BAB AL-AZIZIA
“Ah! Tripoli at last!” My neighbor looked so delighted to see the first houses of the city that I began to feel somewhat reassured. “I’m sick of Sirte!” the other girl added. I didn’t know what to make of their comments but I was taking it all in, focused and eager to catch the least bit of information. We’d been driving for close to four hours at very high speed, startling other cars and passersby, who would move aside to let the convoy pass. Night had now fallen and from afar the city was a jumble of streets, towers, and lights.
Suddenly we slowed down to go through the vast gate of a huge fortified compound. Soldiers stood at attention, but the relaxed attitude of the girls in the car implied that they felt they were coming home. One of them simply told me: “This is Bab al-Azizia.”
Of course, I was familiar with the name. Who in Libya wasn’t? It was the place of power above all others, the center of authority and omnipotence: the fortified residence of Colonel Gaddafi. In Arabic the name means “The Gate of Azizia,” the region that extends to the west of Tripoli; but in the minds of Libyans it is above all a symbol of terror. Once, Papa had taken me to see the enormous gate, crowned with a gargantuan poster of the Guide, as well as the surrounding wall, which was several kilometers long. It wouldn’t have entered anyone’s head to walk the full length of the wall, which would have been an invitation to be arrested for espionage or even shot at. We’d actually been told that an unlucky cabdriver, who unfortunately had had a flat tire at the foot of the wall, died when his car was blown up even before he could take his spare out of the trunk. And cell phones weren’t allowed anywhere in the surrounding district.
We’d come through the main gate, entering an area that seemed immense to me. Rows of stark buildings with narrow openings, really just slits, for windows, which had to be soldiers’ quarters. Lawns, palm trees, gardens, dromedaries, austere buildings, and a few villas tucked away in the greenery. Other than the countless security doors we passed through one after another and a succession of walls whose configuration I didn’t understand, the place didn’t seem too hostile to me. Finally, the car parked in front of a large house. Mabrouka immediately appeared, acting like the mistress of the house. “Come in! And put your things in your room.” I followed the other girls, who walked through an entrance made of cement and shaped like a gentle slope, then climbed down a few steps and came to a porch with a metal detector. The air was cool and very humid. In fact, we were in the basement. Amal, my neighbor in the car, pointed to a small windowless room: “This room will be yours.” I pushed open the door. The walls were adorned with mirrors, which meant it was impossible to get away from your reflection. Two narrow beds were pushed into corners on either side of the room, which also had a table, a television, and a small adjoining bathroom. I got undressed, took a shower, and lay down to sleep. But it was impossible. I turned on the TV and wept quietly, listening to Egyptian songs.
In the middle of the night Amal came into the room. “Quick, put on a pretty negligee! We’re going up to see the Guide together.” Amal was a true beauty. Wearing shorts and a little satin tank top, she really looked lovely; I myself was very impressed. I put on the red nightie she pointed at, we climbed a little staircase just to the right of my room that I hadn’t noticed before, and we found ourselves in front of the master’s bedroom, directly above mine. It was a huge room, partly surrounded by mirrors, with a large four-poster bed framed in red netting like that of the sultans in A Thousand and One Nights, a round table, some shelves with a few books and DVDs, a collection of small bottles of oriental perfume with which Gaddafi often dabbed his neck, and a desk with a large computer. Facing the bed was a sliding door that went into a bathroom with a big Jacuzzi. Oh, I forgot—near the desk was a small corner reserved for prayer, with a few intensely ornate and valuable copies of the Koran. I mention it because it intrigued me; I never saw Gaddafi pray. Never. Except for the one time in Africa when he himself had to deliver an important public prayer. When I think about it: what a show he put on!
When we entered his room he was sitting on his bed in a red jogging suit. “Ah!” he roared. “Come and dance for me, my little whores! Come on, let’s go, let’s go!” He put the same old cassette in a tape recorder and, swaying a little, snapped his fingers. “You have such piercing eyes, they could kill . . .” How many times did I hear that ridiculous song! He couldn’t get enough of it. Amal was doing her best, fully participating in his game, winking at him, and acting terribly coy. I couldn’t get over it. She was gyrating, shaking her bottom, her breasts, closing her eyes as she slowly lifted her hair, only to let it fall again and then turn around with her head back. I continued to be on my guard, supple as a piece of wood, my eyes hostile. Then she started to move toward me to include me in her dance, brushing against my hip, sliding her thigh between my legs, and encouraging me to move with her. “Oh, yes, my little whores!” the Guide cried out.
