Philip Hensher: Gaddafi's end was perfect theatre
Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Exeter, Philip Hensher was among Granta 20 Best of Young British Novelists in 2003. The author of six novels, a collection of short stories and an opera libretto, he has won numerous prizes including the Somerset Maugham Award and the Stonewall Journalist of the Year. His 2008 novel, 'The Northern Clemency', was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize and the Commonwealth Prize. A regular presence in the British media, alongside his Wednesday column for The Independent, he writes for The Spectator and Mail on Sunday.
Saturday 22 October 2011
Colonel Gaddafi was accustomed to appear in public wearing enough insignia on his chest to cover a dining table. Whatever else his medals were awarded for, it wasn't for bravery. Ceausescu went to his death before a firing squad singing the Internationale. Saddam Hussein died shouting: "Do you consider this bravery?" But Gaddafi seems to have died the death of a coward. He was found in an outflow pipe, cringing. He shouted: "Don't shoot, don't shoot", and, according to one freedom fighter, "What have I done to you?"
Considering the scale of Gaddafi's crimes, the freedom fighter might very well have been able to supply a precise and specific answer to the question. He was beaten, and, it seems, killed with a shot to the head. The images of a bloodied Gaddafi in his last moments, and of his dead body, quickly went round the world.
What was the alternative? A long wait; a glass box in the Hague; interminable self-justifying speeches; a slow loss of interest by the media and public as the months dragged on; and a final, inevitable verdict which few could take much interest in any longer.
As theatre, the death of Gaddafi was surely unbeatable, and satisfied its audience richly. Like the Thane of Cawdor, nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it. He was revealed in his true nature by his last moments. Was it the right way to bring his brutal rule to a conclusion? What is the value of theatricality in these circumstances?
For various reasons, it is in the interests of governments to demonstrate that their opponents behaved, or died like cowards. It discredits them in the eyes of those who might otherwise keep supporting them; it appears to demonstrate that there was no justice in their cause. Bravery, of course, is no guarantee of rectitude, and if someone dies in a way which must have required bravery, there seems no reason to admire them for those reasons. Suicide bombers must be crazily brave people, but reasons of propriety require governments to describe them as "cowardly" in all circumstances.
The circumstances in which Osama bin Laden died, for instance, were initially related by the US forces to show him in as cowardly a light as possible, and he was said to have used a woman to shield himself. Subsequently, some doubt was expressed about the truth of this. Surely, it hardly matters whether Bin Laden died bravely or cowering behind his wives. Given the enormity of his deeds, no one could think of him with admiration just because he met his death with bravery. But the requirements of theatre demand that these people should show cowardice at the end, and in this, Gaddafi seems to have answered to requirements. There is no doubt of his total humiliation in his last moments.
Why the violent deaths of major public figures sometimes meet the imaginative requirements of the age with great exactness is an interesting, but rather puzzling, question. The Duc de Berry's assassination at the Paris Opera in 1820 forms a very curious example. He was stabbed on the steps of the opera house, embraced by his young wife. He provided some very useful, and well-attested last words – "Ah! Il est cruel de mourir de la main d'un Francais!" The opera continued within while news of the assassination spread among the audience. His beautiful widow gave birth to a posthumous heir some time later. The whole thing is astonishingly like the fantasies of Victor Hugo, and the point is that sometimes everybody involved – the victim, the assassins, the audience, posterity – knows exactly how to behave. Such moments of theatricality are, in a way, more telling about the facts of the society than anything else. Perhaps, in acting out the fantasies of a society, they are more purgative, too.
The killing of Gaddafi shows exactly where Libya has got to, and, in the excitement of the moment, we might overlook how very ugly it is. In eight months of rising insurrection and protest, the opposition has failed to create a credible alternative structure of power. There was no alternative to an angry crowd, dragging the dictator from his concrete pipe. Even Ceausescu, at Christmas 1989, was given a brief trial by the military officers before being shot by the firing squad. It was not much of a trial; it was, too, for the sake of the drama as much as anything; but there were officers, and an arraignment, and an event which afterwards could be examined by historians for its propriety and justice. The theatricality of the Gaddafi execution had none of that. And yet the nature of the event answered an evident, savage need in the Libyan people. They demanded not just that justice be done, but that it be seen to be done, immediately, on camera phone footage; they wanted to see with their own eyes that some fragment of the sufferings Gaddafi had visited on his subjects was returned to him. If they could, they would have put his head on a spike in the centre of Tripoli.
There is something pornographic about the enthusiasm for visible, immediate, physical punishment which is indifferent to justice. Some of the people who were watching the last minutes of Gaddafi with interest will also have seen – with what emotions, I don't know – the samizdat films of judicial mutilations of minor criminals, beheadings of kidnapped Americans which circulate in the lower levels of the internet. Why these things have happened – the story which led up to these atrocious sights – is almost irrelevant. What matters is the spectacle, freed from morality or rectitude, the display of vengeance on a cameraphone's screen.
It can't go on like that. Summary justice is no justice. Hardly anyone will mourn the death of Gaddafi, and plenty of people will say that it saves a good deal of trouble and expense in the International Criminal Court. The mills of international law grind exceedingly small, and the proceedings of international justice hardly ever satisfy the enthusiasm for theatre which the end of a dictator might seem to require. A major legal examination of atrocities can provide a national ceremony of purgation – think of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, or the inquiry into the 7/7 bombings here. But at the time, they can seem less satisfying than a powerless, cowardly gangster dragged from a sewage pipe, beaten and shot, like an episode of a brutal American TV drama. As time goes on, the connections between our imaginative fantasies and these great events will become clearer; clearer, too, the way in which our duty to our civilization tends to get left to one side in all the excitement.
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