The first two people I noticed were a fourteen-year-old boy, who kicked me (Jesus Christ, they have kids in here! I remember thinking), and a man holding a nightstick. They sat me down on the floor near a hulking black oil tank, with my knees bent so that they almost touched my chin. A second later a tire was forced around my knees and locked into place with a steel bar that they slid into the crook between my knees and the tire, making it impossible to move my legs. The man holding the nightstick placed it under my chin and used it to lift my head so that we could make eye contact from under my cap. We stared at each other for a few intense moments, and I noticed that what he was holding was not a nightstick after all, but a black cable just as thick. Then someone flipped me over so that I was face down with my feet in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Buddha Man sitting off to my right.
“I’m just a photographer!” I yelled in Arabic.
“Give him one fifteen,” the Buddha Man said—in English.
“No, wait, wait!”
“What?” he asked, impatiently.
I racked my brain for something to say, anything that would make them change their minds. I had nothing.
“I love the Syrian people?” I tried, sounding truly pathetic.
“Shuuuuuut up,” the Buddha Man said. “Yala!”
I took a breath so deep I felt my nostrils suck all the way in.
“Here we go! Get ready to scream!” I whispered to myself.
Whack!
When the cable made contact with the bottoms of my feet I let out a yell that must have been heard by everyone on the floor.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!
It was like two sledgehammers were being brought down on the centers of both feet simultaneously, over and over again without mercy. The pain was somehow sharp and blunt at the same time, focused and all consuming. With my hands cuffed behind my back, and my legs restrained the way they were, I felt like a roped calf in a rodeo.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
There was nothing I could do but try to bury my face into the concrete floor, that and scream at the top of my lungs.
“God help me! God help me,” I yelled over and over in English— and, in Arabic, “I’m just a photographer!” Through the pain, I focused my thoughts on watching my language in order to keep from earning more licks, and calling on God in an attempt to relate to them. My pleading changed nothing, of course, and the suffering continued. They took turns whacking me in sets, passing the cable around like I was a piñata. About halfway through they stopped so that one of them could empty a bottle of water onto my feet to enhance the pain.
When they finally reached 115, I heard the Buddha Man instruct them to stop. A second later I was flipped over and the tire was removed. Pretending to be barely conscious, I was hoisted up from under my arms by two men, but as soon as I tried to put any weight on my feet my knees buckled. If it hadn’t been for the thugs holding me I would have dropped to the floor like a tree struck by lightning. My feet were throbbing with a constant heartbeat but were completely numb; it felt like they didn’t even exist anymore and I was trying to balance myself on stumps. The two men supported me back to my cell while a few more followed behind. My feet just dragged along the ground. At the door to my cell, one of my escorts looked me deep in the eyes and said something to me in Arabic that Theo would translate later.
“Have you heard of Guantanamo Bay?” he asked.
A moment later I was softly placed on the floor and my handcuffs, very gently, were removed. I lay on my side with my eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness, feeling my heart slow, the cool ground against me. The men left.
At that moment, I thought our punishment had ended. Really, it had only just begun.
Maybe a half hour after being returned to the cell the door was opened by one of the guards. To our dismay, he was not there to give us back our beds.
“Yala,” he said.
As soon as I stood up, pain shot through my feet, but this time there was no one to carry me so I took it and limped out into the hallway with my cap pulled over my eyes. The guard stepped behind me and tied a ribbon around the hat to secure it tightly, although I could still see slightly from the bottom. A man I did not know led me slowly up the stairs, and then I was outside and breathing fresh air for the first time in thirty-seven days. It was raining hard as I was led hobbling barefoot toward an SUV. I was placed on my knees on the wet ground. A jihadi came up from behind me and I heard him slide the action of his AK back as if they were going to execute me on the spot. I didn’t say a word and held my chin high, waiting for the end; not wanting to give them the satisfaction of begging. A second later someone twisted my arm until I let out a horrific scream. Then I was up again, and placed in the trunk space of the SUV where another prisoner was awaiting me.
“Is that you? Is that you?” I heard Theo whisper.
“Yeah,” I whispered back.
We were laid head to toe with our hands cuffed in front, my handcuffs fastened through Theo’s and a vinyl cover pulled over both of us. As soon as the trunk closed I lifted my cap and saw that there were air holes
