From free to fallen: The mysterious death of a Libyan activist

Abdelmonem Al-Marimi is dead—and Libya is left grasping for the truth. The 42-year-old activist, father, and outspoken anti-corruption voice died late on 5 July, while in the custody of the Attorney General’s office in Tripoli, shortly after prosecutors said he had been cleared for release. Surveillance footage—silent but detailed—released on 6 July shows him arriving, moving between offices, and then, in a moment both sudden and haunting, jumping from a third-floor stairwell. The video also shows his lifeless body and guards rushing in. He was taken to a nearby private clinic, where he remained unconscious before being pronounced dead. But the footage raises more questions than it answers.

The Internal Security Agency (ISA), in a statement fiercely denied that he was abducted. The statement says that ISA had serious concerns about his behaviour and arrested him accordingly, interrogated and handed over to the AG’s office as required by the law. However during his custody he was held in incommunicado, without any contacts with his lawyer, family or friends. ISA also said that he was handed over in “excellent” physical condition—something the AG office’s footage appears to confirm. But it also insisted his detention had been extended for further interrogation. The AG’s office, by contrast, says he was informed of his release and simply awaiting a pickup by his family. Somewhere between these two accounts, a man died. And Libya is not staying silent.

I came to know Abdelmonem Al-Marimi in late 2022, when his uncle, Abu Agila Masud, was kidnapped from his home in Tripoli’s southern district of Abu Salim and handed to the US to stand trial for the 1988 Lockerbie bombing. With no legal basis or extradition treaty, the move shocked Libyans. Few spoke out. He did. As the family’s spokesperson, he responded with clarity and dignity however angrily and fierce in tone. We kept in touch, united by a belief that Masud’s case was not just personal—it was a national cause for all Libyans.

But Monem, as he is commonly known, was far more than a political voice. A lyricist and poet, he created the beloved animated series Haj Hamad, a satirical show criticising the government and society at large, which ran for over two decades as a Ramadan TV staple—blending humour, nostalgia, and biting satire. It made millions laugh, and think. That voice, too, is now gone.

The mid-May wave of protests began came in response to heavy fighting in Tripoli. Outraged by the repeated violence in the capital, thousands poured into the streets demanding the resignation of Prime Minister Abdulhamid Dbeibeh and his corruption-plagued Government of National Unity. Monem quickly became the protest’s most visible figure—calm but defiant, organising, chanting, encouraging others to come out and giving the movement coherence while always denying being a leader of the, mostly, spontaneous, protests.

That visibility came at a cost. Regime-linked media launched smear campaigns, accusing him of treason, faking his identity, even being a foreign agent. In fact many believe the ISA accused him of contacts with foreigners without actually explaining what kind of contacts if any? Threats escalated. By late May, he was forced to leave Tripoli and take shelter in Zawiya. From there, in early June, he called me. He wanted to talk—something serious—but decided it would be better face to face. I agreed. He never called back—regrettable neither did I!

Despite a crippling heat wave, thousands gathered in Zawiya on Sunday, July 6, for his funeral. What should have been a quiet burial became a bold show of defiance. Mourners held his photo, waved flags, and chanted against corruption. His coffin passed through the city not in silence, but to the drumbeat of resistance. If officials hoped his death would silence dissent, the turnout suggested otherwise.

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I went to the mourning site the next night—a large open space near his family’s home, chosen to accommodate the crowd. It was filled with mourners from across Libya’s divided political and tribal spectrum—activists, elders, artists, and youth, all united in grief and quiet anger. Many spoke of his final weeks—first in Zawiya, then in Surman, where ISA agents ultimately detained him. He was still writing, still reaching out—but increasingly wary of the risks. Everyone I spoke to blamed the authorities. Few, if any, accepted the official account—that he took his own life after being cleared for release. Yet even as doubts grow, no hard evidence has emerged to prove otherwise. And that, too, reflects the tragedy of a country where truth is always just out of reach.

They questioned the video: Why would a man, just told he was free, suddenly leap to his death? Why was there no audio? Why was he left alone among guards, with no lawyer or family member present? The disbelief was palpable—and perhaps the clearest indication of just how little trust Libyans now place in their institutions.

People debated the ISA and AG’s conflicting accounts, trying to decode the final minutes of his life. His brother, Nuri, told me they hadn’t even broken the news to his detained uncle in the U.S.—the emotional bond between them was too strong, the grief too great.

Despite the surveillance footage, the core question lingers: why would a stable man, freshly released, leap to his death? Many reject the official version outright. They speak not of physical abuse but psychological humiliation—something quieter, deeper that broke him from the inside. That suspicion centers on his final hours in ISA custody. The agency insists he was treated with “neutrality” and fed from top fast-food chains. But such polished statements only deepen public distrust.

In a country still bleeding from war, where truth is often buried under deliberate disinformation—sometimes pushed by official channels—and where most people rely on social media, especially Facebook, for news, the idea that a peaceful activist simply gave up on life moments before going home feels not only implausible, but unbearable. For those who knew him and many others who shared his rage against the government the idea of suicide is ridiculed.

Civil activists have been targeted before and more are likely to be victimised as the authorities, with the help of their allied militias, attempt to root out opposition and silence dissenting voices.

Yet his death is both a loss and a warning. A warning to anyone who speaks too clearly, stands too tall, or believes change is still possible. Whether this moment becomes a turning point or just another page in Libya’s long book of buried voices depends on what comes next. But one thing is certain: the silence they tried to impose has already been broken.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.