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We were all mellow. Then he floored it. The Hummer slalomed as we sped towards the sea west of Misrata. The dark asphalt was covered with sand on the edges, and I prayed Taha could keep the car from sliding out of control as it swung side to side on the twisting road. A white Mazda pickup appeared over a rise, coming straight at us. Taha expertly pulled right and slid the Hummer around him, lining us up on the sea road. We sat there for a second, staring at two T tanks, burnt hulks that sat guard on the road like ghosts. Whiskey no problem. Music problem. I looked at Lucian my cameraman. At first I thought he was lying down next to me fearing for his life until I realized he was angling for a shot of Taha, the joint, and the speedometer. It was an odd request I thought. Should we give the guy a medal? Maybe so, but this was serious stuff so I went about it seriously doing two trips to Libya—November and January —along with a team of about a dozen war crimes investigators. Working for the UN is funny. Everyone thinks we have some great karmic authority. Get your ass out here. We flew to Libya via Rome in November, shortly after Qaddafi was killed. There were 12 investigators, a chief of security, and a close protection guy that had the guns. The chief of security was a massive dark-skinned Brazilian and the close protection guy was a dashingly handsome Tunisian who never stopped smiling. We flew to Rome from Geneva when the Italian police showed up. It was a buffet of heavily accented English. You must send your weapons back. We are not importing weapons to Libya. These are for our protection. Should we throw our cell phones if we get shot at? We flew on one of the oldest MDs on the planet. The MD has a staircase in the rear of the aircraft. Fabulous design. The ass of the plane is a huge cone that just swings aside to let the stairs down. There was a constant whistling in the plane and it was icy cold inside. They are a curious document that not every country accepts. I took mine out at passport control and faced a young man in mismatched camouflage: blue navy pattern pants with desert shirt. Rebel chic, I thought. We drove to the UN base and my jaw hit the floor. Part of that means they need to be able to secure a compound, and the only one they could find in Tripoli was a five-star beach resort. It was stunning. I had a lovely villa. There was a state of the art gym, swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and sauna. Coming from Afghanistan where I had lived in relative squalor I thought I had finally found a mission where life could be as good as the work. As we prepared to set out the next day we all gathered for the morning security briefing. The Brazilian reviewed where everyone would be and when and made sure we had our phones set and radios on. In dangerous places like Afghanistan where cell phones may not cover everything you need a way to communicate so handheld radios are crucial. But they only have a range of a mile or so. To remedy this the UN places repeaters throughout the country and every vehicle has a powerful radio that is always in touch with base via the repeaters. No matter where you go you always know that radio works and your life may depend on it. The team was full of very experienced investigators with time in places like Afghanistan, Bosnia, and Darfur. I will make sure things are secure. Either that or we stay at the resort. Break out the swim trunks I thought! But the reality was you do the job no matter the challenges. We were also down a few vehicles from what we had requested. Budget cuts. My first site was in Gargour. Qaddafi left minutes before the bombs tore the bunker open but his son was there and died in the attack. The Brigades all had cool names like the Lions or the Tiger Brigade. But the Lions had a logo—two glorious lions looking out over the Libyan desert—and they were running this place. There was a tiny peephole. My cameraman Lucian and I hopped out of the dilapidated Mercedes van we were driving with the fixer we had hired to take us around. Things were tense. It has to be signed by the Misrata Military Council and the city council to allow us through the checkpoints and to film. We will have it. We were running out of things to film in Tripoli. The gate moaned as a slender Libyan with crooked teeth swung it open from inside. He walked out with a massive man in a robe, his stomach so large he looked like he was walking in a personal tent. The fixer spoke to the slender man as the large man walked up to us, pushing past the Libyans with his girth, shaking our hands enthusiastically. It was the list of catchphrases that children learn in school or they hear from soldiers passing by. Lucian and I looked at each other. Well, this was a good start. The last time I was here they interrogated us for an hour just to get access. At least Dumby seemed to like us. Our sweaty driver started the old van, and we rolled into the compound. Sure enough there were two pickup trucks, double-barreled