge of Misrata, the second ambulance also ground to a halt, this time because of a burst tire, so the rebels took out the blood-soaked body and put it in the back of a white Land Cruiser. At the wheel was Ibrahim Abu Finas, a middle-aged small businessman and car importer who had volunteered to join the insurgents and now found himself driving Gaddafi's makeshift ambulance.
In fact, Gaddafi had been dead since the convoy left Sirte, his hometown — the place where he'd promised to fight to the bitter end. Siraj thought back and tried to work out at what precise moment — surely not far from where he'd been looking or from where his camera had been pointing — one or more rebels had disobeyed the orders from the high command of the National Transitional Council (NTC) in Tripoli and shot the Colonel, carrying out what was effectively a summary execution.
Siraj wasn't sorry the tyrant was dead. It was something he'd ardently wished for. Yet he knew many rebels would feel this wasn't the ideal ending. Siraj himself would have preferred a proper trial, as long as the outcome was eventually the same: a few feet of earth on top of Gaddafi's corpse.
It was lunchtime when Abu Finas drove into Misrata, proud to be transporting what was left of the country's most wanted man. The people had risen up against Gaddafi on February 17, 2011 — and now here was a crowd celebrating his death, just as there would be throughout Libya soon. Abu Finas had been told to drive not to the hospital but to a military base, where there were ex-army officers who had deserted at the beginning of the conflict. Among the officers was the military commander of the NTC in Misrata, Ramadan Zarmouh, a man of diminutive stature and few words. He had led the rebels in their resistance to the regime in Misrata, then liberated and destroyed Sirte. He was therefore indirectly responsible for Gaddafi's capture, and was now one of the most important men in Libya.
Waiting with the political and military leaders were doctors who would confirm that Gaddafi was dead through DNA samples from his pubic hair. One of them, Abu Bakr Traina, carried out a brief examination, identifying the bullet holes in the slim, sexagenarian body and noting the other wounds, but finding neither fractures nor any sources of significant internal hemorrhaging. Afterward they set off again in the pickup driven by Abu Finas, this time in the direction of Misrata's Tunisian Market, about fifteen minutes from the city center. Siraj could feel now that his enthusiasm was waning; he was very tired after a night spent on guard followed by a morning of intense fighting. There was also the fact that the corpse was beginning to stink. Although Siraj had become used to the stench of corpses, he was taken aback by the odor, which all too easily penetrated the medical mask the doctors had given him to cover his nose and mouth.
When they arrived at the market, he helped carry the body into what appeared to be a cold-storage room. When he left the room there were lots of other people approaching, having apparently already heard about the arrival of the corpse. At the first opportunity he washed his face and hands vigorously, but the smell of Gaddafi was still on him. It was much worse than merely unpleasant; the smell of the blood sent shivers running through him and he thought he was going to vomit. Siraj watched the crowd of rebels arrive, celebrating. He joined in for a few minutes, but already felt his day was coming to an end. Gaddafi was dead; Siraj was free. Now he could go home.
IT WAS JUST PAST ELEVEN IN THE MORNING IN TRIPOLI WHEN RASHED TOLD ME there were strong rumors that Sirte had fallen. From his serious and emphatic tone I realized that this time the end of the military stalemate was near. I said goodbye and walked down the fifteen floors of Al Fateh Tower as fast as I could. Upon reaching the street I could tell the information was beginning to spread like a virus. Shots were fired into the air in celebration — something I'd hardly heard at all since my arrival the previous afternoon. Some cars were sounding their horns frenetically, although it seemed the majority of people still weren't quite sure what was happening. I asked the driver to take me back to the Asshajara hotel, where I would pack my equipment into my rucksack and decide what to do.
The scene on the streets in the Libyan capital was changing before my eyes. The number of vehicles was increasing quickly; many of the people inside them were celebrating loudly, some shouting revolutionary slogans, others the habitual "Allahu Akbar!" When I arrived at the hotel, there was a group of elderly people in the lobby who I'd never seen before. I greeted them in passing as I went to pick up my key. The man at the desk was an Algerian, whom I spoke to in French. There was a TV on, and some of the old men were watching the news. I asked them what was going on and the first reply, in French, was from a man with a calm, friendly demeanor. His name was Abib Fac al-Fagui. Sirte had fallen, he said. I asked if it had been confirmed. Abib assured me that yes, it had happened that very morning. And then he added, "They also got Gaddafi."
I froze. I asked for details but he said there was nothing more; the NTC hadn't yet made a statement. My sense of urgency intensified. It was already just after midday; in one hour's time I had an interview arranged with a diplomat, Jamel Abuguila, at the Rixos hotel, one of the main buildings used by the NTC. I ran to my room to call Abuguila and arrange to meet earlier, or at least get some information from him about what was going on. But there was no answer. I immediately tried calling other contacts, but the only ones I managed to reach all gave me the same answer: they weren't sure of anything. Rumors indicated that the Colonel had been arrested or killed. I went to the concierge desk to ask for a taxi as soon as possible, because my fixer — a driver, translator, and guide all rolled into one — was not available that day. When I got to the bottom of the stairs I got a call on my mobile from a number in Turkey. It was Amal Daredi, a good friend and an executive of the oil company Petrobras. Laughing, her voice full of happiness, she said, "They've got Gaddafi!" I pressed her for more details, surprised that the information had already reached Ankara.
I returned to the concierge desk and reiterated that I needed a taxi to the Rixos hotel as soon as possible. The young man at the desk seemed unable to reach any taxi drivers on his phone list. This left me stuck in the hotel, hoping for a driver to appear who might be able to take me around for the whole day. I asked the concierge to keep trying and returned to the lobby, where I spoke again to the group of old men. Some of them were complaining angrily of the bursts of gunfire that were becoming more frequent outside; they thought it was a stupid way to celebrate. I agreed, but that was the way it was. I went back up to my room, and while I was putting my equipment and a bundle of clothes in my rucksack, I got a call from my wife, Lúcia Müzell. She was in Paris, at work in the newsroom of Radio France Internationale, fascinated by the rumors that were coming out of Libya. "Andrei, you get to Tripoli and Gaddafi dies?! I can't believe it!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bringing Down Gaddafi by Andrei Netto, Michael Marsden. Copyright © 2014 Andrei Netto. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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