He got undressed, motioned to me to keep dancing, and called Amal over to him. She moved toward him and began to suck his penis. I didn’t believe what I was seeing and asked, with hope in my voice: “Shall I leave now?”
“No, you come here, you slut!”
He pulled me by my hair, forced me to sit down, and kissed me—or, really, nibbled on my face while Amal kept doing what she was doing. Then, still holding me tightly by my hair, he said: “Watch and learn from her. You’ll have to do the same thing.” He thanked Amal and asked her to shut the door behind her. Then he threw himself on me and kept at it for a long time. Mabrouka was coming and going as if nothing was happening. She was giving him messages—“Leila Trabelsi wants you to call her back”—until she finally said: “Stop now. You have other things to do.” I was stunned. She could say anything to him; I actually think he was afraid of her. He went into the bathroom, into the Jacuzzi, which she had filled with water, and yelled at me: “Hand me a towel.” They were within arm’s reach of him but he wanted me to serve him. “Perfume my back.” Then he pointed at a bell near the tape recorder, which I rang. And Mabrouka was inside in a flash. “Give this little slut some DVDs so she can learn her job.”
Salma showed up in my room five minutes later with a DVD player she’d taken from another inmate and a pile of DVDs. “Here, here’s some porn. Watch it carefully and learn! The master will be furious if you’re not up to snuff. This is your homework!”
My God, school . . . That was already so far away. I took a shower. Although she had her own room, Amal settled down on the other bed. It had been a week since I’d spoken with anyone and I was beside myself with anxiety and loneliness.
“Amal, I don’t know what I’m doing here. This is not my life, this isn’t normal. I miss Mama every moment of the day. Can’t I phone her, at least?”
“I’ll speak to Mabrouka about it.”
Exhausted, I fell asleep.
There was a knock on my door and Salma unexpectedly came in. “Go upstairs, just as you are. Quickly! Your master wants to see you.” It was eight o’clock in the morning and I’d only slept for a few hours. Clearly, Gaddafi himself had just woken up, too. He was still in bed, his hair disheveled, and was stretching. “Come into my bed, you whore!” Salma pushed me viciously. “And you, bring us our breakfast in bed.” He ripped off my sweat suit and jumped on me in a fury. “Did you watch the films, slut? Now you ought to know what to do!” He was growling and biting me all over. He raped me again. And then afterward he got up to eat a garlic clove, a habit which caused him to have perpetually foul breath. “Now get out of here, you slut.” As I left the room, Galina and two other Ukrainian nurses went in. That was the morning I really understood I was dealing with a madman.
But who knew it? Papa, Mama, the Libyans . . . No one knew what was going on at Bab al-Azizia. Everyone was scared stiff of Gaddafi, because resisting or criticizing him meant being thrown into prison or put to death, and because he truly was terrifying even when you called him Papa Muammar and sang the anthem in front of his photograph. Going from there to imagining what he’d done to me . . . It was so humiliating, so offensive, so incredible. That was it: it was incredible! So I knew nobody would believe me! I would never be able to tell my story, because it was Muammar. So, in addition to having been defiled by him, I was the one people would consider mad.
I was thinking about all of this when Amal stuck her head inside my door: “Come, don’t just stay here, let’s walk around!” We went through the hallway, climbed up four steps, and found ourselves inside a large well-equipped kitchen with a poster on one wall of a dark-haired young girl, a bit older than I, whom Amal identified for me as Hana Gaddafi, the Colonel’s adopted daughter. It wasn’t until much later that I learned her death had been mistakenly announced in 1986, following the American bombing of Tripoli that Reagan ordered. But it was no secret to anyone at Bab al-Azizia that she was not only alive but the Guide’s favorite child. Amal made coffee and took out a small cell phone. My eyes opened wide. “How come you’re allowed to have a telephone?”
“Sweetie! Let me remind you that I’ve been inside these walls for more than ten years!”
The kitchen continued into a kind of cafeteria that gradually filled with very beautiful young girls, all heavily made-up and accompanied by two boys wearing the badge of the Department of Protocol. There was lots of squealing and laughing.
“Who are they?” I asked Amal.
“Guests of Muammar. He has them constantly. But please, be discreet, and don’t ask any more questions!”
I saw the Ukrainian nurses, in white jackets or turquoise vests, going back and forth and told myself that, apparently, every guest was made to have a blood test. Since Amal had vanished, I went back to my room. What would I say to those girls who looked so thrilled with the prospect of meeting the Guide? Ask them to help me get out of here? Before I could explain my story I would be cornered and thrown into some hole.
