The whole encounter probably took less than a minute. A second later we started moving and Abu Mohammad shouted something in Arabic, and one of the jihadis yelled something right back, louder. I don’t know what he said, but it shut Abu Mohammad up real quick. A few minutes later they pulled over and took him out. That was the last time I ever saw him.
THE HOSPITAL
By the time we reached our destination about fifteen minutes later, my back was really starting to hurt from being hunched over for so long. From what I could see out of the bottom of my cap when I was taken from the Jeep, a crowd of people had assembled as if they were expecting me, many of them children, judging by the size of their feet. Two men, one on each side, led me into a building and down a staircase. When we reached the bottom, we made our way along a hallway to a door where one of the men said something in Arabic and pointed to my sneakers; they seemed to know I could see a little from under my makeshift blindfold. I took off my shoes and was marched inside and placed in a chair in front of a desk. There were several people in the room. One of them walked over with my iPhone, lifted my cap slightly, and made me punch in the password and write it on a piece of paper.
I had a feeling I’d been taken by Jabhat al-Nusra, more commonly known in the West as the al-Nusra Front, but I wasn’t sure, being that there were so many gangs and crooked FSA militias littered throughout the country, so to try to get an idea of who had me, I threw out a question that I knew would yield a clue:
“Anyone got a cigarette?”
“No, there is no smoking.”
This was the first sign that I was with fanatics, being that they consider smoking a sin while 99 percent of the FSA smokes like chimneys.
“Would you like some tea?” a man asked.
“Some tea?” I said, confused.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, sure.”
A few seconds later a small glass, filled to the brim, was placed in my hand.
“Be very careful,” the man said. “It’s hot.”
As I sat there sipping the tea, I decided I needed to keep myself from panicking and use whatever time I had wisely, to come up with a strategy. The conclusion I came to was that I had to make these guys like me, because people don’t usually torture those they like. But how does an American make Islamic extremists like him? Well, the next conclusion I came to was that I had to make them laugh.
Almost as soon as I’d formulated this approach, a man sat beside me and lifted my cap. I shut my eyes tight so he wouldn’t think I’d been peeking, but after a few moments I realized he wanted me to look, and I slowly opened them again. Sitting before me was a commanding figure in his early thirties, maybe a couple of years younger than me. He had a long thin beard and would later introduce himself as General Mohammad. He smiled at me, but it wasn’t a smile that said Welcome!—it was more of a grin that said I gotcha! He covered my eyes again. I could tell that he was someone important, and sensing that he was approachable I decided to engage him.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Are you going to kill me?”
A few seconds passed. “Nahhhh,” he said.
A moment of silence, and then—
“Woo-hoo! Happy New Year!” I yelled, one fist raised triumphantly over my head. I let out a slight laugh to show that I wasn’t scared and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. “You guys really had me worried there for a second!”
I’d tilted my head back when I yelled so I could gauge his reaction from under my cap and it was definitely a positive one: jumping back, raising his brow, and laughing. This unexpected display by their new prisoner caught the attention of everyone present, and the two jihadis on the other side of the room asked him impatiently to translate. He did so, and they started to laugh as well.
Good job, Matt, I thought, you broke the ice! Keep it goin’! Keep it goin’!
“What is your name?” asked General