Lucian sat low, peeking around the seats. We wanted this on camera just in case they stopped us from filming it later. When I slid the side door to the van open a small crowd had gathered. It was rapidly clear who was in charge. Two men appeared, a tall, hulking dark-skinned man with aviator sunglasses and a gut and a smaller light-skinned fellow with a hoodie and jeans. Both had their hair razor tight like a Marine. The smaller fellow asked us to enter a small building they had turned into an office. We walked into a nightmare from Ikea, fresh wooden slats ran along the walls and floor. There were brand new prefab cream-colored wood bookcases with tiny Ikea accent lights shining light through glass shelves. The floor was fresh pine. I wondered where the tiny meatballs were. Lucian and I sat on couches recycled from the s, deep plush couches like my grandparents had where change disappears for decades. The large man scraped two metal chairs along the floor and he and the one in the hoodie sat down. Our translator sat next to us and rattled off some Arabic as the two looked over our passports. We want to film the bunker. He had spent numerous tours in Afghanistan filming the Marines, had worked throughout Africa and the Middle East. His was a passport that said experience. Mine was brand new. After leaving the UN, I needed to get a clean passport, my other having Israel stamps from multiple trips. I was all over the place. The Misrata Brigade also let me into the rooms in the building where Qaddafi had the pool and sauna. Are they still there? This was news to me. We went through the ambassador. He must have thought it would be better to personally endorse them. I took a moment to look at the man. He still wore the aviator sunglasses, even in the shade of the room. The passports were like playing cards in his massive hands, and his forearms bore the scars of combat. This guy has been basically everywhere bad shit happens. You know a lot about this place and have VISA from the ambassador. Where are your press passes? You know the UN was here too. This is a famous place. I have been here and know these sites like the back of my hand. The man quickly handed the cell phone back to Taha who took the call. He hung up, rose, and yelled to Hamid as he left the building. He was tortured, and we are going to storm the parliament. Bani Walid is a pro-Qaddafi town. During the revolution in the brigades from Misrata laid siege to it in the old medieval style by cutting it off from the outside world and firing explosives at it for weeks. Instead of trebuchets tossing balls of Greek-fire, they lobbed hundreds of Grad rockets, launched shells from recoilless rifles, and plastered the city with inaccurate 23mm anti-aircraft machine guns mounted to pickup trucks. That tends to piss people off. Since the end of the war Bani Walid and the rest of Libya have been at odds. But recently the Qaddafi supporters have been stepping things up in a campaign of kidnappings targeting people from Tripoli and the surrounding area, but especially Misratans. UN DSS, the Department of Safety and Security, warned us that things were tense but we had meetings set with the local authorities and they promised things were calm. We set out on a clear crisp morning from Misrata driving southwest on a road that took us through the Libyan Desert. Wild camels grazed on scrub brush as we sped past. The story goes his Bavarian Colonel brought a hand-carved oak bed with him and he had Libert and his battery move the bed every time the front shifted. The damn thing was so heavy it took several men to lift and one day Libert, a fed-up Corporal, told his buddies they would lose the bed in the desert and tell their crazy Colonel they had to abandon it during an attack. Six men hefted the oaken beast in the blazing sun and walked right into a British patrol. That bed probably saved his life. We pulled into the hospital parking lot in Bani Walid. We parked the three Land Cruisers next to each other and broke open a crate of juice boxes as we waited for our government contact. An old Corolla, more body-rot than car, pulled up in front of us and a Libyan wearing a white shroud approached us. And they started to talk rapidly. Abdul, the head of our delegation was a wizened Indian from South Africa whose precise English commanded authority, went over to them and began a parlay. He was a devout Muslim whose keen perception and cool head had kept us out of trouble. I represent the people and welcome the UN. The man spat. His body language and demeanor changed, his hands rapidly gesticulating through the air. He spoke at length. They are spies for foreign governments and if you meet with them I will gather of our fighters, and we will slay you. Please understand we do not take sides and must meet with the government. We will be happy to meet with you at an appointed time. The man in white turned and got into his car without a word. He wrestled with the starter, placed the car in gear and was gone. The January trip to Libya was larger