Whispers in Arabic broke out all over, and then a single voice pierced through them.
“We’re not allowed to talk to you,” it said. “If we speak to you we will be punished.”
“Says who?” I asked.
“They came in about an hour ago and told us you would be joining us.”
“Oh, okay.”
That seemed to be the end of that conversation, so I lay down and closed my eyes.
About an hour later the electricity came back on and the room lit up. I felt incredible relief to know I would no longer be condemned to continuous darkness after sunset, at least as long as the power was running in this part of the city. Once again the men all sat up on their blankets. Everything about them, from their ragged and mismatched clothing to the slow way in which they moved, made them resemble zombies from a living-dead movie. They all had long beards and green smocks on over their rags. In the center of the room were two beat-up pairs of matching combat boots, further confirming my theory that I was with POWs. To break the uncomfortable silence that had descended again, I stood and headed over to the closest man (except for my neighbor, who was still sleeping).
“Assallam alekum,” I said, holding out my hand. “Matthew.”
I moved on, from man to man, from one side of the room to the other, doing the same. Everyone shook my hand without hesitation.
“Muslim?” asked one man (whose name I would later learn was Rias) as our hands locked.
“No, Christian,” I said, making the sign of the cross.
By the time I was done I had made my way back to my bed. The lone man they had placed me next to was still under his covers.
“So what? Is this where you stick the crazy people?” I asked the room at large, motioning toward the lump under the blankets.
I saw one of the POWs smile and realized he understood me—he was the man who had spoken after I arrived.
“Are you the one who speaks English?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he replied.
I headed over to him. He was young, in his midtwenties, with a very sweet face and light skin.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ali,” he said. “Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“New York!” he exclaimed, shocked. “What are you doing in Syria?”
“I’m a photographer. I came here to cover the war.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m an idiot. Listen, where are we?”
“Aleppo.”
“Is this a hospital?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it’s a hospital. A kid in scrubs searched me my first day and I saw a hospital bed in the hallway a few days ago when they took me to the bathroom. How long have you been here?”
“For about two weeks.”
“Excuse me,” I heard another prisoner say.
I glanced up and saw a man looking at me from a corner on the other side of the room.
I walked over to him. “What’s your name?”
“Oqba,” he replied, haughtily, “Are you American?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s not good for you, my friend. Jabhat al-Nusra does not like Americans, especially since your government labeled them a terrorist group.”
“So they are Jabhat al-Nusra,” I said, feeling my stomach sink. “I was hoping they were just saying that to try and scare me.”
“No, you are in an Islamic court.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically. “And are the judges fair here?”
“Yes, very fair.”
“Pardon me for having doubts, as the American.”
“Are you Jewish?” he asked.
“Am I Jewish? No, why?”
“I thought that might be why they grabbed you. It happens all the time.”
“Really?”
“Can I ask you for a favor, please?” he said abruptly, changing the subject.
“Yeah, sure, what’s up?”
“Please do not talk to any of the men in the room,” he said seriously. “I am asking you for your safety and for theirs.”
“Okay, but what do you want me to do, just sit there and twiddle my thumbs?”
“I am only asking for your safety and theirs, believe me.”
“Yeah, I heard you, but they’re grown men and if they choose to talk to me that’s their decision. I can’t do anything about that. But I’ll tell you what: How about I just don’t talk to you?”
“That’s all I am asking.”
“Okay, I gotcha,” I said, heading back over to Ali.
After spending the past five days in solitary, speaking to Ali was very steadying. He didn’t want the people holding us to know he spoke English, so I promised not to say anything. I was surprised that he didn’t show an ounce of animosity toward me for working with the FSA, his sworn enemy. In fact, he didn’t seem to care one bit, and neither did anyone else. I suspected they were all Alawites, a Shia sect that made up only 10 percent of Syria’s (mostly Sunni) population, but controlled the government from Bashar down. Out of politeness I refrained from asking. Asking someone if they were an Alawite while in a Sunni environment was like asking someone if they were a Jew in Nazi Germany. I had made my first friend and I didn’t want to risk losing him.
Ali and I hadn’t been talking long when we all heard the door being unlocked. I ran back over to my bed and hid dramatically under the covers, causing a slight stir of laughter throughout the room. After the door opened I felt a tap on my shoulder and came out of hiding to see a kid of around twenty standing over me—one of the guards.
“Hi,” he said, waving. He had thick black hair that was long in the back, and an effeminate manner.
“Hi.”
In Arabic, he asked my name and I told him it was Jumu’ah.
“Abu Hamza,” he said, his hand on his chest.
After introducing himself to me he moved off to bring a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some cotton, and fresh bandages to two men who were wounded. One had a bandaged foot, and the other’s hand was wrapped up after being shot through twice. The soldier with the wounded hand was Shareef, a thirty-year-old captain in the Syrian army, and the officer with
