I believe I Saw Muammar Gadaffi On My Way To the Colosseum

The sting of satire can often underscore certain truths that straight prose rarely manages to touch.

By Gaither Stewart

Silvio Berlusconi. Until yesterday a loyal pal of Gaddafi's. Today, one of his executioners.

(Roma) A cold wind was blowing down Mussolini’s showpiece avenue. The Via dei Fori Imperiali is the site of victory parades. The victory over the duplicitous Ethiopians. The victory over the ambitious Libyans of East and West. The victory over the ferocious Albanians. It was about 3 p.m. Rain was in the air. The Roman Forum alongside the great avenue was relatively empty this last day of March. As each time I pass I stopped to observe the tourists looking at the ancient Roman ruins of numerous basilicas and arches and statues extending from the Campidoglio to the Colosseum.

One group of people about thirty yards from me attracted my attention because of the horse. They looked somehow familiar. Then I spotted him amidst the small group gathered on the far side of the Forum. He looked just like the Muammar I was so familiar with from TV and the press. For one used to his former flamboyance he was rather deceptive because there were only five or six of his tough-looking Amazonian bodyguards around him. There used to be forty. Nearer him were also two sleek women in fashionable dress and several ministerial type men dressed in dark suits and ties. Hardly believing my eyes, I checked for camels. None were in sight. I compared the view of him here to the one I saw the evening before on TV. He was haranguing his people from his Tripoli bunker allegedly bombed day and night and shouting he wasn’t afraid of the West’s bombs. Ten years of wars if they wanted it, he said. Strange that there were many less ruins in the Libyan capital than here in the Roman Forum. Silly, I admonished myself, these are over two thousand years old.

Now what, one might ask, is so surprising about Prime Minister Berlusconi’s personal friend, good old reliable Muammar, visiting Roman ruins. I put on my distance glasses and studied the Libyan Colonel’s unmistakable features and usual erratic behavior. He was neither anything special or bizarre. The Libyan leader was dressed in civvies with a tourist flair and a straw, wide-brimmed hat with a red band. His attitude was relaxed. Almost lazily he looked in the direction the tiny guide pointed. He did not seem particularly impressed, as if he were there most every day. From time to time, he rubbed the Arabian horses forehead or put an arm around one of the sleek women.

Nonetheless, I confess that Muammar’s presence was puzzling. What I wanted to know first of all was this the real Muammar. Or was he just another of his famous doubles? Or was the Muammar raising his fists in the air at his Tripoli bunker a double and this one in the Roman Forum the authentic one we inhabitants of Rome are so accustomed to. I had read about the numerous Gadaffi doubles floating around Libya: one at his Tripoli bunker, another near his home city of Sirte on the Mediterranean gulf of the same name, another at his secondary bunker in the desert or at one or another residence in the deep South of his extensive country with so much oil and so few people. No wonder, I thought, the USA and Europe and Rothschild are drooling. The temptation must be irresistible. The General Assembly of the United Nations nothwithstanding. One resolution more or less, who cares? What better humanitarian intervention exists than simply removing the whole miserable nation from Libyan hands? An artificial kind of place anyway. A bunch of belligerent Arab tribes. Always squabbling. Only a man like Muammar could subdue them. And who understands them? They don’t even know the riches they ride over with their camels. Camels, for Christ sakes! In these modern times when it costs more and more to drive our cars and heat our houses, they’re still riding around on camels, trampling their oil reserves and shooting Kalashnikovs in the air celebrating one thing or another.

Hey, wait a minute! Do I see a tent back there against the wall? Yes, Allah u akhbar. It is a tent! And what a racket they’re making in this national monument. They’re already hammering in the stakes. My God, it’s huge. Muammar’s tent in the Roman Forum. He swears he only needs one tent. But he’s a liar like all of them. A tent city will rise here in the Forum. After all, he does need an exile. Better here in the Forum near his friend Silvio than down in the wilds of Uganda.

I’d better to clear out of here, pronto. They’ve already bombed all Muammar’s bunkers. Now the BIG 4 will have to zero in on his tents right here in the Roman Forum. On the other hand he doesn’t have to worry if he stays put here in his tent. But all the collateral damage people who live around here have reason to be uneasy.

Ah, Roma eterna! Still, if Muammar can hold out for ten years in his desert paradise or, if need be in the Roman Forum, the Roman empire can last forever. Viva l’Italia!

Senior Editor GAITHER STEWART is TGP’s European Correspondent. He resides in Rome.