EULOGY FOR MUAMMAR QADDAFI – I knew this man would not be taken alive by the savages he helped to nurture.  I told my readers when the first reports came out of his death that he was shot “execution-style”.  Inasmuch as many in the world wanted to see an orderly and civilized transition,  the facts on the ground are hinting otherwise.  The tribal and ethnic chemistry of Libya will probably not wait too long before uncontrolled rioting and anarchy prove the often stated maxim that nothing good ever came from England or France.  Yet, I feel no pity for Qaddafi and have no desire to hear forensic investigators tell me what I already know; that Qaddafi was captured alive and shot in the head by that vicious little monster who proudly brandished the gold pistol on camera; a pistol once owned by Qaddafi which was then discharged into his twisted brain. That he was shot in the head on his way to hospital cannot be denied. 

Qaddafi was a murderer no different, really, from Saddam or Stalin.  It is probably true that he did not know of every atrocity committed in the name of the so-called Libyan revolution.  But it is true that he appointed his murderers with a tyrant’s index finger and told them the limits of their authority.  Thus, my favorite professor, Dr. Amr Al-Nami, at the University of Michigan, was tortured to death by Qaddafi’s heartless and shallow instruments of death.  When I hear that Qaddafi queried one of his captors as follows:  “What have I ever done to you?”.  I think he lived in an isolated world, like the Shah, elevated so high in his own mind that he could not be bothered with narratives of Dr. Al-Nami’s suffering at the end of his life in a Libyan jail designed for exactly that. 

But I hate British and French treachery.  The Russians are right.  The U.N. resolution which permitted NATO air support for the Libyan rebels was strictly to “protect civilian populations”.  It was not to overthrow the government of Libya or to kill off every Libyan die-hard loyalist.  It was certainly not intended for the assassination of Qaddafi.  The British, as always, take the side of ambiguity in what they view as a morally perverse universe.  The French, cowardly and scrupulously unscrupulous, hands bloodied by a myriad atrocities, go on to the next one the way we transit to another tavern for that heralded flagon of wine.
Nothing drives its nails more deeply and cuttingly into my spleen than the knowledge Britain and France succeeded in any foreign intervention.  I wish Syria had helped Qaddafi by sending retired soldiers with expertise in anti-aircraft missiles so I could see one of the offending Anglo-French pilots land in the desert to be met by incensed desert tribesmen.

So, I hated Qaddafi and bid him farewell as I might bid farewell to eczema or leprosy.  I wish the Libyan rebels the very worst because they relied on the hated Brits and Frogs to help them unseat and murder the malignant Narcissus who led them for forty two years.  I watched their popular gatherings to extol Qaddafi’s virtues when he really had none.  I watched a former student at the University of Michigan, a Libyan named Misbah, being hanged without benefit of gallows by a mob of fanatics on ABC News in the Seventies.  I saw Qaddafi squander the country’s wealth when he knew it made no difference to the mindless denizens of his giant (but oil rich) sandbox of a country – one he named the “State of the Masses” – Al-Jamahiriyya. Like everything else he touched, it made no sense any more than his pathetic “Green Book”.   The Romans believed that one should speak well of the dead.  I don’t care much for that sentiment.  I want Qaddafi to burn along with the miscreants, David Cameron and Nicolas Sarkozy.  I cannot and will not congratulate the Libyan people.  Their victory, done in a kind of slapstick,  is one more step toward abject surrender to the white imperialists.  Ziad