than the one in November and we picked up several people because we had to split up. The Brazilian went to Benghazi with one group while we inherited a fine Frenchman named Christian. If things went tits-up we were screwed. Our delegation was taken to a conference room on the top floor and we began a droning meeting filled with pleasantries. Then my radio crackled. Christian had made me the security point of contact for the group when we were in meetings because of my field experience. We all had massive Motorola walkie-talkies strapped to our hips, but most everyone turned them off in meetings. I was to keep mine on in case Christian needed to get us as he always remained on watch with the vehicles. I walked out of the meeting into a maelstrom. The hallway was full of men dashing towards the stairs. Suddenly I saw everyone had a gun out, pulling them from under long coats. I looked out the window. Our friend had kept his word. Outside there were dozens of angry men, many waving guns and shouting. They had blocked the one exit with their vehicles, effectively stranding us in the prison. Then the shooting started. I hit the floor. I crawled to the stairs and tried to get Christian on the radio, but it must have been too loud for him to hear, so I thought it best to look for an escape route. I clambered down the stairs and found a back door that led to an empty parking lot behind the building. We could all get out, but Christian and the drivers would be fucked. Hopefully it was just pissed off men firing into the air. But he was the boss, so the two of us walked down the stairs. Abdul strode out of the building, walking directly towards the mob. I skulked behind a cement column on the side of the building. Christian came out of the car with the drivers and the Egyptian came down to translate. I watched stunned as Abdul took on the guise of Charleston Heston from The Ten Commandments , standing before the crowd, his arms raised high as if to part the Red Sea. He beckoned them to put away their arms, to disperse, and spoke of the UN representing all people and willing to listen to their grievances, but not at the end of gun. Eventually the guns disappeared and the crowd dispersed and Abdul spoke to their leader, the man in white from the hospital. Then Abdul came to me. You need to investigate the NATO airstrikes. If they take you to them we are ahead of the game. And he was right. Some were clearly legal, others dubious. We spent the rest of the day combing through debris, doing interviews and getting the job done. By 4 PM Christian and I headed back to rendezvous with the others at the hospital. We needed to head back to Tripoli before dark. The cell phones were out of network and we sat there, huddled in the Land Cruiser waiting for the other two to arrive, making calls on the Motorola. I looked back and saw the telltale flashes of gunfire from men hanging out the windows of their vehicles. Bullets whizzed past our car and bounced off the asphalt. Then suddenly they stopped. I looked back and saw the two pickups, side-by-side. We had reached the edge of Bani Walid and they let us go. The protest in Tripoli was a crazed affair, Misratan men climbed over the bamboo walls to the Rixos Hotel, where Parliament was held, trying to breach security. The guards were gentle, first asking the men to stay on their side of the wall, then softly coaxing them down and sending them back. A car appeared and inside was a man in grave distress. Lucian put the camera on him, spoke to him, but I was too far to hear what was said between them. Later Lucian he told me the fellow had been tortured by men from Bani Walid and agreed to speak to us. Hamid came, expressing his gratitude, and Taha appeared, happy we had come to record their grievances with the government. We left them and planned to meet the torture victim at the hospital later that night. His body was covered in sores. The men from Bani Walid tried to get him to utter pro-Qaddafi slogans. He refused. And so they took spoons from a fire and touched them to his skin. They poured boiling tea on his head. They beat him. As he lay before me in the hospital on his stomach, too damaged to sit on his back, he spoke softly, deliberately. Free our brothers. Hamid and Taha were happy with our efforts. The next day they gave us free rein of the bunker in Gargour and agreed to take us to Misrata and Sirte and be our guides. We pulled into western Misrata near the sea. The air was a combination of salt and diesel fumes from God knows what. The Lions of the Desert had made their base out of an old garage tucked into a space between a high—rise apartment complex. Taha pulled the Hummer up to a corrugated metal gate and sat on the horn until it swung open, revealing a dozen pickups armed with Russian SPG-9 recoilless rifles and We pulled in, and the door slammed shut behind us. A slender man with curly black closed the door and greeted Taha and Hamid in a long embrace. As if on cue Shafiq mounted a canon and began to spin around like a teacup ride at Disneyland, only