Speaking frankly... Colonel Gaddafi

The omnipresent leader... 

'Bashir, where are you from?'  'Zawiyah teacher… rubbish teacher rubbish' he exclaimed whilst bobbing up and down excitedly.

Bashir Bashir was so good they named him twice, he was one of many students who drove daily into Tripoli from Zawiyah for a three hour English lesson, which was, evidence of progress permitting, paid for by Gaddafi’s government.

When I say government I of course refer to the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, obfuscation in its purist form.

In Bashir’s reference to Zawiyah being rubbish he was in fact alluding to the gigantic scrapyard of Zawiyah which seemed to have adopted, rather aptly, the English word ‘rubbish’.  ‘Can you find anything you want there teacher’ was a hackneyed phrase that took repetitive correction to achieve the grammatically correct question form.

I was teaching Bashir at (the) Al-Amana Institute for government employees, ranging from forensic scientists to out of work pilots.  Sent out on an initial 12 week contract I ended up staying for a year, finishing with the title 'lead co-ordinator', clearly in keeping with the superfluous titles dished out in Africa's 4th largest country.

Now, Zawiyah, the town ironically nicknamed 'rubbish' in class, has been reduced to a town of rubble, a week ago troops from the Khamis Brigade led by one of Gaddafi's sons attacked the town from the west with suspected rebels being rounded up in house to house searches.

It's a year to the day since I left Tripoli and I have to admit, I never saw this coming.

'My name's Mohammed'

There was muted dissent but criticism of Muammar Gaddafi was usually confined to cars with windows tightly wound up, in fact his name was pretty much off limits, we referred to him as 'The Leader'.

I recall asking a small group of trusted students in class what was regarded as a taboo subject in Libya, 'speaking frankly... Colonel Gaddafi' was the first reply offered, the eerie silence while his named echoed around the room has left an indelible mark.

Others were a little less discreet in their disdain for the leader, one fellow in particular telling me how he believed Gaddafi to be crazy, pointing to the fact that the Colonel drank milk directly from the teat of a camel as evidence for the nervously delivered accusation.

It wasn't all one way traffic, I remember one student confessing he felt life was better under the embargo, other students sported Gaddafi wrist-watches, with his hair depicted as a bouncy bouffant covering numbers 10 to 2 rather than the greasy mop he wears in reality.

However, the general feeling was one of opposition.  There was a 'silent divide' but it was tangibly apparent with some students appearing to be rather more affluent than others.  The others being young single men, frustrated by the lack of opportunity, living at home, unmarried and without money.  Whilst the English classes were clearly appreciated there was a palpable fear of what was going to become of them once courses were completed.  A contained fear nonetheless, concerns were aired with wild operatic gestures but the blame was never laid at the doorstep of anyone in particular.  Hope, however, seemed to be preserved for the elite.

Al-Amana Institute

The Libyans were rightly proud of their reputation for friendless and hospitality.  Was it some sort of accolade to befriend the teacher, a possibility to practice their English?  A chance to convert an infidel to Islam?  Shades of truth in the first two perhaps, Islam is pivotal in their lives but they, for the most part, were careful not to impose.  In short they, students and teachers alike were as you found them, decent and genuine.


You know, lifting a quotation from a philosopher or someone of that stature would be the ‘clever’ way to neatly tie this off but it’s a line from Elbow’s ‘Leaders of the Free World’ that springs to mind: -

'The leaders of the free world are just little boys throwing stones
and it’s easy to ignore til’ they’re knocking on the door of your homes'

 I’ve been guilty of flicking through news channels watching disasters and dictators with fleeting interest, so with a fear of hypocrisy in mind I’ll taper outlandish comments… but watching the scenes in Libya unfold in the media, I can’t help thinking of all the fantastic students I taught and my Libyan colleagues who treated me so well… some of them now fighting, some of them quite possibly dead and for that reason alone I’ll celebrate the day when the green flag is replaced with the pre-Gaddafi offering.

On leaving, Mohammed Zintani, dedicated student and one of many willing Arabic teachers, beckoned me to one side and presented me with the trade mark Libyan souvenir, a plate depicting the old town, Medina Khardeema, with ‘don’t forget us brother’ inscribed on the back.  

It's difficult not to be haunted by that...

Little did I know...