Source: Basit Igtet and Sara Bronfman Break Up

An inside source from Portugal tells Frank Report that Sara Bronfman has a new boyfriend and her husband is out….

The once heavenly romance and marriage – the nuptial bliss of Sara Bronfman and Basit Igtet – are by all appearances at an end.

Sara Bronfman

Sara, the daughter of the late Edgar Bronfman Sr, former chairman of Seagrams, Fortune-150, the one-time biggest wine and spirits company in the world, and for decades president of the World Jewish Congress, recoverer of Nazi assets stolen from Jewdom, and securer of the release of 200,000 Jews in the Soviet – the billionaire, and of Georgiana Webb-Havens, a tavern owner’s daughter.

Georgianna Webb and Edgar Bronfman, parents of Sara Bronfman.

Basit is a Libyan expatriate whose father was imprisoned, then died in prison, or, some say, executed by Ghadaffi.

The couple has two children.

Sara has money, inherited from her father; her net worth estimated to be around $600 million, with a succession of passive investments handled by her New York financial advisors, a sum which grew following her leave-taking of her former financial advisor, Keith Raniere, formerly of Clifton Park, New York, now of Tucson, Arizona.

An inside source from Portugal tells Frank Report that Sara, 45, has replaced Basit with a new “bronze Adonis.” A native of Portugal, the man spent numerous days and nights at Sara’s palace in Portugal, now her primary residence.

(She sold her mansion in Waterford, New York, and her luxury condo at Trump Towers in Manhattan, planning not to return to the USA.)

The addition of the lusty Luso to her retinue came as hard news for husband Basit. He could not evict the gent whose swarthiness, enhanced by beach sun, rivaled his own, with the former having the additional advantage of buffed-by-regular-workout chisels of abdominal rippling, which, one might say, caused a ripple effect on his lubricious wife.

Perhaps she recalled, after two children, and a decade of Basit, replete with vicissitudes of reputational fortune, the amours of the past when she experienced a succession of satisfying swarthy Latino lovers down Mexico way, both before, after and in between her delight with a certain American, short, it is true, square footed, with a case of strabismus, but whose athleticism, he was a judo master, and volleyball king, was surpassed only by his ethics, and the fact that he was officially declared at least in Australia to be the smartest man in the world, and later confirmed by a study the man, who alone was smart enough to do such a study, himself wrote and published that confirmed that his problem-solving rarity was one in 425 million (and, as to past amours, to set the record straight, lest one think infidelity is habit, the Hispanic contingent was decidedly, although shortly, perhaps minutes, after that petite but well proportioned man she married in a fever, and divorced in cold sweat, a surprisingly athletic man, as wiry and nimble on a horse as he was climbing in and out of her bed, had fully ridden away) and now after all this and a wearying decade of Basit comes young Adonis.

Basit fumed. He might be excused for it. A gigolo replaced him, a male, impecunious beauty, after her wealth alone. He knew. He would. The. gigolo was him a decade ago. Yet here he was, still her husband, denied and affronted, also impecunious.

In Libya, in Mexico, even Portugal, this would be an affair of honor. The sword unsheathed; the pistol drawn. But an affair of honor presumes a man has hearth, home, and honor a despoiler can despoil  

Basit could make no such claim to reclaim the boudoir where he and Sara shared morning coffee, a snuggle and more, and a daily read of the Frank Report. Sara’s trust owns title to both boudoir and the mansion encompassing and for that matter, title to everything else that can be described, by hopeful, helpful divorce attorneys seeking their share, as marital assets.

Neither can Basit return to his glorious Parisian condo in the shadows of the Eiffel from whence he used first to woo Sara a decade ago, when she was young and forlorn over the loss of her latest lover, the one [or maybe two or three] before Basit, the yellow-clad monk, aid to His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, the lover lama, Venerable Lama Tenzin Dhonden, who left her panting in hot pursuit, ordered to return to monk-like behavior by His Holiness, himself, (and stop canoodling with her in the hot tub).

Sara Bronfman and lover Lama Tenzin.

When Basit married Sara, she instructed him to sell his Parisian condominium. He sold it, put the money in her trust, and began a nine-year stint as kept, coiffed, and of finest couture. Sara was about five months pregnant when they married.

As Basit said, weary of the timid hunter role, accepting the huntress, succumbing, as it were, to a seduction assignment, “prosperity glitters, adversity shrivels.”

Over the years, the couple tried their hand at entrepreneurial endeavor, from the Canadian-founded Libyan Chamber of Commerce to the announced plan of operating a worldwide chain of glorious luxury hotels, starting with one they leased in Provence in Southern France, surrounded by hillocks and fields of lavender. 

The couple described Basit as “an internationally renowned entrepreneur based in Zurich and renowned for its acquisitions of iconic hotels.”

The plan ended ignominiously, with the couple leaving the hotel owner sans several lease payments, firing hotel employees while failing to pay severance or, according to some, back wages, and packing in haste everything that could be construed as arguably theirs, relying on old common law that possession is 9/10th (or more) of the law, and the more recent but commoner, “if it ain’t nailed down, it’s ours!”

Ending their plan of niche hotels, with the one they leased and left in Southern France, another adage comes to mind: “They left and forgot nothing but to say goodbye to their creditors.”

Still in France, Sara tried her hand at education – one of her passions – other than men – by reviving Rainbow Cultural Garden, using child learning techniques devised by her mentor and former inamorata Keith Alan Raniere, a system where children are taught multiple languages by a phalanx of nannies of foreign birth, of indeterminate background and lower wages, alternating on different days to speak to the children in their native tongue, as Sara had done for her own children with her seven nannies. 

