I was just 21 when I went to work for Muammar Gaddafi. Like the other young women he hired as nurses, I had grown up in Ukraine. I didn't speak a word of Arabic, didn't even know the difference between Lebanon and Libya. But "Papik," as we nicknamed him--it means "little father" in Russian--was always more than generous to us. I had everything I could dream of: a furnished two-bedroom apartment, a driver who appeared whenever I called. But my apartment was bugged, and my personal life was watched closely.