THE REBEL FIGHTERS:The commander who acknowledges blood on his hands does not smile at the reality of Libyans fighting Libyans, writes WILLIAM BOOTHin Zintan
IN THE surreal, dystopic Libya of Muammar Gadafy, the uprising that has shaken the Arab world produced not one but two distinct revolutions.
One, waged by words, by urban youth, on Facebook and the streets, an uprising of transitional councils and tweets, was fought in the rebel capital of Benghazi by bureaucrats who promise a democratic Libya.
The other was more simple, but not more pure: the insurrection of the past six months, fought in olive groves and ghost towns and propelled forward by fierce, pious hillbillies such as Muktar al-Akhdar, a commander from the western mountains whose rugged militiamen burst into Tripoli over the weekend. “We knew from the start that our revolution would cost lives. We weren’t scared, but we knew. We knew we could not fight tanks with flowers,” Akhdar said a few days before the rebels’ final push towards Tripoli.
Protest would not bring change. That was the thinking of outsiders, of Americans, Europeans and expatriates, he said. “Not in Libya. Not with Gadafy. We have been together for 42 years. No flowers.”
What moves men such as Akhdar, and what he expects of his revolution, may shape the new Libya as much as the negotiators now writing first drafts of a constitution. Akhdar matters because he has suffered, he has dreams – and he is heavily armed.
Akhdar is believed to be alive and in Tripoli. The last time reporters saw him was 10 days ago. Most of the rebel fighters pouring into Tripoli carry AK-47s. But on the plains south of Tripoli, Akhdar cradled an FN assault rifle, a weapon favoured by Gadafy’s special forces. Where did he get it? He drew a slow thumb across his throat. “Dead,” Akhdar said, regarding the government soldier who had been using it.
The 54-year-old commander and father of six, who looks made of wire and leather, did not smile at the reality of Libyans fighting Libyans. Capable of a few words in English, he held up his hands and said, “Blood.” There is blood on his hands.
Akhdar’s rolling command centre is his pick-up truck, camouflaged with mud and hung with goatskins of water. The bed is pocked by jagged bullet holes. Someone has left a grenade to bounce around on the front seat.
Locals swear forces loyal to Gadafy fired 3,000 Grad rockets in and around Zintan, still scattered with burned-out hulks of Russian- and Chinese-made tanks, destroyed by guided North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (Nato) missiles and petrol bombs. Of all the towns of the Nafusa mountains, the Zintanis, known for their grit, arrogance and wit, produced the most martyrs. More than 125 of their portraits hang in the town square.
Akhdar was one of the first to pick up a gun. For 25 years he served as a low-ranking officer in the Libyan army, until discharge in 1998. He taught light-arms tactics, how to fire mortars, the importance of high ground. He never ventured far from Libya – except in the desert frontiers of Algeria, Tunisia and Chad. But he has learned his history, he said, from watching satellite TV.
He fought in Chad, a decade-long border conflict, a seesaw of ambush and retreat waged in oases and wadis in the south, where the Libyan army broke down and never really recovered. Akhdar says he watched in silence as Gadafy degraded his army, always wary of rivals in the ranks. “They told us to fight. We fought. But Gadafy had no respect for us, no decent salaries, just war without reason, on and on, doing his terrorism,” said Akhdar. More than 7,500 Libyan soldiers died.
Akhdar says he met Gadafy once, in 1975, at a checkpoint at Zawiyah, when he was on guard duty. He admired the daring Libyan colonel who overthrew King Idris in a 1969 military coup. Young Akhdar believed in the revolution. “In the beginning, Gadafy came in peace, but he is like all dictators. Now his heart is dry, and he loves only power.”
After his discharge, Akhdar worked as a guide steering Italian and French adventurers in weeks-long treks in the deserts south of Zintan. He hungers for the desert constantly and believes it has taught him lessons in devotion, humility and endurance.
Akhdar was chosen by his men to command the Zintan Martyr Militia, a group of 300 or 400, depending on what day you ask, with about 60 hardcore fighters who leap to the front lines at Akhdar’s quiet order.
His brigade headquarters is an abandoned school. “Look what we’ve done to it!” Akhdar said in shame. “This was a place for scholars.” Now the place smells of men and war: a stink from dirty toilets, gun oil, burning trash and unwashed feet.
Akhdar said he threw himself into the revolution because he had no choice. When Libyan citizens protested, they were shot. Among the macho mountain tribes, this was Gadafy’s greatest blunder. Gadafy sparked the revolution. “His people offered the tribes money to go back home, and when we did not, they came with tanks and we defended ourselves, and as we began to fight, we saw they were not strong. They were weak! So we began to kill them, and they ran.”
For weeks this summer, the rebel advance was stalled at a village called Qawlish. It sits on a hilltop, abandoned, overlooking a deep canyon and in the distance, what was the Gadafy-held town of Asabah. Qawlish was taken, lost, retaken. One afternoon, a group of unarmed people from Asabah appeared in cars and vans, waving green flags.
Then came an ambush, as Gadafy troops leapt out of other cars and swarmed over the hills. Akhdar’s men unleashed a terrifying firefight against Gadafy loyalists, reduced now to mixed units of regular army, conscripted cannon fodder and paid fighters from Mali and Niger. It was over in less than 30 minutes. The Gadafy troops pulled back, taking several dead soldiers with them. The rebels counted four wounded.
“We are sons of the desert, we don’t get tricked like this,” Akhdar said later. Akhdar predicted Tripoli would fall by end of the holy month of Ramadan, by the last day in August.
In the evenings, Akhdar breaks his day-long fast at a house at the edge of his beloved desert. A baby camel is tied with one leg to a utility pole. He will be eaten.
Akhdar lounges, eating nuts. Leaning against the wall are AK47s, rocket propelled grenades and old Italian rifles. His soldiers have full stomachs and are smoking in the dusk. They are enjoying something new: they are complaining, openly, about the lives they’ve been denied. They want money, to marry and travel.
They are watching the new Free Libya satellite channel, showing rebel propaganda videos depicting a grinning Gadafy – then cutting to images taken from 1984 state TV when Brother Leader hanged his opponents in a stadium. “The longer this war lasts, it is no good,” Akhdar said quietly. “Wars create criminals. I have studied this.” He has seen it on TV. He names Somalia, Vietnam, Rwanda, Serbia. “We don’t want to be like that.”
He is asked what he wants from this revolution. Each time he says the same thing. "I want freedom," Akhdar said. "Write it down again. Freedom." – ( Washington Postservice/Bloomberg)