When I got down and dusted myself off, I noticed the best part of the room: it had a light switch. I turned it on, but the power was still out. A little while later, though, shortly after it got dark, the lights flickered on. I sat on my bed with a huge smile on my face, thanking God over and over again for giving me light. One night when I was with the POWs, I had awoken to find everyone asleep but the lights still on, so I got up and hit the switch. As soon as I did, I heard Oqba’s voice.
“Can you turn the lights back on, please?”
I did what he asked and then motioned to everyone in the room.
“But why? Everyone’s sleeping.”
“I do not like the darkness,” he said.
Now I understood. Light is one of those things we take for granted—when you’re no longer in control of it, you realize its power. I resolved to myself that the lights would always stay on in this room, as long as the electricity was running, even while I slept. Within an hour, the door opened and one of the guards blurted something in Arabic and hit the switch. Even though I didn’t understand a word that came out of his mouth I knew what he’d said, but as soon as he left I turned the light back on anyway. A few minutes later he returned, and when he saw the lights on he ran off screaming in anger. He returned with the Ghost Man.
“You will leave the lights out,” said the Ghost Man sternly.
“Come on, man, can I have a candle then?”
“No.” And they killed the lights and shut the door.
Back in black—not my best color.
“I gotta get outta here,” I whispered into the dark.
When the Little Judge came to pay me a visit, I was lying down with my back to the door. Someone entered and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and saw a short, skinny man with glasses, standing over me wearing a black judge’s robe open over a leather motorcycle jacket. He kind of resembled an Arab Himmler. You know the type—a little fucking weasel who could only rise to power in a time of war, thanks to his willingness to commit the atrocious acts no sane or rational being would ever even consider.
“Matthew?” he asked. He looked at me with unmistakable disgust.
“Yeah,” I said.
And that was it. He left without saying another word. I realized immediately that he was the same guy the Ghost Man had brought in the time I’d offered ten grand for my release, and kicked myself for not trying to engage him. Later, as a guard led me past the office on the way back from the bathroom, I tried to say something that would grab his attention.
“If I could speak to the judge I sure would be grateful,” I said loudly, right at the office door.
A few minutes after I was put back in my room, the door opened and there he was. He couldn’t have been more than 120 pounds soaking wet and he spoke in a high-pitched voice that made my blood run cold.
“Matthew, what do you want?” he asked me impatiently, in English.
“I just want to introduce myself to you,” I said, rising with my hand out. “My name—”
“No,” he said, motioning for me to stay on the floor when I spoke to him. He didn’t shake my hand either—the first person there not to do so.
“My name is Matthew Schrier and I’m a freelance photographer from America,” I said, from back on the floor.
He stood there staring at me for a moment, and then turned and left the room. A few hours had passed when he returned, this time with a piece of paper with all my credit card numbers written on it.
“What are the passwords?” he asked, holding it out to me.
“Five zero five zero, but that will only work for the ATM cards. The rest are just credit cards,” I answered.
I knew he wanted my online account passwords, but it was obvious that his English was too limited to express this, so every time he asked I just repeated the same thing. After a few rounds of this, frustrated, he left the room.
The Little Judge may not have been much to look at, but the more I got to know him the sharper and more cunning he would prove to be. It didn’t take me long to realize that he was unlike any of the other high-level figures I would meet there. He had a different kind of power than Mohammad. I got the impression that he was on the intelligence side of al-Nusra, which was appropriate, because if there was one thing the Little Judge was, it was intelligent.
It was during this time that I got to know Yassine. He had been put in charge of me, and would come to my room several times a day to ask if I needed anything. He seemed like a good kid, one who had yet to be transformed into a monster despite the monstrosities surrounding him.
“Good morning,” he would say pleasantly as he dropped off my breakfast. “I have something very delicious for you.”
Actually, the food was always the same crap, but Yassine liked practicing his English with me and for my part company was company, even if that company was a terrorist. At night the door opened and he repeated
