Perhaps as a premonition or as proof of his political lucidity, Saif al-Islam had already anticipated Libya’s tragic destiny in 2011:
“All of Libya will be destroyed. It will take us 40 years to agree on how to run the country, because today everyone wants to be president or emir, and everyone wants to govern.”

In this context of division and internal war, Saif al-Islam had re-emerged as an awkward figure. He did not lead armies and did not promise military victories; he spoke of reconciliation, sovereignty and national unity. For some, his speech seemed a relic of the past; for others, it was the only real chance to stop the war. His assassination did not just eliminate a man but a project that did not fit into the fragmented system that dominates post-2011 Libya.

Saif al-Islam: The Political Biography of an Impossible Libya

To speak of Saif al-Islam Gaddafi is to speak of a Libya that tried to reform itself without destroying itself and of another Libya that was destroyed without being able to rebuild itself. This paradox has authors, both intellectual and material: NATO, the EU and the USA, responsible for the collapse of the Libyan state in 2011. In this context, and even before that year, Saif’s influence had become relevant both inside and outside the country.

Although he was neither a military nor a tribal leader, Saif had asserted himself in the last stage of the Libyan state as the figure of a possible internal transition. He promoted institutional modernisation, the fight against corruption and reconciliation between marginalised tribes and regions. He was, by definition, an inconvenient character for those interested in maintaining chaos.

A diplomat in law and political science, he occupied a unique position in the last years of his father’s rule. While the regime was perceived from the outside as monolithic, inside there was a tension between continuity and reform. Saif represented this fissure: he spoke of the Constitution, the modern state and international reintegration, without giving up sovereignty or the Pan-African vision.

Trained at the London School of Economics, he had even criticised democracy but Libya’s system of direct democracy but later became a convinced defender of the Jamahiriya—the “state of the masses”, the central concept of Libya between 1977 and 2011. In 2011 he warned:
“Without the Jamahiriya, Libya will fall into chaos. It is the only bulwark against disorder.”

This position made him uncomfortable for everyone: for the old power structures and for external actors who wanted a state to dismantle, not reform. After the NATO intervention, Saif became a war trophy. Captured by a militia in Zintan, he was held for years in a legal vacuum, in a country without a state.

Captivity transformed his image. He was no longer just “Gaddafi’s son” but the symbol of a humiliated and fragmented Libya. For many Libyans, his imprisonment demonstrated that the promise of democracy had materialised in revenge, disorder, and disintegration.

When he reappeared in public, his discourse was no longer about reforming the old system but about national reconciliation. He spoke not of restoration, but of unity, sovereignty, and the reconstruction of the state. In a country dominated by armed leaders, he proposed politics: elections, a pact between tribes, and an end to the dominance of militias.

For many communities in central and southern Libya, Saif embodied three overlapping memories:

A sovereign Libya before the war

A Libya destroyed by foreign intervention

A Libya that could become a nation again

His political capital came not just from nostalgia, but from the legitimacy gained in defeat and captivity—a weighty element in Libyan political culture.

The statement issued after the assassination crystallises “reform” symbolism: Saif is presented as “the true project of national reform”, a man who “never sold his country’s sovereignty”. The language elevates politics to a moral level and transforms death into a collective symbol: blood becomes the flag of Libyan unity.

His vision was also pan-African but expressed in a more institutional language than that of his father: an African Libya, not subordinated to external agendas.

In this way, his figure transcended the domestic framework. A unified Libya would once again become an African actor; a fragmented Libya remains a playground for other powers. Saif brought together three elements rare in post-2011 Libya: historical legitimacy, moral legitimacy, and a coherent political project.

His assassination does not just eliminate a man but a trajectory that was beginning to link past, present, and future into a single figure. And it brings back the fundamental question of the Libyan tragedy: if every attempt at unity is silenced, what space is left for politics to replace weapons?

By Cozmin Gusa