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Libya’s intransigent leader appears increasingly isolated as capital’s wary residents wait for rebellion to break through In the late afternoon the cafe was full of men smoking and drinking coffee, mint tea or strawberry juice. It was a very public setting, but the businessman judged that he was in like-minded company and so did not bother to lower his voice. “Gaddafi is losing support every day,” he said, placing another small coal on top of his shisha pipe. “If he wanted peace he would have quit.” These days of bombs and bluster and seemingly endless queues for fuel in Tripoli are the “glorious hours” of the Libyan people, according to their leader, Muammar Gaddafi, whose stern image gazes down from billboards across the capital. For nearly 42 years it has been only the exceedingly brave, or the foolish, who dared to dispute what he said. Or to talk openly about life without the “Brother Leader” in charge. But now, nearly four months into a conflict that has torn the country apart, people in Tripoli appear to be slowly losing their fear of speaking out. “Ninety-five per cent of people want him to leave, not just because of politics, but because of our desire for a return to normal life,” the businessman said. Foreign reporters are not permitted to work freely in Tripoli, so obtaining a genuine sense of people’s feelings here is difficult. But on several furtive trips around the city without government minders, it was possible to talk to a range of residents on the streets. The picture that emerged was of a people weary of the inconveniences of war, and weary of being held hostage to the whims of one man – a people now just waiting for the end. “He [Gaddafi] is finished, we know it,” said a shop owner in his 50s, as he sat behind his cash register. Like all the people critical of the regime, he requested anonymity, for the regime still has plenty of ears and eyes on the street. In the backroom of another store, a small, friendly man old enough to remember the days before Gaddafi, confirmed this. “Most people want him out and more people can talk about this now than before because he is under pressure. But you still have to be careful. If you are caught, God knows what will happen to you.” The image of a leader increasingly on his own is reinforced by the size of the public shows of support for the regime. As Nato’s bombing campaign has intensified, forcing Gaddafi and his family into hiding, he has called on Libyans to stand with him. But the nightly gatherings outside his Bab al-Aziziya compound now attract just a few hundred people, judging by the live broadcasts on state television. After a heavy day of bombing last week, a demonstration called to protest against Nato’s campaign attracted 300 people at most. This in a city with a population of more than 1 million. The accuracy of the air strikes, which appear to have caused few civilian casualties, mean that Gaddafi has been unable to convince people that this is “crusader aggression” against all Libyans, even if many agree that the bombing raids are no longer just about protecting ordinary people. “Nato good, good,” is a common refrain from people talking to foreign reporters. Indeed, it is Gaddafi’s intransigence that many here blame for the continuing conflict and increasing inconveniences in the city. Despite government assertions that he is ready to talk peace, Gaddafi called the rebels “traitors” in a fiery speech last week, and promised to “bust the armed gangs with steadfastness and courage”. With few ships docking at Tripoli’s port due to a partial embargo by Nato, most goods must be sent by road from Tunisia. Predicted shortages of food, especially essential items, have yet to occur. Fruit and vegetables are being harvested on local farms, and wheat, flour and cooking oil remain in good supply, according to the businessman in the cafe. Fuel is a different matter. Petrol in Libya is among the world’s cheapest, and filling up a saloon car can cost as little as £3 or £4. But despite its vast oil production, Libya only refines a quarter of its needs and imports the rest. Now, oil tankers trying to reach Tripoli have been turned away by the warships of Nato, which does not want to allow the fuel to power Gaddafi’s army. So petrol must come by road from Tunis, which the government says is badly affecting essential services. The average wait in a petrol station queue is four to seven days. On the black market, petrol sells at more than 40 times the official price. Even those who can afford to cannot go very far outside Tripoli because of the conflict raging on various fronts. “People are fed up with this situation,” said a young man who works near the medina quarter, adding that the fault lay with Gaddafi. Though he glanced around nervously as he spoke to see if anyone was listening, he carried on. “We used to be so afraid. But every day our brothers in Misrata, Benghazi and Zawiya are dying, so we must speak out. We need this to end.” One of the few foreign observers left in Tripoli said that at the start of the uprising there was still a fair amount of sympathy for Gaddafi – more than his opponents would like to admit. And most of these supporters are armed because the regime handed out AK-47s to civilians when the rebellion began. But the observer said that as the conflict has gone on, a lot of Gaddafi’s support has ebbed away. “People are getting tired and saying ‘What for? We need our fuel, our food. We need our regular life. If he [Gaddafi] has to go to get that back, then so be it.’ ” He added, however, that Tripoli does not seem about to rise up against Gaddafi, and there is a sense here that people have decided to wait for the rebels to break through from the east before they join the revolt. In the eastern suburbs of Tripoli, dissidents have been attacking police checkpoints at night and spraying anti-Gaddafi graffiti on walls. But the slogans are quickly painted over, and the police presence in these neighbourhoods remains heavy. “Look there – plainclothes police,” said a taxi driver, driving through an area called Fashloum. “And there, and there. The only people who like Gaddafi are the police and people working with him.” Ordinary people who support Gaddafi can be found. Unprompted, another taxi driver pulled a postcard featuring the Libyan leader from his glove compartment and held it against his heart. Around Green Square, in the city centre, a father bought small pictures of Gaddafi for his two young sons to hang around their necks. Nearby a 30-year-old man, Reda Ali Tarhoni, described the leader as his “number one father. We had safety, food, school. He gave us money.” Yet even among some senior officials close to Gaddafi there is sense of gloom, regret, and even inevitability, which is compounded by the day as the last of the regime’s “friends” – leaders from the continent who have enjoyed its largesse – abandon Libya. “All that money we spent on Africa?” said one official. “We really should have spent it at home.” Muammar Gaddafi Libya Arab and Middle East unrest Nato Middle East Africa Xan Rice guardian.co.uk