this cup carried twin-barrels of death. He laughed as he spun, almost dizzy. I was amazed at how little respect these men showed to weapons. Lucian and I only raised our guards further when they did this. Once Shafiq was done touring us around the shop, we went to their lair, a small rectangular room with an air conditioner that wheezed as it tried to cool the room. I looked at the garish golden couch as we sat on it, lounging after the three-hour drive from Tripoli. He put plastic cups before us and started to pour. It had been days since we had enjoyed alcohol. Libya is a conservative nation with a total ban on alcohol. But there are bans, and there are bans. Taha poured me a good two inches, topping it off with a splash of Pepsi. We sat back. Staccato Arabic filled the room as the men caught up and two others eventually joined us. Taha downed the Scotch with glee, filling his cup again and again, his tiny black eyes glazed over in a hashish-whiskey stupor. Out came Bouckie, a plate of spicy pasta like penne-al-arabiata garnished with goat. We ate communally, everyone dipping his spoon into the slop, our spit mixing. Then Taha rose. He said something in Arabic and beckoned for us to follow. He staggered like a linebacker rising from a sack, his huge girth moving out of synch with his head. He fished out his sunglasses and walked to a vehicle. He reached in and pulled out a shotgun with a stunning redwood stock. The last place I wanted to be was around a drunk with a gun, so I pulled back, keeping something solid between Taha and myself. Lucian stood behind him, camera raised, darting back and forth to make sure he was always behind the large man. Taha opened a box of ammunition, loaded, and fired randomly, laughing. He did it again and again. Everyone crowded around him. I was the only one that hid. He opened the chamber, carefully slid a shell into it and slammed the bolt closed, concentrating like only a drunk can when trying to do the most basic things. The brakes squealed and the car slid. The driver leaped from the car screaming, incredulous as Taha laughed uncaring. Suddenly the men looked at each other and embraced. They were old friends who had fought together. A few words passed, all was forgiven, the shotgun was put away, and we retreated to the Den to drain the Ballentines. The next morning they took us to meet the Mayor of Misrata. His office was adorned with more awards and glass plaques than I thought he could have earned in the few months since the war had ended. It was in a strikingly modern low building with white stucco walls. We entered, the room filled with more than a dozen men arguing with the mayor as Taha lit a cigarette. Lucian grabbed a glass tray with a sailboat motif and slid it to Taha, a makeshift ashtray to keep the room clean. The conversation halted as the mayor raised his hand. Lucian mumbled an apology and the men went back to their argument. Hamid leaned close to me, whispering. They are angry with the government for failing to provide follow-up medical treatment. Some walked with a cane or had massive scars. Hamid lifted the traditional Libyan robe he wore that day to show me a fist-sized scar on his leg. The guy standing next to me was killed. The doctors removed flesh from my thigh to fill in the hole. The argument with the mayor continued. Eventually he placed his fingers together, touched them to his mouth, spoke, and the men left grumbling. But if the government does not deal with this they will have a crisis. We would like to meet with Mansour Dowd and the Younis brothers. When Qaddafi tried to escape Libya on October 20, he started with men. Three survived. The mayor said no. The only three survivors were in a prison in Misrata. That was a dead end. I looked at him smiling. Mohammed was an average looking man with a swollen nose from heavy drinking and the large, fleshy hands of a manual laborer. When we met him he was already drunk, slurring his greetings and staggering to his chair. We interviewed him at night, the stars above, but a glowing whining shimmering halogen the only light Lucian had. The first time I had been in Sirte was January Here the population lauded praise upon their deranged leader. Unlike in much of the country, Qaddafi had poured money into the city, ensuring the locals lived a good life with a state of the art hospital and modern highways leading directly to the capital so he could dash back and forth. This was where he swore he would die, and he kept to his word. He defiantly called for a last stand, and I had crouched in the spot he hid and walked the road where he died. We traded our silver Hummer for a gold Land Cruiser. The boys thought it would be lower profile. I just laughed as we got in it. Shafiq sat in the back row, a Russian Skorpion machine pistol in his hand. There was an AK and several grenades throughout the car. The UN had conducted an exhaustive investigation into the death of Qaddafi. He made his last stand, his back literally against a wall, between two drainage pipes in a ditch in his