Gaddafi nostalgia isn’t a political movement

Libyans once used the phrase ‘reckless boy’ to describe anyone who loudly cheered Muammar Gaddafi at the height of his power. It was a popular mocking expression aimed at the clowns and opportunists who had lost their sense — or pretended to. It was a simple piece of folk wisdom: don’t waste time arguing with reckless boys. Any conversation with them would lead nowhere. Not to politics. Not to statehood. Only more noise that resembled Gaddafi’s own.

Libyans learned something lasting from their encounter with Gaddafi’s admirers. Anyone who went overboard in praising the ‘Leader’ knew deep down that their loyalty was opportunistic, not genuine. This had little to do with patriotism and everything to do with how Libyans viewed Gaddafi’s absurdity. They could appreciate some of his Arab policies while simultaneously mocking his lies, repression and failed attempts to reinvent himself in Africa. It was a confusing mixture that only a country accustomed to contradictions could endure.

A few days after the regime collapsed, before Gaddafi met his brutal end, I called a friend who had held a senior political post. I wanted to check on him. Surprisingly, he seemed more committed to the ‘Jamahiriya’ system than he had been during its heyday. He insisted that he wasn’t defending Gaddafi, but rather Libya, from falling into foreign dependency and chaos. Ironically, he used to mock the very system he served. Months later, he died from grief and illness. He felt that Gaddafi had become a solution, even in death, because what followed seemed even worse.

But does that make him and others like him ‘Gaddafi supporters’, as the term is widely used today?

I do not think so. The term is misleading. It is superficial. It arrives late to the reality of Libya’s shifting landscape.

Those labelled as ‘Gaddafi loyalists’ today — or supporters of the old September Revolution — especially given the speculation surrounding Saif al-Islam Gaddafi’s potential candidacy ‘if elections ever take place’, do not fit neatly into that category. Not even Ali al-Kilani, the poet who wrote some of the most iconic anthems glorifying Gaddafi and who is related to the family, can be reduced to it. Saif al-Islam, the last politically ambitious member of the family, surely knows that playing the role of saviour is impossible. A divided country offers no return for a fallen past.

While it is true that some Libyans stood with the regime against those who sought NATO’s intervention,  their motivation was resistance to foreign involvement, not love for Gaddafi. After he survived the chaos, Ahmed Gaddaf al-Dam kept repeating: ‘Libyans had the right to revolt against Gaddafi, but not the right to invite NATO in and destroy their country.’ This is a reasonable statement, but hardly the foundation for a neo-Gaddafi movement.

The idea that a powerful political force from the previous regime is poised to return to the political arena is inaccurate in the context of Gaddafi’s system. It only becomes realistic if it is understood as a rejection of the groups and militias that have dominated Libya since 2011. Libya’s real crisis is not one of ‘governance’, but of legitimacy. Every authority established since 2011 has had an incomplete mandate. A mandate of weapons. Of foreign backing. Of oil revenues. But never the mandate of the state itself. This is why these authorities quickly crumble at the mere mention of the past, even if the past was part of their own downfall.

Some estimates suggest that between 50 and 70 per cent of Libyans are considered to be ‘Gaddafi supporters’. This figure is exaggerated. Even if it were accurate, it would reflect anger at the present more than nostalgia for the past. A country that pumps 1.2 million barrels of oil a day yet suffers from daily power cuts and rising inflation is bound to produce rage. Seven million people were promised prosperity, but were offered only a mirage.

This is why protests have emerged in Sirte and Bani Walid, where the green flag has reappeared, and why the rise of figures once linked to the old regime in upcoming elections does not mean that Libyans are embracing ‘Gaddafism’. It simply means that they no longer trust the ruling groups. The absence of a national project creates a vacuum in which the past becomes a mirror. Despite everything, Gaddafi becomes a point of comparison — not as a model to return to, but as a contrast to the disorder that followed.

External powers add another layer of complexity. They treat Libya as a map, not a state. They care more about influence than names. Whether ‘Gaddafi supporters’ rise or fall means little to them as long as their interests remain intact. Meanwhile, Libya’s internal scene remains fractured, divided into regions, militias and tribes with different loyalties, and lacking a unifying vision.

The truth is that no meaningful constituency was ever truly convinced by Gaddafi’s policies during his reign. How could such a constituency reappear more than a decade after his downfall? Nostalgia belongs to history, not politics. It is a memory, not a programme.

In 2011, Libya was divided between supporters of the revolution and supporters of Gaddafi. That division no longer exists. Today, Libya is divided into East and West. Haftar and Tripoli. Cyrenaica, Tripolitania and Fezzan. Above all of them: the tribe. Beneath them all: the gun.

These divisions run deeper than any simplistic label, such as ‘Gaddafi supporters’.

Today’s Libya is more complex than Gaddafi. It is more dangerous than his successors. It is also far beyond the lazy expression that tries to reduce the entire landscape to a man who disappeared over a decade ago.

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