On May 13, Libya’s prime minister, Abdelhamid Dabeiba, and his closest allies were triumphant. The night before, Abdelghani “Ghnewa” al-Kikli, the city’s most powerful militia leader and, until recently, a key pillar of Dabeiba’s rule, was shot dead at a meeting with government officials. Within hours, Ghnewa’s forces collapsed, his lieutenants fled Tripoli and units aligned with Dabeiba seized his territory. For a fleeting moment, it looked like Dabeiba had eliminated a key rival and taken a major step toward consolidating control in Tripoli. The next day, Dabeiba’s hold on power was at its weakest since taking office in 2021. Heavy fighting had engulfed the capital overnight, and Dabeiba was widely held responsible.
Libya’s capital has seen endless twists and turns since the demise of the Gadhafi regime in 2011. But this dramatic reversal was extraordinary even for Tripoli. In its wake, a fragile ceasefire took hold that could easily break down again. Dabeiba’s authority has been shaken to the core. He long sought to present himself as the guarantor of stability and security in the capital. Indeed, clashes became increasingly rare after he warded off initial challenges to his rule. Now, the image he cultivated lies in tatters, and he is the focus of popular anger. Could the unintended consequences of Dabeiba’s power grab finally undo Libya’s political stalemate?
Until he was shot in the back of the head at the Tekbali military base on May 12, Ghnewa was among the biggest beneficiaries of Dabeiba’s rule. Dabeiba had been appointed as head of a unity government under a U.N.-led process in March 2021, ostensibly to oversee an interim period until elections that were scheduled for December of that year. When those elections were canceled, Dabeiba’s western Libyan opponents allied with the warlord Khalifa Haftar, based in the eastern part of the country, to form a new government. But Dabeiba prevailed in Tripoli, confining the rival administration’s sway to Haftar’s territory. He did so by exploiting fears of Haftar taking power and by buying the loyalties of western Libyan armed groups. Key to this was Ghnewa, a former baker who had formed a militia in 2011 and gradually turned it into a major force. Ghnewa’s territory just south of Tripoli’s city center was a mere stone’s throw from the seat of the prime minister.
In exchange for their support for Dabeiba, Ghnewa and a handful of other militia leaders received more than lavish funding. They gained unprecedented sway over state institutions by appointing figureheads to oversee the plunder of funds in ministries and state-owned companies. Alongside Dabeiba’s nephew Ibrahim Dabeiba — widely seen as the real power-broker behind the prime minister — they also built direct ties with Haftar’s sons and routinely brokered arrangements over key positions and institutions.
Relations among the key players in Tripoli were not devoid of tensions. But most shared an interest in the survival of a government that enabled them to accumulate power and wealth. This required keeping the peace in the capital, allowing the prime minister to claim that he had delivered Tripoli from the recurrent clashes it had seen for years. Meanwhile, the city’s militias tried to build a reputation as professional security forces, with some succeeding more than others.
For several years, the Dabeibas juggled competing demands from Haftar and western Libyan militia leaders, allowing Ghnewa’s associates to take over security institutions such as the domestic intelligence service. As Ghnewa’s power grew, managing him became increasingly difficult for the Dabeibas and their allied commanders. In August 2024, Ibrahim Dabeiba relied on a force led by a Ghnewa lieutenant to oust the long-serving central bank governor. But that force subsequently monopolized control of the central bank and protected the new governor, bringing him under Ghnewa’s influence, much to the Dabeibas’ dismay. Ghnewa also made outsized demands to place his proteges in key ministerial positions, threatening to throw his support behind the formation of a new government. Meanwhile, he aggressively expanded his share of spoils from fraud in sectors ranging from imports of medicine to oil and telecommunications.
As Ghnewa’s relations with the Dabeibas soured, he mended ties with another major force in Tripoli: the Special Deterrence Force (SDF), headed by Salafi-leaning commander Abderrauf Kara. The SDF and its affiliates controlled the capital’s airport and vast swathes of eastern Tripoli, and exerted considerable influence within state institutions. Kara had played a key role in helping Dabeiba retain power at critical junctures, but he grew increasingly alienated over time, frustrated by what he perceived as meager returns for his support. The Dabeibas had begun favoring leaders of other factions. Ghnewa was among them, as were Abdesselam Zubi of Brigade 111 and Mahmoud Hamza of Brigade 444 — the latter a former Kara lieutenant turned bitter rival. And these groups had begun to curb SDF influence, most drastically at the central bank, where the SDF had for years maintained a strong presence.
