Gaddafi and Me by Ashur Shamis

Friday 11th April 1980. I was in Kuwait on a fundraising trip. After a hard day of rejections – I couldn’t persuade anyone to support our projects in Britain – I was ready for bed. The phone rang just as I was about to fall asleep. It was a friend from London. “Muhammad has been killed,” he said in a nervous, quivering voice. “He was shot at point-blank range by two Libyans in the courtyard of the London Central Mosque in Regents Park, following Friday prayers.” “Why?” I asked instinctively even before the news had sunk in. He could not answer. He simply said: “Be careful and don’t come back to London.”

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