The soft diplomacy of Belgian chocolates
Emily Maitlis reports from Libya on a land newly entranced by our brands — even M&S — where the West tolerates Gaddafi for fear of the insurgent alternative Strange things happen to countries hermetically sealed by their dictators. Under Hoxha, Albanians fell in love with Norman Wisdom. Under Lukashenko, the Belarusians have seen mandatory beauty contests nationwide, and as I arrive at the customs desk of Tripoli airport I realise that under Gaddafi, mirrored aviator sunglasses and big hair have become the de rigueur fashion statement among immigration officials. This is not the cool hand of viral marketing, but the unmistakable grip of a leader who believes imitation is the sincerest — indeed only — form of flattery.
The source of their inspiration stares out at us from every billboard on the short trip from the airport into town. There are pictures of Gaddafi shrouded in headscarf, staring into a misty distance, there are images of him peeking out from behind a sunflower — like a cross between a Castrol GTX hero and a malevolent Teletubby — and there are road signs that just flash the number 38. Not a speed limit, but a reminder of the number of years he has been in power. So far. And this issue of longevity pervades so much else here in Libya. A notoriously whimsical leader, he is defiantly preparing his son Saif to take over, but nothing is yet formalised. Some suggest he worries this son may be too liberal — even too popular — with his people.
Perhaps that’s why there are signs, in the frenzied pace of development, that someone is getting ready to celebrate the big 4-0 in a way only a dictator knows how. There is sand everywhere here. Not the majestic, virginal dunes of the Sahara, but small industrial piles of the stuff that greet you at every noisy street corner. This sand has far less to do with Libya’s desert heritage, and everything to do with its construction industry future. The building work, it seems, will be transformed into Gaddafi’s anniversary bunting: a way of inviting the world to look upon the Libyan success story.
Certainly, if the isolation brought by two decades of economic sanctions gave the Colonel pause for thought, you would hardly notice it now. Tripoli has its own five-star hotel — complete with pool and wilting palm trees. Across the road another one, half built, is already trying to better it. It’s been three years since economic sanctions were lifted. The country now seems desperate to catch up.
At the British embassy — reopened after suspects in the Lockerbie bombing were handed over for trial — the diplomat dismisses talk of dictatorships and prefers to talk of deals. So much has changed, he tells me. He flinches when I mention the T-word (terrorism) and substitutes his own — those of Trade and Tourism. This, he assures me, is how relations work now: the hard currency of soft diplomacy.
And it’s true. Whatever the West now imagines of Libya, Libya is quite keen on the West’s little luxuries. Which is why I find myself breathing in the heady aroma of highgrade cocoa and gazing upon row after row of nuzzling ebony truffles. I had expected to find many things in Libya, but a Belgian chocolate shop was not one of them.
‘Libyans love their luxury goods,’ the owner, Ibtisam, tells me. A Muslim woman with an Italian dress sense, she is as perfectly packaged as the goods she sells. She stops to serve two customers — a man and his shuffling son who are seeking an engagement present for a friend. ‘You see,’ she continues after they leave, ‘they are not rich, but they like good quality. We love our brand names here.’ And bizarre as it feels to be munching imported Belgian pralines in Tripoli, she has a point. This is, for all its outward appearance of dusty poverty, a rich country, certainly by African standards if not by Middle Eastern ones. This is a land made prosperous on oil and gas, made green — in the unlikeliest of places — by its water reserves.
Over the last 18 months the capital has begun to attract the kind of fashion stores that wouldn’t — indeed don’t — look out of place in Regent Street or Rome. MaxMara, Mango and Calvin Klein are being lapped up by the young. The optimists talk of Libya one day rivalling Dubai. The fantasists even talk of it joining the EU.
So why am I still shocked to hear that Marks & Spencer, that bastion of Britishness, is to open a flagship store here in Tripoli next month? I am struggling to equate an isolated, despotic regime with the soft cotton briefs and rich tea biscuits of the English high street. But that is my problem. Things have moved on. Maybe they’ll even sell aviators in three-packs. Yes, this really is soft diplomacy at work now, with its first cousin, commerce, in tow.
Has the West tamed Gaddafi? Both parties would deny it, and yet perhaps our countries would subscribe to and rewrite the old adage: better the dictator you know. Especially if he understands how to keep the insurgents at bay: because Hezbollah, Hamas, Iran and Iraq have taught us to fear what lies beneath the Middle Eastern sands of oppression. Democracy is not so easily bought in these parts of the world.
It is only as I fly home that I realise why my trip has felt so weightless — I have heard no voice of dissent the whole time. My companion on the BA flight is a Libyan in exile — imprisoned briefly for his part in an attempted coup. Like many of his generation he invokes the good times of the 1960s. But he’s not talking about free love. He’s talking about free speech. The summer of ’69 means something very different to Libyans. The year Gaddafi came to power.
Also in exile, in a Battersea art gallery to be precise, is Princess Alia Al Senussi, greatniece of the deposed King Idris. She’s gifted, beautiful and descended not just from monarchy, but from the Prophet Mohammed himself. The Senussi family sound like Libya’s answer to the Kennedy clan — with a little more God thrown in. Her father — next in line to the throne — has received overtures to return to Libya. ‘To rule?’ I ask. ‘Who knows?’ she says. ‘We don’t even know who’s really asking.’ It is a familiar default position: dictators desperate to secure their legacy have often lurched towards deposed royalty. But princesses, even ones from Battersea, are for fairytales. And I’m not sure those have a place in the Colonel’s Libya. I think back to the emerald sea of nationalist flags I left behind there. Yes, they love their green all right. Perhaps the M&S logo won’t look so out of place after all. But as for the Brand Gaddafi billboards? Somehow, I don’t think they’ll be changing any time soon.
Emily Maitlis was in Libya as part of a Radio 4 documentary Inside the British Council to be broadcast on 1 April at 8 p.m.
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