The turning point came when Ghnewa compelled the SDF’s withdrawal from the central bank to assist the Dabeibas in ousting the governor. Ironically, that episode’s aftermath brought Kara and Ghnewa into an uneasy alliance, forged by their respective roles in derailing the Dabeibas’ bid to assert control over the central bank. By late 2024, the two had found a common purpose: to guard themselves against threats from the Dabeibas and their closest allies.
In April, the joint force from Dabeiba’s native Misrata began sending convoys of armed vehicles toward Tripoli. Its objective remained unclear, and rumors suggested it had prepared an attack on the SDF. Yet many dismissed the idea that Dabeiba would initiate hostilities and thereby shatter the capital’s tranquility he so cherished. But in early May, tensions between Ghnewa and the Dabeibas escalated when Ghnewa’s men abducted two top executives at Libya’s state telecommunications holding, a cash cow that Dabeiba had used as a slush fund. In the following days, convoys began converging on Tripoli from Misrata, Zawiya and Zintan, foreshadowing an imminent escalation.
On the evening of May 12, the news that Ghnewa had been shot dead spread like wildfire across Tripoli, along with pictures of his blood-stained body. It quickly emerged that he had been killed at the headquarters of Brigade 444, during a meeting to which Hamza had invited him. Hamza has since suggested that his killing happened after Ghnewa’s men raised their weapons at their hosts. But the speed with which Brigades 444 and 111 took control of Ghnewa’s stronghold in the Abu Salim district right after the killing clearly indicates a well-planned operation. Dabeiba himself lauded the campaign for its success in speedily routing Ghnewa’s forces with minimal immediate harm to civilian lives or property.
The ease with which they had eliminated a major rival must have surprised the operations’ architects themselves. The next day, they sought to build on the momentum to move against the SDF. To that end, Dabeiba issued a series of decrees dissolving units affiliated with both Ghnewa and the SDF. Among those targeted was the Judicial Security Apparatus, a powerful SDF affiliate led by Osama Njeem, who faces an arrest warrant from the International Criminal Court. Other units were integrated into the Interior Ministry headed by Emad Trabelsi — a close Dabeiba ally from the town of Zintan. The Ghnewa associate heading the domestic intelligence service was replaced by an appointee from Zintan and a deputy from Misrata. For Kara’s SDF and other armed groups in greater Tripoli, the message was clear: Dabeiba was centralizing control and empowering Misratan and Zintani actors at their expense.
Even as Dabeiba and his allies touted their victory against what they now described as rogue militias, a different picture took shape. Clips of looting in Ghnewa’s former stronghold of Abu Salim spread on social media. Many of the worst excesses were the work of the General Security Apparatus, a Zintani-led force commanded by the interior minister’s brother. The same force later looted Tripoli’s port and even attempted to break into the vaults of the central bank. Its acts galvanized public outrage and shattered Dabeiba’s narrative.
This combination of overreach and misconduct directly strengthened the position of the SDF. Kara seized the opportunity to widen his coalition, reaching out to factions in several Tripoli districts as well as the neighboring city of Zawiya. Although most stopped short of open military engagement, many began hedging, positioning themselves to join the fray should momentum shift away from the government.
Instead of consolidating control, Dabeiba’s moves ignited urban warfare. Tensions came to a head on the evening of May 13, during the attempted handover of positions previously held by the Judicial Security Apparatus to Mahmoud Hamza’s Brigade 444. The transfer was a highly sensitive matter, as both forces had heavily clashed before, and Hamza’s long-standing animosity toward Kara was no secret. Fighters affiliated with the Judicial Security Apparatus backtracked on the agreement to surrender their positions, triggering localized clashes that quickly escalated across Tripoli. The SDF began targeting Brigade 444, which was left to fend off its advances with little support from Dabeiba’s other key allies — Brigade 111 and the Misrata joint force. Within hours, Tripoli plunged into chaos: Street battles erupted in densely populated and affluent neighborhoods, improvised drone-borne explosives struck military camps, and the SDF and 444 rampaged throughout the capital. Forces from Zawiya entered Tripoli from the west, drawing Dabeiba-aligned forces into a defense on multiple fronts.
For a brief moment, the fighting looked like it could escalate into a protracted urban war. But by noon the following day, a fragile ceasefire had been brokered, halting the clashes as suddenly as they had erupted. The shifts on the battlefield revealed a mixed picture. The SDF had defended its exposed bases in southern Tripoli but had been compelled to retreat from key positions in the city center, including the port. However, not all of the SDF’s lost territory was now held by forces loyal to Dabeiba. Neutral forces from Misrata had deployed to separate the opposing coalitions in some of the most critical locations, including around the central bank.
Far more consequential than the shifts in territorial control during the fighting was the latter’s political fallout. The sudden throwback to the capital’s worst days shocked Tripoli’s residents. Public dismay focused on Dabeiba and on Brigade 444, which had previously cultivated a reputation for disciplined security provision, but now bore the brunt of the blame for the clashes’ excesses.