I was lying on my bed when Mabrouka pushed the door open (I was forbidden to close it completely). “Watch the DVDs we gave you—that’s an order!” I put in a disc without having the slightest idea of what I was about to watch. It was the first time I had ever seen anything having to do with sex. I was in unfamiliar territory, both at a loss and completely sickened. After turning off the DVD, I soon fell asleep, and then Amal woke me up to take me to the kitchen for lunch.
It’s unbelievable how bad the food was at the home of the president of Libya! The meals were served on cheap white metal dishes, and the food itself was disgusting. My disbelief made Amal smile; then, as we were leaving, she suggested I come and see her room. And that’s where Mabrouka surprised us. She shouted: “Both of you, back to your own room! You know very well, Amal, you’re not allowed to visit each other! Don’t ever do that again!”
In the middle of the night Mabrouka came to get me: “Your master is asking for you.” She opened his door and threw me at him. He made me dance. Then smoke. Then he placed some very fine white powder on a business card. He produced some thin paper, rolled it into a cone, and snorted it. “Go on, do what I’m doing! Snort it, you whore! Snort it! You’ll see the result!”
The cocaine irritated my throat, my nose, my eyes. I coughed and felt sick to my stomach. “That’s because you didn’t take enough!” he told me. He moistened a cigarette with his saliva, rolled it in the cocaine powder, and smoked it slowly, forcing me to have some puffs and swallow the smoke. I didn’t feel well. I was conscious but very weak. “Now dance!” he ordered.
My head was spinning, I didn’t know where I was; everything was getting hazy, foggy. He got up and clapped his hands to the beat and put the cigarette back in my mouth. I collapsed, and he raped me savagely. Over and over again. He was excited and violent. At one point he suddenly stopped, put on a pair of glasses, and picked up a book for a few minutes, then came back to me, biting, crushing my breasts, taking me again before going to his computer to check his e-mail or say a word or two to Mabrouka, only to attack me once more. I bled again. Around five in the morning he said: “Get out!” And I went back to my room to cry.
Late in the morning Amal came to suggest we have lunch. I didn’t want to leave my room, didn’t want to see anyone, but she insisted, so we ate in the cafeteria. It was Friday, the day of prayer. They served us couscous. Then I saw a group of young men arrive, smiling and very much at ease. “Is that the new one?” they asked Amal when they noticed me. She nodded and they introduced themselves, quite courteously: Jalal, Faisal, Abdelhaïm, Ali, Adnane, Houssam. Then they headed for the Guide’s bedroom.
That was the day I had the second great shock of my life, and from that moment on my expression would never be pure again. I’m not telling you this with any joy. I’m forcing myself because I committed myself to telling my story, as a testimony, and because people need to understand why this monster enjoyed such complete impunity. But the scenes are so cruel and humiliating to describe, so embarrassing and shameful for me and the other bystanders whom Gaddafi insidiously turned into accomplices so that they would never risk recounting his perversions. This was a man who had seized the power to decide over the life and death of others, a man who defiled all those who had the misfortune of coming near him.
Mabrouka called me. “Get dressed, your master wants you,” which meant: “Get undressed and go upstairs.” She pushed the door open, and then an insane scene appeared before my eyes. The Guide was naked, sodomizing Ali, while Houssam was dancing, dressed and made up like a woman, to that same languid Egyptian song. I wanted to run back to my room but Houssam cried out “Master, there’s Soraya!” and motioned me to dance with him. I was paralyzed. Then Gaddafi called out: “Come here, slut.” He threw Ali aside and seized me furiously. Houssam was dancing, Ali was watching, and, for the second time in a few days, I wanted to die. They had no right to do this to me.
And then Mabrouka came in and ordered the boys to leave and the master to stop because there was an emergency. He withdrew immediately and told me to get the hell out. I ran to my room, sobbing, and stayed in the shower for the rest of the evening. I kept washing myself and crying. I simply couldn’t stop. He was insane, they were all insane; it was a house of lunatics, and I didn’t want to be among them a moment longer. I wanted my parents, my brothers, my sister; I wanted my old life. But that was no longer possible. He had wrecked everything. He was repulsive. And he was the president of my country.
Amal came to see me and I begged her: “Please, please speak to Mabrouka. I can’t take this anymore, I want my mother . . .” I saw her become emotional for the first time. “Oh, my little darling!” she said, taking me in her arms. “Your story is so much like mine. They took me from school as well. I was fourteen.” She was now twenty-five and loathed her life.