He will have had, at least, this courage, this honor and this madness. To be flushed out but not to be unearthed like Saddam Hussein, after eight months on the run. Do not flee like Ben Ali. Not to be paraded like Mubarak. To die, under the shrapnel of NATO or the bullets of its people, but to die, ultimately, in combat.
The image of Muammar Gaddafi with his bloody face resting between the arm and the knee of what appears to be a nurse, captured on Thursday October 20, 2011 at 12:23 p.m. by the lens of an ex-rebel, is not one of those whose it is to be celebrated – even though many Libyans have done so. But it arranges, basically, each of the protagonists of a guerre which lasted eight months.
Libya: the last days of Muammar Gaddafi
Who, indeed, apart from the victims of the dictator and their families, really had an interest in taking him alive rather than dead? Who wanted this devastating catharsis, this unpacking to which the public trial of forty-two years of reign would inevitably have given rise? Nor the leaders of the National Transitional Council (CNT), in a hurry to turn the page on the present and, for some, on their own past of collaboration. Nor the allies of NATO, all of whom, to one degree or another, compromised with a man whose wealth made him popular. Nor the revolutionaries of the twenty-fifth hour, zealous servants of the “master of the big tent”, today hidden in Doha, Beirut, Cairo or London. And even less, no doubt, Muammar Gaddafi himself.
He dreaded being dragged around like a freak before ending up on a rope like Saddam
No one fears humiliation more than those whose power rests on the systematic and organized humiliation of their fellow citizens. Gaddafi, to whom something of Bedouin pride remained, feared being dragged around like a fairground beast before ending up at the end of a rope like Saddam, whose fall had traumatized him so much. He will not have known this abject fate, thus preserving a semblance of myth in the hearts of those who, in Africa and within his tribe, already consider him a martyr. It is to his inert, trampled, profaned body that the unleashed crowd at reserved the last outrages of revenge. In Baghdad, five years ago, the remains of another tyrant suffered the same fate: there is never pity for the executioners.
The Worst Option
October 20, 2011, date of the death of Muammar Gaddafi, announced, programmed since, all in his hallucinated refusal to recognize his defeat, the despot had chosen the option of the worst, is now the birth certificate of the new Libya . It was necessary to go through these indecent images for a fratricidal and increasingly bloody war to finally end, since this is how History advances, between drama and tragedy.
The man who tells the story of the man who killed Gaddafi
Gaddafi is no more, and very few are those who will remember from him the dark beauty and the feverish look of the young free officer who took power on September 1, 1969 on the ruins of a collapsed monarchy, arousing in Libya and beyond a wave of fervor. The fallen idol died at the age of 69, caught in the trap of Sirte, his city, which he never wanted to leave, puffy, botoxed cheeks, half-closed eyes, mouth twisted with hatred against the “rats”, “woodlice”, “stray dogs”, and all the bestiary of his worst nightmares.
The murdered opponents, the hanged Islamists, the missing democrats, the napalmized Berbers, the tortured prisoners, the bombarded Misratis and all the anonymous grains of this endless string of pains that the reign of this misguided “Guide” was for many Libyans can now to rest in peace.