As the heat rises both seasonally and politically in the belt of the ancient world, the area of perennial strives, its residents, in the habit of the reptilians, scurry fast to their holes amidst their governments's total silences interrupted only by the squeakings of some disgruntled groups. From the Ocean to the Gulf the din of a falling coin is echoed only by the sound of one hand clapping. Governments finally have shed the last fig-leaf and were caught exposed with their pants down -those who'd some, the majority never knew what pants were!- and the emasculated multitude are busy, as usual, doing what they're good for: screwing around for more spawns so the experimenters of new weapons or techniques of war can find plenty of guinea pigs to try them on. What some of those who're beyond the physical reach of either Arab governments or war battlefields, the expatriates, do? Squirm around, fart a bit, and then shout foul: let's go back to the age of innocence, to what we knew before!
Among these latter, in the land of the tin-pot giants and their midget antagonists, Libya, a long defunct and buried - thought of dust by now- colonial legacies: the so-called monarchy and its made-believe and custom made, su misura, constitution are feeding the frenzy of the ignoramuses and kicking the noise a few notches up. The monarchy-aspirants are peeping their heads around in the hope for resurrection -perhaps some of these folks forgot that resurrection is not part of this world and they've to wait until all of them are six-foot under! As to the leeched-on of the ancient regime, by leaping from under the rubble, they may get a chance to weasel their rotten stink into the already fetid and morbid atmosphere of the present regimes. The constitutionalists seem to have become a code name, a euphemism, for monarchists and all kinds of reactionary elements that had lost interests and prestige with the coming of the Republic. This group, just as the mummies, never gives up, the likelihood of living though long dust, they still pretend to partake of this world. Unfortunately for this breed and its clones, unlike mummies or dinosaurs, the monarchists are useless, they cannot even be put in a museum because nobody is interested in gaping at a distinct human mistake. So why all the squirming, wriggling, and the raving soliloquizing?
Pure fantasy and wishful thinking when reality is grim. And the grimmer it gets the stupider the reactions get. When all the stock-in-trade was apparently exhausted, the Janus-face tactics failed, and the holders of power have signaled their unwillingness to let the penitents fall on their own words, the habitual answer is to go back to increase the volume on kvetching. The monarchists now want to get back to action. To do what? To supplicate their leash-holders if they loosen a bit the noose so they can howl at their own shadows. If this is not a quixotic re-enacting in a desert privy of mills then I don't know what it's!
One of the characteristics of the fallen is to enfold themselves in their own banners.[Look to how they wrap that old ugly rag around?]. The past becomes their future and the present loses its grip. The redemptive actions are only those which remind them of their greatness albeit illusorily imagined and hurriedly put together. The bright spots of their past lives were enlarged enough to cover the whole screen in front of their mind's eyes. Embellished or not their childhood's period takes over to be the single organizing idea of the entire made-up story. Their biological life gets mixed up, or just confused, with social reality. The two realities intertwine and intermesh to produce a surrealistic memory where the undesired and negative events are filtered out and only what pleases the senses comes dashing out in a form of orgiastic remembrances. This synoptic malfunction leads, if left untreated, not to catharsis as some may think, but instead to psychosis.
The bankrupted are fond of remembering their past glories. Some of these aged defeatists, instead of disappearing in silence into the sun-set, they keep drumming on the same notes in the fashion of a broken record. Doctors or semi-literates, 'princes' and plebeians are all engaged in the absurd theatricality. Everyday, one or the other comes with something more amazing and absurd than the day before. And the reasoning, oh mon dieu! just gets juicier. Like a grandma, when she runs out of stories, she keeps spinning and weaving some more. A la Buzied el-Hilaly, the collective heroism of all, was collected, collated, and made use, as an appropriated repertoire, and attributed to the one and only hero. The tall knight on the white horse! The narrator takes the central stage to herald his coming. He/she becomes the knight-errand, who accepts to play the second fidel, in the cunning hope that one day he may turn around and bingo! salvage the situation. They may pledge allegiance to some abstract entity, say Libya, but their true fealty is to something else: to themselves. These initiatives, though half-hearted, become a prelude to an ongoing campaign to repackage an idea, to rehabilitate a bygone past, and ultimately to re-instate themselves as the legitimate holders of national pride and thus resistance.
Otherwise how can one fathom the enthusiasm with which some people with half a page of titles after their names bought into one of the most primitive and rudimentary political concepts of all times: God's shadow on earth or the divine right of kings to rule their subjects as they see fit. To make things even more confusing most of these folks have already pledged their allegiances to the Republic and what it stands for -I mean the USA!- while working to bring the monarchy back to their native land. [Ain't this typical of Arab character, that's, to have double personality traits: one public and one private, one American and another Libyan, etc.?]. What's more amazing that half-wit of a kid, London's quisling, after his dad had given up what he didn't own in the first instance, that's, on the idea of inheriting power, more than a third of a century ago, now comes out from his hiding borrow, claiming to be the legitimate inheritor to the throne of Libya -who's legitimated him and to what kind of throne he's after? Perhaps to the electric chair type? The irony such absurd claims find some listeners to them. The-not-many and hopefully on the way to extinction: the remnants of the dinosaur age, the dim-wits and their brothers and sisters, the sons of the Beduins of the eastern deserts and their tribes and clans, the scattered exiles who've never changed or grown up, the dead-brained PhD's who cannot see beyond their noses, the children of the exiles who've been lied to about the lost eldorado, the self-proclaimed " cultured" and functional-illiterate "intellectuals", the suckers up to the neo-cons for their own personal agendas, the inventors of political lies and the exaggerators to human sufferings, et cetera, etc., etc....
"The bundle of HALFA" can squeak and fart from now to the end of time. No one is paying attention to them, not even their sponsors. But one thing is clear: no one has authorized this group or any other group to speak on behalf of Libyans nor to go around spewing some misbegotten schemes and designs in the hope to convince whoever to take them "home". In the first place, home is where one resides and not where his/her heart is; and second let those who're immersed in the sh to their necks deal with the stink without ad hoc and two-penny tips and cheap promises. Libya will never be a monarchy again. Once was enough! Britain's reach had long been clipped and its quislings and their off-springs are part of the past. Not the east, nor the south but the all three and in particular the west, where most of the population reside, will determine the shape of things to come. The west which had proclaimed the first republic in the whole area, is still republican to the marrow -if the east doesn't like it they can go and drink from the many salty swamps in their areas!