Hugh Miles

The British mercenary Simon Mann isn't the only would-be assassin who has been making apologies for trying to overthrow an oil-rich country’s government. The Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, established in Afghanistan in the 1990s, has killed dozens of Libyan soldiers and policemen over the years. But the LIFG recently apologised to Colonel Gaddafi for trying to kill him, and agreed to lay down its arms for good. Six members of the LIFG’s leadership, held inside Libya’s Abu Sleem prison, released a 420-page document disavowing their old ways and explaining why fighting Gaddafi no longer constituted legitimate jihad.

Saudi Arabia’s former ambassador to Washington, Prince Bandar bin Sultan bin Abdul Aziz, has disappeared. In the absence of any official news about his health or whereabouts, the rumour mill has been working overtime. As is often the case with Saudi affairs, the truth is elusive. Those who know won’t talk and those who don’t know talk a lot.

Last August the Iranian media reported that Bandar had been put under house arrest, allegedly for plotting a coup to try and ensure the Kingdom would continue under the rule of the Sudairi branch of the Al Saud family. But Iran isn’t the most reliable source: al-Arabiya, Saudi Arabia’s news network, gibes Iran hourly over its ongoing political turmoil; Iran’s al-Alam and Press TV hit back at Saudi Arabia whenever they can.

Succession is a burning issue in most Arab countries and Libya is no exception. Although there is no sign that Colonel Gaddafi is about to relinquish power, he is 68 and hasn't yet publicly nominated a successor. The issue is complicated because, technically, Libya has no head of state. Gaddafi is the Leader of the Revolution, and it's hard to see how anyone could follow him in this role, so he would have to be made head of state before anyone could take his place. But this would run contrary to his revolutionary principles, and when the regime’s own Green March newspaper printed an article saying as much a few years ago the editor was sacked. Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, the leader’s second son, is generally viewed as the most likely man for the job. In October, for the first time, the Colonel gave a possible clue to his wishes by making a surprise announcement proposing that Saif should be given a key official post in the Libyan government. 'Saif al-Islam is a faithful man and loves Libya,' he said. 'Saif needs a position that allows him to pursue his role in carrying out his programme to further Libya's interests.' The announcement was a surprise not only because the King of Kings presented his wish as a request rather than simply imposing his will unilaterally, as he often does, but also because it contradicted all Saif’s statements about not being interested in political power. Nevertheless, a few days later, the Libyan media dutifully reported that Saif had been appointed Co-ordinator of Social Leaderships, a recently vacated post that has been described as the second most important job in Libyan politics. This new position wouldn't automatically make Saif the official heir but it would give him a position of authority in the government, and it could lead to his inheriting the leadership. But after the announcement Saif himself remained oddly quiet, neither accepting nor rejecting what was being thrust upon him.

I was at a conference in Sharm el Sheikh when Eyjafjallajökull erupted. The only flights out of Cairo were to Tunis, Beirut or Casablanca. Casablanca seemed the least worst option. We touched down shortly before midnight, and I made it to Casa-Voyageurs station just in time for the night train to Tangier, where I met a Moroccan builder heading for Montpellier. He had an appointment with social security; if he missed it, he risked having his benefits cut off.

The St George’s Cross was flying above Southwark Town Hall as we filed into the waiting room to take our seats. About sixty people from all over the world – Ghana, Nigeria, Egypt, France, Afghanistan, Uruguay, Colombia, China – were already there. I had come to watch my wife become a British citizen. She sat, like the other prospective candidates, holding her letter from the Home Office, wrapped up against the London weather. Although most of the assembled group already looked quite well integrated into British society – one was wearing the uniform of a Transport for London official – none of them seemed at home with the climate yet. ‘We are all here for a citizenship ceremony this afternoon, is that correct?’ the council registrar asked. A general mutter of assent. ‘This is a formal occasion so no jeans, no trainers. If you need to go home and change, you can do that now.’ No one had mentioned a dress code. Naturalisation is an arduous process that requires masses of documentation, costs hundreds or even thousands of pounds in legal and Home Office fees, and typically takes years: it seemed a bit tough suddenly to throw up this last hurdle. Fortunately the only inappropriately dressed person was me.