In the run-up to the 2012 US presidential election, Barack Obama gave privileged access to a Vanity Fair writer, who obliged with a lengthy puff piece. In between a game of basketball and a tour of the Obama family rooms, the President ruminated about how, in 2011, he had prodded an assortment of military and security advisers into action on Libya. Muammar Gaddafi had just vowed reprisals against the rebellion in Benghazi and, the President said, everyone knew what that meant.

Except, it seems, they didn’t.

Gaddafi’s ruthlessness with people directly involved in insurrections was well-established: he had them killed (often, like vermin; by assassination abroad if necessary), their houses were destroyed, their neighbours were forced to cheer as the house in which they had sometimes celebrated a wedding or healing went down and the rubble left lying there for years.

But, in 41 years, there were no civilian massacres on his record, as there were on the consciences of Saddam Hussein in Iraq and Hafiz al-Assad in Syria.

At least, sometimes, even the extended families of rebels were let off: they were driven out of their home towns, deprived of employment, their friends hassled… but allowed to live.

There’s always a first time, of course, and Gaddafi’s sons were vicious among themselves, let alone with anyone who threatened their control over a country they treated like their personal spoils. There’s no doubt that Benghazi in February 2011 did need UN protection.

But it tells you something about the state of international diplomatic knowledge of Libya that the US President could airily suggest an intimacy with Gaddafi’s modus operandi, get it wrong and not be corrected. The time of getting it wrong is fast running out. This week, the UN special envoy, Bernardino Leon, expressed the hope that the two main rival administrations in Libya will agree on a unity government within days. If they don’t, the growing military might of Daesh could lead the country over the abyss.

Fortunately, politicians and diplomats now have a quick entry into how Libya got to where it is today.

Peter Cole and Brian McQuinn have collected 14 articles in their recent The Libyan revolution and its aftermath (Hurst), which covers the salient points of the Gaddafi period (how ‘statelessness’ was achieved), how the 2011 revolution and its immediate aftermath took the shape it did and the competing identities and rival histories are now contributing to the country’s instability.

Some of the writers are relatively new to Libya – having gone there as reporters or NGO workers after the revolution’s outbreak – but the articles are based on solid ground reporting and personal interviews. Whatever reservations I have on matters of detail, I’d recommend it to anyone who wants a reliable overall picture and a good sense of its dynamics.

In broad terms, the collection destroys three popular international myths about the current predicament.

Let us hope there is enough flexibility to allow a narrative of peace to emerge

First, there’s the myth that the key political fissure runs between west and east. In fact, the most serious fault runs between the coast and the interior, particularly in western Libya.

Old rivalries, some of them leading back to the second Ottoman period in the 19th century, can be discerned within the context of the current rivalry between Misurata and Zintan.

This ancient history is often explicitly recounted. Sometimes, it is simply evoked on one of the local TV stations, which have played a role in cementing particular identities. But it is also, of course, used and manipulated selectively for present-day needs.

Second, there is a related myth: that the country is split into two (whichever the two sides are). In looking at how the revolution developed (or did not develop), in the east, in the western mountains, in Misurata and (in one of the several major western towns that chose not to take a stand) Bani Walid, one can see that local politics, alliances and rivalries are shaping national politics, even though local politics wouldn’t be the same without the shadow of genuine nationalism.

Third, there is the Islamist myth. Recently, we’ve heard about how three different groups have pledged allegiance to Daesh – and what mainly came across was their unity in identifying with Daesh. But the flip side is that these three groups have not come together.

And fragmentation is the story of Libya’s Islamists as much as of any other alliance. Fragmentation of ideology and leadership have contributed to their relative electoral failures. And there are real differences – not least in their attitude to democracy – between them.

There is a pathos in the reconstruction of how Nato’s collaboration with the rebels grew.

The British, the French and the US were all involved, with the first being considered the best by the rebels (in terms of how fast they acted on information by hitting targets) and the US the worst.

But the United Arab Emirates and Qatar were also involved, each helping different brigades. What the book brings out (though it does not underline enough) is how the roots of today’s military rivalries (with UAE supporting the Tobruk administration, Qatar the Tripoli one) can be traced to the military organisation of the revolution.

Surely, this is as much a lesson for Nato as much as any other. To blame the present situation all on Gaddafi is convenient but, if no lesson is drawn, stupid.

The case of Bani Walid is intrinsically complicated and many Warfalla (the collective name of the town’s 53 tribes) disagree about what happened and why.

Some of the errors in the book (such as confusing the names of tribal subdivisions) are irrelevant, however, others highlight the puzzle.

The head of the 1993 brigade, Salem al-Wa’er, did not claim ‘descent’ from the leaders of the 1993 attempted coup: in fact, he was one of them and his cousin, Abdessalam, even more senior.

So why did he join forces with some Gaddafi loyalists?

That chapter is already closed, however. Abdessalam’s younger brother is a representative in the Tobruk Parliament and allied with Mahmoud Jibril.

The details of what happened in Bani Walid, including how the town had hosted about 50 Misurati families at the height of the revolution, point to a complex reality: of shifting identities, flexible on the ground.

Let us hope that throughout the country they remain flexible enough to allow a narrative of peace to emerge.

ranierfsadni@europe.com