Big Muammar’s House

This was an extremely weird and awkward moment that stood out from the perpetual onslaught of oddities I encountered on my two trips to Libya. Tecca Zendik, who here is wearing an American-flag t-shirt, was plucked from a modeling agency by a Lebanese businessman and summarily named “honorary Libyan consul to America.” This was taken during a ceremony in which she was given a Libyan passport.

Over the past two months, as the world watched Libya descend into an orgy of chaos and violence, I reminisced about my two visits to the home of Colonel Muammar Gaddafi.

The first time, in 2002, I was invited to photograph 25 international beauty-pageant contestants selected through regional modeling agencies. The idea was that people would vote for the winner online, and we were hired to shoot a behind-the-scenes feature about the spectacle. It quickly became apparent that no one had planned anything, and we were all part of some strange publicity stunt that didn’t seem to have a point other than “Libya is an idyllic kingdom run by a benevolent father figure who loves women and dresses like a flashy black grandmother who spends most of her time in Atlantic City.”

Every day we were told that we’d be meeting the colonel—or the Brother Leader, as we were told to address him—but it never happened. Then one morning we were taken on a tour of Gaddafi’s old house, the one that the Reagan administration bombed in ’86. Supposedly it hasn’t been touched since it was destroyed, and visitors are often taken to the site to witness what the Libyans call “evidence of American terrorism.”

Omar Harfoush introduces Tecca to a child cancer patient as part of a series of “diplomatic meetings” Tecca was dutifully expected to attend.

Afterward we were driven to Gaddafi’s current residence. The girls, myself, a film crew, a reporter from the

Sunday Times, and a couple of other journalists exited the bus to a scene of mustached Libyans in shiny suits nervously running around. Before entering we were told that we had to relinquish all paper, pens, and cameras, which, with my being a photographer, kind of cramped my style. A few minutes later I found myself inside Gaddafi’s tent on the grounds of his compound and watching him schmooze with the pageant ladies. When he glanced at us—a small huddle of media types who were obviously out of place—he asked an official who we were. “Some media,” one of the shiny suit guys said. “So why don’t they have cameras and pens?” he asked. The official replied: “I don’t know. Maybe they forgot them.” Perhaps it’s a bit of a stretch, but I think this short moment was a good metaphor for how things work over there and why Gaddafi has been so defiant toward protesters. Assuring that the colonel is content is more important than keeping him properly informed.

A German model poses in Gaddafi’s bombed-out former compound. The film crew were also from Germany and shooting a documentary called Beauty Will Save the World, which was the slogan of the pageant.

My second visit to Libya was in 2003. I accompanied Tecca Zendik, a 19-year-old American girl who’d been a contestant in the 2002 beauty pageant. She had just been named honorary Libyan consul to the USA—the first diplomatic link between the two countries in more than 20 years. To this day I have no idea why I was invited back or what was going on, but of course I jumped at the opportunity.

This trip there was less of a runaround when it came time to meet the colonel. When we arrived, the shiny suits ushered Tecca into a plastic lawn chair next to Gaddafi and he started ranting about the “great Satan”—America and Reagan, of course. Tecca was overwhelmed by the experience and started bawling. An hour or two after the ceremony, wild-eyed Libyans were zooming around the place and freaking out because Tecca had been wearing a shirt printed with Stars and Stripes on it. Fashionable despot that he is, Gaddafi has no tolerance for such attire, and she was promptly issued a shirt bearing the Brother Leader’s mug. Following her transformation from supporter of the enemy into a devotee of the colonel, a second ceremony was performed to celebrate Libya’s eagerness to convert the beautiful women of the world to Islam.

All the beauty-pageant contestants were sternly asked to wear Gaddafi shirts as they were escorted around the premises. When foreign parties are invited to Libya by the colonel, they’re often taken to his former compound and encouraged to write messages of peace and harmony in the dust on the wall. This girl was Swedish, I think.

The next day, we followed Tecca as she performed her first diplomatic duty, meeting the head of the Tripoli Women’s Military Training Academy. It was one of the most socially awkward exchanges I’ve ever witnessed. They forced her to look through thick albums containing photos of the colonel as if it were as normal as watching Aunt Jenny’s slide show of her trip to the Grand Canyon. Tecca feigned interest while shifting nervously in her seat and giving off a heavy vibe of “get me out of here before the Brother Leader tries to stick his tongue down my throat and take a picture of it for his scrapbook.”

Following this odd bout of totalitarian show-and-tell, we were once again carted off to meet the great leader at his compound. I was given about three or four minutes to photograph him as the reporter I was with jabbered on about whatever. It’s hard to pay attention when you’re shooting an autocrat who could have you beheaded for taking a picture that makes him look fat. I snapped photos of Gaddafi as he stood there ranting, and it was over before I knew it. He wafted back into his tent with robes billowing to do whatever it is he does in there, and we were driven back to the hotel in a Mercedes to drink mint tea and ask ourselves: “What the fuck was that all about then?”

Next to Gaddafi is Omar Harfoush, who organized the beauty pageant. He smiled as the colonel met my reporter friend, Enda Leahy. This is at the doorway of his tent, which he often erects during visits to other countries, but in this case he used it as a hideaway during the event.

A class at the Tripoli Women’s Military Training Academy. There are lots of stories about the Brother Leader surrounding himself with female bodyguards exclusively, but I think that’s something of an urban myth. At the time these reports started surfacing, Gaddafi had recently made a big push to recruit more women into the army and the police, rather than surrounding himself solely with hot babes with guns, as has been widely reported.