I'm sorry if this blog-post ends up reading like a twist in the tale short story by Jeffrey Archer---or even a wacky story by yours truly. Alas, it isn't one. Every word is true.
I was there. I heard it with my own ears.
Now, let's get one thing straight. I'm not really into politics, but I am interested in what it can do to people. Sure, a dictatorship often appears to be the most expedient option at a chaotic time in a nation's development. But it should not be allowed to endure after order has been restored. Because a dictatorship is the worst form of government. It breeds the worst kind of human beings, and brings out the worst in the hapless people whom they tyrannise. And this produces a severe brutalisation of the human soul, as I am about to illustrate in this blog-post.
Yes, Gaddafi is gone, and many cynics would say that his country is in a bigger mess now than before. But this will not last. It cannot last. Because most human beings are good people at heart and want to live in a decent and civilized environment in which to bring up their children. What we are witnessing now in Libya is the transition of a wounded society from its sick bed to full recovery---and this, of course, can often be painful. It was right of the Libyans to rise up against Gaddafi. It was right of the West to help. And when you have heard the anecdote that I'm about to relate, I am sure you will agree.
Now remember, this is not about Gaddafi. It is about the effect that any malevolent dictatorship can have on ordinary people. Let's call it The Gaddafi Effect.
At one time in the recent past I worked for a large multinational corporation with interests in the Middle East. Our regional office was in Egypt, while in neighbouring Libya Muammar Gaddafi was still very much in power. We had a rep---let's call him Sayeed. An Egyptian. Intelligent and charming. A family man.
Sayeed volunteered to make a business trip to Tripoli, Libya's capital. And on his return he looked profoundly shaken. When we picked him up at Cairo airport he was wide-eyed and paranoid, his soft brown eyes darting around like frightened mice. So I shall edit out some bits and relate only the gist of his experience; it is more than enough, I assure you, to support the point I am trying to make about The Gaddafi Effect.
When he arrived in Tripoli, Sayeed finally cleared the airport after several hours of mind-numbing formalities. We had booked him into a five-star hotel---it was the least we could do to make his brief stay comfortable.
Tired and sleepy, Sayeed dialled room service and requested some food to be sent up to his room. There was a long pause. Then he was rudely asked if he was ill or had a handicap of some kind. Somewhat taken aback, he answered no. Then why did he need room service? Why couldn't he come down to the restaurant like everyone else? Sayeed replied that surely it was normal for a five-star hotel to provide tired business travellers with room service. The answer was no. He shouldn't be so damn lazy. Who did he think he was!
Somewhat bemused by this response, Sayeed had no choice but to do as he was told. In the restaurant he was served food that had gone cold, by a waiter who slammed the dishes down. Sayeed said he was sure the waiter had nothing against him---he was an Arab, just like Sayeed, and Sayeed had spoken to him politely in Arabic---it's just that the waiter had never been taught any proper way to behave. It was not uncommon to see waiters suddenly helping themselves to food from the buffet table with no one saying anything.
To cut a long story short, Sayeed concluded his business in Tripoli as best he could, and then it was time for him to return to his native Cairo.
However, on the way to the airport he saw a horrifying sight. Through the open gates into a university campus he glimpsed some students hauling a fellow student up a tree with a noose around his neck.
'They are executing him,' the taxi driver said conversationally.
'Why?' asked Sayeed.
The taxi driver shrugged. 'He must have done something wrong. Or said something wrong,' was his matter of fact reply.
Sayeed glanced at the taxi driver's face in the rear view mirror. The man's expression held both disgust and a deep fear mixed with a furiously simmering resentment. 'I can speak freely to you,' he went on to Sayeed. 'You are not from our country. You will be getting on a plane and you'll be out of here soon. You see, we are so tired of this madman Gaddafi. Look at what he has done to us. We are no better than animals. It is a terrible time. And all because of one man. A man who has the power of life or death over everyone. How I hate him. Wouldn't you?' He glanced enquiringly over his shoulder at Sayeed.
'Um---I don't know. I haven't seen enough of Libya to form an opinion,' was Sayeed's reply.
'But from what little you have seen---how long have you been here? Two days? Surely you can see what that bastard has done to us? Don't you think we should get rid of him?'
'Er---I've never met your leader, so I can't say,' was Sayeed's careful response.
The taxi driver gave him a scornful look.
'What are you? Call yourself a man? Surely if he did to your family what he routinely does to ours you would want to pick up an AK-47 and let him have it in the guts?'
Sayeed shook his head sadly.
'I'm just a visitor. I'm sorry to hear all this, but how can I comment on something that I haven't experienced myself?'
The taxi driver's face contorted in rage.
'Pah! You're nothing. A hypocrite. You don't want to help or even sympathise. Go back to your cozy little country to your wife and kids---what use are you to anybody?'
Under the circumstances Sayeed thought it best not to reply. The rest of the journey to the airport went ahead in silence.
When they got there, Sayeed could see the planes lined up on the runway tarmac and his spirits lifted. Soon he would be in one of them, flying away from the terrors of Libya.
And then, without warning, two grim-looking soldiers appeared out of nowhere, guns pointing and blocking their path. The taxi came to a screeching halt. Sayeed gazed longingly at the airport entrance only a few feet away.
'Dear God, not now.......' he breathed in quiet prayer.
The taxi driver wound down his window. A stony-faced soldier peered inside.
'Well?' he demanded of the taxi driver. 'What did he say? Did he say anything against our leader?'
The taxi driver cringed and smiled sickeningly as he reached into his shirt pocket to switch off a voice recorder.
'Believe me, sir, I tried,' he whined. 'I tried my best to make him say something against our great leader, but he wouldn't.'
The soldier reached inside and delivered a swift, stinging slap that rocked the taxi driver's head backwards. Then he gave Sayeed a long, cold stare from eyes like those of a dead fish. Straightening up, he waved the taxi on.
When Sayeed had finished talking, none of us said a word for quite a long while. Then Ahmed, our office cleaner, an old boy with a long white beard, piped up, 'but Sayeed, what would have happened if you had said something against Gaddafi?
Sayeed shivered.
'Why, for sure, they would have thrown me in jail, taken every last American dollar off me, beaten me to a pulp and sent me back to Cairo on a stretcher. Why, what do you think would have happened, you old fool?'
There was no answer to that.
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