Haftagram: Warlord plasters eastern Libya with dad-and-son ego billboards

Eastern Libya’s Newest Filter: Haftar’s face, now available in every direction

Forget the crumbling infrastructure, the power outages, or the minor inconvenience of an unregulated economy. The real crisis in eastern Libya has finally been identified, and it is a deficit of self-promotion.

In a bold move to ensure that not a single square inch of public space remains un-glorified, the region has undergone a radical transformation. What was once a landscape defined by history and resilience is now simply a background for the most ambitious content-creator duo in North Africa: Khalifa Haftar and his son, the undisputed influencers of the Mediterranean.

The warlord has officially transformed eastern Libya into the world’s largest, least consensual Instagram profile. Billboards, lampposts, government buildings, police stations, hospitals, checkpoints, and maybe toilets now bear the beaming visages of the warlord and his son, Saddam Haftar, in what locals are calling “Operation Eternal Selfie.”

The great “Look at Me” initiative

Residents of Benghazi wake up  daily to find that even traffic lights had been co-opted. Red means stop and gaze upon the Haftars. Green means go, but please remember who made the roads possible. Yellow, apparently, is for “proceed with caution, the secret police are watching your reaction to the posters.”

Local political analysts—who requested anonymity for fear of being turned into a background element of a new mural—have lauded the move as a masterclass in modern digital-age authoritarianism.

“We were concerned about the lack of jobs,” said one local business owner, gesturing toward a billboard of a stern-looking warlord  wearing aviators that cost more than the city’s average monthly electricity budget. “But then I looked at the poster, and I realized I wasn’t hungry; I was just uninspired. Now that I’m seeing the same face in high-res for the fifth time today, I feel truly seen.”

Turning the region into a feed

The strategy is simple yet brilliant: why govern when you can curate? By treating the entirety of eastern Libya as a personal Instagram profile, the leadership has successfully gamified reality.

Critics have noted that the sheer volume of posters might be distracting from the lack of actual policy, but supporters argue that the visual cohesion is unmatched. “Look at the composition,” noted one propagandist-turned-creative-director. “The way the light hits the General’s medals, and the way the son’s portrait is strategically placed slightly lower to suggest a harmonious, albeit inevitable, succession—it’s not politics. It’s an art installation.”

A “follower” base that has no choice

While most influencers struggle to maintain engagement, the Haftars have cracked the code. In this corner of Libya, the “Block” button doesn’t exist, and the “Report” function leads directly to a rather unpleasant interview at a local security facility.

The strategy has effectively turned the region into a closed-loop digital ecosystem where the only content allowed is the content provided by the account holders. Engagement is mandatory, and the comments section is, by design, entirely silent.

The liturgy of the billboard

Witnesses report scenes that would baffle an anthropologist: men have been spotted holding intimate, one-sided conversations with portraits of the warlord, presumably seeking advice on economic policy or perhaps just hoping for a “like” in the form of a benevolent nod. Others, overtaken by a sudden surge of performative patriotism, have been seen pressing their lips to billboards, bestowing kisses upon the high-gloss vinyl as if the image itself could grant political absolution.

Not to be outdone in the theater of loyalty, military personnel have been observed snapping to attention and delivering crisp, professional salutes to static photos of the warlord —ensuring that the hierarchy is respected even when the commander is technically busy elsewhere, or merely made of ink and PVC.

Perhaps the most poignant moment in this ongoing performance art occurred recently when local firefighters—whose primary function is traditionally the suppression of actual, destructive blazes—were deployed for a more pressing civic duty: the ritual cleaning of the regime’s digital footprint.

With the urgency of a frontline tactical operation, water cannons were aimed not at burning buildings, but at the portraits themselves. The goal? To ensure that no stray particle of Saharan dust could dull the shimmer of the General’s visage. In a region where water is a precious commodity, the sight of high-pressure hoses meticulously washing the faces of the leadership off a wall was a stark, crystalline metaphor for the current state of priorities.

As the sun sets over Benghazi, casting a golden hue over yet another freshly hung portrait, one thing is clear: the region may be lacking in essential services, but at least it is remarkably well-branded. After all, what is a country if not just a massive, static feed waiting for the next upload?