hometown of Sirte. Today the cement around it is tagged with so much graffiti it is all but illegible. What is also in dispute is how he died. Most think he was shot in the head in an ambulance. The UN report was inconclusive, mostly because the Libyans refused to give us his autopsy. Qaddafi had all but escaped after his convoy came under attack. He had crawled through a drainage pipe with about a dozen of his men, and the rebels had no idea where he was. He could have walked away as the rebels poured rounds into a house about yards from where Qaddafi was hiding. Yet he implored his men to fight to the last. And so he sat there in a blue flak vest as his men tossed grenades over the rise where they hid and fired their Belgian F assault rifles, giving away their position. One of the grenades hit the top of the rise, fell back, and landed in front of Qaddafi. His bodyguard dove for the explosive, desperately trying to swat it away. Qaddafi sat stunned, his vest shredded, a massive wound to his left temple pouring blood. When the rebels found him he was in shock. He staggered, was beaten by the man we interviewed among others and was placed in an ambulance. But there was no exit wound nor powder burns on his head, according to the doctors that did the initial investigation of his body in Misrata before his autopsy. The story of the young man that defiantly shot him in the head is probably bullshit. Qaddafi probably died of shrapnel wounds during the three-hour drive to Misrata. But that is not heroic and people like heroes so a story was probably invented. The next day we drove to Tripoli, Hamid clad in his hoodie in the passenger seat. Taha lit up early and we drove shortly after sunrise in another haze. Lucian and I got on the phones and we were shocked to hear about an attack on the US consulate in Bengazi. The American Ambassador was dead and pretty much everyone was pulling out. Hamid awoke and we sat there mulling things over, wondering whether it was Al Qaeda, random violence based on the idiot video everyone was talking about, or something else. They are doing their job. We all thought there would be men on the roof with Stinger missiles until guys in black pajamas with sub-machine guns tore through the NMJIC—the National Military Joint Intelligence Center, a vault deep under ground in the C-ring—and told us we had been hit. The Earth is an amazing insulator, and the bunker protected us from even feeling the impact of American Flight As soon as I walked outside the doors I smelled burning horsehair. It was what they had used in WW II to insulate the building and it almost destroyed the Pentagon that day. I picked my way through candy and soda cans spilt on the floors—the vending machines had burst when the pressure wave came through the halls. When I walked outside I turned and watched as a column of smoke poured from the building. Taha had driven a front-end loader before the war. I loved the feeling. I loved the freedom. My uncle was a pilot but he was killed by Qaddafi. It was after the Pan Am flight. There was either someone on the plane or something but Qaddafi blew up a Libyan airliner midair. My uncle died. I always wanted to be like him so I went to pilot school. We left Canada and I moved to Qatar. But when the war started I was drawn back here. We were fighting man. It was going bad. Taha drove on, oblivious to our conversation. You might laugh but there was black magic. Man I saw it. We would shoot them and nothing happened. They stood there and laughed at us. Then Ramadan came and everything changed. We were chaste Muslims. No Hash, no alcohol, no sex. And God was with us. We killed them all. I saw stuff. Man it will never leave me. But I try not to focus on it. But Misrata will be last. Bani Walid needs to be first. Then the other cities. And so Hamid passed him a rock of Moroccan hash, rolling paper, a filter and tobacco. Hamid and Taha conversed in Arabic, laughing as Hamid smoked a Marlboro. I had never smoked and was sure I was at or near the limit of second hand smoke for imminent lung cancer. Lucian took a lighter and slowly melted the hash into the paper, carefully mixing it with tobacco in a long thin line. He laid the filter in and rolled it, finally licking the end and passing it forward to Taha. Not finding one he opened the glove compartment. Out rolled a hand grenade. Taha lit up and smoked it rapidly as Hamid rolled a cone joint. It was massive and thick. How can he concentrate on driving I wondered as I sat in my own fog. I need to be on camera and need a clear head. I looked at him incredulously. Suddenly Taha was lucid. He screamed at Hamid who rat-a-tated in Arabic back to him. We pulled up next to a VW van and Hamid motioned for the driver to stop. Lucian and I had no idea what was going on. The three Libyan walked to the Egyptian van, packed with over a dozen men, demanding their papers. Lucian trailed them with his camera. There was shouting but I sat in the Land Cruiser, happy to have several inches of metal, glass and plastic between me and