On Friday, two days after the ceasefire was reached, protests erupted on Martyrs’ Square. They reflected a volatile blend: genuine civic frustration with state failure and militia impunity, mixed with the calculated presence of provocateurs aligned with Dabeiba’s political rivals. For much of the day, the demonstrations remained peaceful and focused. But by dusk, the mood shifted. Provocateurs directed protesters toward the seat of the prime minister and attempted to storm it. They were dispersed with live ammunition. Meanwhile, ministers associated with the SDF and other anti-Dabeiba armed groups resigned, their announcements timed to trigger a domino effect that failed to materialize.
The crackdown on protesters was a turning point. On the one hand, it provoked another wave of public anger against Dabeiba. On the other, it allowed Dabeiba to portray the unrest as coordinated subversion. Clearly, however, the line between grassroots mobilization and factional manipulation had been crossed. With these events, the conflict shifted into a new phase — a battle of narratives.
For a moment after the protests, there appeared to be an opening, a chance to challenge Dabeiba’s power with both political initiative and popular credibility. But the moment slipped. The protests lost momentum, and the rival camp’s chronic weaknesses resurfaced. Divided by geography, ambition and deep mistrust, the opposition lacked the unity and the legitimacy to present a compelling alternative.
Dabeiba’s greatest strength lies not in the alliance backing him, but in the incoherence of those seeking to replace him. The eastern-based House of Representatives and its Tripoli-based counterpart, the High Council of State, are both widely discredited, having consistently perpetuated Libya’s crisis to keep themselves in office. The same goes for the Presidency Council, a toothless, three-member executive body formed under U.N. auspices along with Dabeiba’s government. When the fighting erupted in Tripoli, representatives of these three institutions predictably sought to harness the backlash, hoping to convert the wave of public discontent into a push to form a new government. But their attempts likely did more to sap the public’s hope for genuine change and expose the risk of popular mobilization being hijacked for parochial ends. Equally predictable was the internal squabbling within all three institutions, which thwarted their attempts to propose a common plan to replace Dabeiba.
Such transparently cynical scheming helped the Dabeibas dismiss demands for the government’s resignation. Their efforts to shape narratives in the public sphere quickly bounced back, with Dabeiba portraying the conflict as a campaign to restore state authority and dismantle rogue militias. Evidence of Ghnewa’s crimes saturated Libyan social media, and the Dabeiba camp showed hints that it could discredit its opponents with damning imagery.
Less overtly, the Dabeibas are also leveraging the identity politics underpinning the conflict. As fighting erupted, a narrative gained traction on social media: that Dabeiba was seeking to monopolize power with the backing of Misratan forces. This framing has echoed through the organized political activism demanding his resignation, much of it emerging from Tripoli’s Souk al-Jumaa neighborhood, the city of Zawiya and the Warshafana region — areas where his armed opponents are concentrated. In truth, Dabeiba has long been unpopular in Misrata, including among its armed groups, only a handful of which have backed his government militarily in Tripoli.
Yet by mobilizing against what they portray as a Misratan power grab, the government’s adversaries are inadvertently shoring up Dabeiba’s faltering support in his hometown. Privately, the Dabeibas have been messaging communal and armed actors in Misrata that the crisis is not merely about retaining office but about safeguarding the city’s political relevance in Tripoli. Their calculus hinges on the belief that a decisive alignment from Misrata’s factions could fracture the already brittle opposition coalition — particularly in Zawiya, where rivalries among armed groups have historically undermined unity.
While this political battle over popular opinion and communal fears is unfolding, the truce in Tripoli remains extremely precarious. Both sides have strong incentives to escalate. For the SDF, the ceasefire simply freezes a battlefield disadvantage. Not only did it lose control of strategic positions, it has also been politically sidelined by Dabeiba’s government. Its only viable route to reclaim leverage is to rally support and apply pressure, whether through new alliances or renewed force. Moreover, allowing the security situation in Tripoli to recover its normalcy risks strengthening Dabeiba’s claim that he is restoring order. If, as seems likely, political efforts to unseat Dabeiba falter or drag on too long, the SDF may conclude that escalation is the only way to regain influence in the evolving power balance.
For the Dabeibas, the same logic applies. The renewed talk of forming a new government, especially among eastern institutions and western Libyan rivals, raises the stakes. The longer this momentum builds, the more tempting it becomes to preempt it militarily — particularly by targeting groups trying to establish an alternative seat of power in Tripoli. The Dabeibas and their inner circle may therefore see renewed confrontation as the only way to assert primacy.