Sara was met with an underwhelming, if not unwelcoming response, as critical carping Frenchwomen and their men spread gossip that the child education system that would “guide children as young as two years” was developed by a man known to lead a sex cult, who branded women, and faced charges of sex trafficking, child pornography, and exploitation of a child – all things they learned from a tabloid publication called the Frank Report.

Her school went bust, and the mayor that Sara had purchased to politically support and pave the right way, including a free city-owned building for the campus, for which the good mayor cut the ribbon, even she, her honor, headed for the hillocks and lavender fields before the angry townspeople laid her out in it, though she wisely kept Sara’s generous donation.

Libya

In 2017, under Vanguard’s direction, Sara funded Basit in an effort to overthrow the Libyan government. The plan was to culminate in what was to be an historic event – Basit’s appearance in Tripoli on September 25 at the Monument of the Martyrs. Raniere and Sara planned it to be a marvel in the course of Middle Eastern history, using social media to promote the glad tidings to Libya and the rest of the world.

A new messiah was coming (kept secret was that the real Messiah was not Basit, but the man behind the wife behind him, THE Vanguard).

Confidently expecting to be hailed the new president of Libya by downtrodden masses clamoring to be freed from oppressive Western Libyan corruption and tyranny, Basit expected tens of thousands would come to join him in Martyrs Square. They would march back and take the country, reinforced with the ousted, the misunderstood. and the Taliban, who would come in from the desert, reunite with the people under Basit and create a no longer divided Libya freed from the baneful influence of the West.

Basit, the hero, would appear in Tripoli, and the people would cheer, as Raniere assured Sara, who in turn instructed Basit to be sure to follow through, show up and wear his best couture.

His wife wisely absented herself.

September 25 arrived. Basit landed in Mitiga airport and led small crowds from Tajoura to Martyrs Square. He appeared heroically at the Monument of the Martyrs expecting the tens of thousands to suddenly appear. But no one else did except a motley throng ready to give an uppity Libyan expatriate with an absent Jewish wife a beating or worse, possibly helping mingle his blood with those of the martyrs who died ridding the land of Ghaddafi (and now a ridding of a Bronfman and a Raniere) and a couple hundred curiosity seekers who came to see what the noise was about.

Thankfully for Basit, the corrupt and tyrannical leaders of Libya, with their baneful Western influence, sent a deputation of police to protect him. Basit escaped the throng safely and returned home to his heiress wife for further instructions.

The Taliban, seeing the promised turnout evaporate, fled back to the desert to resume the nomad existence that American-hating terrorists adopt. But Basit’s top aide fared not nearly as well.

The man who organized all the Raniere-inspired coup, the liaison for the Taliban, and for Basit, working on the ground in Libya, had an unfortunate accident. Libyan media reported he died accidentally while cleaning his gun the day after Basit left, a common type of accidental death occurring to Libyans who run afoul of the Taliban, much like suicide is common for those who run afoul of the CIA in America.

Bashir Garira is said to have died after being shot outside his home in Suq Al-Juma while cleaning his gun.

Leaving America

In 2018, after the arrest of Vanguard, during the prosecution of him and the upcoming, expected arrest of her sister, Sara permanently fled the USA, where she lived for years not far from her golden master. After, as we amply reported, residing in France and building a mansion, the couple abandoned it and fled to Portugal, as word of her possible indictment for her role in NXIVM was rumored.

She has not returned to the US despite her sister, Clare’s arrest, prosecution, and subsequent incarceration. Even at Clare’s all-important bail hearing, Sara did not return.

The judge had said in a previous bail hearing for codefendant Allison Mack that a show of family support made the difference in his decision to grant bail.

 

Sara did not appear, claiming motherly duties prevented her from coming to court, despite that her seven nannies and a private jet had not made it impossible for her to travel anywhere else for any length of time.  But as she said she was a “mother” first, and of this tender word mother used to describe her, some of her critics said, “and how,” implying a secondary meaning for the word.

She assigned her husband Basit to appear in her stead and pledge his assets, of which he had few-to-none in his name, against his sister-in-law Clare’s flight from jurisdiction.

Clare [center] with her mother [left] leave court.

At the End of the Day

Though Basit’s services were legion to his mistress, fortunes change, and, as they say in Portugal, “caiu na rede, é peixe,” or, if I may translate, “if it fell into the net, it’s fish.” Basit had fallen into the net, but was cast back into the sea.

As of last report, he is still on his allowance, but his main duty to his libidinous heiress-wife has ceased; that service provided now by an eager, buffed and swarthy Lugesian, more than ten years her junior.

Portugal with its warm sun and hot-blooded, dark-haired, moist-eyed young men, who, like other young men in other lands, often find heiresses, even middle-aged ones, whom somebody else, one not knowing their net worth and inner value, in that order, might find more likely akin to somebody’s matronly aunt, more than usually irresistibly attractive.

As the young and buffed Adonis looked at her dimly in the darkness of late-night dimmed light boudoir with a toast of Vinho Espumante in crystal flute goblets (of brilliant cobalt blue), and caviar alone atop ice in a mother-of-pearl gold server, adoring the tinsel puff glamour of life he was never able to dream, imagine, much less encounter, with frankly no assurance that he, like Basit, might be here today, gone tomorrow, still chose today to dare, or, as they say in Portugal, “em não arrisca  não petisca.” — “those who don’t take a risk don’t have a snack.”

Passion grew, as did his petisca and, accordingly, so grew the young man’s allowance.

Viva Executive Success!

***

Look for an update later.

Finally, some may wonder why, after NXIVM is dead and buried, and Sara Bronfman is living in Portugal, not connected to Raniere, or her imprisoned sister, Clare, why I would continue to write about her. Stay tuned for the answer.