anything that might happen that involved gunplay. There was high-pitched chatter and I looked back to see the guys dragging a young boy from the car. Everyone got into the gold Land Cruiser, a sixteen-year-old Egyptian boy sat between Lucian and me. What is going on, I wondered? Taha took off and we soon lost the VW. Hamid sat there interrogating the boy. He sat there looking down at his folded hands, shaking. He spoke to Hamid but never looked at him, fear hung in the air. I felt sick. My friends were now kidnappers, and I had no idea what was going on. We used to have absolute authority during the war. The discussion was over. But here things hit a snag: The checkpoint was unmanned. Unwilling to keep the boy until the next checkpoint, we pulled over and tossed him to the side of the road and drove off, leaving him to find his own way. By Paige Gawley. By Dwayne Jenkins. By Natalli Amato. Share: X Facebook Share Copied to clipboard. Videos by VICE.

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The oasis, once a draw for tourists crossing kilometres of spectacular desert dunes, is now the site of a vicious proxy battle between outside powers vying to divide local tribes and rule the remote mineral-rich and politically volatile area. They all said they brought their own weapons and ammunition to the battle. Businesses and homes in the town, which had a pre-war population of 35,, have been destroyed, and the one road leading through Ubari has been held hostage by the fight. They tense up when vehicles approach over sandy tracks in the dark, and strain to hear distant gunfire. Former dictator Muammar Gaddafi heavily recruited from Ghat for his army and intelligence services, promising the Tuareg — who are stretched across borders into Algeria, Niger and Mali — a Libyan sanctuary, jobs and rights. But many Tuareg still await their promised Libyan ID cards, access to a quality education, and an escape from the poorly paid security sector or hard-scrabble life of smuggling. There are no jobs and the quality of life is bad We smuggle because we know the desert, even though the French are there. Like members of the Tebu tribe, who live mostly between the southern towns of Murzuq and Kufra, as well as in neighbouring Chad, many Tuareg have little economic alternative but to use their innate knowledge of the desert to transport a cross-border cargo of people, subsidised gasoline, drugs, and guns. Mohammed, 28, wears a baseball hat, black T-shirt and gold chains as he hawks black market gasoline in jerry cans by a dusty football pitch in Ghat to customers desperate for fuel. Gas stations are often closed around the southern city of Sebha, mostly due to corruption, and the one road from there to Ghat is blocked at Ubari by Tebu snipers. He laughed when asked about the lack of roads. Although many Tuareg soldiers remained loyal until Gaddafi was toppled in , the Tebu tribe sided with the revolutionaries hoping for a better life. So did Tuareg men like Wafalla, who, under Tuareg leader Abu Baker Issa — recently killed in a Tebu ambush in Ubari — formed a revolutionary unit to safeguard Tuareg territory in the southwest. A group of young Tuareg students, border guards and musicians travel here often to sit under the stars, drink tea, eat and play the guitar and drums. But he and his colleagues have not been paid their government salaries for three months, he said, and they have few patrol cars and weapons. Recently, many smuggling paths have shifted away from Tuareg territory in the southwest to the border due south of Sebha, under Tebu control and French surveillance. They have thrown support to opposing forces in the Ubari fight, but both the Tuareg and Tebu say while it is enough to sustain the fighting, it is not enough to win. While the Tebu have largely aligned with the Dignity government, the Tuareg community is split between the two governments. However, all Tuareg residents, who spoke with Al Jazeera, said they were united in defending their homes in Ubari, noting loyalty to their tribe trumps politics. There are also fears the group could take root in the chaotic south. They have been scrambling for solutions to stem the tide of thousands of African migrants and asylum seekers traversing the desert en route to Europe. Many Tuareg are sceptical of a recent ceasefire brokered in Ubari, the latest in a series of ineffectual agreements for what they now consider a proxy war. The Tuareg, who have a history of conflict with France in north Africa, are suspicious of French military and economic aspirations in the area. There is a French military base km into Niger from the Libyan border, as well as a US military presence. Meanwhile, Algeria has bolstered its border security to control spillover violence from Libya, effectively cutting off the Libyan Tuareg from their Algerian kin. He was forced to flee with his family to Ghat when his home on the front-line was burned down. By Rebecca Murray. Published On 22 Jun 22 Jun Sponsored Content.

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