This backdrop of rising tension is compounded by a near-total collapse of trust among Tripoli’s factions. For years, militia leaders maintained a fragile arrangement underpinned by a mutual interest in managing spoils and preventing Haftar’s advance into western Libya. Disputes were often defused at the last minute, through personal relationships, negotiated understandings and implicit red lines. But that informal modus vivendi has now crumbled. Only recently, Ghnewa had appeared smiling alongside those who conspired against him at an iftar dinner hosted by Ibrahim Dabeiba. His killing shattered the basic assumption that alliances offered protection, and sent the message that anyone could be next.
In that climate, the foundations for negotiation over ceasefires or institutional arrangements have significantly eroded. The current truce is not the product of mutual understanding but of hedging. Perhaps the most significant reason why it is still holding is the forceful messaging of a Turkish envoy who, in direct talks with key stakeholders, stressed the imperative to avoid renewed escalation. This matters, coming from a country whose military presence weighs heavily in western Libya’s favor. But it may not be sufficient. With trust eroded and rivalries deepened, Tripoli is in a state of suspended conflict, primed for renewed violence.
The scene of these maneuvers is part of a broader political theater. Both camps loudly warn that empowering their rivals would hand Tripoli to Khalifa Haftar. Dabeiba’s critics claim his destabilizing moves in Tripoli embolden the eastern commander. The Dabeibas insist that a change in government would allow Haftar’s allies to reassert control through state institutions. But these warnings ring hollow. Both sides have shown they are willing to cut deals with Haftar and his inner circle when it serves their interests. The specter of Haftar does not function as a principled red line but has become a tool.
Over the past years, power struggles in Tripoli have routinely opened space for the Haftar family to expand their influence, even without a military presence in the capital. By leveraging control over oil production and their grip on the eastern Libya-based parliament, the Haftars have extracted political and financial concessions from rivals in the west. There is little to suggest that this round will break the pattern. The divisions and short-term calculations among Tripoli’s factions continue to serve eastern interests by default, regardless of intent.
Yet another scenario has become at least conceivable with these events: the possibility of Dabeiba emerging with greater centralized control in Tripoli. Surviving this crisis may open a narrow path toward greater authority, but it will come at a cost. Ghnewa’s death has unraveled an empire of institutional influence, giving Dabeiba space to maneuver and reconsolidate patronage networks. Many of Ghnewa’s former affiliates now seek protection from groups aligned with Dabeiba — or face the prospect of being replaced by loyalists to the prime minister. Yet the armed groups Dabeiba depends on to consolidate control are not simply loyal followers; they are exploiting his moment of vulnerability to push for the appointment of their own affiliates, constraining his ability to build a truly loyal apparatus. Efforts to fill the power vacuum left by Ghnewa are in turn shaped as much by opportunism and coercion as by strategy.
The result is a landscape of conditional alignment, where armed groups back Dabeiba not out of fealty but calculation and, increasingly, caution. They are taking note not only of the risks of open defiance, but also of the precariousness of cooperation. Brigade 444, a core pillar of Dabeiba’s operation against Ghnewa and the SDF, emerged from this brief bout of warfare politically bruised and publicly blamed. In his address defending government actions, Dabeiba singled it out for igniting the clashes, casting it as an undisciplined actor rather than a partner. That message has resonated beyond Tripoli: The more conflict-averse factions in Misrata, too, are increasingly wary — not just of being drawn into confrontations with other western Libyan groups, but of absorbing public backlash on behalf of a prime minister who struggles to unify his own hometown behind him.
All in all, and against most expectations, the fallout may leave Dabeiba more dominant in the short term, but with even fewer trusted partners and growing unease among the militias he must still depend on. The effect would not be one of consolidation, but of reluctant drift, his position reinforced by a lack of alternatives, rather than a coherent coalition. The moral of Ghnewa’s story is now etched into the ethos of Tripoli: At this juncture, today’s ally can just as easily become tomorrow’s adversary or scapegoat.
At a deeper level, however, the patterns underpinning Dabeiba’s tenuous hold on power reflect the broader stagnation of Libya’s political landscape. The transition remains stalled — not because Libyans lack a desire for reform, but because the incentives sustaining the current order remain deeply entrenched. The absence of a shared sense of urgency among international actors only reinforces this paralysis: Without coordinated external pressure, there is little chance of a credible push to form a new government, let alone to sideline the House of Representatives and High Council of State, whose mutual veto power continues to block meaningful progress. And even if a new government does emerge, it will inherit the same broken foundations: a fragmented security architecture, revenues monopolized by Haftar and a governance model that privileges militia leverage over institutional legitimacy. Until those structural dynamics are disrupted, moments of crisis will continue to serve as catalyst points for mutation, not transformation.
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