Tahani Elmogrbi
Tripoli’s lavish stability spectacle masks Libya’s inflation, collapsing services, and governance failures, exposing development as performance rather than lived reality.
Lavish celebrations held in Tripoli on December 12, 2025, featuring celebrity appearances, cultural events, and the rehabilitation of Libya’s National Museum, projected an image of stability that sharply diverges from daily life for most Libyans. While millions were spent on spectacle, inflation continues to erode purchasing power, the black-market exchange rate remains volatile, liquidity is scarce, and public sector wages are often delayed. Public education and healthcare systems are deteriorating, forcing families to rely on costly private alternatives they cannot afford.
The contrast becomes most visible during rainfall, when flooding and sewage overflows paralyze cities, exposing decades of neglect, corruption, and misallocated resources. Stability has increasingly become a performance, with rival authorities in the east and west competing to showcase legitimacy through flashy events rather than delivering governance, security sector reform, or economic recovery. These displays are aimed largely at international audiences, despite widespread awareness of Libya’s institutional fragility, militia dominance, and weak rule of law.
On December 12, 2025, Tripoli was transformed into a stage for lavish festivities, celebrity appearances, and carefully choreographed spectacles meant to project an image of stability and normalcy. Several million dollars were spent rehabilitating Libya’s National Museum — the main centerpiece of celebrations — while additional funds went toward hosting international celebrities, organizing high-profile media nights, and promoting cultural events under the banner of a “safe and stable Tripoli.” Yet beneath the lights, music, and curated social media moments lies a far harsher reality — one that most Libyans live every day and cannot escape.
This version of stability is painfully artificial. It raises a fundamental question about government priorities. Is stability measured by building football stadiums, equipping museums with cutting-edge technology, and hosting cultural events? Or is it measured by investing in schools that can actually educate, hospitals that can treat patients, and roads and drainage systems that do not collapse at the first sign of rain? Development is not a spectacle. Real investment is not cosmetic. And governance is not performance.
In all of Libya, inflation continues to erode purchasing power, the black-market exchange rate for the U.S. dollar remains high and volatile, liquidity is scarce, and many citizens struggle to access their own salaries despite being paid on paper. Public sector wages — on which a majority of Libyans depend — are delayed. Parents are unable to secure quality education for their children as public schools deteriorate. The healthcare sector is in an equally alarming state, with underfunded hospitals, shortages of medicines, aging infrastructure, and an increasing reliance on private care that most citizens cannot afford.
Perhaps nothing exposes the gap between official narratives and reality more clearly than rain. In Libya, rain has become the most honest indicator of corruption and institutional failure. Every year, when it rains, major cities sink. Streets flood, sewage systems overflow, and neighborhoods are paralyzed. This is not a natural disaster — it is the result of decades of neglect, misallocated budgets, and funds spent on appearances rather than infrastructure. No amount of fireworks can hide the fact that Libya’s cities cannot withstand basic weather conditions.
What makes this moment even more troubling is that this is not merely a domestic performance — it is a competition. Both the western and eastern authorities appear locked in a parallel race to outdo one another centered on who can attract the bigger celebrity, host the flashier event, or capture more international attention. Each side attempts to prove legitimacy and stability through unnecessary festivals, while neither has delivered sustainable governance, meaningful security sector reform, or real economic recovery. Stability has become a branding exercise rather than a lived reality.
This raises another uncomfortable question: Who are these events really for? They are not designed for the Libyan people, who struggle daily with liquidity shortages, rising prices, deteriorating services, and insecurity. The target appears to be the international community — foreign diplomats, investors, and observers. Yet this effort is deeply misplaced. The international community already understands Libya’s reality. No media night, celebrity appearance for a few days, or museum opening can conceal the absence of the rule of law, the dominance of armed militias, or the fragility of the economy.
Perhaps the most telling moment of that event did not come from the stage, but from within the crowd. Amid the celebrations, one woman’s quiet voice cut through the noise: “We want our money. We want liquidity. We want education and health.” Her words captured the truth more powerfully than any official slogan ever could.
True stability cannot be imported for a night, rented through celebrity appearances, or staged for cameras. It is built through accountable institutions, functioning infrastructure, economic justice, and real investment in people — not in illusions. Until Libya’s leaders realign their priorities toward genuine development, every celebration will remain a reminder not of progress, but of how far reality has been ignored.
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